The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(15)

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.”