Page 3 of Kilty Plea
Oh, cheese and crackers, ‘twas the Abbot himself gesturing for her to approach.
She glanced away and realized the eyes of many of the Faithful were upon her. There’d be no pretending she didn’t hear him. No escape.
Swallowing, she shuffled toward the dais.
“Nay, no’ the ale, lass,” the Abbot boomed, good-naturedly. “Brother Hunter requiresmilk!”
A mighty cheer went up behind her, and Flora felt her blood rush down into her knees.
Nay nay nay nay nay.
This couldn’t be happening.
‘Twasher turn.
Flora swallowed and forced her knees not to buckle. She swayed, desperately torn between running—where would she go that they could not find her?—and collapsing in the dirt.
‘Twas her turn.
Dizzy now, she forced herself to look at the man she would be sold to. This celebration was in his honor, and while she was pleased the bandits were dead, she knew the truth of their actions.
The Hunter is honorable.
Aye, there was that.
They’d all seen that, in the way he faced the bandits, giving them a fair fight.
And she had the impression he didn’t exactly approve of the way the Abbot ran things here with the Faithful. So that was another point in his favor.
He is young and braw.
Aye, she reluctantly admitted. But she wasn’t certain if that was a point for or against him. In the months she’d been at the Abbey, she’d seen women given in marriage to old men, cruel men. Men who stank of death and disease and greed.
Ye cannae see his face.
Aye, he might not be handsome, but hewaswell-built.
Exceedinglywell-built.
“Flora!” the Abbot boomed again, and she knew it mattered not how the Hunter looked, because there was no escape.
‘Twas her turn.
Without really seeing, she took the bowl of goat’s milk which had been thrust into her hands, and slowly shuffled toward the dais. Oh, how she wished her feet weren’t quite so swollen with cold, or her shoulders hunched with pain.
Her father had always said pride would be her downfall, but now ‘twas all she had to wrap around herself to stay warm.
Flora focused her gaze on the milk in the bowl, trying to keep her hands from shaking, trying to keep the surface of the liquid ripple-free.
It didn’t quite work.
The wood of the dais was slightly warmer beneath her feet, but only enough to send pinpricks of pain across her skin. Swallowing, she knelt before the Hunter, her attention on the man’s knees as the Abbot’s voice praised her.
They were quite nice knees.
“…Meek and mild, Brother Hunter, and I think ye’ll find her to yer taste. I’ve gone through much effort to ensure she is as pure as when she came to us, and ye can imagine, ‘twas difficult.”
Strong knees. He wore naught between his kilt and his boots, and Flora couldn’t help but wonder if he was as cold as she. If so, he showed no signs of it—nor of appreciating the Abbot’s ribald joke at her expense.
