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

by Caroline Lee

  On the bed, Jessie made a little sound, and Moira turned to glare at them all. Taking control of the situation, Merewyn nodded to the housekeeper, then collected her herbs in her basket and shooed Rocque and his aunt out into the kitchen.

  “Milady, ‘twas merely a domestic accident,” she whispered. “Not nearly as bad as the poor lass’s previous burns, and she has been well-tended.”

  Lady Agatha had been one of her patients for years, and now the old woman peered suspiciously at Merewyn, half-supported by Rocque. “By ye?”

  “Aye, milady. And Moira will ensure Jessie is cared for. I’ll be back tomorrow to tend to her and yer foot, which ye really need to rest—”

  “Nonsense. I came down for some porridge, but when I heard what had happened, I’m nae longer hungry.” Sniffing, the lady peered up at her great-nephew. “I can sit with Moira, and—God’s Nipples, lad! Ye’re covered in porridge!”

  In a blink, she’d straightened out of Rocque’s hold, proving she hadn’t really needed him to hold her, and was patting at his arms—the highest on him she could reach.

  “Were ye burned as well, lad? Do ye need my help?”

  It was clear Rocque was trying to hide his smile—Merewyn didn’t bother—when he gently caught hold of his aunt’s slapping hands. “I’m fine, Agatha. ‘Tis the porridge from Jessie’s incident, and I barely noticed.”

  “Well, now I have to wash my hands.” Agatha scowled down at the porridge on her palms. “Ye could’ve mentioned that before I got all concerned for ye, clot-heid.”

  “Sorry,” Rocque said cheerfully.

  Sniffing indignantly, Agatha straightened, and hobbled over to where she’d dropped her cane when she’d entered. Although her gout gave her trouble, Merewyn had long suspected the old woman only carried a cane to whack her great-nephews with occasionally.

  Or often.

  “Get yer arse over here, Rocque!” she scolded, “and escort me to the well so I can clean myself.”

  “Aye, Aunt. Since ye are clearly elderly and need my help, I’ll—”

  His teasing had the desired effect. With a curse, her cane caught him in the side of the leg. “I am no’ elderly! I will go myself!”

  Off she hobbled, muttering under her breath about indignities of age and rude upstarts. Not bothering to hide her grin, Merewyn focused on repacking her basket.

  She glanced once more to the bed, but it appeared her patient was already asleep. Moira was brushing her fingers down Jessie’s cheeks in a gesture so heart-wrenchingly sweet, Merewyn felt tears welling.

  But then, she did tend to be weepier lately.

  The love in Moira’s expression was clear, and Merewyn knew she cared for Jessie the same she cared for Lara and Brohn, the children she’d birthed. Bairns needed to be protected, whether they were of one’s body or not.

  Unbidden, Merewyn’s fingers dropped to her stomach, gently skimming over the purple gown.

  Bairns deserved to be surrounded by love.

  Was she being foolish, hoping for that?

  Forcing back her tears, Merewyn turned to leave the kitchen…only to find Rocque blocking the way.

  Rocque, her lover. Her man.

  But no’ her husband.

  He stood, arms crossed, looking every inch the boulder for which he was named. And he looked…concerned? Nay, scared, mayhap?

  She stepped closer. “She’s going to be aright,” she whispered, for his ears only.

  He blinked, his expression sliding into surprise. “I ken it.”

  So that hadn’t been the cause of his concern?

  Her eyes caught on the porridge soaking into his shirt. “Take off yer shirt,” she commanded quietly. “I’ll wash it for ye so it doesnae set.”

  With a quick nod, he lifted his arms above his head and made short work of stripping the linen from his torso. God’s Teeth, but he was a fine-looking man, his muscles stretched like that! She loved the way he shook his head to settle his over-long hair out of his eyes, as his head emerged from the shirt.

  Her fingers itched to touch him, and because she could, she reached out and spread her palm against the warm skin of his abdomen, reveling in the taut firmness there. She remembered how his skin felt, moving atop her—or under her, or beside her—and her thighs clenched in sudden longing.

  Soon.

  He was her man, for now at least.

  But she’d have to make a decision soon.

  Because it wasn’t fair to keep him waiting.

  With a low growl, Rocque pulled her to him, dropping his lips to hers in a hard, quick kiss. It was possessive and full of anger, but Merewyn met it head-on.

  It was over far too soon, and did naught but whet her appetite for more.

  Soon.

  Soon she’d have him…and soon enough after that, she might have naught but her memories of him.

  “I’ll see ye for supper?” she whispered, her gaze searching his for a sign of what was bothering him.

  But he just nodded, jerking his chin down once in a hard acceptance, before he stepped away from her and headed out the door.

  Sighing, she clutched his shirt and dropped her hand to her stomach.

  She needed to decide, and fast.

  Could she marry him? Or would that be dooming her to a lifetime of heartbreak?

  And would that be worse than living without Rocque?

  Chapter 3

  “The way he was carrying on, ye would’ve thought he’d lost a leg!”

  Rocque’s attention was on the stew in front of him, but he nodded distractedly. “I heard him screaming up at the keep.”

  “Och, well, the poor lad had a splinter, ‘tis all.”

  He glanced across the table to see Merewyn’s smile flash, as she speared a chunk of turnip with her knife. It was such a simple pleasure; sharing stories about their days while they ate together. He’d learned to value this time, and the thought of doing it for the rest of their lives gave him a certain sense of satisfaction.

  But apparently, she didn’t want that.

  If she had, she would’ve agreed to marry him.

  Still, he didn’t want to be the cause of a bad mood between them, so he nodded as if he’d been paying attention all along. “A splinter?”

  Shrugging, she swallowed the bite of food. “Granted, ‘twas a big splinter. But I told him if he dinnae want splinters in his arse, he shouldnae drag himself around half-naked across the chapel floor!”

  “I’ll wager Father Stephen was less than impressed.”

  She grinned. “ ’Tis what happens when yer brothers dare ye to do something daft, I suppose.”

  She’d been an only child, so he knew she was guessing. Rocque had been raised with his twin brother, both treated like drudges and beaten daily. But when he’d discovered his father’s family, they’d accepted him without question, and aye, dared him to do more than a few daft things.

  So he had to smile.

  “Brothers are a blessing and a curse, I’ve discovered.”

  She planted her elbows on the table and leaned forward, her lovely gray eyes sparkling in the evening light flooding through the open door and windows.

  “Tell me about the time Kiergan convinced ye the Devil had possessed yer boots.”

  Chuckling, he stabbed his knife into a chunk of meat and reached for his ale. “Ye ken it already.”

  “Aye, but doesnae mean I cannae hear it again.” Still smiling, her hand dropped below the edge of the table, and he thought she might’ve been touching her stomach. “I’d like to ken it well enough to retell it someday.”

  Rocque knew he wasn’t as bright as his brothers—definitely not Malcolm, who was always tinkering or inventing something—but he didn’t mind. He’d long ago accepted that each of them had been blessed in different ways. Finn and Kiergan were blessed with charm, Dunc with artistic ability, Malcolm and Alistair with brains…while he was blessed with muscle.

  And aye, there were times when he’d wished his brothers hadn’t been able to
trick him so easily, but then he was sure there were times they’d wished he couldn’t punch quite so hard, so they were likely even.

  He took a long draught of the ale, then settled back in his chair—‘twas a bit wobbly, he’d have to fix it soon—and inhaled deeply. The rafters of her little cottage were always strung with drying herbs from her garden and the forest, and made the place smell of—of…

  Well, he wasn’t certain what the scent had reminded him of before he’d met her, but now it made him think of home. This place was more home than the keep or the barracks, now, and Merewyn…well, Merewyn was home to him as well.

  Smiling, he told her the story she wanted to hear. That one led to another, and soon she was giggling, which made him smile.

  Aye, this is nice. ‘Twould be nicer with some bairns running around too, making life joyful.

  But the thought made him sad. If Merewyn was barren, there’d be no bairns.

  If Merewyn was barren, he’d never be laird.

  Was this cozy life worth that?

  They sat at the table long after the meal was finished, but eventually she stood and began to clean up. He finished his ale and joined her, which made her smile shyly.

  St. John’s kneecaps, but she made him hard when she peeked up at him like that! Like he was—was her hero or something!

  She was wearing her hair down, since the meal had started, and he loved the way the red curls cascaded around her shoulders. His fingers itched to wrap themselves through them, to tug her closer.

  “Do ye have plans for the evening?” she murmured.

  And his cock jumped again.

  “Nay,” he managed, his voice only a bit strangled. “What did ye have in mind? A walk?”

  Since the weather had warmed, they often strolled through the village after supper, greeting neighbors and friends alike. In early summer, he’d realized she did it as much for his benefit as hers; the Oliphants had become comfortable with both of them in their leadership roles, and were more likely to stop to chat with them.

  The warriors knew Rocque, of course, but now not only did they trust him to lead them in battle, but they stopped him to trade jokes and barbs. And their wives offered little gifts and excess food to Merewyn, in payment for healing.

  So, nay, he wouldn’t mind a stroll through the village, especially if she’d hold onto his arm the way she sometimes did. And if no one was about to visit with, mayhap they could continue their walk into the little grove of trees besides the river, and he could nudge her up against one of the trees and kiss her until she was ready to—

  Oh. He glanced at the board which always rested against the wall by the door. Each morning she made a slash mark on it with a piece of chalk, counting days between saints’ feast days and the cycle of the moon. There were certain times in the moon’s cycle that she didn’t like to make love.

  But that was aright, because during the last year he’d realized there was plenty they could do to bring each other pleasure without actual penetration.

  Like the time a few months ago, when she’d crawled under the table—while he was still eating supper!—and knelt between his legs and sucked him off like a well-practiced whore. They’d both laughed about it after, but he’d remember that for a long time to come, he knew.

  His lips twitched.

  Come. Heh.

  Her eyes were downcast when she stepped up to him, her hands behind her back. Was she going to play the innocent, then?

  Placing his finger under her chin, he lifted her gaze to his. “A walk?” he murmured in offer.

  “Actually, I was hoping ye would allow me to trim yer hair.”

  One of his brows flicked upward in surprise. She’d cut his hair just before Hogmany, as he recalled, and it had been the first time in years anyone had cared what his hair looked like. But if it mattered to her…

  He shrugged. “Aye, have at it.”

  Which is how he found himself sitting in the wobbly chair—he really needed to fix that—out in front of the door to her little cottage. The sun was setting, but there was still more light out there than inside.

  She stepped up between his legs, nudging his knees aside so she could reach him, and dragged a comb through his hair.

  With her valuable spring shears—Duncan had fixed them for her only a few months ago—she lifted the hair with the comb and trimmed the excess. He couldn’t care less what she did to his hair, but wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to touch her.

  With her so intent on his head, he placed his large hands on her hips and tugged her closer. She didn’t glance down, but her lips curled into a smile as she concentrated on her task. From this angle, he could see the curve of her neck and jaw at his eye level, and he resisted the urge to lean forward and plant a kiss there, knowing she’d just tug him back into position.

  So he stayed still, his fingers the only thing he moved, lightly caressing and massaging at her hips and waist.

  Was it his imagination, or did she squirm slightly under his touch?

  He barely paid any attention to the little pieces of hair floating down around his shoulders, but soon enough she made a satisfied sound and tucked her comb and shears back into the pouch at her hip.

  Thinking they were done, he shifted to stand, but froze when her hands went back to his head. And then when her fingers dug into this scalp, he moaned in pleasure.

  Kneading and pulling, she massaged the tension from his scalp, then moved to his neck.

  If he died and went to Heaven that very night, he was certain it would feel a bit like this.

  As he exhaled, he felt the stress of the day—the worry about Da’s words, and wee Jessie, and that little shite Hamish—flowed away under her fingers. It felt so damnably good, he almost didn’t notice when she tugged his head closer to rest against her bosom.

  Almost.

  But then, he would have to be dead not to notice his own mouth that close to her tits.

  By St. John’s heart, he could cherish this woman!

  His hold on her hips tightened, and her massage traveled down his neck to his upper back and shoulders. He couldn’t seem to stop his own hands from moving, and soon he was kneading, massaging, at her waist, then her back, then her arse.

  God Almighty, but her arse felt perfect in his hands!

  Under his touch, her breathing had changed.

  All he had to do was shift slightly, and his lips were against her nipple, which he could feel puckered under the simple purple gown she wore. He nipped at it gently, and she jerked against him.

  Her very scent had changed, and he knew what that meant.

  “Let us go back inside, love,” he murmured hoarsely, praying she’d agree.

  “Aye,” she gasped, and relief flooded him so quickly he was in very real danger of soiling the inside of his kilt.

  In one movement, he stood and swept her up and over his shoulder.

  She screeched, which turned into a giggle, and then she was slapping at his back.

  “Put me down, ye big ox!” she shrieked, her legs kicking uselessly before him as he kicked the door closed.

  There were benefits to being so much larger than her.

  “Ye like it, dinnae lie,” he growled as he smacked her arse.

  And her giggles turned to a moan.

  In four long strides he was across the cottage, ducking behind the screen which separated her bed from the rest of the room. The bed was his favorite part of the cottage, being large enough to accommodate his bulk. When she slept alone, she barely made a dent in the mattress, but it fit them both perfectly.

  Slowly, he tugged her forward, until she was sliding down his chest. One of her legs hooked around his hip on the way down, and he caught the rest of her weight before she touched the ground. In this position, his throbbing cock was pressed right where it wanted to be.

  “Lass?” he growled in question, not even sure what he was asking, but knowing if he didn’t get the answer he needed, he might fall over.

  She whimpe
red, her breaths coming faster and faster, her fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck. “Please, Rocque.”

  ‘Twas all she had to say. Wordlessly, he set her away from him, then spun her around and began to work on the ties to her gown, the ones under her arm. Luckily, he knew this dress.

  He knew everything about her.

  She was his partner in every way that mattered.

  In moments, her gown was gaping open and he snaked his hands around her torso to cup her tits, his large, callused thumbs coming to rest on her pert nipples. His lips dropped to her neck, and her hands reached behind her, blindly reaching for his hips as he squeezed her breasts the way she liked.

  She moaned again and thrust herself backwards, plastering her arse against his throbbing erection. “God’s Teeth, Rocque, ye make me hot!”

  “Then climb in the bed, lass, and I’ll make ye scream my name.”

  He knew she liked it when he played the part of the brute, so he slapped her arse for good measure. She turned wide-eyed innocence his way and dragged one forefinger along her lower lip, temptingly.

  “Aye, milord,” she breathed cheekily, and he grinned in response.

  They both made short work of their clothing, tumbling onto the bed in moments. Knowing her preferences, he pulled down the coverlet, so they were lying on the soft linen sheets, and he pulled her across his chest, the back of his hand cupping her head.

  But she was the one who slammed her lips down atop his, and he caught her moan against his tongue. One of his hands was on her arse, kneading it, and she gyrated against his hip as she reached down to close her fingers around his aching cock.

  St. John’s dimples, but the lass knew how to make him beg!

  The feel of her small hand tugging at his hardness would’ve been enough to make any man weep, but then she threw a leg across his thigh, and her damp arousal made him growl in need.

  This could’ve been fast and hot, but he’d been thinking about her since that kiss they’d shared in his father’s chambers earlier that day, and he refused to be rushed.

  Sitting up, he spilled her into his lap. “I’m not done with ye yet,” he growled, and her eyes widened in breathless anticipation.