Page 42 of Kilty Plea
Well, it made him want to swear that she’d always have that.
Somehow, he’d make it the truth.
So, smiling along with her, he took her hands in his and spun them both until they were so dizzy they collapsed, chuckling, onto one of the benches beside the feast.
Heknewthis change in her—she’d been so quiet and sad earlier—was due mainly to the ale…but Payton had to admithewas feeling mellower and more hopeful about the future too.
Sighing, he threw his arm around her shoulder and tucked her up against his side, burying his nose in her hair and trying to hold on to this feeling.
“Midnight!” someone called. “First footing!”
“First footing!” the cry went up, and Payton would’ve joined in, had he not been so content exactly where he was.
Plastered against his chest, Flora hummed. “First f-footing?” he glanced down at her to see her yawn and smiled in response.
“Surely ye must’ve celebrated it? If the first person over the threshold after midnight—first night of the year—is a dark-haired man, the household will have good luck and prosperity.”
She rolled her eyes and struggled upright, the back of her hand pressed against her mouth, ready to stifle another yawn. “Aye, of course. But this place is acastle, Payton. Surely ‘tis all staged?”
“Staged?”
“Fishsticks! Ye ken what I mean! For certes, yer mother arranged for a suitable dark-haired man to be standing outside as midnight passed, and he’ll knock—”
As if on cue, a knocking rang from the doors down to the armory, and a cheer rose from the gathered MacIntyres.
Flora shot him a wry look as if to say “See?”
Chuckling, Payton heaved himself up off the bench, so he could see over the shoulders of his clansmen who were also clamoring for sight of the first footer.
But the dark-haired man who stepped through…
Unconsciously, Payton lurched forward.
The Abbot.
What had Daniel said? A holy man—anAbbot!—had been looking for Payton.
Fook fook shite fook.
Payton glanced over his shoulder, but Flora’s eyes were closed and she was smiling slightly as she slouched on the bench. She hadn’t seen the bastard yet.
Unfortunately, when Payton turned back to the crowd, the Abbot was pushing his way toward his corner. Payton took a few steps forward, to meet him, but it did no good; the man’s gaze flicked to Flora once before he met Payton’s eyes, his grin wide.
“Sir Hunter, ‘tis ye, aye! Hard to tell without yer helm!” the man cried, slapping Payton on the shoulder in greeting. “Of course, now I see yer face, I can understand why ye wear it! But it matters no’, for the Lord works in mysterious ways, eh?”
Payton fought to keep his expression calm, but his hand still curled into a fist atop his belt, where his sword hilt would’ve been, had he been any place other than his family’s home.
The last place he expected danger.
The Abbot was cheerful and effusive—mayhap the manhadspent the last hours drinking ale with the whores down at the inn—and now stepped back to study Payton with a proud smile.
“I’m happy to see ye so settled and happy, my son. Married life is treating ye well, eh? I’ve often said a man is happiest when he’s getting his wick wet on a regular basis—at least, that’s how I like to live my life.” He winked hugely and leaned in to nudge Payton’s shoulder again, seeming not to notice the good cheer wasn’t reciprocated. “She’s a good one, eh? As soon as I saw our Flora, I kenned I needed to save her as a reward for someone special.”
St. Bart’s blessed tongue! ‘Twas difficult to resist the urge to glance back at her, to see if a) she’d noticed the bastard, and b) had heard what he’d said.
A reward.
He’d beensavingFlora as a reward.
