Kilty Plea (Kilty Pleasures Book 2), page 1
Kilty Plea
Caroline Lee
Contents
Copyright
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
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
About this Book
Well, are they married, or aren't they? And does it matter?
When Payton MacIntyre, quiet King’s Hunter, is sent to an abbey to challenge the bandits threatening the land, he doesn’t expect to ride away with a wife. In fact, he’s still not convinced he’s actually married to the intriguing Flora, but that’s what he tells his family before they can begin their seasonal interrogation about when he’ll marry. But what will this new wife of his think when he finally removes his helm and exposes her to his hideously scarred visage?
Desperate to escape the cruel Abbot and find her missing younger brother, Flora goes along with the phony marriage…she just doesn’t expect the Hunter to treat her so kindly. He might be reluctant to show his face, but his soft words—and softer touches—leave her breathless. And when he defends her to his family while searching for her brother, Flora falls even more in love.
But Yule is approaching and Flora’s growing contentment is threatened by an old danger. Can a fake marriage end in real love for a scarred Hunter, or will her past destroy them both?
Warning: So delicious, you’ll start your Christmas decadence early! Kick back, enjoy, and get into the holiday spirit with another super-spicy, laugh-out-loud medieval RomCom from Caroline Lee!
Prologue
“To the Hunter! The King’s Hunter!”
Payton MacIntyre didn’t want to drink, but he had to at least acknowledge the toast. So he stood, lifted his mug, and nodded to the revelers.
They, being halfway to drunk already, gave a mighty cheer at his acknowledgement.
After what they’ve been through, they’d likely cheer the sound of a bug’s fart.
Payton resettled himself in the chair—a finely carved one with a thick cushion—beside the Abbot and rested his untouched mug on his knee.
The Abbot, who was seated in an even finer chair, nodded at the mug. “Ye’re no’ drinking with us, brother Hunter?”
Payton didn’t drink while on assignment, and while this celebration was an indication his assignment was over and he’d soon be on his way to his family’s holding for Hogmanay, he still wasn’t going to drink with these people.
Or the Abbot.
The whole Abbey of the People itself, really, was creepy as fook, and he wasn’t certain why the King cared about them.
Still, ‘twas easier to fall back on what was expected rather than explain the truth. So, he tapped the steel helmet he always wore on assignment. “This makes it difficult to imbibe, Father.”
The Abbot, a man who was only a decade or two older than Payton, with thick brown hair and a winning smile, scoffed good-naturedly. “Surely ye must eat and drink while on missions, brother? Ye cannae fault us for offering ye such hospitality after ye’ve saved us from such evil!”
The man laughed then, his broad gesture encompassing the men and women—and aye, even children—who cavorted and danced below their dais. Payton made a noncommittal noise and lifted the mug in salute, but was careful to place it at the table by his side without drinking.
The helm was constructed such that he could lift it just enough to drink or eat if necessary. And of course, he didn’t wear it all the time…just when he was around others while on a mission.
As his commander had taught him, a Hunter’s helmet was a symbol, and symbols were powerful reminders of the King’s law and order. The man under the helmet mattered less than the symbol of the King’s Hunters in general. It didn’t matter who maintained the King’s laws, as long as they were maintained.
The isolated Abbey of the People in remote, western Campbell land had reported having their lands attacked by bandits. His Majesty, anxious to remain in good standing with the Church, had dispatched Payton, who was on his way to visit his own family.
The bandits had been easy to defeat, especially with the fear the helmet evoked on Payton’s side. But he was pleased he didn’t have to stay any longer at the Abbey; the short time he spent in the Abbot’s company made him wonder if the place was associated with the Church at all.
For one thing, there were no saints venerated, no holy hours. The people who lived here were a strange mix; there were some monks, aye, but more laymen and their families, and quite a few unmarried lasses as well.
This place was more like a town and less like an abbey…except there was a clear and definite leader: their charismatic Abbot, who even now was watching Payton with a sharp gleam in his eyes.
“We are a puir community, brother,” he was saying, “and we cannae offer much in thanks other than our food and drink.”
Payton made an impatient gesture with his hand. “Nae thanks are necessary, Father. I am doing the King’s bidding. Write yer thanks to him.”
“Still, we owe ye much, brother.”
Fook, always with the ‘brother’. Payton got enough of that when he visited his parents’ home; here he wasn’t a brother any more than these drunken fools were.
His gaze still on the people below, Payton tried not to allow his irritation to creep into his voice. “Ye owe me naught.”
“We have much to offer a man such as yerself.” The Abbot shifted closer, his breath smelling of something too sweet. “A warrior must celebrate his victories, I ken it. What better way than to sink into the pleasures of the flesh, eh?” When Payton shifted in his chair, torn between intrigue and disgust, the Abbot chuckled almost lewdly. “Food, drink, and a lovely lass.”
Payton couldn’t help the way his head turned to watch the group of young women who moved among the revelers, their heads down as they offered trays of mugs or bowls of food to others.
One caught his eye; a skinny waif in a too-big gown, her feet bare despite the winter’s cold. Lank hair fell into her eyes, and she kept her gaze directed at the ground. But as he watched, one of the men slapped her arse as he passed, and she froze. Slowly, she straightened and sent a glare at the man’s back which was fierce enough to make Payton’s lips curl beneath his helmet.
She was underfed, aye, but she had a woman’s curves and fire in her gaze.
At his side, the Abbot chuckled again. “These women arenae free to be used, brother, although I ken ye have a warrior’s urges. There are whores in the next town for those needs; these are my lasses, and are meant for marriage.”
There was something about the way the Abbot bragged which made Payton’s skin crawl. “I understand,” he said gruffly, although he didn’t. A woman sworn to a holy house should be meant for vows, not marriage.
Either way, ye cannae fook ‘em, is the point.
They wouldn’t want him, anyway.
“But still, brother…” the Abbot said slyly, “I can see ye have yer eye on one in particular. She shall be yers.”
Payton didn’t want her—didn’t want to spend any more time among these people’s company than he had to. But when the Abbot raised his hand to gesture to the wench, he knew he had no choice but to maintain politeness until he could slip away.
Soon he’d be home on MacIntyre land and all this would be behind him.
Soon.
Chapter 1
Flora MacGregor did her best to keep from meeting anyone’s eyes.
Especially the men’s.
And especially the Abbot’s.
Wincing, she hunched again as she murmured her offer of ale to one of the half-drunk Faithful. The man took it without looking at who was doing the offering, thank the Lord.
Since earning the Abbot’s harsh words—and harsher lashes—two days ago after her attempted escape, no one wanted to be seen interacting with her, and that was fine by Flora.
She just had to survive.
Survive, for wee Lenny.
Soon, she often whispered to herself.
But soon had turned into months, and now her feet burned from the cold, and the harsh wool of the sackcloth-dress she’d been forced to wear scraped at the scabs forming over the welts on her back.
Soon was starting to feel like eternity.
Son of a biscuit!
Mayhap if she could keep her chin down and cease from riling the Abbot’s ire—cease from gaining his attention, in fact—she might survive ‘til the spring. Then she could escape and find Lenny, and they’d run as far and as fast from the Abbey of the People as they could.
Soon.
A hand smacked against her
The man who’d hit her…he hadn’t been one of the ones to join the Abbot in teaching her a lass’s place when she’d first arrived. If he had been, she doubted she would’ve been able to hold onto her temper long enough to drop her gaze to the ground again.
Where it belonged, according to the Abbot.
Flora blew out a breath.
Easy, lass.
All she had to do was make it through the next few hours. Then she could crawl onto her pallet in the unmarried women’s dormitory and try to shut her ears to the sounds of the men “claiming” their rights and pray tonight wouldn’t be her night.
The Abbot preached that women should be unsullied when they went to their marriage beds, but apparently when ‘twas his chosen men doing the sullying, it didn’t count.
She frowned and sent a silent prayer to heaven that there was too much ale flowing tonight to have to worry about such things.
“Flora!”
At the sound of his voice, Flora’s gaze jerked upward, unbidden.
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 requires milk!”
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.
‘Twas her 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 he was well-built.
Exceedingly well-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.
Her cheeks were heating, and for once, she appreciated the embarrassment, because it might keep her warm.
His kilt was the King’s colors, which was traditional, and the bit between the woolen material and his knees was… His thighs, ye ninny. They’re his thighs. Everyone has them.
Nay, not everyone had thighs like these.
Suddenly, the idea of being sold to this man didn’t seem so terrible.
At least there wouldn’t be an old man slavering atop her as she clenched her eyes shut and tried not to breathe. Her duty, the Abbot and the other lasses had called it…but Flora had a different duty.
To her younger brother.
Her heart began to thump in her chest at the thought of Lenny.
If she was to be given to this man, she wouldn’t be able to find her little brother, would she?
All thoughts of the man’s knees fled from her mind and instinctively she lifted her gaze to his.
Or to where his would be, were his eyes not hidden by the deep shadows of the helmet. It made him look fierce, terrifying, especially with her on her knees before him.
If ye are given to him, ye cannae save Lenny.
She began to shake.
The man moved faster than he had a right to.
One moment, he was sitting upright, his hands—which had wielded his sword with such deadly accuracy only hours before—curled around the arms of his chair.
The next, he was leaning toward her, one hand reaching for her…
She wanted to lean away, to protest… But her breaths were coming too fast and she was frozen in place.
His hand closed around her shoulder, big and warm and…comforting?
“Flora,” he murmured.
Or at least, she thought that might’ve been what he’d said, but the helmet’s echo was such that he could’ve muttered something about oral or the Torah or her aura.
Fish sticks, he was a man; ‘twas more likely he spoke of oral, aye?
But…at his touch, her breathing had calmed, her heart had slowed. She stared up into the two dark holes where his eyes should be, and she wondered what he saw.
“Flora has a drink for ye, brother Hunter.” The Abbot murmured slyly as he leaned closer. “Go on, lass. Honor the warrior the only way ye have.”
She had no choice.
Something like a leaden weight had settled in her stomach, and she lifted the bowl of milk to the man who now loomed over her. “Drink of the milk, brother,” she intoned dully, repeating the words she’d heard almost a dozen times since her arrival at the Abbey.
‘Twas either this or feel the Abbot’s lash again.
The pull of the welts on her back forced her to tighten her jaw and keep her arms steady.
Take the milk, she prayed, silently urging him. The Hunter had taken no food or drink from the Faithful this evening; she’d been watching.
If he turned her down now, she’d likely not live through the night.
When his hand moved from her shoulder to close around the bowl, she breathed a sigh of relief.
He used his other hand to lift his helmet just far enough that she could see a strong jaw, lined with dark stubble, as he brought the bowl to his mouth and drank from it.
She slumped.
‘Twas done. She belonged to the Hunter.
What of Lenny?
Mayhap life with the Hunter would make it easier to escape and look for her brother. Aye, she’d willingly put up with his pawing and manly urges, no matter how painful, if it meant she was away from the Abbey and closer to finding Lenny.
He was her responsibility, and she’d failed him once already.
When the Hunter lowered the bowl, ‘twas mostly empty, but Flora knew what the Abbot expected. Lifting it to her lips, she finished what remained, and tried to savor the thick, delicious broth.
