Page 20 of Don't Give A Damn About My Plaid Reputation
Fook.
He wanted to marry Ian Murray’s eldest daughter about as much as he wanted to embroider, which is to say, not at all. But he’d learn to stitch frilly little flowers and shite all over his cuffs, if ‘tis what it took to protect his people and convince Murray to stop pestering the King for an alliance.
He stifled a sigh. “Aye.”
She flinched at his curtness, and he reminded himself ‘twas for the best. “The wedding will take place at the end of the Games, same as the piping competition.”
Her jaw hardened. “I wish ye and yer Murray bride much happiness. May yer marriage be blessed with many bairns.”
Bairns?
The traditional wedding wish knotted his stomach. He didn’t want little half-Murray bairns!
But what he wanted was irrelevant. Ian Murray had the King’s ear, and the man was determined to get around giving the MacBains what was theirs, so he offered terms Kesterhadto meet.
“It’ll bring peace,” he growled. “That is what’s important.”
“Och, verra important.” Her tone was mocking flippant, as she pretended interest in whatever Mook was miming. “Ye’ll forgive me if I dinnae attend yer nuptials? I’ll have a piping competition to win.”
‘Twasgoodshe was angry at him. Aye.
So why did he feel like a snake?
“I understand, lass.”
If looks could kill, he’d be bleeding from her sharp glance. “Stopcallingme that!”
Och, aye. She was supposed to be a lad.
And if she joined them on their journey to the Games, he’d have to remember that. She needed to appear as a lad in order to join the competitions. If anyone discovered who she really was, her good name would be mocked from Skye to Scone.
He had to keep her—and her reputation—safe.
“Kest—Laird MacBain,will ye keep my secret?”
Och, lass, I’d keep all yer secrets.
If only the King would allow it.
“If yer family approves of ye tagging along with us, then aye.” He exhaled and nudged his horse away from hers. “We’ll get ye to the competition, and I look forward to hearing ye play. I ken ‘twill be remarkable.”
Her gaze jerked up to meet his, then away just as quickly.
But in that moment, he didn’t see formality or emptiness…he saw longing.
Shite.
* * *
To Kester’s consternation,she was right.
His men didn’t see her beauty; they saw the dirt she’d rubbed on her cheeks. They didn’t see her curves; they saw the way she handled a horse. They didn’t see her grace; they saw the way she laughed as loud as Mook at one of Giric’s rude jokes.
‘Twas the bloody mustache.
She’d glued a hank of hair—hair she’d chopped off her own head—to her lip, and now his men thought she was a lad.
They were all idiots.
