Drop It Like It's Scot (The Hots for Scots Book 5)

by Caroline Lee

  This was the moment where he’d exhale, and all of the tension he’d been carrying would disappear. A moment of clarity he’d come to crave over the last years.

  But since that first encounter with Lara, here in this very room, nothing had been the same. The calisthenics didn’t relax him, not the way coming at her command had.

  And last night there’d been a moment, right after he’d spilled his seed against her womb, when everything had become so damnably clear. He’d relaxed in a way he’d never had before.

  ‘Twas like his responsibilities didn’t matter. His work, his stress, his plans just didn’t matter. All that mattered was having her in his arms and keeping her there.

  She’d been his, if only for a short time. Aye, she’d been someone else’s first, ‘twas true. But now she was his, and he didn’t want to give her up.

  Cursing himself, he rolled to his feet and padded barefoot toward the basin of water and drying cloths the servants kept for him. As he washed the sweat from his neck and arms, he wondered if she’d been the one to arrange this. Lara had been helping with the household for as long as he’d been helping with clan business.

  She’d been taking care of him for years, had she not?

  Blankly, Alistair stared down at the rag in his hands. Had he made the right decision? Leaving her this morning had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done. She’d been so perfect in his arms with her legs wrapped around his, and her hair spilling across his chest. He was hard and aching as soon as he’d woken, her scent teasing him.

  But he’d known the household woke early, and although ‘twas before dawn, he didn’t want to take any chances. If someone saw him exiting Lara’s room, they might think the worst of her. And that was something he didn’t want.

  So he’d untangled himself, brushed a kiss across her brow, smiled when she’d murmured and rolled over, then he’d slipped out the door.

  And now, he couldn’t concentrate on anything. His morning ride hadn’t helped, the sparring with Rocque hadn’t helped, and when he’d sat to add the columns in his ledgers, the numbers all seemed to run together.

  Which is why he’d stripped out of his plaid and had begun his first round of exercises.

  Four rounds later, he had to admit, naught worked. He was doomed, all because he couldn’t stop thinking of her.

  And how good he felt when he was with her.

  With a sigh, he dragged the wet rag across his skin, hoping ‘twould last until he could go to the loch to bathe again. He was just reaching for his kilt when there was a knock at the door.

  “Just a moment,” he called, swinging the material around him and securing his belt. Ignoring the pleats for now, he tossed one end of the plaid over his shoulder and reached for the latch. “Who’s—”

  He pulled the door open before finishing his question, and when he saw Lara there, his words stuck in his throat.

  She smiled brightly, a little too bright to be sincere, and brushed past him, carrying a slate. He turned to follow her with his eyes and saw the way her gaze dropped briefly to his hurriedly donned plaid, and her smile turned more genuine.

  “I’m glad I caught ye. I wanted to discuss the menu for yer da’s celebration.” She pulled that same stool nearer to the desk and sat down.

  “Lara,” he said, knowing he sounded like a fool.

  She glanced at him, and he caught the flush of her cheeks. She was speaking of the celebration plans, but Alistair didn’t want to speak of that. From her blush, he wondered if she was hoping not to speak of last night.

  Dinnae say aught.

  Well, to hell with that.

  As he began to stalk toward the desk, she whirled around to give him her back and tapped one fingernail against the slate. “I need to discuss possibilities.”

  Finally, she was willing to talk. “What kind of possibilities?”

  “The pig.”

  He reached the desk and settled into his chair, the oak between them, and raised his brows. “The pig, what?”

  “I want a pig. A young one.”

  He frowned. “Ye want the Hero Pig of the Oliphants? The one the butcher--?”

  She was already shaking her head. “No’ Hero. But I’ve decided on the full menu. As delicious as my fried chicken is, ‘tis just no’ viable to sacrifice that many animals to feed the clan. I want to slaughter a pig for the celebration, but I’ll make the Oliphant, and the rest of yer family of course, my chicken—”

  “Let me get this straight,” he interrupted, a little incredulous. “Ye came here to talk about the menu?”

  “Aye, were ye no’ paying attention?” She shifted and frowned down at her slate. “I hope yer da doesnae mind two separate main dishes—will ye ask him for me? We’ll have the sweets he likes, according to my mother, and I’ll make my berry tarts.”

  Kiergan’s favorite. Alistair’s too, now that he thought about it. “Lara—”

  “Is that acceptable?” Finally, she looked up and met his eyes. “I assumed ye dinnae care what kind of side dishes we come up with?”

  “Aye— I mean, nay, I trust ye.” He repeated the next words because he liked the way they sounded, “I trust ye.”

  Do ye trust me?

  Aye, and he’d given up control at her bidding. And blessed St. Elzear, but it had felt good!

  “Good.” She nodded. “Now, we have the help arranged, and my mother has already pulled some of the auld banners out of storage to clean which will be hung in the great hall. Apparently, there’s one yer grandmother commissioned when yer da was born, and we thought would be appropriate.”

  He waved his hand dismissively, aware that most of the planning was taken care of. “Lara, ‘tis all fine.”

  “Then I’ll leave ye to yer work.”

  She made to stand, but he slammed his palm against the desk, and barked, “No’ yet!”

  She froze, neither sitting back down nor leaving, so he pushed his luck.

  “Come here, Lara.”

  A flicker of irritation crossed her face before she sighed and finished standing. He hid his smile, acknowledging she didn’t find giving up control quite as freeing as he did.

  “Aye, milord?” she muttered, as she moved around the side of the desk.

  He waited until she was within his reach, then grabbed her hand and pulled her toward him. She might’ve stiffened at first, but when he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his lap, she relaxed against him, draping one arm around his shoulders.

  “Did I hurt ye last night?” he murmured against her hair, inhaling its flowery fragrance.

  “Nay,” she whispered.

  He placed one finger under her chin and tilted it up so he could look into those delightfully changeable eyes. “I dinnae care for this shy side of ye,” he confessed.

  “I dinnae either.”

  He had to grin at how disgruntled she seemed.

  “I’ll no’ let ye leave until we discuss what happened last night, Lara.”

  “I’d rather talk about this morning, how ye left without saying goodbye. As if ye were ashamed to be caught in my bed!”

  He blinked. “Is that what ye thought? Nay.” He shook his head, then dropped his hand to hers, twining his fingers through them. “Nay, I left because I dinnae want others to assume the worst of ye.”

  “What would they assume?” She shrugged. “That I’d found my pleasure with a bonny man?” Her fingers toyed with the hair at the base of his neck, but her tone wasn’t as nonchalant as she might’ve thought. “There’s nae harm in that. My mother’s apparently been doing it for years.”

  He thought of the secret glances her mother shared with his father and wondered.

  But that was Moira. Lara was… Well, Lara was different.

  She was his.

  “I dinnae want to be just a bonny man ye find pleasure with, Lara.”

  She might have been with other men before him, but in that moment, he knew the truth: He wanted to be her last. Her only.

  Her h
usband.

  “Marry me,” he blurted, and she went rigid on his lap.

  “What!”

  “Marry me,” he repeated slower, thinking it through himself. “Ye ken I need a wife, by my father’s decree. My chances of becoming laird are fast diminishing, and I need to marry soon in order to father a child. Ye could, even now, be carrying my son, Lara.”

  Her hand pulled free of his and dropped to her stomach. She was staring at the hearth behind him, her mouth open in shock.

  “Please, Lara. Marry me.”

  She shook her head as she slid off his lap. “Nay.”

  Marry me.

  Those were words she’d only dreamed of hearing from the lips she’d longed to kiss. Alistair had asked her to marry him, and her heart had leapt at the offer. After last night, why would she not accept?

  Because he was asking for the wrong reasons.

  “Nay?” he repeated her, as she stood and nervously brushed her palms down her kirtle. “Why no’?”

  Hoping mayhap he’d understand, she asked him, “Why should I, Alistair? Why do ye want to marry me?”

  His mouth dropped open, as if shocked she didn’t understand. He shook his head as he stood, forcing her to back up or risk touching him again. Risk feeling that warmth between them.

  “Why do I want—” He finally said, then shook his head again. “Because of last night! Because ye could be—”

  “Pregnant, aye.” Lara’s hands rested over her stomach. She was a smart lass, but right now she couldn’t seem to concentrate on the days of the month, to even consider if that was a possibility. Nay, not with him standing so close. “Ye said that.”

  “Then ye have to see why I want to marry ye. To provide for ye.” His hand snaked out and grabbed one of hers, tugging it toward his lips. “I dinnae care who ye’ve been with afore me, Lara. I ken ye said ye’d given yer heart to another man, but he’s obviously a cad, or an idiot, to no’ have made ye his long ago.”

  Ye have nae idea.

  One corner of her lips curled into a wry grin, which he must’ve taken as a good sign.

  “Become my wife, Lara.”

  She was in love with a man, and aye, he was an idiot to not have realized it sooner. But she’d come apart in Alistair’s arms, and was positive he enjoyed it just as much as she had. Is that why he’d proposed marriage?

  “Ye only want to marry me because I made love to ye?” she clarified.

  Now ‘twas his turn to flash a wry smile. “I think I made love to ye.”

  “Ye can think what ye want,” she snapped, refusing to make light of this. “Is that the reason why ye asked me to marry ye?”

  His blue gaze searched her face, looking for a hint. “Aye, of course. What we shared last night…Lara, ye have to ken ‘twas remarkable, nae matter yer past experience.”

  “There was nae past experience!” Just my hands and Treenis and my imagination!

  To her surprise, he scoffed. “I ken ye were nae virgin, Lara, and I dinnae judge ye for it.”

  “What? How could ye ken that?” Especially when ‘twas wrong?

  With his hold on her hand, he yanked her closer, tugging her off-balance so she fell against him. He lifted her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across her palm. She shivered.

  “ ’Twas the way ye ken what I liked, lass,” he murmured against her skin, holding her gaze intensely. “The way ye took my whole cock deep, deep inside ye. Remember that, Lara?” He grinned wickedly. “Ye called my name, begging for me.”

  She lifted her chin, refusing to allow him to see how weak her knees had gone. A burst of liquid heat had settled between her thighs, and Blessed Virgin, but it took everything in her not to throw her arms around him again and command him to fook her right there on the desk.

  But he would likely take that as an agreement to his proposal.

  His proposal, which had been offered for all the wrong reasons.

  “I’ll no’ ask ye the name of the bastard who loved ye and left ye, Lara,” he murmured against, sending shivers up her arms. “But once yer my wife, ye have to forget him.”

  ‘Twas all she could manage to do to mutter, “There was nae—.”

  “It matters no’. Marry me, bear me a son, and ye could become the next Lady Oliphant.”

  That claim—that horrible, wonderful claim—was what gave her the courage to straighten, to pull her hand from his, and to push away.

  Everything she’d done since she’d stepped into this room and rubbed his shoulders, she’d done to show him the joy in life. Show him how to relax, how to find his own happiness.

  And here he was, still talking about becoming the next Laird Oliphant.

  “Ye dinnae want to marry me because we fooked, Alistair.”

  “Aye, I do, and we dinnae fook.” His eyes narrowed. “What we did was make love, and if ye cannae tell the difference, I’ll be glad to show ye.”

  Aye, please! Her body seemed to scream, but she swallowed down her lust.

  ‘Twas one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do in her life, to step back farther, to put more distance between them, when all she wanted to do was touch him. “Ye want to marry me because of yer father’s ultimatum. Ye want a chance at being the next laird.”

  He frowned. “Aye, I do. But I could marry anyone if I didnae—”

  “Nay, ye couldnae.” She shook her head and took another step away. “I ken ye asked Kiergan to woo ye a wife, and he said nay. Ye didnae have time to find a wife. Well…” She shrugged. “Now ye do. Ye’ve delegated, ye’ve given up control. Go find a wife who fits yer standards.”

  He was still frowning, but now crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Why should I, when ye’re right here? Why should I find another lass to marry, when I ken how compatible ye and I are, and ye might be carrying my bairn as we speak?”

  It took everything in her not to reach for him. Instead, she gripped the wool of her skirt, curling her fingers toward her palms to capture the sensation of his lips against her skin.

  “Because those are the wrong reasons, Alistair,” she whispered, tears gathering in her eyes.

  “Then tell me the right reasons?” His breath burst out of him on a frustrated huff. “Tell me!”

  She shook her head, and two fat tears rolled down her cheeks. “If ye have to ask, Alistair, ye’re no’ ready.”

  “Lara—”

  But she couldn’t stay and listen to another word. Not once during his proposal had he said, “I want to marry ye because I love ye, Lara, because I cannae live without ye and cannae imagine ever loving another lass.”

  Was it selfish to want to hear those words? Was it foolish?

  Mayhap. But ‘twas what her heart was telling her.

  With a sob, she shook her head and fled the room.

  Chapter 8

  “And none of this would matter quite so much, if ‘twas no’ so bloody cold!”

  Alistair, who was listening with only half an ear to his great-aunt’s griping as he helped her down the stairs, murmured an appropriate, “Aye, Aunt Agatha.”

  The old woman, taking this as a blessing to continue her complaints, grumbled, “The stockings that are so popular these days arenae nearly warm enough. I have to wear two pair! And ‘tis the middle of summer!”

  Holding onto her elbow, Alistair helped his great aunt across the upper landing and began their descent to the great hall below. Agatha—his father’s aunt—loved to complain, but it often meant little. He’d spent less time with her in the last few years than he should, and when she’d seen him coming out of his solar this evening, she’d latched onto his arm and demanded he escort her down to the meal.

  He complied, but he feared he would be bad company tonight. After that strange conversation he’d had with Lara earlier today, he wasn’t sure what to think or how to feel. He’d asked her to marry him, and she’d turned him down. Why? Because of his reasons? How could his reasons have been wrong? He wanted a wife and wanted to protect her. Those were good reasons for ma
rriage, were they no’?

  Of course, his bad mood meant little to his great-aunt.

  “My hands are the worst. Like ice, feel them!” She shifted her grip until she was the one clutching his forearm. They were cold. “Aye, like ice. Soon I’ll have to wear two sets of stockings over my hands as well as my feet.”

  “Hand stockings, Aunt Agatha?” Alistair asked, paying only half attention.

  During their slow descent, his eyes were scanning the room, and he knew why: he was looking for Lara. She wasn’t there, but Da was. He was standing near the hearth with his head bent low, speaking to someone.

  “Hand stockings, lad, pay attention! I’m going to cut five finger-holes into a set of stockings and slide them over.” She waggled a set of fingers. “I think ‘twill work.”

  Dragging his attention back to her, Alistair lifted his brow. “That would work, Aunt. Positively brilliant. Ye rival Malcolm when it comes to strange new inventions.”

  She snorted. “Who do ye think came up with the idea? That lad’s no’ as stupid as the rest of ye. If they can keep my foot-fingers warm, they’ll keep my hand-fingers warm!”

  “Foot fingers?”

  She waved a hand dismissively. “Foot fingers! Ye know, the thingies on the ends of— Toes! That’s it, toes.”

  Finally reaching the bottom of the stairs, Alistair hid his smile. “Aye, toes. The fingers of the feet. But yer hand-stocking willnae keep yer finger-fingers warm, will it? Since ye’ve cut the holes into the stocking?”

  “Mayhap if I fashion five wee-er stockings—a sort of sausage casing—I can sew them to the openings.”

  “Congratulations, Aunt. Ye’ve invented gloves.”

  She paused, then shrugged. “Well, I didnae say I was the first to wear hand-stockings, did I? I simply think they need a better name.”

  “Gloves,” he repeated again dryly. “And they’ll come in handy during the winter too.”

  Squinting up at him, his great-aunt frowned. “Did ye just make a pun? I’ve never heard ye make a joke. Are ye ill? Are ye feeling weak? Do ye need me to fetch the priest? Or Merewyn can burn some sage over ye and mumble strange incantations.”