The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(21)

She was grateful for the moment of privacy. She tended to her most pressing need, and then quickly removed the veil and scapular, which wasn’t easy in the rain with everything sopping wet. She tried not to think that right now had he not insisted on accompanying her, she would be warm and dry in the abbey. When she was done, she wrapped the plaid around her again and packed the clothing in her bag. Without the protection of her habit she felt … vulnerable.

But to what?

She’d just finished tucking the cross under the plain black gown she still wore, when he returned and she knew exactly what.

Oh God.

Her stomach dropped. He’d removed the ghastly helm, and for the first time she could see his face in full.

She was wrong. He wasn’t just handsome, he was brutally handsome. Handsome in the dark-haired, blue-eyed, rough-hewn kind of way that made every primitive female instinct in her stand up and take notice. His mouth … that jaw … those eyes.

She sighed in a way that she never had as a young girl. What a time to start acting like one!

His hair hung in sopping-wet clumps across his forehead, the stubble of his beard was a day or two too long, and rain was pouring down his face, yet it only seemed to add a rugged edge to his attractiveness. She felt something grip her chest and squeeze.

The horror of realization hit her. She knew why she was acting like this and why he’d made her feel so uneasy from the start.

Jerusalem’s Temples, I’m attracted to him!

Instinctively, like the hare who sees the hunter for the first time, Janet felt the urge to run. She may have persuaded him to do her bidding, but part of her wondered whether crossing the bridge was any less dangerous than spending the night with him.

Five

It wasn’t until the innkeeper opened the door to the room that Ewen realized exactly how big of a mistake he’d made in letting her persuade him not to cross that river.

His eyes scanned the second-floor chamber, which didn’t take long, as it wasn’t much bigger than the solitary bed that had been pushed up against the far wall. Aside from a small table and wooden stool, nothing else was in the room. There wasn’t room for anything.

Alarm hit him like a poleaxe in the chest. There was no way in hell they could stay here. Jesus, they would be right on top of one another!

He was just about to ask for another room—a much larger one—when the plump, matronly-looking innkeeper turned to him with a proud smile. “It’s our largest room, and I think our best. You can see right down to the courtyard from that window,” she said cheerfully, pointing to the shutter above the bed. “The roof is tight and will keep you nice and dry. Of course, we can’t have a fire in here with the thatched roof, but it is warm and cozy from the fire in the hall below, and if you give me your wet things, I’ll hang them by the fire downstairs, and they should be nice and dry by morning.”

Neither he nor Sister Genna seemed to know what to say. For him that wasn’t uncommon, but he suspected it was a rare occurrence for the silver-tongued nun.

The innkeeper set down the stack of bed linens she was carrying and placed them on the bed. Then she turned to Sister Genna and said with a wink and meaningful glance toward the bed, “If you need another blanket, let me know. But your husband is a braw laddie, he should keep you plenty warm.”

Sister Genna seemed to turn even paler and her eyes widened to such enormous proportions, Ewen would have laughed if he wasn’t feeling exactly the same way. Apprehension was an understatement. This room was beginning to look like his very own personal torture chamber.

He was tempted to thank the innkeeper for her trouble and go right back down the stairs, but that might provoke exactly the type of attention he was trying to avoid. So far everything had gone well, and they had not seemed to attract any undue notice. He didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that.

Besides, part of him knew Sister Genna was right: it would have been dangerous to attempt to cross the bridge in the storm. They were both cold and soaked to the bone. He might have been able to build a makeshift shelter, but it would be a long, torturous night outside in the cold and rain. In here it would be a different kind of long, torturous night for him, but at least she would be warm and dry. He couldn’t stand watching her shiver anymore; it made him feel … odd. Like he would do just about anything to make her stop.

With grim acceptance he took pity on his horror-struck “wife,” who couldn’t seem to find her tongue for once, and answered for her.

“The room will do,” he said with his usual brevity. He spoke in English, the tongue spoken by the ordinary people in the border towns. He was surprised to discover that Sister Genna spoke it quite well—albeit with a heavy accent—something she’d neglected to tell him until now. The lass was full of surprises.

He realized he’d said something wrong when the older woman’s face fell. But Sister Genna immediately moved to make it right. “It’s the perfect refuge from the storm,” she said to the innkeeper with a grateful smile. “I’m sure we will be quite comfortable.” She gave a gasp of delight that hit him hard in a place it shouldn’t. “Is that a feather pillow?”

The innkeeper beamed. “It is indeed, m’lady.”

“How wonderful! I will be asleep as soon as my head hits those feathers. I suspect my …” He hoped he was the only one who noticed her slight hesitation. “My husband might have to pry me out of bed in the morning. But we have a long journey ahead of us.”