Page 62 of Don't Give A Damn About My Plaid Reputation
The way she cocked her brow at him said she didn’t believe his excuses. “And after that ye will go to Laird Murray, aye? I will be there with ye.”
He watched her for a moment before inclining his head, conceding the point. In all honesty, he wanted her at his side when he told the old bastard the MacBain wanted no alliance.
The steward was easy enough to find, and ‘twas anticlimactic to turn over the oiled envelope of vellum and scrolls, knowing that missive was the excuse the King had needed to send Kester across the Highlands.
Now, they sent their horses with Weesil and set off on foot. Pudge trailed behind, but it felt natural to stroll through the encampments with Robena’s hand tucked in his.
“Ye’re getting looks,” murmured Pudge from behind.
Kester glanced around and realized his old friend was right.
“’Tis because they think me a lad.”
He snorted at her claim. “Ye’re too pretty to be a lad.”
“Andye’rehalf-blind, if ye think me pretty.”
Frowning now, he pulled her to a halt. “Dinnae say such things. Yearetoo pretty to be a lad.”
She responded with a snort of her own and pulled her hand from his to rest on her hip. Her curved, sensual,femininehip. “Ye’re just saying that because we’ve—ahem.”
“Aye, we’veahemed, and that means I can see ye for who ye really are, Robena!”
Her brow quirked, as if he’d proved her point. “And I havenaeahemedany of these other men, so they believe me a lad in a kilt, holding hands with ye.”
Arms folded across his chest, Kester turned to glare at the men who watched, some from a distance, some not bothering to hide their interest. “Theycannaethink ye a lad,” he hissed.
“They do. And imagine what that’s doing to the reputation of the great Kester MacBain, to be holding the hand of a lad like he’sahemedthat lad.”
Pudge made a sound which might’ve been a laugh, had the man ever laughed.
“Ye think such a thing matters to me? What others think?”
Her lips twitched mischievously. “Why, MacBain, are ye saying ye dinnae care about yer reputation?”
Since she was mocking him, he scowled. “I’m no’ the one gallivanting around in a kilt!”
“Aye, ye are.”
“Well, aye, aright, Iamgallivanting about in a kilt. But I’m supposed to.”
She leaned forward, her hands still on her hips, and gave him a saucy smile. “Well, I’m doing it for a good reason, andIdinnae care about my reputation.”
“Ye should,” he growled.
“Because ye want to marry me? Lady MacBain should be demure and no’-at-all-scandalous?”
Why in the hell were they having this debate here and now?
“Lady MacBain will be brave and talented and the winner of the Highland Piping Competition.” When her expression melted, his scowl eased, and he stepped toward her and lowered his voice. “Robena, I love ye for who ye are. I just wish ye’d let these people see that, too.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but they were interrupted by a loud call.
“Laird MacBain! My master commands ye to quit delaying!” They both turned to see a smug-looking man in a Murray kilt pointing up the hill toward the Murray encampment on the edge of the cliff. “He bids ye come seal yer alliance.”
“I want nae alliance,” Kester growled as he snagged Robena’s hand in his and strode toward his enemy.
It wasn’t until he noticed Robena out of breath at his side that he forced his steps to slow, so the pair of them took their time climbing up to the Murray’s tent. He stood outside it, flanked by two burly warriors who scowled at Kester as if they blamed him for all of life’s inconveniences.
