The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(66)

In spite of the circumstances, she laughed. It was a cute little devil, once you looked past the size and teeth.

Tentatively, she held out her hand, letting the dog sniff her, murmuring her apologies. “I’m sorry, that’s all I have.”

It barked again, and then panted expectantly, sitting at her feet. When she reached out to pet its head, it crooned.

Janet laughed. “Why, you’re not so terrifying—”

Suddenly, a horse and rider broke through the trees. A startled gasp stuck in her throat, the gleam of mail identifying him as the enemy. The man reached for her, obviously intending to pull her onto his horse, when suddenly the dog leapt, its teeth clamping onto the mail-clad arm, trying to drag him off. Somehow dog and beast became tangled under the back hooves of the horse, causing the horse to pitch forward.

She heard a hideous snap and the pained howl of the dog. She turned away quickly, but instantly realized what had happened: the dog had been crushed under the horse, the horse had broken its leg, and the rider … the rider had been tossed off but was slowly coming to his feet. Swearing, he pulled out his sword and swung it down on the tangled mess of dog and horse.

She screamed and turned away.

“Damned stupid cur,” he growled. With one swipe, the pained crying of the dog stopped. He followed it with a second, and the anxious rustling of the horse as it tried to stand stopped.

Knowing he would come after her next, she tried to run, screaming again, when his steely hand caught hold of her arm.

He spun her around, his sword lifted above his head. “Where do you think you are going, you stupid rebel bitch—”

Janet didn’t think, she reacted. She was fortunate he’d grabbed her by her left arm, because it was the right she needed to jerk the blade from its scabbard and thrust it up with all her might between his legs, hoping to find the gap in the mail.

Just as her knife plunged, she heard a horrifying thump. His eyes widened. His hand tightened on her arm, and then released as he fell to her feet, a spear sticking through his neck.

Ewen had never experienced that kind of rage. The sight of Janet clasped in the rough, steely hold of the knight did something to him. She looked like a flower about to be crushed in a steely vise, her delicate bones no match for the strength of the big, mail-clad warrior and the sword that could at any moment take her head.

A black rage came over him. Bloodlust. The urge to kill. His vision narrowed as if he were peering through a dark tunnel with one objective in sight. He adjusted the spear in his hand. He didn’t let himself think that if he missed, she would die. He didn’t have time.

Forty, thirty, twenty feet away … he threw with all his might.

The spear ripped through the air with a whiz, piercing the mail of the knight’s coif as if it were butter.

Ewen hit the ground the same moment the soldier did. Janet turned, saw him, and with a soft cry that tore through his heart, raced into his arms.

He held her close as she buried her head against his chest, savoring every bloody sensation that came over him. She’s safe, he told himself over and over. Safe. But his damned heart wouldn’t stop pounding.

The emotions clamoring inside him were like nothing he’d ever experienced, and it took him a while to get them under enough control for him to speak. “Are you all right?”

She nodded against his chest, but he needed to see for himself. Carefully he tipped her chin back and looked into wide, tear-filled eyes. The baby-soft skin under his fingertips was so pale it seemed almost translucent. “I was so scared. The dog …” She looked up at him, stricken. “It was horrible.”

A wave of tenderness rose inside him with chest-crushing intensity. “It’s over, sweetheart. It’s over.”

She nodded obediently—he doubted she’d done that since she was a child, and probably not even then—but the horror of the attack was obviously still weighing on her. She trembled against him, her slender shoulders shaking, and a fierce wave of protectiveness surged over him. It took everything he had not to put his mouth on hers and kiss her until they both forgot.

But he didn’t. The danger was over, and with its absence came the reminder of his duty.

Slowly, reluctantly, he let her go.

She blinked up at him, at first surprised, and then with a wounded look that tore at him mercilessly.

He cursed the unfairness of it. The duties, the loyalties, the responsibilities that made it—them—impossible.

Suddenly, she gasped, her gaze flying to his arm. “You’re hurt!”

He glanced down, realizing the Englishman’s sword had sliced through his cotun and blood was seeping out. Truth be told, he didn’t feel it. Although he couldn’t say the same about his leg, which throbbed and burned like someone had thrown whisky on it and then lit it on fire. “I’m fine. It’s only a scratch.”

She screwed up her mouth in the familiar purse. Who knew annoyed could look so sweet?

“Your arm could be hanging by a string and you would say you were fine.”

One corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. She was probably right.

“You warriors are all alike—” She stopped and looked around anxiously. “Where is Sir Kenneth?”

“Don’t worry. He was finishing up when I came after you. He should be along any minute.”

“I can’t believe—I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself. Two men against so many.” Her voice held the unmistakable reverence of awe. But he couldn’t enjoy it. She was treading too close. Somehow he knew what she was going to say even before her eyes locked on his. “You are part of it, aren’t you? You are one of Bruce’s phantoms?”