The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(79)

As the village did not have an inn, he started with the nearest holding and worked his way across, getting more and more frustrated with each stop.

There didn’t appear to be a single horse for sale in the entire village, let alone one that was suitable. Hell, at this point he would welcome an old field nag.

After a half-dozen stops, his frustration was showing. But when he approached the next croft, he caught sight of something roaming in the field that would make it go away: a beautiful, sturdy, and agile-looking courser.

Unfortunately, the owner was proving difficult.

“Where did you say you were from?” he asked.

Ewen eyed the old farmer, whose weather-beaten face hid an agile and shrewd mind. “Roxburgh,” he answered curtly. “Are you willing to sell the horse? I’ll offer you ten pounds.”

Even for the fine animal it was a generous offer. The old man should have jumped at it. Instead, he stroked his long, gray beard assessingly. “ ’Tis a lot of silver. You must really have need of it.”

Ewen’s temper was running thin. The farmer obviously suspected something, and Ewen didn’t like the way he was putting him off with questions, but he wanted that damned horse. He gave him a hard look. “Will you sell me the horse or not?”

“He isn’t for sale.”

Ewen clenched his teeth and counted to five. “Why not?”

“He isn’t mine to sell. I’m caring for him. I was a stable-master in King John’s army.” Ah hell, Balliol! Definitely not a friend of Bruce’s, then. “I still take in ailing horses when I can. This one belongs to the captain to the guard at Sanquhar.” Damn. This just kept getting better and better. Sanquhar was one of James Douglas’s castles now garrisoned by the English. The old man’s eyes gleamed deviously. “Perhaps you can put your request to him?”

Ewen didn’t need to ask what he meant. He could just hear the clop of approaching horses now. He looked over his shoulder, catching the glint of mail in the sunlight as a half-dozen English soldiers entered the outskirts of the village from the pass to the west. Although they were still a good distance away, they were closing in fast.

He wouldn’t be able to flee without being seen. When he wasn’t hobbled by injury, he ran fast—but not faster than a horse. In these wide-open hills, with no mist to hide his direction, he couldn’t be sure that he could find cover fast enough to lose them.

And then there was Janet. What if in hunting for him, they found her instead? He couldn’t risk it.

He swore over and over again in his mind, but there was only one thing he could do: come up with a good story or best six mounted, mailed knights with no more than his dagger.

As he didn’t have Janet’s facile tongue, he suspected it was going to be the latter, and even for one of the elite warriors of the Highland Guard that was no mean feat.

God’s blood, could this get any worse?

A few minutes later, when the sound of a voice calling out his name that sent a blast of ice through his veins to chill every last bone in his body, he had his answer: Aye, this could get a hell of a lot worse.

“Ewen!” Janet didn’t let his death glare stop her. She’d known he would be furious, but the moment she’d seen the banner flying in the distance from her hillside perch, she wasn’t going to let anything stop her from trying to warn him. Unfortunately, it had taken her a long time to find him, and now it was too late. She approached the croft at the same time as the soldiers. “There you are! I’d begun to think you’d forgotten all about me.”

She saw his eyes widen as he took in her appearance. With one hand at her hip, as if supporting her back from exhaustion, she patted her softly rounded belly with the other. “Have you found a horse for us to ride yet?”

His face was as dark and brooding as a storm cloud, but after a moment’s pause, he realized his part and came forward to help her. His eyes bored into hers, promising retribution, as he slid his arm around her waist protectively. “I thought I told you to wait for me,” he said, adding after a pause he hoped didn’t sound awkward, “mo chroí.”

She laughed, as if used to his masculine bluster, which surprisingly she was. He would no doubt bellow and growl like an angry lion when this was over, but she didn’t care. He needed her help, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

He was practically unarmed. She wasn’t going to watch him being thrown in irons and dragged away from here.

Lifting to her tiptoes, she placed a soft kiss on his cheek, as if soothing him with a placative balm. The grip around her waist instinctively tightened. She felt a shiver of awareness as their bodies melded together. “I grew tired of waiting,” she said, a little flustered by the contact. “Both the babe and I are restless.”

The part of the loving, soon-to-be father apparently wasn’t one with which he was familiar. It took him a moment to feign concern. He put his hand on her rounded belly—or in this case, the pillow of clothes she’d stuffed under the cotte Mary had sent her to wear. The under-gown was still too fine for whatever he was pretending to be, but the plain brown wool was better than the gold embroidered silk surcoat that went over it.

“The babe is all right?” he asked.

Aware of their interested audience, she mirrored his concern in her own eyes and sighed with weariness that she did not need to feign. “I hope so. I didn’t realize how tiring it would be. I’m just so exhausted. I shall be glad when our journey is done.”