Read Online The Hunter by Monica Mccarty - Free Book Online

like him
. Was she correct in her characterization? He didn’t want to think so, but then again, she’d managed to surprise him. He’d underestimated her because she was a woman—not to mention a nun.
    He couldn’t remember the last time someone had been able to get a blade close enough to him to do real harm. It was probably Viper. Lachlan MacRuairi had earned his war name for his silent, deadly strike. He’d snuck up on Ewen once in training and managed to get a blade to his neck.
    Obviously, she’d had training, too. But unless the recently disbanded Templars had opened their ranks to include nuns, it hadn’t been at a convent.
    “Where the hell did you learn to do that?”
    She glared back at him. “My sister-in-law.”
    His brows drew together; it wasn’t the answer he was expecting. Another woman? “Unusual family you have. Or do they teach knife skills to all little girls in Italy along with needlework?”
    He was watching her closely and saw something flickerin her gaze. She seemed to shake something off, and then her mouth curved in a smile. “Was that a joke,
monsieur
?”
    To his surprise, he realized it was. It was the kind of wry jest he would make to MacLean or MacKay. But he didn’t jest with women. Actually, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d had this long of a conversation with a woman. Hell, this was the longest conversation he’d had with
anyone
in a long time.
    He was staring at her, trying to make sense of it, when she gave a flick of her head in the direction of her hand.
    “If you let go of my wrist, I’ll put the knife back where it belongs.”
    He released her with all the subtlety of a hot iron. But he watched her hand carefully this time as she slowly returned the dirk to her boot. He caught a quick glimpse of the scrollwork on the handle and stopped her. “May I see that?”
    The hesitation was brief, but it was there. She handed it to him. He looked at the intricate scrollwork on the horn handle, knowing that he’d seen something similar before. Though the design on the grip was Norse, he suspected the blade was from Germany and very fine. It had probably been a large eating knife for an important man, but it made a perfectly sized weapon for a woman. “Where did you get this?”
    “My sister by marriage.” She held her hand out, and he gave it back to her. He didn’t think he was imagining it when her shoulders relaxed after slipping it back in the scabbard above her boot, which must have been made for her. “Her family is Norse.”
    That explained it, but something still bothered him. He knew he’d seen it before. “What is her name?”
    She laughed. “I hardly think you would know her. Do you know many Italian ladies?” She paused expectantly, and when he didn’t respond added, “Her family came tomy village many years ago. The knife was passed down from her grandfather to her father.”
    “And she gave it to you?”
    “She did.”
    “You must have been very important to her. It’s an exceptional knife.”
    A shadow of sadness crossed her face. “I was. And she to me.”
    “You miss her?”
    “I do.”
    “But you will return home soon?”
    Though he’d been trying to make her feel better, he sensed his words had the opposite effect. She shrugged as if indifferent, but he knew she was not. “Perhaps when the war is over.”
    “But it is not your war. Why do you involve yourself in the problems of a country not your own?”
    “My reasons are my own.” She turned back around to face forward. “We should proceed? If we hope to reach Roxburgh before the rain.”
    He took her cue and snapped the reins, urging the horse forward. She was right: they were making abysmally slow progress. But she was wrong about their direction. “We aren’t going to Roxburgh. We’ll stay north of the Tweed on the way to Berwick—it will be safer.”
    His pronouncement was met with a quick snapping around of her head. “No! We can’t. We must go to