The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(100)

At this time of year, in the cold, dark days approaching the Nativity, there weren’t many. Those that she did come across had any curiosity appeased by her claim of being a midwife, traveling to attend the birth of her sister’s first child in whatever village lay ahead.

A few times, she joined another traveling party for a while—including a farmer and his wife taking fowl to market in Glasgow and an old man traveling to Lanark to visit his son—seeking the safety and comfort of numbers. But when questions became too personal, she was forced to part company.

More often than not, she was alone with her thoughts, which as much as she tried to prevent them kept returning to Ewen. It wouldn’t always be this horrible, she told herself. But for the first time, she could understand the misery her sister had suffered in her first marriage. How it felt to love someone and not have the person return those feelings. How it felt to be betrayed by the man to whom you’d given your heart.

It was a long, difficult journey. More difficult than it should have been, especially compared to the one that had come before. In addition to not having the English chasing after her, the advantage of staying to the main road was that she avoided the hills that she and Ewen had been forced to traverse. The disadvantage, of course, was the chance of coming upon an English patrol.

For two long days, through Rutherglen, where she’d spent her first night, to Peebles, where she spent her second, Janet managed to avoid such danger. On the third, however, as she and a merchant and his wife with whom she’d been traveling since Innerleithen approached the outskirts of Melrose, where she’d first met Ewen, fate intervened once again. A dozen soldiers appeared on the road ahead of her.

Her blood ran cold. Every instinct urged her to flee, although she knew that was ridiculous. There was no reason for her to run. She hadn’t done anything wrong.

She forced air into her lungs in slow, even breaths. How many times had she done this before? Too many to count. With as much time as she’d spent on the roads as a courier, running into English soldiers was not uncommon. Why was she so nervous?

Taking a cue from the merchant and his wife, she pretended not to notice anything out of the ordinary and continued on the path ahead. If the couple noticed her slight hesitation, they did not remark upon it. However, the merchant, a man old enough to be her father, did let his gaze linger on her face a moment longer than usual. Had he seen her skin pale beneath the makeshift hood of her plaid? His gaze dropped to her hands. Realizing she was clenching the reins, she forced her fingers to loosen. But that, he’d definitely noticed.

As the distance closed between them, the merchant moved his cart over to the side of the path to let the soldiers pass. Janet followed the couple, taking advantage of the opportunity to angle her own mount behind theirs, where she hoped she wouldn’t be as visible.

The pounding of her heart in her ears grew louder as the powerful warhorses neared. The ground started to shake, she hoped hiding her own shaking.

The merchant raised his hand in greeting as the first horse rode by.

The pounding in her heart stilled. Keep going, she prayed. Don’t stop.

One … two … three … passed by. Her heart started again. It was going to be all right. But then the pounding stopped—not her heart, the hooves.

“Halt,” a hard English voice said. “You there. What is your name? What business do you have on the road?”

No reason to panic, she told herself. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“Walter Hende, my lord. I am a merchant on my way to Roxburgh, where my wife and I hope to open a shop.”

“What kind of shop?”

The merchant motioned to his cart. “A drapery, my lord. I’ve the finest woolen cloth in Edinburgh. Take a look if you like.”

Janet ventured a peek at the soldier. Her heart dropped. He wasn’t a soldier he was a knight, although she did not recognize the arms of six martlets separated by a thick gold bend. He was an imposing-looking man, and not just because of his heavy armor and mail. He was big—tall and broad-shouldered—with a hard, square jaw and dark, hooded eyes just visible beneath the steel helm.

He motioned to a younger man by his side, whom she assumed must be his squire. The lad jumped down and approached the cart. Lifting back the oiled leather cover, he nodded. “Aye, Sir Thomas. It’s filled with cloth.”

It was then that disaster struck. The squire glanced in her direction. Because of where he had come to stand by the cart, he had a clear vantage of her face.

He gasped. “Lady Mary! What are you doing here?”

The blood slid from her face. Oh God, this couldn’t be happening. The boy thought she was her sister.

“You know this woman, John?” Sir Thomas said.

The lad frowned, staring at her. He must have seen something that made him question his first impression. “It’s me, Lady Mary. John Redmayne. I was friends with your son at court. You remember—we met at Bamburgh Castle last year. I came with Lord Clifford.”

Sir Robert Clifford was one of Edward’s chief commanders in the battle against the Scots. Fear curdled like sour milk in her stomach.

After a moment, Janet finally found her voice. “I’m afraid you have mistaken me with someone else.”

The boy’s frown went askew.

“Step forward where I can see you,” the knight ordered. “If you are not the woman my squire believes, then who are you?”