Page 41 of Plaid Attitude
His stomach churned with horror.
His daughter had run off with a lying arsehole because she thought he loved her. Because she thought she loved him.
The latter was much more horrifying.
Breathe. Think.
He couldn’t go rushing off after them with a dozen of his best men, the way he wanted.
Well, hecould. Hecouldcall his warriors and have them galloping after Edgar and Arnold—and Bessetta—within minutes. Hecouldrun down the bastards and lop their heads from their shoulders without breaking a sweat. Hecouldavenge his daughter and his clan.
But would Bessetta forgive him?
She’d gone with Edgar willingly, which meant she cared for him—or thought she did. He couldn’t cut the bastard down without her understandingwhy.
He needed her away from Edgar and Arnold before something worse happened.
Forcing himself to take deep breaths, he admitted the truth. He couldn’t handle this the way he wanted to. The situation called for finesse or he might cause a rift between Bessetta and himself that he could never bridge.
The thought of earning his daughter’s hatred was almost as bad as the thought of her in danger.
Ye ken who ye need.
Aye, he did.
The last time Bessetta had needed advice and comfort, she’d gone to Coira, and Doughall had been grateful for it. His daughter loved Coira and admired her as well.
She’d listen to the laird’s eldest daughter.
Bessetta needed Coira.
Heneeded Coira.
Chapter 8
Coira paced backand forth in front of the large window in the women's solar, allowing the sounds of her sisters'—and their husbands'—conversations to roll over her.
A year ago, she wouldn't have been able to pace like this, but as the laird's daughters had married and moved out of Oliphant Castle, space had opened up. Nicola's large collection of healing herbs and her worktable—where she measured and chopped and muttered to herself—was gone, most of it moved to McIlvain land, and the rest stored in the sickroom down by the kitchens.
Wynda's large desk and all her tomes now had a place of honor in the cottage she shared with Pherson—the clan's falconer—and their sweet and precocious daughter, Wren.
Robena's musical instruments—all of which she played beautifully—had been moved to the MacBain holding, which wasn't large, but with Oliphant and Murray alliances, was growing. Kester's home was full of music and laughter, as Coira understood it.
Fen and Leanna had never taken up much space in the women's solar, but at least Leanna's practical jokes were Kenneth's problems now.
“I'm telling ye!” Her youngest sister's voice rose above the rest. “'Tis bullshite, and hasalwaysbeen bullshite!Tarts!Da's ultimatum is ridiculous, and ye ken it!”
Wynda tapped her finger against her lower lip. “Whybullshite, Leanna? Why no' cow shite or sheep shite? They have similar components, although they look and feel different. Cow shite has similar weight and texture as bull’s. Is there something about the consistency of bull shite which makes it worse?”
Fenella shook her head. “Have ye done a study on shite, then, Wynda? Ye ken for a fact those shites are more or less equal?”
Grinning, Pherson slipped his arm around his wife's middle and rested his chin on her head. “Wynda's done studies oneverything,” he announced proudly. “I wouldnae doubt she kens the consistency of different animal’s shite.”
“It doesnae matter what she's studied,” declared Robena, smirking up at Kester. “Everyone kens the shite from the male of the species is so much worse.”
“Worse?” her husband deadpanned.
Robena grinned. “Smellier.”
