Page 18 of Kilty as Sin
Ah. So, they were going to pretend that kiss hadn’t happened? Grace pulled her braid out from beneath her—Even dirtier now, I suppose—and scowled. “What do ye expect Mayo to do?”
Barclay ignored her. “Throw us the damnable rope, ye dobber!”
Scoffing, Grace struggled to sit up. “How can ye possibly expect a hooved animal to—”
The rope hit her in the back of her head.
With a sound halfway between a yelp and a curse, Grace scrambled to turn uphill. The white gelding stood serenely, looking for all the world as if he wasproud…with the rope tied to the saddle and running down the slope.
“Thank ye,” muttered Barclay, grabbing for it. When he turned to her, there was none of the warmth in his gaze she’d seen earlier. “I’ll anchor it down here. Is yer palm well enough to make the climb?”
He was treating her as a captive again.
He was going to take her back to her father, even after that kiss.
Grace tightened her jaw, knowing that even if her hand fell off, she bloody well wasn’t going to complain tohim. “I’ll survive.”
And she did.
She always did.
As she fought her way up the slope toward the animal which would take her to her prison, she fought the tears in her eyes.
She would survive.
Chapter 4
Barclay deserved a sainthood.Or the worst tortures of Hell.
He couldn’t decide.
Ye dinnae need the worst tortures of hell. Ye have them right here on Earth, ye dumb fooker.
The woman in his arms murmured softly in her sleep and rolled over to face him.
Had he still been wearing his helmet, he wouldn't feel the softness of her curls against his cheek. He wouldn't be able to feel her breath on his skin.
His commander, Drummond Kennedy, preferred the Hunters wear their helms when they were on missions. It was a badge of office, an announcement to the public not to cross the Hunters...and the stories told about them would keep criminals afraid.
But once Grace had pulled it from him, had seen his face...'twould serve no purpose to put it back on again. Besides, if he did, he'd be missingthis.
‘Twas the middle of the night. The fire was heading toward embers, and the darkness was alive with the sound of nocturnal creatures and the wind.
And Barclay?
Barclay was wide awake, torturing himself.
Aye, ‘twas torture to hold her—warm and soft and sweet-smelling somehow, even after the day they’d had—and know he couldn’t have her. ‘Twas torture, the way she turned to him so trustingly, knowing he’d comfort her and keep her safe no matter what the future brought.
‘Twas torture to be strong and resist touching her.
To resist what she’d offered.
Sighing, he stared down at the top of her head where it pressed so trustingly against his shoulder, remembering that kiss.
Remembering it? He doubted he’d forget it.
Aye, he was a charmer, a rogue. He’d had more than his share of lovers and had something of a reputation at Court for leaving his women satisfied. He might be a penniless bastard, but he had the King’s trust, and that—and his reputation with the ladies—had always been enough.
