Ye give love a plaid nam.., p.1
Ye Give Love a Plaid Name, page 1
Ye Give Love a Plaid Name
Caroline Lee
Contents
About This Book
Other Books by Caroline Lee
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
AUTHOR’S NOTE
SNEAK PEEK
About the Author
Other Books by Caroline Lee
About This Book
Lady Wynda Oliphant is certain her father’s latest scheme to get her married won’t work, because it’s complete nonsense. And if Wynda knows anything, it’s how to be logical when dealing with her family, her inventions, or even those annoying ghosts who keep pestering her. But there’s one thing that just isn’t logical: the breathless, aching way Pherson Ross makes her feel.
As the Oliphant falconer, Pherson commands some respect within the clan, but he much prefers the solitude of his cottage, with just his raptors and his daughter for company. Wee Wren is the only reason he’s trying so hard to make a life here among the Oliphants, and if they realized what exactly he was hiding from, they’d be sure to abhor him. Aye, ‘tis best to keep his head down, his talons furled, and his daggers ready.
This is working fine, until the laird’s daughter falls—quite literally—into his lap.
Now they’re working together to help Wren learn how to walk again, and Pherson knows ‘tis a bad idea to allow Wynda any closer to his heart. She’s bossy and smart and has a tendency to talk to ghosts—which is ridiculous—but she makes him want to be a better man. With her brilliant smiles and equally brilliant mind, is there any way he can stop falling for her?
When danger finally catches up with him, he’ll do anything to protect his daughter and the woman he’s come to love . . . even if that means turning himself over to the law.
Warning: you’d better tell your old book boyfriend that Pherson will make you consider cheating! Get ready for another sidesplitting romp through medieval Scotland with a brainy heroine, a desperately broody Highlander, an adorable little lassie, and more ridiculousness from this hilarious clan!
Other Books by Caroline Lee
Want the scoop on new books? Join Caroline’s Cohort, an exclusive reader group! Or sign up for my mailing list by texting “Caroline” to 42828 to get started!
Hilarious Scottish RomComs:
The Hots for Scots (8 books)
Highlander Ever After (3 books)
Bad in Plaid (6 books)
Second-Chance Manor (2 books)
Those Kilted Bastards (3+ books)
Steamy Scottish Historicals:
The Sinclair Jewels (4 books)
The Highland Angels (5 books)
Sensual Historical Westerns:
Black Aces (3 books)
Sunset Valley (3 books)
Everland Ever After (10 books)
The Sweet Cheyenne Quartet (6 books)
Sweet Contemporary Westerns
Quinn Valley Ranch (5 books)
River’s End Ranch (14 books)
The Cowboys of Cauldron Valley (7 books)
The Calendar Girls’ Ranch (6 books)
Click here to find a complete list of Caroline’s books.
Sign up for Caroline’s Newsletter to receive exclusive content and freebies, as well as first dibs on her books! Or if newsletters aren’t your thing, follow her on Bookbub for a quick, concise new release alert every time she publishes a book!
Prologue
With a sigh, Pherson Ross closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the single wooden chair his cottage contained. More than once he’d considered bartering with the woodworker for a second one, but wee Wren seemed happy enough with stools, now that she was tall enough to sit upright on her own, and he’d just never gotten around to it.
Tiny fingers dragged along his scalp and he wasn’t able to stop the sound of pleasure which escaped his lips. The touch froze, and he grinned ruefully.
“Dinnae fash, little bird, it just feels good.”
His daughter hesitated, then continued her practiced movements. She was sectioning his hair for braiding, something they did weekly, a ritual which brought them both peace.
As soon as Wren gathered a section of his hair, he felt the familiar tugs which meant she’d begun braiding. She worked in silence, of course, but over the years he’d come to understand her without speaking.
Because she couldn’t run and play with the other children, she’d always seemed happiest to stay near him. Although she was only six, he’d long ago discovered she enjoyed being useful, and she seemed to believe braiding his hair was useful.
So each sennight, after he’d bathed, she would comb his hair and form it into intricate braids. Sometimes he left them in for a few days, sometimes longer—in the winter, particularly—and sometimes he combed them out immediately, leaving his hair crimped tightly in waves Wren always found particularly funny.
Pherson didn’t care. He would just be tying his long hair back otherwise, and it made his daughter happy, so who was he to argue?
“Did ye see the strangers today?” he murmured, eyes still closed. “A group of MacBains.”
Her hands paused and she tugged once on his hair, her cue to hear more. His lips curled briefly.
“I was in the courtyard with Geraldine, delivering her catch to the kitchens. The laird is with them, a tall man, broad shoulders. He rides with several warriors and a small man I heard called the King’s messenger.”
He’d noticed them, oh yes. He’d lived here on Oliphant land for years, paying special attention to any strangers, watching. Always watching, waiting.
Fearing.
But none of the strangers he’d seen were there for him and Wren.
One day, he knew, men would come for him and Wren, and he’d have to make the choice between fighting and fleeing.
Behind him, his daughter had finished the left half of his scalp and gave another little tug, this time with a quiet grunt.
He shrugged in response to her unasked question. “’Tis all I ken, little bird. I suppose we’ll hear more, aye? I did hear ‘twas to be a banquet tonight in the great hall, welcoming the visitors.”
His daughter made a noise like a hum, which sounded almost wistful to Pherson’s ears. He knew she—just like any other lass her age—enjoyed seeing the laird’s daughters in their finery. And he couldn’t blame her.
“Aye, just imagine the ladies all arrayed in their silks, Wren. With Laird Oliphant introducing them to the visitors. Do ye think he’ll try to match one of them with Laird MacBain?”
Wren didn’t answer, of course, but he’d become used to their one-sided conversations.
“Me too. I wonder which one? Lady Leanna will marry Laird McClure soon.”
‘Twas idle gossip, the kind which half the clan was engaged in at any point. But for Pherson, there was more to it. Not because he particularly cared what happened to most of the laird’s daughters, but there was one….
He realized he’d been pointlessly picturing her in his mind—sun-touched curls, confident smile, laughing eyes—for too long. His daughter was finishing off the last of his braids, and under his Oliphant kilt, his cock had gone harder than was appropriate.
As Wren’s tiny fingers flew across his hair, tying the leather cords he otherwise used on the falcons’ ankles around the ends of his braids, Pherson struggled to get his erection under control.
Think of cold lochs, laddie. Grandmother’s toothless grin. The queen of England on a cold winter’s day. Turnips. That time yer sporran smacked ye hard in the bollocks.
That last one did it, and by the time Wren patted him on his shoulder, he felt confident enough to sit upright.
In fact, as she limped around to face him—and admire her work—Pherson grinned and held out his hands, palms up.
As if she knew he was asking for her opinion, Wren cocked her head to one side, her finger against her lower lip as she studied him. Her expression was serious, but there was a sparkle in her pale eyes he’d always adored.
With a little grunt, she reached out and pulled one of his braids forward to rest across his shoulder, then nodded firmly.
He had to chuckle—as if that one braid would somehow make him attractive!—and reached for her.
As she stepped forward to slide into his lap, her left foot—the wrong one—caught in her skirts and caused her to pitch forward.
With reflexes born from years of accidental fatherhood, Pherson swooped forward and caught her, cradling her in his arms. He pulled her closer, settling her on his lap, hating the way her sparkle had turned to an embarrassed flush.
“Dinnae fash, little bird,” he murmured, resting his chin on her shoulder. “We’ll find a way to fix yer broken wing.”
The look she turned on him could only be described as exasperated, as she pointed at her elbow, which she flapped up and down, as a wing.
It made him grin. But then, he was used to grinning when it came to this little miracle of his. Sometimes, like tonight, he’d look at her and see a glimpse of the beauty she would become. Whoever her real parents had been, they’d been handsome people—and dumb ones, to give her up so easily.
He hoped one day, some worthy man would see how beautiful his little Wren really was. And he
“I ken yer foot isnae a wing. But ‘tis what makes us fast, eh? Falcons soar on wings, lassies run on two feet.” He tweaked her nose. “And we’ll find a way to make ye soar.”
There was a question in her pale eyes as she peered up at him, and he had to shrug.
“I dinnae ken. I’m just a falconer, and birds are complicated in their own way. But I do ken there are people much smarter than me who can solve problems like this. Ye’d like that?”
Her eager nod shouldn’t have surprised him, but now he scrambled to think of a solution.
“There’s a man…a McClure warrior. He was wounded on an attack on Lady Leanna and his laird, remember?” At her eager nod, Pherson continued. “He works in the kitchens—I see him sometimes when I deliver meat. He wears a brace on one knee, constructed from metal and leather.”
Wren tugged at one of his braids, and he saw the excitement in her expression. Grinning ruefully, he wrapped his arms around her, lacing his fingers at her waist. “Ye think I should ask him who made it for him? He wasnae wearing it when he arrived—for certes ‘tis because of his injury. Mayhap the healer….”
Pherson trailed off as he realized the truth.
There was only one person in Oliphant Castle brilliant enough to have designed and built a brace such as the one he’d seen Brodie McClure wearing. Only one person who possessed the knowledge and understanding.
Wynda Oliphant, the laird’s third daughter.
Fook.
He did not need any more excuses to think about her.
Since his daughter was still staring up at him, Pherson forced a confident smile. “Lady Wynda could likely do it. We could ask her, at least. She might have some suggestions.”
Wren nodded eagerly, her face splitting into a grin. When she relaxed against him, her little cheek pillowed on his shoulder, he felt some of his tension drain out as well.
She would soon be too old to sit in his lap, but for now, he’d cherish the sensation of holding her. For years, she’d fallen asleep just like this; curled up on his lap, one hand wrapped around a lock of his hair and her thumb in her mouth. She didn’t suck her thumb anymore, but her little hand did creep up to play with one of the braids she had created.
“Da,” she whispered quietly, and his heart melted.
It was one of the few words he’d heard her say over the years. He knew his daughter could talk, but just assumed she didn’t want or need to.
“Aye, little bird. I love ye.”
“Da,” she repeated, and he understood.
He tightened his hold on her, and saw her eyes flutter closed.
Of all the names he’d gone by over the years, good and bad, this was the one he loved the most.
Da.
He’d do anything for her. Including facing an inconveniently intriguing lady.
Chapter 1
Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine.
Ninety-nine pages of coital positions. It really was remarkable. Most notably because the vellum was bloody expensive, and here she was, filling it up with something most people would consider silly.
With a sigh, Wynda Oliphant rolled her shoulders, trying to work out the knots in her muscles. She’d been sitting at her desk in the women’s solar, the one in front of the window because it had the best light all morning. She’d been finishing up the last of the positions, and now…
“Are ye done counting?” The voice came from over her shoulder, even though no other humans were in the room. “Ye mutter to yerself. I didnae want to disturb ye.”
Without turning her head, Wynda answered. “Ninety-nine,” she said dully. “Please tell me that’s enough for ye to feel satisfied?”
Surely there was a joke in there about ninety-nine sexual positions being enough to satisfy anyone, but she was just too exhausted to think of it.
Ye’d be too exhausted to do anything, if ye’d actually tried all ninety-nine.
Her visitor, of course, wasn’t satisfied. She never was.
With a breathy laugh, the voice moved further away. “Ninety-nine? Nay, that is no’ enough satisfaction. For certes. I’ll need to think of one more…”
Sighing again, Wynda twisted on her stool to glare at her tormentor.
Luckily, she’d learned long ago not to scream when confronted with ghosts, because otherwise she’d be screaming at all hours. For some reason, only certain women in her bloodline could communicate with the spectres of Oliphant Castle, and she was just the lucky one.
It had been a disturbing childhood realization to learn her sisters didn’t consider the headless Sir Timothy a playmate. They couldn’t even see him.
Sir Timothy was a dear—despite his permanently shortened appearance—and the Mad Monk was annoying, while the twins were depressing, and The Beast was best avoided. There were others, but the bane of Wynda’s existence was the ephemerally beautiful woman attempting to pluck at the strings of Robena’s harp.
“One more,” Wynda said firmly. “One hundred sexual positions, plus the anecdotes and history behind them. Surely that’s good enough, in terms of a life’s work? Surely ye can consider yer knowledge passed on, then?”
The Gray Lady straightened, an enigmatic smile on her lips. “Mayhap.”
“Mayhap?” Wynda growled.
“Likely.”
Oh thank St. Tiffani!
“And…” After five years of transcribing the Gray Lady’s tales, Wynda felt safe nagging her. “Then ye’ll move on? Ye’ll Cross Over to the other side? Please?”
“Why, my dear lass, one would think ye dinnae value my helpful advice!”
Blast.
“Milady, I’ve listened to yer stories. I’ve transcribed yer exploits. I’ve even made my sisters pose for me so I can sketch out these positions ye keep describing. That was the only way to discover exactly how two men could get their legs behind a woman’s— Ye ken, never mind.” Where had she been going with that sentence? “Och, my point is, I’ve made yer life’s work my life’s work, and now…”
The Gray Lady smiled knowingly. “And now ye want the opportunity to try out all this knowledge. I understand.”
Wynda’s mouth dropped open.
“Nae need to thank me, my dear. Dinnae think I’ve failed to understand the benefits of my knowledge. Yer sisters have been grateful.”
“What?” Wynda managed to bleat.
With a tsk and a wave of her hand, the Gray Lady floated toward Nicola’s work table, where the healer’s herbs and spices were spread. “Two of yer younger sisters are married already. Ye ken yer father has declared all of ye must marry. The first one to present him with a grandson, her husband will become the next Laird Oliphant.”
“I—I ken that,” Wynda spluttered. “How do ye ken that?”
“Because I pay attention, my dear.” She shot a smirk over her shoulder. Ghosts should not be able to smirk. “Just because ye dinnae see me, doesnae mean I’m no’ watching.”
Wynda shot to her feet. “What? What? Ye-ye spy on us?”
“Well, mainly ye, my dear. Ye’re my link to the living world, after all. I need to ken ye’re safe. Need to ken what ye ken.”
That was—Oh. By St. Tiffani’s toenails, the Gray Lady had been spying on her?
“Wh—?“ Wynda shook her head. “How—What do ye--?” It was impossible to form words. Especially since what she wanted to blurt was What in damnation did ye see?
The ghost waved one hand lazily and settled onto Robena’s stool. Or rather, settled above Robena’s stool, because it was possible to see the damned thing through the—the—ghostly ghostness of the woman’s body. After all these years, one would think this would get less strange.
One would be wrong.
“My dear Wynda,” the Gray Lady said with a slight laugh. “I’ve heard ye speak in yer sleep. Mostly Latin, aye—I think ye dream in Latin on purpose, to foil me. But I’ve heard yer breathless moans. I’ve heard what ye do under the covers. I ken ye—and yer sisters—have been most grateful for the knowledge I’ve shared.”
