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

“If ye do it again, ye’ll kill me!” He caught that finger, wrapping it in his large hand. “I died, watching ye jump off that cliff, ye mad woman!”

Since he hadn’t lowered his voice, she didn’t either, although she felt ridiculous standing there in the shallows in a soaking wet plaid, with a lassie retching behind her.

She shouted, “Let me make one thing perfectly clear, Kester MacBain! I will always jump off a cliff to save a child! And if ye think I’ll be worried about yer feelings instead of the puir wee bairn when I do it, ye’re mistaken!”

His frown had eased as she’d yelled at him, as had his shoulders. Now, he wasn’t exactly smiling, but he wasn’t frowning, either. With his hand still wrapped around her finger, he lifted it to his lips and brushed one kiss across her fingertip.

“Well then,” he finally said, “I suppose I’ll have to teach ye to swim, aye?”

“Aye!”

And then he was pulling and she was falling toward him, and their arms were around each other and the kiss was desperate, celebrating all they had and all they’d almost lost.

And it went on forever.

Or, at least until the Murrays skidded to a stop in the sand.

“Elspeth!” the old laird huffed, splashing out into the water to scoop up his daughter. “Elspeth, ye complete idiot, why would ye do something so dumb?”

Robena had pulled away enough to watch and opened her mouth to chastise Murray for such an insult…despite having thought the same thing moments ago.

But Laird Murray surprised her.

After bursting out with that harsh critique, he crushed wee Elspeth to his chest, raining kisses upon her crown, cradling her against him as if she were precious to him.

Obviously, she was.

For her part, the lassie was crying, her arms snaking around her father’s neck, neither of them caring she was dripping all over his beard.

With haunted eyes, the laird looked over his daughter’s head at Robena standing in Kester’s arms. He was breathing heavily when he nodded to them.

“We have—have much to say to one another.”

She felt Kester nod.

Murray nodded again, the movement jerky, as if he couldn’t quite understand all that was happening. ‘Twas as if the one thing he could be certain of was his hold on his daughter. He held the lassie as if he’d never let her go.

“Soon,” he managed to say, half-turning away. “I must—Elspeth….”

“Aye, Murray,” Kester said. “We’ll meet ye at yer tent.”

Another nod—more of a jerk of his chin—and Murray splashed toward his waiting men.

* * *

She felt like a drowned rat.

A happy drowned rat.

Kester had saved her. He’d saved her, then he’d kissed her, and in between he’d roared out his love for her for everyone to hear.

Was it any wonder she was clinging to him as he led her through the encampment, one arm thrown around her shoulders?

“Everyone’s staring at ye,” he muttered darkly.

“Aye!” She beamed up at him. “I’m wearing a white shirt, Kester, and ‘tis soaking wet.”

He glanced down at her—or, more accurately, her tits—and with a muted growl, swept her off her feet and clasped her to his chest.