The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(48)

He looked at her as if she were daft, which was exactly how she felt. “You don’t have warts and moles.”

“Not me,” she said, frustration rising inside her and threatening to spill over in a deluge of embarrassing tears. “The healer. Healers are always old and wrinkly, with lots of warts and moles.”

He threw his head back and laughed. The sight was so rare and wonderful that for a moment it stole her breath. Her chest squeezed.

Oh God.

Oh no.

He looked so different. So happy and carefree. Not rigid and uncompromising at all. He looked … He looked like a man who could steal her heart without even trying.

Then he spoke and ruined it. “Helen is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. But I’ll make sure to tell her that.”

He laughed some more, and Janet wished she could sink into her saddle and disappear.

She felt like a fool, and worse, a jealous fool. The only good thing was that he didn’t seem to have any clue as to the reason for her silly questions.

Janet fell into a rare silence as she tried to sort out her tangled emotions.

Not only did he obviously respect this Helen for her skills, he also thought her beautiful. And in that moment, with her heart squeezing and tears stinging her eyes, Janet knew she wanted him to feel that way about her. For some reason, his respect was important to her.

He couldn’t be so indifferent to her. The infuriating man had disturbed her thoughts for months! It hadn’t been just her, and she intended to prove it. But how?

She had plenty of time to consider her options as they rode north for miles, not retracing their path along the road, but circling back through the hills and forests. It was dusk when he finally stopped in a dense patch of trees near a river, which she assumed was the Tweed, which they’d tried to cross on the way to Berwick before. She looked around for a bridge or ford to cross but didn’t see anything.

He dismounted and then moved to help her do the same. “We’ll rest here until it’s dark.”

“I thought we were going to meet the others?”

One side of his mouth curved. “We are. They’re here.”

He whistled, and an instant later three figures stepped out of the shadows like ghosts. Big, fearsome ghosts dressed from head to foot in black. Even their helms were blackened. They’d been only a few feet from her, but she hadn’t seen them. They seemed to blend into the night.

She took a step back, unconsciously seeking his protection. His hand slid around her waist to steady her, as if it belonged there. She sank against him, letting the hard strength of his body surround her and envelop her in its heat.

The fear dissipated, and she felt herself relax.

Then she smiled. It wasn’t because she recognized MacLean. She was glad enough to see the warrior whom she’d last seen escorting Marguerite back to Melrose Abbey, but that wasn’t the cause of her happiness. Nay, the cause of her happiness was pressing hard against her backside.

Whatever else he might want her to think, Ewen Lamont was not indifferent. And he’d just showed her how to prove it.

Eleven

Ewen had spent years of training, learning to listen to and follow his instincts, but in this case they’d let him down. It was instinct that made him reach for her when he realized she was scared, but having the bottom that he could remember every curve and contour of pressed against him was harkening other instincts. Very primitive and powerful instincts.

He thought he’d tamed the wild beast inside him, but it was roaring again. Blood surged through him, hot and pounding, concentrating in one particularly painful area. Hell, he didn’t need a war hammer, he had one banging against his stomach.

He hoped to hell she thought a weapon was exactly what she was feeling, but the wool of the farmer’s clothes didn’t hide his body’s reaction nearly as well as the leather of his armor.

He let his hand slip from her waist and stepped away, snapping his frustration at his friends. “Bloody hell, take off the helms! You’re scaring her.”

MacLean did so first, and then stepped farther out of the shadows into the dusky light. He gave her a short bow. “My lady.”

Janet recovered quickly. The manners, grace, and elegance befitting the daughter of an earl emerged so effortlessly, Ewen wondered how he hadn’t recognized it right away. “Janet,” she corrected him. “Please. Although I fear we were not introduced properly before.”

MacLean smiled, a rare feat for his dark facade. “Under the circumstances, it was understandable, Lady Janet.”

Ewen didn’t miss the grateful smile she threw in MacLean’s direction for his understanding of her deception—or the “see that” one she threw in his.

The other introductions were made, MacKay first and then Sutherland, and Ewen felt his temper heat with every well-mannered word. The ruthless, more-brigand-than-knight warriors he’d fought alongside for months sounded like bloody courtiers out of some bard’s tale.

Gallantry skills, he recalled her jibe. What use did a Highland warrior have for those?

None. But never had he felt the lack of them so acutely.

Sutherland kept staring at her, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. For some reason, it made Ewen want to smash his fist through his teeth. The two women were completely different—couldn’t he see that?

Janet seemed amused by her brother-in-law’s reaction. Or perhaps she was used to it. “Do we look so much alike?”