* * *
To Kester’s consternation,she was right.
His men didn’t see her beauty; they saw the dirt she’d rubbed on her cheeks. They didn’t see her curves; they saw the way she handled a horse. They didn’t see her grace; they saw the way she laughed as loud as Mook at one of Giric’s rude jokes.
‘Twas the bloody mustache.
She’d glued a hank of hair—hair she’d chopped off her own head—to her lip, and now his men thought she was a lad.
They were all idiots.
Kester spent the rest of the day stewing. He allowed Pudge and Mook to lead, while he trailed behind. He told himself ‘twas to keep watch for danger and to ensure Robena didn’t wander off the trail…but really ‘twas so he could watch her.
He watched how easily she sat on the horse, how confidently her fingers brushed against her wrapped bundles every so often. He watched her laugh with Giric and tried not to feel jealous when his man slapped her on the back in companionship. He watched her speaking quietly with Auld Gommy until the old man began to chortle.
And he watched how, every few miles, she glanced over her shoulder at Kester.
He tried not to respond to that.
Tried and failed.
Each time she met his eyes his chest tightened a bit, and stayed tight long after she’d turned back around. He found himself looking forward to those glances, wondering—hoping—when they’d come.
Ye’re a glutton for punishment.
Aye, he must be.
But…he felt better with her along. Even if she wasn’t speaking to him, even if she was spitting fire at him with those glances, he felt better with her nearby.
The glutton for punishment thing again.
They made it a good distance that day, and then made camp with the ease of many travels together. These men had been with him for many years—since his father’s passing had made him laird and dropped a load of heaping shite in his lap—and Kester trusted them implicitly.
That didn’t mean he didn’t want to murder Giric when the handsome man slung his arm around Robena’s shoulders, or punch Pudge when the grizzled veteran made her smile about something.
How in the name of fook did these arseholes not see her as a woman? They’d all met Lady Robena Oliphant, the laird’s talented daughter, more than once. But now they were willing to admit she was a lad?
‘Tis the mustache. Verra convincing.
Since they weren’t a’reaving, Auld Gommy set out to make a stew with the leather-wrapped pot he’d dragged along ‘Twas after sundown afore he finally declared the stew simmered long enough, but they had hard bread from the Oliphant kitchens to hold them over.
‘Twas well worth the wait. Even Pudge complimented the chef, which led to Weesil clutching his chest theatrically.
“God above, I must be dying! What’s next, Pudge? Are ye going to smile?”
Even Robena smirked at that.
Otherwise, she sat quietly, clearly unused to the wilderness after dark. The way she sat—her arms wrapped around her knees and her shoulders hunched toward the fire—made two things very clear:
She wasn’t comfortable with the sounds of the forest, and
She really had no idea how to sit in a kilt.
He tried not to stare at the intriguing shadows behind her heels, knowing if his men noticed, they’d think him ogling a lad’s crotch. But ‘twas difficult. The skin of her legs was smooth and creamy, obviously unused to sunlight…and he’d had his hand on her bare knee earlier.
God’s Blood, no’ this again.
From where he leaned against the trunk of an old oak, outside the fire’s light, Kester watched her and tried to convince his cock not to respond. He wanted her, aye, but he couldn’t have her. He didn’t want to hurt her like that.