The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(8)

Ewen and MacLean were approaching the abbey from Eildon Hill through the Old Wood when they heard the woman scream. Not knowing what they’d find, they approached cautiously, on foot, using the trees for cover.

Ewen heard her voice first and shot a look at his partner. MacLean had heard it too. His mouth fell in a hard line, and he nodded. The words might be in French but the accent was Italian—Roman, unless he’d missed his mark.

It seemed they’d just found their nun. He peered through the trees to confirm it and stilled at what he saw, momentarily stunned.

Holy hell! His mouth went dry and heat settled low in his groin as he beheld the half-naked woman with the tumbling, wild mane of golden hair. It caught the light in a shimmering cascade of gold and silver. But it was the bare skin it curled against that jolted him with a hard bolt of lust. Admittedly, he’d yet to see a pair of br**sts that he didn’t like, but these …

He didn’t think he’d ever seen any so fine. They weren’t overlarge, but a pleasant handful in keeping with her slim waist and flat stomach. Soft and round, high with a youthful pertness, the milk-white skin was so creamy and flawless, he didn’t need to touch it to know how velvety soft it would be.

But he wanted to touch it. He wanted to run his hands over those soft mounds and bury his face in the deep cleft between them. He wanted to caress his thumbs over the delicate pink tips until they were hard, and then circle the hard points with his tongue right before he put them in his mouth and sucked.

Jesus!

A frown gathered between his brows when he noticed the odd smattering of scars on her back. Vaguely, he wondered about them, but his attention was too focused on the mouthwatering perfection of her chest.

Apparently wondering what had caught his attention, MacLean leaned forward to take a look.

His low curse snapped Ewen from his momentary stupor.

This was a nun, for Christ’s sake!

Something the English soldiers seemed to have forgotten. It wasn’t just her shredded gown and chemise—a rather fine one for a nun, Ewen noticed from the intricate embroidery—but the soldiers’ lecherous expressions that made it clear what they intended, and Ewen felt the surge of anger race through him. Raping a nun took a special kind of evil.

He nudged MacLean, who seemed as stunned as he, and the two men readied to attack. Typically, Ewen favored a pike—the weapon of the infantryman—but as they’d been riding, it was a sword he drew from the scabbard at his back.

He was just about to give the signal when she went on the attack. He paused. It was magnificent. One of the bravest things he’d ever seen. He wanted to put down his sword and cheer. She might be a nun, but she had the heart of a Valkyrie. Every impassioned word rang with the voice of authority and conviction as she defended her chastity. Her holy chastity.

He winced, the reminder striking a little too close. But any remaining lust he might be feeling was tamped harshly down by her words extolling the litany of horrors that would befall them for touching her. Shrivel? Raisins? He shuddered and adjusted himself. For a woman of the cloth, she sure as hell didn’t lack for imagination.

But surely it was some kind of sin to give br**sts like that to a nun?

He gave the signal.

With the fierce battle cry of the Highland Guard, “Airson an Leòmhann,” he and MacLean shot into the clearing.

Two

Janet—or rather, Genna—knew she’d won when the English captain’s gaze shifted. He was no longer staring at her br**sts with anything resembling lust. Actually, he seemed to be doing anything to avoid looking at her at all.

But barely had she tasted her victory when two men emerged from the trees and assured it.

At first, the sound of their battle cry sent a chill racing down her spine. Though it had been a long time since she’d used her native tongue, she translated the Gaelic words easily enough: For the Lion. The cry was unfamiliar to her, and she could not immediately reconcile it with a clan. But they were Highlanders—that much she understood—and thus, friends.

She bit her lip. At least she hoped they were friends.

The cold efficiency with which they dispensed with the soldiers gave her pause. She didn’t relish having to talk her way out of yet another dangerous situation. And everything about these men bespoke danger.

She’d had little contact over the past few years with the men of her birthplace, and she’d forgotten how big and intimidating they were. Tall, broad-shouldered, and heavily muscled, Highlanders were every bit as tough, rugged, and untamed as the wild and forbidding countryside that spawned them. They were also exceptional warriors, their no-holds-barred fighting style a legacy of the Norse raiders who’d invaded their shores generations ago.

She shivered. These two were no different—except perhaps even more skilled at killing than most. She cringed and turned away as one of the men stuck his blade in the throat of the young English soldier. She hated the sight of bloodshed, even when warranted.

She barely had time to pick up her cloak, throw it around her shoulders to cover her nakedness, and help Marguerite to her feet before the fighting ended. The four mail-clad Englishmen lay in bloody heaps on the grassy moor.

The threat was over. Although when she noticed the man walking toward them, as she did her best to calm a sobbing Marguerite, she reconsidered. A strange prickle spread over her skin when the warrior’s gaze met hers. She gasped and her heart took an odd little stumble, as if it started and stopped in quick succession.