Kilty as sin, p.1
Kilty as Sin, page 1
Kilty as Sin
Caroline Lee
Copyright
Copyright © 2023, Caroline Lee
Caroline@CarolineLeeRomance.com
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.
First edition: 2023
Printing/manufacturing information for this book may be found on the last page
Cover: EDHGraphics
Contents
About this Book
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
AUTHOR’S NOTE
SNEAK PEEK
About this Book
He’s a rake, a rogue, and a charmer…until one mission changes it all.
As one of the King’s Hunters—an elite group of Highland lawmen charged with keeping the peace—Barclay is used to lasses throwing themselves at him, despite the helmet he wears on all missions. He doesn’t mind the attention in the least…until he’s assigned to track down the runaway daughter of one of His Majesty’s supporters and meets a woman who shouldn’t be charmed.
Lady Grace MacDonald is determined not to marry the man her father has chosen for her. She may look fragile and sweet, but she has reserves of strength Barclay is about to discover…right after he pulls her out of the bog she’s landed in. Nay, not a metaphor; an actual bog has just stolen her left shoe!
Grace might be livid the mysterious, helmed Hunter is planning to return her home, but she still has a few more days to savor her freedom…and Barclay is just the one to teach her about the world. The problem? For the first time ever, Barclay is uncertain he should be seducing a lady like her! But why, even when he’s dragging her back to marry another man, does she make him feel like a hero?
Warning: Utterly ridiculous! Another fun start to a spicy, laugh-out-loud medieval series from USA Today Bestseller Caroline Lee!
Prologue
Barclay cursed his bad luck.
Two days ago, he’d had a clear trail from the lass and had been confident he’d catch up with her soon.
Then, yesterday, her tracks had been obscured by the prints from a group of horsemen, and he’d known he wasn’t the only one following her. He could no longer see her prints, but he didn’t have to; he just needed to follow her pursuers.
Bad luck, indeed, and not just for him.
He’d picked up his pace.
Last night the new moon had made it impossible to track, but he’d continued on by instinct. He had to find the lass before the men on horseback did…
But judging from the sounds of revelry coming from ahead, he was too late.
Cursing again, under his breath, Barclay slid from the saddle and led his mount toward a hollow.
It wasn’t unusual for him to be assigned to track someone and he prided himself on being the best of the King’s Hunters for this sort of job. But this was his first time being told to track down a lassie—a wayward daughter, at that—and he knew her father would be livid if harm came to her.
“Stay here,” he murmured to Horse. “There’s plenty of grass to keep ye occupied.”
But when he turned to go, the blasted animal nudged him between his shoulder blades.
“Nay,” hissed Barclay, reaching for the gelding’s bridle. “Nay, Horse. Ye stay here. I cannae sneak up on them with ye following me, clopping about with enough noise to wake the dead.”
Was it his imagination, or did the horse look hurt?
“Och, dinnae give me such a long face.”
The gelding bobbed its head and Barclay’s own face split into a grin. Even with the bad luck following the lass he could appreciate a bit of fun.
Clucking his tongue, he pushed his elbow against the horse’s side. “I promise I’ll whistle for ye soon enough, eh? Just let me suss out the situation, aye?”
It didn’t seem to mollify the animal, and Barclay shook his head.
“Ye’re a stubborn beast. Stay here, and stay quiet, eh? That’s an order.”
And ye’d better hope he takes orders better than ye do.
This time Horse didn’t respond but turned away from Barclay as if pouting. But in doing so, the helmet—hanging from its hook on the saddle—knocked against the man’s shoulder.
“And thank ye kindly for this.” He used his sweetest tone, knowing it would irritate the animal.
Judging from the way Horse stomped a hoof, it worked.
As he crept away from the hollow toward the sound of men’s voices, Barclay slid the helm over his dark hair. He had some brothers-in-arms who wore the thing constantly, but the King’s Hunters’ only rule was that it must be worn while on assignment.
Barclay might not like this assignment—to track down the wayward daughter of one of His Majesty’s supporters—but he’d taken it. And he’d see it through.
Assuming he got to the lass before any evil befell her.
The glen was rocky enough that he didn’t worry about being seen as he crept closer, listening for a woman’s voice. Half hoping, half dreading he’d hear it.
If St. Pancras is merciful, they willnae have caught up with her yet, and ye can creep around them to go after her.
But Barclay’s bad luck continued.
Lying on his belly, he dug his elbows into the soft peat and slowly lifted his head over the rise before him. And cursed. Again.
There were four horses in the hollow below, tied to the scraggly bushes which were the largest thing this glen could support. Three of the four men who’d ridden them were crouched around a pile of sticks they were clearly trying to light, arguing and insulting one another.
The fourth man…
The fourth man had just pulled a woman from his horse and seemed unconcerned by the way she was beating his back with her bound fists.
Barclay’s eyes narrowed behind the helm.
They’d caught the MacDonald lass, after all.
Caught her, bound her hands and feet, and gagged her. But she wasn’t making any noise. Just fighting for all she was worth…
Without taking his eyes from the enemy, Barclay reached down to loosen his sword in the scabbard. At moments like this, he wished he had his friend Drummond’s skill with a bow. Being able to hit these men from a distance would even the odds a bit.
Briefly, Barclay considered whistling for Horse, but knew that would give away his location too quickly.
Damnation! Ye need some kind of distraction afore ye charge down at four armed men!
The three men around the attempted fire had noticed they were no longer alone, and now stood, cheering and calling praise, even as the man carrying the lass swatted her arse. She didn’t cease her struggles, however, and Barclay had to admire that.
Had to admire her.
Then the bastard holding her swung her off his shoulder, holding her upright before him, and her golden hair swung from in front of her face.
Barclay sucked in a breath.
Admire her?
Holy mother of St. Pancras and all that was good and holy in this world…
He could worship this woman.
She was stunning.
Her build was delicate, her features refined. MacDonald’s daughter was soft and gentle and everything Barclay had ever imagined a lady to be.
Even from this distance, he could see her blue eyes above the gag, wide and full of an emotion he assumed was fear.
Dinnae fash, lassie, he wanted to yell. He wanted to assure her she’d be safe.
But he still needed a distraction.
“Why’d ye tie her ankles,” one of the men whined loudly, even as he squatted at her side, reaching for his knife.
The first man responded something too low for Barclay to hear, but a third kicked the squatting one. “Untie her feet, Rab. How else can we spread her legs, eh?”
Even from his spot on the hill, Barclay heard her whimper, and his heart clenched.
Bad luck? Hell, this was the worst. Even as he’d followed the trail, he’d half-hoped these men had also been sent by Laird MacDonald to find and rescue the wayward daughter. But Barclay’s worst fears had been realized.
They meant to rape her.
As the first man held her shoulders, the third began to scrabble at her skirts. The lass tipped her head back toward the noon sun, her dark blonde hair spilling down her back, and Barclay imagined he could see her tears.
Distraction, distraction, distraction. He searched about madly, even as he pushed himself up to his knees. Could he sneak down upon them? Or just hurl himself madly down the slope and hope he was fast enough to throw them into confusion?
Distraction, St. Pancras, a distraction! Aught at all!
If only the sweetly refined MacDonald lass would faint! Suddenly forced to deal with her deadweight would absolutely distract the men, and Barclay couldn’t imagine such a gentle lass could do aught except faint…
But she did something better.
The man squatting at her feet had finished cutting them lose and risen to join his companions. The first man release
And the MacDonald lass, bless her, whipped one knee into the groin of the knife-holder, pulled the blade from his weakened hand as he fell, spun about and—holding the hilt with both bound hands—plunged it into the chest of the man who’d been holding her.
Gentle? Refined?
Grinning inside his helmet, Barclay pushed himself to his feet.
Aye lass, that’ll do.
“Run!” he bellowed as he threw himself down the slope, lips curling grimly in anticipation of the battle ahead. “Run!”
Chapter 1
Well, Grace’s luck had just gone from bad to worse, hadn’t it?
Cursing under her breath, she tried once more to pull her foot from the mud where ‘twas stuck, and yet again froze when the movement pushed her other leg in deeper. The situation would be difficult with both hands free, but with them bound in front of her, she felt out of balance.
Anxiously she peered over her shoulder, listening for sounds of pursuit.
Naught.
‘Twas disconcerting. She’d stabbed one of her captors and kneed the other man in a place where Sister Mary Titania had said would severely inconvenience any male with amorous thoughts.
Why weren’t they cresting the hill, calling for Grace’s blood?
…or worse.
Damnation! These stupid slippers hadn’t been made for running across rocks and brambles, and when she’d put one foot into the bog and felt it sink, she was too late to prevent the other from coming down hard as well. And now she was well and truly stuck.
To be fair, ye hadnae expected a kidnapping when ye’d offered to go to market for the sisters.
If she had, she would’ve worn sturdier footwear.
Grace felt hysterical laughter starting to build in her chest. If she’d known she’d be grabbed by men sent by her father today, footwear wouldn’t have been the only thing she’d have changed! She would currently be carrying several days’ provisions, a sturdy plaid to protect her from the constant mist, and a double-headed ax.
For protection.
Groaning, Grace bent double, not caring that her hair fell around her face and dangled toward the muck as she wrapped both hands below her knee and pulled.
Whoops. Nay, no’ like that.
She could feel her own ankle trying to dislocate.
Grace peeked over her shoulder once more. Still no pursuit.
Why? What had happened back there?
As soon as her feet had been freed, she’d used what she’d learned from the Mother Superior and taken down as many of her captors as possible. Grace hadn’t stopped to see the outcome, but had hiked up her skirts with her bound hands and run as if the very hounds of hell snapped at her feet.
Behind her, she’d thought she’d heard another man’s voice. One urging someone to run? That wouldn’t have been her captors though, would it? She might’ve been hearing things.
As if ye could hear aught over the pounding of fear in yer head?
Well, that was certainly defeatist thinking, wasn’t it?
Straightening, Grace frowned in determination and peered at her surroundings. There were no handy trees or vines she could use to climb out of this mess—of course not. It would be too convenient, wouldn’t it?
The landscape in this part of the Highlands was rocky and inhospitable, with its constant mist and distant roaring of waterfalls and troublesome surprise-attack bogs.
So. No trees. No vines. Did that bush look like it could hold her weight?
Grace stretched her back and forced herself to exhale slowly. Aright. She could do this. Calm. She needed her heart to slow, and her mind to focus.
There was no one after her for now. She could do this.
Holding her breath, she leaned to one side, feeling her knee pop as her other foot was shoved deeper into the muck. Her fingers stretched as far as possible—stretched—stretched—
“Shite.”
Her hands dropped and she straightened with a defeated sigh. Had her wrists not been bound, she knew she’d be able to reach that bush with her left hand. ‘Twas just her inconvenient right arm—stupid shoulder!—which was holding it back.
Aright. So. She’d need to find a way to cut the bindings around her wrists, and then she could—
“Hello.”
Grace shrieked at the surprising voice and spun about, simultaneously wrenching her ankle, knee, and hip while pulling a muscle in her neck.
“Shite! Ow,” she murmured, staring wide-eyed.
The pain faded as she took in the sight of the warrior, and fear spiked up her throat once more.
He wore the King’s colors, and a massive sword hung from his belt. His arms were crossed in front of his chest, and he leaned a hip against a boulder, his stance announcing his complete ease with the situation.
None of that should be terrifying.
‘Twas the full-face helmet he wore which made it difficult for Grace to draw in a full breath.
Every child in the Highlands and the Lowlands combined knew of the King’s Hunters. No mercenaries these warriors; they did the monarch’s bidding, and only his. A sort of royal law enforcement combined with bounty hunters, they were feared—and respected—across Scotland.
And this man was wearing the helmet of one. It obscured his features, and she couldn’t read him.
Grace’s bound hands rose to her mouth as she stared at the man. Hunters were rumored to wear their helmets everywhere. She’d heard that once they put them on, they weren’t allowed to remove them in the presence of another human. It leant to their terrifying reputation.
Except…
Had this Hunter come to help her? Was it possible Sister Mary Titania had sent him after Grace?
Was his the voice she’d heard calling after her to run?
Had he…saved her?
“Are ye hurt, lass?”
This was uncomfortable, twisting in this position, but Grace frowned. “Why?”
And she could hear the amusement in his tone when he said, “Because ye cursed and said ow. People usually dinnae say ow unless they’re hurt.”
There was something about the way he was completely at ease—and the smile in his voice—which made her bristle. “Mayhap I was just stating sounds. Mayhap I was calling for someone named ow. Mayhap ow is my name!”
Without pushing himself away from the boulder, the Hunter inclined his head. “Well, Mistress Shite-Ow, are ye otherwise hurt? Did those men harm ye?”
Grace’s jaw hardened. So, he had seen her escape? Had he helped?
“I’m—I’m fine.” She wasn’t fine. She didn’t think she’d ever forget the way the leader of the group of men—men her father had sent!—had touched her. But she wasn’t going to admit that to the Hunter.
“Really? Ye dinnae look fine. Ye look stuck in a bog.”
“Och, thank ye,” she snapped. “I hadnae noticed.”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment, but she could feel his stare behind the empty eyes of his helmet. Finally, one shoulder twitched.
“Ye’re naught like I expected ye to be.”
Well, that was a bit alarming. “What…did ye expect?”
“Ye are beautiful, lass. Ye must ken that. Beautiful and sweet-looking and refined. Like a lady.”
The muck had reached her knees, and she scowled at the man, who seemed determined to rub it in. “Do I now?”
“Well, nay, no’ right now.” She could hear his grin again. “And no’ before, when ye kneed that bastard in the cock.”
Cock.
Despite her determination to appear strong and brave, Grace felt her cheeks heat at his brashness. “Well, apparently my stature—lady or nay—has nae effect on yer language.”
A sound very much like a chuckle echoed from inside the helmet. “I thought we were dispensing with formalities, milady. What with ye being dragged to yer death by a bog, and whatnot.”
