The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(23)

“Change,” he said gruffly, turning around.

He’d taken his clothes off in the same room as a woman countless times before, but he’d never been so achingly aware of it. Though they stood well over five feet apart, he swore he could feel every one of her movements. He made quick work of his own wet clothes, exchanging them for a clean tunic and breeches.

And then he waited. She seemed to be taking an infinitely long amount of time. He started to turn his head …

“Are you looking?”

His head snapped back. “Are you done yet?”

“Almost.”

A few minutes later, thinking that she must be finished by now, he glanced over his shoulder again, catching sight of her slim back right before the leine dropped over it.

He sucked in a groan, going as hard as a spike. Lust pounded through him and the painful ache returned. It was his own damned fault. This was what he got for looking.

Now he had the image of a smooth, shapely, creamy bottom to go along with the smooth, shapely, creamy br**sts. The walls of the torture room seemed to be drawing in tighter.

But not all of her had been smooth. He frowned, recalling the scars that he’d noticed earlier. A hair shirt and whip? He didn’t think so. They looked like some kind of burn marks.

The lass was going to start answering some of his questions.

“You can turn around,” she said.

The frown was still on his face. “How did you get the scars on your back?”

Janet stiffened instinctively. It wasn’t shame but the natural defensiveness that the subject aroused. Though they’d faded, she knew the scars were unsightly. But somehow that seemed fitting. She wanted the reminder. She didn’t want to lose sight of her purpose. She might not be able to change what her interference that day at the bridge had wrought—or bring back Cailin—but she could ensure that something good came from it.

She must be getting used to Ewen’s blunt manner of speaking, because neither his question nor his appalling lack of manners in bringing up such a personal subject surprised her. He was lucky that she wasn’t self-conscious.

All of a sudden, she stopped. Her eyes narrowed. What had made him think of the scars? “You looked!”

He shrugged without apology. “It was unintentional. You were taking too long.”

“Is that supposed to be an excuse?”

“If you wish it to be.”

Janet fumed at him.

“You’ve nothing to worry about,” he said. “You don’t have anything I haven’t seen hundreds of times.”

If he was trying to make her feel better, he’d failed. Her eyes widened with outrage. “Hundreds of times?”

He shrugged, and for some reason the careless indifference infuriated her all the more. She shouldn’t care how many women he’d been with or whether he thought her unremarkable in comparison, but hearing him so blandly state it rankled.

“How nice to know that you have such a breadth of comparison to call upon.”

“You didn’t answer my question. How did you get the scars? And before you think about telling me what you told the soldiers today, I know they aren’t from a whip and hair shirt.”

“Have you ‘hundreds’ of scar comparisons as well?”

He grinned; obviously her irritation amused him. “More.”

“You’ve been fighting the war for some years, then?”

“Aye. Now tell me about the scars.”

Janet pursed her mouth. He was just like Duncan. She’d never been able to distract him either. He’d been positively intractable when it had come to questioning her about some perceived issue or problem. If only Ewen Lamont reminded her of her brother in other ways. But the feelings Ewen aroused in her were definitely un-brotherly.

As it seemed he would not be turned from his course without an answer, she decided to tell him the truth. Well, part of it, anyway. “I was on a bridge when it was struck by lightning. I don’t remember exactly what happened, but there was a fire, and some of the wood splintered and ended up in my back. The sisters did their best to remove them, but some were buried deeply.”

He held her gaze as if he knew there was more that she wasn’t saying. But that was all she intended to tell him. How she ended up on the bridge was none of his business.

“So that’s why you didn’t wish to cross. When did this happen?”

It was her turn to shrug. “Some time ago.” Hoping to put an end to the subject, she added, “I do not like to talk about it.”

“The scars are no cause for shame. They are a mark of your strength. You survived.”

She bristled. “I know that. It is not the scars that cause me pain, but the memories they bring.”

This time, he took the hint and changed the subject—though unfortunately, this one was no better than the last. “You have an unusual accent. Where are you from?”

She hoped he hadn’t seen the slight stiffening of her shoulders, but she’d already learned that little escaped him. “My father was a merchant,” she said, staying with the same story she told the innkeeper. “We moved around quite a bit.”

“And that is why you speak so many languages?”

“Yes.” But it hadn’t been easy. She’d always been horrible with languages. Deciding that they’d talked about her long enough, she asked, “And what about you? I have not met many Highlanders who speak such fluent French who aren’t noblemen—” She stopped, blushing.