Plaid to the Bone (Bad in Plaid 1)

He came to a break in the trees and discovered the streambed. But by now, he could hear what he was certain was the sound of a waterfall—albeit a small one—off to his left. So, without any other clear goal, he slid from his gelding’s back and tied the animal near the stream where it could drink, and set off on foot.

His attention was on the ground, hoping to find some evidence of footprints, when he realized the terrain was getting rockier. And steeper. He was climbing toward the sound of the waterfall.

But when he heard singing, he stopped in his tracks.

In fact, he stopped breathing, every sense on high alert, hoping to catch another trace of that faint sound.

There!

There it was again; a soft song, sung by someone who didn’t know all the words, and who didn’t seem to care her singing voice wasn’t as lovely as some might think it ought to have been.

“‘Twas springtime when I met her, in the merry month of May.

I was camping by the roadside, to escape the heat of the day.

Something-something-hmm-hmmmmmm, something admiring look…”

It was a song Kenneth recognized for its bawdy nature, and although the voice had trailed off—perhaps because this was the part when the anonymous male singer became particularly descriptive—he realized he was holding his breath, waiting for the chorus.

When it didn’t come, he decided he needed to see this singer more than anything. As quiet as possible, he scrambled up the rocks. He hoped his movements would be covered by the sound of the water moving over the rocks.

When he reached the largest boulder, he realized he was at the edge of the pool. Above him, the trees had spread out, leaving sunlight to halo the idyllic scene, where a waterfall—not even as tall as a man—spilled into a waist-deep pool.

And how did Kenneth know it was waist-deep?

He had a very clear measurement as he watched the lass bathe.

She was facing the waterfall, her arms raised as she massaged at her scalp. The gentle swell of her arse was just visible above the surface of the water, and Kenneth wondered, if he were to stand higher, would the water be clear enough to see the details of that smooth skin?

Tilting her head back, she stepped fully under the waterfall, taking the water full on her face, rinsing off. He saw her shiver once—it was amazing how clear his eyesight had become when it came to spying on this delightful treat—and heard something which might’ve been a watery sort of laugh.

And then she turned.

She was smiling as she turned to face him, her eyes closed, and her head still tilted backward. She stepped so that the spill of water just caressed the crown of her head, before spilling down her back, as if sluicing the soap from her hair. But it was her stance—her joy—which left Kenneth breathless.

And his cock as hard as the boulder he leaned against.

Her skin was tanned, as though she spent time here in the sunlight often, and her hair was dark. Her lips, still stretched in an indulgent smile, were a deep pink, which matched the areolas surrounding the stiff nipples of her pert tits. Kenneth’s palms already itched to caress them, to taste them, and see if they were as perfectly ripe as they appeared.

He found himself stretching, desperate to see below the water and find out if her thatch of curls below was the same shade as the wet hair she now shook as she stepped forward, humming.

Humming?

She was standing under a waterfall, bathing? And humming?

Despite the fact most of his blood was currently setting up camp in his cock, years of instinct was screaming at him to be wary. Kenneth shook his head, trying to gain some control of his arousal, while listening to those instincts.

This was…wrong.

The waterfall, the maiden, the humming, the song. They were all things out of a folk song itself. Was it the merry month of May? Kenneth tore his gaze away from the naked woman, trying to recall the month. The folk songs always began in the merry month of May, did they not?

Nay, ‘twas later, well into the summer, but still, this entire scenario was something from a folk song.

Forcing his arousal into some semblance of control, although he was painfully aware of the way his cock was pushed against the wool of his kilt, Kenneth dragged his attention to the trees around the pool. Were there silent watchers there, just waiting for him to fall into a trap?

Trap?

This lovely pool and this beautiful maiden couldn’t be a trap, could they?