Page 45 of Don't Give A Damn About My Plaid Reputation
The next night was much the same, although she had no idea what excuse he offered to his men when he followed her into the woods after her piping had once again moved her to tears.
She couldn’t help her choice of music; her songs were a reflection of her heart.
But now they were only two days from the Games and had made their excursion onto Murray land.
“Should we be just…sitting around like this?” she asked, pacing around the clearing in the woods. The horses were still saddled but had been set loose to drink from the creek. “What if we’re discovered?”
“We’ll no’ be discovered,” muttered Giric, who lay on his back with his hands folded over his stomach, his eyes closed. “The laird and Weesil will warn us afore that happens.”
“Aye, laddie.” Auld Gommy was picking at his teeth with a dagger. “They’re scouting—no’ just for opportunity, but trouble as well. And besides, Pudge has the best ears of any MacBain warrior.”
When she glanced at the grizzled veteran, who stood with his arms across his chest and frown on his face, he shrugged. “‘Tis true,” he admitted. “And the horses will no’ let us be ambushed.”
“There’s nae one out here,” Mook explained. “Nae one will ken we’re here until ‘tis too late.”
Tis too late.
She shuddered as the simple statement called to mind horrors.
When the men had first suggested a raid on Murray land, it had seemed a lark. She hadn’t objected because, well…she would gladly accept any excuse to prolong this journey a day or two.
But now…she worried what she’d agreed to participate in.
“Are ye…what are ye planning on doing?”
She liked these men, and thoughtAre ye planning on raping and murdering innocents?sounded a little too accusatory.
Pudge snorted quietly. “Worried, Robbie?”
Mook grinned. “‘Tis the Murrays who should be worried! When Widowmaker is unsheathed, they’ll ken it!”
“Widow…maker?” whispered Robena, eyes wide.
“‘Tis the name of his great bloody weapon,” muttered Giric from his spot on the ground.
“Aye!” Mook gestured gleefully at the front of his kilt. “‘Tis huge—“
“No’ yer cock,” interrupted the handsome man, without opening his eyes.
Robena glanced between the two men, then at the large blade hanging from Mook’s hip. “Yer sword is named Widowmaker?” she guessed.
Auld Gommy waved the dagger he’d been using for oral hygiene. “All great warriors name their blades, lads. Or bows, in Giric’s case.”
“Windsong,” Giric announced proudly with a grin as he pushed himself up on his elbows. “It sends arrows straight and true, whistling a deadly song.”
“This one is Lefty,” Auld Gommy announced proudly, sticking the tip of his dagger back between his teeth and patting his hip. “And this is Righty.”
“That sounds…easy to remember,” she acknowledged weakly. When she glanced at Pudge, he raised his brow in challenge.
“Does yer blade have a name?” she ventured.
His frown didn’t change. “Of course no’. ‘Tis silly to name a tool. Widowmaker,” he snorted dismissively.
“Pudge hasnae named his sword, Robbie,” Giric announced, “but the Murrays call itThe Scowling Menace.”
As Mook’s horse wandered over, she coughed to hide her chuckle. “That is…fitting. And Weesil? He has so many daggers…?”
“Aye, and every one of them is called Mortal Peril,” Auld Gommy explained. “He says ‘tis easier to keep track of them that way.”
