Page 30 of Don't Give A Damn About My Plaid Reputation
Kester couldn’t seem to stop his hand from rising to her temple where sap had glued a cluster of needles to her hair. “Clearly,” he murmured drily. “Are ye hurt?”
With her head cocked back, she was smiling up at him now, that mustache big and fluffy on her upper lip. “I’m flattered ye care.”
“Of course, I care, lass.” It slipped out before he could stop himself. “I mean, ye’re under my protection.”
“And that’s the only reason ye’re still touching my hair?”
Oh shite, he was, wasn’t he?
Hurriedly, he dropped his hand, but the sap stuck to his fingers, and he cursed himself for his stupidity.
“Why are ye here?” he growled, angry at himself, and at her for not being angry enough at him.
But she just shrugged again. “Auld Gommy made stew.”
And that apple wasn’t nearly enough. “I’ll eat later.”
“They’re back there telling fine tales about the size of yer cock and claiming ye’re out here pleasuring yerself—Are ye aright?” her eyes widened with alarm as he began to choke on his objections.
“Dinnaesay such things, lass!”
“Why?”
“Why?”he repeated incredulously.
She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Aye. Why can I no’ speak about yer cock? ‘Tis a subject I’m verra much interested in.”
Oh for fook’s sake!
“Because…because it isnae seemly!” At a loss, he dragged his hand through his hair and only remembered too late about the sap.
From the direction of her gaze and the way her lips were curled, she’d noticed his sap difficulty.
“I’ve told ye, Kester, ye needn’t worry about my reputation. Out here, I’m Robbie.”
With a growl, he pointed one sap-covered finger at her. “And Robbie wouldnae be talking about my cock.”
“Why no’?” she challenged. “Yer men have plenty of opinions about yer manhood. They say yer cock is long enough—“
Cursing, he turned away from her, his fingers wrapping around the hilts of his blades, more out of comfort than any real danger.
After a few moments of silence, during which he managed to get his—his—hiseverythingunder control, she spoke.
“Why do ye care, Kester?” she whispered. “Why does it matter whatIthink—how Ifeel—about ye?”
The moon wasn’t quite full, but there were no clouds tonight, and the light reflected peacefully off the surface of the loch. ‘Twas small enough there were no waves, just a few ripples the breeze caused across the surface.
Kester inhaled deeply, savoring the Highland scents he loved so much; heather, pine…. Well, that was likely his own hair he was smelling.
Here, and now, with her safely tucked behind him and the reflection of the moon before him, ‘twas easier to tell her the truth.
“Because, lass, I suspect I’ll care about ye until the day I die.”
He heard her exhale quietly.
“Yer men say ‘tis the King’s wish ye marry Murray’s eldest daughter, no’ yers.”
He had to tread carefully.
