A Plaid Case of Loving Ye (Bad in Plaid Book 5), page 1
A Plaid Case of Loving Ye
Caroline Lee
Contents
About this Book
Letter to the Reader
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 this Book
Lady Nicola Oliphant is her clan’s healer…and she needs a break. After years of being at the beck and call of her mother’s (mostly imaginary) illnesses—which are getting more and more ridiculous—Nicola jumps at a chance to escape. Even if that means spending a month in a far-off convent full of accident-prone nuns who need her healing skills.
But once there, she’s met with a patient she can’t afford to heal.
Ramsay doesn’t remember who he is, and it’s damned galling. All he knows was that he was delivered to the convent of St. Dorcas the Ever Petulant after being attacked and left for dead. Now the warrior is mostly healed, but his head still aches fiercely whenever he tries to remember the details of the attack…or anything beyond his given name.
Nicola recognizes Ramsay McIlvain, but since he has reason to hate her clan, she hesitates to confess his identity. But she’s a healer. Can she, in good conscience, hold back the information he needs to mend? And the attraction between them is difficult to deny, what with all the kissing and rubbing being done—all in the name of recovery, of course!
When the pair of them set out on a mission to save a helpless bairn, Nicola knows she has to confess the truth. But how will Ramsay react once he’s surrounded by his clan—where he belongs?
Warning: The medical practices in this story are preposterous…but to be fair, so are a lot of the maladies. Get ready for another hilarious medieval romcom full of naughty “remedies” and fun!
Letter to the Reader
Dear Reader,
Look, you’re probably wondering “What kind of idiot writes two back-to-back books where the heroes are named MacBain and McIlvain?” Well, Judgey McJudgerson, that’s called Lack of Foresight.
I came up with the missing Hunter way back in book one (Plaid to the Bone), and then Kester MacBain in book two (Not Half Plaid). It wasn’t until book three, when Wynda assumes the Hunter is looking for McIlvain while MacBain is still at Castle Oliphant, that I had a bit of an “Oh, shite” moment.
If it’s any help, they’re pronounced differently, with “Mackel-vane” having an extra syllable than “Mack-bane”.
…I know, I know, that doesn’t really help. SORRY! Just try to forget Kester MacBain and Robena are off having their adventure at the same time this book takes place, mmmkay? Likely for the best.
Oh, and one more thing. There’s a few references to canonical hours in the first few chapters of this book (it takes place at a convent, after all). I could be nice and include a chart of the hours for you, but I shan’t until the Author’s Note. Do not skip ahead and read the Author’s Note, there are spoilers. You’ll just have to extrapolate until then. Good luck!
You’re going to have a lot of fun!
Caroline
Chapter 1
The convent of St. Dorcas the Ever Petulant sat on a barren rock in the middle of the loch, looming forebodingly and mysteriously and, above all, bloody difficult to get to.
“Does it look a little…strange to ye?” Nicola Oliphant asked, her head cocked to one side as her horse sidestepped impatiently.
Her older sister shifted comfortably in her saddle, and instead of looking at the nunnery, kept her attention on the people of the little village which perched along the shores of the loch.
“No’ really,” Coira replied, in that no-nonsense way of hers. “Just difficult to get to.”
“That’s what I meant.”
Finally, Coira gave the distant tower the attention it deserved. “’Tis impregnable.”
“They’re nuns.” Nicola hid her smile. “I should hope they’re impregnable.”
Her sister rolled her eyes. “I meant the castle. ‘Twas obviously a castle once, aye? Mayhap some laird left it to the nuns in penance or some such. All I ken is I wouldnae want to lead the force who had to attack that thing.”
Coira Oliphant was the oldest of the laird’s six daughters, and everyone who knew the Oliphants—although they were quite a few days’ journey from home on this adventure—knew the laird wasn’t the sharpest lance at the joust, and therefore his eldest managed most of the clan’s affairs. Anyone who knew them personally knew that Coira—in her braies and tunic and a sword strapped to her waist—would absolutely be capable of commanding the force to attack a castle. Even one in the middle of a loch.
When Nicola shook her head, her horse side-stepped again. “I wouldnae want to lead the force which had to get food and supplies out there each sennight!”
“Mayhap the nuns plant food?”
“In a tower castle on a rock?” Nicola shook her head again, then took pity on her horse and clucked the poor thing into motion. “There’d be nae room. Come, let us determine how guests of the non-attacking variety gain entrance.”
Coira might be the leader of the Oliphant sisters—and the one who was angriest about Da’s ultimatum—but Nicola was the healer and she had a job to do. One which involved getting out to the nunnery sometime this year.
Eventually, they found a chatty woman in the marketplace who directed them and the four Oliphant warriors who rode with them down to the pier. Well, they called it a pier, but ‘twas a series of pilings in the water to which a series of increasingly dilapidated boats were tied.
Coira snorted. “Well.” She hooked her thumbs in her belt and rocked back on her heels. “I have nae worries about leaving ye in that fortress...but I cannae guarantee yer safety if ye insist on traveling in one of those.”
Nicola was busy untying all her bundles and satchels, handing them to the youngest of their escort to deposit into one of the rowboats. “Shh! If ye anger the fishermen with yer insults, they’ll likely drop me overboard on the way out to the nunnery.”
“If they do, they’ll have to contend with me. I promised Mother I’d get ye here safely.”
Nicola kept her attention on her task so she didn’t have to pretend to care what Mother thought.
The older woman had been distraught when she’d learned Nicola had accepted the invitation from the convent for a visit. Despite what she’d told her mother, Nicola didn’t particularly want to take holy vows…she just wanted a month away from home.
A month away from Mother’s demands and Da’s mad schemes. Four of her younger sisters had married this summer and Nicola knew everyone was eying her next.
But as she’d told her mother, she didn’t want to marry; not because she liked the idea of becoming a Bride of Christ, but because she’d had enough of being at the beck and call of one person. Mother had treated her as her personal emotional-support-blanket for years, and Nicola was tired of it.
At the convent of St. Dorcas the Ever Petulant, she’d have people to heal, people who needed her. Aye, she fully expected to be pulled in many directions at once and was, in fact, looking forward to it. Anything was better than spending the rest of her life catering to one person.
“Good God, Nik, this weighs a ton.” Coira stood calf-deep in the water, helping load some of the bags. “Did ye bring a grindstone?”
Sniffing dismissively, Nicola tossed her sister another bag. “Of course, I did. I cannae trust the nuns to keep my scalpels sharp. And stop complaining. One would think ye’ve no’ spent each morning out in the yard practicing with the men.”
Her sister groaned theatrically as she stowed another bag. “Practicing with the men? Dinnae let Wyn or Robbie hear ye say that; they’ll think ye mean something else entirely.”
“Something involving cocks?” Nicola asked innocently.
The young warrior at their side made a choking sound, and Nicola shot him a smile as she hurried to clarify. “Chickens, I mean.”
“Aye, Nicola,” growled Coira. “Get in the boat.”
Pleased she’d managed to discompose her normally gruff sister out of her annoying habit of shortening everyone’s names, Nicola held up her skirts around her knees and grimaced as the water spilled over the tops of her leather shoes and seeped into the wool of her stockings.
They left their escort in the village after Coira assured the men—most of whom cheerfully deferred to her when their commander, Doughall, wasn’t around—that she could handle anything a bunch of nuns threw their way. The next few days sampling ales at the inn until Coira decided ’twas time to return home was likely a better draw than minding their manners at the nunnery.
The sisters sat in the stern of the boat as they were rowed out to the island.
Coira’s booted toe tapped impatiently and Nicola knew ‘twas because her sister hated inactivity. “How do the nuns get supplies?” she barked to the fisherman in front of them. “Dinnae tell me they ken how to fish!”
The man’s large back was to the pair, but he turned just enough to grin over his shoulder at Coira. “Does a woman’s arms stop working when she becomes a nun? She can still throw a fishing net, aye?” When Coira scoffed, the man chuckled. “My father’s father grew up in the villag e, back when auld Laird Gunn held the castle. When his son moved his seat west, the village just sort of became property of the convent. Depending on the Mother Superior, our lives are either peaceful or browbeaten.”
“There are that many nuns in the convent?” Nicola ventured.
The man snorted. “Nay, nae more than a handful. But they’re always switching who holds the title of Mother Superior, making it bloody difficult to remember whose turn ‘tis.”
The sisters exchanged a glance; Coira’s surprised and Nicola’s amused.
The convent of St. Dorcas the Ever Petulant was sounding stranger and stranger.
Mayhap the ideal place for a month’s escape.
There was a quay on the near side of the island, so Nicola and Coira were able to scramble out of the boat without getting any damper. The fisherman happily handed up the satchels of Nicola’s healing supplies, then waved as he shoved off once more.
“Coward,” muttered Coira.
But Nicola had already turned to the imposing barbican. ‘Twas indeed the entrance to a castle, or at least had been once. Now, the portcullis was rusted in the open position, the massive front gates looked as if they never closed, and a short, well-endowed woman was hurrying toward them. She was waving her arms, which—in the simple brown nun’s frock—made her look a bit like a bird of prey.
Nicola stepped back instinctively and only barely managed to keep from falling into the loch.
“Thank the Lord and St. Dorcas ye’re here!” puffed the small woman as she skidded to a stop on the quay. “Ye’re the Oliphant lass, aye? Ye sent word ye’d be here, and we’ve all been excited to welcome ye. Here, give me that one too!”
As she spoke, the woman—the nun—collected the bags and packages, hanging them from her shoulders and around her neck. Up close, Nicola could see that she wasn’t just well-endowed, she was…she was…well, remarkably well-endowed.
The woman’s breasts were large enough ‘twas a miracle she didn’t just topple forward. In fact, when the nun placed one of Nicola’s satchels atop the shelf of her breasts, the healer held her breath, expecting just that.
But the nun was obviously quite used to navigating life with tits bigger than her head. Each one bigger than her head.
Ye’re staring.
Nicola blinked and turned away, knowing she couldn’t meet Coira’s eyes or she’d begin to giggle. “Aye.” Her voice emerged as a squeak, so she cleared her throat and tried again. “Aye, I’m Lady Nicola. This is my sister, Lady Coira. She’s my escort.”
Coira, of course, was wearing a huge grin. “Pleased to meet ye.” Instead of bobbing a curtsey as she’d been trained, the eldest Oliphant lass pumped the nun’s arm, as if they were both men.
Nicola knew she was only doing it to test the nun’s balance.
The woman, for her part, reacted with enthusiasm. “Welcome to St. Dorcas! We’re thrilled to have ye both, although yer letter said ye’d be leaving us, Lady Coira?”
“Aye, I’m only here long enough to ensure Nik’s safe and sound.” Coira was still pumping her hand. “I suppose ye can ensure that?”
“I suppose I can!” The nun finally managed to extract her hand from Coira’s, and waved it about. Perhaps to restore blood flow. “I’m Mother Superior here.”
Well, that caused both Nicola and Coira to startle.
The shorter woman shrugged sheepishly. “It’s my turn this month.”
“This…month?” Nicola repeated.
“Aye, we rotate, ye see. To determine which of us fits the role better. I confess ‘tis no’ my favorite, but I am rather good at making people—especially the men in the village--do what I want. I dinnae ken why.”
Coira, who was eyeing the woman’s jiggling breasts, muttered, “I can guess.”
“Otherwise, we lead a verra boring existence here at St. Dorcas. Praying, of course, and helping members of the village who need us. Playing chess, dressing, undressing, knitting exciting underwear. Oh, and we’ve invented pinocle.”
“Ye pee on yer knuckles?”
The nun ignored Nicola’s question. “I’m Sister Mary Titania. That was my name, back home, ye ken.” The woman was cheerful piling bags onto her shoulder again. “Titania McGee.”
Coira made a little choking sound. “Titania McGee?”
“’Tis an auld Greek name, I’ve been told.”
“Can I call ye Tits? Tits McG—”
“Please excuse my sister,” blurted Nicola, reaching out to snatch back one of her satchels. “She likes to shorten everyone’s names to make her life easier.”
Sister Mary Titania chortled gleefully. “She’s going to have her work cut out for her, then. Come along, I’ll get ye settled, and Coira can decide how long she’s going to stay with us.”
As she followed them, Coira muttered, “I cannae decide if it’d be hilarious or a penance to stay any longer.”
Likely both.
The nun kept up a convoluted litany of instructions and asides and gossip as she led them past the gardens and washing lines strung haphazardly from the outer walls, through the open portcullis, and into what had once likely been a barracks. Now ‘twas…well, Nicola supposed ‘twas still a barracks, only a different kind.
“This is where the acolytes and the nuns sleep,” called out Sister Mary Titania as she hustled them toward the stairs. “This month I have my own room above stairs—best part of being Mother Superior—and ye shall as well. Of course, we’ve nae courtyard, which is bloody inconvenient, but nae one asked me.”
As they huffed up the steps to the great hall—luckily, it appeared to still be used as such, although there were enough religious tapestries and crosses hanging around for Nicola to guess this is where the nuns heard Mass as well—Sister Mary Titania called over her shoulder to them.
“This is our version of the chapel. ‘Tis also where we have our meals, which can be confusing at times. I swear, Sister Mary Influenza starts salivating every time we kneel for prayer. Which is, after all, better than Sister Mary Novella.”
Nicola glanced at her sister to see if Coira was going to raise a brow at those names, but Coira was busy oogling a tapestry which showed the martyrdom of St. Stephen.
I dinnae ken there were that many arrows. But I suppose if one chooses to depict the man nude, one can fit a few more in various places.
Since their hostess was waiting, Nicola hurried across the hall. “Sister Mary…Novena, ye said?”
“Nay, Sister Mary Novella. ‘Tis what we get for allowing these lasses to choose their own names upon taking vows. She’s the one who willnae bend her knees. She says ‘tis penance, but I’m no’ convinced ‘tisnae some sort of ague. She’ll be coming to see ye tomorrow after Prime.”
Prime? Damnation, they expected her to start her day right away, did they not?
“Doesnae bend her knees?” Nicola panted, climbing the next set of stairs to the upper tower floors. What kind of convent was this?
“Och, aye. We have our collection of strange plagues and odd ailments. Sister Mary Epiderma will be able to explain it all to ye. Sister.”
An older woman stepped out of the shadow, where she’d been hidden so completely, she wrenched a little gasp from Nicola’s lips. The mother superior began to hand off some of the bags. As she took them, the older nun inclined her head regally.
“Welcome to t’ convent of St. Dorcas t’ Ever Petulant, milady. We are pleased ye’re ‘ere.”
“Sister Mary Epiderma is in charge of our infirmary, but now ye’re here to help her, I’m certain our patients will improve.”
“I’m no’,” the older woman growled. “I ‘ave sent for Fat’er T’eodolp’is to come administer last rites for Lady Ellen.”
Last rites? Oh dear. Nicola hurried after the pair of them. “What ails the lady?”
“Naught a pep talk and some fresh air willnae cure,” announced the well-endowed Mother Superior cheerfully.
