Plaid Attitude (Bad in Plaid Book 7), page 1
Plaid Attitude
Caroline Lee
Contents
Copyright
Other Books by Caroline Lee
About This Book
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
About the Author
Other Books by Caroline Lee
Copyright
Copyright © 2023, Caroline Lee
Caroline@CarolineLeeRomance.com
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.
First edition: 2023
Printing/manufacturing information for this book may be found on the last page
Cover: EDHGraphics
This one is for Alyssa, again.
Because she saved the book, again.
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About This Book
She might not have time for love, but fate has other plans…
Lady Coira, eldest daughter of mad Laird Oliphant, knows she deserves more than what she has. Oh, not love and marriage—the only man she’s ever been attracted to is the clan’s taciturn and infuriating Commander, and she has no interest in a man telling her what to do. Nay, what she wants is responsibility, control of the clan she’s overseen for so long. Too bad she doesn’t have what it takes to become Clan Oliphant’s new laird: manly bits.
As the Oliphant Commander, Doughall Moray has worked beside Lady Coira for years. He has the utmost respect for her and her abilities, and knows she can do anything she puts her mind to. But the budding friendship between Coira and his daughter Bess is enough to make Doughall wince. It’s bad enough he must tamp down his admiration—or more accurately, lust—when he’s working with her…but now he has to pretend indifference while she’s in his home?
But Bess is a lively lass, and when her loving heart lands her in the kind of trouble no father should experience, Doughall is lucky to have an unexpected ally. Can Coira and Doughall put aside their differences for Bess’ sake? When Laird Oliphant falls ill and is officially ready to declare an heir, Coira is going to have to choose between the clan she’s always protected and the family she’s coming to love.
Warning: This one is no less ridiculous than the previous six books! Get ready for the laugh-out-loud conclusion to the Oliphant Sisters’ saga, full of fun, silly jokes, and plenty of spicy bits!
Chapter 1
“Higher! Lift yer blade—good!” Coira Oliphant beamed as the lass parried her strike. “Now, flip it, come at me—Aye! Good!”
Breathing heavily, she fell back, her sword held in the ready position before her. “Ye’ve been practicing!”
Her opponent, thirteen-year-old Bessetta, smiled proudly. “I’ve been working on my arm strength as ye directed.”
Coira began to circle her foe cautiously, glad she didn’t have to worry about skirts, but irritated at the impediments of the furniture in a room not quite large enough for a bed, two chairs, a small table, a desk, AND two women with swords . Last summer, when the lass had come to her to ask—awkwardly—for training, it had been easy enough to spar near the loch where no one bothered them.
Since winter dropped so much snow on them, Coira had moved these weekly sessions to her chambers in the castle, which had necessitated moving the unnecessary furniture into the guest rooms and shoving the bed into the corner.
The spring melt meant the mud was almost as deep as the snow had been, but another month and they could move out-of-doors again—
Bessetta’s yodel warned of her attack, and Coira blocked it easily.
“What in damnation was that? Are ye trying to make yer opponent piss himself?”
The lass was beaming. “Aye. I’ve been watching the warriors spar. They yell afore they attack.”
With a quick flurry of movements, Coira stepped up and was pleased by the way the lass blocked her overhead attacks.
“That wasnae a yell,” she panted, spinning to one side to attack from the left. “’Twas a yodel. A sore-throated warble. A goat’s song.”
Her lips set grimly, Bessetta matched each of Coira’s blows, turning them away. “Mayhap,” she grunted. “But it startled ye.”
Grinning wryly, Coira fell back, allowing the girl to press her advantage. Their blades were dull but still dangerous, and she kept her attention split between Bessetta’s expression and the muscles in her forearms, both of which would warn of her intentions.
It was good exercise.
Good to be sweating, despite the fire in the hearth having burned low this morning. Good to be moving and doing, instead of sitting at Da’s desk in the solar.
Good to be focused on an opponent she could attack and block—even if the lass was barely more than a bairn—rather than endless lists and calculations for the celebration.
“Now, my turn,” she grunted, going on the defensive. “Higher! If ye block down there, I’ll take off yer fingers—good. Aye, like that,” she coached, as her attacks came closer together.
When they’d begun these private lessons, Coira had thought to go easy on the lass. She’d walked through the blows, the blocks, the moves slowly, so that Bessetta had a chance to learn the feel of each. But the lass knew what she was doing; with her father being who he was, she’d spent a lifetime watching and learning from the Oliphant warriors, same as Coira.
The difference was, when Coira had wanted to learn, she’d had to go directly to those warriors and beg to be included. Bessetta had enough sense to approach her privately and ask for lessons.
The memory of those early years, when the warriors had laughed, then mocked, then begrudgingly allowed her to participate in sparring because she was the laird’s eldest daughter, caused the anger to build inside her again. Damnation, those years were behind her; she was respected and viewed as a worthy opponent—
“Coira!” the lass gasped, bending back under the strength of the attack. “I cannae…”
Fook. The anger had leant strength to Coira’s arm, and she’d almost taken off Bessetta’s.
Immediately, she stepped back, snapping her blade to her side, showing the lass she was done. “I’m sorry, Bess. I wasnae…” She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“’Tis fine.” Panting, the girl gave a little salute with her blade and stumbled toward the table where she’d left the scabbard. “I just wasnae expecting it.”
“Aye, well, ye must expect the unexpected in battle. Yer opponent will want to kill ye.”
In the corner, Rebecca mooed her agreement.
The lass picked up a rag and began to wipe down her blade, her shoulders still heaving. Coira appreciated the girl’s attention to her weapon even before she wiped the sweat from her brow.
“Rebecca’s right, Coira. I’m unlikely to go into battle.” Her shoulders drooped.
Coira snorted, which the coo echoed. “Life is a battle, lass.” She began to wipe down her own blade. “Ye think the world will just look at ye—a strong, independent lassie who kens her own mind and wants to be in control of her life—and allow ye everything ye dream of? If ye’d been born a lad, mayhap. But we fight for what we deserve.”
Unconsciously, her fingers curled around the rag.
What we deserve.
The clan’s Easter celebration was in a few days, and during all the planning and arranging, a sense of dread had pooled in Coira’s stomach. The laird was undoubtably going to use this opportunity—with so many of his family and clan around him—to finally make an announcement about who would follow him.
And Coira would love to delay that announcement as long as possible.
r /> Although not knowing who Da’s heir was made life difficult, especially when it came to the everyday running of clan business, which she’d been handling for years…having the decision made and announced would be even worse.
Because, despite what she deserved, despite being the best choice, Coira knew it wouldn’t be her.
She was a woman.
Curse her stupid vagina!
If she’d been born a man—especially as the eldest of six—with her abilities, there’d be no question of her taking her rightful place as the next Oliphant leader. Since Da’s decline, she’d taken on more and more of the clan business; not just training with the warriors, but also overseeing improvements, commerce, and planting.
But the lairdship would be handed to one of her brothers-in-law, just because he had a cock.
The sound of water being poured from the ewer shook her from her angry thoughts, and she watched Bessetta dip a cloth into the bowl then wipe at her forehead.
“Life can be a battle, milady, but it doesnae have to be. ‘Tis what my father always says.”
When she offered the cool, wet cloth, Coira snatched it with a scowl. “Aye, well, yer father is famous for no’ being riled.”
“Ye’re just saying that because he never reacts to yer insults.”
The girl was right, so Coira snorted again. “Mayhap he’s too stupid to realize he’s being insulted.”
“Careful.” The lass’s eyes were twinkling when she dropped her hand to her sword hilt. “That’s my Da ye’re speaking of.”
Coira rolled her eyes then splashed more water on her face.
The lass was the daughter of Doughall, the Oliphant Commander. A stubborn, irritating man Coira had been forced to deal with for the last five years since she’d begun to handle clan business. Before then, he’d been the one she’d had to beg to be allowed to train with the men.
Even now that she had a bit of power, she’d never forgotten how humiliating that had been.
“Da’s no’ stupid, Lady Coira. He just doesnae mind yer insults.”
“The man doesnae mind much,” she muttered, scrubbing at her face.
Bessetta was scratching behind Rebecca’s ears. “Nay, he only seems that way. He listens and makes a decision, then goes and does what he thinks is right. Words dinnae matter as much to him. Unless those words are Da, braies, can, please, wear, I, in any order.”
Straightening, Coira frowned her way through that sequence. “Please wear I braies can?”
The lass nuzzled her nose against the heavy red pelt of the coo. “Speaking of being stupid…”
“What?”
Snapping upright, Bessetta grinned. “Da, can I please wear braies?”
Unbidden, Coira’s chin dropped so she was staring at her own bare feet. Above them stretched her calves, but her knees were carefully hidden by the leather braies she wore. In the winter she often wore a skirt—and stockings and boots—over them for warmth, but since they’d been sparring…
“What’s wrong with braies?”
“Naught!” The girl flopped over her pet’s back. “They’re more comfortable to move about in, and much easier to fight in. Da just says it’s unnatural.”
“Oh, he does, does he?” Coira growled, turning to slap the cloth back into the bowl. “Because ye’re a woman, I suppose?”
“Och, nay. He says ‘tis unnatural for anyone to wear tubes around their legs like that. Of course, he said he doesnae mind ye wearing braies so much, because it does wonders for yer arse, but he’s no’ about to let someone look at my arse, no’ even Edgar. So, Da offered me one of his auld kilts to wear while I sparred, if I thought ‘twould be easier.”
Edgar? Who was Edgar?
Forget Edgar! Doughall is looking at yer arse!
And he’d…offered his daughter a kilt? Hesitantly, Coira swallowed. Trying to sound nonchalant, she kept her attention on her blade as she asked, “And how does yer father feel about ye sparring with me? Disapproves, I assume?”
Bessetta snorted, and her coo echoed the sound. “Nay, the opposite. He told me ye’d be my best teacher, because ye began yer training at my age, and ye’d understand how a woman’s body balances, et cetera.” She pushed herself upright again. “I told him I didnae ken what et cetera meant, and he told me to study my Latin as hard as I study the blade. I told him Latin was less useful, and then I stole his cheese and ran off while he was sputtering.”
Coira wasn’t paying attention to the lass’s ramblings.
Her initial irritation to learn she hadn’t pissed off Doughall by teaching his daughter the ways of the sword was quickly eclipsed by sheer confusion and secret—verra, verra secret—delight.
He’d praised her? He’d sent Bessetta to her to learn because he thought she’d be the best teacher for his daughter?
It was…well, she wasn’t sure how she felt about learning this, and she didn’t like being confused. It was much easier to be angry.
Mayhap ye could be angry about being confused.
Aye, that would work.
And ‘tis all his fault!
Aye, good, now she was angry, as she was supposed to be.
Because if she couldn’t be angry about this shite, she’d have to cry. Right?
“Coira, my thanks again for making the time for me today.”
Shaking her head, Coira tugged the tie loose from the end of her braid and began to rework the plait. “I needed a break. This morning, my mother brought me a seating chart for the celebration.”
Bessetta blinked. “A seating chart? As in…?”
“A diagram of where everyone should sit in the great hall.” Coira’s fingers flew, trying to capture the damp hairs which had floated around her face. “As if the clan couldnae just find themselves seats, as we’ve done every Easter feast.”
Chuckling, the girl scratched at the coo’s hairy ears. “And what was her plan? To post the seating chart at the entrance? So we would all ken where to sit?”
“She wanted me to number the tables. I told her the idea was ridiculous. She got mad and left in a huff.”
Rebecca mooed.
“Aye, love, ‘tis better than leaving in a pair of huffs,” Bessetta quipped. “Ye shouldnae be so rude to yer mother, milady.”
Scowling, Coira pulled the leather thong from between her teeth and tied the end of her braid. “And ye shouldnae criticize yer elders. Mother’s no’ as bad as she used to be last year, aye, but she can still be…too much. At times.”
At least she wasn’t constantly dying of some imaginary ailment anymore. When Nicola—Coira’s next-eldest sister and the clan’s healer—had married and moved away at the end of last summer, they’d all worried Mother would keel over from Wandering Bladder or Autumn Tetanus within the fortnight.
Instead, she’d rallied and surprised them all by focusing—as obsessively as Da—on the coming grandbairns.
Which still had not arrived.
“At least ye have a mother,” murmured Bessetta.
And Coira felt like a worm. “Och, I’m sorry, lass.” In two strides, she was across the room and had thrown her arm around the girl’s shoulder. “I keep forgetting how young ye were when ye lost yer mother. But yer da’s done right by ye, eh?”
Her parents hadn’t been married, as Coira recalled, but that hadn’t stopped Doughall from understanding his responsibility.
“Aye!” Bessetta brightened. “He’s the best da in the world, no offense.”
“None taken,” Coira chuckled. “My da, God love him, is…” Batty. Mad. Bat-fook insane. No’ just around the bend, but also up the river and down the waterfall. “Difficult,” she finished.
When Bessetta stifled her laugh, Coira squeezed her shoulders.
“And now, Bess, our lesson has come to its end. I have to go back to work in Da’s solar, and ye have to get back to yer cottage. But I have a verra, verra important question for ye.”
