Sixteen

Janet didn’t understand what had just happened. One minute he was there with her, and they were as close as two people could be; the next he was somewhere else. Somewhere she couldn’t reach. The fierceness of his expression alarmed her. He looked broken—tortured. She called after him as he walked away, but he acted as if he hadn’t heard her and continued on.

Leaving her flat. Literally, on her back. If she weren’t so confused, she might have felt like crying. How dare he leave her like this! She’d been ready—eager—to experience it all. She’d given herself to him, and he’d rejected her.

Alone, and without the heat of his body, she shivered. The chill of the misty morning once again seeped into her bones. But it was nothing compared to what was to come. With no choice but to do what he said, she then spent two—perhaps three—of the most unpleasant minutes of her life, bathing in the icy pool of water below the falls.

Forcing her feet off the rocky ledge was no mean feat. Only knowing that she was to blame for the English tracking them compelled her forward. She jumped. To say the water was a shock was an understatement of prodigious proportions. It leached every bit of sensation from her bones, taking her lethargy and any lingering memory of what had just happened with it. But she would never forget. He’d shown her a glimpse of heaven, and nothing could take that away. Not him. Not the water. Nothing.

Sputtering to the surface, she scrubbed her hair and limbs with the sliver of plain soap, attempting not only to erase the “reek” of bluebells, but also to keep the blood moving so she didn’t freeze to death.

Getting out didn’t provide much relief. Her teeth were still clattering minutes later when he returned. She didn’t have to ask where he’d been. From his damp hair, she realized that he, too, had bathed, albeit farther down the river.

His gaze swept over her. If he was pleased to see that she’d done as he bid, she couldn’t tell. All evidence of the tortured expression was gone from his face, his features once again schooled into a blank mask.

The lack of emotion rankled. How could he be so unaffected, when she was so very affected? Her mouth pursed, anger breaking through some of the confusion.

“Do you need any help?”

Apparently, he’d noticed the difficulty she was having getting dressed. Though she’d managed to don one of his shirts and a pair of wool breeches, the shirt was already half-sopping from her wet hair and her fingers weren’t cooperating as she tried to pull on the hose.

She shook her head. As a peace offering—if that’s what it was—it wasn’t enough. He’d rejected her, leaving her like that, and she wasn’t going to let him pretend it had never happened. As if putting on her clothes could blot the evidence from memory!

She was just about to wrap herself in the plaid again, when he stopped her. “You can’t wear anything you had on before. We’ll leave it with the other things.”

“But it belongs to Eoin, and it’s warm.”

She thought his mouth pulled a little tighter. “MacLean will understand.” Ewen took off his own plaid and handed it to her. “You can wear mine.”

Their eyes held for one long heartbeat, as if there were some kind of significance beyond the heat it would offer, but then he looked away, and the moment was gone.

She took the plaid and quickly wrapped it around herself, unable to hold back the sigh of pleasure as warmth enveloped her frozen limbs. The heat from his body seemed captured in the intricate weave of the woolen threads. If she inhaled (which she did), she could just catch a faint scent of the familiar pine and leather.

After a few minutes she was warm enough to finish dressing. She gathered the sopping strands of her hair into a tight braid at the nape of her neck and fastened her boots. At least he hadn’t insisted she go barefoot.

He held out a piece of rope, which she looked at blankly.

“For the breeches,” he explained. “The ties don’t seem to be working very well.”

Indeed, she had to constantly yank the pants up from riding down over her hips. Still, they were better than her other options: her habit or the fine gown Mary had sent for her to appear in at court.

She tucked the linen shirt into the breeches and bunched it around her waist, using the rope as a belt. Noticing the way his eyes fell on her hips, lingering with almost palpable hunger for a moment until he forced his gaze away, she made sure to take her time. Petty revenge perhaps, but it proved surprisingly satisfactory.

The added belt helped, and a few moments later, after he’d bound her old borrowed clothing around a pile of rocks and tossed it in the pool, he gathered their belongings to go.

But Janet wasn’t ready to leave. Not without an explanation.

She caught his arm before he could walk away. “Why did you stop like that? Did I do something wrong?”

His jaw clenched, his steel-blue gaze meeting hers. “Not now, Janet. We need to move higher into the hills. They will not have given up the hunt.”

“Perhaps not, but unless you think they are right behind us, surely you can spare me a few minutes? Do I not deserve some kind of explanation?”

His expression turned pained. “You did nothing wrong. It was my fault. It never should have happened.”

“Why not?”

His eyes flared hot. “Because it’s not right. Your innocence belongs to your husband, damn it.”

Janet stiffened, trying not to overreact or be disappointed. His reaction was understandable—that was how most men thought. But she didn’t want him to think like most men. She wanted him to see her for herself and not as a possession or accessory. Was that too much to ask?

At times she could almost be convinced he was different. That his unreasonableness was just a result of inexperience. That he didn’t know any better, but that once he got to know her, he would see her as … what? Capable. Certainly not a virgin to be bartered and sold like a prized cow.

“My innocence belongs to me,” she said firmly. “It is mine to lose or not.”

“I wish that were true. But it isn’t that simple, Janet. You are the daughter of an earl and the sister-in-law of the king. Your husband will expect—”

“What husband? I am not married, nor do I ever intend to be.”

Her vehemence took him aback. “You sound so certain.”

She lifted her chin. “I am.”

“You can’t seriously be considering becoming a nun?”

After what had just happened, it sounded just as implausible to her. But she would do what she must. “If that is my only alternative to marriage.”

“You make marriage sound like a death sentence. Would it really be so horrible?”

She thought of her family. Yes, it would be. How could she explain? How could she make him understand what to him—to most men—must seem unnatural? “I would lose myself.”

His brow wrinkled. “How?”

“I would no longer have the ability to control my own actions. Everything—even the smallest decision—would be controlled by my husband. My will would no longer be my own. I have no wish to be treated like chattel.”

He frowned. “It’s not always like that.”

She lifted a brow. “So you know of many men who treat their wives as equals?”

His frown deepened. “A few.”

Her heart skipped forward. Did that include him? “And would you allow your wife the power to make her own decisions even if they did not agree with yours?”

“We aren’t talking about me.”

“No, we aren’t,” she said quietly, her heart squeezing with unexpected disappointment. She couldn’t have been thinking of him as a husband, could she? “But you wished to know my reasons, and you are a perfect example. You’ve made your feelings about what I’m doing quite clear. By what right could I expect another man to feel differently? Can you imagine a husband permitting me to continue my work?”

His mouth tightened mulishly. “Your work is dangerous.”

“So I need to be protected from myself, is that it?” Not surprisingly, he didn’t answer. She decided to turn the question back on him. “Why are you so sure I shouldn’t be doing this? Why do you have such little regard for women—or is it just me?”

He appeared shocked. “Jesus, Janet, just because I don’t think it’s safe for you to wander all over Scotland by yourself in the middle of a war, doing something that could get you killed if you are discovered, doesn’t mean I think less of you. Bloody hell, you’ve proved yourself to anyone after today. You’ve done as well as any man.” Her chest lifted at his words. He had no idea how much they meant to her. “But being a woman makes you vulnerable in different ways. When I think of what could happen to you …” His face darkened, and his eyes took on a haunted glaze. “Damn it, do you have any idea what the English would do to you if they found out what you were doing?”

There was something more at work here than simply his view on traditional roles for men and women. Obviously, he was speaking from personal experience. “Tell me what happened.”

His jaw clenched so tightly she could see the muscle below it start to tic. “It was a few years ago—not long after we landed in Scotland after being forced to take refuge in the Isles for a few months.” She swallowed. It was when her brother Duncan had been killed. “We were being hunted, the tide had not yet turned, and a handful of villagers—mostly women and children—helped to hide us in the hills. The English found out, and when we returned to thank them,” his eyes met hers, “there wasn’t anyone left to thank. The women had been raped and beaten before they’d had their throats slit. Only one lass survived.”

Janet gasped. Though he’d spoken with his usual bluntness, she could hear the emotion in his voice and realized how horrible it must have been. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Of course, it was,” he snapped. “We asked them for help, never imagining the risk we were asking them to take.”

“But they would have done it anyway,” she said softly. “Even knowing, they would have helped you.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“Because I would have done the same.”

He stared at her, not saying anything for a moment. “Why is being a courier so important to you?”

“The why shouldn’t matter. The fact that it is should be enough.” Was it too much to hope that a man could understand that? “I do not ask you why you do what you do. Just because I don’t wear armor and carry a sword doesn’t make what I do any less important.” She paused. “This war won’t be won by the sword alone, Ewen. How do you think Bruce’s phantoms know the right place to attack?” He was watching her intently. “Good intelligence passed by couriers.”

She left it at that, not wanting to say more.

He seemed to consider what she’d said, but whether he gave it any weight, she couldn’t tell. “Is this about your sister?”

She stiffened. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t have to prove yourself or atone for what happened at the bridge. Mary doesn’t blame you. If you only knew how desperate she’s been to find you, and how anxious she is to have you back.”

Janet’s heart devoured every word. Was it true? She wanted to believe him and yearned to question him, but that would mean acknowledging to herself that his words held some truth. “My sister has nothing to do with this. Isn’t it enough to want to help? Must there always be a further reason? How about you—why are you here, Ewen? What made you decide to be one of Bruce’s phantoms?”

He shot her a glare but didn’t take the bait. “I joined Bruce’s army because my liege lord, and a man I respected above all others, asked me to do so. I’ve stayed to keep my clan from extinction.”

Her eyes widened at the blunt honesty. No patriotic fever or talk of freedom and tyranny from him, just ambition and reward. “Your father?” she asked.

It took him a moment to realize what she meant. When he did, he laughed. “Hardly. My father was not a man to inspire much devotion. Nay, I speak of the former steward—Sir James Stewart.”

Janet couldn’t hide her surprise. Was that the lord he’d spoken of who’d fostered him? The Stewart Lords of Bute were one of the most important clans in the country. “You are connected to the Stewarts?”

A wry smile turned his mouth, as if he guessed the direction of her thoughts. “Not closely. My mother was Sir James’s cousin—his favorite, as it happened.” Seeing her confusion, he sighed as if resigning himself to having to say more. “My mother was betrothed to the Chief of Lamont when she met my father—one of his chieftains—and decided to marry him instead. Needless to say, the Lamont chief was not happy. He went to war with my father and would have destroyed him without Sir James’s help.” He shook his head. “Ironically, it was my father being cut off from the rest of the clan that gave me the ability to save it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like the MacDougalls, the MacDowells, and the Comyns, my cousin—the current chief—and his clansmen stood against Bruce and have been exiled and had the clan lands dispossessed, except for my lands in Ardlamont. Were it not for my connection to the Stewarts, and thus to Bruce, I would be with them. As it stands, I am the last Lamont in Cowal. My clan lives or dies with the skill of my sword, so to speak.”

Janet was stunned. No wonder he seemed so stubborn and single-minded about every mission. The future of the once great clan rested on his broad shoulders. But something else he’d said gave her a whisper of possibility. “You are a chieftain?”

He held her gaze. “Do not be too impressed, my lady. It is a minor holding only—with half a castle.”

Her brows furrowed, not understanding the sarcasm. “Until the king rewards you with more for your service?”

He shrugged. “If that is his will.”

She eyed him speculatively. Though he’d said it with nonchalance, she sensed how much it mattered to him. This was what drove him. Reward and a position for his clan under a Bruce kingship.

It also provided another explanation for why he’d stopped. Despoiling the king’s sister-in-law was hardly likely to ingratiate him to Robert.

But there was no reason Robert should ever find out. Not that she thought that was likely to sway Ewen. He was proving to have an inconveniently steely streak of honor in him.

She bit her lip, wondering if there was another way. Despite his continued rejection and appalling behavior in walking away from her in the middle of lovemaking, she still wanted him and wasn’t going to give up.

Why it was so important to her, she didn’t know. Either she was a glutton for punishment or there was something truly special between them that was worth the continued blows to her pride. And then there was the passion. The undeniable attraction that sprang up between them like wildfire. She could not discount that.

In any event, “I can’t do this” wasn’t an answer she intended to accept. It sounded too much like no. If Mary’s voice whispered a warning, Janet pushed it aside. She knew what she was doing. Besides, there was no one else around to get hurt.

He scanned the area behind her. “We’ve rested long enough.”

She lifted a brow in question. “Resting” wasn’t how she would describe what they’d been doing.

If she wasn’t sure that it was impossible for him to blush, she would have sworn his cheeks darkened as he took in her meaning. “Aye, well, you can sleep once I’m sure that we’ve lost them.”

“I think I’d prefer to do some more resting.”

He shot her a reproachful glare. “Janet …”

He might have been scolding a naughty pup. She blinked up at him innocently. “What?”

“It isn’t going to happen. I told you it was a mistake. It’s over. Over.”

She smiled, knowing that neither of them believed him. It wasn’t over; it had just begun.

Ewen pushed them mercilessly, as much to put distance between them and the English as to keep her too busy to plot his downfall.

The lass was trouble.

And stubborn.

And too bold by half.

She was also smart.

And achingly sweet.

And far stronger than he’d ever expected.

He couldn’t believe she was still on her feet. So far today she’d been hunted by dogs, attacked by an English knight, killed said knight with a well-placed dagger to the leg, trudged for miles knee-deep in an icy river, suffered a bath in that icy water, and hiked for miles over frozen, mist-topped hills. As if that weren’t enough, she’d also come within a hair’s breadth of ruin.

One orgasm couldn’t make up for all that. Though it had been one hell of an orgasm. He didn’t think he’d ever forget the look of ecstasy and surprise on her face as her body had shattered under him. The rush of color to her cheeks, the half-lidded eyes hazy with passion, the softly parted lips swollen from his kiss.

Jesus. Heat swelled in his sorely abused groin. The release he’d taken in his hand after leaving her had barely taken the edge off. How was he going to keep his hands off her until they reached the coast, when all he could think about was finishing what they’d started?

The lass had invaded his senses, penetrated his defenses, and slipped under his skin. He wanted her with every fiber of his being. Even exhausted, his leg on fire, cold and hungry, he couldn’t look at her without thinking about throwing her down on the ground, wrapping those long, slim legs around his waist, and giving her exactly what she was asking for.

So he did what any fearless warrior would do: he didn’t look at her.

But he didn’t know how much more of this he could take. More resting … bloody hell! Was she trying to kill him? God knew why, but the lass had gotten it in her head to give him her innocence. Did she have any idea how hard it was for him to refuse that kind of an offer?

Of course, she didn’t, and after hearing her views on marriage, he sure as hell wasn’t going to enlighten her. He had no doubt he’d have to drag her kicking and screaming all the way to Dunstaffnage. Bruce was going to have a hell of a battle on his hands when she found out about his plans.

The worst part was that he wasn’t sure he blamed her. He’d never considered marriage from a woman’s perspective before, but he had to admit, her concerns were not without merit. He’d always taken for granted a man’s role of absolute authority. To a woman like Janet who was used to making her own decisions, it would be stifling. She would chafe against those bindings at every turn.

But what was the alternative? Ewen wasn’t like MacKay, he couldn’t let his wife follow them into battle. He frowned. Although he had been grateful more than once to have a skilled healer at hand.

Helen is different, he told himself.

But wasn’t Janet?

They climbed to a small plateau in the hillside, and he stopped. Though it was only a few hours after noon, daylight was already fading.

“Wait here,” he said, pointing to a rocky outcrop. As he’d done every few miles, he let her catch her breath while he circled back to attempt to hide their tracks. The snow on the ground had hardened as the temperature dropped the higher they climbed on the mountain, making it easier to do so. But where the ground was too soft, instead of hiding, he set about confusing their pursuers by walking backward, breaking off in other directions for a while, or making a number of footprints in one area.

When he returned a few minutes later, she was seated on one of the rocks, watching him. “Is anyone following?”

He shook his head.

But something made her curious. “Why did you stop to look at the bracken back there?”

He sat down beside her and pulled out his skin. After taking a long swig, he handed it to her. “Some of the stems were broken where we brushed by.”

She frowned. “I thought you were hiding our footprints.”

“I’m hiding our tracks.”

“Isn’t it the same thing?”

He shook his head. “I’m looking for any disturbances on the landscape, not just footsteps. Any sign that someone might have passed.”

“And you can tell from a few broken twigs that someone has passed.”

He shrugged. “It’s a sign.”

She gave him a long look. “How did you become so good at this?”

“My father’s henchman was a tracker. He used to take me out with him when I was young, and later when I returned from fostering. He noticed I had an unusual memory for details and taught me how to use that skill to track. But it’s mostly experience.” Years and years of learning what to look for.

“What kind of details?”

“Look behind me.” He waited a few moments. “Now close your eyes and tell me what you saw.”

She looked back at him. “Is that a trick? There is only a flat area of moorland dusted with snow, with a few rocks scattered about.”

“Look again.” He didn’t turn, but called up the image from memory. “The rocks scattered about the moors are graywacke sandstone, but about twenty paces behind me are a few granite rocks stacked in what is probably the beginnings of a summit cairn. Just to the left, you can see the outlines of a narrow path from the north where the grass has been tramped down—probably by mountain hares, if the pile of scat nearby is any indication—and the snow is slightly lower. Near the patches of purple moor grass sticking up through the snow on the west side of the hill are the tracks of a small group of red deer hinds. Directly over my left shoulder about five paces behind me is a small bump in the snow. If you look closely, you can see a few brownish feathers sticking out. I suspect it’s the carcass of a grouse brought down by a hen harrier or peregrine falcon.”

She gaped at him. “You didn’t even look.”

“I did earlier. I told you, I have an unusual memory.”

“I’ll say. And a keen eye for detail.” She smiled delightedly. “What else do you look for?”

He wasn’t used to such an eager audience, but as the subject clearly interested her, and knowing it would help pass the time, he explained some basic principles, such as how to minimize your imprint on the landscape and make sure no signs were left behind; deception tactics to mislead your pursuers, such as walking backward, looping around, stone hopping, and toe walking; how to move with the wind to hide your scent, how to avoid changing directions at obvious places, and how to break a scent trail as they’d done with the dogs.

She listened to him with rapt attention, clearly fascinated.

“Every time you take a step,” he said, “look for stones, hard ground, patches of ice, existing roads or paths, resilient mosses, things like that. Your tracks will be less visible.”

“So think hard,” she said.

That was one way of putting it, but he tried not to think about “hard” given his problems in a certain area.

She looked up at him. “It seems so obvious now that you point it out, but I never realized.”

“Most of what I do is common sense. You just have to think about it.”

“You are being modest.” She tilted her head to look at him. “No wonder Robert wanted you for his secret army. I can imagine a skill like yours is useful for men who want to appear like ghosts.”

He could feel her eyes on him, so he was careful not to react. Damn it, the lass was relentless! He should be surprised that she’d figured it out, but he wasn’t. She could find trouble without even looking for it.

“Aren’t you going to say something?”

He turned to look at her, his eyes boring into hers. “Should I tell you how much danger you could put both of us in by just mentioning the subject, irrespective of whether it is true?”

Her gaze never wavered. “But it is true. I know it is.”

Clearly, he wasn’t going to dissuade her. He knew he should try. He’d taken an oath, and it wasn’t just his own life at stake, but he didn’t want to lie to her. So he did the next best thing and said, “Let’s go. Rest time is over.”

She groaned. “But we just sat down. You’re just trying to avoid my questions.” He didn’t deny it. “The English won’t be chasing us forever, Ewen. One of these days you won’t be able to avoid answering.”

He didn’t know; he was pretty damned good at avoiding things. Except with her—which was part of the problem. He didn’t answer, simply holding out his hand instead.

He helped her to her feet—with another dramatic groan on her part—and they were off.

Although he was fairly certain they’d lost their pursuers, he wanted to reach the next ridge by nightfall. There was an old stone shieling where they could take shelter. It was too dangerous to wander around these mountains in the dark, especially in the mist. In the morning, he would see about finding horses to take them to Ayr, where he sure as hell hoped MacKay, MacLean, and Sutherland would catch up to them.

Teaching her about tracking proved to be an effective way of passing the time, distracting them both—him from thinking about the pain in his leg and the fate of his friends, and her from asking more questions he couldn’t answer about the Highland Guard. She was an eager pupil, surprising him with her interest, as well as with how quickly she seemed to pick it up.

They were able to move at a much quicker pace since she’d become more conscious of the signs she was leaving behind as they climbed, and thus he didn’t need to spend as much time backtracking to cover them up.

He should have instructed her earlier. Why didn’t he? It was one of the first things he did with men under his command. Had he thought the principles too difficult to grasp, or solely the province of men?

She was right, he realized. He assumed that because she didn’t wear armor and carry weapons, she was ill equipped for war. But Janet of Mar seemed to be turning many of his preconceived notions about women on their head.

She wasn’t fragile or helpless. She was strong and capable. Too bloody capable, to his mind.

Although he might be willing to admit that he’d underestimated her abilities, he wasn’t wrong about the danger. She might have defended herself against the knight today, but without the element of surprise—or if there had been more than one man—she’d be just as dead as those women at Lochmaben. Even if she were the best damned courier in Scotland, it didn’t override his instinct to protect her.

But did she need protection?

He thought back to their conversation about the women at Lochmaben. He’d never believed a woman could understand the danger and still want to be involved. Just like him, she’d pointed out. That was ridiculous, wasn’t it?

By the time the shadow of the shieling appeared on the horizon, Ewen had achieved one of his objectives: the lass was exhausted. Too exhausted to do anything more than climb into the folds of the plaid he’d set out for her as a blanket, after cleaning out the debris from the former animal occupants, and sleep.

Her virtue—and his honor—was safe.

For now.

But when he climbed into the small stone hut beside her a few hours later, and she instinctively turned to him, burrowing into his arms, something hard and heavy lodged in his chest. The weight of inevitability? The stony certainty of fate? Because nothing had ever felt more perfect. Alone on a mountain, taking refuge in a stone hut meant for sheep while being hunted by Englishmen, he’d never felt more content.

He tucked his arm under her chest, snuggled her small bottom into his groin, buried his nose in the silky softness of her hair, and savored every minute of holding the woman who wasn’t his, but who sure as hell felt like it.