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

“Fook,” he whispered against his skin.

Beneath the terror, beneath the sorrow, his body still thrummed from the joy they’d shared. He’d die being honored Wynda had chosen a nobody like him to be her first… And the thought of her loving again sent a cold spike of pain through him. But at least he could hold onto that certainty.

She’d loved him. As had Wren. And they could be happy together…

Without him.

“Pherson?”

Hope spiked into the middle of his brain as he spun about, at odds with the way his free hand dropped to one dagger hilt. But ‘twas not Wynda who was frowning at him, a basket of herbs in her arms, but her sister, the healer.

She was studying him with her head cocked. “Are ye well? Ye look pale.”

He straightened, dragging his hand through his hair as he nodded, his gaze landing on the man at her side.

The man who wore the same coloring as Nichola and a few of the other sisters. The man who wore a quiver of arrows at his hip and a dagger in his boot.

“I finished with Wren,” Nichola was saying. “She said ye wouldnae mind if she returned to yer home alone, so I sent her off. The boot fits well, and I admit myself impressed at the design and function. Ye and Wynda work well together, and while Wren will never be as fast as other bairns, she’s walking well already.”

Wren was at home.

Good. That was good. That was where he needed to go to find her. Then he’d return.

Because he could guess who this man was, who studied him with a raised brow.

“Should we be concerned with the fact ye’re standing outside my sister’s chambers, yer plaid askew?”

He was her brother. The Hunter.

Nichola clicked her tongue and shifted her basket to the other hip. “Dinnae be nosy. This is Pherson, Wynda’s falconer, the one ye were asking about earlier. Pherson, this is our half-brother, Evander.”

He’d been asking about Pherson?

God’s Blood, why was it so difficult to suck in a full breath of air?

To his surprise, the Hunter grinned crookedly and offered his hand. “I’ve heard much about ye. Well, no’ much, but ye ken how ‘tis.”

“Aye,” Pherson croaked, his gaze on that hand. Was it a trap? Was the Hunter ready to take him already?

No’ before Wren understands. No’ before she’s safe.

It wasn’t until his palm closed around the hilt of his dagger, that he realized he’d reached for them. He forced himself to release them, to breathe.

But he didn’t take the offered hand.

“Please,” he said hoarsely, meeting the other man’s eyes. “Give me an hour.”

Evander’s arm slowly lowered. “What?”

“An hour to make things right,” Pherson croaked. “ ‘Tis all I need. An hour to make—to make Wren understand. My daughter.” She was his daughter, no matter what this Hunter may believe. His heart was pounding desperately now, trying to explain.

Begging.

“I have to be the one to explain to her, so she’ll understand.”

The other man was frowning at him.

“An hour.” God’s Wounds, Pherson knew he was begging, but wasn’t above pleading if it would give him a few more moments with Wren, before he did what was right. “I’ll be back, I swear on my father’s grave. Here, the great hall, wherever ye need me.”