Page 8 of Kilty Plea
The oh-fook-two-days-from-now-he’d-be-home future.
Da would give him shite about when he was going to finally get his head out of his arse and take over the management of the tower house by the loch from Daniel.
Daniel would nag him about his devotion to the Church and how ‘twas only Payton’s egotism keeping him—Daniel—from focusing on his flock as necessary.
The girls wouldn’t let him rest until Payton had sketched—actually fookingsketched—the latest fashions from court.
Rupert would make snide remarks about Payton’s freedom to go “gallivanting about, saving the world” while his wife showed off her latest fat bairn.
And Mam…Mam would give him hell about finding a nice wife and settling down like his brother Rupert had done.
Shite. Was it no wonder he returned home increasingly rarely these days?
Sighing, Payton reached up to scrub a hand across his face and bumped against the helm. He’d forgotten he was wearing it—it had become second nature, on this mission in particular.
Most of the King’s Hunters removed the helmet once they defeated the bad guys, or once they no longer had to intimidate. For Payton, ‘twas easier to wear the damned thing than to have to field questions about his scar.
And at the Abbey… Well, he might have defeated the bandits, but he’d never felt comfortable enough to show his real face, so he’d kept it on. And last night he’d slept in it, sitting up in the stables, ready to head out at first light.
The horse tossed its head again, and Payton frowned in the shadows. Why was the animal so unsettled?
He sniffed the air but was unable to smell aught besideshimselfinside the steel cage. Pushing himself up in the stirrups, he ignored the bite of the wind around his thighs as he strained his senses in all directions.
The horse continued to pick her way along the road, and Payton had just decided to remove the helm so he could see what was necessary…when a bundle came into view.
‘Twas a smallish bundle, thrown haphazardly on the side of the road next to a ditch. The sort of bundle which might’ve been refuse…or might’ve been a once-fine fur-lined cloak, wrapped around a small frame.
He was on the ground before he’d realized he’d left his saddle.
Kneeling beside the bundle, Payton realized he was holding his breath, and not just because of the cold air. Nay, he was terrified of what he might find when he rolled the bundle over.
Best to get it done, lad.
His hand didn’t shake as he reached out for the fur, but only by dint of will.
When he uncovered her face—still, pale, perfectly imperfect—he felt his heart clench in his chest. Sorrow. Anger. Guilt.
But then…
But then Flora’s little nose scrunched and her lips turned into a frown, and his breathwhooshedout of him in one big burst, creating enough steam to fog his vision of her. When it cleared, she was blinking woozily up at him, and her lips had curled into a smile.
“Good morning,” she managed, before a yawn interrupted her.
Damn her, how could she be so cheerful when he’d just had the scare of his life? His voice might’ve reflected this anger when he pulled her upright.
“What are ye doing here?”
“Waiting for ye.” Yawning again, she stretched and looked around. “I was hoping I’d chosen the correct road, but I wanted to get as far away from the Abbey as possible.” She pushed away his hand and sat cross-legged as she pulled her lank hair over one shoulder. “I’m pleased I caught ye.”
“I’m no’,” he grumbled, sitting back on his haunches, although ‘twas a lie. “Why would ye sleep out here all night, lass? And risk freezing?”
“Och, I wasnae freezing,” she corrected him, clearly one of those cheerful morning people. Her fingers flew as she plaited her braid. “’Tis been many months since I was this warm, thanks to yer fur.” Suddenly, she ducked her chin, as if embarrassed. “And I told ye why I’m here—to wait for ye.”
“Butwhy?”
“Because I wasnae certain where ye were sleeping last night, so this was the only way I kenned to catch ye in time.”
An inkling was coming to Payton. “Ye…cannae mean to come with me?”
