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

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Getting Scot and Bothered: a ridiculous secret-baby medieval romance (The Hots for Scots Book 3) Page 6

by Caroline Lee


  Sighing, Agatha leaned back in her chair. “ ’Tis glad I am ye’re aware of all the problems plaguing the younger generations, lass.”

  The healer didn’t answer, but carefully lifted Agatha’s foot and began to rotate it. Most of the range of movement was there, but she pressed her thumbs against the swelling and began to massage as well as she could.

  “Ouch!” Agatha tried to jerk her foot away, but Merewyn held tight. “Are ye trying to kill me lass?”

  “I’m rubbing the area, milady. ‘Tis all.”

  The old woman peered suspiciously. “With mystical herbs?”

  “Nay, with my thumbs.”

  Her patient huffed impatiently. “I dinnae ken about all this modern medicine. Back in my day, healers had the decency to use scented oils and strange ungulates.”

  Merewyn hid her smile. “Ungulates are hooved animals, milady.”

  “What, like horses and camels?”

  “If I knew what a camel was, likely.”

  Agatha sniffed. “And goats? Goats can be mystical creatures, ye ken.”

  “Aye, goats are ungulates.” She moved her thumbs to a different location, and when the old woman didn’t complain, kept up her massage. “But ‘tis unlikely yer healer used them in any significant way.”

  “I dinnae ken,” muttered her patient. “Ye never met Auld Phebus, my father’s healer. The man liked his goats.”

  Hiding her smile, Merewyn nodded. “Regardless, ye’re likely thinking of unguent. ‘Tis a kind of balm or potion.”

  The old woman harrumphed, then leaned forward to peer at her foot. “Do ye have any of those thingies?”

  Knowing ‘twould maker her life easier, Merewyn nodded. “Aye. Now close yer eyes so I can apply it.”

  When Agatha leaned back against her chair, her eyes closed, Merewyn dipped her hands into the cool water—Have to remember to thank Kiergan for bringing it up—and muttered under her breath as she placed her hands back on the woman’s swollen ankle.

  The words were only a rhyme to remember how to distill mandragora, but mayhap they sounded mystical enough for the old woman.

  Merewyn worked in silence after that, examining the foot for other signs of gout, and imprinting what it looked like today in her memory, so she could compare tomorrow. She had a tincture mixed from the powdered root of the autumn crocus and musk mallow, and although Agatha would likely complain about the taste, ‘twould hopefully reduce the swelling.

  “Oh, blast, here he comes again!”

  The old woman’s muttered remark tugged Merewyn back to the here and now. “What?”

  “The drummer, lass.” Agatha’s eye peeked open. “Do ye no’ hear him?”

  She must have the ears of a—a— What kind of animal hears things really well? A dog? Och, it didn’t matter.

  But presently, Merewyn heard the muffled drumming, which seemed to seep through the walls of the room. She sat back on her heels.

  “Is it…” She squinted at the tapestry hanging along the back wall. “Is it getting closer?”

  “Aye,” Agatha declared cheerfully as she struggled upright once more. “ ’Tis the ghostly drummer of Oliphant Castle! We’re doomed!”

  “Hurrah,” the healer muttered.

  The old woman’s bony finger jabbed at her shoulder. “And ye can hear him! Ye ken what that means?”

  Scowling, Merewyn rolled to her feet, rubbing at the spot the finger had poked. “I’m doomed.” Aye, I am. “I’ve heard him before.”

  “Ye have? Ye’ve heard the drummer?”

  Shrugging, the younger woman crossed to a table where a pitcher of water and some flagons sat. “Aye, most evenings I visit the keep, truthfully. ‘Tis damned annoying. Although I thought he didnae care to drum in the daytime?”

  The drumming was closer now, echoing through the room, and Agatha had to raise her voice to be heard over it.

  “Let me get this straight. Ye, the village healer, hears the ghostly drummer of Oliphant Castle?”

  “Aye?” Merewyn glanced over, the pitcher in hand. “Is that wrong?”

  “The ghostly drummer—”

  “—of Oliphant Castle, aye,” she finished for the old woman. “Doom, aye. Ye said all that. But…” She frowned down at the water in the pitcher. “I havenae heard him the last few times I’ve visited, now that I think of it.”

  The drumming was so loud now—was it really coming from inside the walls?—she doubted Agatha even heard her last words. But the old woman sniffed anyhow.

  “ ’Tis because ye’re no’ sure if ye’re in love!” she cackled gleefully. “Yer man has heard him, but ye’re no’ sure!”

  In love?

  “What?” Merewyn bellowed, over the drumming.

  “Hearing the drummer means ye’re doomed to fall in love,” Agatha screeched. “And Rocque has heard him!”

  Him?

  “What in damnation are ye—” When she realized the drumming was growing quieter—was the drummer moving on?—Merewyn shook her head and lowered her voice to normal range. “What do ye mean?”

  “Doomed!” Agatha called happily. “Dooooooomed!”

  Doomed to fall in love?

  Swallowing, Merewyn’s hand dropped to her stomach. She knew her feelings, but what was Agatha saying about Rocque’s feelings?

  Before she could ask, the door burst open and Nessa—Laird Oliphant’s only legitimate child—burst inside. “Have you heard?” she cried, looking torn between tears and hope.

  “Aye,” snapped Agatha, “The whole bloody keep heard him!”

  “I cannae decide if I’m doomed or blessed!” Sniffing melodramatically, Nessa threw herself across her aunt’s bed, one forearm covering her eyes.

  “Ye heard him, did ye no’? So ye’re dooooomed, lass!” the old woman cackled. “We all are!”

  Merewyn frowned. “If we’ve all heard the drummer, does that mean ye’re doomed to fall in love, milady?”

  The question had obviously never been asked, judging from the way Agatha jerked upright. She opened her mouth—likely to snap something about impertinence—but closed it again. Then she cocked her head to one side and hummed thoughtfully.

  “Like that fine-looking man Duncan’s wife brought with her from MacIan land?” Merewyn prompted, testing the topic like a questing tongue might probe a loose tooth.

  Great analogy.

  Thank ye.

  “Fergus?” Agatha tapped her finger against her lips, still considering. “Mayhap…”

  “What am I to do?” wailed Nessa. “Father’s already speaking of another one!”

  For the first time, Merewyn wondered if mayhap Nessa was speaking of something different. “Milady? What have ye heard?”

  “Henry Duffus is dead!”

  “Oh, Lord help us, no’ another one,” muttered Agatha.

  Nessa pulled herself into a cross-legged position on the bed. “Aye, another one! If they’re no’ already saying I’m doomed, they will after this!”

  Wincing, Merewyn focused on pouring water into one of the flagons. This would be Laird Oliphant’s only daughter’s fourth betrothal which ended in the prospective groom’s death. All coincidental, of course, but there would be whispers.

  “Who’s he eyeing this time?” Agatha asked. “Another Henry, no doubt.”

  Ah, that was right. All the doomed betrothals had been with Henrys, had they not?

  “I dinnae ken. I dinnae ask. I’ve been in my room all morning, trying to think of a way out of this!”

  Crossing to the bed, Merewyn handing the young woman the cold water. “Why do ye want a way out of this?”

  Glancing up in surprise, Nessa took the water. “Why no’? I dinnae want to be married to a man I’ve never met.”

  Merewyn shrugged and sank down on the bed beside her. “Ye dinnae want to be married? Or ye dinnae want to be married to a man ye’ve never met?”

  Sniffing, Nessa took a sip of water. “The latter, definitely.”

  So she’d be fine marrying someo
ne she had met? Merewyn exchanged a glance with Agatha.

  Interesting.

  But the old woman snorted derisively. “Ye’re no’ one to be giving her advice, Merewyn Oliphant!”

  Advice? Rising to her feet, the healer frowned at her patient. “I only asked a question.”

  “Aye, but all judgey-like.” Agatha pointed one bony finger. “Ye have been carrying on with a good man for nigh on a year, and despite him all but begging ye to marry him, ye’ve turned him down each time.”

  Merewyn’s stomach flip-flopped again.

  Swallowing, she crossed to the table and reached for the other flagon as she muttered, “I dinnae see how ‘tis any of yer business what—”

  “Rocque is a good lad.”

  From her spot on the bed, Nessa spoke up. “He is. Dumb as a rock, of course, but all of my brothers are good men—”

  Merewyn whirled. “He is no’ dumb. He just is no’ as quick to speak, as his—yer—brothers.”

  At Agatha’s triumphant grin, Merewyn blew out a breath and shook her head, realizing she’d walked into their trap.

  “Aye, he’s a good man.”

  “Then why have ye no’ married him?” Nessa asked quietly, cupping the flagon in both hands. “I ken he’s asked ye. He told Da, who told Kiergan, who told Lara, who told me.”

  “Word certainly gets around,” Merewyn muttered, picking open the tie on the pouch which held the powdered autumn crocus and musk mallow.

  “Well, of course.” Nessa sniffed. “Lara is my best friend.”

  As if that excused the rest of the gossip chain.

  “Besides, Lara only asked Kiergan because she wanted to know why Rocque has been in such a bad mood lately. I wanted to ask him some questions about defensive techniques using a pike, but didnae want to anger him.”

  Agatha sniffed. “Why would a gently reared young lady have questions about pikes?”

  “ ’Tis for my latest design!” Nessa put down her water and for the first time since entering the chamber, seemed pleased about something. “I want to show the defenders at the walls of Berwick. ‘Twas Lara’s idea to use onion to get the right color for the threads.”

  “For what?”

  “For the boiling oil, of course!” Nessa grinned. “I cannae wait to start! The looks of terror on the little attackers at the gate will be difficult, but ye ken I love a challenge!”

  Her great aunt was shaking her head. “ ’Twill be hard to fit it all in, lass.”

  Nessa froze, her smile growing. She shifted forward, placed her hands on her knees, and winked conspiratorially. “ ’Tis what she said!”

  Both Merewyn and Agatha reared back at the crude joke. But when they glanced at one another, the older woman’s lips were twitching.

  Deciding it was on her head to be the voice of reason, Merewyn cleared her throat and tried for nonchalance when she asked, “Where did ye hear that, milady?”

  Nessa waved her hand. “Och, ‘tis Kiergan’s new joke. He says Malcolm invented it, but it takes a clever mind to time it right. ‘Tis what she said. Ye see, it turns the previous comment into a sexual innuendo—”

  “I understand it,” Merewyn interrupted, not sure she wanted to learn just how much Nessa knew about sexual innuendos. But then her shoulders relaxed, and she offered a sheepish grin. “ ’Tis a fine joke, I suppose.”

  But Agatha, her lips pressed tightly together, merely snorted. When the younger women looked at her, her nostrils flared. “Berwick? Burning oil? Ye are a strange lass, to be sure.”

  Nessa shrugged. “I like embroidery. ‘Tis no’ strange.”

  “ ’Tisnae the embroidery I object to.” Shaking her head, Agatha turned to Merewyn, who was finishing stirring the powder into the water. “But I will no’ be distracted, Healer. Why have ye said nay to Rocque? Why will ye no’ marry him?”

  Sighing, Merewyn crossed to hand the old woman the tincture. “Because he does no’ love me,” she said simply.

  Frowning, Agatha sipped at the drink. “Ye think he doesnae love ye? When he has heard the drummer?”

  “I’ve been with the man for nigh a year, milady,” Merewyn pointed out, crossing her arms and glaring at her patient to drink the medicine to reduce her swelling. “And living with him for most of that. He’s never once mentioned love.”

  “Men never do,” Nessa offered mournfully. “Except Da. He’s a good man.”

  “All yer brothers are,” Agatha snapped, then glared up at Merewyn. “Although I’ll deny it if ye repeat that.”

  Merewyn’s lips twitched. “Yer secret is safe with me.”

  “Good.” The old lady nodded forcefully, then downed the rest of the tincture with a grimace. “This tastes like snail piss.”

  Taking the flagon, Merewyn raised a brow. “Ye ken what snail’s piss tastes like?”

  “I have an imagination, do I no’?” Agatha’s voice dropped to a mutter. “Vinegar and slime, is what I imagine.”

  She wasn’t wrong.

  “Healer,” Nessa prompted quietly.

  When Merewyn turned, the young woman was smiling a little sadly. “Rocque is a good man. I dinnae ken if he loves ye, but ye sound verra certain. Have ye asked him?”

  Well…nay.

  Her silence must’ve been all the answer Nessa needed, because she nodded encouragingly. “Ask him,” she whispered.

  “Aye, ask him!” Agatha’s voice cracked like a whip, startling Merewyn. “Ask him if he loves ye, before ye go consigning yerself to a life of misery.”

  Ask him?

  “Ye want me to just…what? Lay my feelings out? Bare my heart?” Merewyn snorted, irritated by how angry she sounded, but not knowing how to stop. “I’ll no’ allow him that power.”

  “Aye, ‘tis yer problem.” Now Agatha was the one sounding all judgey. “If ye love someone, ye’re willing to grant them power. They hold yer heart.”

  How do ye ken?

  She wanted to snap it, but held her tongue.

  Nessa was the one who was the most reasonable. “Merewyn, ye dinnae have to bare yer heart,” she said softly. “Especially if ye dinnae ken his answer. But ye owe him an explanation, at least.”

  Standing there in the fine chambers of Oliphant Castle, Merewyn’s fingers curled around the flagon, her knuckles going white.

  Ye owe him an explanation.

  Aye, she was beginning to suspect she owed him an explanation about a lot of things. Could she give him one—at least one—without having to lay out her own feelings? She couldn’t bear the thought of him knowing her most intimate feelings, without knowing his.

  But something had to change, and quickly.

  Unbidden, the fingers of her other hand dropped to her waist, to skim across her stomach. New life grew there, and in only a few short months, ‘twould be obvious to all who looked at her.

  It wouldn’t be fair to Rocque if she didn’t tell him first.

  But she needed to get this marriage discussion out of the way.

  Could she do it without crushing her own heart?

  Glancing up, she met Lady Agatha’s serious gaze.

  “Tell him what ye’re thinking, at least, lass,” the old lady prompted.

  Merewyn was beginning to suspect she didn’t have a choice.

  Chapter 5

  This was the first evening he’d gotten to spend any time with her in a few days, and it was nice to just walk together.

  They’d shared dinner—the bread had been a gift from a grateful mother, and Rocque had brought down the deer whose haunch Merewyn had roasted. Now they were both blissfully full and enjoying the early evening light.

  “I love the way the wood smells after a rain, do ye no’?”

  Her murmur seemed somehow appropriate for their surroundings.

  There had been a light rain that afternoon, and the forest was still damp. The earthy scents of loam and decaying leaves mixed with a sort of freshness. Little drops still glistened on blades of long grass here and there, and sounds seemed muted.

>   “Aye, lass.” He inhaled deeply. “ ’Tis close to Heaven.”

  She didn’t reply, but reached over and took his hand. Their fingers entwined, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and she stepped off the path, pulling him behind.

  Dare he hope they were heading for some privacy?

  Under his kilt, his cock twitched.

  Down, lad.

  Merewyn carried her herb basket. ‘Twas likely she was just searching for—ah!

  She made a pleased little sound and released his hand to squat at the base of an oak.

  “Hyssop,” she said, pitching her voice over her shoulder to him. “ ’Tis good for purgatives and ridding lungs of phlegm.”

  “Do ye need help?”

  She stood again, dusting her hands against her dress—a serviceable green woolen gown—and offered him a little smile and a shake of her head.

  “Nay, ‘twas simple.”

  Then she took his hand again, and ducked under a low-hanging branch.

  He was fine letting her take the lead. They were well within Oliphant land, and he knew they were safe here. Besides, he was never without his blade, and he could protect her if there was an unseen threat.

  But ‘twas hard to think of a threat, when the evening was so relaxing. Even the birdsong seemed gentled, and he caught himself smiling softly as she pulled him around a large oak, heading for the sound of a burbling stream.

  “Ye ken,” he said softly, “I’ve often imagined taking my son out into this wood on evenings like this.”

  She shot him a surprised look. “Really? Why the evening?” she teased.

  Shrugging, he followed her into a small clearing. “Because I assumed I’d be busy all day with my duties. He’d be at home with his mother.”

  “What if his mother had duties too?”

  Was it his imagination, or had her voice gone a little harder there?

  “Ye mean like healing?” Under his beard, his lips twitched, and he moved to stand in front of her, pulling her around to face him. “Then he’d be with someone else. Mayhap Moira could care for him the way she raised my brothers. Or another woman in the village.”

  He ducked his chin, to make certain he held her gaze as he lowered his voice. “Because his mother’s duties would be as important as my own, and I couldnae ask her to give them up to play nursemaid.”

 

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