The Hunter by Monica Mccarty Page B

that matter (it was too heavy)—and the five-inch-long blade was pointed right at the place where a deep enough cut would kill him. He didn’t think it was a coincidence. The lass knew one of the few places he was vulnerable.
    Jesus!
One slip of that knife and he’d be dead—or gelded. Neither option of which was very appealing.
    All of his attention should be on that blade, yet he was achingly aware of the placement of her other hand. To brace herself—and give herself better leverage to wield the blade—she’d put her left hand on his right thigh.
High
on his right thigh. And too damned close to the part of him that had been made half-crazed by their ride.
    So even while he watched the right hand with the blade, he couldn’t stop thinking about the left, and how good it would feel if she moved it a few inches and took him in her hand. He wouldn’t have thought it possible to be aroused with a knife a few inches from his cock. He now knew differently.
    Slowly—very slowly, so as not to jar her into sudden movement—he drew the horse to a halt. Outwardly he kept calm, but his heart was pounding. He kept his eyes pinned to hers, but she didn’t flinch. She was as cool and calm as any of his fellow Guardsmen would be, and he knew without a doubt that she would use the knife if she had to.
    What the hell kind of nun was she, anyway? He stilled when she pressed the knife a little harder, the tip of the blade digging deeper into the leather. A bloodthirsty one, apparently, who knew how to wield a dagger.
    “You’ve made your point,” he said.
    She quirked a well-formed brow. Like her lashes, her eyebrows were thick and dark, framing her blue eyes to perfection and providing a striking contrast to her fair hair and skin …
    He stopped himself, furious. There he went, doing it again. Noticing details was part of his job, but he shouldn’t be noticing those kind of details about her.
    Knife
, he reminded himself.
    “Have I?” she said. “Somehow I think not. Men like you only respect in others what they see in themselves. In your case, physical strength.” She looked him over in a way that might have made his blood heat had she not added, “Of which you appear to have an over-abundance.” She gave him a taunting smile, digging in the knife a little more. “But as you can see, physical strength isn’t always enough.”
    There it was again. Ewen had a gift for languages, and every now and then he caught something in her accent. At times it didn’t seem quite so strong. Like now, when she was angry. Given the current circumstances, he supposed it was safe to say that she’d dropped her pretense of being meek and serene.
    Holding her gaze, he reached down and circled the wrist holding the knife with his hand. He felt shock run through him at the touch. The baby softness of her skin and delicacy of her bones took him aback, but he felt the determination in the firmness of her grip. Slowly, he moved her hand—and the blade—to the side so he could breathe again.
    But he didn’t let her go. She was practically turned around on the saddle now, facing him, eyes flashing and chest heaving with the fury of the confrontation.
Damn it!
He
really
shouldn’t think about her chest, because despite the black wool that almost covered her from head to toe, he could remember every luscious inch of naked flesh, and a very sinful part of him wanted to reach down and scoop it up in his hands.
    And then there was the placement of that other hand. Perhaps he should have moved it instead because now that the blade was at a safe distance, his focus wasn’t split anymore, and all he could think of was the soft pressure so near to the place he really wanted it.
    Almost as if she could read his mind, her face flushed, and she removed her hand from his thigh, while tightening the one holding the
sgian-dubh
defensively. He knew plenty of warriors who carried a hidden blade—usually under their arm—but she was the first woman.
    Men