Prologue

Drummond Kennedy wondered if he was getting drunk.

‘Twas possible. It had been a long time since he'd been truly drunk—he hated the thought of allowing his guard down like that. But now…what did it matter?

Sitting alone in the small room he'd used for years to manage the King's Hunter business, he scowled down at the cup of whisky on his desk. A pool of fiery amber contained in a battered mug. A liquid-filled island in a sea of – nothing.

Not a tablet, parchment, or missive to be seen.

All of his missions, complete.

All of his duties, done.

And the King had given him no new ones.

His three best Hunters had married off this year —one, two, three, right after each other. Did His Majesty blame him? There were other Hunters spread throughout Scotland on assignment. Drum could bring them back in, give them new missions.

Except there are no new missions.

Was it because the King thought the Hunters were no longer useful? Or was it about Drum himself?

Bah. Likely for the best there's nae new missions. Naught for yer snoop to find.

He lifted the cup to his lips, glad to see his hands were still steady. He wasn't drunk.

Yet.

Thrice in the last month, since Craig had left for the Sinclairs, Drum had noticed things off in this room, or in the small chamber he occupied here in the palace. Someone had searched through his things, searched through the scrolls and records of the Hunters' missions.

The snoop.

And a dozen times or more, he'd felt someone's eyes on him. At court, while stalking the streets, eating supper— someone was watching him, and ‘twas utterly galling that he couldn't determine who .

Were they enemies of the crown? If so, he'd lay down his life to protect the King and Queen.

But…

But as the weeks went by and fewer missions came from His Majesty, Drum began to suspect something else.

Christ, this whisky is tasting better. That's how ye ken ye've had enough, aye?

Scowling, Drum took another sip, just to say fook ye to his subconscious. He wished he hadn't finished off the last of the bottle.

Was it possible… He hated to consider it, but ‘twas time to admit the possibility that the King no longer trusted him. Was it possible the unknown watcher, whoever had searched through his space, was sent…

Sent by the crown?

Did His Majesty have other agents, agents unknown to the leader of his Hunters? A few months ago, Drum would've laughed at the thought, but now… He'd thought the King told him everything, trusted him implicitly.

But mayhap he'd been wrong.

Mayhap he'd been wrong about everything .

He'd devoted his life to the King and to the idea of justice in Scotland. If he was no longer trusted by the crown, then what was he left with?

Worse than that, ye ken too much to no' be trusted .

Aye. The emptiness in his gut had naught to do with the whisky and lack of food. ‘Twas dread.

He and the King had worked closely for years. If His Majesty no longer trusted him, then Drum couldn't be left alive.

Ye should run .

He scoffed, this time gulping the whisky and ignoring the burn. Run? Run where? Besides, why would he run? He'd lost everything once before, built it back into a reputation he was proud of.

If he ran, he'd be no better than Rebecca.

Well, shite. If we've reached the stage of drinking where ye're thinking of her , then ye must be drunk .

She was the reason he'd almost lost his good name once before, and he'd be damned afore he allowed it to happen again. If the King had lost trust with him, then Drum would face the consequences with his chin held high.

And if that meant an execution, aye, he'd face that. If that meant an assassin in the night with a knife for his heart, then… Well, he wasn't going to face that quietly, not without knowing ‘twas His Majesty's command.

Oh God, his stomach was roiling. Mayhap ‘twas because of the whole heavy drinking on an empty stomach . He should find food.

But where was safe?

Och, ye're becoming paranoid .

He needed to speak to the King, but the King had refused to meet with him for the last sennight. Proof Drum was no longer trusted—as if he needed further confirmation.

"Fook it," he muttered. Sitting here alone, drinking, wasn't going to solve anything.

He planted his hands on the desk and pushed himself to his feet. The room spun only slightly , which was good news. He could likely manage to drag himself to the kitchens in one piece.

Just as he'd made the decision, the door swung open. He cursed, fumbling for his sword, but before he could manage to draw it— Damn his hide for being drunk! —he recognized the backside coming through the door.

His own arse plopped back into the chair. "Brigit?"

She gave the door a push with one hip as she navigated a half-turn.

"Hello lover."

As always, the sight of her impish grin made his chest warm.

"I brought ye supper."

Sure enough, she was holding a tray on which she balanced a bowl of something steaming and fragrant, as well as a jug of something. Drum's attention, however, seemed stuck on the way her bodice was laced just a little too tight, pushing her breasts halfway to her chin.

"Are ye hungry?" she asked, edging around the desk to plop the tray in front of him.

"No' anymore," he mumbled, reaching for her and burying his face in her tits .

The little maid giggled and batted at the back of his head. "None of that, Drummond. Ye've been in here moping, aye?"

His response was muffled. "Nay."

She only chuckled harder. "Ye have been. I ken ye, and the whole place smells of whisky. Come now, my lad, ye need to eat."

Sighing in defeat, Drum acknowledged she was right. He straightened. "I am hungry. Is that whisky?"

For a moment, something like sorrow flashed across her freckled visage and he hated the thought his misfortune was so well-known even the palace maids were pitying him. But her smile was back quickly enough, and she reached for a cup and the jug.

"This is cool, clean water, love, exactly what ye need." She plonked it in front of him. "And this is a chicken stew. I snuck an extra loaf of bread for ye." Nudging the tray with her hip, Brigit drew his attention to the food again.

And Drum had to admit, the stew and thick bread was what he needed.

She was still holding out the water so he sighed again and took it. "Thank ye."

Her fingers came to rest on his head, softly smoothing the hair near his ears. Her, "Of course, love," was so quiet he almost didn't hear it.

There was pity in her tone, and he hated it. Hated himself.

Brigit was…well, she was a bit of fun. More than a bit, he had to admit. She'd come to his bed—here, and in his chambers—more than a few times in the last year, and her cheer almost made his heart lighter .

Just the fact she was here today, caring for him… Och , a man didn't need a pity fook. Or a pity stew-and-bread.

She kept her hand on him as he ate. "Ye have nae more missions?" she asked, her manner nonchalant.

When he glanced up at her in question, she smiled. "Usually this desk is strewn with yer planning."

He supposed that was true. She'd been here more than a few times. There was naught suspicious about her question; she was just curious.

So he nodded, albeit cautiously.

"I'm…in between missions right now." Christ, the whisky made thinking hard, did it no'? "Why?"

Brigit's smile was brilliant, although it struck him as just a little false. "Just wondering."

And before he could ask further questions, she nudged the tray out of the way and shimmied her arse up onto the desk. "So ye have nae current responsibilities? Nae where to be?"

Och, now her questions made sense. She was grinning as her hands played across his shoulders and traveled under his shirt. The lass wanted a tumble?

Well…naught else was going right in his life. He could oblige her this.

Drum took one last bite of the bread as his other hand slid up her leg, pushing her skirts aside.

"Nae where to be, lass," he repeated, his voice surprisingly harsh. "Nae responsibilities."

Brigit pulled him closer, brushing wee kisses across his forehead and cheeks. "Tell me about it, love. "

Nay, he couldn't do that. He still owed the King his allegiance, until His Majesty cut him free. ‘Twas the not knowing which was eating him up inside. The same as it had been with Rebecca.

Was he trusted? Was he being watched? Was he in danger?

And…if he'd lost his good name, did it matter?

Drum forced a smile, his fingers curling around Brigit's thigh.

"I can think of better things to do with my tongue than talk, lass."

This time her smile was real and a hint of a flush climbed her cheeks. Embarrassment or excitement? Either way, he could put it to good use.

His lips touched her skin and Brigit gasped then sighed.

Aye, he might not know what the future would bring, but here and now…he could do some good.