by Caroline Lee
Of course, if Rocque had known how to really hit back then, instead of merely taking punches, mayhap his mother would still be alive. He slammed his fist into the bag again. Mayhap he could’ve taken her and Malcolm away from that living hell and returned to Oliphant land much sooner.
The growl which escaped his lips was unexpected, but nothing new. When the bag swung back, he jerked his elbow into the leather and followed it with a kick. The guilt of his mother’s death had hung over him for years, despite knowing it wasn’t his fault. He was used to these feelings.
It was Merewyn who had him all tied in knots now.
Breathing heavily, he stepped back, but kept his fists up, as if the bag might attack him.
St. John’s tits! She’d told him she couldn’t marry him because he didn’t love her!
And as much as he wanted to spit at the sentiment, he couldn’t deny what he saw around him every day. Finn loved Fiona, and had since last autumn; that didn’t make him less of a man.
Duncan was the least demonstrative person Rocque knew, but he was certain of his love for Skye.
And even Da still mourned his lost love, the lady whose death had sent him into the village to seek comfort in Mam’s arms, a lass barely into womanhood. He’d regretted her family’s treatment of Mam, of course, when he’d found out…but he’d never cared for her the way he’d cared for his lady love.
Love was possible. And he respected Merewyn enough to consider her words. She’d finally told him her reasoning for declining his proposal, and what irritated him was that he’d understood what she was saying.
Not wanting to marry someone because they didn’t love you…well, that made sense.
With a muttered curse, he stepped up to the bag again, and wrapped an arm around the upper part. Holding it still, he slammed his right fist into the leather, feeling the reverberations through the bag and into his shoulder.
Her words echoed in his mind with each punch.
Ye.
Dinnae.
Love.
Me.
Grunting, he jerked his knee up, hard, where an opponent’s stomach would be if the bag were a man.
But it wasn’t; it was a reinforced leather bag stuffed near to bursting with wool, then sewn shut. Heavy rocks lined the bottom to keep it from swinging too wide, and it was one of these his knee slammed into.
“Fook me!”
He released the bag and staggered back, keeping the weight off his throbbing knee.
“Shite,” he muttered, limping backward and shaking out his arms and hands while glaring at the bag. “Shite.”
“Did that thing finally get the best of ye?”
The drawled question had him whirling and crouching, bringing his fists up into a protective stance even as he recognized the voice. Malcolm’s easy smile was welcome, even as his twin pushed away from the tree where he’d been leaning.
With his arms crossed and one booted foot in front of the other, he looked the picture of ease. But Rocque could see the concern in his brother’s blue eyes, so he forced himself to straighten and release some of the tension he was holding.
But he couldn’t hold in the wince as he shifted his weight to both knees.
Malcolm’s smile eased. “Are ye hurt?”
“Nay.” Rocque’s voice sounded hoarse to his own ears. “I’ll be aright.”
Swallowing, he turned back to the bag and exhaled. “Why are ye here?”
“Because ye’ve been avoiding us all day, and ye looked like ye needed to talk.”
Avoiding us. Mal was right. He had been avoiding his family, other than the training he’d done with the men that morning, and even that hadn’t been enough to distract him from his thoughts.
With a growl, his fist jabbed into the bag, and he followed it with another from the opposite fist. The bag swung out, and he caught it on its return with another volley.
One, two, swing. One, two, swing.
The rhythm was comforting.
He hadn’t gone home last night.
Home? Scoffing at himself, he jabbed at the bag again. Home was Merewyn’s cottage. He hadn’t gone back to Merewyn’s cottage last night. Well, he hadn’t gone in.
He’d laid there on the forest floor, thinking about her words, long after she’d left. Finally, worry for her roused him, and he trooped back to her cottage, only to find the candles dark. He’d stood there in her garden for longer than he wanted to admit, staring at the door and wondering if she wanted him to join her, before finding his bed in the barracks.
And he’d been avoiding everyone since then.
This time, when he slammed his fist into the bag, his breath escaped with a grunt.
And suddenly, Malcolm was there, catching the bag on its swing, and holding it.
Rocque was breathing heavily, his hair sticking to his neck with sweat, and still he stood there, fists up, waiting for his brother to release his toy.
“Let it go,” he growled.
“Nay,” Mal said simply. “The rope is fraying from the parabolic motion. I’ll have to replace it for ye soon.”
Surprised, Rocque’s eyes flicked upward, and sure enough, the loops holding the thing to the tree limb were fraying. Sighing, he stepped back.
“Can ye add more heft to the thing so it doesnae swing so hard?”
His twin smirked. “Ye mean more rocks, Rocque? Can yer knees handle that?”
His knee hadn’t ached, until just that moment. Scowling, Rocque limped over to a boulder and sank down upon it, one hand rubbing at his bruised joint.
“I dinnae care how ye do it,” he muttered. “Just make it heavier. The one Mam made me didnae swing so far.”
Mal’s smile seemed a little sad as he released the bag and gently halted its swing. Without looking up, he said softly, “I designed that one, too, ye ken.”
Nay, he hadn’t known that. Rocque’s gaze jerked up. “Ye did?” They’d been mere lads then.
But Malcolm nodded, still staring at the leather as his hands swept across the seam. “She was so worried for ye. Ye carried so much anger, especially toward Uncle. Mam was afraid ye would lash out at him again, and she wouldnae be able to protect ye.” He looked up and met Rocque’s eyes. “So I invented the bag. Something for ye to hit, instead of someone.”
Rocque swallowed, remembering what he used to be like in those days.
“So when we came here, ‘twas easy enough for ye to build me another one?”
His twin shrugged. “Well, by then Moira did the actual sewing. And stuffing.” He patted the seam. “The more wool crammed in here, the more blows it can take. This one has double-layered leather too, which is ideal. It can withstand all yer anger.”
Blowing out a breath, Rocque dropped his gaze to his palms. All his anger? Mayhap. The bag had stood up well enough so far.
But he was a different man than he’d been in his youth. He’d carried so much anger at the injustices in the world. It had been Da—and Moira, and his brothers—who’d taught him how to channel that anger, how to control it. He’d become a leader, thanks to their influence, and punching Hamish in the nose the other day had been the first time he’d hit another man in anger in a very long time.
‘Twas worth it.
One corner of his lips twitched wryly. Aye, he might’ve been born illegitimate, but Hamish was the real bastard.
“So…” Malcolm’s voice was closer, but Rocque didn’t look up from his study of his palms. “What are ye angry about now?”
“I’m no’ angry.” His hands curled into fists, and he forced them to loosen. “I’m frustrated.”
His twin hummed, and settled himself on the ground beside the boulder. Close enough to touch, but not.
Malcolm had always been like this boulder; steady, certain. There when he needed someone who understood him.
Rocque might’ve been named for the stone upon which he sat, but ‘twas Malcolm who’d always been his rock.
His brother pulled one knee up and rested his arm across
it. His hair was the same russet waves as Rocque, but he looked as if he kept it trimmed neatly…without Merewyn to remind him. Rocque blew out another frustrated breath at the thought of how she’d taken care of him, and wanted to pat his brother’s shoulder the way they’d done as children.
He didn’t.
“Frustrated, then.” Mal shrugged, without looking up at him. He sounded merely curious, but Rocque knew he’d sit here all day until he learned what he needed to know. “What has ye so frustrated?”
Inspiration struck.
Rocque cleared his throat. “What do ye ken about—about how babies are made?”
Mal jerked as if he’d been hit, and slowly turned to stare incredulously up at Rocque. His mouth had gone slack, and his blue eyes were wide with shock.
“Ye want—” He shook his head. “Ye’re asking me how sex works?”
“Bah!” Rocque slapped him on the shoulder as he straightened. “I ken the mechanics of it verra well. ‘Twas bairns I’m asking about.”
Mal’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
‘Twas difficult to say such things to another man while looking him in the eye, so Rocque shrugged and leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and staring down at his laced fingers.
“Merewyn hasnae— In the last year, she’s no’…” He swallowed. “Da was the one who suggested she might be…”
St. John’s big toe! He couldn’t say it.
But his brother hummed thoughtfully, and from the corner of his eye, Rocque saw him settled back into his spot, his gaze across the clearing.
“She has no’ fallen pregnant, and ye think she might be barren?”
Rocque swallowed. It took him two tries to croak “Aye.”
“Let me ask ye this, brother: How much would it matter? If Merewyn is barren.”
I want bairns.
Until Da’s declaration, Rocque hadn’t really considered a future as a father. But he’d been thinking of it more often these days, and knew he wanted to raise sons and daughters to follow after him.
But all he said was, “If I want to become laird, I need a son.”
The little noise Malcolm made sounded almost…disappointed? As if Rocque had answered incorrectly.
“Aye, ye do. Ye’d made a fine laird, if ‘tis what ye want. And Merewyn will make a fine wife. So I’ll ask again: If she’s barren, how much would that matter to ye?”
Rocque got the impression his brother was holding his breath, same as he was. Neither spoke, neither looked at one another.
Because Rocque wasn’t sure how to answer.
If Merewyn was barren, and he married her, he wouldn’t be able to become laird.
But he’d have Merewyn as a wife, and they could always adopt children. There were plenty of bairns, others like Jessie, who needed homes.
He squeezed his fingers tighter, the knuckles whitening against one another, and tried to ignore the pain in his stomach.
How important was the lairdship, anyhow?
Could he give it up, if it meant keeping Merewyn?
And the moment he posed the question to himself like that, he knew the answer.
Aye.
Aye, having Merewyn as his wife would be worth giving up a chance at becoming Laird Oliphant.
Besides, what was lairdship except more headache?
Of course, all of this was moot if he couldn’t convince her to marry him.
Before he could figure out a way to explain this all to Malcolm, is brother blew out a breath and reached for a nearby stick. “Look, there are plenty of reasons Merewyn hasnae gotten pregnant, and they have naught to do with yer prowess or penis, aye?”
Rocque’s head jerked upright. “What?”
“Assuming ye’ve been spilling inside her, and please dinnae confirm nor deny that, because I dinnae need to ken everything, then there are other explanations. She’s a midwife, surely she kens of teas to drink to keep herself without child.”
“But…” Rocque blinked. “The Church says—”
The look his brother shot him was part exasperation and part disbelief. “I ken what the Church says far better than ye, brother, remember?” Malcolm had once thought to take holy orders, if only to have access to the Abbey’s library. “But clearly women are doing something, or we’d be overrun with bairns, based on the number of times men cannae control their urges.”
Rocque frowned. He’d never seen Merewyn drinking tea… “What are the other explanations?”
“Mayhap she’s just good at counting.”
Counting?
“Counting what?” he repeated.
“Days.” Malcolm used the stick to make seven ticks on the ground, then seven more. He jabbed the end into the dirt at the beginning, and dragged it through to the fourteenth mark. “A fortnight after her menses begins, a woman is at her most fertile. If Merewyn—or any woman—is clever and good at counting, she can reasonably prevent pregnancy by declining sexual intercourse during that time.”
Slowly straightening, Rocque thought of the board with the marks Merewyn hung on the wall. The phases of the moons were there, and he knew she used those. There were times of the moon’s cycle she either turned him down completely, or requested he not enter her. He’d always thought that was because she enjoyed the feel of his tongue—and his beard against her inner thighs—just as well.
But was she—had she been counting?
With a whispered curse, Rocque scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m nae good at maths,” he muttered.
“Aye, I ken it.”
But rather than making him feel ignorant, Malcolm shifted forward so he could rub out his marks with one palm, and smoothed the dirt. “Look here.” He drew an odd-shaped squiggle. “This is a woman’s womb. It is connected here to her heart, and here to her sheath. She uses a man’s seed to make a bairn, aye?”
He planted the end of the stick in the middle of the womb-squiggle while Rocque squinted down at the sketch.
From this angle the “womb” looked a little like a nut. Mayhap a bean. He twisted his head. From overhead, a squirrel chittered at him, and he wondered if the damned thing was wondering why two grown men were sketching beans in the dirt.
If anyone—even another one of their brothers—walked into this clearing right now, to find the two of them peering at a drawing of a woman’s inner workings, Rocque would—he would—well, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. Was it possible to die of embarrassment?
Embarrassment caused by finding out how babies were made?
He lowered his voice, just in case any brothers or clansmen or squirrels were listening in. “I suppose that makes sense.”
“Once a month, her body prepares for the bairn, but if she’s not taken seed when she’s most fertile, then her body doesnae create a babe.” He swished the stick back and forth in the dirt in a way which made Rocque want to press his knees together to protect his dangly bits. “And instead bleeds.”
“She bleeds because she’s no’ pregnant?”
Malcolm turned to flash him another vaguely amused grin. “Ye’ve lived with the woman for a year. Surely ye’ve noticed there are times she doesnae—”
“Och, of course I ken that time.” Rocque shifted, uncomfortable with the topic. “She suffers fiercely with back pain then.” He often pulled her against him in bed, able to easily rub her lower back with his large hands. “I just never bothered counting to tell it happens every month.”
He shuddered.
Malcolm’s grin grew as he shifted his weight to one side, the stick dangling forgotten. “Well, why did ye think she was bleeding?”
“I assumed I’d been too vigorous.”
“What? Each time?”
Mal’s voice had turned sympathetic, likely imagining Rocque blaming himself, so he scowled in response.
“Nay, eventually I realized ‘twas no’ my fault. Then I wondered if she’d eaten something spoiled.”
“Which caused her to bleed.”
His twin’s voice had turned carefu
lly bland, a sure sign he was holding back laughter.
With a muttered curse, Rocque heaved himself to his feet, making sure to stomp atop Malcolm’s sketch as he limped away, his knee almost buckling at the sudden movement.
“When I asked, she told me ‘tis a woman’s business, and left it at that! I had nae need to ken she bleeds each month because she’s no’ carrying my bairn!” He shuddered again. “ ’Tis a disgusting system.”
“ ’Tis a wonderful and miraculous system,” Malcolm corrected. “But aye, disgusting as hell.”
“Full of liquids and feelings and shite.”
Malcolm nodded. “Likely worth it for the continuation of the human race, but I’m glad ‘tis no’ us going through it each month.”
“If one of my men bled for four days straight…”
His brother heard his mutter, because Mal smiled. “Ye’d think him dying.”
“Nay, I’d think him dead. Women are weird.”
With a chuckle, the smaller man pushed himself to his feet. “Truer words were never spoken, brother.”
Across the clearing, Rocque dragged his hands through his hair. Malcolm’s lesson left him feeling… Well, a warrior would never admit to feeling nauseated because of a little grossness, so he wouldn’t.
But slowly, a realization began to steal over him, and he dropped his hands. Merewyn wasn’t barren. If she were, she wouldn’t be worried about counting. And from Mal’s explanation, it seemed that Merewyn was counting to prevent pregnancy.
Which means there was no reason to think she couldn’t get pregnant, and he still had a chance at becoming—oh, shite.
He groaned against and dropped his head back, planting his hands on his hips and squeezing his eyes shut.
“She still willnae marry me.”
As if Malcolm understood the unspoken explanation—and hellfire, maybe he did, the man did get all the intellect Rocque lacked—he called, “Why no’?”
“Because she says she’ll no’ marry a man who doesnae love her.”