Five

It wasn’t until the innkeeper opened the door to the room that Ewen realized exactly how big of a mistake he’d made in letting her persuade him not to cross that river.

His eyes scanned the second-floor chamber, which didn’t take long, as it wasn’t much bigger than the solitary bed that had been pushed up against the far wall. Aside from a small table and wooden stool, nothing else was in the room. There wasn’t room for anything.

Alarm hit him like a poleaxe in the chest. There was no way in hell they could stay here. Jesus, they would be right on top of one another!

He was just about to ask for another room—a much larger one—when the plump, matronly-looking innkeeper turned to him with a proud smile. “It’s our largest room, and I think our best. You can see right down to the courtyard from that window,” she said cheerfully, pointing to the shutter above the bed. “The roof is tight and will keep you nice and dry. Of course, we can’t have a fire in here with the thatched roof, but it is warm and cozy from the fire in the hall below, and if you give me your wet things, I’ll hang them by the fire downstairs, and they should be nice and dry by morning.”

Neither he nor Sister Genna seemed to know what to say. For him that wasn’t uncommon, but he suspected it was a rare occurrence for the silver-tongued nun.

The innkeeper set down the stack of bed linens she was carrying and placed them on the bed. Then she turned to Sister Genna and said with a wink and meaningful glance toward the bed, “If you need another blanket, let me know. But your husband is a braw laddie, he should keep you plenty warm.”

Sister Genna seemed to turn even paler and her eyes widened to such enormous proportions, Ewen would have laughed if he wasn’t feeling exactly the same way. Apprehension was an understatement. This room was beginning to look like his very own personal torture chamber.

He was tempted to thank the innkeeper for her trouble and go right back down the stairs, but that might provoke exactly the type of attention he was trying to avoid. So far everything had gone well, and they had not seemed to attract any undue notice. He didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that.

Besides, part of him knew Sister Genna was right: it would have been dangerous to attempt to cross the bridge in the storm. They were both cold and soaked to the bone. He might have been able to build a makeshift shelter, but it would be a long, torturous night outside in the cold and rain. In here it would be a different kind of long, torturous night for him, but at least she would be warm and dry. He couldn’t stand watching her shiver anymore; it made him feel … odd. Like he would do just about anything to make her stop.

With grim acceptance he took pity on his horror-struck “wife,” who couldn’t seem to find her tongue for once, and answered for her.

“The room will do,” he said with his usual brevity. He spoke in English, the tongue spoken by the ordinary people in the border towns. He was surprised to discover that Sister Genna spoke it quite well—albeit with a heavy accent—something she’d neglected to tell him until now. The lass was full of surprises.

He realized he’d said something wrong when the older woman’s face fell. But Sister Genna immediately moved to make it right. “It’s the perfect refuge from the storm,” she said to the innkeeper with a grateful smile. “I’m sure we will be quite comfortable.” She gave a gasp of delight that hit him hard in a place it shouldn’t. “Is that a feather pillow?”

The innkeeper beamed. “It is indeed, m’lady.”

“How wonderful! I will be asleep as soon as my head hits those feathers. I suspect my …” He hoped he was the only one who noticed her slight hesitation. “My husband might have to pry me out of bed in the morning. But we have a long journey ahead of us.”

Much mollified, the innkeeper patted the sister’s arm as if she were a young girl. “Where did you say you were traveling to?”

“We didn’t,” Ewen said.

Sister Genna shot him a glare and gave the innkeeper a roll of the eyes as if to apologize for his poor manners. “My mother is very ill,” she said in low tones. “I only hope that we will make it to London in time.”

“You poor child,” she said, patting her again. “And all the way to London? But you are …”

“Flemish, Madame,” Genna filled in. They’d decided to be careful in case anyone was looking for an Italian nun. “My father is a merchant.”

He had to admit she was good at this. For a nun, she certainly lied well. He was almost believing her himself.

“How did you and your husband meet?”

Ewen was forced to stand in the doorway for another ten minutes as Genna regaled the innkeeper with the story of their chance meeting at a market in Berwick before “Bruce had caused all this trouble by taking the throne.” He hardly thought he looked like the type to leave wildflowers on her doorstep for a fortnight, but the innkeeper was charmed by his “romance,” and he found himself blushing like a fool (as was no doubt the little minx’s intent!) under her approving gaze.

Sister Genna was a natural, Ewen realized. If he’d wanted to deflect suspicion, she’d succeeded for him. But finally, after promises to send them up some food, the woman left them alone.

The moment the door closed behind her, all his trepidation returned full force. The room seemed to grow thick with it. The sudden silence made him wonder if Sister Genna had been keeping the other woman there to delay this very moment.

Trying to break the moment of awkwardness, he took the two steps to the table and put down the leather bag he kept tied to his saddle. After taking off the plaid he wore around his shoulders, he turned to face her. She’d inched her way to the foot of the bed at the opposite side of the room—about as far away from him as she could manage.

He cursed silently, seeing the wariness on her pale face. She was looking at him as if he were a wolf and she were a juicy lamb. Worse, he knew it wasn’t unwarranted. She must have realized how close he’d been to kissing her out there earlier.

What could he have been thinking? She was a nun, for Christ’s sake! He didn’t consider himself a particularly devout man, but the church was a part of his life, as it was for every man and woman in Christendom. His lust for a woman he’d been taught since childhood to revere as holy and sacrosanct was shameful.

If the fate of his immortal soul wasn’t enough, the possible damage he could do to Bruce’s cause—and thus his own—were he to touch her should be all the reminder he needed. Bruce needed the support of the church to win his war, and Ewen needed Bruce’s if his clan was going to survive. He could only imagine what Lamberton’s reaction would be if it became known that he’d despoiled one of his anointed.

But she sure as hell wasn’t making it easy on him. She didn’t act like any nun he’d ever met—or any woman, for that matter. And it might have been easier to ignore his feelings if he wasn’t pretty damned sure she was feeling them, too.

His mouth fell in a grim line when he saw her shiver. She’d lowered the hood from around her head and the golden locks that had been plastered to her head had begun to dry. Damn it, not the hair again! He felt a tug in his groin and bit off another curse. “You should do as she says and get out of those clothes before you catch cold.” With the innkeeper gone, he went back to speaking French.

Wide-eyed, she shook her head. “I’ll be fine. It’s warm in here. They’ll dry soon enough.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll turn my back while you change; your modesty will be protected.”

Two bright spots of pink appeared on her cheeks. She’d obviously taken umbrage at his tone. “It’s not my modesty I’m worried about. I only brought two gowns with me, and if you’ll recall, the soldier destroyed the other.”

He untied the strap of his bag and pulled out an extra leine. “You can wear this.” Anticipating her refusal given the transparency of the fabric he added, “Wrap the plaid she brought for the bed around you.”

She debated for a minute or two before comfort won out. “Very well. But don’t turn back around until I tell you.”

“As long as you promise the same. I’ll be changing as well.”

He watched her fight the smile around her mouth and lose. “You might have used some of that charm with the innkeeper. If the English come looking for us, she would have happily turned you in after that less-than-complimentary comment about the room. And not telling her our destination? You’ll only make people suspicious by refusing to answer their questions.”

Charm? He’d never been associated with that before. But talking with Sister Genna was different—easier. It was almost like talking to one of the Guard. His brusqueness and rough edges didn’t seem to bother her.

“Does the same hold true for you, Sister? Can I trust you not to peek?”

She flushed. “Of course.”

He held her stare. She did not back down from the challenge in his gaze, but he knew she was hiding something. Something about her wasn’t right, and he intended to find out what it was.

“Change,” he said gruffly, turning around.

He’d taken his clothes off in the same room as a woman countless times before, but he’d never been so achingly aware of it. Though they stood well over five feet apart, he swore he could feel every one of her movements. He made quick work of his own wet clothes, exchanging them for a clean tunic and breeches.

And then he waited. She seemed to be taking an infinitely long amount of time. He started to turn his head …

“Are you looking?”

His head snapped back. “Are you done yet?”

“Almost.”

A few minutes later, thinking that she must be finished by now, he glanced over his shoulder again, catching sight of her slim back right before the leine dropped over it.

He sucked in a groan, going as hard as a spike. Lust pounded through him and the painful ache returned. It was his own damned fault. This was what he got for looking.

Now he had the image of a smooth, shapely, creamy bottom to go along with the smooth, shapely, creamy breasts. The walls of the torture room seemed to be drawing in tighter.

But not all of her had been smooth. He frowned, recalling the scars that he’d noticed earlier. A hair shirt and whip? He didn’t think so. They looked like some kind of burn marks.

The lass was going to start answering some of his questions.

“You can turn around,” she said.

The frown was still on his face. “How did you get the scars on your back?”

Janet stiffened instinctively. It wasn’t shame but the natural defensiveness that the subject aroused. Though they’d faded, she knew the scars were unsightly. But somehow that seemed fitting. She wanted the reminder. She didn’t want to lose sight of her purpose. She might not be able to change what her interference that day at the bridge had wrought—or bring back Cailin—but she could ensure that something good came from it.

She must be getting used to Ewen’s blunt manner of speaking, because neither his question nor his appalling lack of manners in bringing up such a personal subject surprised her. He was lucky that she wasn’t self-conscious.

All of a sudden, she stopped. Her eyes narrowed. What had made him think of the scars? “You looked!”

He shrugged without apology. “It was unintentional. You were taking too long.”

“Is that supposed to be an excuse?”

“If you wish it to be.”

Janet fumed at him.

“You’ve nothing to worry about,” he said. “You don’t have anything I haven’t seen hundreds of times.”

If he was trying to make her feel better, he’d failed. Her eyes widened with outrage. “Hundreds of times?”

He shrugged, and for some reason the careless indifference infuriated her all the more. She shouldn’t care how many women he’d been with or whether he thought her unremarkable in comparison, but hearing him so blandly state it rankled.

“How nice to know that you have such a breadth of comparison to call upon.”

“You didn’t answer my question. How did you get the scars? And before you think about telling me what you told the soldiers today, I know they aren’t from a whip and hair shirt.”

“Have you ‘hundreds’ of scar comparisons as well?”

He grinned; obviously her irritation amused him. “More.”

“You’ve been fighting the war for some years, then?”

“Aye. Now tell me about the scars.”

Janet pursed her mouth. He was just like Duncan. She’d never been able to distract him either. He’d been positively intractable when it had come to questioning her about some perceived issue or problem. If only Ewen Lamont reminded her of her brother in other ways. But the feelings Ewen aroused in her were definitely un-brotherly.

As it seemed he would not be turned from his course without an answer, she decided to tell him the truth. Well, part of it, anyway. “I was on a bridge when it was struck by lightning. I don’t remember exactly what happened, but there was a fire, and some of the wood splintered and ended up in my back. The sisters did their best to remove them, but some were buried deeply.”

He held her gaze as if he knew there was more that she wasn’t saying. But that was all she intended to tell him. How she ended up on the bridge was none of his business.

“So that’s why you didn’t wish to cross. When did this happen?”

It was her turn to shrug. “Some time ago.” Hoping to put an end to the subject, she added, “I do not like to talk about it.”

“The scars are no cause for shame. They are a mark of your strength. You survived.”

She bristled. “I know that. It is not the scars that cause me pain, but the memories they bring.”

This time, he took the hint and changed the subject—though unfortunately, this one was no better than the last. “You have an unusual accent. Where are you from?”

She hoped he hadn’t seen the slight stiffening of her shoulders, but she’d already learned that little escaped him. “My father was a merchant,” she said, staying with the same story she told the innkeeper. “We moved around quite a bit.”

“And that is why you speak so many languages?”

“Yes.” But it hadn’t been easy. She’d always been horrible with languages. Deciding that they’d talked about her long enough, she asked, “And what about you? I have not met many Highlanders who speak such fluent French who aren’t noblemen—” She stopped, blushing.

“And you have figured out that I do not qualify?”

“I did not mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t. I was fostered with a local nobleman and had some tutoring. Languages come easily for me.” She made a face, and he laughed. “I take it that it is not the same for you?”

She shook her head. “Latin was the worst.”

The words were out before she could take them back. She hoped he wouldn’t notice, but, of course, he did.

“I would have thought with Italian being so closely related, it would have been easy.”

“For most people it is,” she said. She feigned a yawn. “If you don’t mind, I think I should like to go to bed. I’m very tired.”

And talking to him was dangerous. It was easy to forget herself, in more ways than one. For a few moments, she’d forgotten that she was a nun—or planned to be soon—that they should remain strangers, and that they were alone in this room. For a few minutes, she’d felt as comfortable with him as if they were truly man and wife. For a few minutes, the intimacy had seemed … natural.

But suddenly being alone with him felt awkward again. She was deeply conscious of him as a man. And as much as she wanted to pretend that she was a nun, her body seemed to know differently. Being alone with a too-tall, too-handsome, too-virile warrior made her feel very feminine and very aware of that femininity in a way that she never had been before.

She pulled the plaid around her shoulders more tightly, even though the room suddenly felt too warm. It was the room, wasn’t it? But that didn’t explain the heat in places she had never felt warm before. Warning beacons seemed to flare all around her. She needed to get away from him.

He must have picked up on the charge in the atmosphere as well, because he suddenly seemed very eager to leave. “If you give me your clothes, I will take them down to the innkeeper to hang by the fire. You don’t need to leave the candle burning for me; I will be able to find the floor when I return.”

She bit her lip, wanting to ask how long he’d be but not wanting to make him suspicious. Because she had no intention of being here when he woke up.

With his father’s penchant for drink, Ewen wasn’t much for whisky, but at times he could appreciate the dulling effects of the fiery brew. The last time he’d drunk too much was after one of his friends and fellow Highland Guardsmen, William Gordon, was killed in an explosion in Galloway. Before that, it had been when he and MacLean had finally made it to safety after surviving the slaughter that had befallen Bruce’s men at Loch Ryan at the hands of the MacDowells. Eighteen galleys, and only two had survived.

But tonight, it wasn’t the pain of losing friends that had driven him to drink, but another kind of pain—the lustful kind. Knowing that he’d lie awake all night hard as a rock if he didn’t do something, he spent a good hour draining a flagon of very peaty whisky, trying to cool his heated blood. He was tempted when an alternative method of dulling his lust presented itself in the form of a comely barmaid, but the whisky must have already been having an effect, as her flirtatious grazes and bold glances didn’t get the barest rise out of him.

By the time he returned to the room, he was good and relaxed, and the source of his trouble was fast asleep and bundled up safely out of eyesight under the blankets. He threw his plaid on the floor, barely noticing how hard it was before passing out in a whisky-induced haze.

But the drink didn’t penetrate his sleep. He dreamed of her. Hot, restless dreams of high, round breasts and a curvy bottom. He imagined touching her, cupping her, running his hands over every naked inch of baby-soft flesh. His body was hot, his blood rushing, his nose filled with her soft scent. The sensations were so strong, they tore him from his sleep. Or at least he thought they had. But when he opened his eyes, his hand was wrapped around her wrist and she was looming over him, her eyes wide with shock.

Then he knew he had to be dreaming because he could feel the soft stroke of her hands on his hair and hear the soft, soothing tones of her voice as she filled his dreams with the lulling sounds of song. He felt his body relax. Felt the tension that had been teeming through his limbs release under the gentle, calming strokes. It was nice. He’d never had a mother to put him to bed when he was young, but he suspected it would have been something like this. The last thing he remembered before she left was the soft brush of her lips on his cheek.

He woke to a cold room and the first rays of dawn streaming through the cracks in the shutters. Though weak, the sunlight sent shards of pain piercing through his drink-thickened head like daggers. He closed his eyes, listening instead to the peaceful sounds of … silence. Absolute silence.

His eyes snapped open again. Ignoring the pain, his gaze went to the woman sleeping on the bed. Or the woman who should be sleeping on the bed. But even before he jumped to his feet and tore back the bunched-up plaid, he knew.

It hadn’t been a dream. His damned “wife” was gone.