The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(16)

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.