Page 1 of Kilty as Sin
Prologue
Barclay cursed his bad luck.
Two days ago, he’d had a clear trail from the lass and had been confident he’d catch up with her soon.
Then, yesterday, her tracks had been obscured by the prints from a group of horsemen, and he’d known he wasn’t the only one following her. He could no longer see her prints, but he didn’t have to; he just needed to follow her pursuers.
Bad luck, indeed, and not just for him.
He’d picked up his pace.
Last night the new moon had made it impossible to track, but he’d continued on by instinct. Hehadto find the lass before the men on horseback did…
But judging from the sounds of revelry coming from ahead, he was too late.
Cursing again, under his breath, Barclay slid from the saddle and led his mount toward a hollow.
It wasn’t unusual for him to be assigned to track someone and he prided himself on being the best of the King’s Hunters for this sort of job. But this was his first time being told to track down a lassie—a wayward daughter, at that—and he knew her father would be livid if harm came to her.
“Stay here,” he murmured to Horse. “There’s plenty of grass to keep ye occupied.”
But when he turned to go, the blasted animal nudged him between his shoulder blades.
“Nay,” hissed Barclay, reaching for the gelding’s bridle. “Nay, Horse. Ye stay here. I cannae sneak up on them with ye following me, clopping about with enough noise to wake the dead.”
Was it his imagination, or did the horse look hurt?
“Och, dinnae give me such a long face.”
The gelding bobbed its head and Barclay’s own face split into a grin. Even with the bad luck following the lass he could appreciate a bit of fun.
Clucking his tongue, he pushed his elbow against the horse’s side. “I promise I’ll whistle for ye soon enough, eh? Just let me suss out the situation, aye?”
It didn’t seem to mollify the animal, and Barclay shook his head.
“Ye’re a stubborn beast. Stay here, and stay quiet, eh? That’s an order.”
And ye’d better hope he takes orders better than ye do.
This time Horse didn’t respond but turned away from Barclay as if pouting. But in doing so, the helmet—hanging from its hook on the saddle—knocked against the man’s shoulder.
“And thank ye kindly for this.” He used his sweetest tone, knowing it would irritate the animal.
Judging from the way Horse stomped a hoof, it worked.
As he crept away from the hollow toward the sound of men’s voices, Barclay slid the helm over his dark hair. He had some brothers-in-arms who wore the thing constantly, but the King’s Hunters’ only rule was that it must be worn while on assignment.
Barclay might not like this assignment—to track down the wayward daughter of one of His Majesty’s supporters—but he’d taken it. And he’d see it through.
Assuming he got to the lass before any evil befell her.
The glen was rocky enough that he didn’t worry about being seen as he crept closer, listening for a woman’s voice. Half hoping, half dreading he’d hear it.
If St. Pancras is merciful, they willnae have caught up with her yet, and ye can creep around them to go after her.
But Barclay’s bad luck continued.
Lying on his belly, he dug his elbows into the soft peat and slowly lifted his head over the rise before him. And cursed.Again.
