She missed him, which was stupid. Only a sennight ago, they were walking together in the gardens, laughing beside one another at meals. Then, those kisses…and he told her the truth; told her he couldn’t be with her because he was betrothed to Lady Elspeth Murray. She’d been heartbroken, but the very next day embarked on this mad scheme.
She hadn’t given herself time to mourn him, and now she was with him every day…except she also wasn’t.
And thinking on it too long will give ye a headache. He made his preferences kenned, and ye have yer music to focus on.
The men were surprisingly supportive of her music. Sometimes, during the ride, Mook would ask her to play her lute. She’d mastered the art of guiding the horse without the use of her hands so she could play for them.
And all of them—even Pudge—offered her praise and appreciation when she played. Sometimes she even sang, pitching her voice as low as she dared without hurting herself in order to sound more like a lad.
After her songs, Weesil would inevitably offer her suggestions for lyrics, and Auld Gommy would holler something crude, and they’d try to yell over one another in their advice on how to improve the songs.
Often, it involved rhymes for “behead” or “eviscerate.” She was coming to learn the MacBains were a cheerfully bloodthirsty lot.
“Anyhow, thank the saints I slid off the horse’s back at that moment, or I’d be missing more of my ear!” Auld Gommy was saying as he leaned sideways in the saddle and lifted part of his beard—or mayhap ‘twas his hair-it all seemed to flow together—to show her the long-healed scar where his lobe used to be.
From ahead of them, Pudge called back, “Why the fook were ye no’ in a saddle, auld man?”
“They hadnae been invented yet!” quipped Giric before Gommy could respond. “I’m surprised they had horses.”
“Och, well, I said horse,” agreed Auld Gommy good-naturedly, “but ‘twas afore their domestication, truthfully. We had to go to war on trained mountain goats.”
“Goats?” rumbled Mook.
“Aye, laddie, took us a fortnight to catch and fit them with their special goat-sized war helmets, if we worked day and night.”
“How’d ye work through the night afore the invention of fire?” scoffed Weesil. “By the light of the moon?”
“Nay!” hooted Giric, “He used his own earwax to make candles!”
Auld Gommy pretended disappointment. “I’ve told ye this story already, have I?”
And Robena had to remember to keep her laugh as masculine as possible, which was difficult.
Aye, the MacBain men seemed to enjoy having a new set of ears around to listen to their stories of bravery and might—most of which she suspected were made up in an attempt to out-do one another.
But those stories were preferable to the ones about…well, sex.
Now, Robena was no prude. She was a virgin, aye, but not innocent. For years, her sister Wynda—with whom she shared a chamber—had been working on a manuscript of coital positions. She’d finally finished it, right before her marriage to Pherson, but her sisters had spent many years looking over her shoulder and learning new and interesting things about bodies. Their own and men’s.
Hellfire, Robena had even modeled for some of the illustrations!
But even with that knowledge, the MacBain men were…a bit much. ‘Twas one thing to read a description of The Clinging Vine…and quite another thing altogether to see Weesil enthusiastically acting it out, complete with grunts and squeals.
“—she took it on her face!”
As the rest of the men roared with laughter, Robena kept her own face averted, knowing ‘twas bright red, and knowing the men would tease her as an untried lad if they saw.
Mook sighed happily. “That’s my favorite part.”
“What, ye big lug?” growled Pudge.
The large warrior made a crude pumping gesture with his fist near his lap, and then opened his hand, as if releasing something. “Aaaaah. That part.”
“Och, aye, ‘tis my favorite part as well,” sighed Giric.
“‘Tis the only part!” snapped Pudge. “There’s nae other part to fooking, is there?”
Giric scoffed. “There’s the lead-up. Ye ken, the tits, and the bit where she fondles yer willie.”