Kilt Trip

by L. L. Muir

There was movement behind the hole.

  He pointed to the ground at his feet, demanding that she come.

  Laughter—the intriguing laughter of a woman—echoed about the keep.

  Their demands came an hour later.

  Even the horses had given up any hope of travel and hung their heads. By the time Rory was bathed and back at the stables, the young lads had run off, though he was sure they hadn't gone far.

  Connor lounged in the shade of the feed shed, his eyes on the horses as he'd promised. Ian teased a wee lassie who sat on a kitten to prevent its escape, but he stopped to join Rory and Connor in the shade.

  “Anything?” Rory looked at the keep steps.

  “Nothing.” Connor stood and brushed the dust from his legs.

  “Seems no one's taught them about getting an early start in the mornin',” Ian said.

  The keep door opened. A maid descended with a parchment in hand. Her eyes lit on Rory and she looked relieved.

  “Here we go, lads.” He smiled at the maid but stood his ground and let her come to him.

  She grinned. “Yer guests have asked that I deliver this into yer hands, yer lairdship.”

  He thanked her and she hurried away.

  The hand was flowing and feminine.

  What are they up to?

  “What does it say, mon?” Ian a rubbed his hands together. “Are we off then?”

  “They claim one of them is not feeling weel. It's not catching and he should be better in a day or two. They've asked to have their 'squires' sent to meet with them, and to have meals brought to their rooms, but they won't require any other hospitality from me.”

  “A woman's illness then?” Ian sounded worried.

  “We're meant to think it.” Connor whistled and the stable boy came running. “Put their horses away. Put them where they'll be hardest to fetch.”

  “Ye think they lie.” Rory watched Connor walk away.

  “It's as clear as the piss on yer face,” his friend tossed over his shoulder.

  Rory wiped at his cheek until he remembered he'd already bathed. “Ian, gather the lads. Send them to the war room. Tell them to find me as soon as our guests have done with them.”

  “Oh? And where do ye go?”

  Rory struck out for the keep steps. “To find another war room.”

  Chapter Eight

  Mallory answered the knock on the door and opened it just enough to let the boys sidle through. Then she shut and barred the way.

  Bridget fought not to laugh as the three stared at her cousin in all her feminine glory. She wore only the nightdress she'd been able to sneak in when they'd been forced to leave their bags behind. Her hair flowed in black waves about the creamy shoulders she'd exposed for their little tête-à-tête. She smiled and offered them a seat on a bench.

  Three young jaws hung slack. They couldn't take their eyes off her.

  “I'm Lady Mallory.”

  They only nodded.

  “This is my friend, Lady Vivianne. And my cousin, Lady Bridget.”

  If the same thing hadn't happened, over and over in their lives, Bridget might be offended by the brevity of attention the boys gave Viv and her upon introduction. But she was glad at least something in their plans was working well.

  “We wouldn't want to insult you by keeping up our pretense. I bet you knew all along we were women, didn't you?” Mallory sat on a stool close to the boys and toyed with her hair.

  “I did.” The one with copper hair, called Jamie, was the first to find his voice.

  “So did we. We're no daft, Jamie.” A few elbows were exchanged, but they settled quickly and turned back to Mallory.

  “Was it the beards? Or our voices?” she asked.

  “Oh, they're fine beards they are,” Jamie assured her cousin. “All three o' course.” He spared a glance at the table, where Bridget sat with her equally unimpressive friend. They, too, wore their nightdresses, but Mallory's had a fuller effect, mostly because she was...fuller.

  “Then it was the voices. I'm afraid we just couldn't sound like men.” Mallory's voice, at that moment, was little more substantial than a fairy’s.

  The second boy piped up. “Oh, doona go on so. It's no' yer fault, then, is it?”

  And so, a little while later, Bridget’s cousin, with little help from Viv or herself, had secured the undying devotion of three young Scots who were about to become English spies.

  “Tell us, Jamie, what instructions were you given?” Bridget had no need for coyness. The lads were so outraged on their behalf, the three had officially joined their English enemies at the war table.

  “We are to escort ye where ye wish to go. We're to stand guard o’er ye and only sleep in the wee hours before dawn. The three Highlanders will be watching o’er ye then.”

  “We're to whistle if there's trouble.” The black-haired lad, Jacob, had also found his voice. “They'll be close enough to come a' runnin.”

  “We're to give ye privacy when ye need it and play along with yer manly act unless ye reveal yerselves.” Young Bowman blushed and looked away.

  “Well, we've already done that, haven't we?” Mallory grinned. She looked at Jamie. “Anything else?”

  “Aye. We're to protect ye. We're to keep yer secrets. I reckon that means we can keep them from cousin Rory and the rest.” Jamie grinned, pleased with his own reasoning.

  “Aye.” Young Bowman stood and placed a fist over his heart. “We're in yer service now. Yer needs are first, as we've been told.”

  Bridget gave the smaller boy an appreciative wink. “All right, lads. Tell us what you think of our plan.”

  A little while later, Jamie and the others headed out of the room. Jacob turned back as he was closing the door. “It's a fine plan, Lady Bridget. And we'd have agreed to the same, with or without the seduction first, though that was nice as well, Lady Mallory.”

  The young trio laughed all the way down the stairs.

  Rory waited with the others at the bottom of the steps. When he heard the lads laughing, he worried they'd not taken their parts seriously enough. Then he remembered how serious he'd have been at the age of ten and five.

  “Cousin?” He raised a brow and Jamie.

  “Cousin.” Jamie nodded and the three lads turned and headed for the hall.

  Perhaps they thought to be discreet.

  He fell into step behind them. “Jamie, lads, sit ye at the lairds table and we'll have a wee chat whilst we take our meal.”

  The youngsters stopped and exchanged glances.

  “Thank ye, cousin, just the same,” Jamie said. “But we've some things to see to, ye ken.”

  Rory frowned his fiercest and nodded at the door. It was gratifying the way the three hung their heads and preceded him outside.

  Connor and Ian joined them to one side of the keep steps.

  Once Rory was satisfied no one was close enough to listen in, he nodded at his young cousin. “Let's have it.”

  Jamie took a deep breath. “There's nothing to have, sir. We met them. We decided that I shall squire for...the red-haired one. Jacob for the brunette, and Young Bowman for the blonde.”

  “All of which should have taken a trice.” Connor bent forward and looked into Jacob's face. “Ye were in there for an hour and more.”

  “They wanted to ken about us.” Jacob spoke to his feet. His ears turned red.

  “Did they wear their beards? Did they keep up the pretense?” Ian took Young Bowman’s shoulder in his hand. He wasn't rough, but the boy grimaced as if he'd been caught at something forbidden.

  Something wasn't right.

  “Well, Young Bowman? Answer Sir Ian.” Rory crossed his arms.

  Jamie glared at him, then at Ian. “I'll thank ye, sir, to take yer hands off me mate. We've done naught but what we've been told to do. We'll keep the ladies’ confidences, and that's that.”

  Rory caught a glimpse of the leader his wee cousin would someday be. His pride warred with his frustration. Should he give the lad a slap on
the back or a kick in the pants?

  Ian released Young Bowman and patted the lad's shoulder before stepping back. A clear line had been drawn, as if a stick had been dragged across the ground between lads and men.

  Rory looked his cousin in the eye. “From me, Jamie? Ye'd keep their confidences from me?”

  The boy’s chin lifted a notch. “I'll not dishonor our grandsire, sir. And I'll fulfill a bit of his debt in me own way.”

  The lads turned and walked down the slope, heads held higher than Rory remembered them being before.

  He turned to his friends and nodded. “Smitten. Every last one of them.”

  “Every last one of us all,” Ian admitted. “And we've no' even seen their faces.”

  “One of us has.” Connor glared at Rory.

  Rory’s mood was darker than Connor’s by morning.

  He’d spent the night lying across the threshold of the war room, though he’d not slept at all considering all the mutterings and movements on the other side of the door. If the women were as clever as Scotswomen, he’d suspect them of keeping him awake a’ purpose, since each time he lost his cares and began to breathe deeply, some thump or other would bring him to attention.

  He was in no hurry to meet Connor if his friend had as much trouble sleeping with the horses. On the other hand, in spite of keeping watch just inside the back door of the castle proper, Ian would no doubt be his cheery self.

  A maid approached the door and Rory pulled his feet out of her way and sat up. She’d been the homely one with bad teeth who’d delivered the ladies’ message the morning before, and after three knocks, then two more, it sounded as if the bar was raised. Soon after, the door cracked open.

  Rory looked up quickly, but saw only a slim hand shoot out, grab the maid, and haul her inside.

  The bar slammed back in an obvious message to himself, and a barrage of whisperings commenced. And to make worse his mood, grew both louder and less intelligible!

  “Fine!” He slapped the slab of wood and stomped down the stairs. Whisky would make a fine breakfast.

  A short while later, he and his equally afflicted friends sat down to their liquid meal only to be interrupted by the same traitorous maid. Rory had an unpleasant thought for women in general but kept it to himself.

  “Yer name, lass,” he demanded.

  “Bess, sir.”

  “Will they be leaving today, do ye think?” He tried to be nice, but he didn’t try very hard.

  “Nay, sir. They said to tell ye. No’ today.”

  He noticed the empty tray under her arm. “And just how long are the Grahams to feed them?”

  If he could but blast them from the war room, he’d be happy. But the way they were being pampered by the Grahams and his wee cousin, it might be a month before the mice could be tempted outside the door again.

  Bess grinned and plunged her hand in the pocket of her apron, then she tossed three large coins on the table as if they meant nothing at all. “She said ye’d say that.” And with an impertinent lift of her nose, she flounced away.

  “They’re building a wee army of women and babes,” Ian muttered.

  “Aye, but this soldier just slipped.” Connor nodded at Bess’s retreating form. “Did ye hear? She said ye’d say that.” He looked over the bodies gathering at the tables and his gaze stopped on three lads with their heads bent together. “I wonder if others might give away their game.”

  As if he’d heard Connor’s remark from across the hall, Jamie looked up at Rory’s table. With not a smile to his lips, he inclined his head as if to say, “Ye’re welcome to try.”

  Rory grunted. “Today we sleep in shifts. One outside their room, and one outside their window. No one sleeps after the sun goes down, aye?”

  Chapter Nine

  Thankfully, Rory was able to sleep like the dead.

  After Connor came to wake him, he trudged up the stairs and sent Ian out back for a change of view. After all, one could go mad staring at a door too long, imagining the things that might be going on behind it.

  A shadow moved beneath. Someone was listening.

  He couldn’t resist knocking quietly. First three times, then two. The sound of the bar sliding away set his heart to racing. So he counted to three, then pushed.

  The door rocked against the bar that hadn’t been moved after all, and when they laughed at him, the women didn’t try to disguise their voices.

  He gave the door a kick and bellowed for someone to bring him a chess board, stools, and a worthy opponent.

  Rory had his fifth challenger in check when Young Bowman came running into the hall and up the steps. The look on the lad’s face had Rory on his feet and meeting Young Bowman half way.

  “Come quick, laird! I think Jamie’s going to murder Jacob.”

  With the delicate snoring he’d heard from the war room, he didn’t fear leaving the door unguarded for a moment or two. The row in the yard meant he needn’t fear for their safety, since all attention would be out of doors, including that of his chess opponent who was fast on his heels.

  Young Bowman ran ahead of him like a frightened rabbit. From the top step they could see down into the center of a gathered crowd. The lads were fighting. By the time Rory reached the bailey, the crowd shifted, following the wrestling boys through the arch and into the lower bailey. When he rounded the wall, the lads had become untangled and were facing off.

  Jacob spit blood on the grass and a bit dribbled down his chin, unheeded. “And I say ‘tis me she fancies, and ye’d best face yer disappointment and try for one of the others.”

  Jamie spread his feet, bracing for attack. “Jacob, darlin’, if ye want some of her attention, ye’re going to have to kiss me arse first. She’ll likely notice ye then, since ye’ll be so close to myself.”

  Jacob wiped his hands on his kilted thighs. “I’ll do some damage to that arse, cousin, but ye’ll have to find some blind lass to kiss it better for ye. Cousin Rory’ll need to find another to take yer place. Someone who’s a bit less of a woman himself.”

  They were fighting over the Englishwomen? Just what had gone on in that bedamned war room?

  The taunt worked. The darker boy lunged and was smacked sideways. When he made it back to his feet, Jamie gave him a shove in the opposite direction. When Jacob gained his balance again, there was a blade in his hand, but Jamie sneered at it. Rory’s young cousin kicked the knife away, pulled Jacob onto his stomach, and sat upon his back, facing the smaller lad’s feet, before the weapon even landed.

  “Dinna do it, Jamie.” Jacob spat grass from his mouth.

  Jamie maintained his balance on the other’s squirming back, grinned at the crowd, then slowly lifted his cousin’s kilt...and began whacking his bare behind. The witnesses grimaced at the sound.

  Jamie had gleefully landed less than a half dozen strikes when Rory realized it was his duty to stop the fight.

  He stepped forward. “Get off ‘im, cousin.”

  Jamie’s hand paused above his head while he looked Rory in the eye, considering.

  The grinning crowd waited.

  Rory smiled slightly at the image of knocking the upstart to the ground and delivering the same punishment. But the lad must have seen the promise in that smile and he lowered his hand, then sprang from Jacob’s back and braced his feet apart, fists raised.

  Jacob didn’t stand, but pushed away from the ground while he swung his leg out and up—to connect with his abuser’s jaw.

  Jamie spun into the grass and lay still. Jacob straightened, then walked warily to the Jamie’s feet and nudged one. When there were no signs of consciousness, he danced a wee jig all around his larger cousin’s body, blood flying from his grinning, swollen mouth.

  “And now he’s smitten for being smitten.” Ian stood at Rory’s side and shook his head. “I hope we don’t all end up face down in the grass with our arses showing.”

  Rory rolled his eyes in disgust. “I suggest trews, if ye’re so worried.”

  “An
d ye’re not worried then? Ye think the Kennison lass poses no threat to the Mighty Rory Macpherson? The mon famous for slaying innocent Englishwomen who get in his way?” Ian laughed. “Nay, my friend. I think ye, too, should take to wearing trews.”

  As Ian walked away unharmed, in spite of having poked a stick into the bee’s nest of Rory’s temper, he wondered if his friend understood his own luck. If Rory hadn’t been caught off guard by the remark, he’d have been repeating the lads’s fight, but to a more painful end.

  No one dared say such a thing to Rory since the incident in England. Aloud. With others about. But at the moment, Rory was more disturbed by Ian’s warning than by his insult.

  Bess passed Rory on the stairway.

  He stopped and turned. “Any message?”

  “Only the same as before. No’ today.” She hopped the rest of the way down, and Rory noticed the bright green ribbon in the woman’s hair.

  Ah. There lies the price of an army of women.

  Perhaps he could find a trinket or two and pay someone to turn coats.

  At the top of the stair, he studied the chessboard. It seemed his opponent had found a way to beat him but hadn’t had the bullocks to stick around and face him. Was he so formidable then?

  It was true, he was in a foul temper. And who better to pay for it than those responsible?

  He beat upon the door, not expecting an answer. “I’ll have ye ken, Lord Kennison, that ye’ve got the lads beatin’ each other bloody over yer favors. Whate’er ye’ve done, I hope ye’re pleased with yerselves.”

  Suddenly too disgusted to continue guarding a mute door, he set off to find a Graham who wouldn’t be seduced or swayed by a pretty ribbon.

  Connor joined him at the table. His face was puffed from sleep, his mood much improved from the morning.

  “Laird.”

  “Connor, don’t be daft.”

  The man frowned. “I thought ye’d already slept.”

  “I have.”