Seven

Janet had been right. The quick detour into Roxburgh had been easy. No hue and cry had been raised, no one had noticed them; indeed, it had all been accomplished with little risk to either of them.

She’d slipped in and out of the castle, making contact with a potentially war-changing source of information, and returned to Ewen at the church in less than an hour. The importance of this contact could not be understated; and Janet would be right in the thick of it.

Yet it was hard to be excited. She may have won the battle in getting him to agree to take her, but victory was proving cold and lonely.

They rode in virtual silence the rest of the way from Roxburgh to Berwick-upon-Tweed. The ease of conversation they’d shared had disappeared. His curt, blunt responses returned tenfold, making him seem almost chatty in comparison before. He rode so stiffly behind her, she couldn’t relax. After hours of riding together, her body ached with the effort to keep distance between them. Snuggling against the comfortable shield of his chest was a distant memory.

During their brief stops to eat or water the horse, he barely looked at her.

Something had changed between them, and Janet knew it was her fault. She felt guilty for what she’d done but didn’t know what to say. Worse, she knew it was better this way. She had a job to do and so did he. Apologizing, telling him the truth, would only make things more complicated.

But every time she looked, his implacable features set in such cold repose that something inside her cried out. She wanted to reach for him, to draw him back from the remote place to which he’d removed himself. But what purpose would it serve?

Though she told herself over and over that she was doing the right thing, it didn’t help to calm the restlessness and anxiety teeming inside her. It wasn’t until they stood outside the gates of Coldingham Priory, however, that Janet felt the first stirrings of what could only be described as panic.

“We’re here to see the bishop,” Ewen said to the monk who answered the bell. “Tell him it is Sister Genna and her escort.”

He dismounted and helped her down while they waited for the man to return.

It wasn’t quite dark yet, leaving plenty of light for her to see the rigid set of his jaw. She bit her lower lip, her hands twisting in the folds of her gown, as she contemplated what to say. “Ewen, I …”

He turned his face to hers, his expression a mask of indifference. “Yes?”

Her heart fluttered wildly as she searched for … what? “I … Thank you.”

Why she was thanking him, she didn’t know. She hadn’t wanted his protection or his company, indeed she’d fought against it. But he’d given it, and that demanded something, didn’t it?

He nodded, and for one minute she saw some of the warmth in his eyes that she hadn’t realized had been missing until it was gone. Whatever he intended to say, however, was lost when the monk returned and opened the gate to take them to the bishop.

They were led across the courtyard and into the small chapter house that was attached to the priory. As it was dark inside, the monk lit a few candles before leaving them alone again.

While they waited for the bishop to appear, Janet suddenly found herself wondering what Ewen might say. As happy as Lamberton would be about the contact she’d made in Berwick, she didn’t think he’d be pleased to learn what had happened with the English soldiers near Melrose. She knew better than to think that Ewen would agree not to tell him, but there was no telling how he would make it sound if she let him be the one to relate it.

“I would appreciate it if you would let me explain to the bishop about what happened in the forest.”

The shrewd quirk of his brow told her how easily he’d guessed her thoughts. “I’m sure you would.”

She gritted her teeth. Whatever had changed between them, he still managed to rile her temper easily enough. “Perhaps you will tell him everything, then?”

His blue-gray eyes hardened to slate. “I think you’ve already used that bargaining marker, Sister.”

Janet felt her cheeks grow hot, knowing he was right. “I don’t know why you must be so difficult about everything. It’s not as if I’m not going to tell him.”

“Aye, but it’s how you’ll tell him that concerns me. I suspect you could make Armageddon sound like a day at the fair.”

Janet pursed her mouth. “You give me too much credit. I assure you, the bishop will understand the danger.”

“Aye, but do you?” His gaze held hers. “Promise me that you’ll leave the fighting to the men and stay out of it, and I’ll let you explain to the good bishop any way you want.”

With some effort, Janet bit back her angry retort. But inwardly, she fumed. Whatever confusing emotions she’d been feeling earlier disappeared. Leave the fighting to the men. Ewen Lamont saw women as nothing more than helpless, silly creatures who needed a big, strong man to protect them. Although he certainly qualified, she wanted nothing to do with a man who thought like that. Physical attraction—no matter how powerful—wasn’t enough. She should thank him for reminding her.

“You’d better decide quickly,” he said. “The bishop is coming.”

She didn’t hear anything. But she frowned a few moments later when she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching.

“Very well, I agree,” she said, not feeling the least bit guilty about the lie. Although technically, it wasn’t a lie. She would let the men do the fighting, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t continue doing exactly what she’d been doing.

His eyes narrowed as if he didn’t believe her, but she was saved from further enquiry by the arrival of the bishop.

Lamberton gave her a smile of greeting, but it fell from his face when he saw Ewen. Janet didn’t need to have much insight to see that the bishop didn’t like him. “You were expected back earlier,” he said to Ewen. “Your friends have been looking for you.”

Janet sensed Ewen’s immediate alertness. It was as if every muscle in his body flared to life. She tried not to remember all those muscles, or how good they felt—

She stopped before she could finish the thought. Heaven help her, he’d turned her into a wanton!

“When?” he asked.

“Immediately.” Lamberton handed him a missive, which Ewen quickly unfolded and read.

Her frown deepened. In addition to fluency in multiple languages, it seemed her ordinary soldier could also read.

But she would not get the chance to question him. He turned to her with a curt bow of his head. “My lady.”

My God, this was it. He was leaving. She would probably never see him again. It was what she wanted, wasn’t it?

Then why did it feel as if someone was pulling the strings of her heart in opposite directions?

“Monsieur,” she managed in a whisper, returning his nod.

He hesitated as if he wanted to say something, but like her, struggled for the right words. He found the wrong ones. “Remember your promise.”

When the door closed behind him with a slam, Janet told herself it was good riddance. A stubborn, patronizing, women-are-the-weaker-vessel kind of man wasn’t for her. She’d had enough of that attitude from her father and brothers to last a lifetime. The past few years had proved what she’d already known: she was better off alone.

Ewen didn’t believe her for an instant. Although he had no intention of telling Lamberton what had happened, he intended to give Bruce a good earful of his opinion on letting nuns be involved as couriers.

But it would have to wait. The missive he’d received was from Hawk. Apparently, Sutherland was in trouble, and they needed to extract him and his wife from England as soon as possible. Ewen raced to the coast north of Berwick Castle and caught up with his fellow Guardsmen as they rode to Huntlywood, where Mary of Mar, Sutherland’s wife, was residing, in hopes of executing a rescue.

As it turned out, Sutherland didn’t need them. Their new “recruit” had proved himself worthy of his place in the Highland Guard by rigging a bridge with black powder to ensure his wife’s safety, and then by defeating a score of Englishmen to ensure his own.

But the journey back to Dunstaffnage Castle on Hawk’s birlinn had been twenty-four hours of sheer hell. Sutherland’s wife had gone into labor a short time before she’d arrived at the ship, and the sounds of her pained cries were not something Ewen would forget anytime soon.

Bloody hell, there was a reason men were not allowed anywhere near the birthing chamber. Hearing a lass in pain and not being able to do anything about it went against every primitive bone in the male body. Apparently he had a lot of them.

Sutherland, who’d been known for his hot temper, surprised them all by being the calmest man on board. Were the woman giving birth his wife, Ewen might have jumped overboard.

When an image of Sister Genna’s face sprang to mind, he pushed it away. Ewen knew he would have to marry sometime, but this was the first time he’d ever thought of “his wife.” He didn’t miss the irony in a nun being the source of his inspiration.

Fortunately, Sutherland’s heir had waited to make his appearance until they were safely arrived at Dunstaffnage and Angel—Sutherland’s sister Helen, who was the Highland Guard’s healer—could attend the birthing. By all accounts, both mother and child were doing well, but even two days later Sutherland—or Ice, as he’d been dubbed after that hellish journey—had the stunned look of a man who’d been through a long, savage battle and somehow walked out alive.

It wasn’t just the flurry of excitement over a new child that Sutherland had brought to the castle, however; he’d also managed to uncover some important information about Edward’s battle plans when the truce expired at the end of the month. Once again war with England loomed on the horizon, and every member of the Highland Guard was eager to get back to the work of solidifying Bruce’s kingship and defeating the English—this time for good.

But Ewen hadn’t forgotten about Sister Genna (hell if he knew why), or his intention to speak with Bruce about the increasing dangers faced by his female “couriers of the cloth.” Usually, Ewen did his best to stay in the background, but for this he would make an exception.

A few days after their arrival, he entered the Great Hall, which was already burgeoning with activity as the midday meal was well underway, and approached the dais, intending on requesting a private meeting with the king in his solar.

He was making his way around the crowded trestle tables on the east side of the Hall, dodging serving lasses with platters stacked high with food, when he glanced toward the head table and noticed a woman seated next to the king.

He stilled, a strange buzz radiating down his spine and spreading over his skin. Her head was bent toward the king, but there was something about the deep, golden blond of her hair that reminded him of another. It was the way the light caught the different-colored strands, from silvery blond, to golden brown, to rich copper. He’d never seen the like—until he’d met Sister Genna.

A quick glance at the man on her other side identified the woman as Mary of Mar, Sutherland’s new bride, who was making her first appearance after the birth of the child. It was also the first time he’d had a good look at her in the light, Ewen realized. God knew he’d stayed as far away from her as possible on the birlinn.

His heart was beating strangely as he walked closer, almost as if he sensed something momentous was about to happen.

He was about ten feet away when she looked up, and he stopped dead in his tracks, as if he’d run into a stone wall.

Christ! The color slid from his face. It was her. Sister Genna. She was Sutherland’s wife? He felt an unfamiliar pain in his chest, as if a hot dagger had just been plunged inside and twisted.

Nay. The shock cleared from his head, and he realized she couldn’t be the same woman. Sutherland’s wife had been pregnant a few days ago, and Sister Genna hadn’t. He ought to know, he thought with a hard clench of his jaw; he’d had his hands all over her.

A closer study of the woman’s smiling face as she responded to something Bruce said revealed further differences. Mary of Mar’s face was fuller, the lines around her mouth and eyes were etched a tad deeper, and her hair was a few inches longer. She had the same unusual blue-green eyes of Sister Genna, but Mary’s leaned toward the blue whereas Sister Genna’s favored the green.

Yet they had the same pale skin—albeit Sister Genna’s had a few more freckles, including the one strategically placed above her lip—slender noses, high cheekbones, dark, sooty lashes, and full pink lips. Hell, even the delicate arch of their brows was the same.

How could there be two …?

The truth slapped him. Mary of Mar had had a twin sister. Everyone had heard the story of how the lass had disappeared a few years ago after an ill-advised and failed attempt to rescue her sister from Edward the First’s clutches. She had been presumed dead. A presumption that apparently was wrong.

The bridge! Of course. The lass had disappeared when a bridge had collapsed. Sister Genna had told him as much, but he hadn’t put the two together.

His mouth fell in a hard line as the full import of his discovery hit him. The wee nun had lied to him. Sister Genna wasn’t Italian; she was Janet of Mar, Mary’s lost sister, and, he realized, Robert the Bruce’s former sister-in-law. Bruce’s first wife, Isabella, had been her sister. Ewen clenched his fists as anger surged through every vein in his body.

Suddenly some of the inconsistencies that he’d noticed made sense. The accent that had faded in and out with anger. The too-fine chemise he’d glimpsed during the attack.

The dagger.

Bloody hell, now he remembered where he’d seen something similar! Viper had a dagger that was nearly identical.

Obviously the sister-in-law Janet had been talking about was Christina of the Isles, one of the most powerful women in the Highlands, and Lachlan MacRuairi’s half-sister. Christina had been married to Duncan of Mar. Sister Janet’s brother was well known to him; Ewen had considered him a friend. He’d fought beside the fierce warrior and witnessed his beheading at the hands of the MacDowells at Loch Ryan.

Did Bruce know Janet was alive? Ewen intended to find out. He closed the distance to the dais in a few steps. Though his attention was on the king, he caught the frown on the newest member of the Highland Guard’s face and suspected that Sutherland had noticed his reaction to his wife. But he would deal with him later.

The king glanced up as he approached, his brows furrowing as he took in Ewen’s dark expression. “Is something wrong?”

“I need to speak to you,” Ewen snapped; then, remembering to whom he was speaking he added, “Sire.”

“I haven’t finished my meal.”

“It’s important,” Ewen replied stiffly, though it should have been obvious. Ewen could count on one hand the times he’d asked anything of the king. He put his head down, did his job, and tried to avoid conflict. Ironic for a soldier perhaps, but making trouble had been his father’s way, not his. Another reason to avoid Sister Genna, he thought. She was nothing but conflict. And not the way to distance himself from his wild father and rebel cousin.

Bruce shot him a dark glare. “It had better be.”

Tor MacLeod, the leader of the Highland Guard, must have been watching from the other end of the table. When the king rose, he did as well.

“Alone,” Ewen said.

Bruce didn’t hide his annoyance but waved off the fierce Highland chief.

Ewen followed the king into the laird’s solar, the small room located just off the Hall, and waited for the king to take his seat in the throne-like chair. The MacDougall chief had forfeited both his chair and his castle to Bruce after his loss at the key Battle of the Pass of Brander two summers past.

“Well, what is it that couldn’t wait, Hunter?”

The king preferred to address him by his war name, even when there was no danger of his identity being discovered. The name Lamont was nearly as reviled as that of Comyn, MacDougall, or MacDowell, and it was almost as if Bruce didn’t want to remind himself of the connection.

Ewen didn’t waste any time. “Does Mary of Mar know that her sister is alive and working as a courier for Lamberton?”

The king’s lack of reaction answered Ewen’s first question: Bruce knew. “Lady Janet has been missing for over three years. How can you be so sure she is alive?”

Ewen put his palms flat on the table and leaned toward the king. “Because I spent two days escorting her to Berwick after she narrowly escaped rape at the hands of some English soldiers near Melrose Abbey.”

The king’s expression cracked at the word rape, but Robert the Bruce was every bit as fierce as his elite band of warriors, and he hadn’t dared to wrest a crown from Edward of England’s hands by showing emotion. Only someone who knew him as well as Ewen would have detected the reaction. He quickly schooled the concern from his features and drummed his fingers idly on the table. “How can you be certain it was Janet? Did she identify herself as such?”

Because Ewen could still see her damned face in his dreams. Still feel the curve of the baby-soft cheek that he’d held in his hand. Still taste the sensual mouth that had moved under his.

He was angry enough to tell Bruce exactly how he knew, but for once he curbed his tongue—albeit not completely. “You know damned well Sister ‘Genna’ is hiding her identity and pretending to be Italian. What the hell are you thinking, allowing your former sister-in-law to put herself in such danger?”

Bruce’s eyes turned flinty black. “Have care, Hunter. I’m used to your blunt manner of speaking, but I’m your king. I don’t care how good of a tracker you are, or how much Stewart believed in you; you’ll control your anger when you are talking to me or find another army to take your chances with.”

Ewen sobered at the sharp reminder—and at how thoroughly he’d forgotten himself.

Angering the king probably wasn’t the best way of going about seeing the Lamonts restored to their former glory. Discretion intervened, and although it wasn’t without some effort, Ewen managed to get a hold on his anger. “I apologize, Sire.”

Bruce stared at him intently, dark eyes hard as onyx as his fingers continued to drum ominously on the table. Another man might have started to shift, but Ewen stood perfectly still while the king decided whether to accept his apology and, apparently, weighed how much to tell him. “If you’ve met my former sister-in-law, you can probably guess that I was not consulted. She came up with the idea all on her own. I was only made aware of her survival and the part she was playing with Lamberton about a year ago when she returned from Italy, where she’d taken refuge after her attempt to rescue her sister went awry.”

That explained the Italian.

Bruce shook his head. “You have to admire the lass—she does not lack for courage in going after her sister at such a time. We were being hunted like dogs. There was no place to hide. Edward’s reign of terror was in full force; he had eyes and ears everywhere. Not even Atholl dared to attempt to reach his wife before he fled north, but Janet commandeered some of her sister-in-law Christina’s MacRuairi clansmen and sailed halfway around Scotland, riding into England bold-as-brass, to pluck her sister right out from under Edward’s nose.” One corner of his mouth lifted wryly. “It almost worked, too.”

That sounded like her all right. But the story that instilled admiration in the king only made Ewen more irate. Then, like now, the lass didn’t seem to have any concept of danger. He said as much to the king, who didn’t disagree with him.

“Tell me what happened,” Bruce said.

Ewen gave him a brief but concise report of how he and MacLean had arrived to discover the two nuns surrounded by soldiers, and how “Sister Genna” had protected her young charge and fended the soldiers off with her threats. He described how MacLean had gone after the note to ensure it reached Bruce (which it had) and how Ewen had insisted on escorting Janet back to Lamberton.

The king’s expression, which had been very grave as Ewen described the attack, lightened with a wry smile at the last. “I’m sure she wasn’t happy about that. Janet was headstrong even as a girl and never liked following orders. I suspect that streak of independence has only grown worse in the intervening years. I’m surprised she did not try to talk you out of it.”

“She did.”

The king lifted a brow. “And you didn’t fall for her honeyed tongue?” He laughed. “I should like to have seen it. After her father died, the lass lived with Isabella and me for a time. I can’t tell you how many times I started out trying to punish her for some mischief she’d gotten into and ended up sending her away feeling as if I were the one who deserved to be sent to the nearest priest to repent.”

Ewen had no interest in rehashing old memories of Janet’s youthful follies; he was more interested in her recent ones. “The English are tightening their noose all across the Borders in an attempt to break our communication routes through the church. It has become increasingly dangerous for all of our couriers, but the women are particularly vulnerable.”

Recalling his earlier gaffe, Ewen was careful not to imply any criticism, but Bruce heard it all the same. “We cannot win the war without the support of the church—both the men of the cloth and the women. They know the risk when they agree to undertake their mission, and I will not second-guess them. Nor will I refuse help simply because it comes from a woman. Janet is the only person I can trust for this.”

Ewen clenched his mouth to prevent himself from arguing. But he didn’t see what could possibly be so important as to endanger her life.

“Have you forgotten what Bella did for me?” Bruce asked, referring to MacRuairi’s wife, the former Countess of Buchan, who’d suffered years of English imprisonment for her part in crowning the king, part of it in a cage. “Or how my wife, daughter, and sisters are still suffering for my cause?”

“That’s exactly my point,” Ewen said. “Women don’t belong in prison or cages. It’s our duty to—”

He stopped before he said the offending words, but it was too late.

“It’s our duty to protect them,” the king finished his thought.

Ewen winced. Damn it, he’d stepped in it again! The king was haunted by what had happened to his women and blamed himself for the fate that had befallen them. He didn’t need Ewen to remind him.

“It isn’t always possible,” the king said softly. He paused a moment before clearing his throat and continuing in a harder voice, “Your fears about my former sister-in-law are not unwarranted, but do not let it concern you. I’ve already started to make preparations for her return, as soon as I can arrange an alternative, which won’t be easy.”

Ewen didn’t bother to hide his relief. “I’m glad to hear it, Sire.”

“Sutherland was making it difficult with his enquiries on behalf of his wife, renewing interest in the lass, and with what you have said …” He shrugged. “Janet will have to understand.”

He didn’t sound any more convinced than Ewen.

“Lady Mary doesn’t know she is alive?”

Bruce shook his head. “We thought it was safer for all involved to keep it secret. Until recently, I wasn’t sure in which direction Mary’s loyalty lay. She was in England for many years.”

“I’m sure she will be relieved.”

“She’ll be furious,” Bruce quipped dryly. He laughed. “But I hope to appease her with wedding plans.”

Ewen frowned. “Wedding plans? But I thought Sutherland and Mary were already married.”

“They are. It’s her sister’s wedding I speak of.”

“But Janet is a …” Even before Ewen could say the word, he realized the truth. He stared at Bruce, feeling as if he’d been kicked in the chest. Or maybe a little lower.

Bruce smiled. “She hasn’t taken any vows.”

A dam burst as anger rose dangerously inside him. It felt like his whole damned body was shaking. “She is pretending to be a nun?”

He was going to kill her, or kiss her until he earned the sins he’d been paying for and she begged forgiveness for the torture she’d put him through—he didn’t know which. But one way or another, his too tempting little non-nun was going to pay.

Bruce stared at him with a frown, but Ewen was too angry to hide his reaction. “It started as an innocent mistake,” the king explained, “but ended up being the best way to protect her. Who would think Janet of Mar was an Italian nun?” Who indeed? Ewen fumed, feeling as if his head were about to explode. How long would it take him to reach Berwick? He was counting down the hours. “Sister Genna” wasn’t going to talk her way out of this one. “Lamberton said the lass has some ideas to take the veil in truth, but when she hears the husband I have picked out for her, I’m sure she will change her mind.”

Ewen thought the knowledge of how she’d lied to him, let him wallow in his guilt for kissing her, and then used it against him was bad enough. He was wrong.

Married? Every instinct in his body recoiled at the idea.

“Who?” he asked in a flat voice.

The king looked at him oddly. “Young Walter.”

The blow could have felled him in two. “Stewart?”

The king nodded.

Ewen’s liege lord and the son of the man to whom he owed everything. The door that had cracked open for a moment slammed shut. If Ewen had harbored any thoughts of something more with Janet of Mar—even for an instant—the knowledge that she was meant for Walter Stewart erected a wall in his mind that was far more powerful than any veil.

Everything Ewen had he owed to James Stewart—his home, his land, his education, his place in Bruce’s guard—and now that loyalty belonged to his son. Moreover, any hope he had of restoring his clan’s good name rested not just with Bruce, but also with the Stewarts.

Pursuing his liege lord’s intended wasn’t likely to endear him to either. He wasn’t going to jeopardize everything he’d been fighting for for a woman, especially one who infuriated him half the time. More than half the time.

No matter how hot she fired his blood.

No matter that she was the first woman he’d ever talked to that didn’t make him feel as if every word out of his mouth was wrong.

No matter that every time he closed his eyes he saw her face.

A ridiculous thought stole through his mind: What if

Stewart could be persuaded to step aside? Hell, one could even argue that Ewen would be doing him a favor. Janet was probably a good half-dozen years older than the eighteen-year-old Walter, and infinitely wiser. The lass would eat the poor lad up alive.

But Ewen stomped on the flicker of hope before it could flame. Who the hell was he fooling? She was the former sister-in-law of a king. The daughter, sister, and aunt of an earl. He was a Highland chieftain with one finger of land in Cowal, a holding that was a pittance compared to Stewart’s—or even his cousin’s before the Lamont lands were dispossessed.

Even if he wanted her—which he sure as hell wasn’t saying he did—Janet of Mar was not for him.

Or so he would keep telling himself over the long months ahead.