The Hunter (40 page)

She turned away so she wouldn’t be tempted to care.

“I’m sorry, Janet. I never meant to hurt you.”

But he had. Irreparably.

On her way to the bed, she picked up his shirt and tossed it to him. The naked chest that had only minutes ago given her such pleasure now hurt to look at. He put it on without comment.

She lay down on the bed and he sat before the fire, his back leaning against the wall and his legs stretched out before him. Janet had no intention of sleeping. She crawled under the plaid and watched him from under half-lidded eyes.

He’d retrieved a skin before he sat, and from the long swig he took, she suspected it was whisky.

With any luck, he would drink himself into oblivion.

Twenty-two

Janet woke with a start and shivered. Good God, it was freezing in here!

Here
. She blinked into the shadowy darkness, recognizing the rustic wooden walls of the barn. Suddenly everything that had happened came back to her in a wave of hurt and disappointment.

How could he have done this?

She cursed under her breath. She wasn’t supposed to fall asleep. Thank goodness for the cold. The brazier must have gone out—

Suddenly, the realization of what that meant hit her. Her eyes shot to where Ewen had positioned himself against the wall. He sat with his head slumped forward like a rag poppet. She didn’t need to see his face from behind the silky veil of thick, dark hair to know that he was asleep. Dead asleep. Or rather, passed-out-unconscious asleep, if the discarded skin of whisky by his side was any indication.

She couldn’t believe it. The perfect soldier had fallen asleep on duty. It seemed so completely out of character, it gave her pause. Perhaps someone had been listening to her prayers after all. But she quickly told herself not to count her blessings.

Carefully—very carefully—she rose from the makeshift bed. Her heart pounded the entire time, watching him for
any signs of movement, but he didn’t so much as twitch a single muscle.

She drew in a deep, uneven breath. Less carefully, to test him, she stood. Every tiny sound she made reverberated in her ears like a bell, but still he didn’t budge.

Heaven’s gates, how much had he drunk? Was he all ri—

She stopped, reminding herself not to count her blessings.

She looked at him. Looked at her boots. Looked at the bag by his side—a bag that she knew held her other gowns, money, and what was left of their food. She looked at the horse in the stall at the back of the barn.

Could she do this?

Her heart lurched, but then continued to pound. Yes. Yes, she could. At least, it was worth a try. She couldn’t stay with him.

She didn’t know how much time she had, but she hoped she still had a few hours before dawn. Riding the horse would make her easier to track—and she had no doubt he would be tracking her—but it would give her speed that he wouldn’t have on foot. And she’d learned some things from him that might help.

She swallowed, thinking of the journey that lay ahead. It would be long and dangerous, but nothing that she hadn’t done countless times before. So why did it give her a twinge of fear now? Why did the thought of leaving him suddenly make her uneasy?

Because in the last few short days, she’d grown used to having him by her side. She might not have wanted his protection, but she’d come to appreciate it, and if not to depend on it, then to at least to take comfort in it.

Her heart squeezed. Why did this have to hurt so much? How could he have lied to her like that? Not just about the betrothal but about her returning to Roxburgh. He knew how important this was to her. Yet even with his betrayal,
she might have tried to understand—might have tried to forgive him—if he loved her.

But he didn’t—or not enough. He would rather see her wed to another man than risk a comparison to his father. The worst part was that she understood. She didn’t even blame him. Not really. But she also knew it wasn’t good enough for her.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. Damn him for doing this to her! Until he burst into her life like a siege engine, she’d been happy on her own. Content with the life she had planned.

She wiped the tears away with an angry jerk, determined to be so again. Her work was the only thing that mattered now. It was the only thing she had left.

She was better off alone. Hadn’t she always known that?

Putting aside whatever reservations she had, Janet made her decision. It took her only a few minutes to gather what she needed. As she led the horse from the stall, she took one last look. Tears blurring her eyes, she left without a backward glance.

Someone was yelling at him. Ewen’s head lolled to the left and right.
Stop shaking me
.

“Ewen! Wake up, lad!”

He opened his eyes. It took him a moment to recognize the man before him. Big. Gray haired. Weather-beaten and battle-scarred face. Robert Wallace.

His mind felt like a bog, his thoughts sluggish.

And God, he was hot.

He groaned and would have gone back to sleep if Robert hadn’t shaken him again. “The lass, where is she?”

That brought him up quick. Some of the haze cleared from his mind.
Janet
. His gaze shot to the pallet. The
empty
pallet.

He swore, realizing what had happened. He’d fallen asleep, and she’d fled.

How the hell could this have happened? He’d been on duty, damn it! He didn’t make mistakes like this.

He tried to get to his feet, but something wasn’t right. He couldn’t seem to get his limbs to coordinate. Bloody hell, he was as weak as a newborn foal.

“What is the matter with you, lad?” Robert said, giving him a hand. “You’re burning as hot as hellfire, and it’s cold in here.”

“I don’t know—”

Ewen’s words died in a stab of pain as he tried to put weight on his injured leg.

“It’s the leg. Must be worse than you let on.” Robert paused to shout for his wife. “Sit,” he ordered. “Margaret will take a look at it.”

Ewen shook him off, looking around for his things like a man without sight. “I can’t. I have to go after her.”

“Why would she leave?” Robert asked.

Because he was a blind fool. “To get away from me.”

If anything happened to her, he would never forgive himself.

He reached for his sword and nearly fell. God, he felt horrible! He didn’t need Helen to tell him that something was very wrong with his leg. How could things get so bad so quickly? He’d thought it was looking better, but it was worse. Much worse.

He bit through the pain and the fog of fever to ready himself. He managed to get most of his armor on before Margaret appeared.

Her soft cry told him that he must look worse than he felt. “You’re ill!” she said.

He didn’t argue. But a quick glance through the remaining bag told him he was going to need a few things. “I will need some food and drink, and whatever coin you can spare.”

Janet had taken it all. He swore again. How could he have been so derelict? He knew she would run. He should
have taken better precautions. He should have tied her up, damn it. He should have done whatever was necessary to keep her safe.

He should have done whatever was necessary to keep her with him.

Ah hell!
He swore again. Not even the fever could prevent him from seeing the truth.

“You can’t go anywhere like this,” Margaret said.

“I have to,” Ewen said through clenched teeth, fighting the powerful force that seemed to be trying to slow him down. It was up to him. The morning sun was already in full force. “She could have been gone a few hours already.” He couldn’t lose the tracks while they were fresh.

He picked up the bag and started toward the back of the barn. His leg buckled, and he would have fallen to the ground had Robert not caught him under one arm. “Steady, lad.”

“The horse,” Ewen said, biting back the wave of nausea that rose inside him. “Just help me to the horse.”

“It’s gone,” Robert said.

The extent of his failure was humiliating. While he was supposed to be on guard, she’d snuck a damned horse past him. “I’ll have to go on foot.”

“You won’t make it to the next village in your condition,” Margaret said.

He didn’t even make it out of the barn. Darkness rose like a fiery dragon’s mouth and swallowed him whole.

Janet didn’t stop looking over her shoulder, expecting Ewen to come storming down the road behind her like a demon from hell. Or perhaps, more accurately, a
phantom
from hell.

She remembered how he’d looked the first time she’d seen him. The dark leather armor dotted with rivets of steel, the strangely fashioned plaid wrapped around him, the blackened nasal helm and arsenal of weaponry strapped
to his broad, well-muscled chest. Her heart squeezed. She’d been scared for good reason, it turned out. She should have turned and run the first moment she’d seen him.

But either he wasn’t coming after her or she was better at hiding her tracks than she thought. She remembered his tips: hard ground, water or rivers when possible, circle back, confuse and obfuscate. She kept to the road, blending and hiding her tracks as best she could. But she knew her best weapon was speed, so she didn’t take as much time hiding them as she could have.

Perhaps the misdirection had worked? Recalling what Ewen had done when first taking her from Rutherford, Janet did not retrace their steps east, but rather headed north toward Glasgow, hoping to lose her tracks in the large burgh before turning eastward onto the main road.

But unfortunately, Ewen had the advantage of knowing her destination. Even if she managed to elude him on the road, he would find her soon enough in Roxburgh. Unless she could think of a way of making contact with her source at the castle without returning to Rutherford.

Despite what she’d told Ewen, the idea of donning her habit again did not sit well with her. Having come to the barn in only a chemise—the fine under-gown Mary had thoughtfully provided still in the house—Janet had been forced to choose between the extravagant surcote meant to go over it or “Novice Eleanor’s” dark brown wool kirtle. Although she’d chosen the latter—a woman in such a fine gown traveling alone would be much more difficult to explain—she could not bear to put on the white scapular and veil. Instead, she’d wrapped the plaid around herself like a hooded cloak—the one Margaret had left, not Ewen’s—and did her best to avoid other travelers on the road.

At this time of year, in the cold, dark days approaching the Nativity, there weren’t many. Those that she did come across had any curiosity appeased by her claim of being a
midwife, traveling to attend the birth of her sister’s first child in whatever village lay ahead.

A few times, she joined another traveling party for a while—including a farmer and his wife taking fowl to market in Glasgow and an old man traveling to Lanark to visit his son—seeking the safety and comfort of numbers. But when questions became too personal, she was forced to part company.

More often than not, she was alone with her thoughts, which as much as she tried to prevent them kept returning to Ewen. It wouldn’t always be this horrible, she told herself. But for the first time, she could understand the misery her sister had suffered in her first marriage. How it felt to love someone and not have the person return those feelings. How it felt to be betrayed by the man to whom you’d given your heart.

It was a long, difficult journey. More difficult than it should have been, especially compared to the one that had come before. In addition to not having the English chasing after her, the advantage of staying to the main road was that she avoided the hills that she and Ewen had been forced to traverse. The disadvantage, of course, was the chance of coming upon an English patrol.

For two long days, through Rutherglen, where she’d spent her first night, to Peebles, where she spent her second, Janet managed to avoid such danger. On the third, however, as she and a merchant and his wife with whom she’d been traveling since Innerleithen approached the outskirts of Melrose, where she’d first met Ewen, fate intervened once again. A dozen soldiers appeared on the road ahead of her.

Her blood ran cold. Every instinct urged her to flee, although she knew that was ridiculous. There was no reason for her to run. She hadn’t done anything wrong.

She forced air into her lungs in slow, even breaths. How many times had she done this before? Too many to count.
With as much time as she’d spent on the roads as a courier, running into English soldiers was not uncommon. Why was she so nervous?

Taking a cue from the merchant and his wife, she pretended not to notice anything out of the ordinary and continued on the path ahead. If the couple noticed her slight hesitation, they did not remark upon it. However, the merchant, a man old enough to be her father, did let his gaze linger on her face a moment longer than usual. Had he seen her skin pale beneath the makeshift hood of her plaid? His gaze dropped to her hands. Realizing she was clenching the reins, she forced her fingers to loosen. But that, he’d definitely noticed.

As the distance closed between them, the merchant moved his cart over to the side of the path to let the soldiers pass. Janet followed the couple, taking advantage of the opportunity to angle her own mount behind theirs, where she hoped she wouldn’t be as visible.