Page 26 of Plaid Attitude
Over her shoulder, Coira gave him two thumbs up, which was of course a symbol of approval, based on the ancient gesture St. Dickens the Well-Endowed made upon being offered the arse ends of two sheep.
A warm glow filled Doughall to know that he’d done something correct.
To his surprise, his daughter sniffed again and put her arms around him, which effectively smashed the duck between them.
The animal began to nibble at the hairs on his chest.
Doughall winced. “Sweetheart, do ye mind if I move Madeline? She’s trying to pluck me bald.”
His daughter made a noise halfway between a chuckle and a sob, and shifted until her shoulder was against his chest and she could pull the duck out from between them. “Maddie, be good. Go have some water. Ye’re safe now.”
Meanwhile, Doughall and Coira were having a frantic, silent conversation over her head, using only eyebrows and gestures:
What’s going on?
Trust me, I’ve got it covered.
I deserve to ken, if it involves my daughter!
Aye ye do, ye stupid man, but ‘tis impossible to explain using limited sign language while she’s dealing with a duck!
Fair enough.
Doughall shrugged, just as Bessetta cuddled back up to him again. When was the last time she’d cuddled with him? Mayhap when she was still small enough to sit on his lap.
He exhaled and tightened his hold on her, offering her what love and comfort he could, and exchanged a look with Coira. Whatever was wrong, he would be patient and remind his daughter that she was loved.
After a long moment, Bessetta sniffed. “Da, I’m a woman now.”
Doughall froze, thinking for one terrible moment that Edgar had done something horrible…but then Coira—behind his daughters back—rolled her eyes and pointed emphatically at Bessetta’s arse, then her own hips, then spread her legs and dangled her hand between her legs. She waved it back and forth.
She’d…grown a cock? Doughall narrowed his eyes, trying to understand.
Coira scowled. She placed both fists in front of her pelvis, then opened her hands and dropped them between her thighs, mimicking something flowing…something spilling…
The third time she made the motion—each time more emphatically—Doughall finally understood.
Eeew.
His daughterwasgrowing up.
He cleared his throat and squeezed the lass. “I’m…congratulations?”
“That’s what Coira said,” she sniffled.
His lips twitched. “How are ye feeling? About all this, I mean.”
“Yucky,” his daughter promptly admitted. “Sticky. I dinnae like this. I dinnae likeaught.”
He had to admit he’d likely feel the same way.
Coira propped her elbows on the table. “Ye ken, honey, that’s perfectly normal. I grew up with five younger sisters, remember.”
The lass peeked out from where she’d pressed her face against his chest. “Is it always this yucky?”
Coira sighed and shrugged. “It gets better, just because ye’re used to it. The feelings…Nicola has a theory, did I ever tell ye? She says we have these special feelings that only pop up at certain times of the month, called hormones, andthey’reresponsible for why we get weepy or homicidal or feel the need to eat three fruit tarts all on our own.”
Bessetta was nodding, but Doughall’s brows rose. “Homicidal?”
