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

Nichola nodded good-naturedly.

“I was planning on leaving anyhow. My work is done.”

Nichola nodded again.

“My leaving this room and traveling to the courtyard has naught to do with yer announcement.”

Nichola nodded a third time. “Ye’ll have to pass by the north wall, and the parapet there.”

“Aye.” Wynda dragged out the word.

“Which has naught to do with what I just told ye.” Nichola kept a straight face. “Because ye’d been planning on taking that route all along. When ye leave. Which is now.”

“Right.” Wynda nodded firmly and gathered her skirts around her. “Goodbye.”

As she marched stiffly from the room, she could hear her sister’s chuckles echoed faintly by ghostly laughter.

Damnation.

Her steps slowed as she reached the north corridor. It wasn’t precisely on her way downstairs, but what would it hurt, to just…sort of take a peek outside? To check the weather, of course.

There were no soldiers patrolling up here, which was logical. The Oliphants were currently at peace with their neighbors, and Coira—and Doughall, the clan’s Commander—had their hands full when it came to assigning other duties to the warriors. Wynda knew that for a fact, because she’d been the one to help her sister draw up training rotations and guard shifts. There were two men on the south wall right now.

But here…here there was no one. Just Wynda, enjoying the feel of the breeze caressing her cheeks as she stepped up to the low wall and inhaled deeply.

What a beautiful summer’s day.

There were flowers in the meadow below. Not the same neat rows of flowers some ancestor planted in the gardens off the kitchen, but the kinds which grew wild all over the Highlands; thistle, heather, bluebells… ‘Twas easy to imagine bees buzzing industrially among them, and Wynda wished she could smell them from up here.

Laughter caught her attention and she sucked in another quick breath as a figure crested the hill. An outrageously tall figure, with four arms and too much hair, running toward the castle.

Unwilling to admit to a slight burst of panic—and a brief moment of wondering if she should flee inside and alert the guards—Wynda told herself to think logically.

She squinted, and the strange figure resolved into something else which caused her to whisper “oh” out loud.

It was a man.

Not just any man, but Pherson.

And he was running with his daughter on his shoulders.

Her arms were held out from her sides, and her head was thrown back, as if she were flying. He laughed, his hands clamped around her ankles as he ducked and wove through the flowers.

“Fly, lassie!” His deep voice drifted up from the meadow, thirty feet below. “Fly, my wee bird.”

Oh.

As Wynda remembered, his daughter didn’t walk well; one foot was misshapen. She couldn’t run, so Pherson was running for her. He’d perched her safely atop his strong shoulders, and was giving her the carefree experience every child ought to have.

Somewhere, deep in Wynda’s middle, her ovaries turned to gelatin.

She swallowed and tightened her hold on the stone wall in front of her. By St. Tiffani’s left earlobe, this seemed… This was all too magical to be true. The gorgeous man with the beautiful heart, the lassie with the huge smile on her face—och, and look, there was even one of Pherson’s hawks, circling above, as if keeping watch over them.

‘Twas something out of a fairytale, for certes. It made no sense.

Ye ken what else isnae logical? The way ye’re panting like a bitch in season. The heat, pooling twixt yer legs. The way yer desire is pounding in yer core.

Wynda squeezed her eyes shut. She did not need those reminders. Not after the Gray Lady’s teasing and Nichola’s forced confession.