Page 19 of Kilty Plea
“Why are ye in such a cheerful mood?” he grumbled as he went to kick the fire into life again.
“Well, love a duck, Payton, it’s shaping up to be a beautiful day, and I’ve slept better than I ever have.”
Really?
He’d been miserable—well, nay, not quite. Actually, it had felt fooking amazing to hold her all night. Aye, her sweet little body had been pressed against his in all the right ways…he’d only been miserable because he’d been unable todoaught about it.
So, he scowled at her, although she couldn’t see. “Why do ye talk like that?”
“Like what?” She looked up from rebraiding her hair.
“Love a duck. Son of a biscuit. What the frog.” Actually, he found her way of cursing to be…endearing, he supposed, and he didn’t want her to cease. But ‘twas as good a distraction as any.
Luckily, she didn’t seem to mind the question. Flora rose and began to roll up the blankets. “My father used to say those things. He once told me my mother didn’t want him to curse around my younger brother and myself, so he started using those words instead. I just…” She shrugged without looking up. “Started using them as well.”
“Oh,” he grumbled, hoping he hadn’t sparked some painful memories for her. What had happened to her father? How had she come to be at the Abbey?
“Why no’ wear this today?”
He turned to find her holding out the warm cloak he’d given her, looking almost…shy?
“Nay, lass,” he said gruffly, shaking his head. “’Twas a gift. ‘Twill keep ye warm.”
“Oh.” She didn’t drop her arms. “But…if ye’re wearing it…” She swallowed and met his eyes. “If ‘tis wrapped around ye to keep ye warm, and I’m sitting in yer lap, thenye’llbe keeping me warm.”
The logic was sound. And he had to admit, his back had been chilly yesterday without the cloak. But…
He shook his head. “’Tis more important ye stay warm, Flora.”
And those big, trusting hazel eyes blinked up at him. “Ye’ll keep me warm. I ken it.”
Which is why they ended up atop his horse, the cloak wrapped around his back, and Payton wrapped aroundher.
“Payton?” she asked, after only a few miles. “Why do ye keep yer helmet on still? Ye slept in it last night.”
As if he needed a reminder. His right ear still ached from the pressure of the steel. “The King’s Hunters wear it when we’re on a mission,” he explained gruffly. “It hides our features, makes us more uniform. Intimidating.”
She hummed, and he wondered ifFlorafound it intimidating.
“But ye’re nae longer on a mission, are ye?” she asked, burrowing deeper into the little pocket of warmth formed by his chest, arms, and the cloak. “Ye defeated those bandits easily.”
Aye, but…
“I’m still on a mission.” He knew he was being surly when he uttered that lie.
Because, aye, ‘twas a lie.
The reason he hadn’t removed his helmet was he didn’t want Flora to see him without it. Didn’t want to watch the teasing laughter in her expression turn to pity and then revulsion when she saw the scar which had destroyed his face.
“I hardly think this is a mission, Payton,” she announced cheerfully as she patted his arm. “Monkey feathers, we’re married. ‘Tis no’ a mission from the King.”
St. Bart’s beard, she was in a good mood today! He shook his head. “We’re no’ married, lass, nae matter what yeoryer monkeys believe. Yer Abbot might be a holy man, but nae holy vows were spoken. Only those yer people believe in.”
When he saw the teasing light in her eyes—they were blue today, but as he watched they faded to gray—dim, he cursed himself.
“I did no’ believe, Sir Hunter,” she said quietly, shifting in his arms until she was staring over the horse’s head. “And he’s no’myAbbot.”
Well, fook.
