Don't Give A Damn About My Plaid Reputation (Bad in Plaid 4)

Well, it wasn’t a shout, but he seemed as incapable of modulating his volume as Weesil…just in the opposite direction.

“What do ye mean?” growled Pudge, kneeing his horse into a trot to catch up with Mook, who had extended a long arm toward a thicket by a bend in the path.

“Ambush, Laird?” murmured Weesil, his hands dropping to one of the dozen knives strapped to various belts.

Kester held up a hand to halt his man from pulling a blade. With the number of them, ‘twas more likely Weesil would stab himself or slice off a pertinent article of clothing.

And having seen Weesil’s naked backside once—Kester shuddered, remembering that particularly strange reaving adventure last autumn—there was no need to see it again.

“Hold. We’ll see what Pudge finds.”

Still, Kester’s hand dropped to his sword’s hilt as well.

Just in case.

A man didn’t spend four years fighting a slash-and-grab feud with the Murrays and not expect trouble, even this far onto an ally’s land.

From up ahead, Pudge growled, “Who in the fook are ye?” at the same time Mook bellowed, “Hello, pretty lad!”

Giric’s horse jumped forward. Mayhap the animal was just twitchy, or mayhap the warrior wanted a look at whomever Mook would call “pretty lad”.

Auld Gommy had also pushed forward, but now he clucked at his horse to step out of the way, because the path had become crowded as a seventh animal stepped from the other side of the thicket.

Kester had heard of people describing their jaws as dropping but had never actually experienced it…until that moment.

“Well, hello lad,” Gommy cackled. “Are ye lost?”

“Dinnae be stupid, auld man,” Giric announced with a toss of his head. “He’s wearing the Oliphant plaid, is he no’? ‘Tis one of the warriors his laird is sending to the Games. He must’ve left afore us and has been waiting.”

Mook waved a hand the size of a side of mutton. “Hello. I’m Mook.”

Weesil shifted forward in his saddle. “I dinnae recognize the lad. Is he alone?”

Since the skinny man never trusted anyone, the rest of the warriors ignored him.

Pudge frowned as he peered closer at the newcomer. “Is Giric right? Yer laird sent ye to tag along with us to the Games? Ye dinnae look like a warrior.”

The newcomer, with cropped auburn curls barely contained by a leather thong, was staring wide-eyed at Kester, likely expecting him to object.

Kester couldn’t, of course, because he couldn’t seem to make his damn voice work.

Finally, the figure shifted in the saddle—there were strange bundles strapped all over, and not a single weapon for protection, the wee dobber—and shook auburn curls at Pudge.

“Nay.” The voice was unnaturally gruff, as if a pretense. “I…I am no’ a warrior. I’ll leave it to the lot of ye to throw shite at each other. I’m a piper.”

“Och, he’s attending the contests!” Gommy burst out. “That makes more sense!”

He?

“I’m hoping ‘tis his instruments strapped to his saddle,” Giric agreed dryly, “and no’ some strange collection of dismembered body parts.”

His?

Pudge clucked his tongue. “Leave it to ye to think of dismembered body parts. The lad’s obviously carrying his instruments. That’s a lute,” he said with a nod.

The lad?

With a snicker, Gommy stroked his beard. “Instruments. Sounds like a metaphor.”