The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(44)

The abbess accepted without comment the story of her needing to leave. Friar Thom—the horror of his death still weighed heavily on Janet—had told her the abbess was a friend. How much she knew, Janet didn’t ask, but she suspected the older nun had guessed most of it.

When Ewen arrived to collect her at the gate at the appointed hour—thankfully, dressed in the plain clothing of a farmer rather than his leper’s cloak and hood—she was ready to go. He grunted some kind of greeting, took her bag, and led her (or rather, he stalked away and she hurried after him) down the path to where he’d tied the horses. She was pleased to see two. Of course, she was. The last thing she wanted to do was ride with him again.

It wasn’t as if the memory of his arms around her, the big, hard wall of his chest behind her, or the gentle warmth and feeling of contentment was something she dreamed about. Nor was the thought of spending a few days with him something that should be making her pulse race, blast it.

She noticed that he did a surreptitious scan of the countryside around the convent before he turned and helped lift her onto the horse. But other than a few nuns working in the garden, and a young lad fishing by the river, there was no one else about. Janet supposed he was just being cautious, but she did sense an unusual watchfulness about him.

No doubt any warrior in Bruce’s army would feel a bit anxious being in the Borders, but the convent was in a quiet part of the village, at least a quarter-mile away from any other abode. He had no cause for concern.

She might have told him so, but the moment his hands wrapped around her waist to lift her, she jolted. There was no other way to describe the blast of sensation that surged through her at the moment of contact. She could feel the imprint of every one of those big fingers splayed over her ribs.

Good heavens, she’d forgotten how strong he was. He lifted her as if she weighed no more than a child. She reached out to steady herself by grabbing the solid muscle of his arms, and the jolt was followed by a heavy rush of heat. Heat that poured through her body in deep, molten waves.

Oh God, it was just like she remembered. She’d wondered if she’d imagined it—exaggerated it in her mind. But she hadn’t. One brief touch and she was falling to pieces.

Yet one glance at his stony expression and she felt a pang. Obviously he was not similarly affected. He wore that same grim look on his face that she remembered so well, except that his mouth was even a tad tighter than before. Little white lines were etched around his lips and the muscle below his jaw seemed to tic a few times.

He set her down so harshly on the saddle, she gasped. “Ouch!” she said, rubbing her affected backside. “That hurt.” He didn’t bother to offer an apology but glared at her as if it were her fault. She lifted one eyebrow. “I can see you’ve been perfecting your gallantry skills since last we met.”

His eyes glinted and her insides did a little tossing about at their steely intensity. He gave her a mock bow. “Forgive me, my lady. I’d forgotten who I was serving.”

Janet bit her lip, regretting the sarcasm that had reminded him of her wee deception. Apparently, he wasn’t as indifferent as he appeared about learning her true identity. She half-expected him to start bellowing at her, but instead, he turned sharply away and mounted his own horse.

Janet wasn’t the best judge of horseflesh, but even she could see that the horses were better suited to plow animals and certainly weren’t going to be able to carry them far from Roxburgh. They rode a few minutes before she asked, “Did you borrow the horses the same place you borrowed those clothes?”

He shot her a glare. “You didn’t leave me much time to plan for something grander, my lady. I thought the farmer better than the leper or wearing my armor to collect you.”

He had a way of saying “my lady” that made her want to cringe. “Stop calling me that.”

His gaze bit into her and she shuddered, seeing the anger simmering there. But his voice was deceptively even. “What would you prefer I call you? Sister? Genna? Eleanor?”

“Janet. You know that’s my name. Stop pretending you’ve forgotten.”

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten.”

With that ominous bit of warning that made her stomach feel as if a rock were bouncing up and down inside, he turned away.

They rode in silence for a while, each mile more and more uncomfortable. Why didn’t he just get it over with? Waiting for the axe to fall was making her anxious.

He was tense, too, although not for the same reason. The alertness she’d noticed had only increased the longer they rode—south, she realized suddenly.

“Why are we riding in this direction? Shouldn’t we be riding away from England?”

He ignored her sarcasm. “I’m making sure no one is following us.”

“Why would they be?”

She wasn’t surprised when he didn’t answer her, as it seemed she had about a one-in-two chance of that occurring. If he was trying to deter her from questions, however, it wasn’t going to work.

He seemed to be making an effort to cover their tracks. At least that was what she assumed he was doing, when he occasionally led them off the path into rocky ground or obscured their direction at junctures by riding back and forth a few times and varying the speed—and thus the stride—of their horses.

“Is anyone following us?” she asked.