“Sister Genna,” the Highlander said in perfectly accented Norman French. “We aren’t done yet.”
She muffled an oath, realizing this wasn’t going to be over as fast as she’d hoped.
And how did he know her name?
What in Hades was going on? Was this simpering creature who’d just babbled all over his gauntlet the same bold Valkyrie who’d bravely defended herself and her companion against four English soldiers?
Ewen was having a hard time reconciling the two, when he realized she was walking away. When he stopped her, he could have sworn he heard her mutter an oath before she turned around. “You speak French?”
Though she said it with a smile on her face, he suspected she was anything but pleased.
He nodded, not bothering to answer the obvious question.
“You know my name?”
Again, he saw no cause to answer. He glanced at the young woman beside her, whose sobbing had abated and who now seemed almost too quiet. “The lass,” he bit off sharply. “Is she ill?”
“Sister Marguerite suffers from a lung ailment,” Sister Genna said in the pious and subservient manner she’d adopted. But he didn’t miss the subtle way she tucked the younger woman behind her, as if putting herself between her charge and any threat he might present. He admired the impulse, no matter how ridiculous.
The younger nun rallied enough to explain. “Asthma,” she said in a wavering voice. “I feel much better now, but if Sister Genna hadn’t stopped them when she did…” Her voice fell off and her eyes filled once again with tears.
Her fierce protector shot him a reproachful glare, showing a flash of the spirit she’d masked behind the reverent exterior. He was glad she’d covered herself and put on her veil, but even the memory of what lay underneath was distracting.
“You are upsetting her. As you can see, she is unwell, and I need to get her back to the abbey right away. So while I thank you for your assistance, I’m sure you don’t wish to delay us any longer. Nor do I imagine you will want to be here when these men are found. There are bound to be others in the area.”
It was clear the lass was trying to be rid of him, and he didn’t think it was concern for their welfare that motivated her. Did she think to frighten him away with Englishmen? He almost laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said dryly. “But you aren’t going anywhere.”
MacLean had finished disposing of the bodies as best he could and came up beside him. “Christ, Hunter,” he said under his breath in Gaelic. “You might try explaining rather than issuing edicts.”
Given that MacLean was only marginally less blunt and possessed at best incrementally more finesse when it came to communication, the criticism was somewhat ironic.
“My name is Eoin MacLean, and this is Ewen Lamont,” MacLean said in broken French. Unlike Ewen, MacLean wasn’t quick with languages. Normally they used their war names for Highland Guard missions, but as this mission wasn’t in the dark and the nuns would be able to see their faces to identify them, they’d decided it was safer to use their clan names. “We were sent to find you,” he added.
Ewen didn’t miss the instant look of wariness she shot in his direction at the mention of his clan. A look that unfortunately he was used to among Bruce supporters. Like the MacDougalls, Comyns, and MacDowells, the name Lamont was not a trusted one.
The long feud between the two branches of Lamonts had not ended with Fynlay’s death at Dundonald. Ewen’s cousin John, the current Chief of Lamont, had chosen to fight with his mother’s clan, the MacDougalls, against Bruce. When the MacDougalls had been chased from Scotland after the Battle of Brander, his cousin had gone into exile with the MacDougalls, and the vast lordship ofMac Laomian mor Chomhail uilethe, The Great Lamont of all of Cowal, had been forfeited to the crown, including the important clan strongholds of Dunoon and Carrick.
Distancing himself from his cousin’s rebellion and his father’s “wild” legacy was a constant battle. But he was surprised an Italian nun was that apprised of clan politics.
“Who sent—” She stopped herself, obviously remembering her companion. Slowly, she nodded. “I see.”
She’d realized that it must have been Lamberton who’d led them to her.
“With such an important undertaking as your, uh…pilgrimage,” MacLean added, “your superiors were concerned that nothing go wrong and wanted to make sure you reached your destination safely. As you have discovered, there are many enemies to the church these days.”
Ewen hadn’t realized MacLean was so adept at speaking with double meaning—especially in a language he wasn’t exactly fluent in—but it was clear that Sister Genna understood what he was trying to say: they were here to make sure the message to Bruce did not go astray.
He was studying her while MacLean spoke and didn’t miss the flash of what might be deemed annoyance in her eyes. They were sea blue, he realized. A very pretty, very crystal shade of bluish green. And what kind of nun had long, feathery eyelashes like that?
Whatever pique he’d detected was quickly smothered behind the pious facade. “I fear your journey was unnecessary. I reached my destination two days ago without any problems. Indeed, I was on my way back to Berwick this morning. Sister Marguerite was simply walking me to the hill to say goodbye.”
“You were planning to travel by yourself?” Ewen said.
He hadn’t bothered to keep the incredulity from his voice, and the face she turned to him was serene enough, but he could swear her eyes were shooting tiny greenish-blue darts at him. Damn, she was pretty! Not too old and not too young. He’d guess she was in her mid-twenties—a handful of years younger than his thirty. The other one was pretty too, in a frail, helpless manner Sister Genna was trying to adopt, but she didn’t look much older than a child.
“I hoped to catch up with another group of pilgrims at Dryburgh Abbey, a few miles away. We in the service of God are used to walking long distances. I walk much farther to sell our embroidery at market. Most people I encounter on the road are not like these.”
“But some are,” he pointed out.
