The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(7)

“I see she’s ready for us,” one of the soldiers snickered.

Genna bowed her head, muttering a prayer in Latin so the men wouldn’t see the heat rise to her cheeks in anger. She might be innocent, but she’d been in enough barns with rutting beasts to understand their meaning. Apparently, men were no different.

The captain was eyeing Marguerite’s raised bottom. When his hand reached under his habergeon mail shirt to loosen the ties at his waist, Genna knew she had to act fast.

She stepped between them, trying to turn him from his foul intent—or at least turn it to her. “My sister is ill, sir. Perhaps if you tell me what you are looking for I can clear up this misunderstanding, and we can all get on with our duties. Ours to God,” she reminded him, “and yours to your king.”

It was clear he’d forgotten the original purpose for which he’d stopped them. “Messages,” he said, his gaze drifting impatiently to Marguerite behind her. “Being carried north to the rebels by churchmen—and women,” he added. “But treason will not hide under holy vestments any longer. We’ve had reports that many of these messages have passed through Melrose Abbey. King Edward intends to put a stop to it.”

“Ah,” she said, as if in sudden understanding. “Now, I see the reason for your suspicion, sir. You were certainly justified in stopping us, but as I told you, neither Sister Marguerite nor I carry any of these messages.” She held out the leather bag she carried with her belongings for him to inspect. Bending down, she reached for Marguerite’s small purse, trying to ignore the frantic gasping of her friend’s breathing. Comfort would have to wait. Untying it, she held it up to him. He barely glanced inside before tossing it away.

“See?” she said. “Nothing to hide. Now that we have proved to you our innocence, you have no cause to detain us.”

He was angry; she could see that. But the longer she delayed him, the more time he had to think about his actions—his unjustified actions. He seemed to be hesitating when one of the men suggested, “What if it’s hidden someplace else, Captain?”

She pretended not to understand him, but a cold chill ran down her spine as a slow smile spread up the captain’s mouth. He reached down and tore off her veil. She cried out as the pins were ripped free, and her hair tumbled down her back in a heavy silken mass. Her hands immediately went to her head, but there was no way to hide it.

She swore under her breath at the reaction it provoked, hearing the exclamations and oaths. The long golden tresses were her one vanity—her one connection to her past identity. Janet of Mar was dead; it was silly to hold on to what she’d been. But she couldn’t bear to cut her hair as most of the nuns did. And now that vanity might cost her.

The captain let out a slow whistle. “Would you look at that, lads,” he said in English. “We found ourselves a real beauty. Wonder what else the lass is hiding under those robes?”

No amount of training could have prevented her from flinching at the words she was not supposed to understand, knowing what he meant to do. Fortunately, he was too caught up to notice her reaction. He pulled her to her feet, put his gauntleted hands at her neck, and ripped the coarse wool fabric of her scapula and habit to the waist.

Marguerite screamed.

Genna might have too. She struggled, but he was too strong. He tore the cloak from her neck and tugged the damaged gown past her shoulders. All that prevented her from nakedness was a thin chemise that was far too fine for a nun—another indulgence—but he didn’t notice. And after a few more tears, that was gone too. Wool and linen had been reduced to strips of fabric hanging off her shoulders. She tried to cover herself, but he pulled her arms away.

The captain’s eyes grew dark with lust as his gaze locked on her naked br**sts.

Her heart froze in terror. For one moment her confidence faltered.

“What does she have on her back, Captain?” one of the men said from behind her. Genna wanted to thank him. His words—his reminder—struck the fear from heart, replacing it with fiery determination. She would get them out of this.

She spun on him, not bothering to cover herself. “They are the marks of my devotion. Have you never seen the mark of whips and a hair shirt?”

The men startled. Genna knew what they saw: the horrible lines of pink puckered flesh that marked her pale back. But she didn’t see them that way. The scars were a reminder, a badge she wore to remind her of a day she could never be allowed to forget. Of a man who’d been like a father to her whose death was on her soul. These scars had made her stronger. They’d given her a purpose.

“I’ve never seen scars like that on a woman before.”

“I’m not a woman,” she snapped at the man who’d spoken. He was younger and not as certain as the others of the course his captain had set upon. “I’m a nun. A bride of Christ.” She hoped this was another one of those times that a lie wouldn’t be considered a sin. She pulled down the shreds of cloth that remained, turning slowly so each man could see. “Touch either of us and you will suffer eternal hellfire. God will punish you for your transgressions.”

The younger man went white.

She looked back to the captain, her eyes blazing with the fury of her conviction, daring him to come near her. “Our innocence is meant for God. Take it and you will suffer.” The captain started to back away and Genna knew she had won. She stepped toward him, unrelenting and uncowering. “Your body will burn with the fire of your sin. Your manhood will shrivel to black, your bollocks to the size of raisins, and you will never know another woman. You will be damned for eternity.”