Page 101 of The Scot Beds His Wife
A few of the men addressed Gavin, their words harsh and their tone mocking.
He had a few words for them, as well, and they shut their mouths in a hurry, though none too happily.
“What did they say?” she asked.
“Best ye didna know.”
She sent them a withering look of her own, wondering if Gavin was right and she should just send them all packing. Pushing her ire aside for a moment, she knelt by the bull, his troubled, heaving breaths tugging at her heart.
Putting her ear to his distended belly, she diagnosed him instantly. “Hand me your knife.” She held her hand behind her to her husband. When one didn’t appear in her palm, she glanced back to see what the problem was.
A congregation of narrow-eyed Highlanders crossed their arms above her in a choreographed show of resistance.
“What?” Was it something she said?
“It’s called a dirk, lass,” Gavin stated seriously. “And a man doesna justhand it over.”
“Lest he find it in his back,” another muttered.
Oh, so some of themcouldspeak English, they just chose not to in front of the outsider. Lord, spare her from obstinate Highlanders.
Gavin put a hand on her shoulder. “If the beast’s throat needs cut, let me—”
“Christ, you’ve been reading too muchMacbeth,” she huffed. “Just let me use yourdirk,and I swear you’ll have it back before you can say ‘How’d eyre washed’ or however that goes.”
She got the sense that she’d amused her husband, but not many others.
The moment he handed it to her, she took it and quickly thrust it in the cow’s belly, instantly removing it.
Gavin pulled her back to her feet with a foreign curse as a small spout of blood gave way to a rather comical flatulent noise as the bull’s middle significantly deflated.
They all watched the beast in openmouthed wonder as Samantha stooped to clean Gavin’s dirk on the grass and handed it back to him.
“Cows have four stomachs,” she explained. “Sometimes if one of the middle ones becomes bloated, they can’t do anything about it and it distresses their lungs.”
The man who’d retrieved Gavin said something unintelligible to his comrades, and they all burst out laughing.
Scowling at them, she asked. “Is he laughing at me?”
“Nay, bonny.” Gavin chuckled.
“Then what did he say?”
“Only that he wonders if that would work on his mother-in-law.”
“Oh.” She giggled, pleased to see the bull struggling to his feet. “Tell him that he’ll never know until he tries.”
A melody of masculine amusement was a welcome tune to her ears, as most of the men gave Gavin a few parting words before kicking their horses to return to their work.
“What did they say?” She was going to get tired of asking that before long.
Returning his dirk to its scabbard, he took her in his arms and regarded her with a soft, knee-weakening emotion. “They’re saying, lass, that I picked a good wife.”
Inordinately pleased with herself, she performed a triumphant little wriggle in his arms.
“I have to admit, bonny, they’re not wrong.” He took her mouth in a possessive kiss, and the rowdy whoops and hollers of the Highlanders barely registered above the rush of her own happiness.
CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
