This scene is right after Trulie has arrived back in the thirteenth century. She’s temporarily lost her sight because she unwisely jumped through the time travel tunnel with her eyes wide open—she knows better! ;-)
Coira is the trusted maidservant at MacKenna Keep who has been assigned to help Trulie settle in and get unpacked.
“What . . .” Coira’s voice stalled out as though the girl had suddenly forgotten how to speak. Finally, she pulled Trulie’s hand up and pressed a wadded jumble of silk and lace into her extended palm. “What is . . . where . . . how exactly do ye wear . . . these.”
Trulie fingered through the bundle. Lace. Silk. Ribbon. Recognition finally registered. Trulie grinned. She held between her hands what she affectionately called her power package. Be it by intention or by chance, whenever she wore this particular set of black thong panties and show-off-the-girls bra, her confidence soared and she succeeded at whatever she tried. They always brought her good karma. “It’s my favorite set of bra and panties. There’s more lingerie stuffed in those outside pockets, but this set and the red set I’m wearing are my favorites. They bring me luck.”
The satiny articles were slowly pulled out of her hands. Trulie heard a sharp intake of breath and something muttered so low that she leaned forward to try to hear it. “What did you say, Coira?”
Coira cleared her throat with a nervous cough. “These bits o’ lace will bring ye a great deal more than luck if the chieftain sees ye a wearin’ them.”
Trulie did her best to ignore the rising heat flaming across her cheeks. Why would Coira say such a thing? “I’m not exactly going to be parading around the keep in my underwear. I’m sure Chieftain MacKenna won’t get a viewing of my power package. He’s much too busy running the clan to be troubled by a couple of new houseguests . . . and my favorite underwear.”
“Hmm,” was Coira’s only response.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Trulie scooted to the edge of the bed and carefully lowered her feet to the floor. Coira’s “Hmmm” spoke volumes, presenting all sorts of possibilities that effectively released an oversized horde of fluttering butterflies into Trulie’s stomach.
“Well . . .” Coira made an odd chirping noise like a hen about to lay an egg. “All I know is how the MacKenna looked at ye when ye walked in front of him in those tight-fittin’ trews yer a wearin’.” Coira giggled out a bubbling chortle as she rattled around in the backpack. “If he caught sight of ye in yer wee bit o’ black lace, the man’s plaid would surely stand out stiff as a banner hung across a pole.”
So the honey-voiced chieftain liked the rear view of her jeans? Trulie pressed both hands to her flaming cheeks, but couldn’t resist joining Coira’s infectious giggling. Maybe this short visit to the thirteenth century wouldn’t be so bad after all.
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