Page 24 of Don't Give A Damn About My Plaid Reputation
But right around the time he complimented her on her mustache and lowered his voice to ask for tips on how she got it so thick and luxurious, Robena realized she had nothing to fear.
Weesil, on the other hand, had a way of watching her suspiciously that made her want to hunch over her saddle and hope he looked away. But by the afternoon of the second day, she realized he looked ateveryoneand everything that way…and she discovered why he was so interested in her. Or more importantly, her lute.
“Ye’re a bard, aye? Do ye make up songs?” He had black, oily hair, and dark eyes that flashed with interest as he sidled up to her. He was fondling the hilt of one dagger. “Have ye made up songs about battles?”
She thought fast. “Och, aye, of course. Plenty. Dozens. Loads.”Zero, but how hard can it be?“Blood and heads being hacked off and entrails and whatnot.”
“Whatnot,” snorted Auld Gommy on her other side. “Ye stick with us, lad, and we’ll show ye what yereallyneed to ken to write a good song!”
Andthatis how Lady Robena Oliphant spent four hours astride a horse listening to detailed accounts of...well, blood and heads being hacked off and entrails and whatnot. The MacBain warriors were intent on ensuring she understood how to properly craft a battle ballad.
Every once in a while, she’d turn in her saddle just far enough to see Kester. Most of the time he was watching her, his expression impassive, and she looked away before so long a time passed that he’d be expected to respond to her.
But she could feel the heat of his gaze on her.
And tried not to feel comforted.
That evening, they purchased food from a crofter and made camp beside a stream. ‘Twas peaceful, but Robena could barely hold her eyes open. Two days in the saddle was more than she ever considered herself capable of, and she had many more days to go.
But ‘twould be worth it, to stand in front of the best pipers in the Highlands and try her skills against them. At least, that’s what she told herself as she wrapped her exhausted body in a borrowed blanket and curled up right outside of the circle of firelight.
And when she felt Kester stretch out beside her, it seemed natural to roll toward his warmth and inhale his scent and imagine things were different.
* * *
The next days were similar,and the fun band of MacBains made their way across the Highlands. Her thighs and lower back were battered into jelly, then slowly grew tough enough that she no longer had to bite back her groans when she dismounted.
Then men accepted her as one of their own, although they teased her mercilessly about always disappearing behind a bush to do her business, when the rest of them saw no harm in lifting their kilts out of the way and pissing right beside the road.
And Kester…. Well, at night, he continued to lay down beside her, offering her his heat and protection, but during the day he held himself apart.
At Oliphant Castle, she didn’t recall him separating himself from his men, and he certainly wasn’t the kind of laird who considered himself better than everyone else, so she had to assume the variable here washer. He was holding himself separate becauseshewas part of his troop now.
That is fine. That’s what ye want.
Aye, ‘twas…and then again, nay.
Shemissedhim, which was stupid. Only a sennight ago, they were walking together in the gardens, laughing beside one another at meals. Then, those kisses…and he told her the truth; told her he couldn’t be with her because he was betrothed to Lady Elspeth Murray. She’d been heartbroken, but the very next day embarked on this mad scheme.
She hadn’t given herself time to mourn him, and now she was with him every day…except she also wasn’t.
And thinking on it too long will give ye a headache. He made his preferences kenned, and ye have yer music to focus on.
The men were surprisingly supportive of her music. Sometimes, during the ride, Mook would ask her to play her lute. She’d mastered the art of guiding the horse without the use of her hands so she could play for them.
And all of them—even Pudge—offered her praise and appreciation when she played. Sometimes she even sang, pitching her voice as low as she dared without hurting herself in order to sound more like a lad.
After her songs, Weesil would inevitably offer her suggestions for lyrics, and Auld Gommy would holler something crude, and they’d try to yell over one another in their advice on how to improve the songs.
Often, it involved rhymes for “behead” or “eviscerate.” She was coming to learn the MacBains were a cheerfully bloodthirsty lot.
“Anyhow, thank the saints I slid off the horse’s back at that moment, or I’d be missing more of my ear!” Auld Gommy was saying as he leaned sideways in the saddle and lifted part of his beard—or mayhap ‘twas his hair-it all seemed to flow together—to show her the long-healed scar where his lobe used to be.
From ahead of them, Pudge called back, “Why the fook were ye no’ in a saddle, auld man?”
“They hadnae been invented yet!” quipped Giric before Gommy could respond. “I’m surprised they hadhorses.”
“Och, well, Isaidhorse,” agreed Auld Gommy good-naturedly, “but ‘twas afore their domestication, truthfully. We had to go to war on trained mountain goats.”
