Page 11 of Kilty as Sin
Horse snorted derisively.
“How about Mayo?”
The animal stomped his front foot twice.
“There ye have it—”
“Dinnae be silly,” she interrupted. “’Twas equine forI think ‘tis a fine moniker.”
Barclay was grinning now. “Och, really? I had nae idea ye were so skilled an interpreter. Ignatius, then, Horse?”
This time, the horse shook his head.
“No’ Ignatius, then,” she murmured.
“No’ Milky either.”
Grace switched her attention back to him, and twisted the end of her braid as she studied him. “Hmmm. I’ll stick with Mayo, then. How did ye get to be so good at this?”
Beneath his helm, Barclay’s brows rose and he sat back on his haunches. “So good at what? Naming horses? Putting scared lasses at ease?”
She snorted, and he saw the sparkle in her blue eyes, put there by his humor. “Plaiting women’s hair. Dinnae tell me ye have a half-dozen sisters, and became skilled at hair arrangements thanks to helping raise them?”
Ah.
“Nay. I’m…” Barclay’s chin dropped, his good humor gone. “I have nae siblings.”
“Cousins, then?”
She was going to push this? He pushed himself to his feet. “My father wanted naught to do with me, and my mother died when I was young.” Stepping out from under the leaf cover, he pretended to study the sky. “I do have a cousin I’m quite fond of—he’s the Commander of the Oliphants, up north of Inverness.”
“And I assumehedoesnae allow ye to braid his hair?”
Reluctantly, Barclay’s lips curled and he snorted quietly. “Doughall would rather knock me in the mud during sparring, lass.”
“I have nae trouble believing that.” When he turned back to her, a teasing grin traced her lips. “I’ve kenned ye all of an hour and I’ve wanted to knock ye in the mud a time or two.”
Aaaaaannnnd there went his cock again, wanting things it couldn’t have.
Grace flipped the braid back over her shoulder. “Well, Sir Hunter, if ye didnae learn to plait lassies’ hair from yer sisters or cousins, I have nae choice but to believe ye’re a womanizer, a charmer.”
Pretending offense, he straightened his shoulders. “What?”
“A flirt? Agallant? A muttonmonger, a smell-smock? A manwhore, a Don Juan, a Cassanova?”
Barclay’s mouth dropped open. “Firstof all, half of those words are references to people who havenae been born yet. And secondly, ye shouldnae evenkenthe rest of them.”
“Why?” She shrugged too nonchalantly, even as she gathered the blanket more closely about her shoulders and planted one palm in the damp dirt. “I have ears, do I no’? I can recognize a dangerous man when I see one.”
As she pushed herself to her feet, her legs became tangled in the blanket. She clutched it tighter, and he leapt forward to steady her elbow. Holding her sent a spark of heat up his arm and into his chest.
“I would never hurt ye, milady,” he murmured roughly. “Nor any other woman.”
“Mayhap no’ physically, Sir Charmer.” Tipping her head back, Grace studied him, those blue eyes suddenly serious. “But I suspect nae woman’s heart is safe around ye, however ye may look beneath that helmet.”
Barclay knew he was handsome. Hadalwaysknown he was handsome, truthfully. Without the helm, he’d never had trouble gaining women’s attention. Suddenly, more than anything, he wanted to rip the helmet from his head, to show her his true self.
But he was on a mission.
