by Caroline Lee
Blessed Virgin, Hamish had followed them last night? He’d seen her touching herself as Rocque spilled his seed across her face and chest? But…being on her knees in front of Rocque was about power and control and—and—and love, damnation and hellfire! Rocque would never make her feel weak or unworthy, never force her or manipulate her into doing something she didn’t want to do.
Because Rocque was a good man.
And because he cared for her.
In that moment, on her knees in her garden, at the mercy of an evil man, she realized that truth. Rocque did care for her.
He showed it in the way he treated her, in the way he held her and touched her. He showed it in the way he asked her opinion and listened, and the way he fixed little things around the cottage, and the way he smiled at her as if she were the most important thing in his world.
He cared for her.
And last night, she’d pushed him away.
Tears sprang to her eyes—tears of pain, aye, but frustration and sorrow. She’d pushed him away, and that’s why she was at Hamish’s mercy now.
Above her, he grinned evilly. “Ye understand now, whore! Ye understand I am yer master now, eh?” He bent her finger further, and pain shot up her arm as she scrambled fruitlessly to free herself. “Ye think I would just forget the way ye humiliated me?”
“How—How did I humiliate ye?” she gasped.
“Ye had the gall to turn me away, to pretend to be so high and mighty, only to turn around and fook him. That idiot with more muscle than brains!”
She’d turned down plenty of men over the years. Some she hadn’t, true, which gave others the impression she was available for their pleasure. But she’d never considered that one might hold a grudge this long.
“Rocque is a good man,” she managed, blinking away her tears. “He willnae let ye get away with hurting Jessie.”
Or me, she added silently. Because even if she’d completely ruined her chances with Rocque, she knew he was a good enough man to punish evil-doers—
With his free hand, Hamish slapped her—hard—across her mouth, releasing his hold on her finger long enough for her to fall to the ground.
She lifted her hand to her cheek and saw him raise his fist.
Dear God above, the bairn!
She gasped as a new worry coursed through her. If Hamish hurt her here, the way he’d hurt Jessie, would he harm the babe she protected in her womb? Would she lose Rocque’s bairn?
“What do ye want?” she blurted, hoping to forestall his violence.
It worked. He paused, his fist raised, and his lips pulled into a smirk. “Willing to bargain now, eh?” His chuckle was pure evil. “I should’ve kenned a whore like ye would rather give me what I want than be hurt.” He spat at her feet. “Ye’re all alike.”
Terror iced her limbs as she realized he meant there were other women in his past, women he’d done this same thing to.
“What—what are ye going to do?” she whispered.
In a flash, he had grabbed a fistful of curls and dragged her to her knees. She couldn’t stop the whimper from escaping her lips, but steeled herself for whatever was to come.
But instead of lifting his kilt, Hamish thrust his face toward hers, his leer as disgusting as his breath.
“He thinks he’s so important, because his Da’s the laird,” he sneered. “He thinks that gives him the right to hit me—me! But he’s naught but a bastard, the son of a whore like ye.”
When he gave his fist a little shake, Merewyn winced, feeling her hair ripping from her scalp.
“I’m going to have ye, slut. Ye spread yer legs for him, and ye’ll do the same for me. And he’ll ken it. Will he want ye back?” His bark of laughter was harsh, and he didn’t wait for a response. “But no’ here. I dinnae want ye here, where anyone can hear ye cries of pain.”
Pain?
Blessed Virgin, protect me! Protect my bairn!
“Come along, whore,” he growled, tugging her toward the garden gate.
She shuffled forward on her knees, but when he yanked upward, she rose to her feet, still bent awkwardly, terror beating in her veins.
That’s when he pulled a long, wicked-looking dagger from his belt and pressed it into her side as he released her hair.
“We’re going for a walk, just ye and me.” His tone turned conversational as he pressed against her, his body hiding the dagger at her side, and urged her out into the lane.
She looked about frantically, but saw none of the villagers out and about this late in the afternoon. Even if they saw her, they’d likely think naught of the healer walking with an Oliphant, even if Hamish was standing too close to be proper.
His grating chuckle told her he was counting on it. “I’ve wanted to fook ye for years. But if ye think to cry out, whore, I’ll pierce ye with a different kind of blade, eh?”
He laughed at his own joke, and she pressed her lips together in a thin line.
When he turned his gaze back to her, she saw him licking his lip, as if she were a—a sweetmeat or some such.
“We’re going into the wood, aye?” he rasped. “And when we get there, ye’re going to lie down on yer back and do all those things ye’ve done for that idiot over the last year. He’s half the man I am, so I want to hear twice the pleased sounds come from yer lips.”
His gaze dropped to her lips. “And if I dinnae like what I hear, I’ll hurt ye in ways ye cannae imagine.”
And even though Merewyn knew there was no way for Rocque to know she was in trouble, no way to know how desperate she was, she found herself praying for him.
I am sorry I dinnae believe ye! I am sorry I dinnae tell ye about the bairn! Please, please find us!
But as Hamish jerked her into motion once more, she bit her lower lip to contain her sobs.
Rocque couldn’t hear her plea.
He wasn’t coming for her.
Chapter 8
His hair was still dripping from his soak in the loch as he strode through the village. Well, mayhap not strode; his knee still twinged every time he put weight on that leg.
But he was off to declare his love for Merewyn, and he damn well wasn’t going to limp up to her!
So, not-quite-hobbling, he hurried toward her cottage.
Their cottage.
In the garden, he stopped and took a deep breath. Rosemary. Quite a lot of it, as if someone had trampled the plant. But he didn’t know enough about herbs—or gardens—to know what it was supposed to look like. ‘Twas likely just that she’d been out here cutting some—
Ah! There were some clippings she’d left on the ground beside her valuable shears.
Scooping them up, he headed for the front door, and only hesitated a moment before sticking his head inside.
“Mere?” Should he have knocked? “Merewyn, love?”
She wasn’t there.
Frowning now, he stepped into the house and laid her shears on the table, looking around. Everything looked in order. Mayhap she’d been in the garden and been called away by an urgent need?
If she were tending one of the villagers, he shouldn’t bother her, but he couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling that he needed to find her.
And not just because he wanted to confess his love, Nay.
His frown still in place, he stepped out into the garden and looked up and down the lane. This late in the day there were few people about to ask.
Mayhap she’s gone to check on Jessie or Agatha!
Aye, that would be likely, and ‘twould be convenient if she were up at the keep. He wouldn’t feel as if he were interrupting her work, if she was checking on one of his family members.
He headed for the keep, but that nagging feeling wouldn’t go away, and he was surprised to find himself jogging in his hurry to find her.
A few of his men stopped when they saw him running—hiding the wince of pain each step caused—but he waved away their concern. ‘Twas a lover’s quarrel, nothing more.
Right?
He
didn’t bother going up the main stairs to the great hall, but instead jogged around to the kitchen entrance and pushed his way through the narrow opening. “Jessie?”
Moira was speaking with Cook, and she whirled, her hand going to her chest. “Rocque, ye startled us!”
“Apologies,” he murmured, already poking his head into the little room behind the hearth. “Is Merewyn here with Jessie?”
Moira shook her head. “I haven’t seen either. Merewyn gave Jessie the approval to go back to work yesterday, and she was a big help this morning. Mayhap she went on a walk before the evening meal?”
The news gave Rocque pause. If Jessie was back to work, then Merewyn likely hadn’t been here today. His lips tugged down thoughtfully, and he glanced around at the rest of the servants in the kitchens.
“Have any of ye seen Merewyn?”
His question was met with shakes of heads and murmured denials.
Nodding his appreciation, he headed for the stairs up to the main hall. That nagging feeling wouldn’t go away.
He needed to find Merewyn and tell her he loved her!
He needed to find her and make sure she was safe.
Where had that thought come from?
He wasn’t quite jogging, but by the time he crossed the main hall and headed for the bedchamber level—going to check with Aunt Agatha—no one could doubt he was in a hurry.
“Rocque!”
At his sister’s call, he halted so suddenly she took a step back. They were in the upper hall, and she was grinning too broadly to have information he needed.
“Hello, Nessa,” he muttered, trying to step around her.
But she stopped him again with a hand resting on his arm. “Rocque, I’ve been meaning to speak with ye. Aunt Agatha is helping me with my latest piece, and now I need yer help as well.”
Stifling a sigh, he took a deep breath and nodded down at her. Nessa was always asking him about one thing or another, when it came to historical weaponry. Which was silly, because Malcolm was clearly the scholar in the family.
“Aye, what is it?” he asked through gritted teeth.
With a happy smile, she stepped back again and bent her knees, raising her arms to shoulder height. “I’m portraying the siege at Berwick, ye ken, and I have a pikeman. Would he stand like this?” She thrust her arms out, as if holding an imaginary stick. “Or like this?” Twisting her upper body, she jabbed to the side.
He winced. Both stances were laughably wrong, but how hard would it be to portray them in embroidery?
“Try this.” He lifted one of her elbows and nudged her hips into a different position, then stepped back for a hurried examination.
She still looks like a bugler mid-way through a whiskey tasting, no’ a pikeman. Pikewoman? Bah.
Giving up, he shook his head. “Ye have nae idea how to hold a weapon, do ye?”
“‘Tis what she said!”
He rolled his eyes and stepped back. “I see ye’ve been speaking with Kiergan.”
“Aye, ‘tis a delightful addition to my humorous repertoire. I cannae wait to use it on whichever Henry Da betroths me to next.”
St. John’s elbows! He didn’t have time for this!
Craning his head around his sister, he glanced up and down the hall, hoping Merewyn would step out of Agatha’s room. “I’m sure yer future husband will appreciate ye’re understanding of crude jokes.”
“He’ll appreciate my understanding of crude acts even more!” she giggled.
Frowning, Rocque pinned her with a glare. “What did ye just say?”
“Och, dinnae be a hypocrite. Ye and Merewyn have been carrying on for months, and ye’re no’ married.”
No’ for lack of trying. “ ’Tis different,” he growled. “Merewyn is no’ my little sister.”
Nessa wrinkled her nose. “I should hope not. That is disgusting.”
Rocque wanted to ask what kind of crude acts his little sister had knowledge of, and who taught her, but right now, he had other things on his mind. With another sigh, he scrubbed his hand over his face.
“Can we continue this conversation some other time?”
Grinning, she dropped down into the position he’d tried to show her with the imaginary pike. “It’ll only take a moment. Ye think this looks better than—"
He interrupted her as he shook his head. “Remind me tomorrow, and I’ll show ye with an actual pike, aye?”
“But—”
He tried to step around her again. Down the hall, Aunt Agatha’s door was open. “Tomorrow, Nessa.”
As he headed for the door, his sister lifted her skirts and hurried after him.
“But Rocque, I have another question!”
“Aye?” he grunted.
“Do ye think the defenders were more likely to have boiling oil or boiling pitch? I was going with oil, but it matters for my latest dye lot and—”
Stopping suddenly, he whirled around and reached for her cheeks. She was startled into silence, and he pulled her head forward to plant a kiss on her head.
“Nessa, sister, I love ye dearly. And I will answer all yer blood-thirsty, inappropriate questions, I swear. But for now, I have to find Merewyn.”
She gasped and pulled out of his hold. “Are ye sick?”
“Nay.” Then he chuckled. “Aye!” Lovesick, mayhap. “Is she with Aunt Agatha?”
“Rocque, I—”
But he wasn’t sure what she was planning on saying, because he’d stepped through the open door to his aunt’s chambers. “Aunt Agatha?”
The old woman was bent over in front of her chair, struggling with something. But when she heard him, she whirled about with a gasp.
“Rocque! Thank God ye’re here!”
That nagging worry—worry for Merewyn—slammed back into him, and his eyes darted around the chamber even as his aunt hobbled toward him. Merewyn wasn’t here, but Agatha’s foot was bandaged. Had she seen his love recently?
“What is it?” he asked hoarsely.
Agatha’s eyes were bright as she juggled her bundle. “I need ye, Rocque! Desperately. Ye are the only one who can do this for me!”
His heart down somewhere near his stomach, Rocque swallowed and stepped for his aunt, reaching to help her. “What do ye need? What is it?”
“Here, lad, hold yer hands like this.”
The old woman took his hands, already outstretched, and moved them shoulder-width apart, with his palms facing one another. While he was frowning in confusion, she nodded smartly and dropped most of the bundle in her arms.
As Rocque watched the threads—skeins?—hit the ground, she tucked one end of a wool thread between two of his fingers as an anchor and began to twist them, first across the back of one hand, then the other, in a circle.
He blinked. “Aunt Agatha?”
Humming, she concentrated on her task, her gnarled hands flying as she wrapped the blue thread around his hands.
“What do ye need me to do?”
“Ye’re doing it, lad!”
Rocque squinted down at his hands, watching her loop the thread. “Ye needed me to…what?”
“To stand there, verra still, and let me wind my threads in place!” She snapped. “Of course, they’re really Nessa’s threads, I suppose. Still, I cannae wind them around my own hands, can I? Dinnae be silly.”
Agatha didn’t need him. She just needed a pair of hands. Irritated now, he started to step back, but she slapped him on the arm.
“Stand still! I swear, lad, ye're green as a turnip top, and about as popular.”
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
What in damnation is that supposed to mean?
“Aunt Agatha,” he began, his tone pitched in warning, “I am needed elsewhere.”
She didn’t need him, but Merewyn might.
But she just scoffed. “I need ye here, lad.”
“Ye have a perfectly good set of hands.”
She made a little snorting sound. “ ’Tis what she said.”
> And Rocque, having learned his lesson out in the corridor, pressed his lips together and rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling, refusing to be sucked into a ‘Tis what she said conversation with another female relative.
Agatha, clearly thinking she’d won, continued happily. “Yer hands are the perfect space apart, and ye’re the only one I can talk into standing still long enough to help me.” She shook her head. “Pretty as a turnip green, dumb as the root.”
Aright, that one he understood.
He frowned, used to being called dumb, but not needing this right now. He turned, and quick as a flash, she’d grabbed a pinch of skin on his forearm between two fingers and squeezed.
“Ow!” he jerked away. “What in hellfire was that for?”
“To make ye stay still, lad! We’re almost done,” she scolded as she slid the thread through her fingers. “Remember, turnips don't mind bein' rooted up, they're just glad to be useful!”
“Agatha,” he growled, “just what is going on with ye and turnips?”
The old woman flashed blue eyes up at him and scowled. “I’m hungry, aright?”
He watched her deftly wind the blue thread around his hands, and came to two important realizations. One: she wasn’t going to let him go until the bloody thread was bloody well done. And two: He respected her too much to yank the thread from his hands, drop it to the floor, and stomp—limp?—out of here.
No matter how much he wanted to.
Stifling another sigh, he realized he was stuck here for the duration.
“Och, well,” he muttered, “ye could talk the ears off a turnip.”
She stopped what she was doing—damnation!—to blink up at him. “Turnips dinnae have ears, lad.”
“So?”
“So, it doesnae make any sense!”
He snorted softly, but managed not to snap, And the shite ye say does make sense?
Instead, he jerked his chin toward the pile of blue still tangled on the floor. “Get on with it. Please.”
The old woman clicked her tongue softly, but focused on her task once more. “Ye’re certainly in a hurry to get out of here, lad.”