by Caroline Lee
Getting Scot and Bothered
Caroline Lee
Copyright © 2020, Caroline Lee
[email protected]
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: 2020
Printing/manufacturing information for this book may be found on the last page
Cover: EDHGraphics
Created with Vellum
Contents
About This Book
Other Books by Caroline Lee
Prologue
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 the Author
About This Book
Rocque Oliphant has simple wants: a fine sword at his hip, a good meal in his belly, and a lusty wench by his side. His position as the Oliphant Commander, leader of men, ensures the first, and his long-term affair with Merewyn, the clan healer, ensures the second and third. She brings him joy—and pleasure—in ways he once only dreamed of!
Aye, things are going well in his life…at least they were, right up until his father—the laird—demanded he marry and start producing grandsons. If Rocque wants to beat his brothers at a chance for the lairdship, he needs to find a willing woman to bear his sons—and fast!
But Merewyn, the stubborn lass, refuses to marry him and won’t tell him why. Rocque can’t imagine spending his life with anyone else! So if he can’t marry another lass, and the one he wants won’t marry him, what chance does he have to secure the title of the new laird?
As the Oliphant healer, Merewyn knows her value to the clan. She is also quite aware she doesn’t need to marry…and the only way she will, is for love. And Rocque, stubborn idiot that he is, won’t tell her his true feelings. Can she be blamed for saying nay to his proposal? But now she’s running out of time and knows she has no choice but to tell him the truth, or set him free, because in a few months, everyone in the clan will know her secret!
Rocque might have more brawn than brains, but he’s smart enough to know he can’t lose Merewyn. But is he prepared for the battle it’s going to take to prove that to her?
Warning: This story contains naughty bits. Lots of them. Ridiculous amounts. Also contains characters and conversations which are funny enough to make you spit out your tea. For the sake of your Kindle, do not drink while reading this book. That is all; you may now carry on.
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Everland Ever After (10 books)
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Dedication:
For Nancy, who will like the sexy bits.
And for Ellis, whose turnip obsession became useful in chapter eight.
Prologue
There was something about waking up in a woman’s bed, knowing the sheets were all clean and smelling fresh, and there’d be something warm to break his fast before long. But ‘twas not just any woman who made Rocque smile when he opened his eyes.
‘Twas Merewyn, and only Merewyn.
Grinning, he rolled over and propped himself up on his elbow. She was stretched out beside him, limbs akimbo, the coverlet kicked down around her waist and one of her red curls stuck in the dried drool beside her mouth. As he watched, she grunted and shifted position, as if personally affronted by the pillow.
She was beautiful.
He loved the way she could be as stubborn as he was, unwilling to settle for anything less than what she knew was the best. And as the Oliphant healer, Merewyn often knew what was best.
For everyone else, at least.
Rocque’s smile slowly faded as he remembered the night before. They’d made love, and he’d asked—yet again—for her hand in marriage.
And yet again, she turned him down.
St. John’s tits, but she was stubborn. And hot-headed. And difficult when she wouldn’t just accept that she didn’t know everything about everything. Their arguments had gotten to be legendary in the clan.
His lips curled upward once more. Their making-up had become legendary as well.
She had a way of distracting him from their disagreements which was the envy of every Oliphant warrior, he was certain.
But she was his.
Gently, he placed his large hand against her stomach, and when she didn’t move, spread his fingers across her skin. He could imagine her swelling with his bairn, caring for them the way she cared for the villagers. They could be happy here together, in this little cottage.
She murmured something, and his gaze darted up to her face, but her eyes were still closed. And his lips twitched upward once more.
He’d been with her for almost a year. They’d spent the long winter keeping one another warm here in this very bed. He knew what she liked, and knew she liked what he liked.
Like mutual morning likings, for one thing.
Slowly, sneakily, he shifted until he was lying beside her, his body stretched out along hers, and his manhood already aching. She smelled of rosemary—the way she always did.
‘Twas his favorite scent.
Mayhap the movement woke her, because she rolled toward him and opened her eyes.
They laid like that, their heads sharing the same pillow, gazing at one another.
He knew the moment she blinked away all the sleep, the moment she realized his unspoken suggestion.
Her brow twitched. “Good morning, lover.”
He lifted himself up on one elbow, looming over her, and her lips stretched lazily to match his. As he lowered his lips, she reached one arm up to pull him closer.
A good morning, indeed.
Chapter 1
Even at the best of times, Oliphant Castle could be chaotic. But the great hall just prior to the midday meal? “Chaos” was being polite.
Rocque, the Oliphant commander and one of the laird’s sons, frowned as he descended the stairs with his brother. Alistair was still talking, but Rocque’s eyes darted across th
e hustle and bustle, ensuring there was order hidden among the turmoil.
Aye, there was Moira, the plump, middle aged housekeeper. She ran Oliphant Castle with an iron fist, and today was no different. As she appeared from the steps leading down to the kitchens, she was waving a long spoon and hollering orders to the servants and warriors who were helping to arrange the trestle tables and benches.
Satisfied, Rocque turned his attention back to his brother, who was saying something about… Wait, was he doing maths?
“So, by my calculations, we’ll be using fewer resources and the men will be more alert if we switch to a rotation of three men every three hours, instead of two men every two hours.”
Rocque’s frown deepened as they reached the main floor and he lifted his hands from where they’d been resting on his sword belt.
Let’s see. Three men, every three hours.
He held up three fingers, then six, then nine, whispering as he counted. When he reached twelve—and ran out of fingers—he switched back to zero fingers.
Versus two men every two hours.
Two fingers, then four, then six… He muttered names aloud, working through the evening watch rotation.
Finally, he shook out his fingers. With a scowl, he glanced at his brother.
“Ye ken math is no’ my strong suit. But would we no’ use the same number of men, even with that rotation?”
Alistair had been distracted by something across the hall, but when he glanced back, he offered Rocque a quick grin. “Aye, ye are correct. But ‘twould mean the same men dinnae have to stand watch as often. Ye could push the rotation out to once a sennight, if ye include me and Malcolm more regularly.”
Rocque’s brows shot up and he regarded his brother. “Ye really are willing to stand guard again?”
Alistair wasn’t one to shirk his duty to the clan. In fact, as near as Rocque could tell, Alistair’s entire life revolved around duty to his clan. But the man spent most of his days in Da’s solar, picking through letters and contracts and—Rocque shuddered—maths. In appreciation, when Rocque made the guard roster, he often left this brother of his off… Let him use his brain for the clan, while others—like Rocque—would use their muscles.
But Alistair slapped him on the shoulder with a grin. “Aye, brother. And dinnae think we havenae noticed ye leaving Malcolm off more’n a few times.”
“Och, Malcolm’s the smartest among us, but he’s nae swordsman.”
It wasn’t disloyal to his twin for Rocque to say such a thing; he assured himself. Malcolm knew how to hold a sword, the same as all of William Oliphant’s bastard sons. But he was the inventor of the group.
And besides, he’d worried over Rocque often enough that Rocque was more than willing to allow him his sleep when possible.
“Are ye speaking about me?”
Rocque and Alistair whirled to find their twins strolling toward them. Malcolm shared the same coloring with Rocque, although that’s where their similarities ended. Alistair and Kiergan looked more alike than not, although their personalities were like cheese and chalk.
While Malcolm was focused on them, Kiergan was walking backward, flirting with one of the serving wenches who blushed prettily at his winks.
Although Rocque had seen this brother of theirs balance along the keep’s battlements blindfolded, he was tempted to shove a foot in Kiergan’s path in irritation.
“Aye,” Alistair drawled, responding to Mal. “Rocque was telling me how much he admires yer swordsmanship.”
Their scholarly brother blinked. “Did ye hit yer head, Rocque?” He held up three fingers. “How many fingers do ye see? Are things blurry?”
Knowing his twin was only half teasing, Rocque scowled. “I’m putting ye on the roster twice in the next sennight, Alistair!”
Kiergan had finally decided to join them and settled into an easy stance beside his twin. “Rocque’s putting together the roster? Any chance I could have off tonight? I have a…” He glanced over at the serving lass, Minnie. “I’m hoping to be busy.”
“What ye do on yer own time is yer own business. I’ll no’ adjust the roster because ye cannae manage to keep yer cock tucked where it belongs.”
“Where it belongs is up for some debate.”
Rocque groaned as Alistair rolled his eyes.
But Malcolm smirked. “When yer commander tells ye it belongs in yer kilt, Minnie’s opinion matters less.”
“But my commander is the one who is always telling me to practice my swordplay!” Kiergan protested.
Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose, and Rocque burst out, “By St. John’s bollocks, not everything is a cock joke, Kiergan!”
This rakish brother of theirs merely smiled. “Then ye’re no’ trying hard enough.”
Malcolm nodded; his expression too innocent to be believed. “ ’Tis what she said.”
Kiergan’s mouth dropped open and his twin burst into surprised laughter.
Rocque wasn’t too far behind. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Their scholarly brother shrugged as he launched into a long-winded explanation. “ ’Hard enough’ seemed like prime opportunity to make another cock joke. So I merely referenced what, say, Minnie, might be thinking when it came to Kiergan’s dick being hard enough—”
The rest of his explanation was drowned out by Rocque and Alistair’s laughter, but Kiergan seemed excited.
“ ’Tis what she said,” he repeated. “I like it! I think ye’d discovered a new joke, brother. There’s a limited number of new jokes in the world, ye ken.” He clasped Malcolm on the shoulder. “Generations from now, men will be calling one another’s manhood into question with shouts of ‘Tis what she said!”
Malcolm nodded. “Imagine the possibilities!” He gestured gallantly. “Pardon, fine sir, but could ye help me work on my swordplay?”
“ ’Tis what she said!” Kiergan replied, chortling.
Straightening, Malcolm held his palms facing one another, shoulder width apart. “Ye should’ve seen it! I’ve never caught one so big.”
“ ’Tis what she said!”
Rocque’s laughter had died down, but his grin was still there when he chimed it. “Aye, big and slippery!”
“ ’Tis what she said!” Mal joined Kiergan in the refrain.
Alistair shook his head, but was smiling. “Thick and slimy, and smelled of fish!”
“ ’Tis what she— Wait.” Kiergan frowned at his twin. “I’m no’ sure ye understand the mechanics of this joke.”
“Either the mechanics of this joke, or the mechanics of sexual congress,” Malcolm muttered to Kiergan. “Want me to take him aside and have a talk with him?”
“Oh, for fook’s sake!” Alistair threw his hands up in exasperation, but he was still grinning when he continued, “For that, ye’re all heading to the wall with me this afternoon to work on the reinforcing.”
Kiergan shrugged. “ ’Twas my plan. I have to keep my muscles toned somehow, if I want to keep impressing the lasses.”
“Going to flab, eh?” Rocque nodded thoughtfully. “Alistair, remind me to add him to the roster twice next week as well.”
“Thank ye,” Kiergan breathed with reverence, as he clasped his hands to his heart. “Just what I was hoping for. I love to work to the point of exhaustion, especially if ‘tis hard.”
“ ’Tis what she said,” Alistair muttered.
As Rocque snorted, his twin nodded.
“I’ll head down to the smithy after the meal,” Malcolm said with excitement. “Duncan and his stepfather were working on one of the pulleys I modified for the lifting mechanism.”
Alistair lifted a brow in Rocque’s direction. “Have ye seen Malcolm’s latest invention to get the stones up from the bailey? ‘Twill significantly cut down on how much manpower we require.”
Shaking his head, Rocque didn’t bother hiding his grin. “Why bother? Just send Kiergan up to show off his manpower.”
Malcolm solemnly intoned, “ ’Tis what she
said.”
“Aright, ye lot!” Kiergan burst out, “ye’ve killed it. Ye murdered the joke with overuse. Amazing that ye can create and destroy a joke in such a short amount of time! Ye’d think such a thing would be hard, but nay!”
“ ’Tis what she—”
“Shut it, Alistair!”
Chuckling now, Rocque held up his hand to halt the bickering. “Nay, I have nae seen Mal’s newest creation, and aye, I’ll be up there to help. I promised the lads I’d join them on the lists later this afternoon.” The youngest of the Oliphant warriors sometimes requested extra sparring sessions with him after the morning practice was done. “But I can help prior to that.”
He’d been hoping to spend an hour or two at home, but being a part of a clan meant sacrifices.
Besides, ‘twas not as if the little cottage where he’d been hoping to visit was actually home.
It just felt that way.
Technically, as the commander, he had a chamber in the barracks all to himself. ‘Twas a simple room, but more than enough for a man like him.
But over the last year, many of his belongings had migrated into the village, to a cozy cottage set back off the main square and surrounded by the most extensive herb garden he’d ever seen.
The cottage belonged to Merewyn, the Oliphant healer. The woman he—well, he cared for her, certainly. He enjoyed spending time with her. He valued her insights and the way she made him feel when she fussed over him.
And St. John knew he loved the way they made love.
In fact, thinking of how he’d woken her that morning—with a smile and a raging erection she was glad to see—his cock twitched again under his kilt.