Page 36 of Kilty as Sin
The attack had come so swiftly, so nonchalantly, Barclay winced. The nun was smiling like an innocent, jolly dictator who’d just cornered an opponent’s queen.
“Mother, ye must understand…” Nay, that was the wrong approach. Barclay straightened on the stool. “I was sent by the King to track down Grace MacDonald. Her father petitioned His Majesty for help, and my mission—my duty to the crown—entailed returning her to her father.”
“For marriage.”
The woman’s tone was bland, but Barclay wasn’t going to fall into another trap. He said naught.
After a long moment—the nun trying to stare him into submission, and Barclay holding onto the certain knowledge she couldn’t actually see his expression behind the helmet—she broke eye contact.
When she sighed and rolled her shoulders, Barclay did his best to ignore the way the movement sent her tits jiggling. St. Pancras protect him, the things were the size of his head!
She’s a nun. Ye shouldnae be looking.
There was a point in his life when hewould’velooked…but Grace MacDonald had ruined him. Barclay knew, for the rest of his life, he’d be comparing every woman—every smile, every laugh, every curve—to her.
The woman he’d loved. And lost.
“Would ye like some food, Sir Hunter? Drink?” Before he could politely decline, Sister Mary Titania planted an elbow on the desk. “How do ye eat and drink in that helmet, anyhow?”
“I dinnae wear it at all times. When I’m on a mission, ‘tis handy to wear when I’m around others. It keeps my identity a secret.”
“And the intimidation aspect is handy too, eh?” The nun winked. “Are ye trying to intimidate me, Sir Hunter?”
He smiled beneath the helm. “Is it working?”
“No’ even a little.” She propped her chin on her hand. “So ye dinnae have to wear it all the time? When ye go home to yer family, ye take it off. I cannae imagine ye trying to kiss yer wife wearing it.”
“I’m…” He shifted on the stool. “I am no’ married. Few Hunters are.”
‘Twas a dangerous job, and there were enough widows in the world already.
“But ye’d take it off afore ye kissed the woman ye love?”
She was staring at him with an intense expression, for certes. Barclay resisted the urge to squirm.
“Apparently,” he murmured.
Her palm hit the desk hard enough to cause him to jump. “So ye love her?”
Barclay blinked.
“Grace MacDonald. Ye love her, Sir Hunter?”
Holy St. Pancras’s right ballock,howhad she guessed? Barclay just stared at her.
Sister Mary Titania’s gaze softened. “Ye were with her for some time. She’s a remarkable lass, is she no’?”
“Aye,” he managed to choke out. “But she’s a laird’s daughter. Destined to marry another laird.”
“Ah.”
He shouldn’t speak of this. ‘Twas against the code, to speak of a mission to an outsider, especially this beaming nun. But Barclay couldn’t seem to halt the words spilling out.
“Aye, I love her. I think I fell in love with her that first moment she kneed that bastard in the—” He caught the word in time. “In the breadbasket.”
“Oh dear. I can understand defending herself, but the manalsohad to lose his lunch?”
Barclay hesitated. “What?”
