The Hunter by Monica Mccarty

to resist doing the same.
    She really was quite pretty—for a woman of God, he reminded himself. The lines of her face were simply but classically drawn. Wide-set almond-shaped eyes framed by delicately arched brows. High cheekbones, a small, straight nose, and a tiny pointed chin. The only extravagances were those ridiculously long lashes, the brilliantsea-blue of her eyes, and that sensually curved mouth. Her lips were too pink, too lush, and too damned tempting—especially with that wanton freckle distracting him.
    He shifted his gaze back to the road ahead of them, where it was safe.
    He was relieved when she did the same. Until she shivered a little and settled back against him. He nearly groaned, and his voice came out a tad gruffer than usual. “Are you cold?”
    “A little.”
    With one hand holding the reins, he reached back and unfastened a plaid from the roll on the saddle. “You can use this,” he said, handing it to her.
    The smile she gave him was almost girlish in its delight and so out of keeping with the serene nun, his heart jogged a beat or two.
    “Thank you.” She wrapped it around her and sighed contentedly, sinking back against him again.
    At least one of them was comfortable. Ewen had the feeling that the next twenty-four hours were going to be some of the most uncomfortable of his life.
    The plaid smelled like him, cozy and warm with a faint hint of the outdoors, and the soft blues and grays reminded her of his eyes. Steel-blue, she would call them—with an emphasis on the steel.
    Steel rather summed him up quite nicely, from his eyes, to his intractable temperament, to the solid shield of his chest behind her and the hard strength of the arms that had lifted her from the ground. She’d never felt arms like that in her life. She’d reached out to brace herself in surprise as he’d lifted her, and she might as well have been trying to grip rock. A strange shudder had stolen through her, and her stomach had taken the oddest little dip.
    Actually, her stomach seemed to be doing that quite a lotaround him. And she would feel flush at the oddest times. She hoped she wasn’t becoming ill.
    But for such a hard-edged man, she had to admit he was surprisingly comfortable to ride with. It was nice. Quite nice, she realized. Perhaps she’d been worried for naught? It was infinitely more comfortable riding with the warmth and protection of his big body behind her, especially as the weather grew more ominous. That wind was cold, and he was like a bread oven, radiating heat. She shivered, burrowing deeper under the plaid when a powerful gust tore through the trees.
    She thought he made a pained sound, but when she glanced over her shoulder he was looking straight ahead with that masculine square jaw set at the same uncompromising angle.
    It wasn’t often that she didn’t get her way, but Genna could accept defeat graciously, particularly when it was proving to be to her benefit. She would just have to ensure he didn’t interfere with her plans. When the time came she would find a way to make a quick stop in Roxburgh, which shouldn’t be too difficult, as they would pass in that direction anyway. Until then, there was no reason not to make the best of it and try to pass the time pleasantly. At least as pleasantly as they could until the rain started.
    She eyed him curiously. She wasn’t sure what it was about him, but he wasn’t like anyone she’d met before. Her first impression hadn’t changed much in the short time they’d been riding. He was hard to read—which strangely intrigued her.
    “You don’t talk much, do you?”
    He gave her a sidelong glance from under that terrifying-looking helm that she wondered if he’d ever remove and said dryly, “I didn’t think you noticed.”
    She laughed. “Are you suggesting I talk too much?”
    “I’m suggesting you talk until you hear what you want to hear.”
    She lifted a brow in surprise. The comment was insightful. She’d never been very