The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(41)

Damn it, why hadn’t she listened to him? She had no business being out here doing this. Bruce should have brought her back earlier. Ewen should have done more to convince him. But he hadn’t wanted to stir up trouble.

He knew what could happen to women who were thought to be helping Bruce. Not a day went by that he didn’t see the faces of the slaughtered villagers near Lochmaben Castle in his mind. All those women and children. His stomach turned. He probably should have done more then, too. But it had been just after Bruce had returned to Scotland, and Ewen had still been reeling from the disaster that had befallen them at Loch Ryan.

They hadn’t realized the danger they were putting the villagers in when they’d sought their help. But weeks later, when some member of the Highland Guard had returned, they’d learned the horrible truth. The entire village had been decimated by the English for helping them. The only survivor had been a young girl who’d been tossed in the pit prison and forgotten. Arrow’s wee ward, they called her, after MacGregor had taken pity on the poor orphaned lass—who obviously worshiped him (which wasn’t unusual for lasses with MacGregor)—and taken her back to his home.

Had the same thing happened to Janet? He’d about given up hope of tracking her—the trail was just too cold—when he had an idea. Thank God for her love of those damned nuts. It had taken a while to locate the merchant, and then to track down every nun who’d purchased from him in the past few weeks, but eventually their hunt led them to the priory at Rutherford.

He would never forget the relief he felt yesterday when he’d seen her stroll out of the convent with a devil-may-care smile on her face. It was only later, while he waited for the right opportunity to intercept her, that anger settled in. How dare she look so happy and carefree when her disappearance had caused such turmoil!

He caught the flash of alarm in her eyes as she realized what he’d said, but it didn’t take her long to collect herself.

She gave him a long once-over, taking in the green cloak and hood. “You are missing your alms cup and bell so that I might hear you coming.”

His mouth thinned. “There wasn’t time.”

“To steal them?”

“To borrow them,” he corrected, returning the scrutiny. As long as they were talking disguises, the nun’s costume had been more believable. “Aren’t you a little old to be a novice?”

She gasped, her eyes flashing with outrage. “I’m not old! And I’m a widow.”

He lifted his brow at that. “Who is the unfortunate groom?”

Her eyes narrowed as if she were trying to figure out whether he’d meant it as “unfortunate dead” or “unfortunate married to her.”

He hadn’t decided.

“An Englishman. He was a soldier who died in the war. And hasn’t anyone ever told you that it’s rude to comment on a woman’s age? I’m seven and twenty—younger than you.” She bit her lip uncertainly, and he nearly swore at the swell of heat it provoked in his groin. “How old are you?”

He frowned. “One and thirty.” He’d just celebrated his Saint’s Day last week.

She nodded, pleased to have made her point. “What do you want? Do you have a message for me?”

Ewen fought to keep his temper in check, but after nearly a week of looking under every rock between Roxburgh and Berwick for the lass, he was having a difficult time.

“Bloody right I have a message! Where the hell have you been? No one has had sight or sound of you in over a month.”

He didn’t know what he’d expected, but damn it, perhaps to find her in a little more peril? And a little more gratitude on her part to see him, rather than this feeling that he was somehow interrupting her.

Ignoring the voice that warned him not to touch her, he took her by the arm again and hauled her up against him. The wall he’d erected in his mind was proving a little thin. Instead of thinking that she belonged to Walter Stewart, he couldn’t help thinking how good she felt against him.

Janet of Mar, damn it.

“Did it occur to you that people might be concerned?” He may have growled the last.

Her eyes widened. “Of course, it didn’t. I’m not missing.”

His jaw locked. “So I see. But it might have been nice for you to tell the rest of us.”

“Did no one receive my message? I sent word of my change in plans to our friend in Berwick.”

Ewen grimaced, guessing how she’d sent her message. “With a local friar?”

She nodded, and he swore, letting her go. Some of his anger dissipated. It wasn’t all her fault. Messages failing to reach their destination was a common occurrence in war.

Part of him hoped she wouldn’t ask, but she was too smart not to have figured it out. “What happened? Did something happen to the friar?”

He didn’t make an attempt to soften the blow. Perhaps this would make her understand the risks she took. “He was killed. Tortured, by the look of it, and his body was dumped on the road to Berwick about a month ago.”

She recoiled from the shock. “No!” Her eyes filled with tears, and he had to steel himself from reaching out to give her … what? Comfort? Bloody hell! He was furious with her; what in Hades was wrong with him?

He nodded, giving her a moment to come to terms with what he’d told her. “No one knew what had happened to you.”