Three

Something about her expression when he walked away made Ewen want to laugh. He’d wager it wasn’t often the wee nun heard the word “no.” He was less amused, however, upon his return. For a woman of God, she sure as hell had a way of rousing the devil in him.

He stared down at her from atop his horse, his hand extended. “I said, give me your hand.”

She shook her head, the hideous black veil back in place, completely hiding the golden beauty that lay underneath. But he knew it was there, and if he looked hard enough—which he did—he could just see the silky-fine strands of gold curls escaping from beneath the tight wrapping at her temples. The softness, however, was at distinct odds with the stubborn set of her mouth. “I thank you for your kind offer, but I prefer to walk.”

It was the third time he’d asked, which was already the second time too many. His jaw tightened, but it didn’t help to moderate his words. His patience had run out. “It wasn’t kind, it wasn’t an offer, and I don’t give a rat’s arse about what you prefer. You’ll get up on this horse voluntarily or I’ll put you there myself, but be assured that one way or the other you will ride with me.”

Her eyes widened just a little, but to her credit her gaze did not falter from his. “You have an unusual way with words.”

This from the woman who’d threatened a shriveling manhood and bollocks like raisins?

“So I’ve been told.”

Ewen had never been very good at conversing with ladies. He was too rough around the edges—hell, he was too rough all around. MacSorley had enough charm for all of them put together. Which was fine by him. Ewen was a warrior, not a troubadour. He had neither the time nor the inclination to charm. His plain speaking might be off-putting, and maybe even harsh at times, but it was effective. In battle and in the other life-and-death situations that faced the Highland Guard, being clear and concise was what mattered. There was no room for subtlety. Besides, the kind of communication he enjoyed with women didn’t require much conversing.

Immediately his mind slipped to places it shouldn’t go. His gaze dropped for an instant to the woman’s well-covered chest before he snapped it harshly back.

Jesus, he needed to stop doing that! Nun, he reminded himself. Belongs to God.

But he suspected it was going to be a long time before he forgot the sight of the perfect, soft feminine flesh hidden under the habit.

He clenched his jaw. “Well, what’s it to be, Sister?”

After a long pause, she gave a loud harrumph and put her hand in his. Apparently, Sister Genna had decided not to test him. It was a wise decision. She would learn very quickly that he didn’t make threats; he did what he said.

He lifted her effortlessly into the seat before him—she weighed next to nothing—and they started off. By his estimation, they should reach Berwick the following evening. It was only a distance of about forty miles, but with two on a horse and keeping to the countryside to avoid the roads in difficult terrain, it would take them twice as long.

Having ridden in and out of the Borders more times than he wanted to remember over the past two years on Highland Guard missions to wreak as much havoc as possible with the English garrisons who held the castles, Ewen was intimately familiar with the landscape. He knew every forest, every patch of trees, every contour of every hillside, every mask that nature provided to pass in and out unseen.

Because it was instinctive, not because he thought there was any real threat of being followed, he did what he could to avoid leaving tracks, but with the recent spate of spring thunderstorms, the soft ground made it nearly impossible. However, the rain would hide what he could not. In the time it had taken to retrieve his horse and “persuade” Sister Genna to ride with him, dark clouds had gathered across the sky, the wind had started to ruffle the leaves, and the temperature had dropped a few degrees.

But it wasn’t the brewing storm that made him dread the miles ahead. No sooner had he settled her in the seat in front of him, and slid his arms around her slim waist to take the reins, than he realized he might have been too hasty to dismiss her plea to walk. Having her body nestled against his was making it difficult—bloody difficult—to remember that she was a woman of the cloth.

Now admittedly, he didn’t have much experience holding a nun in his arms, but he couldn’t recall ever coming across a nun that smelled like the bluebells that blanketed the hillside near his home in Ardlamont. The soft floral fragrance infused his senses, teasing him and making him draw her closer, lean down, and inhale.

Damn it, he needed to do something. Perhaps say a prayer. “Lead us not into temptation and deliver us from evil” seemed appropriate.

He bit back a groan, the prayer forgotten, when her body slammed into his again.

God, it felt good. She felt good. And his body was noticing.

He tried to keep some distance between them, but the movement of the horse over the difficult, uneven terrain made it impossible. It seemed as if with each clop of the hooves, her bottom slid back into his groin, her back into to his chest, and the soft weight of those breasts that he couldn’t forget bounced against his arm.

No amount of prayers, no amount of saying “nun” over and over in his mind, could prevent his body from responding to the intimate contact. He was hard as a rock, though thankfully, due to the thick leather of his armor, he didn’t think she was aware of the big column of flesh riding against her.

But God sure as hell knew that every time that softly curved bottom slid against him, Ewen thought about swiving. He thought about it until he could almost imagine what it would be like to wrap his hands around her hips and sink in and out. The sensual rhythm was driving him half-crazed with lust. He was hot, bothered, and so distracted that he nearly missed the turn he’d been looking for.

He cursed, furious with himself. Control and discipline were seldom a problem for him—especially regarding women who were off limits. Lately, it seemed like every other member of the Highland Guard was marrying a beautiful woman, and not once had his appreciation for their beauty veered into an inappropriate flash of lust.

Hell, Christina MacLeod was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, with just the sort of lush, well-curved body he liked—the nun was a little on the slender side—but he’d never had one impure thought about her. Of course, having the greatest swordsman in Christendom watching every man who came within a hundred yards of her served as a rather effective deterrent. But if there was anyone who could strike fear in the heart more than the chief of the Highland Guard, it was God.

He felt her shift against him as she turned her head to glance back. “Is something wrong?”

Other than the slow, torturous descent into hell that was the soft curve of her bottom pressing against his turgid cock? He gritted his teeth together. “Nay, why do you ask?”

“You cursed.”

His eyes narrowed. “I thought you didn’t understand our language.”

“I don’t. But I didn’t need to understand Gaelic to know that it was a word I should not wish to hear.”

His mouth twitched with amusement. He supposed that was true enough. Sometimes tone said it all. “There is nothing wrong.”

“I thought you might have been confused about which way to go. Are you sure you know where you are going?”

This time he couldn’t resist the full smile, even though she had no idea how amusing her question was. He was the best tracker in the Highlands; he didn’t get lost. He’d built his reputation by focusing on every detail of his surroundings. A reputation that had led to Bruce selecting him for his team of elite warriors. “Don’t worry, I know where I’m going. We aren’t going to get lost.”

A little furrow appeared between her brows. No doubt she’d sensed his amusement but didn’t understand the source. “You seem quite confident.”

“I am.”

“It’s just that it looks like it’s going to rain, and with the mist—”

“We’ll be fine.”

She tilted her head back a little to study him for a moment. Their faces were so close, it was hard for him to resist doing the same.

She really was quite pretty—for a woman of God, he reminded himself. The lines of her face were simply but classically drawn. Wide-set almond-shaped eyes framed by delicately arched brows. High cheekbones, a small, straight nose, and a tiny pointed chin. The only extravagances were those ridiculously long lashes, the brilliant sea-blue of her eyes, and that sensually curved mouth. Her lips were too pink, too lush, and too damned tempting—especially with that wanton freckle distracting him.

He shifted his gaze back to the road ahead of them, where it was safe.

He was relieved when she did the same. Until she shivered a little and settled back against him. He nearly groaned, and his voice came out a tad gruffer than usual. “Are you cold?”

“A little.”

With one hand holding the reins, he reached back and unfastened a plaid from the roll on the saddle. “You can use this,” he said, handing it to her.

The smile she gave him was almost girlish in its delight and so out of keeping with the serene nun, his heart jogged a beat or two.

“Thank you.” She wrapped it around her and sighed contentedly, sinking back against him again.

At least one of them was comfortable. Ewen had the feeling that the next twenty-four hours were going to be some of the most uncomfortable of his life.

The plaid smelled like him, cozy and warm with a faint hint of the outdoors, and the soft blues and grays reminded her of his eyes. Steel-blue, she would call them—with an emphasis on the steel.

Steel rather summed him up quite nicely, from his eyes, to his intractable temperament, to the solid shield of his chest behind her and the hard strength of the arms that had lifted her from the ground. She’d never felt arms like that in her life. She’d reached out to brace herself in surprise as he’d lifted her, and she might as well have been trying to grip rock. A strange shudder had stolen through her, and her stomach had taken the oddest little dip.

Actually, her stomach seemed to be doing that quite a lot around him. And she would feel flush at the oddest times. She hoped she wasn’t becoming ill.

But for such a hard-edged man, she had to admit he was surprisingly comfortable to ride with. It was nice. Quite nice, she realized. Perhaps she’d been worried for naught? It was infinitely more comfortable riding with the warmth and protection of his big body behind her, especially as the weather grew more ominous. That wind was cold, and he was like a bread oven, radiating heat. She shivered, burrowing deeper under the plaid when a powerful gust tore through the trees.

She thought he made a pained sound, but when she glanced over her shoulder he was looking straight ahead with that masculine square jaw set at the same uncompromising angle.

It wasn’t often that she didn’t get her way, but Genna could accept defeat graciously, particularly when it was proving to be to her benefit. She would just have to ensure he didn’t interfere with her plans. When the time came she would find a way to make a quick stop in Roxburgh, which shouldn’t be too difficult, as they would pass in that direction anyway. Until then, there was no reason not to make the best of it and try to pass the time pleasantly. At least as pleasantly as they could until the rain started.

She eyed him curiously. She wasn’t sure what it was about him, but he wasn’t like anyone she’d met before. Her first impression hadn’t changed much in the short time they’d been riding. He was hard to read—which strangely intrigued her.

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

He gave her a sidelong glance from under that terrifying-looking helm that she wondered if he’d ever remove and said dryly, “I didn’t think you noticed.”

She laughed. “Are you suggesting I talk too much?”

“I’m suggesting you talk until you hear what you want to hear.”

She lifted a brow in surprise. The comment was insightful. She’d never been very good at hearing “no.” Mary used to say she was like a big boulder rolling down the hill, and heaven help whoever was in her path when she wanted something.

Apparently, he was a big enough wall to get in her way. She bit back a smile at the appropriateness of the comparison. “As you can see, it doesn’t always work,” she said wryly.

That elicited a smile from him. Well, at least one corner of his mouth lifted, which from him she supposed was good enough to be characterized as a smile. “Just most of the time?”

She shrugged noncommittally. “Let’s just say it has come in handy more than once.”

His face darkened. “You’ve been damned lucky, then.”

She suspected she wasn’t going to like what he had to say, yet she felt compelled to ask, “What do you mean?”

“I mean that what you are doing is dangerous, and you’ve been lucky to have avoided trouble, but believe me, Sister, not all men are susceptible to manipulation. Women don’t belong in war, even as couriers—a fact I intend to impart at the first opportunity to the good bishop.”

Perhaps it had been a bad idea to get him to talk. Genna was so outraged, it took her a moment to know where to start. She didn’t manipulate anyone; she argued her point. And how dare he try to tell her what she could or could not do! She might have taken a different name, but she was still the daughter of an earl. Her sister had been Robert the Bruce’s first wife. She had more right than anyone to help his cause. And she had reasons of her own for wanting to do her part that weren’t his to question.

She took pride in what she did. She liked it. And she was good at it, woman or not! “I serve the king, just as you do. He needs everyone to help—man and woman—if he is going to have a chance to defeat Edward. What you do is dangerous, is it not?”

He didn’t say anything in response. An annoying tendency of his, she was learning.

She took his silence as agreement. “And yet you choose to fight for what you believe. Why should I not be able to make the same choice?”

“It isn’t a woman’s place.”

Was that an answer? Genna tried to control her temper, but the flames were snapping. “And where exactly is a woman’s ‘place’?”

“Somewhere safe, running the household and keeping watch over the bairns.”

Genna stiffened. “A place that is hardly fitting for me, sir.” She paused. “And your wife? She is content to stay at home and watch you ride off into battle?”

“I’m not married.”

“What a shock,” she muttered under her breath, but from the way his eyes narrowed, she knew he’d heard her.

She didn’t care. She knew that most men felt the way he did about the traditional roles for women (which probably explained why she intended to take the veil!). Perhaps it would have been different if either of her two betrothals had ended in marriage. But now that she’d experienced freedom, she couldn’t go back to being ordered about as if she had a pea for a brain and being treated like chattel. For that’s what marriage did to women. God, hadn’t she seen enough of it when she was growing up?

She lifted her chin and met his gaze. “Not all women desire to be coddled and protected. Some of us can take quite good care of ourselves.”

“A silvery tongue is no match for a blade.”

She flushed, and before she could think better of it, she reached down, slid her sgian-dubh, her hidden knife, from the scabbard near the top of her boot, and had it pressed against the inside of his thigh where it met his hips. “Then it’s a good thing that I’m good with both.”

The expression on his face was one Janet—Genna, she reminded herself—would remember with satisfaction for a long time.

The lass moved so quickly, Ewen had no idea what she intended until the blade was pressed against the soft leather of his thigh. Like most members of the Highland Guard, he did not wear mail to protect his legs—or his upper body, for that matter (it was too heavy)—and the five-inch-long blade was pointed right at the place where a deep enough cut would kill him. He didn’t think it was a coincidence. The lass knew one of the few places he was vulnerable.

Jesus! One slip of that knife and he’d be dead—or gelded. Neither option of which was very appealing.

All of his attention should be on that blade, yet he was achingly aware of the placement of her other hand. To brace herself—and give herself better leverage to wield the blade—she’d put her left hand on his right thigh. High on his right thigh. And too damned close to the part of him that had been made half-crazed by their ride.

So even while he watched the right hand with the blade, he couldn’t stop thinking about the left, and how good it would feel if she moved it a few inches and took him in her hand. He wouldn’t have thought it possible to be aroused with a knife a few inches from his cock. He now knew differently.

Slowly—very slowly, so as not to jar her into sudden movement—he drew the horse to a halt. Outwardly he kept calm, but his heart was pounding. He kept his eyes pinned to hers, but she didn’t flinch. She was as cool and calm as any of his fellow Guardsmen would be, and he knew without a doubt that she would use the knife if she had to.

What the hell kind of nun was she, anyway? He stilled when she pressed the knife a little harder, the tip of the blade digging deeper into the leather. A bloodthirsty one, apparently, who knew how to wield a dagger.

“You’ve made your point,” he said.

She quirked a well-formed brow. Like her lashes, her eyebrows were thick and dark, framing her blue eyes to perfection and providing a striking contrast to her fair hair and skin …

He stopped himself, furious. There he went, doing it again. Noticing details was part of his job, but he shouldn’t be noticing those kind of details about her.

Knife, he reminded himself.

“Have I?” she said. “Somehow I think not. Men like you only respect in others what they see in themselves. In your case, physical strength.” She looked him over in a way that might have made his blood heat had she not added, “Of which you appear to have an over-abundance.” She gave him a taunting smile, digging in the knife a little more. “But as you can see, physical strength isn’t always enough.”

There it was again. Ewen had a gift for languages, and every now and then he caught something in her accent. At times it didn’t seem quite so strong. Like now, when she was angry. Given the current circumstances, he supposed it was safe to say that she’d dropped her pretense of being meek and serene.

Holding her gaze, he reached down and circled the wrist holding the knife with his hand. He felt shock run through him at the touch. The baby softness of her skin and delicacy of her bones took him aback, but he felt the determination in the firmness of her grip. Slowly, he moved her hand—and the blade—to the side so he could breathe again.

But he didn’t let her go. She was practically turned around on the saddle now, facing him, eyes flashing and chest heaving with the fury of the confrontation. Damn it! He really shouldn’t think about her chest, because despite the black wool that almost covered her from head to toe, he could remember every luscious inch of naked flesh, and a very sinful part of him wanted to reach down and scoop it up in his hands.

And then there was the placement of that other hand. Perhaps he should have moved it instead because now that the blade was at a safe distance, his focus wasn’t split anymore, and all he could think of was the soft pressure so near to the place he really wanted it.

Almost as if she could read his mind, her face flushed, and she removed her hand from his thigh, while tightening the one holding the sgian-dubh defensively. He knew plenty of warriors who carried a hidden blade—usually under their arm—but she was the first woman.

Men like him. Was she correct in her characterization? He didn’t want to think so, but then again, she’d managed to surprise him. He’d underestimated her because she was a woman—not to mention a nun.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had been able to get a blade close enough to him to do real harm. It was probably Viper. Lachlan MacRuairi had earned his war name for his silent, deadly strike. He’d snuck up on Ewen once in training and managed to get a blade to his neck.

Obviously, she’d had training, too. But unless the recently disbanded Templars had opened their ranks to include nuns, it hadn’t been at a convent.

“Where the hell did you learn to do that?”

She glared back at him. “My sister-in-law.”

His brows drew together; it wasn’t the answer he was expecting. Another woman? “Unusual family you have. Or do they teach knife skills to all little girls in Italy along with needlework?”

He was watching her closely and saw something flicker in her gaze. She seemed to shake something off, and then her mouth curved in a smile. “Was that a joke, monsieur?”

To his surprise, he realized it was. It was the kind of wry jest he would make to MacLean or MacKay. But he didn’t jest with women. Actually, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d had this long of a conversation with a woman. Hell, this was the longest conversation he’d had with anyone in a long time.

He was staring at her, trying to make sense of it, when she gave a flick of her head in the direction of her hand.

“If you let go of my wrist, I’ll put the knife back where it belongs.”

He released her with all the subtlety of a hot iron. But he watched her hand carefully this time as she slowly returned the dirk to her boot. He caught a quick glimpse of the scrollwork on the handle and stopped her. “May I see that?”

The hesitation was brief, but it was there. She handed it to him. He looked at the intricate scrollwork on the horn handle, knowing that he’d seen something similar before. Though the design on the grip was Norse, he suspected the blade was from Germany and very fine. It had probably been a large eating knife for an important man, but it made a perfectly sized weapon for a woman. “Where did you get this?”

“My sister by marriage.” She held her hand out, and he gave it back to her. He didn’t think he was imagining it when her shoulders relaxed after slipping it back in the scabbard above her boot, which must have been made for her. “Her family is Norse.”

That explained it, but something still bothered him. He knew he’d seen it before. “What is her name?”

She laughed. “I hardly think you would know her. Do you know many Italian ladies?” She paused expectantly, and when he didn’t respond added, “Her family came to my village many years ago. The knife was passed down from her grandfather to her father.”

“And she gave it to you?”

“She did.”

“You must have been very important to her. It’s an exceptional knife.”

A shadow of sadness crossed her face. “I was. And she to me.”

“You miss her?”

“I do.”

“But you will return home soon?”

Though he’d been trying to make her feel better, he sensed his words had the opposite effect. She shrugged as if indifferent, but he knew she was not. “Perhaps when the war is over.”

“But it is not your war. Why do you involve yourself in the problems of a country not your own?”

“My reasons are my own.” She turned back around to face forward. “We should proceed? If we hope to reach Roxburgh before the rain.”

He took her cue and snapped the reins, urging the horse forward. She was right: they were making abysmally slow progress. But she was wrong about their direction. “We aren’t going to Roxburgh. We’ll stay north of the Tweed on the way to Berwick—it will be safer.”

His pronouncement was met with a quick snapping around of her head. “No! We can’t. We must go to Roxburgh!”