Not Half Plaid (Bad in Plaid 2)

Epilogue

“Aright, are we in agreement?” Wynda sighed in exasperation as she glared around her chamber. “Can I finally go down to the feast honoring my sister’s marriage?”

The Gray Lady was haughty as always. “Ye have our requirements.”

Wynda lifted one hand and began to check off fingers as she listed. “I promise to return with at least one of Fen’s tarts for the twins.” Of course they couldn’t taste the thing, not anymore, the poor dears, but they liked to look at the sweets. “And I’ll no’ interfere if the Mad Monk finds a vantage point to sneak a look down any bodices.”

From his usual spot in the corner, the ghostly apparition of a long-dead holy man—as portly and cheerful as he’d been in life—lifted a ethereal tankard and laughed happily. Wynda had never heard him say anything, but he was always laughing.

Another finger. “I’ll do my best to ensure nae one bothers The Beast in his corridor.” That specter didn’t have a name, as far as she knew, but he was quite ancient and indistinct. “And Fergus will avoid us altogether. Oh”—one more finger ticked down—“and while I refuse to dance with him or his head, I’ll find a place for Sir Timothy to listen to the music.”

Regally, the apparition of the fine lady glanced around the chamber at the gathered ghosts. “This satisfies us. And yer promise to me?”

Wynda sighed and planted her hands on her hips. “As always, I’ll keep a look out for the latest fashions and hairstyles and relay them to ye, if for some reason one of my clanmembers has suddenly become conscious of her designs or cares whatever the hell people are wearing way down in Scone these days.”

Instead of replying to her sarcasm, The Gray Lady inclined her head. “Acceptable. And in return, I will have another addition to yer manuscript. I haven’t yet described Three Men, One Spoon, have I?”

Even knowing she was late to the celebration, Wynda took a moment to consider. “Um…nay, I would recall that one.”

The ghost nodded. “I thought as much. I recently recalled the evening I entertained several of my husband’s retainers at once, and I think the name appropriate, what with the sharing and the lapping.”

Intrigued despite her desire to get to the great hall, Wynda nodded, imagining the illustrations. “I believe…’twill be a good addition to the manuscript.”

She’d been working on this collection for years, since The Gray Lady had first made her wishes known. The apparition wouldn’t be able to pass on until she felt her knowledge—extensive, sensual knowledge gathered during a lifetime of hedonism—had been shared with the world.

“And will that be the last chapter?” Wynda asked hesitantly, her hands rising to check her braid hadn’t come loose since the wedding ceremony.

A ghost shouldn’t be able to shrug, but the woman managed it. “I dinnae ken. Ye are my scribe. Mayhap I feel I cannae pass on until my scribe has experimented and ensures my knowledge requires nae more edits.”

Wynda froze. “Ye want me to…experiment?”

“With a man, dear,” The Gray Lady said blandly. “Find a man to fook. Try The Clinging Vine first.”

“What? I’m no’ going to—to—” Wynda was embarrassed to discover she was sputtering. She never sputtered. She always knew what she needed to say.

But The Gray Lady was unfazed. “Consider asking Pherson.”

And just like that, Wynda went cold. “Pherson?” she croaked.

“The falconer,” the ghost clarified. “Ye murmur about him in yer sleep.”

St. Tiffani protect her, Wynda spoke in her sleep?

About Pherson?

“And ye listen?” she screeched, beyond aghast.

The Gray Lady just shrugged, that infuriating all-knowing smile on her lips. “I am a hot-blooded woman with needs, lass. Or rather, I was.” She shrugged again, regally, of course. “I understand what ‘tis like to need a man between my legs.”

Wynda gaped at her, not certain which outrage to respond to first.

Sputtering willnae help.

So she took a deep breath and fixed her sternest glare upon her ghostly companion. “First of all, ‘tis rude to listen to someone’s nocturnal mutterings.”

The lady shrugged. “Mostly ye mutter in Latin.”

Thank St. Tiffani.“Ye shouldnae listen,” Wynda reiterated.