Page 21 of Don't Give A Damn About My Plaid Reputation
Kester spent the rest of the day stewing. He allowed Pudge and Mook to lead, while he trailed behind. He told himself ‘twas to keep watch for danger and to ensure Robena didn’t wander off the trail…but really ‘twas so he could watch her.
He watched how easily she sat on the horse, how confidently her fingers brushed against her wrapped bundles every so often. He watched her laugh with Giric and tried not to feel jealous when his man slapped her on the back in companionship. He watched her speaking quietly with Auld Gommy until the old man began to chortle.
And he watched how, every few miles, she glanced over her shoulder at Kester.
He tried not to respond to that.
Tried and failed.
Each time she met his eyes his chest tightened a bit, and stayed tight long after she’d turned back around. He found himself looking forward to those glances, wondering—hoping—when they’d come.
Ye’re a glutton for punishment.
Aye, he must be.
But…he feltbetterwith her along. Even if she wasn’t speaking to him, even if she was spitting fire at him with those glances, he felt better with her nearby.
The glutton for punishment thing again.
They made it a good distance that day, and then made camp with the ease of many travels together. These men had been with him for many years—since his father’s passing had made him laird and dropped a load of heaping shite in his lap—and Kester trusted them implicitly.
That didn’t mean he didn’t want to murder Giric when the handsome man slung his arm around Robena’s shoulders, or punch Pudge when the grizzled veteran made her smile about something.
How in the name offookdid these arseholes not see her as a woman? They’dallmet Lady Robena Oliphant, the laird’s talented daughter, more than once. But now they were willing to admit she was a lad?
‘Tis the mustache. Verra convincing.
Since they weren’t a’reaving, Auld Gommy set out to make a stew with the leather-wrapped pot he’d dragged along ‘Twas after sundown afore he finally declared the stew simmered long enough, but they had hard bread from the Oliphant kitchens to hold them over.
‘Twas well worth the wait. Even Pudge complimented the chef, which led to Weesil clutching his chest theatrically.
“God above, I must be dying! What’s next, Pudge? Are ye going to smile?”
Even Robena smirked at that.
Otherwise, she sat quietly, clearly unused to the wilderness after dark. The way she sat—her arms wrapped around her knees and her shoulders hunched toward the fire—made two things very clear:
She wasn’t comfortable with the sounds of the forest, and
She really had no idea how to sit in a kilt.
He tried not to stare at the intriguing shadows behind her heels, knowing if his men noticed, they’d think him ogling a lad’s crotch. But ‘twas difficult. The skin of her legs was smooth and creamy, obviously unused to sunlight…and he’d had his hand on her bare knee earlier.
God’s Blood, no’ this again.
From where he leaned against the trunk of an old oak, outside the fire’s light, Kester watched her and tried to convince his cock not to respond. He wanted her, aye, but he couldn’t have her. He didn’t want to hurt her like that.
Not again.
He watched his men tease her like one of them, watched her demure when they demanded a song, claiming exhaustion. Watched her watching Weesil and Mook wrap themselves in their plaid and settle in comfortable patches of grass.
Watched her realize she had no idea what the hell she was doing.
Kester pushed away from his tree and strode toward where he’d left his saddle. He pulled a blanket from beneath it—‘twould smell, but she wanted to be thought a lad, eh?—and turned back to the fire.
She was still standing, her arms around her waist, hesitantly watching the other men bed down for the night.
“Here,” he said gruffly, thrusting the blanket toward her, then nodding toward the tree. “There’s a patch of grass over there.”
