Getting Scot and Bothered: a ridiculous secret-baby medieval romance (The Hots for Scots Book 3)

by Caroline Lee

  Aye, mayhap he had been hoping to sneak away to that cozy little cottage and spend some time with her, if it wasn’t too hard.

  He silently snorted to himself. ‘Tis what she said.

  His brothers were still ribbing one another, but Rocque just smiled as he let their bickering and teasing wash over him. He and Malcolm had joined this household when they were lads of twelve, but that still meant he’d spent more than half his life with Finn and Duncan, Alistair and Kiergan.

  And--his gaze swept the hall—Moira and Da and most of the clanmembers here. Three years ago, when Da had made him commander, Rocque had taken over the training of the Oliphant warriors, and had gotten to know all these men better.

  There were some—like Fergus and Allan, whom he nodded to across the hall—who were older than he was, and although it was his job to train, he respected their skills, knowledge and experience. Then there were the lads he was scheduled to work with that afternoon, who werenae too much older than he’d been when he arrived, but eager to prove themselves as warriors.

  Aye, most of the men under his command settled neatly into their roles. Only a few still gave him trouble.

  His lips pulled down as he saw one of those troublemakers lingering near the stairs to the kitchens. Hamish was the same age as Rocque and his brothers, so they’d been thrown together more than once growing up. It had become clear then, and was more so now, that Hamish was one of those men who was good at making excuses. Things were never his fault, or were accidents, or someone else was to blame. The man was a terrible warrior, but never bothered to work to overcome his shortcomings.

  In fact, when Da had handed the role of commander over to Rocque, the old man had smiled grimly and pointed to Hamish. “Ye’ll have yer hands full figuring out what to do with that one,” he’d said, and he’d been right.

  And since, when confronted, Hamish did little but whine about life’s fairness, Rocque was always at a loss for how to punish the man. Challenging him with the sword didn’t work, and the man wouldn’t raise his fists, because he knew Rocque was twice his size.

  Stifling a sigh, Rocque watched Hamish’s eyes light up as he straightened and darted forward. Who was he waiting on—? Ah.

  The lassie who emerged from the kitchens wasn’t who Rocque had expected. For one thing, she was young—Jessie was only thirteen, as he recalled. Mayhap not even that. He wracked his brain, trying to recall if Hamish was connected to Jessie’s family in any way. Judging from the way the man dogged her steps, ‘twas clear he was trying to speak to her.

  And from the way she tucked her chin against her chest, kept her eyes on her tray of flagons, and hurried for the trestle tables, ‘twas clear she was trying to avoid him.

  Hmm.

  When Hamish said one more thing to the lassie, then did something which caused her to jump and blush, Rocque’s frown grew. At last Hamish sauntered off, smirking, but what had he said to wee Jessie?

  The girl was a new addition to the keep. Over the years, servants had come and gone; mostly lasses from the village who married and moved away. Sometimes they stayed after marriage, if their husbands lived in the village and they needed the coin. And sometimes they stayed because they made homes for themselves here in the Castle.

  Jessie was—or would be—one of the latter. She’d only joined the household a few months ago, as he recalled. She’d been the only child of a crofter whose wife was long gone. In late winter, their croft had burned. Her father had been trapped, and although she’d fought to free him, the older man had perished.

  The poor lass had been left with naught but her burns—terrible things which covered one arm and half her face—and her night terrors. Merewyn had been up at the keep often in those first months, caring for the girl and soothing her. Jessie still didn’t speak much, from what Rocque had heard, and the lass didn’t deserve to be pestered by the likes of Hamish.

  The knowledge Rocque couldn’t pound some sense into Hamish—because the wee shite wouldn’t meet him on the lists, instead whining about Rocque’s size being unfair—had his hands curling into fists at his side. St. John’s knuckles! Rocque needed to pound on something.

  Mayhap later he could visit the bag and pretend ‘twas Hamish as he slammed his fists into it. ‘Twas a useful training tool, and handy for getting out his frustration, especially over one of his men he couldn’t punch directly.

  “So, what do ye think, Rocque?”

  Alistair’s question startled him out of his thoughts, and he turned his frown to his brothers. “What?”

  “Och, I told ye he wasnae interested,” Kiergan said dismissively.

  “ ’Tis what she said,” Malcolm muttered.

  Rocque rolled his eyes. “Are ye speaking of something relevant, or can I go back to my musings?”

  Kiergan flicked his fingers. “Completely irrelevant. Alistair was trying to convince me to woo a lass for him to marry, and Malcolm was explaining how we were all going about it incorrectly.”

  “Ye are,” Malcolm defended. “If ye want to be laird, ye need—”

  “I dinnae,” Kiergan interrupted flatly.

  Earlier that summer, Da had collected his six illegitimate sons and explained that since they all had fine qualities befitting the future Laird Oliphant, and because they were all so close in age, there wasn’t a clear choice of who to declare his heir.

  Therefore, the easiest way to make the decision would be to grant the position to whichever son had an heir of his own.

  All six Oliphant bastards had to marry, and the first one to produce a son would become the next laird.

  Of course, the fact that not all his sons wanted the position didn’t seem to bother William Oliphant. Kiergan, for instance, still laughed whenever someone brought up the idea of him succeeding his father.

  Alistair declared himself too busy to find a wife, and Malcolm had decided the way to become the next laird was to find a widow with a “proven history of successfully baring sons.” He was still searching for a suitable candidate.

  And Rocque? Well, Rocque had already found the woman he wanted to marry.

  Now he just had to convince her.

  Speaking of lovers…

  Rocque quickly lost interest in his brother’s arguments again when he saw a flash of purple at the top of the stone stairs. He would recognize that gown anywhere; ‘twas his favorite!

  Sure enough, ‘twas Merewyn who hurried down the stairs, her skirts in one hand and her basket in the other. She must’ve been tending to Aunt Agatha in her chambers—the old woman had complained about her gout acting up again.

  Stepping away from his brothers, and not giving two shites if they thought him rude—Rocque met Merewyn at the bottom of the stairs. They were surrounded by their clan, and she was obviously in a hurry, but when she saw him her expression lit up and she dropped her skirts to reach for his hand.

  He used that hold to pull her into an embrace. Their kiss was hard and fast, just enough to remind her she belonged with him.

  Just enough to leave him wanting more.

  “Hello, Rocque,” she said with a breathless grin as he released her.

  Stepping back, she tried to smooth the bodice of her gown, and he grinned.

  “Where are ye off to in such a hurry? Will ye stay and dine with us?”

  As he asked, he gestured to the hall. Moira and Cook always made sure there was enough at the noon meal to accommodate anyone who wanted to join them, with plenty of leftovers for stragglers throughout the afternoon or to take to clanmembers who couldn’t participate for whatever reason.

  “Thank ye,” she said with a pretty smile, even as she shook her head. “But Megan has invited me to sup with her and her husband today. She’s near to burst with that bairn of hers, and I think it’s important to give her things to focus on besides the coming birth.”

  Nodding, Rocque shrugged to let her know he didn’t begrudge her absence. Merewyn was an important member of the Oliphant clan, and as healer and midwife, she was alw
ays in demand.

  He glanced over at wee Jessie, who was now laying out a large serving bowl on one of the tables. It looked like ‘twould be a simple meal; Cook often made stew to serve atop a bland, piping hot porridge. The stew could be allowed to sit, and as long as the simple porridge was made fresh, the diners would be satisfied.

  “If Megan makes a better meal, mayhap I’ll join ye,” he teased.

  With a grin, she swatted his arm, then turned the movement into a caress even as she stepped away. “I promise ye mutton for tonight. Is that acceptable?”

  “Aye, lass.” He winked. “I’ll likely be hungry.”

  And he didn’t just mean because of the afternoon’s work.

  When she blushed happily like that, her red curls blended with her skin, and her gray eyes twinkled. She stretched herself up on her toes—and it was a stretch, because she was so much smaller than he—and brushed a kiss across his cheek.

  “I’ll be waiting,” she murmured.

  Then she picked up her skirts and hurried out of the hall, calling greetings to those she passed.

  Rocque wasn’t the only one to watch her go. She was well-loved, and most of the Oliphants smiled when they waved to her.

  Hamish, however, just glared.

  I need to figure out what’s going on there.

  Rocque knew he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the smithy, but if he couldn’t work out the problem with his brain, he could always use his fists.

  He was still mulling over the dilemma when he sat down to eat, the porridge steaming in his trencher even before he poured the stew over and reached for a spoon.

  “Yer brother just told me a joke.”

  His father’s voice was quieter than normal, which is how Rocque knew he was looking for a private conversation. Instead of announcing his presence jovially, the younger man shifted down on the bench to make room for his father to join him.

  He didn’t even have to ask which brother. “Did it involve fish or swords?”

  Da snorted as he settled himself. “This one involved swords, although judging by the use of ‘ ‘tis what she said,’ it was supposed to be a metaphor.”

  “Kiergan claims Mal has invented humor.”

  Nodding, the older man reached for a flagon of ale. “The lad is good at inventing. Ye’re good at leading.”

  It always made Rocque vaguely uncomfortable—in a good way—when Da began to praise him with his way with the men. Rocque knew he was a good leader, and appreciated that his father had given him the opportunity. But being praised for it was another thing entirely.

  Most fathers were stingy with their praises. Hell, the only father-figure Rocque and Malcolm had had as lads was their mother’s distant relative, who’d used them all as drudges and beaten Mam to death.

  But Da was different. Not only did he care about all of his children—not just his sons, but Nessa, his only child from his only marriage—but he’d gone out of his way to find and gather all six of his bastards under one roof. Where he’d raised them with bluster, patience, humor, and quite a lot of help from Moira.

  And his sons loved him for it. Rocque knew they all—even flippant Kiergan—would walk through the fires of Hell itself for the man.

  Da had obviously been thinking of something else. “Aye, Malcolm has a brain in his head, ‘tis for certain. His scheme to find a wife is a good one.” He paused, the spoon halfway to his lips, and hit Rocque with a raised brow. “How is yers coming along?”

  Ah. Da wanted to talk marriage.

  Sighing, Rocque reached for his ale. Of all the Oliphant bastards, he looked most like their father. He and Malcolm shared the man’s russet hair and blue eyes, although Rocque was the one to share his size. Of course, Da’s beard was shot through with more gray than Rocque’s, who kept his trim, but ‘twas obvious they were father and son.

  So why in all that’s holy would my father call me out like that?

  What had he just been thinking about his father caring? Rocque snorted quietly.

  Figuring he’d stalled all he could, he finally said, “My scheme’s going fine, Da.”

  ‘Twas only a little lie, and mayhap the older man sensed that.

  “So, if things are going so fine between ye and Merewyn, when are ye going to ask her to be yer bride, lad? She’s no’ of high birth, but neither are ye, truthfully. She’s no’ only an Oliphant—and dinnae think I dinnae appreciate the idea of yer loyalties no’ being divided by yer wife’s family—but a valued member of the clan. A healer! Ye cannae sniff at a wife with that status, lad.”

  Frowning down at his ale, Rocque tried to make sense of his father’s meaning.

  I ken what a double negative is, but how many times did the old man say “not”?

  “Well?” Apparently Da was tired of giving him time to think.

  Sighing, Rocque had to admit to his father, “I’ve asked her.”

  “Ye’ve asked Merewyn to marry ye?”

  Why did the old man sound so surprised? “Aye,” Rocque offered hesitantly.

  William Oliphant frowned. “And the lass turned ye down?” When Rocque didn’t respond—his answer should be obvious, after all—the laird slammed down his flagon. “She turned ye down? Who in the hell does she think she is? She cannae just break the heart of one of my sons and go on—”

  “Da,” Rocque shifted to face his father fully, concerned by the way the older man’s face was turning red. “Da, calm down. She has a right to say nae to me or any man. All women do—ye raised us that way.”

  “But—but no’ when it comes to marriage!”

  Would it be rude to roll his eyes? Aye, likely.

  “Da, she is her own woman and can deny a marriage suit if she chooses.” Even if he didn’t understand why. “But I havenae given up asking her.”

  Just have to find a way to make her see how good life could be, were we married.

  There was a part of him though, a worried part, which had been growing since the first time she’d said nay, which wondered if mayhap she saw their relationship differently than he did.

  For the last year, he’d been content with their affair. Waking up with her, breaking his fast with her, spending his evenings with her…that was how he imagined married life with her.

  But why didn’t she share that dream?

  Da was frowning at him. “How many times have ye asked her?”

  Rocque shrugged. “A few times.” And he’d ask her again, until she either said aye, or gave him an explanation.

  His father appeared calmer now. When he exhaled, the older man’s shoulders slumped slightly, and he dug his spoon into his meal.

  “Well, mayhap ‘tis for the best.”

  Well that was a surprise.

  “What?” he blurted.

  Da refused to look at him. “I said, mayhap ‘tis for the best. Mayhap the lass is doing it for ye.”

  Frowning now, Rocque pushed his own trencher away. His stomach had soured in worry. “What are ye saying?”

  William Oliphant sighed, his blue eyes darting to his son’s, then away once more. “The challenge I set before ye lads is nae secret, Rocque,” he said almost gently. “Mayhap Merewyn kens what ye need to do to become laird, and is making sure ye get it.”

  Rocque knew he wasn’t as smart as some of his brothers…hell, there were likely sheep smarter than he was. But why couldn’t he understand what his father meant?

  “In order to become laird,” he began slowly, “I need a wife and a son. I’m working on getting the wife.”

  “And as I’ve heard it, lad, ye’ve been working on getting the bairn for nigh a year now.”

  Still frowning in confusion, Rocque glanced at his father.

  Who was…blushing?

  By St. John’s warts, what was going on here?

  “Aye, she’s been my woman for the last twelve-month.”

  Finally, his father met his eyes, still fiddling with his spoon. “And if ye’ve been fooking her for a year, lad, why has she no’ fallen pregnant? M
ayhap she cannae. She’s the village midwife, aye? Mayhap she kens she’s barren, and ‘tis why she’s denying yer suit.”

  Across the hall, one voice called out for more porridge. Another answered, and then the hum of conversation faded as Rocque’s throat forgot how to work.

  Mayhap she kens she’s barren.

  Was Merewyn barren?

  His father was right. They’d spent the last year enjoying one another’s bodies in the most perfect way…and she’d never missed her cycle. Had she?

  Maths weren’t his strong suit, but surely he would’ve noticed?

  He blew out a breath. His father was right. In a year, he hadn’t gotten Merewyn with child. If she couldn’t become pregnant, was that the reason she was denying his marriage proposal?

  He forced himself to breathe, to focus on the light coming in through the high windows across the hall. He could no longer hear the hubbub from his clan eating, but it mattered not…because his own pulse was hammering in his temples so strongly, he couldn’t make sense of his own thoughts.

  St. John’s tits, was his father right? Was Merewyn barren?

  Resting atop the table, his hand involuntarily curled into a fist around the spoon. Just this morning, she’d ridden him as if he were an untamed stallion and she some kind of—of—well, he couldn’t think of the right analogy.

  Or was it a metaphor?

  Either way, she fooked him cross-eyed, and after he’d held her and thanked all the saints in Heaven for giving him such a blessed life.

  If she was barren, surely she would’ve told him so?

  Or was Da right, and this was the reason she kept refusing to marry him?

  Swallowing, he forced his heartbeat—and reaction—under control. When he glanced over, his father was still eating. But the look in his identical blue eyes was expectant, like he was waiting for Rocque to deny the possibility.

  He couldn’t.

  Da’s bushy brows dipped down. “Och, lad, I’m sorry.” He straightened with a sigh and tossed down his spoon. “She’s a good lass. Mayhap—”

  Both of their attention was caught by a shout. They both turned toward the argument going on at the center table. Brohn, Moira’s eldest, was standing with his hands fisted in front of him as he glared across the table at Hamish. The smaller man was smirking as he gestured, while Brohn’s face was turning red. The men around them were calling out, but ‘twas impossible to hear individual words.