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

His wife was acting like a madwoman, yelling at an empty space.

His wife was not a madwoman.

Therefore…’twas it possible there was something he couldn’t see?

Pherson leaned closer, his eyes narrowing.

Now that he considered it, the empty spot between Wynda and the bed curtains was exceptionally empty. Like…emptier than it ought to be.

Great. Now ye sound like a madwoman. Man. Whatever.

Wynda’s demeanor had changed; her expression softened and her hands fell at her sides. “Are ye certain?” she asked hesitantly. “I mean, I think ‘tis for the best, but…” She sighed. “Despite the complaints about yer nagging and the lack of privacy, ye ken I’ve valued yer company over the years.”

Pherson stepped toward her. “Love?”

She startled, then smiled sheepishly. “Ye cannae see her, can ye?”

Her? He glanced at the empty spot. “ ‘Tis…the Gray Lady?”

She nodded almost sadly. “She says now her work’s done. She’s dictated her teachings to me, and I’ve promised to share the manuscript with other young ladies so they’ll learn about the art of pleasure.”

They’d spoken of this afore. “And now she’s ready to move on?”

“Aye.” Wynda offered a soft smile to the empty space. “I’m pleased, but I’ll miss ye.”

Pherson cleared his throat and stepped toward the bed. Although he had nae idea what he was doing, or where the ghost was standing—floating? Hovering? Bobbing?—he had to try. With one hand on his chest, he sketched an awkward bow.

To the bed curtains.

“Thank ye for sharing yer knowledge, milady,” he said stiffly, formally. “I will help my wife ensure ‘tis passed on. And I will endeavor to help her practice, so she might perfect each position.”

Hell, once they were both dead and buried, mayhap this would be a legacy to leave behind.

Coital positions.

Well, there were worse reasons to be remembered.

Mayhap he could help come up with some new ones. He had a few ideas already.

Wynda was smiling when she nodded. “Aye, he’s a sweetheart.” She winked at Pherson. “She says she likes ye, and thinks I chose well.”

“Ye did,” he solemnly agreed, feeling like an idiot.

With another sigh, Wynda waved. “Go, Gray Lady. Be at peace.”

Her fingers twitched almost sadly, and after a long moment, she exhaled. “She’s gone,” she whispered to him.

Pherson stepped up beside her and snaked his arm—it really was healing beautifully—around her waist. “How do ye feel?”

With a happy sigh, she turned in his arms. “Did ye mean it? Ye’ll help me practice and perfect everything?”

“Aye love,” he drawled. “Everything. Except mayhap Three Men, One Spoon.”

With a giggle, she nodded. “No’ yet. I suspect ‘twill take me at least a decade of marriage to get bored of ye. On our tenth anniversary, however, dinnae be surprised if I invite two of yer friends over for some fun. If one cock is nice, three of them—“

She bit her words off with a squeal when he growled and spun her around, pulling her flush against him as he crossed his arms in front of her chest and filled his palms with her tits.

“Ye’re mine, wife,” he snarled. “These are mine, yer heart is mine! I’ll no’ share—“