The Hunter Read online

  His frown deepened. “It’s not the same.”

  Suddenly, Janet felt tired. Too tired to try to make him understand. Too tired of banging her head against a stone wall—no matter how impressively built.

  She stared down at him. He still had his hand on her arm, but he let it drop. “Are you going to let me help or not?”

  He hesitated.

  “What’s wrong?”

  His gaze shifted uncomfortably. “It isn’t …” His cheeks darkened. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

  Janet gaped at him. My God, he was blushing! “You are modest?”

  A flash of annoyance cleared away the blush. “Of course not. I was merely thinking of you.”

  She tried not to laugh, but she feared the smile showed behind her pursed lips. “I’ve been pretending to be a nurse for quite a while. I think I can manage not to faint with maidenly shock.”

  She did. But just barely. It was one thing to tend old men and women, and another to stand inches away from a man who made your heart skip, even when he wasn’t sliding his breeches—and then his wet braies—down his hip.

  He managed to keep himself covered except for the top of his outer thigh, but good gracious, she felt like she was jumping out of her skin. How was she going to touch him so intimately and not think about …

  Her gaze flew from the big bulge (where to her horror she’d been looking), and heat flamed her cheeks. Only the sight of the wound prevented her from thrusting the ointment into his hand, babbling some excuse, and racing back to the cave.

  But the angry mass of torn flesh brought her back to reality. She gasped in half-horror and half-outrage. Though the dip in the freezing loch had washed most of the blood away, it was still a red, angry mess. The crusted black flesh where the original wound had been burned closed had been ripped open again—shredded, actually—and blood was seeping out. Instead of the small hole she’d hoped to see, the seared wound was nearly two inches long and jagged in shape, as if someone had just pulled the arrow out without thought or care.

  Her eyes met his with accusation. “How could you let it get like this and say nothing?”

  “It isn’t that bad,” he said defensively.

  She gave him a glare, not bothering to deign that with a response, and went to work.

  But even her anger couldn’t completely mask the effects of touching him, and her hands shook as she started to apply the ointment.

  Thinking to keep her mind on her task, she asked, “Who pulled the arrow out? I assume it wasn’t Helen?”

  He bit out a harsh laugh. “Hardly. She was furious that I didn’t wait for her.”

  She should have known. “You should have. You made a mess of it.”

  He shrugged unapologetically. “There wasn’t time. I was in the middle of a battle and it was getting in my way. It was deeper than I thought. It hit the bone and stopped.”

  “You could have bled to death.”

  One side of his mouth lifted. “It wasn’t that bad. It looks much worse now since it’s been opened up a few more times.”

  “Did you ever think to let it heal?” He shrugged and started to say something, but she stopped him. “Let me guess: there wasn’t time, and you were fighting.”

  He grinned and stopped her heart with a wink. “Smart lass.”

  Ignoring the hammering in her heart brought on by the rare display of boyishness, she rolled her eyes away and resumed her task. After finishing with the ointment, she started to wrap the clean cloth around his leg, but as soon as her hand dipped toward the inside of his leg, he grabbed her wrist. “I’ll do it.”

  Their eyes met and the hammering started all over again—harder this time and more insistent. She couldn’t escape from it. It was in her chest, in her ears, in her throat. It stole her breath.

  She needed …

  Wanted …

  His eyes pulled her in. Or maybe it was his hand still holding her wrist? She didn’t know, but one minute she was staring into his eyes and the next she was in his lap, her other hand was on his shoulder, her lips were on his, and she was warm again. Perhaps warmer than she’d ever been in her life.

  It felt so good. He felt so good. The heat of his mouth on hers. The velvety softness of his lips. The minty spiciness of his breath, and the fresh scent of the water that still clung to his skin and hair.

  She made a soft mewling sound, unconsciously opening her mouth, sinking deeper into the kiss.

  He made a low growling sound, opening his mouth over hers, and for one moment she thought he meant to deepen the kiss. Her pulse jumped and warmth spread through her as she anticipated the deep thrust of his tongue claiming her, and the strength of his arms wrapping around her.

  Kissing him was like nothing she’d ever imagined. She could get lost in the perfection of the sensations assailing her. It was as if she were floating. Sailing away on a sea of sensation. Soaring up the stairway to heaven. Being transported to a magical land filled with new and wonderful possibilities.

  It was new. It was exciting. It was perfect.

  And then it was over.

  He made a harsh, strangled sound low in his throat, almost as if he were in pain, and thrust her harshly away.

  For one moment, Ewen forgot himself. For one moment, her nearness and the feeling of her hands on him proved too much to resist. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in the flutter of her pulse under his hand as he held her wrist, and practically taste it on her lips.

  She wanted him, and not all the land in Scotland or all the duty and loyalty in the world to the Stewarts and his clan could stop him from wanting her back. So when her mouth moved toward his, he didn’t do anything to stop it. He let her fall, let her slide into his lap, and let their lips come together one more time.

  He just hadn’t anticipated the blow to the chest that crippled him with longing, the overwhelming desire that crashed over him, the mind-numbing pleasure, or the fierce and nearly irresistible urge to take her into his arms and make her his.

  How could a kiss do this to him? How could the simple contact of her lips on his make him so weak? Strip him of almost everything he believed in?

  Because it felt good. Really good. It felt like nothing he’d ever experienced before. It felt big and powerful and significant. It felt like nothing else mattered except for the two of them. And for that one precious moment in time it felt something else, too. It felt perfect.

  It would have been perfect. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that making love to her would be as close to heaven as he would ever hope to get on this side of the gates. But he had just enough conscious thought, just enough strength, left to put an end to it. Because no matter how desperately he wanted a few minutes of heaven with her, he’d be left with a lifetime of hell and recriminations.

  He wasn’t his father. He couldn’t ignore his duty and responsibilities. Even for her.

  But the look on her face tore his resolve to shreds. She looked stunned and dazed, and too damned aroused for any innocent maid.

  Hell, he almost wished she’d go back to pretending to be a nun. At least then she’d attempted to hide her desire. But not anymore. It was there, naked, staring at him, daring him to take what she offered.

  He clenched his fists so he would not reach for her again, and then turned away. Recalling the state of his clothing, he finished wrapping the clean cloth around the wound and pulled up his breeches. But the thin layers of cloth weren’t enough. He’d need a suit of the English mail to arm himself against her—and that probably wouldn’t be enough.

  She was still standing there, watching him, when he was done. He wished he hadn’t looked at her. The stunned look had turned to something else: hurt. And it knifed in his chest like a mangled blade.

  “Is there … was there … is something wrong?”

  He steeled himself against the urge to comfort her. To offer her reassurance. To tell her it was too damned perfect—that was the problem.

  He couldn’t meet her gaze when he said, “You