Page 3 of Plaid Attitude
“Och, nay. He says ‘tis unnatural foranyoneto wear tubes around their legs like that. Of course, he said he doesnae mindyewearing braies so much, because it does wonders for yer arse, but he’s no’ about to let someone look atmyarse, no’ even Edgar. So, Da offered me one of his auld kilts to wear while I sparred, if I thought ‘twould be easier.”
Edgar? Who was Edgar?
Forget Edgar! Doughall is looking at yer arse!
And he’d…offered his daughter a kilt? Hesitantly, Coira swallowed. Trying to sound nonchalant, she kept her attention on her blade as she asked, “And how does yer father feel about ye sparring with me? Disapproves, I assume?”
Bessetta snorted, and her coo echoed the sound. “Nay, the opposite. He told me ye’d be my best teacher, because ye began yer training at my age, and ye’d understand how a woman’s body balances,et cetera.” She pushed herself upright again. “I told him I didnae ken whatet ceterameant, and he told me to study my Latin as hard as I study the blade. I told him Latin was less useful, and then I stole his cheese and ran off while he was sputtering.”
Coira wasn’t paying attention to the lass’s ramblings.
Her initial irritation to learn shehadn’tpissed off Doughall by teaching his daughter the ways of the sword was quickly eclipsed by sheer confusion and secret—verra, verra secret—delight.
He’d praised her? He’d sent Bessetta to her to learn because he thought she’d be the best teacher for his daughter?
It was…well, she wasn’t sure how she felt about learning this, and she didn’t like being confused. It was much easier to be angry.
Mayhap ye could be angry about being confused.
Aye, that would work.
And ‘tis all his fault!
Aye, good, now she was angry, as she was supposed to be.
Because if she couldn’t be angry about this shite, she’d have to cry. Right?
“Coira, my thanks again for making the time for me today.”
Shaking her head, Coira tugged the tie loose from the end of her braid and began to rework the plait. “I needed a break. This morning, my mother brought me a seating chart for the celebration.”
Bessetta blinked. “A seating chart? As in…?”
“A diagram of where everyone should sit in the great hall.” Coira’s fingers flew, trying to capture the damp hairs which had floated around her face. “As if the clan couldnae just find themselves seats, as we’ve done every Easter feast.”
Chuckling, the girl scratched at the coo’s hairy ears. “And what was her plan? To post the seating chart at the entrance? So we would all ken where to sit?”
“She wanted me tonumberthetables. I told her the idea was ridiculous. She got mad and left in a huff.”
Rebecca mooed.
“Aye, love, ‘tis better than leaving in a pair of huffs,” Bessetta quipped. “Ye shouldnae be so rude to yer mother, milady.”
Scowling, Coira pulled the leather thong from between her teeth and tied the end of her braid. “Andyeshouldnae criticize yer elders. Mother’s no’ as bad as she used to be last year, aye, but she can still be…too much.At times.”
At least she wasn’t constantly dying of some imaginary ailment anymore. When Nicola—Coira’s next-eldest sister and the clan’s healer—had married and moved away at the end of last summer, they’d all worried Mother would keel over from Wandering Bladder or Autumn Tetanus within the fortnight.
Instead, she’d rallied and surprised them all by focusing—as obsessively as Da—on the coming grandbairns.
Which still had not arrived.
“At least ye have a mother,” murmured Bessetta.
And Coira felt like a worm. “Och, I’m sorry, lass.” In two strides, she was across the room and had thrown her arm around the girl’s shoulder. “I keep forgetting how young ye were when ye lost yer mother. But yer da’s done right by ye, eh?”
Her parents hadn’t been married, as Coira recalled, but that hadn’t stopped Doughall from understanding his responsibility.
“Aye!” Bessetta brightened. “He’s the best da in the world, no offense.”
