Page 17 of Don't Give A Damn About My Plaid Reputation
His men fell silent and turned expectant stares his way. A new set of warm brown eyes joined them, and he marshalled his defenses.
How in the hellfire were they calling this shapely beauty alad?
He had to get to the bottom of this. ‘Twas one thing for her to torment him in his dreams, another thing altogether to show up and torment him when he was supposed to be focused on his clan’s future!
Because, aye…she might be wearing an Oliphant kilt low on her hips to disguise her curves, and aye, she might’ve glued some hair to her upper lip in a shite impersonation of a mustache…. But as sure as he sat there glowering, that was Robena Oliphant watching him with wide, scared eyes.
And as surprised and confused as he was, a part of him was happy to see her.Verrahappy to see her. And determined to ease her fear.
Nay, she shouldnae have followed us.
“What in damnation are ye doing here?” he finally asked.
“My fa—Laird Oliphant said he was sending warriors, aye? Well….” A pause for a throat-clearing. “Nae warriors wanted to attend the Games this late, but the piping competition takes place at the end of the Games, and I aim to win.”
Well, fook.
He’d known Robena was a talented musician. Although she’d never mentioned piping, it made sense she’d be talented in that regard as well.
A sudden suspicion had him frowning, remembering the way the castle would sometimes be beset by ghostly piping from the highest battlements.
“‘Tis good to have a goal, lad.” Auld Gommy was nodding approvingly. “What’s yer name?”
Kester had had enough. “Roben—“
But she interrupted. “Robbie!” she blurted frantically, holding his gaze. “Robbie Oliphant.”
Robbie.
A fortnight ago, he’d met her bastard brother, a man who traveled the Highlands on missions from the King. He’d called Robena “Robbie” and it seemed as if she’d decided this would be her new name.
Damnation.
“All of ye, take a piss break,” he finally growled. “I’ll speak with—“ He couldn’t bring himself to call her ahim, not when ‘twas obvious she wasn’t. “I’ll speak with Robbie.”
Good-naturedly, the men spread out, swinging out of their saddles and pulling out food for a meal as they moved off the path.
Kester nudged his horse into motion. When he stopped beside her, both animals shied a few steps, and he saw her confidence in gaining control of her mount.
His knee brushed against hers, but she didn’t seem to notice. Howcouldn’tshe? He noticed everything about her; from the way her knuckles were white around the reins to the twitch of her lip which told him her false mustache tickled.
‘Twas the sight of that…thatthing, which held his attention.
“What in the name of St. John the Apostle did yedoto yerself?”
Her chin went up mulish. “I dinnae ken what ye mean.”
Irritated with himself for blurting out such a question, he scowled as he flicked his fingers toward her lips. “Did ye glue a caterpillar to yer face? Because that is what it looks like.”
One set of fingertips rose to press the clump of hair farther against her skin. “‘Tis a mustache,” she mumbled, no longer able to meet his eyes.
“Were ye hoping to pass as a lad at the competition?” He softened his tone, knowing ‘twas anger at himself that had him irritable. “’Twill never work. Ye’re far too beautiful—“
Her gaze snapped to his. “Aye, ‘twill work,” she interrupted. “Yer men look at me and see a lad.”
“My men are obviously blind.”
“‘Tis the mustache,” she declared smugly.
