Kilty until proven innoc.., p.1
Kilty Until Proven Innocent (Kilty Pleasures Book 4), page 1
Kilty Until Proven Innocent
Caroline Lee
Copyright
Copyright © 2024, 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: 2024
Printing/manufacturing information for this book may be found on the last page
Cover: EDHGraphics
Contents
About this book
Letter to the Reader
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
About this book
To save his honor, he’s going to have to learn to trust again.
Drummond Kennedy is the leader of the King’s Hunters, the mysterious group of masked lawmen tasked with keeping the royal peace throughout Scotland. He is strict, noble, and has firm rules for his men when it comes to working with women. Mainly: Do not do it, and if you have to work with one, then for the love of God don’t get involved with her. He’s speaking from experience here.
Too bad he didn’t take his own advice.
Because with the recent assassination attempt on the king, evidence points to the Hunters in general and Drummond in particular, and he’s perilously close to losing not just his place in court, but also his head. His honor as well, which is galling, but likely secondary in concern after the whole head-lopping-off part.
There’s only one person who believes he’s innocent and might possibly be in a position to help him regain said honor: sweet-tempered chambermaid Brigit who is turning out to be far more than he’d always suspected. Is it possible his long-time lover might actually have the ear of the Queen? As disconcerting as it is to consider working with a woman, Drummond is going to have to learn to trust again…before it’s too late!
For Pickles, my story-loving and history-obsessed preteen, who spent hours helping me figure out the plot of this book. Even if—in spite of his advice not to—I did make the entirety of chapter four “one of those gross kissing scenes.”
I love you, buddy, and I hope if you are ever reading this, you just skip that part.
Letter to the Reader
Translate the Latin.
Trust me.
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.
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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.
Chapter 1
Smiling happily down at her lap, Brigit decided she really was quite proud of her tiny penis.
It had taken some skill and imagination to figure out how to tweak the petals of the heather just slightly to appear to be purple-colored genitalia, and she suspected that only someone truly looking closely would be able to identify them for what they were.
If she was going to be forced to live the life of a lady-in-waiting, then by God, she was going to have fun with it! Months from now, when she used this cape as the days turned colder, she’d smirk quietly to herself, knowing what these flowers actually were.
In fact, she smirked quietly to herself now, imagining it. No one guessed that her chemises were decorated with delicate penises, as well as her stockings. ‘Twas a delightful secret.
“What are you smirking about?”
Brigit’s head jerked up. “I’m no’ smirking!”
“Yes, you are.”
This small antechamber was one the Queen herself used when meeting with her ladies…but today ‘twas just two of her Angels; Brigit and the Lady Avaline. Since Avaline hadn’t looked up from her own embroidery, Brigit decided Her Majesty was speaking to her.
With a huff, she stabbed her needle into the linen to keep it secured, then tossed it into her lap. “Fine, perhaps I am smirking.”
The Queen, of course, smirked in response. Likely because she’d been right. “Is there a new gentleman in your life?”
“A new ruffian, more likely,” snorted Avaline quietly, scarred face still bent over her embroidery. “Brigit’s tastes dinnae run toward gentlemen.”
Since ‘twas true, Brigit grinned and stretched her legs out in front of her, crossing them at the ankles. “Nae new gentlemen—or ruffians.”
The Queen, who seemed a bit desperate for distraction—and she certainly would be, what with the recent news—nodded wisely. “The same old ones, hmm?”
Chuckling as she was expected to chuckle, Brigit reflected on the Queen’s speech, and how, even after all these years in Scone, the woman’s English tones still shone through. Still, the King had made a fine choice in his spouse, and the marriage had helped to unite Scotland.
Knowing what was expected of her, Brigit said nothing, but dropped one eyelid in an exaggerated wink which caused Her Majesty to chuckle, thank goodness.
“Did you hear that, Avaline?” the Queen mused, pulling another scroll toward her across the small writing desk before her. “You might take a lesson from Brigit.”
“A lesson in what, Yer Majesty?” the stately and somber former-novice asked, attention still on her sewing. “Revelry? Debauchery? Sin?”
“Fun, Ava!” burst out Brigit, well used to her partner’s morality sermons. “Fun!”
The other woman just hummed. Finally, she lifted her gaze, straightened her shoulders, and turned her embroidery toward the other two women in the room. “We were no’ put on this earth for fun.”
Eying her partner’s embroidery—it seemed to be a depiction of St. Stephen’s martyring, complete with gushes of blood from the arrow wounds and an expression of near-ecstasy on the poor bastard’s face—Brigit murmured, “Well, ye werenae.”
She glanced down at the tiny penises she’d been working on. Far more interesting, far more fun.
As a general rule, penises were more fun than martyrdom.
Although, in her years working with Avaline, Brigit had learned some very interesting martyrdom stories. Some of which involved penises.
Lady Avaline Klyne had been born to wealth and privilege, a younger daughter of a prominent family. Although her father had secured a marriage contract for her, young Avaline had opted to join the church. With her schooling and devout religious opinions, she would’ve been perfect as a nun.
But somewhere along the way, she’d been horrible scarred by fire, then wound up as a Queen’s Angel. She’d been Brigit’s partner all these years. When Isabel had been part of their group, things had been easier, because, as a mother of an Earl, that lady could always make peace between Brigit’s coarse ways and Avaline’s judgmental nature. But now that Isabel was happily married and settled into her son’s estate, Brigit rarely saw her.
Which meant Her Majesty herself was the only one to soothe Avaline’s ruffled feathers, or Brigit’s constant boredom.
Speaking of boredom, Brigit drew on a recent subject. “Any word on the assassin, Yer Majesty? What direction are the investigations looking?”
A flash of regret crossed the Queen’s face, before she sighed and knocked the scroll in her hand against the small desk. “Naught, I am afraid.”
“Nae news?” Avaline asked, proving she was paying attention.
“My husband…does not trust easily,” the Queen finally said. “With the possibility of his Hunters compromised, he is not certain to whom he should turn.”
“No’ all of the King’s Hunters are under suspicion, Yer Majesty,” Avaline reminded her. “Only their leader, Drummond Kennedy.”
Brigit winced at the reminder, lifting her embroidery to cover the expression.
The Queen murmured, “Yes, that is the problem.”
When Avaline hummed, the Queen continued. “My husband believed he could trust Drummond with his life—with more than his life. As the leader of the King’s Hunters, Drummond is trusted as much as I trust you, my Angels. But to think he might be responsible for this attempt on His Majesty’s life…”
