A dam burst as anger rose dangerously inside him. It felt like his whole damned body was shaking. “She ispretendingto be a nun?”
He was going to kill her, or kiss her until he earned the sins he’d been paying for and she begged forgiveness for the torture she’d put him through—he didn’t know which. But one way or another, his too tempting littlenon-nun was going to pay.
Bruce stared at him with a frown, but Ewen was too angry to hide his reaction. “It started as an innocent mistake,” the king explained, “but ended up being the best way to protect her. Who would think Janet of Mar was an Italian nun?”Who indeed?Ewen fumed, feeling as if his head were about to explode. How long would it take him to reach Berwick? He was counting down the hours. “Sister Genna” wasn’t going to talk her way out of this one. “Lamberton said the lass has some ideas to take the veil in truth, but when she hears the husband I have picked out for her, I’m sure she will change her mind.”
Ewen thought the knowledge of how she’d lied to him, let him wallow in his guilt for kissing her, and then used it against him was bad enough. He was wrong.
Married?Every instinct in his body recoiled at the idea.
“Who?” he asked in a flat voice.
The king looked at him oddly. “Young Walter.”
The blow could have felled him in two. “Stewart?”
The king nodded.
Ewen’s liege lord and the son of the man to whom he owed everything. The door that had cracked open for a moment slammed shut. If Ewen had harbored any thoughts of something more with Janet of Mar—even for an instant—the knowledge that she was meant for Walter Stewart erected a wall in his mind that was far more powerful than any veil.
Everything Ewen had he owed to James Stewart—his home, his land, his education, his place in Bruce’s guard—and now that loyalty belonged to his son. Moreover, any hope he had of restoring his clan’s good name rested not just with Bruce, but also with the Stewarts.
Pursuing his liege lord’s intended wasn’t likely to endear him to either. He wasn’t going to jeopardize everything he’d been fighting for for a woman, especially one who infuriated him half the time.Morethan half the time.
No matter how hot she fired his blood.
No matter that she was the first woman he’d ever talked to that didn’t make him feel as if every word out of his mouth was wrong.
No matter that every time he closed his eyes he saw her face.
A ridiculous thought stole through his mind: What if Stewart could be persuaded to step aside? Hell, one could even argue that Ewen would be doing him a favor. Janet was probably a good half-dozen years older than the eighteen-year-old Walter, and infinitely wiser. The lass would eat the poor lad up alive.
But Ewen stomped on the flicker of hope before it could flame. Who the hell was he fooling? She was the former sister-in-law of a king. The daughter, sister, and aunt of an earl. He was a Highland chieftain with one finger of land in Cowal, a holding that was a pittance compared to Stewart’s—or even his cousin’s before the Lamont lands were dispossessed.
Even if he wanted her—which he sure as hell wasn’t saying he did—Janet of Mar was not for him.
Or so he would keep telling himself over the long months ahead.
Eight
Roxburgh, Scottish Marches, Autumn 1310
An eerie prickle raced down her spine. Janet turned anxiously, scanning the area behind her, but nothing seemed amiss. No one was paying her any mind. It had to be the weather.
It was a hot autumn day, and the sun beat down mercilessly on the heavy black wool of her habit as she waited for the group of ladies from the castle to appear from among the throng that had descended on the high street for market day. The ladies were late, but as they had been delayed before, it did not give her undue cause for alarm.
She passed the time exchangingbriefconversations with the people who stopped to enquire about her goods (a benefit of supposedly speaking only Italian and French) and the other nuns and friars who brought their goods to market, as well as listening to the talk of the villagers around her while pretending not to understand their words.
As usual, the talk was of war. Since Edward had marched his troops north into Scotland late last spring, the talk had been of little else.
“Another supply train was lost,” one of the merchants in a stall behind her said.
Her ears pricked up.
“Bruce’s phantoms again?” another replied in an almost reverent whisper.
“Aye,” the first answered. “Like wraiths they appear out of the mist to slay all in their wake, with their swords forged in the fires of Valhalla, and fade back into the darkness again. It’s the Devil’s magic,” he whispered. “How else could they know where King Edward’s men will be?”
The stories about the mysterious band of warriors—“Bruce’s phantoms”—spread across the Borders like wildfire. They were either devils or heroes, depending on which side you were on. But even among their enemies, there was a certain amount of awe and admiration when speaking of their exploits. Like all good legends, the stories were getting better with each retelling. If the warriors had managed even a quarter of the feats attributed to them, it would have been impressive.
