Page 9 of Kilty as Sin
“Here lass.” He handed her a waterskin filled with whisky. “This will warm yer insides, but sip slowly, eh?”
To his surprise, she didn’t sputter and cough when she took a taste of the potent brew. Mayhap shehadmerely sipped it. Or mayhap she was used touisge-beatha,the water of life.
Grinning, Barclay began to mix the bannock batter. Grace MacDonald continued to surprise him.
In no time, the oat cakes were grilling on a flat stone, and he’d pulled some dried meat from one of the other pouches. ‘Twas a simple meal, but one which—
When he turned back to her, the lass was still shivering.
“Och, I’m an arsehole,” he muttered, reaching for the spare plaid he’d pulled from his saddlebag. “Ye cannae get warm when ye’re soaked through, eh?”
She didn’t object as he tugged her closer and gathered her hair to one side, and that was alarming enough. He expected her wicked tongue to flay him for daring to touch her with such intimacy. The fact she didn’t told him either she didn’t mind, or something was very wrong.
Her hair felt like silk.
He shouldn’t be touching it, not like this. She was alady, and ‘twas likely only her mother or nurse had stroked her soft tresses. Later, ‘twould be her husband who touched her like this.
As Barclay unlaced her blue gown, he tried not to think of that husband. The husband Laird MacDonald had already chosen.
Whoever that husband was, the lass had objected. She’d claimed sanctuary in the convent, according to the Mother Superior Barclay had questioned, and she was a lass who knew her own mind.
She onlyappearedweak and delicate he reminded himself.
But when he pulled her gown from her shoulders to reveal her delicate limbs wrapped in a whisper-thin chemise, ‘twas hard to remember. Every instinct in his body told him this was a woman he needed to protect, no matter how brave, no matter how strong she might be.
The wool gown slid down her body, and when he lifted her legs out of the way, she curled against his chest in what felt like instinct.
And as he wrapped the warm plaid about her shoulders, lifting her wet hair out of the way gently so it wouldn’t be trapped against her skin, he had to fight the almost overwhelming urge to hold her.
She wasn’t his.
She’d never be his.
The bannock cakes cooled quickly in the chilly mountain air, and Grace took one with a murmured “Thank ye.”
They sipped whisky and ate the meat and cakes in silence as the occasional drop of water collected on the leaves above and hissed into the fire.
Barclay squatted across from the lass and studied her. She was no longer shivering, but still wasn’t meeting his eyes.
And her hair was still wet.
The poor lass was never going to dry out, was she?
Swallowing the last of the oat cake, Barclay stood in one fluid motion and reached for her wet gown. It wasn’t going to dry completely, but at least he could hang it over a branch. As he did so, Horse gave a curious whinny.
“Aye, ye and yer empty stomach may be excused.” He nudged the animal with the toe of his boot. “Dinnae go far.”
The gelding bobbed his head as if he understood, then rolled to his feet. Grace watched the horse pick his way carefully across the hollow and into the drizzle to investigate the patch of grass growing up against the largest boulder.
“’Tis almost as if he understands ye,” she murmured.
“Aye, of course he does.” Barclay sank to his haunches at her side. “He’s stubborn, spiteful, and ‘tis impossible to keep him fed, but he’s smart, I’ll give him that.”
Her lips curled slightly and she met his gaze. “Does he have a name?”
By St. Pancras’s elbow, she had the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. “A-a name? Aye, of course he has a name. How else would I call him?”
Now she was definitely smiling. “And what is it?”
