Page 38 of Plaid Attitude
Almost a fortnight had passedsince that horrible, wonderful Easter, and much had changed in Oliphant Castle.
The laird was still clinging to life, and each time Doughall visited him—not to report or to discuss clan business, but as a friend—the old man appeared stronger. His wife, who’d always struck Doughall as a bit flighty and too obsessed with appearances, had surprised everyone by refusing to leave her husband’s side, spending long hours spooning broth between his lips and making him chuckle feebly.
Lady Nicola was finally catching up on her sleep, after spending the first sennight by her father’s side nearly night and day. She gave daily reports to Coira, who in turn spread the news to the clan, that the laird was improving, but required complete peace.
In fact, the last time Doughall had been to visit the old man, he’d been sitting at a table in his chamber, reading a treatise on the ancient Greeks’ method of government.
He’d been mumbling to himself about carrots, so Doughall was confident he was returning to normal.
Whatwasn’treturning to normal was the life around him.
Thanks to Wynda’s letters, Laird and Lady McClure, and Laird and Lady MacBain had hurried to Oliphant Castle as quickly as they could, arriving only yesterday. Now all six sisters and their husbands were gathered in one place.
Five husbands. Because ye made a complete botch of yer proposal to Coira.
Who the fook proposed marriage in such an asinine way?
Granted, he’d been reeling from the indescribable pleasure he’d felt from finally—finally—joining with Coira…and granted, he’d let his tongue run away with what was in his heart, without really thinking it through… But she’dcried. He’d made her cry with his proposal of marriage!
Panting, Doughall hefted his sword higher to counter his opponent’s blow, then turned his frustration into an attack which caught the other man unawares.
Sometimes ‘twas easier to let his mind drift while sparring like this, knowing years of practice would keep his body safe.
Besides, his body needed a bit of a battering, after the way he’d tortured it this last fortnight.
By St. Berthwald’s earlobe! Making love to Coira had been one of the most incredible experiences of his life! They’d slept very little that night, and he’d showed her all the ways a man could make a woman feel pleasure. Hellfire, she’d shownhima few ways, thanks to her sister’s book!
But then… Before the sun rose, he’d kissed her gently, dressed himself, and slipped from her chamber, hating the fact that he felt like a criminal stealing away. If she’d been amenable to his proposal of marriage—if she’d understood it!—he wouldn’t have to sneak about.
Since that morning, Coira had treated him…differently.
She blushed when he was near. She couldn’t meet his eyes when they discussed even the most mundane aspects of clan business.
And there were no more kisses, no more casual touches.
He hated it, hated everything about it.
Hated that he couldn’t stop thinking about her, about how foolish he’d been. Hated that he spent every night staring at the ceiling in frustration, before finally taking himself in hand and practicing the World’s Quietest Masturbation Techniques ™.
With Bessetta sleeping on a pallet across the way—with her geese and cats and that scruffy three-legged dog she’d just rescued—it was necessary.
His daughter had been cool to him during the last fortnight as well, and if Doughall’d had enough energy to worry about that, he might’ve wondered why. He couldn’t recall doing aught to piss her off, but when it came to women, he was obviously severely lacking in understanding, so what the fook did he know?
His opponent surprised him by whirling and coming in from the right, so Doughall grunted and dropped to one knee to block a blow that would’ve taken out his thigh. From this position, it was possible—although not easy—to shift his weight and strike out with his leg, aiming to sweep the other man’s feet out from under him.
“God’s Wounds, Dougie! Ye fight dirty!” Barclay called, dancing backwards, his attack forgotten.
“Dinnae call me that.” Lips curled grimly, Doughall rose once more, wincing at the way his knee popped. “I’m getting too auld for this shite.”
“Never say so!” his cousin declared with a comical gasp, as he lifted his blade. “Want another go, auld man?”
Snorting, Doughall shook his head. “Nay, I’m too distracted.” He ran his hand through his hair, wondering if it was time for his spring haircut.
“Well then, I’m going to get cleaned up. Maggie doesnae love the way I smell, for some reason.”
And that was another surprise; Barclay hadn’t returned to Scone after Easter.
Doughall didn’t mind, because he enjoyed his cousin’s company. The charmer was a favorite of the lasses who worked above the tavern, and he’d finally managed to woo one of them into exclusivity.
