Page 19 of Kilty as Sin
Until Grace.
She’d kissed him, and he’d kissed her back. It had been wrong…but damnation, had felt so right!
St. Pancras have mercy on him! This was a fine mess; a bonny lass wantedhim, and he was the one turning her down? Being strong?Jesu Christo, what was wrong with him?
Can this feeling between the pair of ye really be so wrong?
A month ago, Barclay would’ve said nay; lust couldneverbe wrong.
But this…thishe felt for Grace… ‘Twas more than lust. At least, it felt different. Aye, he wanted her—riding with a cockstand was not a comfortable experience—but ‘twas more than that.
The fact he was dragging her to her wedding didn’t help.
He squeezed his eyes shut. She belonged to her betrothed, the man her father chose for her. Not to Barclay.
Grace, with impeccable timing even in her sleep, chose that moment to smack her lips and throw her leg across his. Her thigh rubbed where his cock throbbed against his kilt, and he sighed again.
Aye, this was torture of the worst kind.
But there was nowhere else he’d rather be.
Unable to resist, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head and forced himself to close his eyes. Tomorrow would be a long day and he needed his strength to resist her charms.
* * *
His midnight premonitionhad been correct: the next daywaslong. Long and hard.
‘Tis what she said.
Barclay didn’t push Horse to hurry south to the MacDonald holding. Hetoldhimself ‘twas because the poor animal was carrying double and didn’t deserve to be rushed on top of it. But hesuspected‘twas because Barclay was in no hurry to return Grace.
If he’d been alone, he might’ve made the journey in a day.
As ‘twas, he was going to stretch this out as long as possible.
Even if she was angry with him.
Even if having her pressed against his back made him uncomfortably aroused.
Even if every whiff of her hair and brush of her hand made him acutely aware of what he couldn’t have.
Barclay had never loved silence, even while traveling alone; hence his tendency to sing to Horse, who didn't mind. So, despite her irritation, he asked her questions, and he coaxed her from her sulk with stories of his own past.
She told him about her time at the convent and how 'twas her first time doing manual labor. It had been difficult, but she seemed to revel in the challenge. She told him of the time she'd visited Court with her mother as a young lassie, and how she still remembered the overwhelming grandeur of the buildings.
He told her of some of his missions, and he sang for her when she asked, and he told her some of the less ribald jokes his fellow Hunter, Evander, had shared with him over the years. Barclay steered the conversation away from his childhood, and the miserable bastard who'd sired him, but did his best to answer her questions about his life.
At midday, they stopped for a simple meal, and Grace’s nose wrinkled when he handed her the bannock cake, although she said naught. He vowed to stop even earlier than planned that evening, so he might set a few snares and catch some meat for her stomach.
He knew he shouldn’t be surprised that the lass nibbled on the oat cake without complaint, but hewas. She just looked so damnably soft and delicate…but she didn’t act that way, for certes!
Her hand was wrapped in a strip he’d cut from her chemise after he’d washed her abraded palm. Her feet weren’t as bad, but he still hadn’t allowed her to walk very far on her own, and she hadn’t objected to him lifting and carrying her about.
Torture indeed.
As he went about caring for Horse, he watched her from the corner of his eye. When she sighed and dropped her cake to her lap, he shook his head. Mayhap hehadbeen pushing her too hard.
“What is it, lass?” he asked softly, dropping to his haunches beside the boulder where she sat. “Yer hand is paining ye? Ye want something else to eat?”
