Page 12 of Kilty Plea
And the day after that…MacIntyre Keep.
In his arms, Flora took a shuddering, deep breath, and straightened. “Good.” She nodded once then pulled away from him. “Good,” she repeated, not sounding like herself. “Then I have two days to convince ye no’ to leave me.”
Saying that, she nodded again and marched toward the horse.
It would’ve been more impressive had she not stepped hard atop a stick and hissed, then had to hobble the rest of the way.
Shaking his head, Payton followed.
Two days. He could do this.
Only two days.
Then he’d be free of Flora.
Why did he hate that thought?
Chapter 3
This wasn’tthe first time Flora had known the next few hours could be the difference between life and death for her. Sugar sticks, when the bandits had killed her father and burned their croft, she’d been desperate to save Lenny. When they’d deposited her at the Abbey on the Abbot’s orders, she’d used every sense God had given her to figure out how to stay alive and be useful.
And now?
Well, now Payton MacIntyre was the only one who could take her to her brother.
Dang it all to heck.
She just had to prove she wouldn’t be a burden.
Surely, they were only a matter of days from MacIntyre land? Once there,someonewould be able to tell her of a lad with flaxen hair and two different colored eyes?Surelysomeone would remember Lenny?
All she had to do was convince Payton to take her that far instead of the next village.
God willing.
Sighing, Flora bit her lip to stay awake, determined to think of a way to prove her usefulness to the Hunter.
“Go to sleep, lass.”
She started, bumping the back of her head against his helm and earning a sigh from him. They were the first words he’d said to her since early that morning when he’d pulled her into his lap atop his horse and wrapped one arm around her to hold the reins.
Twisting, she tried to peer up at him, but the angle was all wrong.
“What?”
“I can tell ye’re fighting sleep, Flora. Close yer eyes. I’ll no’ let ye fall.”
She could just see his jaw—with the dark stubble a little thicker today—move when he spoke, and she told herself that shouldn’t be as fascinating as ‘twas.
“Fudge,” she murmured, still watching that bit of skin. “I’m no’ tired.”
He snorted, the sound echoing strangely in the helmet. “I cannae imagine ye slept well on the hard ground—”
“’Twas nae harder than the stones I slept on in the dormitory,” she hurried to assure him, “and yer cloak kept me warmer than I’ve been in a long while.”
He didn’t speak for a while after that, but she felt the muscles in his arm tense.
She was sitting on his lap, her arse resting atop the thick cloak, which did little to cushion her from his hard thighs, but she didn’t mind.
