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

by Caroline Lee

  Her lips formed an “oh,” and his cock jumped again. St. John’s kneecaps, she was beautiful! Beautiful and stubborn and headstrong, that was his Merewyn!

  She blinked and looked away. Before he could drag her attention back, her little pink tongue darted out across her lower lip, and he tugged her closer. ‘Twas like a challenge, when she did that—it made him want to take that lip in between his teeth and suck.

  “Ye want a son?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Son or daughter.” He shrugged. “If my daughter wanted to learn to hunt the stag, I could teach her too, I suppose.”

  “But a son…” She swallowed and peeked up at him. “A son would mean ye’d be laird. Ye’d win yer father’s challenge, if ye were the first to give him a grandson, would ye no’?”

  He’d never considered that. “He wouldnae—” Rocque stopped, shook his head once to try to get his thoughts in order, then continued. “I mean, there’s nae telling if my son would be the eldest, aye? And besides… I dinnae ken if I am the best choice for laird.”

  Her gray gaze had sharpened, and she shifted closer, until her breasts were brushing against his chest. Their fingers were still entwined, and she squeezed.

  “Why do ye say that, Rocque?”

  “Say what?”

  “Why do ye think ye might no’ be the best choice for laird, after yer father is gone?”

  Oh Hellfire, why was she asking the hard questions?

  He shrugged again. “I ken I’m no’ the smartest of—”

  “Ye’re perfect.”

  His teeth snapped shut, stunned by her impassioned defense. And when she lifted her free hand—had she dropped her basket?—to cup his cheek, Rocque’s knees went weak.

  “You are perfect the way ye are, Rocque Oliphant. I willnae allow any person—brothers or nay—say otherwise.”

  His eyes searched hers, looking for the joke.

  All he saw was sincerity.

  “Ye really think that?” he whispered.

  Her fingernails scratched against his beard. “I ken it.”

  His lips parted on her name—half-sigh, half-plea. “Merewyn.”

  Pushing herself up on her toes, she pressed her lips to his. And with a groan, he wrapped his free arm around her back, pulling her flush against him.

  Ye are perfect.

  Being with this woman made him feel perfect, made him feel alive. Like he could do anything!

  Concerns and worries about life just…just slid away when he was with her. When her lips tugged at his like this, when she made those sexy little noises, he knew his life was perfect.

  St. John’s nostril!

  She had him harder than the oak trees surrounding them, and all she’d done was kiss him.

  With another erotic moan, she untangled her fingers from his and lifted her other hand to the hair at the back of his head, tugging him closer.

  Any closer and I’ll be inside of her.

  Aye, please!

  There was a part of his mind which couldn’t be shut down, a part which was always on the alert, aware of danger. But the birds were still chirping, the brook still babbling, and she’d just lifted her left leg to wrap around his, pushing her core against the very part of him which longed for it.

  Aye, danger could go hang itself.

  The hand not holding her desperately to him rose to cup her breast through her gown, and when she moaned against his mouth, he quickly tugged down the neckline to expose her nipple.

  The noise she made then had him wrenching his lips from hers and dropping them to that nipple, while her fingers tugged at his hair and her panting breaths urged him on.

  “Rocque,” she mewed softly, her pelvis gyrating desperately.

  “Aye, lass,” he whispered against her skin, as he switched his attentions to her other tit. “I ken what ye like.”

  “Ye ken—” She was panting. “Please! Make me yers!”

  Mine.

  He slowly straightened, and met her passion-fogged eyes. Aye, he knew what she liked.

  He smiled. In one swift motion, he’d tugged her gown lower down her arms, exposing both breasts to the cool evening air.

  She mewled desperately and lowered her hands to them, pushing them together and squeezing her puckered nipples.

  Aye, he knew how to make her hot.

  Make me yers.

  He lifted one hand to her cheek, then twined it through the curls atop her head. He pushed downward.

  “Then on yer knees, lass.”

  Blessed Virgin, yes!

  Dimly, Merewyn wondered if mayhap she should leave the Christ-child’s mother out of things when she was about to suck a man’s cock, but there were times she just had to pray.

  She knew she was a strong woman, and could survive on her own. But when Rocque spoke to her in that commanding voice, she was thankful she was already kneeling, because her thighs clenched so hard, she couldn’t have stood.

  With one hand still wrapped through her curls, his other lifted his kilt, and with an eager groan, she lunged forward.

  His cock was as thick as the rest of him, and she had to drop one of her breasts to reach beneath it and wrap her fingers around its base. God Almighty, but he tasted divine! She loved that he cared enough for cleanliness that she could still smell the soap on him.

  She let him know she was ready by inhaling deeply and sinking back on her haunches; he steadied her head as he pushed his thickness past her tongue and into her throat. She’d long ago gotten over the panic which came from not being able to breathe, and instead met his eyes, showing her trust.

  Sure enough, he let out a hoarse, “By all the saints, lass!” and pulled himself free long before she needed him to, and the flood of saliva was tinted with the taste of his salty sweetness.

  She licked at him, and when he dropped his other hand to her head with a groan of surrender, the rush of power she felt, holding this man in her mouth, caused a flood of desire between her thighs.

  As he used her mouth, she scrambled for her gown, shifting her weight—the friction delightful as her thighs rubbed against one another—to pull her skirts out of the way.

  Finally, they were free, and she was able to yank them up and delve her fingers between her legs.

  Aye!

  She was as wet as she knew she’d be, and when she spread her thighs and dragged her first two fingers through her slit, she shuddered with desire.

  The burning—yearning—was building inside her core, and when she lifted her free hand to cup his bollocks, he groaned and pushed against her once more.

  “Lass,” he choked, “ye’re making me crazed.”

  Good, she wanted to tell him, but her mouth was full of him. Instead, she hummed against his cock, and when he groaned in pleasure, did it again.

  One of his hands dropped to his own cock, circling the base and holding it steady as he increased his pace, thrusting into her mouth with soft grunts. She squeezed his bollocks, loving the way it made his breath catch, and pressed two fingers up inside her.

  She damn near came off the grass, it felt so good. Not perfect—nothing would feel as perfect as him inside her, but…she curled her fingers, as if beckoning herself toward release, and felt her climax building.

  “That’s it,” he murmured. “That’s a good lass. Ye like doing this, do ye no’? Ye like touching yerself, while I use yer mouth. Come for me, lass. Come for me like a good girl.”

  Gasping against his cock, she did.

  Her release burst over her, as she curled her fingers inside her cunny and rode the waves of pleasure, rocking against his cock.

  But with a roar, he pulled himself from her mouth, jerked once, twice, and climaxed explosively. A thick white stream burst from the tip of his cock and splashed against her neck and chest, spilling down across her breasts.

  Breathing heavily, she reached for her nipple and caught one strand of his pleasure as it reached the tip of her breast. She lifted that finger to her mouth as she gently withdrew her fin
gers from her softly pulsating core.

  As she met his eyes—still on her knees—the taste of his salty arousal exploded against her tongue.

  “God in Heaven,” he groaned, and staggered back to press one hand shakily against the strong trunk of an oak. “God in Heaven!”

  “Aye,” she drawled quietly, not sure if it was a prayer or a praise.

  Or both.

  He was still staring at her, wide-eyed, as she shifted herself to rest on her arse, holding her weight on one palm pressed against the grass. Then he shook himself and cleared his throat.

  Her basket was where she’d dropped it—the hyssop had rolled out, but she’d collect it—and he reached for one of the cloths he knew would be in there. She always brought plenty to wrap herbs in, but for now, this one would serve another purpose.

  She watched as he dropped to one knee by the stream to soak the cloth, then squeezed out the excess. Before he saw to himself, he returned to her and—while she held herself unmoving—he gently wiped his seed from her neck and chest. It took two trips to the brook, and the whole time she remained still and marveled at his gentle care.

  Finally, on one knee before her, he handed her the cloth to clean her hands, then tossed it to one side and pulled her into his arms.

  She felt safe here.

  “St. John bless me, lass,” he whispered against her hair. “Ye shouldnae allow me to treat ye so.”

  Surprised, she jerked away to meet his eyes. “Why no’? Ye ken I like it when ye mark me like that.”

  ‘Twas not a lie. Holding him in her mouth made her feel powerful in a way she couldn’t describe.

  And she was a woman who liked being in control.

  He tsked softly and moved to sit beside her. Then with a sigh, he leaned back, resting one hand behind his head as he pulled her down atop his chest.

  Her lips twitched when she realized he was still wearing his sword. They were both still fully dressed, in fact, now that she’d tucked her breasts back in and re-tied everything.

  He was smiling sleepily, although ‘twas hard to tell behind that beard. She was invigorated—as she always was after their love-making—and reached up to scratch at his jaw.

  “ ’Tis time to trim this bush.”

  “Bah! Ye like it.”

  Her grin grew. “I like the way it feels against my skin, aye. But I dinnae like the idea of no’ being able to see yer face, when it gets this long. I worry about losing ye. Or ye hiding a leg of mutton in here. Or small children.”

  She expected him to chuckle at her jibe, but the look in his eyes turned a little sad as he shifted his gaze up to the sky peeking through the branches above them. When she glanced upward, she could see the brilliant colors of a summer sunset in the Highlands, and wondered what he was thinking.

  Small children.

  Was he thinking of their earlier conversation about becoming laird? Or about having children?

  Her fingers fluttered to the hollow at the base of his throat, her touch hesitant.

  Even now she was carrying his bairn. And she hadn’t told him.

  He must be told.

  Aye, aye, she’d tell him.

  Because even if there was no future for them, even if she chose to raise their bairn alone, he would have to be told.

  And in that moment, she realized a truth she’d never considered: Rocque was a good man, and he’d be a good father. Even if he wasn’t her husband, she could trust him to do what was right by the bairn.

  Slowly, her lips curled into an amazed grin and she pushed herself up to sit at his side. Her bairn—their bairn—could have both a mother and a father, even if they weren’t married.

  “Why will ye no’ marry me, lass?”

  Oh, fook.

  Just like that, her burgeoning good mood evaporated.

  Inhaling deeply, she shifted her gaze back up to the sunset and squared her shoulders.

  “Because I am strong. I can live alone. I dinnae need a husband,” she began.

  “I ken it well.” One of his large hands rested on the small of her back, the motion comforting. “But ye dinnae have to.”

  “Nay, I dinnae.” She swallowed, not sure how to explain, now that it was time. “ ’Tis my choice, and that’s the point.”

  She dropped her eyes, only to find him frowning thoughtfully as his gaze caressed her face. Remembering Nessa’s words from this afternoon, she struggled to make her tongue work.

  Ye owe him an explanation.

  It was possible to explain her reasoning without laying bare her heart, wasn’t it?

  So she tried again. “I can choose to live with a man—to yoke myself to him—if I want, but if I dinnae, I will still survive thanks to my skills and trade with the villagers.”

  “Is that what you want?” His voice sounded strangled.

  “Nay,” she confessed quietly. “I want a strong, happy marriage.”

  “Then why won’t you say aye to me, lass?”

  “Because you don’t love me!” The words burst from her lips before she could stop them, and she clenched her teeth to keep more damning evidence from spilling forth.

  But when he slowly sat up, his frown deepening, Merewyn drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. His hand dropped away from her back, and she felt more than a little deprived.

  “My parents…” She jerked her head, embarrassed by the way her voice wavered. “My mother loved my father. My father loved ale. He was kind enough, but didnae love her the way she loved him.” Merewyn was careful to keep her tone steady as she relived those years of pain. “I saw what that did to her—to them both. So much hurt and bitterness in that home.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “ ’Twas almost a relief when I lost them.”

  He rested one elbow against his raised knee, and looked as if he might say something. Before he could, she hurried her explanation, determined to get it said.

  “I promised myself long ago I would only marry for love. If I couldnae marry for love, I’d rather live alone.” She lifted her chin and met his eyes, challenge in her tone when she added, “I could even raise a child alone, as long as I knew I had my pride.”

  His brows dipped in, and she knew he was considering her words. He always looked like that when he was thinking.

  Finally, he exhaled. “Ye willnae marry me…because ye dinnae love me?”

  Was it her imagination, or did he sound…hurt?

  She swallowed.

  This was it.

  This was the moment to confess her feelings.

  The moment to tell him how she’d fallen in love with him months and months ago. How she’d accepted him as her lover because of his strength and humor and smile, but had let him into her heart because of how he acted. Who he was.

  She’d fallen in love with his concern, his gentleness, the way he could make her burn with just one look. The way he took care of her needs and wanted to make her happy.

  Aye, she loved him. She could happily spend her life with such a man.

  But she couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow herself to spend her life with a man who didn’t love her in return. She’d seen what that had done to her mother, and she had more pride than that.

  Much more pride.

  Too much pride to tell him how she felt, if he was unwilling to bare his own heart.

  Sadly, she shook her head. Inhaling deeply, she met his eyes.

  “Nay, Rocque. I willnae marry ye because ye dinnae love me.”

  His eyes rounded, and she could see the disbelief in their lovely blue depths. Disbelief? She nodded, her jaw tensing, willing him to understand what she was saying.

  “Love ye?” he repeated in a strangled whisper.

  ‘Twas not a declaration. ‘Twas not a denial.

  As far as Merewyn was concerned, he’d just confirmed everything she believed.

  Suddenly feeling drained, she pushed herself to her feet, staggering slightly as blood rushed to her head. He didn’t reach for her, and once she was steady, she turned to sco
op up her basket and the fallen hyssop.

  When she turned back to him, he hadn’t moved. Nay, he was still sitting here on the grass, one arm draped across his raised knee, looking…well, she couldn’t read his expression. That was the problem with that beard. It made him all—all—all blurry.

  Blurry?

  Nay, that wasn’t because of his beard. She lifted one set of fingertips to her cheek to catch the tear as it spilled from her eye.

  I love ye!

  She wanted to shout it, to beg him to love her in return.

  But she wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

  Forcing her shoulder straight, she turned in the direction of the village. But at the edge of the small clearing, she paused, and debated with herself.

  Finally, deciding there was no way she’d be able to maintain her pride if she turned to look at him, she lifted her chin and, staring straight ahead, whispered, “Goodbye, Rocque.”

  Then she darted among the trees, half-hoping, half-dreading he’d come after her.

  He didn’t.

  Chapter 6

  Ye dinnae love me.

  She’d been so certain when she’d said it, that’s what was really galling.

  Rocque’s fist slammed into the stuffed bag, sending it swinging on a short arc. When it returned, he jabbed the thing twice more, releasing some of his frustration one little burst at a time.

  St. John’s sacred hairline, why had she sounded so certain?

  Growling, he punched the bag again, then pivoted as it swung, and lashed out sideways with a booted foot, catching on the return.

  It felt good to hit something. ‘Twas what he’d always done, when he was uncertain of his life. Hitting things always helped him release anger and frustration, and he thought more clearly when he was sweating.

  His fists jabbed out once, twice, thrice, striking the bag at various points, causing the entire tree limb to shudder. Soon, he was panting in exertion, which was always his goal.

  He’d always been this way, although he hadn’t grown into his muscles until Da had started working him. But growing up, he had been taller than most other boys, and none would spar with him. So his mother had sewn him a bag, which she’d stuffed with sheep’s wool, the discardings her uncle allowed her to keep, and hung it up for him to hit. ‘Twas a simple design, but had saved many heads over the years.