The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(36)

The ladies from the castle were only two stalls away when she felt someone at her side.

“Don’t turn around,” a man’s voice whispered in French. “You are being watched.”

Janet did her best not to react, but the heat that had spread over her skin from the sun turned to ice. She cast a sidelong glance at the man who’d voiced the warning, recognizing one of the friars from the Friary of St. Peter’s, located just across the river from the castle. They’d crossed paths many times before at market, and he’d been the one to arrange for her stall among the other religious houses’ offerings, but she’d never paid the nondescript young churchman much mind.

Perhaps that was the point. He was easy to overlook. Friar Thom was of average height and build, with a circle of straight brown hair around his tonsure. He was neither handsome nor ugly, with brown eyes and unremarkable features. Nothing stood out. Which probably made him the perfect spy or courier—she hoped, for Bruce.

He moved away as quickly as he’d approached. If someone was indeed watching her, it would have seemed as if he’d passed right by after a quick glance at her table.

But the brief contact had sent her heart racing. Whether friend or foe, she could not take the chance in meeting her source with him near.

Her pulse took another anxious spike when she glanced over and saw the ladies from the castle at the very next stall.

She tried to make eye contact, but one of the ladies was blocking the person she was looking for. If someone was watching her, perhaps that wasn’t the best thing to do anyway. She needed a distraction, something to keep the women away.

All of a sudden, she had an idea. “Mais non!” she cried out in despair. She began tearing through the items she had laid out on the table.

“What is it, Sister Genna?” one of the nuns at the next table asked, continuing in French.

“The alms purse made by the Reverend Mother,” she said, twisting her hands. “I cannot find it. Someone must have stolen it from the table when I was not looking.”

She’d spoken loud enough for those around her to hear, and the use of the word “stolen” had the desired effect in creating a disturbance. A number of the nearby churchmen and women came forward to help her.

“What does it look like?” the first nun, Sister Winifred, asked.

“It was an image of Our Lady embroidered in gold thread,” Janet answered about the nonexistent item.

“When did you notice it missing?” another one of the nuns asked in English—this one she didn’t recognize.

Janet pretended not to understand, and Sister Winifred, who knew she was Italian (or at least pretending to be), translated for her in French.

Janet shook her head, hoping her eyes looked as if they were filling with tears. “I don’t know.”

“Someone should send for the constable,” one of the friars said, outraged.

Janet glanced at the ladies and nearly sighed with relief to see them being urged away by her contact, who’d obviously figured that something must be wrong.

She shook her head at the friar who’d spoken. “It is no use. I did not see who took it. I’m sure the thief is long gone.”

“What seems to be the problem?”

Even before Janet turned, she felt a chill sweep across the back of her neck and knew without a doubt that this was the person who’d been watching her. He wore the robes of a priest, including a finely embroidered cope that spoke of his importance, but there was nothing about this man that was holy. He seemed to exude danger and animosity. For a moment she felt like one of the hunted Templars under the inquisitor’s gaze.

As he’d spoken in French, she could not feign ignorance. “A purse, Father. It seems someone has stolen it.”

“Is that so,” he said carefully, eyes narrowing. “And how is it that this thief made off with your purse and no one noticed?”

Janet’s eyes widened innocently. “What a wonderful suggestion, Father. Perhaps I should ask around. Did you see something, by chance?”

“Of course, I didn’t see something.”

“I only thought since you were watching—”

“What are you talking about? I wasn’t watching you!”

She blinked a few times in confusion, hoping she wasn’t overdoing it. “You weren’t? But I thought I saw you standing over there gazing in this direction.” She pointed to the area where she’d felt someone watching her.

“You were mistaken.”

“That is too bad. I was hoping you might have seen something.”

“That isn’t possible, as there was nothing to see.” She tilted her head. “But I thought you were not watching.”

His face flushed. “I wasn’t.”

“Oh! Pardon me! I must have misunderstood.” She shrugged. “My French is not perfect.”

“Where are you from?”

“Sister Genna is from Italy, Father Simon,” Sister Winifred interceded on her behalf. “But she comes to us from the Sisters of St. Mary’s Priory at Coldstream.”

His eyes lit up. “That’s in Berwick-upon-Tweed, is it not?” he said in perfect Italian.

Janet nodded with a silent curse. Her heart raced even harder. She’d become fluent in the language, but she prayed she didn’t make any mistakes. “It is, Father. But I will be returning to Italy soon.”