Not Half Plaid (Bad in Plaid 2)

“Quantify,” Wynda corrected weakly. “And…’tis no’ a bad theory. If Da’s going to make us marry, I just wanted to ken what makes a man attractive.”

Her little sister winked. “And Craig’s arms were attractive enough, aye? But as Fen learned, being attracted to a man doesnae necessarily have to do with the size of his arms. Or his nose. Or even his smile.”

She was right. Wynda squeezed her eyes shut. “I hate when ye suddenly decide to be smart.”

“Och, I’m plenty smart. And talented too.”

She was. Robena could play any instrument and had a voice like an angel. Or at least, the type of angels who participated in the heavenly choir—not those avenging angels. They likely sang like a herd of cattle; or, to be more accurate, like Wynda herself.

But Robena deserved to be performing at court, or at least receiving some kind of recognition for her talent. It galled her that all the competitions were only open to men, and Wynda could understand that.

“Ye are.” With a sigh, Wynda finished collecting her things. “But I’d appreciate it if ye’d stop singing my private business to our sisters.”

With a good-natured smile, Robena stood. “Och, ‘tis what little sisters are for. Besides, all I said was that ye measured all of Craig’s bits and absolutely refused to measure Pherson’s. And blushed mightily—aye, just like that.” She jerked her chin toward the outskirts of the village. “Come along, ‘tis time for ye to finally measure the falconer and see if ye can quantify his attractiveness. I promised a full report to Nichola.”

“I’m no’ measuring Pherson. I agreed to help his daughter. I have to measure her foot, for the brace.”

“Aye,” quipped her sister. “And while ye’re there, ye’ll be measuring him in other ways, I dinnae doubt.”

With another groan, Wynda stumbled after her sister.

Quantify Pherson’s attractiveness?

It had all seemed so simple when she’d proposed her theory to her sisters last month. Surely there was a way to measure a man’s attractiveness? To determine if he’d be a suitable husband? Surely there was a logical way to rate him?

Youth, a well-formed body, wealth, a handsome smile…

But then, Leanna had married a man almost twice her age, and any fool could see they were wildly in love with one another, even as Kenneth had carted her off to his keep to become a respectable lady. Good luck with that.

And then, quiet Fen had fallen in love with a scarred warrior, and the pair of them seemed happy enough down in the kitchens, although sometimes ‘twas difficult to tell if Brodie was ever happy about anything.

So youth and a handsome visage weren’t what made a man attractive. And wealth and power wasn’t either, because, while Pherson was the proper age, and handsome enough, he didn’t control vast wealth or wield great power.

And Wynda absolutely found him attractive.

Inconveniently so.

Whenever she so much as thought about the man, she went warm all over—including those nether bits that the Gray Lady mentioned all the time—and her breathing became labored and liquid heat pooled in her core. And when he’d held her—?

Well, frankly, it had been a minor miracle she’d been able to think at all.

“This is where he lives, aye?” Robena called from up ahead.

The closer they came, the harder Wynda’s heart pounded in her chest.

In many castles, the mews were part of the keep itself, tucked up in the courtyard near the stables. But when Pherson had joined their clan years ago, there’d been no falcons besides the one he’d brought. She’d done her best to appear nonchalant as she’d asked the older servants for information about him, but she’d learned he’d requested a small cottage for himself and his daughter—and his falcon.

So now, he lived near the edge of the village, in a simple cottage which had been divided in half. Where a crofter might stable his animals, Pherson kept a small falconry in the rear.

And aye, Wynda was nervous as hell to see him again, but a part of her—the perpetually curious part—was excited to see the falconry as well.

Looks like ye’re going to get yer way.

Without even pausing to ensure Wynda was ready—and properly breathing—Robena pounded on the door with her free hand.

Nay, nay, no’ yet, I need a minute to get my breathing back to normal! Mayhap twenty minutes. Mayhap an hour. Two, tops.

It swung open almost immediately, a beaming Wren on the other side. She gave a happy wave, and then…Pherson stepped up behind his daughter.