The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(11)

Though it was said with the perfect balance of feminine flattery and sincerity, Ewen had been around MacSorley long enough to recognize when he was being humored.

Perhaps detecting his skepticism, she added, “Truly I do not know what we would have done had you not appeared when you did.”

If he hadn’t seen her display earlier, the meek, helpless act might have fooled him. His eyes narrowed. Why the act at all? What game was she playing?

She gave them a solemn smile, as if she were blessing them. But he was distracted by the small heart-shaped mole she had above her lip. God’s blood, a mole like that belonged on the mouth of a jade!

“You have our deepest gratitude. Sister Marguerite and I will keep you both in our prayers. Goodbye.”

Jesus! Ewen frowned and came to a sudden stop. How the hell had she done that? She’d been walking, and they’d been following her without even realizing it. They were almost back to the road.

He felt like bloody Odysseus with the sirens. “Not so fast, Sister.” He had no intention of letting her walk off alone. MacLean could take the missive to Bruce, and he’d see their courier safely back to Lamberton. And when he was finished, he and the bishop were going to have a nice, long talk about using nuns as couriers. “Say your goodbyes if you wish, but you are coming with me.”

Genna tried not to let her discomposure show, but it had been a long time since a man had tried to order her around. Not since … Duncan. Her chest pinched thinking of her brother. It was still hard to believe he was gone. Her big, strong, seemingly indestructible brother had been killed by the MacDowells at Loch Ryan not long after her disappearance.

She turned around calmly and met his gaze—the disarming one whom, as he’d not seen fit to do so himself, MacLean had introduced as Lamont. Odd, as she thought the clan had stood with the MacDougalls against Bruce and had been exiled to Ireland. The Lamont clan was located in Cowal, she recalled, near Argyll in the Western Highlands. Their name was thought to be derived from the Norse “Logmaor,” or lawman. Which was especially ironic given that this man seemed to have the communication skills of a rock.

He wasn’t responding in the way she expected, and it was mildly disconcerting. He also had a disarming way of looking at her. Hard. Intense. As if he could see all her secrets. Thinking of the scars, she realized that he had—some of them, at least. But she had plenty more waiting to be discovered.

The sooner she rid herself of this unnerving man, the better.

Feigning a patience she certainly didn’t feel, she bestowed one of her most nunly smiles on him. Calm. Serene. Understanding. With that slightly mysterious and hallowed detachment that set the nuns apart. How Mary would laugh to see her affect such a countenance! Her chest pinched, and she pushed the thought away. Her twin sister was safer without her around. But she hated not being able to see her and tell her she was all right. Soon, she hoped. The war couldn’t go on forever … could it?

“I don’t understand. I believe I explained that there was no cause for you to come.” She’d delivered the missive, blast it. Why would the bishop send them after her? Lamberton had never displayed such a lack of faith in her before. She didn’t need an escort; he would only interfere with her plans. “Was there something else?”

The smile had no effect on him. His face was as impenetrable as the steel that hid his brow and nose. She frowned. She had to admit, she was curious to see the entirety of his face. He had a nice mouth and jaw—

She stopped with a startled jerk, wondering what in perdition had come over her.

“I will return you to Berwick. You don’t need to worry about your friend. MacLean will see her safely back to the abbey. He will make sure everything reaches its intended destination.”

The man wasn’t as adept at hidden meanings as his friend, but she understood well enough. Apparently, MacLean would take the missive she’d left with their contact at the abbey directly to Bruce himself.

“You are so kind. Although I appreciate your gallant offer, it isn’t necessary. Why don’t we all return to the abbey, and you and your friend can both see that everything arrives safely.”

She turned to leave, but he stopped her with that deep, lilting voice of his that despite the curtness of his words seemed to seep right through her like warm caramel.

“It wasn’t an offer, Sister.”

The man was like a rock all right. Utterly immovable! She felt a spark of temper but tamped it down. Her smile this time might have been a little forced. “It isn’t necessary—”

“Yes, it is.” He motioned with his head to his friend, and MacLean came toward her. “Take the girl to the abbey and then see that our friend receives the message,” he added in Gaelic. “I’ll deal with our little holy warrior.”

Good thing she had plenty of experience pretending not to understand. But still his comment managed to get a small rise out of her. Little holy warrior, indeed! He made her sound like a bairn playing some game.

“Sister,” MacLean said, holding out his hand to Marguerite.

The girl looked back and forth between Genna and MacLean. Genna held tightly to her arm, not wanting to relinquish her. But she knew Marguerite needed to get back to attend to her lungs with the butcher’s broom sweetened with honey that she used, and as it was clear that it was going to take a little more time to reason with this infuriating man, she had to let her go. “It’s all right,” she said. “Go with him. I will be along soon enough.”