On the other hand, between her bare upper lip, and lack of binding around her breasts, Kester didnae think anyone would confuse her for a lad.
“There’s the Murray tents!” Mook called and pointed happily.
Kester and Pudge exchanged a glance, their eyes hard.
Aye, Ian Murray had set up his camp on the cliff overlooking the loch. It meant he and his men had farther to go to reach the competition fields, but he also had the prime position from which to look over the gathered clans. Slightly above everyone, off to the west, he’d be able to look across the Games and tell himself he was more important than the others, because he had the ear of the King.
Self-important arsehole.
“Auld Gommy, ye and Weesil set up camp on the outskirts, aye? Mook, ye and Giric are in charge of scouting. Spread out and see what ye can learn. Pudge, ye come with me.”
Robena clucked at her horse to move up beside his. “With us.”
“Ye should rest for a bit, love. We had to ride hard to get here by this evening.” And a hard ride last night, too. He fought the urge to reach for her, to brush his hand against hers, to remind her she belonged to him. “And I have to find the steward to deliver the Gordon’s missive.”
The way she cocked her brow at him said she didn’t believe his excuses. “And after that ye will go to Laird Murray, aye? I will be there with ye.”
He watched her for a moment before inclining his head, conceding the point. In all honesty, he wanted her at his side when he told the old bastard the MacBain wanted no alliance.
The steward was easy enough to find, and ‘twas anticlimactic to turn over the oiled envelope of vellum and scrolls, knowing that missive was the excuse the King had needed to send Kester across the Highlands.
Now, they sent their horses with Weesil and set off on foot. Pudge trailed behind, but it felt natural to stroll through the encampments with Robena’s hand tucked in his.
“Ye’re getting looks,” murmured Pudge from behind.
Kester glanced around and realized his old friend was right.
“’Tis because they think me a lad.”
He snorted at her claim. “Ye’re too pretty to be a lad.”
“And ye’re half-blind, if ye think me pretty.”
Frowning now, he pulled her to a halt. “Dinnae say such things. Ye are too pretty to be a lad.”
She responded with a snort of her own and pulled her hand from his to rest on her hip. Her curved, sensual, feminine hip. “Ye’re just saying that because we’ve—ahem.”
“Aye, we’ve ahemed, and that means I can see ye for who ye really are, Robena!”
Her brow quirked, as if he’d proved her point. “And I havenae ahemed any of these other men, so they believe me a lad in a kilt, holding hands with ye.”
Arms folded across his chest, Kester turned to glare at the men who watched, some from a distance, some not bothering to hide their interest. “They cannae think ye a lad,” he hissed.
“They do. And imagine what that’s doing to the reputation of the great Kester MacBain, to be holding the hand of a lad like he’s ahemed that lad.”
Pudge made a sound which might’ve been a laugh, had the man ever laughed.
“Ye think such a thing matters to me? What others think?”
Her lips twitched mischievously. “Why, MacBain, are ye saying ye dinnae care about yer reputation?”
Since she was mocking him, he scowled. “I’m no’ the one gallivanting around in a kilt!”
“Aye, ye are.”
“Well, aye, aright, I am gallivanting about in a kilt. But I’m supposed to.”
She leaned forward, her hands still on her hips, and gave him a saucy smile. “Well, I’m doing it for a good reason, and I dinnae care about my reputation.”