Page 4 of Kilty Plea
Her cheeks were heating, and for once, she appreciated the embarrassment, because it might keep her warm.
His kilt was the King’s colors, which was traditional, and the bit between the woolen material and his knees was…His thighs, ye ninny. They’re his thighs. Everyone has them.
Nay, not everyone had thighs like these.
Suddenly, the idea of being sold to this man didn’t seem so terrible.
At least there wouldn’t be an old man slavering atop her as she clenched her eyes shut and tried not to breathe.Her duty, the Abbot and the other lasses had called it…but Flora had a different duty.
To her younger brother.
Her heart began to thump in her chest at the thought of Lenny.
If she was to be given to this man, she wouldn’t be able to find her little brother, would she?
All thoughts of the man’s knees fled from her mind and instinctively she lifted her gaze to his.
Or to where his would be, were his eyes not hidden by the deep shadows of the helmet. It made him look fierce, terrifying, especially with her on her knees before him.
If ye are given to him, ye cannae save Lenny.
She began to shake.
The man moved faster than he had a right to.
One moment, he was sitting upright, his hands—which had wielded his sword with such deadly accuracy only hours before—curled around the arms of his chair.
The next, he was leaning toward her, one hand reaching for her…
She wanted to lean away, to protest… But her breaths were coming too fast and she was frozen in place.
His hand closed around her shoulder, big and warm and…comforting?
“Flora,” he murmured.
Or at least, shethoughtthat might’ve been what he’d said, but the helmet’s echo was such that he could’ve muttered something aboutoralorthe Torahor heraura.
Fish sticks, he was a man; ‘twas more likely he spoke oforal, aye?
But…at his touch, her breathing had calmed, her heart had slowed. She stared up into the two dark holes where his eyes should be, and she wondered what he saw.
“Flora has a drink for ye, brother Hunter.” The Abbot murmured slyly as he leaned closer. “Go on, lass. Honor the warrior the only way ye have.”
She had no choice.
Something like a leaden weight had settled in her stomach, and she lifted the bowl of milk to the man who now loomed over her. “Drink of the milk, brother,” she intoned dully, repeating the words she’d heard almost a dozen times since her arrival at the Abbey.
‘Twas either this or feel the Abbot’s lash again.
The pull of the welts on her back forced her to tighten her jaw and keep her arms steady.
Take the milk, she prayed, silently urging him. The Hunter had taken no food or drink from the Faithful this evening; she’d been watching.
If he turned her down now, she’d likely not live through the night.
When his hand moved from her shoulder to close around the bowl, she breathed a sigh of relief.
He used his other hand to lift his helmet just far enough that she could see a strong jaw, lined with dark stubble, as he brought the bowl to his mouth and drank from it.
