The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(9)

She could see little of his face beneath the steel nasal helm. Goodness gracious, did Highlanders still wear those? His jaw was covered in a good quarter inch of scruff, but it looked strong and imposing just like the rest of him.

Indeed everything about his outward appearance was threatening, from the menacing helm, to the dust- and blood-spattered black leather cotun studded with bits of steel, to the plethora of weapons strapped across his muscular physique (it seemed to be the second time she’d noticed that). Yet looking into the steel blue of his eyes, she knew he was not a threat. To her at least. The dead soldiers behind him might disagree.

She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

He was just a regular Highland warrior. Perhaps a bit more physically dominant than most, but nothing she couldn’t handle. She’d crossed paths with hundreds of fighting men over the years, and they’d never given her problems.

Still, something about him made her uneasy. Perhaps it was the way he held her gaze the entire time he walked toward her with an inscrutable expression on his face. She was good at reading people, sizing them up, but he gave nothing away.

How much had he seen? From the way he glanced at her cloak when he came to stop in front of her, she suspected enough. An ill-timed blush stained her cheeks. Feeling as if he suddenly had the advantage over her, she decided that the quicker this was over with the better.

She released Marguerite and sank to her knees, grabbing his leather-gauntleted hand and rattling off a quick succession of thank-yous in French interspersed with prayers in Italian. With any luck, like most common Highlanders (and nothing about his appearance suggested otherwise), he would not speak Italian or French, and this would be a quick conversation indeed.

If she could have managed it, she would have shed a tear or two, but some things were beyond her acting abilities. The look of reverent gratitude she’d adopted might have worked, but when he looked at her hair and frowned, she remembered that she wasn’t wearing her veil. Without it, she felt … exposed. It had been a long time since she’d felt like a woman in a man’s eyes, and it made her feel strangely vulnerable. She’d been pretending to be a nun for so long, she’d almost forgotten that she wasn’t one. Not yet at least.

Without stopping to let him get a word in, she stood and thanked him again before letting his hand go. She snatched her fallen veil off the ground to drape it over her head, linked Sister Marguerite’s arm in hers, and started to move away. She would return her to the abbey, make sure the young nun was all right, and then leave as soon as possible—this time, alone.

But it seemed her penchant for finding trouble wasn’t over.

“Sister Genna,” the Highlander said in perfectly accented Norman French. “We aren’t done yet.”

She muffled an oath, realizing this wasn’t going to be over as fast as she’d hoped.

And how did he know her name?

What in Hades was going on? Was this simpering creature who’d just babbled all over his gauntlet the same bold Valkyrie who’d bravely defended herself and her companion against four English soldiers?

Ewen was having a hard time reconciling the two, when he realized she was walking away. When he stopped her, he could have sworn he heard her mutter an oath before she turned around. “You speak French?”

Though she said it with a smile on her face, he suspected she was anything but pleased.

He nodded, not bothering to answer the obvious question.

“You know my name?”

Again, he saw no cause to answer. He glanced at the young woman beside her, whose sobbing had abated and who now seemed almost too quiet. “The lass,” he bit off sharply. “Is she ill?”

“Sister Marguerite suffers from a lung ailment,” Sister Genna said in the pious and subservient manner she’d adopted. But he didn’t miss the subtle way she tucked the younger woman behind her, as if putting herself between her charge and any threat he might present. He admired the impulse, no matter how ridiculous.

The younger nun rallied enough to explain. “Asthma,” she said in a wavering voice. “I feel much better now, but if Sister Genna hadn’t stopped them when she did …” Her voice fell off and her eyes filled once again with tears.

Her fierce protector shot him a reproachful glare, showing a flash of the spirit she’d masked behind the reverent exterior. He was glad she’d covered herself and put on her veil, but even the memory of what lay underneath was distracting.

“You are upsetting her. As you can see, she is unwell, and I need to get her back to the abbey right away. So while I thank you for your assistance, I’m sure you don’t wish to delay us any longer. Nor do I imagine you will want to be here when these men are found. There are bound to be others in the area.”

It was clear the lass was trying to be rid of him, and he didn’t think it was concern for their welfare that motivated her. Did she think to frighten him away with Englishmen? He almost laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said dryly. “But you aren’t going anywhere.”

MacLean had finished disposing of the bodies as best he could and came up beside him. “Christ, Hunter,” he said under his breath in Gaelic. “You might try explaining rather than issuing edicts.”

Given that MacLean was only marginally less blunt and possessed at best incrementally more finesse when it came to communication, the criticism was somewhat ironic.