Not Half Plaid (Bad in Plaid 2)

His eyes, a beautiful stormy gray, went directly to Wynda and held her gaze. And then one corner of his lips tugged upward in that wry little half-smile he sometimes did which made him look as if he were laughing at himself…and Wynda didn’t have to worry about hyperventilating, because now it appeared she’d forgotten how to breathe altogether.

This is really fooking unfortunate. Come along, lungs, ye’ve been doing this for more than twenty years!

“Hello!” Robena declared cheerfully. “I’m Robena, Wynda’s sister.”

Pherson’s gaze moved to hers—which was handy, because it allowed Wynda to finally suck in a breath—and he inclined his head.

“Ye’re the musician.”

“That’s right!” Robena beamed, obviously pleased to be remembered. “And I was supposed to be Wynda’s chaperone today, but she’s made it clear she’d much rather be alone with ye.”

Wynda made a little choking noise as his amused gaze flicked back to her.

“Anyhow, here ye are.” Robena held out her scrolls to Pherson. When he took them, she handed the slate to wee Wren. “Be good, all of ye. I’m off to see a man about some catgut.”

She turned on her heel and marched away.

And suddenly Wynda found herself the center of attention. “Little sisters, huh? Ye cannae live with them sometimes,” she finished weakly.

Wren cocked her head as she stared after Robena, as if wondering what it’d be like to have a younger sister.

Pherson shrugged. “I wouldnae ken. I was an only child. What did she mean about catgut? Was that a euphemism? It sounded like one.”

“With Robena, ‘tis hard to ken,” Wynda admitted with a sigh.

It wasn’t until Wren waved to get her attention, then lifted the hem of her simple wool dress, that Wynda shook herself from her reverie.

“Oh, of course! Let us get to measuring. I have rather a lot of notes to take, and I wanted to show ye some of the designs I came up with yesterday. I’ll ken more after I take the shape of the—“ She winced. “I’m blathering again.”

Pherson slowly smiled. “I dinnae mind yer blathering. Neither does Wren.”

The lassie tapped her forehead, and her father nodded.

“Aye, ye’re intelligent and interesting, and a pleasure to listen to. Come in.”

Wynda clutched her implements to her chest and followed him in a daze.

Intelligent, interesting, and a pleasure to listen to.

No one—no man, in particular—had ever said anything half as wonderful to her before.

If she hadn’t been half in love with the man already, she was now.

* * *

Pherson was wellaware of the humble condition of his cottage as he propped open the door to let in more light. With all the windows open, it was pleasant, and more than fit his needs. More than he’d been raised with, for certes.

But now he tried to look at it through the eyes of a fancy lady like Wynda. Despite the fact he and Wren had spent the morning cleaning, he saw the uneven floor—part dirt, part flagstone—and the mantel which was propped up on one side. He saw the mismatched serving ware stored atop that mantel, and the cheap tallow candles they used in the evenings.

The bed was tucked in the corner, behind a screen, and while the mattress was clean and well-stuffed, the blankets atop it weren’t the finely embroidered counterpanes a lady like her would be accustomed to.

Even now, she stood in the center of the small space, clutching her scrolls and vellum and whatever arcane implements she’d brought along, and gazed about. He didn’t like the sour feeling in his stomach at the thought of her judgement.

“ ‘Tis simple,” he found himself offering. “Likely far more humble than ye are used to—“

“Nay!” She whirled, then offered him a shy smile. “ ‘Tis…perfect. I was thinking how warm and cozy it must be in the winter, and how, if I had a home like this, I would move my desk under that window there, to catch the morning sunshine.”

The thought of her sitting in front of that window didn’t help his sour stomach at all. He settled his palms against the hilts of his daggers at his back, the familiarity grounding him.