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

“Windsong,” Giric announced proudly with a grin as he pushed himself up on his elbows. “It sends arrows straight and true, whistling a deadly song.”

“This one is Lefty,” Auld Gommy announced proudly, sticking the tip of his dagger back between his teeth and patting his hip. “And this is Righty.”

“That sounds…easy to remember,” she acknowledged weakly. When she glanced at Pudge, he raised his brow in challenge.

“Does yer blade have a name?” she ventured.

His frown didn’t change. “Of course no’. ‘Tis silly to name a tool. Widowmaker,” he snorted dismissively.

“Pudge hasnae named his sword, Robbie,” Giric announced, “but the Murrays call it The Scowling Menace.”

As Mook’s horse wandered over, she coughed to hide her chuckle. “That is…fitting. And Weesil? He has so many daggers…?”

“Aye, and every one of them is called Mortal Peril,” Auld Gommy explained. “He says ‘tis easier to keep track of them that way.”

Well, that made sense. “And Kest—I mean, Laird MacBain?” She knew he wore a long sword at his hip and a matching dagger. Did they have names?

Grinning, Giric lowered his voice, as if imparting a great secret. “His dagger is called Blooddrinker.”

Oh. Her eyes widened, having trouble reconciling such a bloodthirsty image with the man she knew. “And his sword?” she whispered.

Giric, Auld Gommy, and Mook all answered together, in an awestruck tone: “Karen.”

She blinked. “That—Karen? He named his sword Karen? What does that signify?” she asked Pudge.

The older man shrugged. “‘Tis just a collection of syllables, Robbie. It doesnae have to mean aught.”

“Nay, but it strikes fear into the hearts of men,” whispered Giric gleefully.

“Aye!” Mook nudged his horse out of the way with an open palm. “And into their spleens as well!”

The handsome man frowned at his friend. “It strikes fear into the hearts of spleens?”

“Nay, it strikes fear into the spleens of men!”

Auld Gommy muttered something about idiots, and Robena rubbed her sweaty palms along her plaid-covered thighs for the three-dozenth time that morning.

“I—I dinnae have a weapon.”

“Do ye want one?” Giric asked eagerly, rolling to his feet. “Weesil will lend ye a blade! Or I could cut ye a stout oak branch and ye can bash some heads!”

She grew queasy at the thought, but help came from an unexpected source.

“Leave him alone,” Pudge announced. “Our Robbie is a bard, and he’s coming along to learn the story of today, no’ fight.”

As Giric and Mook teased her, she swallowed and nodded, grateful. Aye, she could handle watching, could she not?

What if ye dinnae like what ye see?

“So, what do ye think the plan will be?” Giric asked idly.

Auld Gommy was wiping his dagger on his shirt. “It’ll depend what the laird learns. Do ye remember last—nay, two years ago? That crofter with the sweet-looking daughter?”

Giric chuckled knowingly, and Robena’s stomach flipped over again. How could these men, whose company she enjoyed, laugh about rape?

Mook’s horse stamped one of its front feet and the big man smiled. “We showed him, for certes.”

St. Kelsi, forgive them.