Page 8 of Kilty as Sin
And she had to admit that shedidfeel safe with this man. This warm, strong, kind man who’d teased her when she’d been so frightened. As the rain beat down around them, the tip of her longest finger rubbed along his lower lip, and she felt it curl beneath her touch.
He was smiling. And she was safe.
Chapter 2
It wasn’t a castle.It wasn’t even an inn. But the little hollow would do them well enough as protection from the storm. Protected on three sides by natural rockfall, with a low, scraggly, wind-whipped oak to block most of the rain, it would be comfortable enough.
Barclay swung out of the saddle with the MacDonald lass still huddled in his arms.
She hadn’t spoken again, but he could feel her shivering. It seemed…wrong.
His first impression of her—one of weakness and delicacy—had been incorrect. She’d stabbed a man, she’d run even with her hands tied, she’d faced Barclay with strength and bravery he couldn’t help but admire.
Her biting tone, when they’d sparred, hadn’t quite hidden her fear.
But she’dtried, and that’s what he admired.
So, to feel her so tiny and subdued in his arms…it didn’t feel right. He wanted her angry again. He wanted to see those beautiful blue eyes snap with irritation, wanted to watch her plump lips spit fire at him.
“Dinnae fash, lass,” he murmured as he gently rested her against the oak’s base. “I’ll have ye warm in a moment.”
She didn’t respond.
From the blankness in her eyes as she stared up at him, teeth chattering and her arms wrapped tightly around her middle, he doubted she’d even heard him. Was she going into shock?
Fook.
Barclay clucked his tongue to Horse, who obligingly shuffled closer, then whinnied softly as Barclay removed the saddle. “Aye, aye, ye big dobber. Be useful. Lie down and keep her warm, eh?”
The animal knelt, then flopped over to one side, and Barclay had to admit it was impressively close to where the lass huddled.
Notthe lass, he reminded himself.Grace. That was her name, was it not? Grace MacDonald. At the King’s urging—after a letter from her father—Barclay had tracked her to the convent where he’d learned of her disappearance.
Grace.
The deadfall from the tree was still relatively dry, and he had the wood gathered in short order. He set the fire as far from the tree trunk as he dared. The leaf cover here was far broader and would keep the steady rain from bothering them too much. When the flames caught, he rested on his heels and tipped his head back, examining their little haven. Thanks to the elements, the tree barely poked over the rocks which formed their little nook, and thus they were safe from lightning and relatively dry.
At least, he was.
Poor lass, she looked miserable.
Barclay opened his arms. “Come here, Grace.”
To his surprise, she didn’t argue, but levered herself sideways and half-crawled, half-fell toward him. “H-How d-d-do ye ken m-m—”
He took pity on her and brushed her wet hair back from her face. “Hush. How do I ken yer name? There’s only so many bonnie lasses running across Glencoe. I was sent to rescue ye.”
Her gaze still seemed hazy. “Who...?”
Barclay chose to guess she was askinghisidentity, rather than who sent him. “I’m Barclay, one of the King’s Hunters, and ye’re safe with me,” he repeated his vow.
Her lips formed the wordsafe, and despite the chill, despite the inappropriateness of the situation, Barclay felt his cock stir beneath his kilt.
By St. Pancras’s left nostril, those lips were made to be tasted. Made to make a man want things he couldn’t wish for.
In an effort to distract himself—and his cock—Barclay bustled about, pulling out supplies and food. By the time he settled himself beside the fire—and her—once more, he’d given his manly bits a stern lecture on propriety, worthiness, and honor.
It almost worked.
