The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(52)

She could feel the fierce pounding of his heart under her palm. It was not unlike the sensation of having her hand on the lid of a pot that was about to boil over.

She could see in the intensity of his gaze that he wanted her. She could feel it straining in his muscles. He wanted her, but something was holding him back. A fierce battle was warring inside him.

She lost.

He captured her wrist in his hand and removed it from his chest. “There is nothing to forgive. You were right. It prevented us from making a mistake that could not be corrected. Because that’s what it would be, Janet, a mistake. I’m sorry if the kiss confused you, but it didn’t mean anything. It would be best if you forgot it ever happened.” He looked her straight in the eye. “I have.”

She sucked in her breath at the harsh blow, surprised by how much his frank words stung. Before she could clear the scorching blast of hurt from her chest and throat to respond, he was gone.

By the time Janet had finished putting on the squire’s clothing, she’d worked herself into such a temper that she didn’t even notice the cold. Still, she’d changed about as quickly as she could recall.

A mistake? She slammed the door of the bothy behind her. How like him to make that determination for them both!

She marched the short distance to where the men waited. It was dark now, but the moonlight was strong enough through the wisps of descending mist to guide her through the trees.

Forgotten about it, had he? Well, she would see about that. He’d dragged her away from Roxburgh; she had two, possibly three, days to prove differently, and she intended to use very minute of them.

How she would do so, she didn’t know, but she was certain something would come to her.

Janet didn’t think she’d taken much time, but all four men were waiting for her when she broke through the circle of trees and emerged into the small clearing where they’d gathered. They’d retrieved their horses from wherever they’d been hidden, including exchanging the two nags she and Ewen had been riding earlier for a pair of fine and sturdy-looking stallions.

Although the four men were outfitted in strikingly similar (and terrifying) fashion—Ewen had exchanged his farmer’s garb for the black leather cotun, chausses, plaid, and blackened nasal helm that she’d first seen him in—and they were all uncommonly tall and thick with muscle, she identified him right away.

No one said anything as she approached. Indeed, they all seemed to be standing rather still. Her hand went to her woolen cap. Though she’d braided her hair before she’d tucked it inside, she pushed a few errant tendrils at her temples back underneath for good measure.

But it didn’t seem to be her hair that had caught their attention.

Was it her clothing? She frowned, doing a quick once-over of the black leather breeches and doublet. She double-checked to make sure the linen shirt was completely tucked in, but everything looked fine. Actually, she rather thought the ensemble fit quite well. The breeches were perhaps a shade snug, but the short coat might have been made for her.

She glanced back at the men, but all but Ewen had turned away and seemed to be very busy fiddling with their horses.

Ignoring Ewen and his black glare that at one time might have intimidated her—God only knew what she’d done this time—she found her bag, which had been propped against a tree, and bent over to place her habit and the beautiful gown Mary had sent for her inside.

She thought Ewen made some kind of strangled sound low in his throat, but when she turned he, too, was busy with his horse.

She was surprised at how comfortable it was wearing breeches, and how oddly freeing to be rid of all those heavy skirts. She was, however, cold. The only mantle she’d brought with her was the hooded one that she’d worn earlier. As it didn’t seem too feminine, she slipped that on over her squire’s ensemble. It wasn’t lined, however, and she wished she’d thought to bring along an extra plaid.

The men all wore the same dark plaid Ewen had worn the first time they’d met. It looked black at night, but in the daylight, she’d noticed the subtle shades of dark grays and blues mixed in with the black. She wrinkled her nose, thinking it odd. Was it some kind of uniform, then?

Finished, she picked up the bag, which felt considerably heavier with the extra clothing, and walked over to what she assumed was her horse. She knew Ewen was watching her struggle, but he made no effort to help her, even though he stood the closest to her.

If that was how it was going to be, so be it. He wasn’t the only one who could pretend “it” had never happened.

A streak of devilishness that had been buried a long time picked that moment to reemerge. He seemed to have an ability to make her feel very un-nunlike. In many different ways.

Janet turned to MacLean, who stood a few feet away with his horse. “Ewen, would you be so kind as to help me up?”

She could see Ewen stiffen out of the corner of her eye and didn’t need daylight to see his steely blue eyes harden to flinty gray.

MacLean laughed—at least she thought the sound was a laugh, but coming from such a grim facade she couldn’t be sure. He and Ewen were much alike in that regard, but Ewen’s grimness seemed born of seriousness, whereas Eoin’s had a darker, more angry bent.

“I’d be happy to, Lady Janet. But I’m not Lamont.”

She feigned surprise, hoping Ewen could see the blush she forced up her cheeks. “I apologize, but you all look so much alike that I can’t tell you apart. With those dark plaids and helms, you could well be Bruce’s phantoms.”