Don't Give A Damn About My Plaid Reputation (Bad in Plaid 4)

Auld Gommy sniffed haughtily and pushed himself to his feet. “Well, ye apologize prettily, I’ll give ye that.”

Pudge held up his hand for silence. “The laird’s returning. I recognize those hoofbeats.”

Sure enough, a few minutes later Kester and Weesil rode into their clearing. Their legs, and most of their horses, were dripping wet. The man she loved was wearing an easy smile, and ‘twas easy to imagine him already planning their mischief.

“What’d ye learn, laird?” Giric called.

“Plenty of pickings, lads!” Kester swung down. “All is well here?”

Giric jerked a thumb at Mook who was crouched over his mount. “Ignore the beastie. He’s no’ dead, just lazy.”

“Who, Mook?” asked Weesil, sliding out of his saddle as well.

“No’ Mook, the hor—och, ye’re teasing.” Giric rolled his eyes. “Are ye going to tell us the plan, or do we have to drag it out of ye?”

Weesil shot a glance around the circle of men, all of whom had clustered around, with the exception of Robena. “I’ll let the laird explain, assuming we can drag Robbie away from his nice soft rock.”

“‘Tis a boulder,” she mumbled. “And I’m just observing this raid. No’ participating.”

“He’s right,” Kester declared with a nod. “I’ll no’ have Robbie placed in danger.” When more than one of his men raised a brow at that declaration, he didn’t do anything as crass as fluster, but did clear his throat. “The lad is competing in a few days. We cannae risk his future.”

“Aright,” growled Pudge. “What’s the plan?”

Kester jerked his attention to Weesil, then moved across the clearing. As the rest of the men shifted their attention to the smaller man, Kester crossed his arms and leaned his hip against the boulder where Robena sat.

Weesil’s grin was much broader than one she normally saw on the small man. “Ye remember the patch of blackberries we passed? We found a shepherd’s hut. There’s two men, but we were able to sneak in. There’s some supplies there, an empty vat and….” He gestured them all to lean in. “A jug of vinegar!” he finished triumphantly.

Pudge rolled his eyes as Giric whooped happily. “Sheep again, aye?”

“What?” rumbled Mook.

Auld Gommy was chuckling. “If we have enough time with the beasties, we can ruin their market sales this autumn! Gray wool is harder to sell!”

“Even better,” Kester interrupted with a boyish grin. “If they have to take gray wool to market, we can buy it at a reduced price. Our people will be warm—for cheap!—this winter. Assuming they dinnae all mind wearing gray.”

“We’ll ruin ‘em with capitalism!” cackled Auld Gommy.

Mook was glancing back and forth. “What?”

“I’m thinking ‘twill take two groups—one to gather the berries and make the dye, and one to round up the sheep,” Kester explained. “I’ll take Pudge and Auld Gommy—since the pair of ye are shite with live animals—and we’ll start with the—“

“What are ye talking about?” demanded Mook.

Giric took pity on him and patted the large man’s upper arm. “We’re dyeing the sheep.”

“We’re killing sheep?” Mook sounded aghast and Robena turned her head to hide her snort of laughter.

“Nay, ye dumb shite,” growled Pudge. “Dyeing ‘em.”

“I dinnae want to make sheep die!” wailed the large man.

Kester didn’t bother hiding his smile when he called out, “Coloring their wool, Mook. That’s the plan.”

“Och, then why did ye no’ start with that?” Mook shook his head at Pudge. “Going on about killing puir wee beasties.”

“This from the man who can eat a side of mutton by himself,” murmured Kester, and Robena pressed her palm to her mouth—and her mustache—to hide her chortles.

“The shepherds will be a problem,” Giric mused. “Especially since we’ll need to be there a while.”