The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(19)

She hoped the flush of heat to her cheeks didn’t show on her face. “Has anyone ever told you that you have an overly suspicious mind?’

“Has anyone ever told you nuns aren’t supposed to lie?”

She lifted her chin. “It isn’t a lie. The nuts are my favorite.”

“Well, you can ask the bishop to pick them up for you when he runs his own errand. We aren’t going to Roxburgh. The area will be crawling with English. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of a war.”

She bristled at his patronizing sarcasm, but the subject of her involvement was not one she wanted to reopen. He was suspicious enough already, and heaven only knew what she’d say if he got her angry again.

So she bit her tongue and bided her time. But she hadn’t given up. The bishop had received word from an important source at the castle and had asked Janet to make contact. He didn’t trust anyone else. She would just have to find a way to convince the stubborn Highlander (a redundancy, in her experience) to reconsider. But she knew she’d better do it before he found that crossing.

Something was wrong, Ewen thought. The lass was too quiet. She’d given up too easily. He’d wager half his earnings for the month that she was up to something. Hell, he’d wager it all—if he wagered. But he wasn’t his father, and he needed whatever coin he earned to finish that damned castle.

He just hoped she didn’t have any more hidden daggers. Now that the rain had begun he needed to keep all his attention on the path ahead of them through the forest. The slippery mud and uneven ground was bad enough, but the thick mist that had descended around them was disorienting. Nor did it help his concentration any that the harder the rain came down, the deeper she seemed to burrow into his chest. His bollocks were probably a deep shade of blue by now after having her bottom wedged against him for God-knows-how-many hours.

She shivered dramatically. He didn’t blame her. For an April day, it felt as cold as the dark of winter. “Please, may we not find a place to stop to wait out the storm?”

He felt a prickle of guilt. They’d been riding for hours now. In addition to wet and cold, she was probably tired as well. “As soon as we cross the river.”

“And when will that be?”

“Soon.”

She glanced back at him from over her shoulder. She’d wrapped the plaid around her head, but water still streamed down her pale face. Her lashes were damp and clumped as if she’d been crying. Guilt pricked him again. She was only a lass. Women were delicate creatures—a fact he had to remind himself of in her case. What would make her want to put herself in such danger?

“I thought you knew—”

He cut her off. “I know exactly where we are.” Mostly. They should be reaching the ford in the river soon. He hadn’t gone too far. It was just the rain that was making it look so unfamiliar. He wasn’t lost.

“I just thought that with the mist, it might be difficult—”

“We aren’t lost, damn it.”

She gasped, drawing back a little in the face of his temper. “I did not mean to slight your navigation skills. Of course, we are not lost.” He felt a moment of satisfaction until she ruined it with, “If you say it is so.”

Guilt forgotten, he fumed as he looked around for any sign that the path he’d taken was the right one. Women of the cloth weren’t supposed to be so damned irritating. What happened to meek and serene?

He fought through the trees and brush for another twenty minutes or so. The rain was coming down harder and the wind … the wind seemed to be blowing straight off the North Sea. Bone-chilling was putting it mildly.

Finally he saw it—the gap he’d been looking for. “There it is,” he said, as if there had never been any doubt.

He steered the horse toward the bank, but the sight that met him there was not what he expected.

* * *

Whatever blood Janet had left that wasn’t frozen from the cold drained from her face. “You can’t mean for us to cross here!”

She didn’t need to feign horror; it was real enough. She looked at the twenty-foot-wide spans of the River Tweed and felt her stomach heave and ho like a ship upon storm-tossed seas. The normally slow-moving waters of the river were rushing by in a torrential fury, swollen from the winter runoff and the recent spate of storms.

The waves—waves!—were almost cresting the three big trees that had been set across the banks to form a makeshift bridge. How long would those trees stay in place against the powerful force of the river?

She shook her head, fear slamming around in her chest. “I can’t.”

He spoke to her gently—more gently than he ever had before. “It will hold.”

He dismounted and held up his hand to help her down. She slipped her hand in his, and when she leaned forward, he caught her around the waist and lowered her gently to the ground. It was nothing that should have made her breath catch. She’d been helped down from a horse countless time before. But never had she been aware of a man’s hands around her waist, of the soft press of his thumbs against her rib cage, or of the strength of the arms that she gripped to keep her steady.

And never had she wanted to inhale so deeply. He smelled of leather, rain, and the forest, but also of something warm and undeniably masculine.

Their eyes held for a long heartbeat, and she knew he felt it too. He shifted his gaze and released her so quickly her legs wobbled.