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

Auld Gommy was grinning. “Aye, likely took him ‘til winter to get his doors hung back up proper!”

As the rest of them laughed, Robena’s dread slowly turned to confusion. “Doors?” she whispered.

Mook’s horse lowered itself to its knees.

“Aye, doors!” Auld Gommy guffawed. “Mook stole all the pins from ‘em, see? So, no’ only could they no’ shut the doors, the puir bastard would have to have a smith make an entire new set afore he could fix them proper!”

The horse flopped over on its side, and not a single one of them seemed to care.

Robena’s wide-eyed gaze flipped between the men. “What do ye mean, ye took the pins?”

“Och, are ye deaf, lad?” Giric shook his head with a smile. “The MacBain smith was grateful for the metal—he forged them into scythes for the harvest, remember? That was the same raid where we plucked all the herbs from the crofter’s garden and gave them to our healer.”

“Nay, ‘twas a different one, earlier in the season,” Pudge corrected drily. “That raid we shaved the puir bastard’s horse’s tail, remember, and the laird had it fashioned into a wig for the chandler’s wife, who was so upset about losing her hair.”

“Och, aye! The crofter thought we were going to kill his beastie! He was so scared he was ready to shite himself!” Giric guffawed, slapping at his thigh. “And then we sheared his sheep!”

Robena hesitated. “Ye…stole his sheep?” There hadn’t been any rape and murder?

But Auld Gommy shook his head. “Nay, lad, we just sheared them. A few weeks early! Stole all the wool and it kept the MacBains warm all winter long!”

Pudge offered, “We’ve stolen goats afore, though. Do ye ken how hard ‘tis to herd goats?”

“Impossible!” hooted Giric.

“Only about half of them made it back to restock our herds,” Auld Gommy corrected. “The rest wandered off, because Mook is shite at keeping track of goats. Remember the time we plucked the chickens?”

“Och, aye, and stuffed the feathers into pillows.” Pudge finally cracked a smile. “And it turned out Weesil was allergic to chicken feathers.”

The rest of the men roared with laughter and Robena slowly sank onto a boulder.

Plucking chickens? Stealing wool? Shaving a horse?

“That’s…. Ye just cause mischief?” she clarified weakly.

Giric slapped her back, causing her to pitch forward. “Do we ever! We’ve made life hell for the Murrays who dare to claim Kester’s Meadow as their own! And we will until it belongs to the MacBains once more!”

As it will once Kester marries Lady Elspeth.

Robena didn’t miss the fact that every bit of mischief these men caused somehow benefitted the MacBains.

“Leave the lad alone,” admonished Pudge. “Robbie expected us to be murdering people, stealing cattle, and burning crops, I expect.”

She swallowed, and when all the men turned astonished gazes at her, managed a weak shrug. “Ye said reaving.”

“Aye!” Giric slammed a palm to his chest. “No’ murdering!”

Mook nudged his horse with his boot, sounding forlorn when he asked, “What would I do with cattle? I cannae even keep one animal moving.”

Auld Gommy spat. “And burning crops is a waste of food and fire.”

“Kester’s Meadow will be ours again soon,” Pudge pointed out. “‘Twould be stupid to burn it or damage the herds it supports.”

“Honestly, lad, who raised ye?” Auld Gommy shook his head in despair. “Ye have a horrible definition of mischief.”

Or they had a horrible definition of reaving.

But they’d become her friends and she’d hurt them, so she offered a sincere look when she said, “I’m sorry I offended ye. Thank ye for taking the time to explain.”