Chapter 2

Drummond's sword slammed against the other man's, and when his opponent fell back, he pressed his advantage. Sweat streamed from his temple, but he was used to being unable to swipe at it, thanks to the heavy helm he wore.

His sparring partner—one of the palace guards—stumbled, and in a wild thrust, swept his sword at Drummond's knees. Expecting the blow, Drum leapt, kicking at the man's wrist. The panting guard dropped his sword, holding up both palms in a symbol of defeat.

"Well done, Hunter," he huffed, then dropped his hands to his knees as he bent over, sucking in air like a bellows. "I dinnae ken how ye can manage to fight in that helmet. I can barely manage to stay upright!"

Rather than pulling off the constricting steel, Drummond slid his sword back into his scabbard and stooped to pick up his opponent's weapon. "Lots of practice, lad," he said, offering the blade. "Ye show potential. If ye're ever interested in joining the Hunters, come see—I mean, ye ought to visit the head man. He always has use for strong fighters like yerself."

Chuckling faintly, the other man slid his own sword away as he straightened. "The head of the Hunters isnae the King's favorite man right now. If it's all the same to ye, I'll wait to see if there are any King's Hunters next month, afore I commit."

As the watchers chuckled and began to speculate on guilt, Drummond forced himself to nod and slap the other man on the back as if he wasn't bothered by such talk.

As if he wasn't the man in question.

This is why ye left on the helm, remember?

He'd needed this sparring practice to work out some of the anger and fear which had settled in his chest, and he'd known he'd not find a worthy opponent if his identity was known. So he'd kept on the helm, and it had worked.

The scowling visage on the piece of armor worked to keep away all but the bravest as he stalked back toward his small office. Beneath its shadow, he could be any of the King's Hunters; the helms were identical except for the bearer's crest or initials carved inside.

When Drum reached the familiar corridor, he glanced right and left, assuring himself he was alone. Then he reached up and pulled off the damnable thing and stared down at it.

The helms had been his idea all those years ago when he'd helped found the King's Hunters. Over a decade, now. He'd reasoned, and His Majesty had agreed, that the Hunters would become a sort of faceless force of peace throughout Scotland. They were acting in the King's stead, essentially, working for truth, justice, and Mam's haggis pie.

If each Hunter wore his own colors and fought under his own name, then all the people would remember would be "that Kennedy warrior" or "that McIlvain warrior". By dressing them in the King's colors and cloaking them in the anonymity of the helmet, they became extensions of His Majesty, capable of carrying out his orders without opposition .

These days, that anonymity was keeping Drummond safe. Apparently everyone in the palace knew he was under suspicion, and by wearing the helm when he was sparring with the guards, he'd let them believe he was just a nameless, low-level Hunter.

He'd hated it, but ‘twas for the best.

If only ye could clear yer name !

Aye, the recent assassination attempt was no secret, but because Drummond had lost the trust of the King—and thus his advisors—he had no information to investigate. He'd heard all the rumors about the tripwire and the crossbow bolt in the corridor, and knew why ‘twas damning.

There were few others in the palace who knew the King's routines and had access to those places.

But how could he defend himself if he had no place to begin investigating?

And would His Majesty believe him if he did?

Deep in his thoughts, Drummond wasn't thinking when he pushed open the door to his office.

He only had a moment to register the second person in the small room, but he swung the helmet out from under his arm and sprang, ready to defend himself.

It was Brigit.

He was already checking his attack when she flipped her forearm into position to block, catching his helmet and swiping it out of the way as she spun about. If he hadn't pulled back, she might not have had the strength for such a move, but she'd surprised him .

Where had a palace maid learned such a trick? Or had she been lucky?

"What are ye doing here?" he barked to cover his confusion.

Brigit's easy smile slid back into place and she cocked her hip saucily, one hand caressing her curves. "I'm happy to see ye too, love. I thought ye might use some cheering up."

Despite his sour mood, his cock stirred beneath his kilt and Drummond shook his head. Aye, he needed her particular brand of distraction, but…

"I'm foul, lass. Ye dinnae want me in yer bed right now." He tossed the helm atop his cleared desk, the sight making him angry all over again.

The noise she made was somewhere between a laugh and a snort. "Who said aught about my bed? I've never kenned ye to be picky."

She'd really come to him for sex? He twisted to send her a quirked brow. He must've been right to question her, because her cheeky grin eased into something more natural looking as she chuckled and lifted one hand, palm out. "Aright, aright. Ye're no' in the mood to make me scream yer name, I understand."

Christ, she was tempting him on purpose, was she not? "Lass…" he growled in warning. He was in no mood to play.

"So instead I brought ye a gift," she declared. With that, Brigit moved her other hand from behind her back.

Drum's gaze latched on the crossbow bolt she clutched—she'd been hiding it since he'd stepped into the room?—and instinctively he reached for his dagger.

"Ye dinnae trust easily, do ye, love?" she chuckled, sashaying forward to offer him the bolt.

"Nay," he rasped, gaze locked on the weapon. "No' since…"

Rebecca isnae here. Ye dinnae even ken if she's still alive. Stop allowing her to haunt all yer interactions with women .

His friend and fellow Hunter Barclay had told him that, years ago. But then again, Barclay had never had any trouble with women trusting him , or getting what he wanted from them. Drummond Kennedy on the other hand…everyone knew he didn't trust women.

"Here," Brigit offered quietly, her green gaze sincere. "Ye'll want this."

He frowned down at it, torn between pulling her to him and claiming her lips…and urging her out the door so he could drink alone. His chest was a roil of emotions, none of them good, and the sparring hadn't helped to calm him nearly enough.

"What is it?" he finally growled. "Why should I want it?"

She offered it again. "'Tis the crossbow bolt which nearly killed the King."

And just like that, the world shifted for Drummond.

With a fierce burst of joy , he snatched the thing from her palm, and didn't bother to hide his excitement when he lifted his gaze to hers. "Truthfully? Ye are no' lying to get my hopes up?"

But Brigit seemed startled by his response. "Lie? Why would I lie? Aye, this is the bolt from the trap. "

A grin spilt Drum's face, and she sucked in a breath—surprised?—at the sight of it. "This is brilliant, lass! I could kiss ye!"

Instead of offering herself to claim the prize, Brigit actually took a step back, her expression settling into wariness. "Ye're…pleased, then?"

"Pleased?" He lifted the bolt, studying it. "This is exactly what I've been praying for."

"For yer—" She bit down on whatever she'd been about to say. "For the evidence to make its way to ye?"

"For a chance ," he breathed. "I've been shut out of this investigation, and it's been eating me up inside. Someone tried to kill the King and I cannae protect him if I dinnae ken who ‘twas."

She was silent for a long moment as he turned the bolt this way and that, examining it. When, grinning, he finally lifted his face, he was surprised to find her chewing her lower lips as she studied him. As if she wasn't certain what to think of him?

Or his reaction to the bolt?

"Lass?" he suddenly thought to ask. "Where did ye get this? How did ye get this?"

"Och," she declared a little too breezily, suddenly spinning away with a wave of her hand to stare out the window. "Nae one notices me! I have all sorts of connections, ken all sorts of people."

Well, that wasn't surprising. Brigit was a likable lass, and he'd seen the way the guards watched her walk away. He knew he had no claim to her, and that she hadn't been a virgin when they'd come together, but the knowledge other men found her desirable had always irritated him .

Had she used that desirability to get the bolt?

If so, she was no better than Rebecca, using her body to get what she wanted.

Och, shut yer gobhole, ye dobber. Brigit brought ye the bolt so ye could solve this mystery. She's helping ye, ye arsehole !

Actually…his subconscious was right.

Dinnae sound so surprised .

"Thank ye," he said quietly, lifting the bolt once more to study. "If I can trace this to its origin, I might be able to save my neck."

"Yer neck?"

He glanced up to see her watching him in the reflection of the expensive glass window. "I ken I'm the main suspect in the attempted assassination, and I understand why." He kept his voice low, his tone even. "But I didnae do it, and it's been killing me that there's an assassin loose and I am nae longer trusted to protect His Majesty."

Green eyes held his in reflection for a long moment before she finally dropped her chin in acknowledgement and looked away.

She hadn't said she believed him.

But she hadn't condemned him either, not like the guards had during sparring.

Drummond's fingers curled around the bolt, and he had a swift realization: He needed to prove his innocence to the King, aye, to save his name and his honor. But he wanted to prove himself to Brigit just as much.

She cleared her throat and he glanced over to see her pretending interest in the tapestry of the crest above the hearth .

She tilted her head. "So, how…how will ye use it to investigate?"

"I dinnae ken," he murmured, twirling it in his fingers. "It bears nae obvious markings noting its maker. But there are a limited number of smiths in the capitol who could make such a weapon. Perhaps, if I were to take it to each of them—"

" We ." She spun about and his eyebrows rose in surprise. She gentled her tone. "I'm coming with ye."

Och, of course. She'd likely borrowed the bolt and needed to be reassured it would be returned. She did not trust him.

But he was startled to discover he didn't feel disappointment at the realization. Or rather, he did, but ‘twas tempered with a quiet sort of happiness. Drum took a moment to examine the reason and decided ‘twas because she hadn't given up on him. She insisted on investigating with him, and he could not deny he liked the idea.

So he nodded.

"I…would like that verra much, lass."

She took a step closer, her green eyes hesitant, somehow. "Ye dinnae mind?"

"Nay, no' at all. Ye might have some insights I dinnae have."

"Like…" Another step and her tongue swiped across her lower lip. "Where to look?"

Drummond's breath caught in his chest. "Could ye show me where this was found, Brigit?" God's Wounds, he hated to sound as if he was begging. "I could no' find any information about it, but if I could see the place in the corridor where the ambush took place, see where the crossbow had been set up, it might reveal a clue."

She halted, only an arm's reach from him, and cocked her head, studying him. "Ye…really dinnae ken? Where it happened?"

Blowing out a breath, he dragged his hand through his hair. "I dinnae ken aught , and ‘tis frustrating as hell!"

Her hand closed around his, which held the bolt, and her serious green gaze met his.

"Come with me."

And then she was tugging him out into the corridor. Drummond's heart sped up in a ridiculous way and he twisted her hold so their fingers twined together, the crossbow bolt pressed against their palms.

She glanced down once, then up at him, the faintest touch of a grin on her lips.

It wasn't her usual smile, but it felt more…real.

"Thank ye, Brigit," he rasped, and her smile grew slightly before she tucked her chin down as if embarrassed.

He didn't have time to consider her strange reaction. All he knew was, for the first time in a sennight, he had hope .

"This is it," she finally said, tugging him to a stop. "The tripwire was there." She pointed to an empty spot in the corridor. "It ran up that wall, and the crossbow was tucked in there."

He dropped her hand, leaving her holding the bolt, and stepped closer to examine the location in silence. The distant sounds of the palace—servants bustling, calls by the guards out in the courtyard—faded, as Drummond's focus narrowed.

"It would've been dark," he murmured, twisting his head to peer up into the niche above one of the sconces. "Difficult to see, assuming this torch wasnae lit. The shadows from there …" He twisted to peer along the corridor, checking the sightlines. "No' impossible, no' for someone trained to look for danger; but the average person just walking along?"

Cursing quietly, he shook his head and stepped back, peering down at the floor. "This is where the line was attached?" Dropping into a crouch, he studied the wall. "There would've needed to be a hook or eye or something to turn the direction of the force upward, along the wall." He tipped his head back, staring up at the niche. "I dinnae see how such a thing would work, otherwise."

Suddenly, Brigit was beside him, falling to her knees on the stones. "I believe the evidence was all collected shortly after the attack."

He was in no hurry to stand, to leave her. Crouched here with her in the dim afternoon light, he felt a sort of companionship. As if they were working together on a mission.

Nay! Ye ken ye've always refused to work with another woman !

But Brigit made his heart lighter…

"I'm glad," he finally said. "But it'd be helpful to ken how far off the ground the tripwire had been. I dinnae see any evidence of anchors, but even that information… "

She bit her lip, studying the mortar between the stones. One hand reached out in hesitation and tapped the wall about six inches off the ground.

"Christ's ballocks," he groaned, rocking back on his heels. "That high? ‘Twas a guaranteed trigger, then, and the bastard got lucky ‘twas the King who tripped it. Anyone coming along could have stepped on it."

"Which means ‘twas set up shortly before he passed by."

"Which means ‘twas someone who kenned his schedule," Drummond growled, scrubbing his hand over his face. "Thank fook he was pushed out of the way and nae one else tripped the bloody thing. Who was it who saved him?"

She hesitated, watching him with that uncertain expression again. "A—one of the Queen's ladies. She was passing along the corridor on her way to the chapel, is what I heard."

"Aye, I heard similar gossip." He sighed, then scooped up her hand in his. "Well, I suppose we all have a reason to pray tonight, to thank God for sending her along. If she hadnae noticed the trap, or if she had triggered the trap, we'd be in mourning right now."

Slowly, her fingers twined through his again. "Aye," she finally said. "Is there aught else ye'd find helpful to see?"

Drummond stood and used his hold on her to tug her to her feet as well. She stumbled slightly, and he instinctively wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her safely against him .

Brigit fit against his chest as if she belonged there. The hand holding the bolt was trapped between them, but she'd angled it last minute so neither of them would be hurt. Now she tipped her head back to present him with those plump lips and that freckled nose.

His chest tightened.

"Thank ye, lass," he managed, even as she pressed closer, rising on her toes. "This was helpful."

"I can be more helpful," she whispered, inching closer.

"Aye, I ken it." Unconsciously, his lips lowered toward hers. "But I think allowing ye to help in that manner will only distract me. Mayhap ‘tis yer intention?"

When she smiled, he had a flash of the real Brigit, the one he'd fallen for all those months ago. The lass she was when she came to his bed.

"Ye dinnae sound as if ye're fighting my offer too hard, Drum," she breathed.

"Ye ken it," he growled a moment before his lips claimed hers.

Brigit had always been an enthusiastic lover, and this kiss was no different. But today, after the uncertainties of the last sennight, having her in his arms felt more important, somehow.

She met him head-on, her fingers working free of his so she could clutch at his belt, pulling him closer and rocking her hips forward, cradling him…right where he wanted to be cradled. Drum didn't bother stopping his little groan of need as his cock jumped.

Her lips curled under his, and he stepped forward, forcing her back against the stones. She didn't object, but pulled her hand from between them so she could reach up and wrap her fingers through the too-long hair at his nape as her teeth caught his lower lip.

Aye , he wanted to growl, but she'd stolen his breath.

He wanted this. He needed this.

He was ready to push up her skirts, push aside his kilt, and take her right there in the corridor…and judging from her panting, she was as ready for it as he was.

But a sound in the distance caught his attention and he cursed himself for allowing his guard to fall so easily. Struggling to control his breathing, he pulled away as the footsteps came closer.

Brigit blinked up at him and a part of him wanted to crow smugly that she seemed so disoriented, so needy . His kiss had done that, affected her the way she'd affected him!

But he had a job to do, an investigation which might very well save his life.

"The bolt, lass," he managed to gasp, knowing ‘twas still squeezed between them. "I need…"

"Aye?" She rocked her hips forward, pressing her warmth into his cock, and he groaned again, knowing how wet she'd be for him. "What do ye need?"

"I need…" He licked his lips, trying to focus as the interloper approached. "I need to learn where it came from. I need to visit the smiths."

She blinked, then blinked again, and blew out a breath which sounded like disappointment. Then she slid down him, supporting herself on the stones behind, and swallowed .

"Let us start with the castle armorer then. He might have some answers."

Slowly, Drummond's smile grew as he stepped back and offered her his hand. "The armorer. Brilliant." And ‘twas the truth; he would've trotted all over the city, interviewing smiths, but her idea was to eliminate the worst possibility first, and he respected it.

Brigit finished adjusting her clothing, then tucked the bolt into the ties at her waist. He respected that she wanted to keep it close, because she clearly wasn't certain about this.

Och, she was certain enough about the kissing , he knew, but not about his innocence. And he respected that, too, because he was a man who didn't trust easily. In fact, he was beginning to suspect that Brigit was the first woman in a very long time whom he could trust.

"Shall we?" she asked haughtily, weaving her fingers through his.

And Drummond cherished the spike of hope in his chest.

Mayhap ye'll get to keep yer head after all, laddie.

If only he could give his heart to Brigit.