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

She could understand why Laird Murray wanted to make peace with this man. The MacBain led a fine band of warriors, but they were an annoyance. As Pudge had pointed out, they could do much worse, but why would they if they planned on claiming the land for themselves?

Was it any wonder her smile was a bit sad when she told the man she loved, “I’ll no’ deny ye one last time to make trouble for Laird Murray, Kester. As ye said, it’ll be fun.”

Something flickered in his blue eyes, and he reached for her…only to stop himself and scrub his hands across his face as if he’d meant to do that all along.

The men were beginning to mount up, calling taunts and instructions back and forth. Mook was cajoling his horse into gaining its feet, and Giric gave Auld Gommy a lift into the saddle.

Kester blew out a breath. “Aye, Robbie,” he finally said without looking at her. “Let us enjoy what time we have, eh?”

‘Twas…interesting, riding in the midst of what she could only call a war party. Aye, she knew the MacBains weren’t heading to battle—not really. But they were silent and swift, their horses well-trained and their senses on high alert.

Even Auld Gommy, who was practicing his lines—“Och, sirrah, what strong arms ye have! Nay, higher. What strong arms ye have!Can I touch them? Teehee.”—did so under his breath. The rest of them were focused on their surroundings, more than a few hands resting on the hilts of swords.

They met with no Murrays on the way to the river.

Robena could hear the rushing water, but couldn’t see it, when Pudge lifted a fist, calling for a halt. She was boxed in on all sides by the warriors, as if by unspoken agreement to protect the youngest of their party.

After at least five minutes of peering out from the covering shadows of their forest, the grizzled veteran made a sweeping gesture with his hand to catch their attention. He held up three fingers, then knocked his fists against each other then pointed at his left eye. He gave one firm nod, tugged on his left earlobe, then tapped his left thumb against the inside of his right wrist. Finally, he placed his two fists beside each other, and made a breaking motion.

They stared at him.

Pudge stared back expectantly.

Finally, Mook whispered, “What?”

His brows lowering and his countenance darkening, Pudge repeated the entire pantomime, each motion more abrupt, angrier.

When he was through the second time, Mook glanced at Robena and shrugged. “I dinnae understand.”

In a bored voice, Giric—who was sorting through his quiver—said loudly, “He wants us to cross the river two by two and stand watch for the others.”

“Aye,” hissed Pudge. “Only silently.”

“Oooh,” Mook rumbled. “Well, why did ye no’ say that?”

Kester and Weesil crossed first since they’d done it before. Pudge was in charge of timing the rest of their crossings. When the first pair reached the opposite side—the tops of their saddles hadn’t even touched the water—Kester swung down and tossed his reins to Weesil, who led the two horses to cover.

Kester crouched on the riverbank, his gaze intense, and gestured silently for Giric and Auld Gommy to cross.

Pudge cursed about things not going to plan but sent the second pair across. Kester pointed them toward where Weesil was hiding, then waved to Mook and Robena.

“Ye ready, Robbie? Keep yer feet up, and ye’ll no’ have to spend the day in wet boots,” the giant advised quietly as they urged their horses into the torrent, secure in the knowledge that Pudge was watching for trouble behind, and the rest of the band were ahead of them.

For Robena, ‘twas surprisingly terrifying.

With each step, the horse plunged deeper into the river, the water closing over its knees, then up to its hips. She couldn’t keep her boots out of the water—she couldn’t keep her thighs out of the water. Mayhap ‘twas because she was so much smaller than the men…whatever the reason, the rushing water pushed and tugged at her legs and kilt, threatening to tear her from her horse.

She had to just trust in the animal and keep faith in Kester.

Across the torrent, she locked eyes with him. His mouth was moving, but if he was saying something, she couldn’t hear him over the roar of the river. Ahead of her, Mook showed no signs of trouble, and she tried to emulate his ease as she kept her focus on the man she loved, and safety.

Aye, she could do this.

The water reached above her horse’s shoulders, and the animal made a nervous sound and stepped sideways. Unable to help him, she just tightened her hands on the reins and prayed she wasn’t making this worse.

The water from upstream was slamming into her right hip now, crashing over the saddle as she fought to stay seated. Her kilt was soaked, her shirt was soaked, her—

A sudden, terrible thought had her twisting in the saddle. Her lute! Her pipes.