Page 46 of Don't Give A Damn About My Plaid Reputation
Well, that made sense. “And Kest—I mean, Laird MacBain?” She knew he wore a long sword at his hip and a matching dagger. Did they have names?
Grinning, Giric lowered his voice, as if imparting a great secret. “His dagger is called Blooddrinker.”
Oh. Her eyes widened, having trouble reconciling such a bloodthirsty image with the man she knew. “And his sword?” she whispered.
Giric, Auld Gommy, and Mook all answered together, in an awestruck tone: “Karen.”
She blinked. “That—Karen? He named his swordKaren? What does that signify?” she asked Pudge.
The older man shrugged. “‘Tis just a collection of syllables, Robbie. It doesnae have to mean aught.”
“Nay, but it strikes fear into the hearts of men,” whispered Giric gleefully.
“Aye!” Mook nudged his horse out of the way with an open palm. “And into their spleens as well!”
The handsome man frowned at his friend. “It strikes fear into the hearts of spleens?”
“Nay, it strikes fear into the spleens of men!”
Auld Gommy muttered something about idiots, and Robena rubbed her sweaty palms along her plaid-covered thighs for the three-dozenth time that morning.
“I—I dinnae have a weapon.”
“Do ye want one?” Giric asked eagerly, rolling to his feet. “Weesil will lend ye a blade! Or I could cut ye a stout oak branch and ye can bash some heads!”
She grew queasy at the thought, but help came from an unexpected source.
“Leave him alone,” Pudge announced. “Our Robbie is a bard, and he’s coming along to learn the story of today, no’ fight.”
As Giric and Mook teased her, she swallowed and nodded, grateful. Aye, she could handlewatching, could she not?
What if ye dinnae like what ye see?
“So, what do ye think the plan will be?” Giric asked idly.
Auld Gommy was wiping his dagger on his shirt. “It’ll depend what the laird learns. Do ye remember last—nay, two years ago? That crofter with the sweet-looking daughter?”
Giric chuckled knowingly, and Robena’s stomach flipped over again. How could these men, whose company she enjoyed, laugh aboutrape?
Mook’s horse stamped one of its front feet and the big man smiled. “We showed him, for certes.”
St. Kelsi, forgive them.
Auld Gommy was grinning. “Aye, likely took him ‘til winter to get his doors hung back up proper!”
As the rest of them laughed, Robena’s dread slowly turned to confusion. “Doors?” she whispered.
Mook’s horse lowered itself to its knees.
“Aye, doors!” Auld Gommy guffawed. “Mook stole all the pins from ‘em, see? So, no’ only could they no’shutthe doors, the puir bastard would have to have a smith make an entire new set afore he could fix them proper!”
The horse flopped over on its side, and not a single one of them seemed to care.
Robena’s wide-eyed gaze flipped between the men. “What do ye mean,ye took the pins?”
“Och, are ye deaf, lad?” Giric shook his head with a smile. “The MacBain smith was grateful for the metal—he forged them into scythes for the harvest, remember? That was the same raid where we plucked all the herbs from the crofter’s garden and gave them to our healer.”
“Nay, ‘twas a different one, earlier in the season,” Pudge corrected drily. “Thatraid we shaved the puir bastard’s horse’s tail, remember, and the laird had it fashioned into a wig for the chandler’s wife, who was so upset about losing her hair.”
