The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(88)

Margaret and Janet looked at each other with a roll of the eyes. There was no age old enough for men to admit they needed help.

“I am rather tired, though,” Ewen said, pushing back from the table. “I think I shall retire.”

“Already?” Janet said, not hiding her disappointment. “But what about the tart?”

She wasn’t ready for the night to end—or for the journey to end, for that matter. She knew very well that Ewen could be called away for another mission as soon as they returned, and she would have to leave almost immediately as well, to make it back to Roxburgh in time for St. Drostan’s Day.

The complications with the English they’d faced on their journey were certainly going to make persuading Robert more difficult, but given the importance of her contact’s information, and the fact that Ewen and the other phantoms wouldn’t be with her to draw the attention of the English, she was confident he would see the necessity.

And then there was the other matter. The them matter.

Ewen looked at Margaret. “I will look forward to a slice in the morning.” His gaze finally fell on her. “You should get some rest as well. We will leave early and will have a long day ahead of us.”

Janet nodded and let him go. For now. She would rest, but only after she said what she wanted to say. He needed to know how she felt. As what she had to say needed to be said in private, however, she would bide her time. But before this night was done, Ewen would know what was in her heart.

Twenty

Ewen sat on a stool before the iron brazier that Margaret had thoughtfully provided for his warmth in the barn, drawing the edge of his blade over the oiled whetstone with long, slow, deliberate strokes. It was something he did before battle, to calm himself and keep his mind off what was ahead. A ritual, he supposed. They all had them. Most of the Guardsmen tended their weapons, but MacSorley liked to take a short swim, and Striker read from a small leather-bound folio he carried around with him like a talisman. There were always a few prayers—and a few long drinks of whisky.

But tonight, like the ale and the swim in the loch that had come before it, the ritual wasn’t helping. Nothing was helping to keep his mind off Janet and what lay ahead. And it sure as hell wasn’t helping to ease the restless energy teeming inside him. He felt as on edge as this damned sword.

He wished he could say it was just lust. God knew, he’d been pushed well past the limit that any hot-blooded man should be expected to endure. He wanted her so intensely his teeth hurt just to look at her. But although a hard c**k was a part of it—a large, painful part of it—it wasn’t all of it.

Lust wasn’t what made his chest burn every time their eyes had met tonight. He hadn’t missed her reaction to Margaret’s condition and the longing on her face, just as he hadn’t missed the way she’d looked at him afterward.

It wasn’t possible, damn it. Why was she tormenting him with things that couldn’t be?

Because she didn’t know they couldn’t be.

One more day. One more day and this would all be over. He could be damned sure she wouldn’t be looking at him like that after tomorrow, and what he wanted would no longer make a difference. But he could find little joy in knowing that she would hate him, even if it was for the best.

Doing the right thing shouldn’t be this hard, damn it.

He swore as his hand slipped and his thumb met the edge of the blade. A line of blood gushed from his fingertip, a few drops landing on the whetstone before he could draw it away.

Bloody hell! Good thing he didn’t put much store in omens. If he did, that was a bad one.

The door burst open just as he got to his feet. Even in the shadows he recognized her. “What happened, are you all—” Janet stopped, her eyes widening as she took in his bloody finger. “Your hand!”

She took a step into the barn, but he stopped her. “It’s nothing.” He picked up a piece of the bandage left over from wrapping his leg, and wrapped it around his thumb. “I nicked myself on the blade. I happens all the time,” he lied, although it was true that the cut was merely a nuisance.

Unlike his leg. That hurt like the blazes, which was odd as it didn’t appear any worse. What little blood there was seemed thin—watery-looking, actually—but it was alarming. After going for his icy swim in the loch earlier, he’d wrapped the wound in a fresh linen, and it felt a little better. But he had to admit he was concerned. Not concerned enough, however, to have her touching him. If that was why she was here—although he didn’t see any ointment or linens in her hands. Whatever the reason for her appearance, it wasn’t a good idea.

“What are you doing here, Janet? It must be after midnight. You should be sleeping. Get back to the house.”

She ignored him. “We need to talk.” Closing the door softly, she walked toward him. As she drew closer, she came into the light.

God’s blood! He felt as though someone had just landed a fist in his gut. A fist of temptation. She was a walking fantasy. A siren sent to lead him straight to Hades. She looked like she’d just rolled from bed. Her golden hair tumbled around her shoulders in a mass of slightly mussed—sensually mussed—waves that caught the flickering candlelight in a silvery halo. His plaid was wrapped around her shoulders and clutched together at the front, but he could still make out the thin linen chemise that she wore underneath. All that she wore underneath. Below the edge he could see a hint of bare leg and feet that she’d hastily shoved in her shoes without hose.