The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(67)

God’s blood, the lass courted trouble like a lovesick troubadour! She’d seen too much, and now she was making guesses—dangerous guesses that could put them all at risk. Wasn’t what she was doing dangerous enough? Knowledge—even suspicions—like that would have half the English army after her. Identifying and capturing the members of Bruce’s secret army was top on the list of the English command.

His expression gave no hint of the storm of emotions her question had unleashed inside him. He feigned unconcerned amusement. “Didn’t your parents tell you there is no such thing as ghosts?”

She lifted her chin. “Do you deny being part of the secret army that has wreaked havoc with the English troops—”

He cut her off with an oath, taking her by the arm. “We need to go.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

But barely had the words left her mouth when she heard it, too. The bark of a dog, and not far behind it, the sound of horses. Her eyes widened, and she dug her heels into the ground, preventing him from pulling her toward the horse. “But what about Sir Kenneth? Don’t we need to wait for him?”

His mouth fell in a grim line. “He’ll find us.”

He hoped. But the sound of approaching horsemen did not bode well. He cursed again—silently, not wanting to add to her concern. But the mission that had started out bad only seemed to be getting worse.

He was about to help her up on the horse, when she pulled away again. “Wait! I forgot my dagger.”

Realizing she must have used it to try to defend herself, he stopped her from going after it. “I’ll get it.”

He approached the body of the dead knight. It didn’t take him long to locate the knife.

Well, I’ll be damned. If his spear hadn’t ended the bloody Englishman’s life, her blade, which was wedged deeply in his leg, would have.

He felt an unmistakable swell of pride. The lass was a fighter. His first impression all those months ago of a Valkyrie had not been far off.

Wiping the blood from the blade on his chausses, which were already splattered with any manner of deathly grime, he handed it back to her.

She looked up at him hesitantly. “Did I …”

He knew what she was asking. “You defended yourself well, lass. You would have hobbled him for life,” he lied.

She sighed, looking visibly relieved. “I wasn’t sure.”

He had enough death on his soul for both of them. He could protect her from that at least.

Another bark—this one discernibly closer—put an end to the brief delay.

Helping her onto the horse, he mounted behind her and they were off, riding hell-bent for leather along the riverbank toward the hills. They would ride the horse as long as they could—he hoped long enough to break the scent and make it more difficult to follow them. One of the best ways to do that was with another animal. Water would also help. Whenever it was shallow enough to do so, he steered the horse into the river.

They continued at that frantic pace for a few miles, until the sounds of their pursuers grew fainter and fainter, eventually disappearing altogether.

He heaved a sigh of relief. They’d lost them for now, and none too soon. He was forced to slow their pace considerably, as the ground started to rise and the forest and river valley gave way to heather-covered hillsides that beckoned to him like the first sight of land after days at sea. Home. Refuge. Safety.

Though dawn had broken some time ago, a thick blanket of wintry mist hid the barren mountaintops from view. Not only did they look ominous and haunting, they would also provide plenty of cover for them to disappear. Even if the English picked up their trail again, they would think twice about following them into such forbidding terrain.

But he wasn’t going to take any chances. Knowing the horse would only hinder them from this point, when he came to a small bridge over the river, he told Janet to wait while he rode it across. Dismounting, he hit the horse on the rump and watched it gallop down the narrow path. With any luck it would do so for some time. Careful to hide his tracks, he retraced his steps to where Janet stood watching him.

She stared down at the dark river with a wrinkled nose. “I assume my feet are going to be getting wet again?”

He grinned at her expression. “Afraid so.”

Instructing her to step on rocks or harder ground whenever she could, he helped her down the riverbank and into the water. Unfortunately, unlike the last river, the banks were steep, and the water swirled nearly up to her knees.

They followed the river up the hill until the ground grew too steep and the water became falls. Trudging up the bank, he motioned to a large rock. “We can rest here for a while.”

Not needing any more encouragement, she collapsed. Shrugging off the bags he carried, he used one of them as a seat and joined her. Fortunately, along with the bags of their belongings, he was also carrying the food. He tried not to think about Sutherland, telling himself their new recruit could take care of himself. But the attack shouldn’t have happened. It was Ewen’s job to make sure it didn’t. If he felt responsible, it was because he was responsible. He’d failed, damn it, and the failure didn’t sit well with him.

What had gone wrong? How in the hell had the dogs picked up their scent?

Apparently her thoughts were running in the same direction as his. “Do you think we’ve lost them?”