Page 10 of Don't Give A Damn About My Plaid Reputation
Whereas usually such a bad joke would make her smile—even if no one else had heard it—today she wasn’t in the mood. To think that only a few hours ago she’d thought she had a chance to play with Kester’s instrument!
And no’ his musical instrument.
Although mayhap he’d sing if she put his—what had Wynda called it? Och, aye, his cock!—cockin her mouth.
Stop it.
Aye, being aroused and depressed at the same time shouldn’t be possible.
“So, do ye want to talk about it?” Nicola prodded gently.
“‘Tis a rather damp sensation,” Robena mumbled.
“What?”
Robena’s head jerked up. “What?”
Her sister raised a brow. “I asked if ye wanted to talk about it.”
Feeling a flush working its way up her neck, Robena bent back over the harp. “Talk about what?” She tried to sound nonchalant.
And knew it didn’t work when her older sister tsked.
“Talk about whatever had ye looking so upset earlier? Is it….” She hesitated. “I heard the MacBains will be moving on tomorrow.”
“Aye.” Robena shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “Laird MacBain received instructions from the King. They’re heading to the Highland Games.”
It is time you marry Lady Elspeth Murray and end this feud.
Kester was betrothed.
He’dbeenbetrothed all this time.Thatwas what the “further delay” part of the letter had referenced. Most of the Highlands knew the MacBains were feuding with the Murrays, and apparently the King had demanded a marriage alliance in order to end the fighting.
Kester MacBain was betrothed to the Murray’s daughter, and he’dstill kissed her.
To be fair, ye didnae really give him any choice, what with the way ye threw yerself at him. Mayhap ‘tis why he resisted so long; and hedidsay he couldnae marry ye.
Great.
Now her subconscious was ganging up with her libido.
With a sigh, she dropped her forehead against her harp.
“I’ll take that as a nay, ye dinnae want to talk about it,” Nicola said drily. “Although I’ll assume whatever has ye so upset is why ye’re now calling Laird MacBain—whom ye’ve been calling Kester for weeks and sighing happily over—by his title.”
“I have no’,” mumbled Robena, her left index finger plucking the same note over and over.
“Aye, ye have!” Her sister sounded ungodly cheerful, among the clink of her potions. “No’ just sighing, but humming too.”
“I’m a musician.”
“And I found the parchment where ye wroteLady Robena MacBainover and over again with flowers and hearts around it. Although why someone would want to draw a bodily organ is beyond me.”
Shite.
Groaning, Robena began to knock her head against the wooden frame of her harp.
Older sisters were the absolute worst, weren’t they?
