Ye Give Love A Plaid Name (Bad in Plaid 3)

Who had screamed, thrown an inkwell, and was now arguing with ghosts.

With another sigh, Wynda pinched the bridge of her nose again. “Ye cannae see them or hear them, can ye?” she asked from behind her palm.

Mute, Robena shook her head.

St. Tiffani protect me. She must look like an idiot.

“All of ye, go away,” she growled. Then to her sister. “Nay, no’ ye. Just them.”

When she peeked again, Sir Timothy and the Mad Monk had disappeared, but the Gray Lady was impatiently tapping her toe. “Ye too.”

The ghost merely shook her veiled head. “I made a dramatic announcement and ye ignored me.”

Wynda tapped her lower lip, recalling the previous few moments’ conversation, then brightened. “Ye said ye were ready to pass on!”

Solemnly, the Gray Lady nodded. “My goal was to share my knowledge with the world, through ye, my disciple. I have one more position to share with ye, but prior to that, I have a simple request.”

Even knowing Robena was trying to pretend it was perfectly normal for Wynda to argue with a wall, this was far more important than what her sister thought of her. Wynda clasped her hands in front of her and gave her ghostly mentor her full attention.

“What is the request?” She’d agree to anything, if it meant getting rid of—I mean, helping the Gray Lady pass on to the next life.

Aye, ‘twas that.

The spectre took her time clearing her throat, adjusting her ancient gown, and then raised her chin. “Ye are my disciple, dear. Before I go, I have to ken ye understand my work.”

“I do!” Wynda couldn’t help the blush that climbed her cheeks, suddenly aware her younger sister was listening. “I—I do understand, even if I havenae…personally…um.”

“Um, indeed.” The Gray Lady sent an amused glance toward Robena, who—judging from the jarring chords she was playing—was paying more attention to what Wynda was desperately trying not to say. “Ye havenae personally ummed afore, and therefore I cannae trust ye truly understand my teachings.”

“Ye want me to—to—“ Wynda spluttered. “There are ninety-nine positions in The Harlot’s Guide! Ye cannae expect me to—to—Where would I find a willing sheep?” She shook her head. “Or three dozen oysters at this time of year?” Remembering page sixty-three, she threw up her hands, “Or five cobblers, three milkmaids, and a fishmonger? I dinnae even ken where to find that many dogcarts!”

Across the room, Robena sounded as if she were choking.

But the Gray Lady remained unruffled. “I dinnae need for ye to recreate every position, dear. That would make ye the harlot, and I cannae give up my title. Nay, I just need ye to experience pleasure.”

“I…” Wynda knew her cheeks were bright red as she lowered her voice so Robena couldn’t hear. “I’ve experienced pleasure,” she hissed.

“No’ beneath the blankets with yer own hand, dear. With a man. I want ye to find a man to show ye real pleasure. Or, ye ken what? A woman—I dinnae judge. Find someone to give ye pleasure, show ye how much better it can be with another person—or three.”

“Ye want me to find a lover?”

And why, oh why, did her treacherous heart immediately conjure the image of a shirtless Pherson, his skin bronzed and his gorgeous arms reaching for her?

And why did her core clench at that thought?

Because ye’ve been considering The Clinging Vineand The Invasion of Brussels with the dogcarts…

Nay, it was because she’d been thinking of him constantly since that day she’d spent with him and little Wren, learning so much. She’d thought of him as she designed Wren’s new boot, she thought of him whenever her heart began to pound when she glimpsed a tall man, she thought of him at each meal, wondering if he helped provide the meat she was eating.

And she’d thought of him each night, beneath the covers, when her fingers tried to assuage the ache in her core.

The Gray Lady was smiling as she began to fade, as if she heard Wynda’s thoughts. “I want ye to find a lover,” she agreed. “And soon.”

“Oh, shite.”

As the ghost disappeared, there was a discordant twang from the other side of the room and Robena jumped to her feet. “Well, I’m going down to the great hall. Now. Away from here. Ye can—“ Her hand flopped about uselessly, trying to encompass the whole room. “Do yer…thing.”

“Talk to ghosts, or find a lover?” Wynda asked dryly. Before Robena could answer, she shook her head. “Never mind. I’m hungry, too. Let us find some distraction. Mayhap Fen and Brodie have finally agreed on the proper seasoning for carrots.”