Her sister looked relieved as she snorted. “Unlikely.” But she did glance worriedly over her shoulder, as if checking for ghosts.
Wynda did not.
Find a lover?
Why did she not hate that idea?
When they reached the great hall, it was to find part of her family already gathered on the dais awaiting the meal, and the servants rushing about to set up the other tables and benches for any other clan members and warriors who would be joining them.
It was always chaotic, and although Wynda winced at the lack of logic in such a scene, there was a sense of comfort, as well.
Until Robena stepped in a pile of donkey shite.
“Bill!” her sister screeched, hopping about on one foot. “Who let Bill the Ass wander through here at meal time?” Waving her arms angrily, she stomped off, likely to berate their mother for allowing a donkey in the great hall at all.
Wynda found herself craning her head, looking for a set of stormy gray eyes framed by long dark braids. What would Pherson say if she were to proposition him?
Would he believe that she was only doing it to get rid of her resident pest ghost?
Did she believe herself?
Nae one will believe ye. Ye’re far too eager for the thought of his hands on yer skin.
Fair enough.
Her own family wouldn’t believe her.
Mother was complaining about her latest ailment, which had something to do with her eyebrows. “Now, Nichola, I simply must have more of that delightful ointment ye shared with me!”
The healer sighed as Robena slid onto the bench beside her. “Mother, ‘twas no’ a delightful ointment. ‘Twas beeswax. It ripped all the hair off yer lower leg, remember?”
“Lower leg, hmm,” Da repeated, as always, his gaze a little confused. “So smooth. I liked it.”
Instead of scoffing, Mother winked at Nichola. “ ’Tis why I need more of it.”
Wynda’s older sister clamped her hands over her ears. “I dinnae need to hear of yer exploits, Mother!”
“Exploits, dear?” The older woman pretended confusion. “I’m speaking of my arthritis. ‘Tis acting up.”
“Ye made that word up again,” Nichola muttered.
“Up again, hmm.” Their father had an annoying habit of repeating the last words said. “I’m trying, at least. ‘Tis as the blind man said to the three-legged-dog: I’d as soon be an eel than find a well, eh?”
There was silence as everyone at the table—and a few of the servants—blinked at him, trying to decipher that particular example of stunningly bad metaphor.
“What?” Robena finally blurted. “Da, what are ye saying over there?”
“Hair, hmm,” he repeated with a proud smile. “ ’Twas my point.”
“St. Tiffani’s toes,” Wynda muttered, standing behind Mother. “Now he’s going deaf.”
“Aye, well, it all comes back to the hair, does it no’?” their mother prompted. “I remember the craze when I was younger for lasses to pluck their brows and their hairlines.”
“What in the world for?” Nichola asked.
“Men.” Mother nodded solemnly. “Men find hair unattractive, apparently. Or at least, they did then. Or mayhap I just stopped caring as I got aulder, and my scabby mouth got worse.”
Nichola’s forehead rested on her palm. “That’s a disease sheep get, Mother.”