Chapter Seventeen

By the time he reined in the exhausted roan at the shore of Loch Inchmahome, Kirk was too weary to think.

For that he was grateful, for at the edges of his mind, fear and condemnation nipped.

They’d ridden hard for two long, grueling days, stopping only for a few hours of sleep or to see to their most basic needs. Still, he hadn’t managed to outrun the memory of that blazing-hot kiss.

He had shown a weakness by kissing her—by desiring her at all. He’d already said and done too much, for her sharp mind was coming dangerously close to learning the truth. And if she knew what truly lay in Kirk’s heart, she could exploit it—and him.

Blessedly, she was just as fatigued as he was. She remained quiet as he walked the horse around the eastern shore of the loch in search of the abandoned cottage that had been marked on the map of the Order’s safe houses.

The unnamed hut was the only one on the map that reached beyond the Lowlands and into central Scotland. When its gloomy, uneven outline materialized out of the falling darkness, Kirk breathed a sigh of relief. But as he drew closer, he saw that the thatch roof had caved inward and that the stone walls appeared to be crumbling as well.

“We’ll sleep out of doors,” he said gruffly, still eyeing the dilapidated hut.

It looked as though the stiff, cold wind blowing off the loch to their right would topple the entire structure. Kirk could check the hut’s soundness in the light of day, but he didn’t dare risk Lillian being buried alive if what was left of the cottage decided to give up its fight against the elements.

He dismounted and helped her down from the saddle, then gave her his cloak to begin settling in for the night. In the fading light, he could make out dark smudges of exhaustion under her eyes. She remained mute, her delicate features taut with fatigue and her movements stiff from so much time in the saddle. Silently, she bundled herself up and curled on the ground in front of the cottage.

A twinge of frustration cut him at his poor treatment of her, but he couldn’t regret pushing them so hard. They were still in the heart of Scotland, but now they were closer to the Borderlands than the Highlands. Just over a sennight’s worth of ruthless riding had brought them almost halfway to the Compound. If he kept up this pace, he would be done with this bloody mission in another sennight or so.

Blessedly, the large, sturdy roan had withstood Kirk’s merciless pace, but both Lillian and the horse were in desperate need of rest. He’d decided they could take two days at the ruined hut—two days to rest and recuperate, and to wait for Colin.

As Kirk silently built a small fire before the hut to keep the cold-edged night air at bay, his gut roiled. If Colin didn’t reach them, Kirk wouldn’t have an opportunity to explain why he’d attacked a member of the Bodyguard Corps and kidnapped a woman under the Bruce’s protection. It would be all too easy for Colin, who already detested Kirk for his loss of faith in the cause, to question his loyalty—or simply leave him in the wind, to be dealt with by the Order.

He reined in his thoughts to keep from spiraling into a panic. Completing the Order’s mission to deliver Lillian meant being one step closer to taking down the whole organization. He was only doing what the Bruce had asked him to.

Which meant he had to finish what he started—no more doubts or distractions, especially in the form of velvet-brown eyes and soft, yielding lips. Gritting his teeth against his desire, he slipped under the cloak next to Lillian and let the sleep of the dead steal over him.

****

Kirk’s eyes popped open to blackness. For a moment, he couldn’t remember where he was. Was he still in the Compound, being shaken awake for a surprise night drill? Was he in Edward Bruce’s army camp outside Carrickfergus’s high, dark walls?

The wind moved through the pine boughs overhead. He blinked. Nay, he was in the densely wooded Trossachs, next to Loch Inchmahome and the abandoned cottage. Beside a sleeping Lillian. He dragged in a deep breath, letting the scent of her hair soothe his taut nerves.

But then he heard it. A rustling in the fallen leaves on the forest floor not caused by the wind. That faint crunching sound must have been what had woken him.

Carefully, he eased out from underneath the cloak and tucked the edges in around Lillian so as not to disturb her. If the sound was caused by naught more than a night creature foraging in the dead leaves for food, there was no need to wake her.

If it was an animal of prey, though, or worse, a person…

With a flick of his wrist, one of his throwing daggers dropped from its sheath around his forearm into his palm. Kirk stepped on silent feet around the embers of their fire toward the deeper woods to his left.

The roan, which was tethered closer to the loch, nickered softly, seeming to sense the sudden tension in the air.

Kirk froze, listening to the noises of the shadow-shrouded forest. His ear picked out the distant hoot of an owl, the sway of branches overhead—the normal sounds of night .

Then he heard it again. Footsteps. Faint and careful footsteps, but nevertheless the sound of crackling leaves cut through the air, setting bells of warning clanging in Kirk’s mind.

His gaze shot to where the soft sound had originated. Shadows danced across the forest floor as the trees overhead swayed with the breeze.

But one particular shadow held still—a shadow in the shape of a man.

They were not alone.