Not Half Plaid (Bad in Plaid 2)

Chapter 1

The three sistersstared down at the man lying on the packed dirt of the village square.

“What units do ye think we should use to measure him?” Wynda mused, holding her thumb at arm’s length in front of the body. “Inches? Feet?”

Robena peered at the size of his biceps. “Furlongs. Miles.”

Fenella rolled her eyes and shifted her weight so that the slate board Wynda had requested she bring from the castle kitchens was propped on her hip. “Cucumbers. Carrots.” What other foods were long and skinny? “Leeks.”

“We’re no’ measuring his bits in leeks, Fen,” muttered Robena. “Must ye always think of everything in regard to vegetables?”

“Nay,” Fen shot back. “I prefer to think everything in terms of baked goods, but there isnae as many which can be used as a basis of measurement.”

“Neither can vegetables,” spoke up Wynda, still considering the supine form. “Units of measurements should be universal, and cucumbers are no’ universal. Few people ken of them in fact, especially here in the Highlands in this century. One might even say ‘tis historically inaccurate to include them at all.”

This was ridiculous. “I cannae believe ye dragged me from my kitchens to make me a part of this,” Fen huffed.

“Oh hush,” Wynda scolded, then bent at the waist, her hands on her knees, still studying the man, even as she spoke to her sister. “Ye have the best handwriting, besides myself, and my hands will be busy.”

She then pulled a length of string from the pocket at her hip and hummed thoughtfully.

“Where should we start?” she asked no one in particular.

“His nose,” blurted Robena. When both her sisters turned to gape at her, she shrugged. “When we asked the village ladies what made them think Craig was so handsome, they all mentioned his nose.”

Wynda nodded. “Seventy-eight percent said that; ye’re right. No’ all, but enough. We’ll start with his nose then.”

As she bent closer to measure Craig’s nose, the man finally spoke up. “Milady, why am I lying on the ground?”

“Because,” Wynda began, then sighed at having to explain herself, “we cannae reach ye if ye’re standing upright. I swear, ye must be seven feet tall.”

“Ooh, measure his whole length next!” piped up Robena. “We need to be certain. Then he can stand, and we can measure other bits of him.”

“Like his cucumber,” muttered Fen, distractedly, as she readied herself to record her sister’s findings.

Craig was the current Oliphant blacksmith, and she had to admit, the man was huge. And one of the most attractive men in the village if Wynda and Robena’s informal poll of the local women was to be believed. Leave it to Wynda to try to measure a man’s handsomeness with a length of string.

However, Wynda had made the declaration, if she was going to be forced to marry, she’d choose an attractive man…and this was, in her way of thinking, the best way to gauge handsomeness. She did everything with such an intense level of thoroughness, it could be downright alarming at times.

As her scholarly sister called out lengths and widths, Fen jotted them down in chalk, wondering how in the world this information could possibly be archived. Knowing Wynda the way she did though, her sister would likely compile it into a treatise on Units of Attractiveness, once her current project was complete.

Which, seeing as how the Oliphant ghosts were the ones dictating her current project, could take years.

“There, cousin. Ye may stand.”

At Wynda’s gracious command, the blacksmith gave a great sigh and rolled over so that he might push himself back onto his feet.

“Ooh,” murmured Robena, “look at those thighs.”

As Craig found his footing and Robena’s words sunk in, he clutched his kilt firmly around him and glared at her. “Lass, ye shouldnae look at a man’s thighs without his permission.”

But Robena, who dared everything, merely tossed her head and clucked her tongue. “Why no’? Ye think men afford me the same respect?” She cupped her breasts in her palms and lifted them. “Ye’ve never ogled these—these—”

“Melons,” supplied Fen, her attention on her notes. “Bread loaves. Nuts.”

From her place by Craig’s side, Wynda shook her head. “I think, when it comes to food metaphors, nuts can be used more accurately in a different location. Craig, lift yer kilt.”

“What? Why?” the blacksmith blurted, scrambling backwards, clearly out of sorts with this particular trio of the laird’s daughters.