The Hunter Read online

  It felt like something she wanted. With him. Children. Cozy nights before the fire. Loving glances and tender touches. She wanted what the Wallaces had.

  She knew what that meant. Marriage.

  She waited for a few seconds to react to the word, but the usual bad taste did not rise to the back of her mouth. It must be love, she thought with a wry smile. With Ewen, a happy marriage seemed possible.

  She knew there were complications. The king for one, her work for another. Robert was probably the easier of the two. If Ewen was indeed in his secret guard as she suspected, that would help. Ewen wouldn’t like the idea of her continuing her work, but he understood how important it was to her. He wasn’t like her father and brother—he wouldn’t try to stick her in some box. He valued her—he’d told her as much. If he loved her, they would find a way to make it work—like Magnus and Helen.

  She’d finally met a man who was strong enough to let her be herself. His force of will might be a lot quieter than hers, but it was just as strong. There would be battles between them, aye, but she was looking forward to them.

  Of course, she wasn’t the only one who needed to be convinced that it was a good idea. He wanted her, of that she had no doubt, and he cared for her—he’d admitted as much. But did he want to marry her? He’d said it was impossible, but what if it wasn’t?

  Her gaze slid to the man in question. He was locked in a quiet conversation with Robert Wallace about the war, while Janet and Margaret finished their meal—the latter pretending not to listen to the men’s discussion.

  “Are we talking loud enough for you, wife? I wouldn’t want you to miss any of our private conversation,” Robert said, looking up. His expression was chastising, but his eyes were soft as they fell upon his wife.

  Margaret didn’t miss a beat. “That is quite considerate of you, Robert. I’m sure it is all beyond my poor woman’s understanding, but if you could speak a little louder that might help.”

  Her eyes danced as she leaned down and whispered to Janet, “Although I’d hardly qualify the exchange of a few words and the occasional grunt a conversation. I don’t know which of them is worse.”

  Janet burst out laughing.

  Robert’s eyes narrowed on his wife. “What is so funny?”

  Margaret smiled and gave Janet a wink as she stood from the table. “I’m afraid it is private.”

  Robert shook his head, but Janet didn’t miss the small smile as he turned back to his conversation with Ewen.

  Margaret started clearing the platters from their meal. When Janet rose to help, she ordered her back to her seat. “You are a guest,” she said, and then in a whisper, “Besides, you must tell me if they say anything interesting.”

  Janet smiled conspiratorially. “I shall do my best. But ‘interesting’ is probably more than we can hope for.”

  Margaret chuckled. “You’re probably right. How about this: try not to fall asleep.”

  “I make no promises,” Janet said. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt so comfortable. You have a lovely home, Margaret.”

  She could see how much the comment pleased the other woman. “I think you saw the apple tart.”

  Janet laughed. “I may have, at that.”

  Margaret moved to the other side of the long room, while Janet relaxed. She eyed the two men at the end of the table surreptitiously. She must not be as adept at overhearing as Margaret, because she could make out very little of what was being said. Although she was used to Ewen’s sparse conversation, even for him, he seemed unusually subdued tonight.

  Something was wrong.

  Was he more worried than he’d let on that his friends had not arrived? He’d seemed confident that they would arrive soon. Or was something else bothering him?

  She frowned as he refilled his goblet again. He seemed to be drinking more than usual tonight. His face looked a little flushed.

  She waited for a break in the men’s conversation. “Is your leg feeling all right, Ewen?”

  He looked over at her. “It feels fine. Why do you ask?”

  She blushed, not wanting to admit that she’d been watching his intake of ale. “You had not mentioned it for a while, and I was just wondering how it was healing.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “You are injured?” Margaret asked, approaching the table.

  “Some time ago,” he answered.

  “But it has not healed properly,” Janet interjected.

  Ewen shot her a glare. She smiled.

  Margaret frowned. “I have some ointment—”

  “Really,” Ewen said. “It’s fine.”

  “Leave the lad alone, Margaret,” Robert said. “He’s old enough to decide for himself whether he needs help.”

  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 cock 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.