Twelve

The mission had to come first, damn it. As angry as he was—and Ewen couldn’t recall the last time he’d been so angry—he knew the danger ahead of him. Hell, not just ahead of him but everywhere around him. The Borders were rife with it.

They wouldn’t be safe until they boarded the birlinn waiting just off shore for them in Ayr—assuming Hawk and Viper hadn’t been called off on another mission. So he buried his anger beneath the call of duty, reminding himself of all he had to do. But it was there, simmering, getting closer to the breaking point with each mile that they rode over the gentle rolling hills of the Tweedsdale.

Although he would prefer to travel on the north side of the Tweed, the bridges were heavily monitored. This part of the Scottish Marches was a maze of rivers and tributaries. At some point they would have to cross water, but it was safer to wait until they were west of Selkirk, where there were numerous places to cross that didn’t require a bridge. They could have tried to cross at the place he’d taken Janet to all those months ago, but that was how he and the other Guardsmen had arrived, and he always tried to use a different route to leave in case someone had tracked them the first time.

With the English controlling the border towns, he supposed it didn’t make much difference: everywhere was dangerous. But even traveling at night with only a single torch to light their way, he felt exposed. The low hills and fertile valley of the Tweedsdale provided little natural cover. It wasn’t until they neared Selkirk that the hills would rise and the forests would thicken. Ironically, he would be returning to Selkirk in two weeks with Bruce for peace talks.

He hoped to reach as far as Ettrick, deep in those hills and forests about twelve miles southwest of Selkirk, before daybreak. There was a cave in the area where they could rest until nightfall.

But they had hours of dangerous and difficult riding ahead of them. Ewen spent the first few hours circling around behind them to hide their tracks as best he could and ensure no one was following them. The snow seemed to be holding off, which was good. Hiding tracks in freshly fallen snow was difficult, unless it fell quickly and heavily.

Ewen had been chosen by Bruce for the Highland Guard for his extraordinary tracking skills. Man or beast, if there was a trail, he would find it. It was what had given him the war name of Hunter. But the other side of tracking was knowing how to hide your own tracks. And like the ghosts that some thought “Bruce’s phantoms,” it was Ewen’s responsibility to make the Guardsmen disappear.

He still couldn’t believe how close Janet had come to the truth with her jest. But thankfully, that was all it had been: a jest.

Not that he was much in the mood for jesting. It seemed as though every time he rejoined the group or they stopped for a short break—as much for Janet as for the horses—she was laughing with one of his brethren.

But especially with MacLean. His partner was lapping it up like a starving pup. Who in the hell knew that Striker could smile? In all the years Ewen had known him, he’d never seen MacLean like this. Not only smiling and jesting, but also talking. Hell, he didn’t think Striker was capable of carrying on a conversation that wasn’t about war or battle strategy.

But the strange ease that Ewen had found with Janet seemed to apply to his partner as well. And something about that set him on edge—on deep edge.

The lad’s clothing didn’t help, either. MacRuairi should have warned him. Women sure as hell didn’t belong in breeches—especially snug leather ones. They molded the womanly curves of her hips and bottom to perfection and emphasized the slim lines of her surprisingly long legs. It was distracting. Damned distracting. And he hadn’t been the only one to take notice. MacKay and Sutherland seemed embarrassed, but MacLean … he seemed a little too appreciative.

It was after midnight when they stopped for the second time. Ewen had gone back on foot to obscure some of the hoofprints, and intersperse a few signs that he hoped would confuse or delay anyone on their trail, when he heard a soft feminine laugh coming from the direction of the river.

The muscles in his neck and shoulders bunched. Focus, damn it! He knew he should ignore it. But the sound grated against every nerve-ending in his body. He couldn’t take it anymore.

As soon as he came over the rise he could see her. Janet was seated on a rock, and MacLean stood beside her. He was handing her something.

“Thank you,” Janet said, taking what appeared to be a piece of beef. “I’m more hungry than I realized.”

MacLean murmured something that Ewen didn’t hear, and then said, “You are warm enough?”

Ewen was striding toward them, but the sound she made stopped him mid-step. Squeezing the plaid around her shoulders, she gave a delighted sigh that went straight to his groin.

“Wonderfully warm,” she said. “Thank you for letting me borrow it. It was most thoughtful of you.”

Thoughtful? MacLean? Ewen had never known him to be so attentive to a woman. Any woman. And she was the wrong woman.

MacLean shrugged. If Ewen didn’t know him better, he’d think his partner was preening. “I thought I saw you shiver at our last stop.”

Ewen had seen the same thing. He’d been about to offer her his own plaid—God knew it would help to cover her up more—when MacLean had walked over to her and handed her his own.

Ewen had had to fight the urge to rip it off her. It should be mine, damn it.

Janet glanced over as he approached, but rather than acknowledge him, she turned to MacLean with a roll of the eye in his direction. That grated.

Though Ewen knew his partner had heard him earlier, it was only then that MacLean glanced in his direction.

He cocked his brow. “Is something wrong?”

Ewen held his temper by the barest of threads. “Other than the fact that they can probably hear you talking halfway to London? Unless you want the English down on top of us, keep your voices low. And stop all that bloody laughing.”

If Ewen hadn’t already known how ridiculous he sounded, their expressions would have told him. But nothing was worse than their quick exchange of looks, and Janet whispering “grumpy” under her breath, while trying not to laugh.

“What did you say?”

Janet shook her head, mirth shimmering in her eyes. “Nothing.”

MacLean attempted to change the subject. “Did you see anything?”

Ewen glowered at Janet until she finally sobered. Only then did he answer. “Nay.”

She studied him, her gaze assessing. “You are being very careful. Do you have cause to believe someone is following us or are you always this vigilant?”

“If you haven’t noticed, my lady, the Marches are currently occupied by English troops. There is no such thing as too careful or too vigilant when it comes to war. The fact that you don’t understand that is exactly why you shouldn’t be out here.”

She stiffened and gave him a long, scathing stare that made him want to turn away. Without a word, she turned sharply and said to MacLean, “Thank you again. I will see you up by the horses.”

Both men watched her walk away, Ewen cursing his harshly spoken words.

MacLean gave a low whistle, shaking his head. “You were a little hard on the lass, don’t you think?”

Ewen tried not to sound as defensive as he felt. “It’s the truth, and anyone that’s been doing what she’s been doing needs to hear it. This isn’t some game.”

“And you believe that she thinks it is?”

“I think she has no idea of the danger she is in.” Ewen’s eyes narrowed. “Edward’s men will not go easy on her if they discover what she is doing. The fact that she is a woman will not make a difference.” He didn’t need to remind MacLean of what had happened at Lochmaben; he’d been there. “I can’t believe you are defending her. Would you allow your wife to do what she’s doing?”

A dark shadow crossed MacLean’s face. It wasn’t often that any of them brought up his wife. But perhaps it was time for him to remember that he had one.

MacLean’s mouth fell in a hard, angry line. “Aye, I just might. If it would mean I’d be rid of her sooner.” He paused, giving Ewen an appraising look. “Interesting comparison to make though.”

Ewen didn’t like the way his partner was looking at him, as if he knew something. “I only thought to remind you of your own, since you seem to have forgotten.”

He shrugged. “I like Lady Janet. She’s easy to talk to.”

Bloody hell, he knew that. Ewen clenched his fists. “She’s not for you.”

MacLean gave him a taunting smile. “I didn’t realize that you’d staked a claim.”

Ewen took a step toward him. They’d been partners for five years and been through hell together. He’d never thought that he would feel so close to striking him. “I haven’t. You know very well that the lass is meant for someone else.”

Ewen’s voice must have revealed more than he intended. MacLean immediately backed off, the taunting smile replaced by his usual dark expression. “Aye, but the lass doesn’t know that. She is doing this for you, you know. She’s trying to make you jealous.”

Ewen was stunned. Was it true? His eyes narrowed at the man he thought was his closest friend. “And you went along with it?”

MacLean shrugged unapologetically. “As I said, I like her—and she is easy to talk to—but I wanted to see if it worked.” He gave him a long pitying looking. “By the look on your face the past few hours, I’d say it did.”

Much to his disgust, Ewen realized MacLean was right. She’d gotten to him.

“What are you going to do?” MacLean asked somberly.

What could he do? “My duty.”

“Perhaps you should tell her and give the lass a choice?”

“Women of her station do not have a choice.” And neither did he.

“I had one.”

Ewen was stunned once again. From the way MacLean acted, Ewen would never have thought he’d wanted to marry his MacDowell wife. “You did?”

Something dark and angry and so full of hatred crossed MacLean’s face it almost made Ewen take a step back. “I made the wrong one because I thought …” He clenched his jaw. “Perhaps you are right. Deliver the lass to Bruce and don’t look back. You’ll save yourself a whole hell of a lot of trouble.”

His friend walked away, and Ewen wondered whether he was talking about Ewen or himself. Perhaps it didn’t matter, because either way MacLean was right: Janet of Mar was a whole hell of a lot of trouble. The kind of trouble that could cost him everything, if he wasn’t careful.

Why was Janet going to so much effort for a man who spoke to her as if she were five years old?

She had no idea.

The narrow-minded Highlander had made it perfectly clear that he didn’t think she had any part in the war. Fine. But she knew differently, and his opinion wasn’t going to change anything. She had every intention of finishing what she’d started. As long as the king needed her, as long as she could be of use, she would put herself in as much danger as she wanted. He had no right to tell her otherwise. He could glower and chastise until he was blue in that obnoxiously good-looking face of his, but she didn’t have to heed him. He wasn’t her father or her husband.

Thank God.

Was it so difficult to understand that what she did was important to her? For the past few years she’d had a purpose. Something that she not only enjoyed and was good at, but that also made her feel as if she mattered. She didn’t have anyone looking over her shoulder telling her she couldn’t do something. She’d been able to turn what her father had thought of as a character flaw in a woman—the propensity to make a man see he was wrong—into a useful skill.

And the more she helped, the less she thought about the past, and the thoughtless young woman who’d tried to be a hero but had only ended up causing so much trouble. She owed it to Mary, but most of all to Cailin. Though she’d never forgive herself for his death at least she could see to it that it meant something. But Ewen wanted to take that away from her.

She would never think to ask him to stop being a soldier. It was what he did. Presumably, and from what she’d seen, he was good at it.

Not that he would ever see the comparison. To him, women were pretty accessories. A wife was someone to birth his children, tend his castles, and never raise her voice in protest.

Well, that wasn’t her. And Janet had seen what happened when a woman who had her own opinions married a bull-headed, overprotective man who assumed he knew best. Janet had no interest in following Duncan and Christina’s example. Or her mother’s, for that matter. Strife or serfdom, neither was appealing.

None of which explained why her heart squeezed when Ewen left the cave not long after they finished eating their second meal of dried beef, ale, and oatcakes.

MacKay, who’d exchanged a few words with Ewen before he left, came over to where she was huddled at the back of the small, rocky cave. There would barely be room for all five of them to lie down, but without a fire, she suspected she would be glad of the warmth provided by their nearness.

“You should get some rest, lass. We have another long night of riding ahead of us, and the terrain won’t be as friendly as it was today.”

“Where did Ewen go?”

“To the loch. His leg was caked with blood, and I told him to wash it or Helen would have both our hides.”

She bristled at the mention of the younger-than-you-are, beautiful healer. “Helen?”

The strapping Highlander smiled. “Aye, my wife. She’s a healer. She told Lamont that if he opened that wound one more time, she wasn’t going to fix it again.” He laughed. “But she will. She can’t help it. It’s what she does.”

His wife? Janet was struck twofold. Not only because she’d been jealous over this man’s wife, but also because he was clearly proud of her. “Your wife is a healer?”

“Aye, a very good one.”

There was no mistaking the pride in his voice. Good God, a husband who was proud of a wife who worked? Miracles did happen. Too bad his friend didn’t feel the same way. But could he? Not likely. Still, the possibility intrigued her more than she wanted to admit. “Perhaps I should see if Ewen needs help. I’ve done some nursing.”

MacKay looked at her appraisingly, rubbing his hand over a week’s worth of stubble on his jaw. She thought he might refuse, but eventually he nodded. “Let me get you something first.”

Janet made her way down the rocky shoreline with the cloth and ointment Magnus had provided. Dawn was still a half-hour away, but the sun was already making its presence known, casting a soft glow over the misty sky. The promise of snow hung in the frosty air. Without wind, the weather was bearable—just.

Washing in the icy water of the river, however, was another matter. Her hands were still blue from her earlier efforts. So just about the last thing she expected was to see Ewen emerge half-naked from the river like some kind of ancient Norse sea god.

She stopped dead in her tracks, her mouth going dry. She should turn away. Really, she should. But she couldn’t. All right, in all honesty, she didn’t want to.

She’d seen men without shirts. She’d even seen muscular men without shirts. But never had she seen one who made her want to stand back and stare in admiration.

She was sure there was plenty of good uses for broad shoulders, arms that bulged with strength, and a stomach roped with band after band of muscle, but right now all she could think about was that he was beautiful. That it was a shame to cover such magnificence even with leather and studs of steel. That she would give just about anything to put her hands on him.

Other details shuffled through her frozen brain. The dark triangle of hair at his neck that narrowed to a thin trail beneath his linen braies—the damp linen braies that rode low on his waist and clung to thick, muscular thighs.

She shifted her gaze quickly from another big bulge that they clung to. She was bold, but not that bold.

She had only a minute before he noticed her, but she made every second count.

He shot her a glare and reached for a drying cloth, furiously scrubbing away all the lucky drops of water that clung to his chest.

For heaven’s sake, she was acting like a lovesick thirteen-year-old!

Belatedly, she averted her eyes.

“What do you want?” he growled a few moments later.

To her disappointment when she glanced back, he’d donned a linen shirt and pulled on some breeches.

Ironically, now that he was dressed, she blushed. “I didn’t realize …” She bit her lip. “I’m sorry to intrude, but Magnus gave me some ointment to tend to your leg.”

“I don’t need—”

“I know you don’t need it, but he said to remind you that Helen will blame him if you catch a fever and die, so you’d ‘bloody well better see that you don’t.’ Helen,” she stressed the woman’s name, “Magnus’s wife.”

He gave her a puzzled look. “I know who Helen is.”

She should be grateful that he had no idea how jealous he’d made her, but for some reason his utter lack of understanding annoyed her.

He held out his hand. “Give it to me. I’ll take care of it.” Janet pursed her lips. “I know you think I’m incapable of rational thought, but I do know what I’m doing.”

He frowned. “I don’t think that.”

She made a sharp sound. “That’s why every other word out of your mouth is about how stupid and foolish I am—”

He reached out and took her by the arm. “I never said you were stupid or foolish. I said you didn’t understand the danger.”

“But I do. Just in the same way you do, and yet still choose to do what you do.”

His frown deepened. “It’s not the same.”

Suddenly, Janet felt tired. Too tired to try to make him understand. Too tired of banging her head against a stone wall—no matter how impressively built.

She stared down at him. He still had his hand on her arm, but he let it drop. “Are you going to let me help or not?”

He hesitated.

“What’s wrong?”

His gaze shifted uncomfortably. “It isn’t …” His cheeks darkened. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

Janet gaped at him. My God, he was blushing! “You are modest?”

A flash of annoyance cleared away the blush. “Of course not. I was merely thinking of you.”

She tried not to laugh, but she feared the smile showed behind her pursed lips. “I’ve been pretending to be a nurse for quite a while. I think I can manage not to faint with maidenly shock.”

She did. But just barely. It was one thing to tend old men and women, and another to stand inches away from a man who made your heart skip, even when he wasn’t sliding his breeches—and then his wet braies—down his hip.

He managed to keep himself covered except for the top of his outer thigh, but good gracious, she felt like she was jumping out of her skin. How was she going to touch him so intimately and not think about …

Her gaze flew from the big bulge (where to her horror she’d been looking), and heat flamed her cheeks. Only the sight of the wound prevented her from thrusting the ointment into his hand, babbling some excuse, and racing back to the cave.

But the angry mass of torn flesh brought her back to reality. She gasped in half-horror and half-outrage. Though the dip in the freezing loch had washed most of the blood away, it was still a red, angry mess. The crusted black flesh where the original wound had been burned closed had been ripped open again—shredded, actually—and blood was seeping out. Instead of the small hole she’d hoped to see, the seared wound was nearly two inches long and jagged in shape, as if someone had just pulled the arrow out without thought or care.

Her eyes met his with accusation. “How could you let it get like this and say nothing?”

“It isn’t that bad,” he said defensively.

She gave him a glare, not bothering to deign that with a response, and went to work.

But even her anger couldn’t completely mask the effects of touching him, and her hands shook as she started to apply the ointment.

Thinking to keep her mind on her task, she asked, “Who pulled the arrow out? I assume it wasn’t Helen?”

He bit out a harsh laugh. “Hardly. She was furious that I didn’t wait for her.”

She should have known. “You should have. You made a mess of it.”

He shrugged unapologetically. “There wasn’t time. I was in the middle of a battle and it was getting in my way. It was deeper than I thought. It hit the bone and stopped.”

“You could have bled to death.”

One side of his mouth lifted. “It wasn’t that bad. It looks much worse now since it’s been opened up a few more times.”

“Did you ever think to let it heal?” He shrugged and started to say something, but she stopped him. “Let me guess: there wasn’t time, and you were fighting.”

He grinned and stopped her heart with a wink. “Smart lass.”

Ignoring the hammering in her heart brought on by the rare display of boyishness, she rolled her eyes away and resumed her task. After finishing with the ointment, she started to wrap the clean cloth around his leg, but as soon as her hand dipped toward the inside of his leg, he grabbed her wrist. “I’ll do it.”

Their eyes met and the hammering started all over again—harder this time and more insistent. She couldn’t escape from it. It was in her chest, in her ears, in her throat. It stole her breath.

She needed …

Wanted …

His eyes pulled her in. Or maybe it was his hand still holding her wrist? She didn’t know, but one minute she was staring into his eyes and the next she was in his lap, her other hand was on his shoulder, her lips were on his, and she was warm again. Perhaps warmer than she’d ever been in her life.

It felt so good. He felt so good. The heat of his mouth on hers. The velvety softness of his lips. The minty spiciness of his breath, and the fresh scent of the water that still clung to his skin and hair.

She made a soft mewling sound, unconsciously opening her mouth, sinking deeper into the kiss.

He made a low growling sound, opening his mouth over hers, and for one moment she thought he meant to deepen the kiss. Her pulse jumped and warmth spread through her as she anticipated the deep thrust of his tongue claiming her, and the strength of his arms wrapping around her.

Kissing him was like nothing she’d ever imagined. She could get lost in the perfection of the sensations assailing her. It was as if she were floating. Sailing away on a sea of sensation. Soaring up the stairway to heaven. Being transported to a magical land filled with new and wonderful possibilities.

It was new. It was exciting. It was perfect.

And then it was over.

He made a harsh, strangled sound low in his throat, almost as if he were in pain, and thrust her harshly away.

For one moment, Ewen forgot himself. For one moment, her nearness and the feeling of her hands on him proved too much to resist. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in the flutter of her pulse under his hand as he held her wrist, and practically taste it on her lips.

She wanted him, and not all the land in Scotland or all the duty and loyalty in the world to the Stewarts and his clan could stop him from wanting her back. So when her mouth moved toward his, he didn’t do anything to stop it. He let her fall, let her slide into his lap, and let their lips come together one more time.

He just hadn’t anticipated the blow to the chest that crippled him with longing, the overwhelming desire that crashed over him, the mind-numbing pleasure, or the fierce and nearly irresistible urge to take her into his arms and make her his.

How could a kiss do this to him? How could the simple contact of her lips on his make him so weak? Strip him of almost everything he believed in?

Because it felt good. Really good. It felt like nothing he’d ever experienced before. It felt big and powerful and significant. It felt like nothing else mattered except for the two of them. And for that one precious moment in time it felt something else, too. It felt perfect.

It would have been perfect. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that making love to her would be as close to heaven as he would ever hope to get on this side of the gates. But he had just enough conscious thought, just enough strength, left to put an end to it. Because no matter how desperately he wanted a few minutes of heaven with her, he’d be left with a lifetime of hell and recriminations.

He wasn’t his father. He couldn’t ignore his duty and responsibilities. Even for her.

But the look on her face tore his resolve to shreds. She looked stunned and dazed, and too damned aroused for any innocent maid.

Hell, he almost wished she’d go back to pretending to be a nun. At least then she’d attempted to hide her desire. But not anymore. It was there, naked, staring at him, daring him to take what she offered.

He clenched his fists so he would not reach for her again, and then turned away. Recalling the state of his clothing, he finished wrapping the clean cloth around the wound and pulled up his breeches. But the thin layers of cloth weren’t enough. He’d need a suit of the English mail to arm himself against her—and that probably wouldn’t be enough.

She was still standing there, watching him, when he was done. He wished he hadn’t looked at her. The stunned look had turned to something else: hurt. And it knifed in his chest like a mangled blade.

“Is there … was there … is something wrong?”

He steeled himself against the urge to comfort her. To offer her reassurance. To tell her it was too damned perfect—that was the problem.

He couldn’t meet her gaze when he said, “You shouldn’t have kissed me.”

“I didn’t …” Her protest dropped off when he looked at her. It was nearly dawn, and there was enough sunlight to see the spots of dark pink on her cheeks. “You didn’t seem to mind so much last time.”

He detected the challenging glint in her eyes and knew he had better put a stop to this. “As I told you before, I am no longer interested.”

The glint turned to a full spark. “What has changed? Other than the fact that you do not now think I am a nun.”

He ignored the heavy sarcasm. “The fact that you are not a nun doesn’t make any difference. You’re the king’s sister-in-law, and it’s my duty to bring you back to Dunstaffnage—that’s all.”

“So it didn’t mean anything to you? The fact that you are here doesn’t mean anything?”

“I’m a warrior, Janet; I go where and do what I’m told. I’m here for one reason and one reason only: to do my job. Don’t read anything more into it.”

She sucked in her breath, her eyes widening. He’d never struck a woman in his life, but somehow it felt as if he’d just done so. The wave of remorse hit him hard. He didn’t want to hurt her, damn it.

He didn’t even want to have this conversation.

He shouldn’t need to explain it to her. It was obvious. This wasn’t how it was done. They weren’t free to follow their feelings. They weren’t free to marry. And she sure as hell wasn’t free to do anything else. She should know that.

But if he expected her to run away, he was the one who should have known better. She was Janet of Mar. The sister-in-law of a king, and daughter of an earl. She wasn’t sweet and docile but bold and confident. She didn’t cower or run from danger, she met it head on with a knife in her hand.

How could she have possibly thought he would think her stupid? The accusation had taken him aback. Christ, if anything, the lass was too intelligent—and too headstrong and stubborn, for that matter. Bold, confident, opinionated—none of the things a woman should be. Which sure as hell didn’t explain why he liked her so much.

He was trying to protect her from the horrible things he’d seen, but she’d taken his concern as criticism, as a lack of intelligence, as patronizing. He cringed inwardly, realizing from her perspective that it probably was. But he hadn’t meant it that way, damn it. What did she expect, that he would sit back and let her be captured by the English? Tortured? Killed? It was almost as if she wanted him to defer to her judgment. That was crazy, wasn’t it?

Stewart was going to have a hell of a time stopping her.

What if he couldn’t?

The lass was too prone to getting into trouble, as her next step—toward him—proved. “I don’t believe you.”

His fists clenched. He wanted to pull her back into his arms so much, the physical restraint hurt.

Damn her. Couldn’t she see that this was impossible?

He swore, taking a step back (not in retreat, damn it!), and raked his fingers through his hair. He wasn’t good at this. He didn’t like conflict. He just tried to keep his head down and do his job. But she wouldn’t let him. “What the hell do you want from me, Janet?”

She blinked in surprise, staring at him. “I …”

She didn’t know. She was acting on impulse and feeling, not on thought. He should relish the moment of putting lead on that silvery tongue of hers, but instead he felt sad. Unbearably sad. It was impossible, and when she thought about it, she would see it, too.

“I thought so,” he said softly, before turning and walking away.

He hoped for the last time.