by Caroline Lee
Rocque’s brother was quiet for a long moment. Long enough for Rocque to open his eyes and glare at that damned squirrel, still skittering back and forth above them and likely laughing in his little squirrel language at the follies of man.
“Does that matter to ye?” Malcolm finally asked. “Would ye still want to marry her if she didnae love ye?”
“Nay!” Rocque spun around. “Aye! Bah!” He scrubbed his hands over his face once more, then crossed his arms to glare at his brother. “ ’Tisnae important.”
His twin mirrored his stance across the clearing, but when he shrugged, there was a bit of humor in his eyes.
“ ’Tis important to her, brother. Do ye love her?”
Rocque glared.
Malcolm raised a brow in challenge.
Rocque glared harder.
Malcolm’s second brow joined the first.
Damnation, if he glared any harder, Rocque worried his skull might pop out of his skin. Did his brother not understand he had no answer?
“Do ye love her?” Malcolm repeated quietly.
“How in the fook am I supposed to know that?” he burst out.
His brother began to chuckle.
Then the chuckles turned to laughter.
“Malcolm,” Rocque growled in warning.
Shaking his head, Malcolm held up his palm while he managed to control his humor. “Peace, brother, peace.” He was still smiling when he straightened and met Rocque’s glare. “I apologize. This is one area I know naught about, but ye looked so—so desperate I couldnae contain—”
“Contain it,” Rocque snapped.
Smiling, Malcolm took a deep breath. “Certainly. So.” He lifted one finger and ticked another against it. “Ye dinnae ken if ye love her.” Second finger. “She willnae marry her if ye dinnae.” Third finger. “Ye want to marry her, aye?”
Another growl. “Aye.” He couldn’t imagine not spending the rest of his days with Merewyn.
Malcolm held up four fingers and tapped the smallest with a finger from his opposite hand. “And does she want to marry ye otherwise?”
There was naught in their shared past to indicate Merewyn didn’t want to marry him…except for what she said last night.
Rocque blew out a frustrated breath. “No’ if I dinnae love her.”
Malcolm curled his fingers into a fist. “Then ‘tis simple.”
“Naught is simple,” Rocque growled. “Ye’ve just run out of fingers.”
“I have plenty more.” His brother wiggled his fingers, then hooked his thumbs in his belt and cocked his head as he studied Rocque. “I can tell ye if ye love her.”
Was Malcolm able to read minds? “How?”
“By asking ye the question you wouldnae answer earlier. If ye had to choose between marrying Merewyn and becoming laird, which would ye sacrifice?”
This time, Rocque didn’t hesitate. “Becoming laird would mean naught without Merewyn at my side.”
“So ye’d choose her even if it meant doing so would remove the chance of lairdship from yer future?”
Rocque nodded, his heart finally certain of one thing. “I would choose her even if it doomed me to an eternity of damnation. She is mine and I am hers. Becoming laird is nothing in comparison.”
Malcolm’s smile slowly bloomed. “Ye love her, brother.”
Ye dinnae love me.
Rocque blinked slowly.
I love her?
His brother—the most brilliant man he knew—had deduced it, so it must be true.
“I love her?”
Malcolm chuckled as he crossed the clearing and laid one hand companionably on his brother’s shoulder. “Ye do, Rocque. I suspect ye have for some time. Now, ‘tis up to ye to decide what to do with that knowledge.”
“What do ye mean?” Rocque shook his head, still stunned from the realization. “I love her.”
Malcolm’s grip tightened. “So go tell her, ye great clot-heid!” Then he released his brother and stepped away, still grinning. “Bathe first, because ye smell like an ox fooked a sheep, and ye look worse. And yer knee needs to soak in cold water. But then tell her.”
Tell her tell her tell her.
Go tell her I love her.
Slowly, Rocque smiled, having forgotten all about the pain in his knee. “Tell her I love her.”
With another shout of laughter, Malcolm strolled for the path back toward the keep. “Bathe first!” he called over his shoulder.
Rocque’s gaze darted to the punching bag, all urge to pound something forgotten. Well he was already thinking about what it would feel like to take Merewyn in his arms after he told her he loved her. Would she cry? How long would it take her to agree to marry him?
Whirling, Rocque hobbled toward the loch, still grinning.
Tell her I love her.
Aye. He would. And she’d agree to marry him.
And everything would be well.
Chapter 7
He didn’t come home last night.
Sighing, Merewyn looked around her small cottage. Funny, it had never seemed too small when Rocque was here, although it should have. Now, she supposed she should start collecting his things to send back to the barracks.
Because he’d made it clear there was no future between them.
Last night she’d lain awake in bed, praying she’d hear him outside, or see him come through the door. Eventually she cried herself to sleep, and woke this morning to a cold bed.
Best get used to it.
He’d made his choice. All he’d had to do last night was say, “I love ye.” But he couldn’t, and that answered her question easily enough.
Before the tears began to fall again, Merewyn snatched her basket up from its hook by the door—Rocque had installed that hook, now that she thought of it—and stepped out into her garden. ‘Twas a lovely summer afternoon, and she’d be damned if she was going to spend the rest of the day moping.
The sun was already creeping lower in the west, and with a start, she realized she’d missed both meals of the day. She still wasn’t hungry, but knew she must eat dinner, for the sake of the bairn if naught else.
The bairn, who would know his father, even if his parents weren’t married.
Even if his mother is too bloody stubborn to marry a man who doesnae love her.
Scowling at her own subconscious, she settled on her knees in front of her rosemary plant.
‘Twas a sprawling monster of a plant, one which had spawned many clippings and offshoots. Half the village now had rosemary in the gardens, thanks to this plant.
As she always did, whenever she passed, Merewyn pinched a few leaves from the end of a stem, rubbing them between her fingers. Then, absentmindedly, she lifted the crushed leaves to rub behind her ear and at the hollow of her neck.
Rosemary was Rocque’s favorite scent, and she always made certain he’d be able to smell it on her.
Not that it mattered anymore.
Sighing, she flicked away the leaves, reached for her shears, and began to prune. The longer stems, she’d hang to dry in her rafters. Some she’d send up to the keep for Cook to use. Some she’d bundle for burning—the smoke masked fouler scents from other herbs—or soaking in hot water. Lady Agatha used the bundles in her bath water, occasionally.
Aye, her rosemary had plenty of uses.
Plus, it was nice to be busy. Listing the uses for the bundles she was now setting aside was good for Merewyn’s peace of mind.
She knelt in her garden, surrounded by green life, nurturing her own new life inside of her, and tried to breathe deeply and think of the future.
“Merewyn?”
The quiet call jerked her from her contemplation, and when she swung her gaze up, Jessie flinched away. The girl was standing in the shadows beside the house, her arms wrapped around her middle.
“Hello, lassie!” Merewyn straightened, brushing her palms against one another as she forced a smile for her patient. “I’m glad to see ye out of bed.”
The girl
didn’t smile in return.
Stifling a sigh, Merewyn pushed herself to her feet, feeling guilty. She’d intended to check in on Jessie this morning, but couldn’t seem to drag herself up to the keep. She’d convinced herself that since she’d just checked on the lassie yesterday, everything would be well.
Judging from the way Jessie’s arms were wrapped around her middle and she hunched over as if trying to make herself look smaller, Merewyn had been wrong.
All was not well.
Her own problems pushed aside, Merewyn donned her healer’s mantle as she moved toward the girl. “What’s amiss, Jessie?” she called in a soothing tone, one hand reaching out to calm her. “Are ye in pain?”
“Nay,” the lassie whispered.
Reaching her, Merewyn slid her hand into the girl’s and slowly unfolded Jessie’s arms from around her middle. Pulling her into the sunlight, Merewyn’s eyes darted across the lassie’s features and down her arms, looking for more signs of damage.
She saw none. Jessie’s recent burns had healed well, but they had been nowhere near as terrible as the earlier burns. All that remained of the recent porridge incident was some redness across one cheek, and down one side of her throat.
Truly, she was healing wonderfully, likely not even needing the hemlock potion Merewyn had left with Moira to ease her pain. So why was she here?
“Jessie?” Merewyn asked again, gently. “Are ye well?”
“I’m aright.” The girl didn’t look up when she whispered, but kept her gaze locked on Merewyn’s shoulder. “I just…”
When she trailed off, the healer gently tucked a finger beneath her chin and nudged it upward. “Ye can trust me,” Merewyn said gently.
And that’s when she saw the tears in the girl’s eyes.
“Hamish came to visit me,” Jessie whispered. “He said…things.”
The shock of her announcement was enough that the lassie was able to pull her chin out of Merewyn’s hold, and she dropped her gaze once more. But she kept explaining, thank the Saints.
“He said…he’s said things to me before. About belonging to him one day, and how I’ll be lucky to be his.”
Merewyn wanted to hiss in disgust. Jessie was naught more than a girl! How dare a full-grown man—a weasel like Hamish—pester her like that.
“Did ye—did ye like what he said?”
Jessie’s gaze flicked up quickly, then away. “Nay,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around her middle again. “When he looks at me like that, he makes me feel…dirty.”
Merewyn’s palms itched; she either wanted to take Jessie into her arms in comfort, or find Hamish and slap him into next Michealmas.
She did neither, curling her hands into fists at her side. “I’m sorry, Jessie,” she offered, trying to keep her tone as neutral as possible.
It must’ve worked, because the girl snuck another glance at her, and took a deep breath.
“Last week he found me working in the kitchens. I sleep there, near the Cook’s room. He found me and told me he wanted me because I was so beautiful, and no one would treat me as well as he would.” The lassie’s words sped up. “I ken I’m no’ beautiful, and I told him that. I didnae want him to touch me, then or later.” She shuddered once. “I told him that too, and he said—he said…”
Big, tear-filled eyes met Merewyn’s, and the healer’s heart clenched.
The lassie was too young to have to learn about the ways of men. Especially snakes like Hamish Oliphant. The man was clearly manipulative and predatory. That he would approach a mere lassie, and one who had suffered so much physical trauma, made that clear.
Now that she considered things, Hamish had attempted something similar when he’d tried to court Merewyn last year. He’d told her she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and would just die if he couldn’t have her.
“Have” her. He’d actually said that, as if she were some possession! Merewyn shook her head. She’d been a woman grown, confident in her own worth, and had seen Hamish’s manipulations for what they were.
Jessie wouldn’t.
Rocque will make him suffer.
Merewyn squeezed her eyes shut. Aye, no matter what her feelings toward Rocque at this moment, he was Hamish’s commander, and could punish the man.
When she realized Jessie had trailed off, Merewyn forced her attention back to her patient. Gentling her voice, she made sure her pride for the girl came through when she praised her.
“Ye should never feel like ye have to allow a man to touch ye in ways ye dinnae like, Jessie. I am proud of ye for being smart enough to realize that, and to tell him so. What did he say when ye did?”
The lassie swallowed. “He said— He said I’d be sorry I turned him down. He said he’d show me how powerful he was, and how painful it’d be for breaking his heart like that.”
Merewyn sucked in a breath. “Ye think he did what he did with the porridge—on purpose? Ye think that was—what?” Horror crept into her tone as realization dawned. “He threatened to hurt ye, and then he did.”
Jessie’s gaze dropped again, her eyes filling with tears. Merewyn wanted to comfort her, but her rage wouldn’t subside long enough to gentle her tone.
“Did he touch ye?” she growled, her fingernails biting into her palms.
Jessie hesitated only a moment before jerking her chin down. “When I told him I didnae want him to touch me, he put—he put his hand on my arm, then my breast. He told me a lassie like me, with such ugly scars, would be lucky to get any kind of man, much less one as fine as him. Then he pinched me.”
The bastard!
Seething, Merewyn shook her head. “He’s a manipulative shite-weasel, Jessie. He calls ye beautiful, then points out yer scars. He’s telling ye anything he thinks will convince ye to let him touch ye. I am glad ye told him no. What did ye do when he pinched ye?”
“I—Naught.” The lassie tucked her chin against her chest. “I just stood there, and he told me I’d be sorry. He said he’d hurt me, and—and—” Her words caught on a sob. “He did.”
“Och, sweetling,” Merewyn crooned, the girl’s pain overcoming her own anger.
She reached out and pulled Jessie into her arms, and let the girl cry against her shoulder.
“He will pay for hurting ye, lassie,” she assured Jessie. “Did he say more of the same today? Did he—” By the Virgin, ‘twas hard to ask, but as the healer, she had to know. “Did he touch ye again?”
Gulping, the girl shook her head, even though her face was pressed against Merewyn’s shoulder. “Today he told me he nae longer wanted me, since I was so ugly from the new burns.”
Shite-weasel was too kind a term for him. There were likely some very friendly shite-weasels out there, in comparison to the scum who would manipulate a vulnerable girl for sexual favors.
But she forced a jolly tone as she rubbed Jessie’s back soothingly. “Well, thank the Lord for small favors. He’ll leave ye alone now.”
She tried to sound surer than she felt. But when Jessie lifted her head, her eyes were wide and watery.
“He said he nae longer wanted me, because he was going to have ye, Healer.”
Merewyn’s breath caught in her throat.
“Giving away all my secrets, slut?”
The new voice startled the women, and Merewyn jerked away from Jessie only to see Hamish standing confidently in the middle of her rosemary.
Ignoring his insult, she pushed the girl behind her. “How dare ye think to show yer ugly face here, Hamish Oliphant. If ye ken what’s good for ye, ye’ll tuck yer cowardly tail between those skinny legs of yers, and hide from Rocque.”
“Rocque,” the man spat, hooking his thumbs in his belt and swaggering closer, “is no’ here. He slept in the barracks last night, so I assume the two of ye have had a falling out.” He shook his head, tsking in false sympathy. “Which means it’s my turn.”
Trying to appear braver than she felt, Merewyn lifted her chin. “Yer turn for what?”
&nbs
p; Lightning-fast, he lashed out and wrapped around her upper arm, jerking her towards him. “My turn to use ye, whore,” he hissed.
He was bigger than her, aye, but so were most men. Rocque was twice her size, but he’d never made her feel small, not the way Hamish was doing now. “Let go of me!”
His fingers bit into her skin as he dragged her around to face Jessie. “This is what a real woman looks like, ye little tease. I have nae need for ye, when I have the healer.” He gave Merewyn a little shake, then jerked his chin toward the lane. “Get out of here, lass.”
Jessie’s gaze found Merewyn’s. “But—”
“Dinnae make me hurt ye again,” he snapped. “ ’Twas yer doing afore, and ye’ll only bring yerself more pain if ye defy me.”
What a manipulative, disgusting, abusive donkey arse! Nay, “donkey arse” was too kind as well. Diseased donkey arse? Rotten, diseased, pus-filled, oozing?
Aye, oozing donkey arse suited him.
Rolling her eyes at her own distraction, Merewyn met the girl’s gaze. “Go on, Jessie. I’ll be aright.”
“But—”
She nodded assuringly. “Go.”
Hesitating only a moment more, the girl suddenly turned and darted around the corner of Merewyn’s cottage.
The healer took a deep breath, then wrenched her arm from Hamish’s grip.
“You complete bastard! How could you possibly think ‘twas acceptable to say and do those things to any female, much less a girl Jessie’s age?” She whirled, her anger giving her courage as she jabbed a finger at Hamish’s nose. “Do ye think all women have been placed on earth for yer enjoyment? Think ye so high and mighty? That all women would want to satisfy ye?”
He caught her finger in his grip and squeezed until she sucked in a breath.
“How dare ye,” he hissed. “The worst of them all, and ye think to say such a thing to me?”
“Excuse me?” She tried to hide the pain he was causing with indignation.
Bending her finger back, he forced her to her knees. She whimpered slightly, hating being at his mercy, as her other hand clawed at his, to no avail.
“Ye think ye have any right to chastise me? Ye? The village whore?” he spat. “Spreading yer legs for that idiot? I saw what ye did for him, on yer knees in the wood. But ye have to be forced to yer knees for a far superior man like me?”