by Caroline Lee
With one quick movement, he had her pressed against the pillows, her legs spread and him kneeling between them. St. John’s tits! Her cunny was pink and dripping, and ‘twas all his.
Letting out a noise somewhere between a groan and a plea, he lowered his lips to the source of her pleasure, and she echoed it.
He dragged his tongue through her weeping slit, and when she bucked against his mouth, he anchored her with one large hand.
“Oh, God, Rocque!”
She arched again, and he allowed it, grinning a bit to know how crazy he was making her. He pulled his mouth away from her center long enough to glance up at her. She was cupping her own tits, squeezing them, tugging them together, and her head was thrown back in ecstasy.
I did that to her.
After a year, he knew her body, knew her moods, knew her likes and dislikes.
He knew he could drive her mad by closing his lips around the pearl of her pleasure—like this. She moaned again, proving him right. And he knew she loved it when he reached around and cupped her arse.
Sure enough, her thighs fell open even more, welcoming his touch. But she didn’t have to admit it, not to him.
Because she was his woman, and he knew her.
“Rocque, please,” she whimpered.
And he rose on his knees, the fingers which had just been probing her wetness now wrapped around his aching cock. He tugged it once, twice, waiting for her to make eye contact.
When she did, he lowered his chin. “I havenae been paying attention to the date, lass.”
He was asking if she was comfortable with penetration, and she understood.
Blowing out a breath, she scooched down farther in the bed, simultaneously opening her legs and reaching for him. “It matters naught anymore, I need ye inside me, love!”
Yer bidding is my command, milady.
When he pressed into her, they both let out a sound of triumph. Then her legs were wrapped around his hips, lifting her arse off the bed, and he planted his palms on either side of her head, and they both gave over to the sensations.
Her sheath was as wet and tight as ever—and he was no small man—but there was something different today. Her taste was different, too, he’d noticed, but it was only enough to drive him mad.
She was his, and he knew her.
His strokes turned into thrusts, and each time he slammed home, she made that same erotic, desperate noise he’d fallen in love with last year. By all the saints in Heaven, she was glorious!
Mine! Mine! his blood seemed to chant in time to his pounding. Mine!
And she squeezed her own tits, moaning as she tightened her leghold on his hips, arching off the bed to meet his thrusts.
Mine!
As the familiar tingling began at the base of his cock, he shifted his weight to one hand and cupped her arse, pulling her against him, his fingers questing beneath her to touch her wetness.
“Rocque!” she cried, and began to clench around his cock.
‘Twas all he needed. Roaring her name, he slammed into her once more, and as she came around him, he spilled his seed against her womb.
Panting, he fell beside her on the bed, knowing she preferred her space after she found release. Sure enough, her arms fell to her side, one hand brushing his, and he took it. When he looked her way, she was grinning, wide-eyed at him.
“That was incredible, as always.”
His grin was slower, but he always took longer to recover than she did.
Bouncing out of bed, she returned with a wet cloth, which she used first to clean him, then herself, before tossing it to the floor and climbing back in beside him. Apparently, the post-coital glow had faded, because she was willing to snuggle up against him.
“Are ye recovered yet, Rocque?”
It took a moment for him to understand her question, then he chuckled. “Insatiable vixen.”
“Vixen?” She hummed and turned to press her cheek against his chest. “Did ye just call me a fox?”
“Aye,” he drawled, dragging his fingers lazily through her red curls. “Seems to fit.”
“Because I’m crafty, sly and beautiful?”
He shook his head, his tone serious when he corrected her. “Because ye’re a redhead with cute ears, and I like to see ye down on all fours.”
She burst into laughter and sat up, smacking his chest. “Ye ken the way to woo a woman, Rocque Oliphant!”
“I’m trying.” He grabbed her hand and, propping his other hand behind his head, pulled her fingers to his lips for a kiss. “I’m half-French, ye ken. Frenchmen are known for their wooing skills.”
“Wooing? I’m wooable?”
“We’re mid-woo, can ye no’ tell?”
“I thought we were post-coital?” She lifted a brow.
Hiding his grin, he nodded. “Post-coital, mid-woo. I’m wooing ye. Consider yerself wooed.”
That did it; she burst into giggles again and spread her free hand against his chest, leaning her weight on his torso and tucking her feet under her.
But she only said, “Ye never told me yer mother was French.”
He shrugged, careful not to dislodge her. “She was an Oliphant, but always told me she named me Rocque because it sounded French.”
Merewyn peered at him, clearly trying to determine if he was teasing her. “I thought ‘twas for the size of yer shoulders.”
“Och, nay. Malcolm says my shoulders only grew this wide to live up to my name.”
Her grin flashed. “Well, I like the thought of yer name being French, and ye being good at wooing.”
With a growl, he tugged her closer, dropping her hand to his cheek so he could curl his fingers around the back of her neck. “What do ye think I’ve been doing all along, lass?”
“Wooing me?” she breathed impishly.
“Would that I could woo ye, but I fear ye’re un-wooable.”
She was grinning when she dropped a kiss against the corner of his mouth. She didn’t pull away.
“What makes ye think I’m un-wooable?” she whispered saucily, and he could tell from her tone what she was thinking.
His other hand came out from behind his head and he reached around to spread his fingers across her lower back. When Merewyn sounded like that, he’d best “recover” faster.
Sometimes the lass was insatiable.
“ ’Tis fairly clear ye want nae part in my wooing, lass.”
She wriggled against him. “I love yer wooing. Verra, verra much. I would be wooed by ye all day, if I could. I’d be wooed here, across the table over there…” She stretched, slowly straightening her legs until she was lying half across him, one leg thrown across his. “I’d be wooed against that tree in the forest again. Or in the loch where anyone could see. God’s Teeth, but that was some fine wooing, remember?”
It was half her touch, half the memory of those passionate encounters, which had his cock stirring again.
Fully recovered, aye.
But he was thinking of her claim, as he pulled her in for another kiss.
I love yer wooing.
“Marry me, lass,” he whispered against her lips. “Become my woman, in the eyes of God and the clan. I’ll woo ye as long and as hard as ye want, then, and nae one will say aught.”
“No one says aught now,” she said over-loud, using her hand against his chest to push herself upright.
Away from him.
“Lass…”
“Has anyone said aught to ye?” she demanded.
And he had to wince.
They were both respected members of the clan—he the Oliphant commander, her their healer. And if he were honest, he admired her independence, her unwillingness to shackle herself in marriage just for respectability.
But that didn’t help when he so desperately wanted to call her his.
“Nay,” he finally admitted, and knew none of the clan would say aught in front of him about her respectability. “But if ye go much longer without a husband—”
“The
clan will still appreciate me for my healing abilities,” she snapped.
Why was she being so stubborn?
What was wrong with him?
Why was he good enough to sleep with, good enough to share a home with…but not good enough to marry?
“Merewyn, things would be easier if ye agreed to marry me.”
“Aye, I daresay they would be.”
He was surprised by her agreement, until he heard the sorrow in her tone.
Then she blinked, and her smile seemed just a bit too brittle.
“Now it’s my turn!” she chirped, pulling herself up onto her knees and pressing one palm against his chest to hold him down when he made to rise.
“Yer turn for what?”
One of her soft hands dragged down his thigh, and his cock jumped in response. And when she glanced his way, a mischievous twinkle in her gray eyes, he felt himself harden.
“To woo ye.”
Then she was leaning forward, and his hand went to the back of her head. As her warm mouth closed around his suddenly firm cock, he quit thinking about anything at all.
And let her woo him.
Chapter 4
The pounding at the door woke Merewyn, but that was naught unusual. She was used to being woken in the middle of the night by frantic patients, and she was used to fumbling around in the dark as she got dressed and found her medical supplies.
Of course, she was less used to having to untangle herself from a man’s arms, but luckily, Rocque had never minded that she liked to spread out while sleeping; he never kept her too wrapped up or confined.
Just another example of how well they suited.
As if the three times they’d made love before falling asleep hadn’t been enough of a clue.
Nay, no’ making love. We were fooking.
He didn’t love her.
As she suspected, young Megan’s husband was the one pounding on the door, looking terrified. “She sent me to tell ye her water’s broken, Healer, and ye’re to come at once!”
“Aye, let us go,” she said softly, herding the poor man down the street. ‘Twas Megan’s first bairn, and would likely not come for hours yet, but she’d promised to be there for her patients, and she would be.
Besides, ‘twould be a convenient excuse to avoid Rocque’s question.
The birth went well, although it took all day. She fell into an exhausted sleep that evening, which meant she avoided having to explain herself to Rocque again. The following night he was out late, and he did naught but pull her into his arms when he returned, and fall asleep with his lips pressed against her shoulder.
It was nice. Nicer than she had a right to hope for.
Things would be easier if ye agreed to marry me.
Rocque’s words echoed through Merewyn’s mind days later. She’d been unable to stop repeating them, alternating between getting mad at the speaker, and mad at herself.
Aye, things would be easier if she were to marry him! The clan already considered them a couple; all save those who looked down their noses at her for living with a man not her husband.
But she didn’t have to marry him. Things would be easier, aye, but not necessary. She’d lived on her own before she’d caught his eye, and she could do it again. Her healing skills were worth meat and bread and enough food to keep her fed. She could trade for anything she couldn’t make.
She could live alone again.
But she wouldn’t be alone, would she?
“Now can I get out of bed?” Jessie’s tone sounded exasperated, and jerked Merewyn’s attention back to the gentle examination she’d been doing on the lassie’s recent burns.
The Healer straightened, blinking in surprise.
“Aye, of course.” She patted Jessie’s arm. “Ye’ve been lying abed all this time? Remember I told ye the day after the accident that ye could be up and about, as long as the pain wasnae too great.”
Jessie didn’t reply, but glared mulishly over Merewyn’s shoulder.
Merewyn was sitting on the edge of Cook’s bed, where she’d been examining the girl. She’d assumed Jessie had just laid down for her exam, but had she really been here the whole time…? Merewyn twisted to see what the girl was frowning at, and saw Moira hurrying into the room.
“Ye’ve been up and about plenty, lassie,” the housekeeper clucked as she reached around Merewyn to squeeze Jessie’s hand. “Just because I make ye rest sometimes…”
Jessie huffed, staring up at the ceiling, but Merewyn saw her squeeze Moira’s hand in return.
Moira chuckled softly, released the lassie’s hand, and slipped from the room.
Merewyn was surprised at the tears which had gathered in her eyes from the sweet display of affection, and hid them by blinking rapidly as she pushed her supplies back into her basket.
‘Tis only hormonal.
As Jessie sat up, the healer cleared her throat.
“Moira really cares for ye, ye ken,” she said when she felt she could speak without betraying her weepiness. “ ’Tis the only reason she has no’ let ye resume yer duties.”
“Aye,” Jessie sighed as she crossed her legs up under her and stared down at her hands in her lap. “I dinnae remember my mam. Moira…she seems like she’d be a nice mam.”
Lips tugging upward in a sad sort of smile, Merewyn reached over and took Jessie’s hand. “ ’Tis no’ disloyal to yer family to find comfort and love in yer new station, lassie. I ken ye miss yer father, and Moira’s affection will no’ replace him…but ye can still be happy here.”
The lassie peeked up from under the bonnet she’d started wearing to hide her cropped hair. “I dinnae…I mean, I like it here. Everyone is kind to me, and I care for Moira and her family and Cook and Minnie and the others. And I am no’ afraid of hard work. Serving meals and cleaning the great hall is no’ so hard, really.”
Merewyn squeezed her hand. “Well then, it seems to me that life is no’ so bad, eh? These burns are naught to be worried about, and ye will heal and grow and ‘twill become part of yer past.” The lassie would likely always bear the scars from her croft burning, but the porridge burns were barely visible even now.
To her surprise though, Jessie didn’t seem reassured by her words. Instead, the girl glanced back down at their joined hands.
“There are some people who are no’ kind to me,” she whispered.
And Merewyn didn’t have to ask who it was. “Has Hamish seen ye since the—the accident?”
Jessie shook her head silently.
Hamish had claimed it had been an accident, and Merewyn wouldn’t condemn the man without having seen it happen. But she knew that he excelled at using words to hurt or manipulate others. So if it hadn’t been an accident, what had prompted it?
“Jessie, has…did Hamish speak to ye before the incident?” Had something happened which had precipitated it?
This time, Jessie didn’t shake her head. She didn’t respond at all, but her grip on Merewyn’s hand tightened.
The healer blew out a breath. “Look at me, lassie.” When Jessie finally did, Merewyn nodded firmly. “Men like Hamish are no’ to be taken lightly. Ye cannae believe his words, and ye cannae be alone with him. Aright?”
When Jessie slowly nodded, Merewyn squeezed her hand once, then released her. “He might no’ look it, but he’s dangerous. Dinnae listen to him.”
“I willnae,” Jessie whispered, then brushed her fingers across the healing redness on her neck. “Ye really think I’m better enough to go back to work?”
Grinning, Merewyn stood and slung her basket over her arm. “Would it help if I found Moira and told her so? Are ye so desperate to go back to cleaning and serving?”
When the lassie nodded eagerly, Merewyn chuckled and offered her a hand. “Then get up out of that sickbed and find something to chop or scrub! I’ll go find Moira!”
She left the girl happily kneading bread at Cook’s side, then went to speak with the housekeeper. Moira’s affection for Jessie was clear, and the olde
r woman finally agreed—reluctantly—to allow Jessie to go back to her duties.
Grinning softly, Merewyn headed up the stone stairs for Agatha’s chambers, intent on examining the old curmudgeon’s gouty foot.
Halfway down the hall, Merewyn had to stop and press her palm against the stone wall. The dizziness caught her unawares sometimes these days, but at least she wasnae ill, as Megan had been in the early months of her pregnancy. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a few deep breaths, and when she opened them, she was able to continue, albeit slower.
By the time she reached Agatha’s chambers, she was fine, and she opened the door to find the older woman glowering at her from a chair, her lower leg wrapped and resting on a cushion.
“There ye are, lass! What took ye so long? I’ve been waiting forever.”
Grinning, Merewyn pushed the door shut behind her, and crossed to her patient, settling on her knees beside the cushioned stool. “Oh really? Did ye have someplace else ye needed to be?”
Agatha tsked loudly. “Dinnae be impertinent. ‘Tis unbecoming.”
Her hands hovering over the wrapped leg and food, Merewyn smiled distractedly. “And ye ken I care about becoming ‘becoming.’ ” Before the old woman could scold her for the silly wordplay, she asked, “Does it feel any better today?”
Agatha Oliphant suffered from occasional bouts of gouts in her left foot, and Merewyn was used to the remedies. When the laird’s aunt had sent word she was in pain again, the healer had known what to do.
The old woman blew out a breath. “The cold water was a blessed relief, but Kiergan moaned and complained when I sent him to get it from the loch. Ye’d think I’d asked him to cut off his willy! All I needed was a bowl of cold water—was that too much to ask?”
Merewyn, who was delicately unwrapping the foot, hummed sympathetically. “Young people these days, eh?”
“No respect for their elders.”
“Aye, and they use more curse words, too.” Merewyn had heard the complaints before. “Not like ye used to when ye were younger, aye?”
“Fook, yes!” Agatha slammed her hand down on the arm of the chair. “And things cost more these days, have ye noticed?”
Nodding, Merewyn kept her attention on the wrinkled foot she’d just revealed. “And the winters are colder and longer.”