Page 26 of Don't Give A Damn About My Plaid Reputation
In an effort to avoid looking at Gommy—St. Kelsi’s eardrum, could her cheeks get any warmer?—Robena turned in the saddle to glance back at Kester.
As he’d been for the last few days, the man she’d thought she loved sat tall in the saddle, one hand resting loosely on the hilt of his sword as he kept watch over them all. Except…now, he was looking at her.
This wasn’t any different than the hundreds of times she’d glanced back at him over the last days, butthosetimes weren’t in the midst of discussing cocks.
Slowly, Kester raised one brow.
And aye, it turned out her cheekscouldget warmer. She felt her wholebodyflush in response to that little acknowledgement, and twisted back into position so quickly she felt her blood swirl in her temples.
Unfortunately, the men had noticed her distraction, and changed their stories from fables of their own prowess to those about their laird.
Robena kept her chin tucked against her chest.
‘Twas one thing to hear stories of Kester’s success with the ladies, or how impressive his manhood was…and another thing to remember the way that hardness had felt pressed against her, and how it had left her wet and needing.
Now is no’ the time.
“One time I was hanging over the edge of a cliff,” Auld Gommy was saying, “and ye ken how the MacBain will do aught to save a clansman? Well he didnae have a rope with him, so he threw me the only thing he had!”
Robena groaned and lowered her forehead to her horse’s neck.
“‘Tis that long?” laughed Giric.
Gommy continued, “Aye, he threw me his wee willie and saved my life!”
From up ahead, Mook rumbled, “I had a cousin named Wee Willie.”
“Nay, lad, he’s Wee Wullie,” Pudge corrected with a sigh. “Gommy’s talking of the laird’s cock.”
“The MacBain brought a chicken?” Mook asked, twisting in his saddle.
Since Robena’s eyes were closed, she had no warning when Weesil leaned over and socked her shoulder, which she was coming to realize was a prime method of communication with these men.
Rubbing her shoulder, she sat up. “What was that for?”
“I’ll wager ye could write a song about our laird’s member, eh? An ode to his manhood?”
St. Kelsi, nay.
But to appease them—and to shut them up—she reached for her lute and began to strum, frantically thinking of rhymes.
“Wee Willie Winkie,
Running through the town.
Up the streets and down the streets,
In his nightgown.”
Mook leaned sideways. “What’s a nightgown?” he whispered over-loud to Pudge, who shook his head.
“Likely a metaphor for something,” he growled. “Who ever heard of a cock running about?”
“Sounds cold,” quipped Weesil.
Giric was grinning, of course. “This is the first recorded use of the word nightgown in human history!”
“Recorded?” murmured Robena.
