Page 21 of Kilty Plea
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Payton lingeredin the stables as long as he could, taking the last empty stall for himself. He drew a fresh pail of water, turned his back to the world, and removed his helmet. By St. Bart’s warts, the cold air felt good on his skin.
Aye, even on his scar.
He dunked his head into the pail and scrubbed as much of the dirt as he could from his face and torso. ‘Twas invigorating, aye, and when he emerged from the stall, he felt…well, like a new man.
Which made it that much harder to lower the helmet over his head once more, hating the way his wet hair stuck to the padding, hating the confinement.
He’d never hated the helmet before; always, it had just been a symbol, part of his purpose for being.
Now? Why was he resenting it now?
Because ye’re going up to the room ye have to share with Flora, thanks to yer own sense of nobility, when ye want naught more than to taste her on yer lips.
Och, aye, that was it.
But his nobility had naught to do with it; he’d sleep in her room tonight because she’d asked him to. Because it made her happy.
And although he’d known her a short time, something told Payton he’d move heaven and earth to keep Flora happy.
Fook. Ye dinnae even ken her clan name!
Mayhap that was something he would discover tonight.
Head down, grumbling to himself about how little he knew of the woman he suspected he was losing his heart to, Payton placed his palm against the door to the rented room and pushed it open…
Just in time to startle Flora, who was rising from the wooden tub.
Her back was to him, and she froze halfway through the motion of lifting her leg over the edge, as if uncertain if she should sink back into the water.
There was a time when Payton would’ve apologized, stepped back, closed the door, offered her another apology.
Or he would’ve crossed the room, swept her into his arms, claimed her lips with his.
But tonight…
The lash marks on her pale skin…
“I’ll fooking kill him,” Payton growled, his fingers curling white-knuckled around the hilt of his sword. “I’ll make him wish he’d never been born.”
Flora’s eyes widened at his vow, then followed his gaze. When she realized he was staring at her back—and the welts which crisscrossed it—she shook her head and continued climbing out of the tub.
“Most of them are auld, Payton,” she murmured, reaching for the length of linen someone had laid out as a towel. She kept her back to him as she dried herself, which unfortunately only allowed him a clearer view of her scars.
Her arse too, and he vowed he’d look at that in a moment.
He just couldn’t drag his gaze away from her back.
Without looking, he reached out to slam the door shut, stepping closer to her. “That doesnae make it better.”
“Nay, but there’s naught to be done now,” she offered in a calm tone. “I wasnae verra good at following the Abbot’s instructions.”
As if pulled by a string, Payton found himself crossing the room, reaching for her… Halting his fingers before they could caress her skin.
Flora was right; most of the scars were white and puckered, but a few of the welts were red and inflamed. She’d been beaten regularly. And recently.
“They’re no’ all auld,” he rasped.
