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

by Caroline Lee

  “I have to find Merewyn.”

  She was likely fine—safe—at some villagers’ home. So why this nagging feeling of worry?

  “Merewyn, eh?” His great-aunt hummed thoughtfully. “Are ye ill?”

  He watched the pile of thread dwindling as it wrapped around his hands, trying to calculate how much longer he’d have to stand here. “I just need to see her. Are ye almost done?”

  “Laddie, a flood can uncover turnips, but that doesnae make them ripe.”

  Rocque frowned down at the top of her head. Had she called him a turnip again? Or was she just hungry?

  Nay, ‘twas something about not rushing things, he was certain…

  “Are ye insulting me again, Aunt?”

  She tsked, her eyes still on her job. “I’ve never insulted ye. If ye grown down a turnip, ye’ll grow up a flower.”

  His breath burst out of him in exasperation and he yanked his hands away. “What in damnation is that supposed to mean?”

  Scowling, she brandished two fingers. “Dinnae make me pinch ye again, laddie!” she snapped. Then her expression softened slightly, and she tugged his hands back into position. “I’m almost done.”

  He glanced at the door—freedom was so close!—but she was right. The end of the blue thread was approaching, judging from the dwindling pile on the floor.

  She worked in silence for a moment, then hummed again.

  “Looking for Merewyn, eh, laddie? Have ye heard the drummer lately?”

  What did that have to do with anything? “Aye,” he admitted cautiously. “I heard him last night, since I slept in the barracks.”

  His great aunt cackled gleefully. “Slept in the barracks, did ye? Trouble with yer love, is there?”

  He pressed his lips closed, unwilling to admit to anything.

  She was still chuckling when she glanced up at him and shook her head. “Rocque, my lad, ye’re a good man. Dense as a turnip sometimes, but a good man. Hearing the drummer means ye’re already doooomed.”

  “Doomed to fall in love, aye.” Rocque shook his head. “We’ve all heard yer theory, Aunt.”

  “ ’Tis nae theory, laddie!”

  “Then why have ye no’ fallen in love?” he snapped in return; his brow raised.

  For the first time ever, he saw his great-aunt flustered. “Och, well… We’re no’ speaking of me!”

  The end of the thread was in her grasp, but she held on to it. Purposefully, if he didn’t miss his guess.

  She brandished the end at him like a weapon. “We’re speaking of ye, Rocque. Ye’ve heard the drummer. Yer healer has heard the drummer.”

  Merewyn heard the Ghostly Drummer of Oliphant Castle? His other brow joined the first.

  And his aunt nodded proudly. “Ye love her, do ye no’?”

  Slowly, his expression eased into a smile. “I do.” He might not have realized it until this afternoon—thanks to Malcolm—but now he’d yell it from the rooftops. Or take up drumming along with the ghost. “I love her.”

  Deftly, she wound the end of the thread around the skein he’d made with his hands. “Then why have ye no’ told her, ye turnip head?”

  As he finally—finally!—pulled his hands from the thread, he couldn’t contain the chuckle which burst forth. “Why do ye think I’m looking for her, Aunt?”

  His great aunt blinked, and he liked knowing he’d surprised her for a change.

  “Och, well…” She waved her hand grandly toward the hall. “What are ye waiting on? Go on!”

  Thankfully, he offered he a little bow and darted for the door. But he stuck his head back in. “Oh, Aunt Agatha?”

  She startled, looking up from her skein. “What?” she snapped.

  He grinned. “I hope ye find something to eat soon. Some turnips, mayhap?”

  “Turnips?” She scowled and made a rude gesture. “Get out of here!”

  Gladly.

  Chuckling, he ducked back into the hall.

  But his humor had fled by the time he reached the main hall. Moira already had the servants bustling about, preparing for dinner, and no one he’d asked had seen Merewyn.

  He wasn’t sure why his heart was pounding so hard, worrying him about her. ‘Twas as if, now that he was determined to declare his love for her, he had to do it now. Or risk what? She’d be home soon enough, likely, and he could tell her then.

  That logic didn’t seem to help his heart, though.

  If naught else, he could wait for her at her—their cottage.

  “Rocque, are things well?” Brohn called, concern in his voice as he jogged to catch up with Rocque.

  Without stopping, Rocque jerked his head to indicate the other man should walk with him. “Merewyn is—well, she’s no’ exactly missing, but I cannae find her, and I have a bad feeling…”

  His soon-to-be second slapped him on the shoulder with a nod. “Trust yer instincts, Commander. I’ll start some men asking around.”

  Distractedly, Rocque nodded in appreciation. “Report yer findings. I’m heading back to her cottage.”

  As Brohn jogged toward the barracks, Rocque trotted down the keep’s front steps and into the bailey, wondering if he should ask Merewyn to tend to his bruised knee. After he told her he loved her.

  And asked her to marry him again.

  “Milord?”

  He almost didn’t hear the quiet call, and even then, considered ignoring it in his haste to reach the cottage.

  When he whirled about, he forced his scowl to soften as he recognized the speaker. Wee Jessie huddled in the shadows.

  “Aye, lassie?” He tried to keep his voice soft, and his impatience out of his tone.

  From the way she twitched, he might not have accomplished that.

  “Milord, I’ve been looking… I didnae ken who else to find…”

  What was she doing out of bed? Were those—were those tear tracks on her cheeks?

  “What is it?” He knew his tone was harsh, but now he had another female to worry about. “Are ye hurt? Did—Damn and blast, did Hamish hurt ye again?”

  “Nay, but…” When she stepped out of the shadows, he saw the tears in her eyes, saw the way she held herself. “He’s hurting her, milord. Merewyn.”

  Rocque lunged for the girl, but even as he grabbed her shoulders, he realized he was frightening her. He couldn’t seem to make himself let her go, but at least he didn’t shake her, as he wanted. Instead, he bent over, meeting her eyes.

  “Hamish is hurting Merewyn?” he clarified, his voice dangerous.

  She winced, but nodded. “Aye, milord. He found me today, and he told me—he told me he was going to make her pay. I found her, and told her.” Jessie swallowed, and met his eyes. “Then he arrived and made me leave.”

  St. John’s sacred forelock! “Hamish is alone with her? Are they at the cottage? And what did he mean—make her pay?”

  There were tears spilling down Jessie’s cheeks now, and he tried to loosen his hold, afraid he was hurting her. But by all the saints in Heaven, he needed the answers!

  His heart pounded frantically, torn between ripping his sword free and chasing after Hamish, and getting all the information he could ahead of time.

  “I—I—” She took in great, heaving breaths of air. “I didnae go, milord! I hid around the corner and I listened!”

  Oh, thank fook.

  “What did he said, Jessie?” he whispered.

  “Hamish said he wanted her, and never forgave her for rejecting him, then going with ye. He said he was angry at ye for hitting him—he said terrible things, about ye, milord, but I didnae believe him, and neither did Merewyn. We ken ye’re a fine man, and—”

  This time, he did shake her, just a bit. He needed to know what to expect. “Are they at the cottage, Jessie?”

  She shook her head, eyes wide among her scars, and his heart fell.

  “Where are they?” he whispered.

  “I dinnae ken, milord. But he put a dagger in her side and walked down the lane toward the wood. He was
speaking about what he saw the two of ye doing last night, among the trees? Is that where he’s going?”

  Hellfire and damnation!

  Hamish had spied upon them last night?

  If so, and if he was so disgusting as to take Merewyn—to hurt her—just because she refused him…then Rocque knew where they were going.

  With a whispered curse, he straightened.

  It would take time to rouse his men, time he didn’t have.

  And he didn’t need them, not truly.

  Hamish was just one man. A weasel of a man, true, but he had no friends. No men who would follow him.

  He had dared to touch—to threaten—the woman Rocque loved, and he would not live through the night.

  And if he’d hurt Merewyn, then God help him, because Hamish wouldn’t even have time to make peace with his Creator before Rocque killed him with his bare hands.

  Chapter 9

  ‘Twas almost full dark by the time they reached the little clearing in the wood, where Merewyn had lain with Rocque. Had it only been last night? So much had changed in such a short amount of time.

  And now, Hamish yanked her hard enough to cause her to stumble as they stepped into the clearing. His hand closed tightly around her upper arm, and she knew she’d have bruises there.

  “Ah, here we are,” he crowed, shoving her forward.

  She stumbled and hit the ground on her hands and knees, but truthfully, was just pleased to no longer have that blade in her side. She’d spent the last mile waffling between deliberately dragging her feet and hoping someone would notice them, and fearing for her life if he grew irritated.

  Hamish, on the other hand, seemed to grow bolder the farther they got from the village. Or mayhap ‘twas the closer they got to this clearing. Even now, he strutted toward the small brook, his shoulders back as he gestured with his blade.

  “I like the way ye look on yer hands and knees, whore. I liked it last night, too. Shall I tell ye how I fooked my own fist, standing there in the shadows, and pretended ‘twas yer face I spilled over? Ye looked up at that bastard lover of yers and took all of his seed, so I kenned ye’d take mine!”

  Shuddering, Merewyn rolled to sit, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. The idea of Hamish watching her and Rocque doing something so intimate…’twas disgusting. And disturbing.

  And scary.

  She shivered again, and realized how cold she really was. ‘Twas summer, aye, but the nights were still chilled, and she didnae have her shawl.

  “ ’Tis good ye’re scared, whore. Ye should be scared. ‘Tis only because I havenae tired of ye that ye still live.”

  Merewyn’s eyes rounded. Blessed Virgin, he intended to…to what? To use her, then kill her?

  She swallowed. If he killed her, her babe died as well.

  If she and the bairn died, Rocque would never know she loved him. Never know she was carrying his babe. Never know how much she wanted to be his, and only his.

  Too bad ye were too stubborn to admit it last night.

  Tightening her hold on her knees, she did her best to suppress her shivers. If she wanted to stay alive, she needed to not irritate Hamish. She needed him to want to keep her alive.

  And while she wasn’t planning on willingly submitting to him, she could at least stop goading him.

  “I’m—I’m just a little cold,” she admitted through chattering teeth.

  Cold, aye, but fear made her shiver as well.

  But the way he clucked his tongue dismissively told her she’d guessed correctly.

  “I should’ve kenned a wee whore like ye wouldnae be able to handle a night like this without a man to keep ye warm. ‘Tis why ye needed that bastard last night, and while ye’ll welcome me soon enough.”

  She pressed her lips together to keep from speaking in Rocque’s defense again. She didn’t need another bruise to match the one on her cheek and arm.

  He sighed and waved his blade toward the deadfall along the banks of the stream. “But first, aye, ye can make a fire if ye’re so chilled. I’ll no’ have ye touching me with cold hands.”

  Slowly, she unfolded herself. “Truly?”

  If she could make a fire, mayhap ‘twould signal other Oliphants. Or mayhap she’d be able to use a burning log as a weapon or something!

  When he merely grunted and waved her toward the sticks, she scrambled to her feet.

  “But dinnae think to escape me, whore. I am twice yer size, and a faster runner. If I have to chase ye down, I will hurt ye.” He nodded solemnly; a glint of madness visible in his eyes even in the dimming light.

  Dear God in Heaven, she would have to take him down hard if she had the chance. She couldn’t just hit him and run; she’d have to hit him and hurt him.

  She was a healer. Could she do that? Could she purposefully hurt another human?

  To save my bairn, aye.

  So she lifted her chin and met his eyes, hiding her shudder. “A fire will warm us both,” was all she said.

  Feeling his eyes on her the whole time, she went to gather firewood. As the light grew dimmer, she realized she could use the fire as an excuse to stall. Not that she was certain what she was stalling for, but mayhap something would come to her. All she knew was that if she was still building the fire, he couldn’t rape her.

  So she took her time, sorting the sticks by size, taking as much time as she dared to lay them in piles based on their thickness or length, being careful to select only the driest logs.

  He might’ve gotten irritated with her, but to her surprise, didn’t. Nay, he took the time to talk.

  He told her everything he planned do to do her. It ranged from the grotesque—involving excrement and odd sexual fetishes—to the mundane. He described the life they’d lead, in her cozy little cottage, with him bringing home meat and her caring for his every whim.

  The picture he painted made her want to weep, because it was so different from what she shared with Rocque. Rocque respected her, cared enough about her to consider her feelings before making requests—never demands.

  He might not love her, but what he felt for her was close enough, Merewyn was certain.

  As she knelt in the center of the clearing, hands shaking as she tried to stack the kindling just so, she found herself praying.

  Blessed Virgin mother, please grant me the chance to tell Rocque I love him. Please let me have the chance to say aye to him. Please let him still want me after Hamish is done with me!

  Swallowing, she opened her eyes and blew out a breath.

  He was still speaking, but she had a job to do.

  The spark caught easily, and soon her little blaze was merrily lighting a small area around her.

  “Good,” he crowed proudly, his teeth, eyes, and blade gleaming in the reflected light. “Now make it bigger. Ye’re nae longer shivering—see, I notice everything about ye, whore—but I want to be able to see ye.”

  Without speaking, she reached for a larger piece of wood. It suited her to have a larger fire as well—more chance of being seen, if anyone was looking, and mayhap she could use the fire as a weapon of some sort?

  But he must’ve misinterpreted the look she’d given him.

  “Dinnae think to sass me!” he growled, stepping toward her and waggling the dagger in her direction. “I can hurt ye without breaking ye, remember that. Ye think I dinnae need a bigger fire to see ye, when I can see ye well enough now?”

  She shook her head. “Nay, I wasnae—”

  “Dinnae interrupt me! I can see ye now, aye, but I want to be able to see all of ye. And I want ye to be warm.”

  The way he was staring at her—was he drooling?—had Merewyn’s pulse thumping in her temples. “W—why?” Why did he care if she was warm?

  “Keep building that fire, whore! Bigger!” he chortled gleefully.

  Blessed Virgin, was he mad? He must be!

  As quick as possible, she began tossing logs onto the fire she’d made. They were dry and caught easily. He kept y
elling “Bigger!” so she tossed on as many as she could before the heat became too intense and she had to scramble backward.

  Her skirts caught under her heel and she tipped onto her arse. She laid there, arms braced, legs splayed, watching him wide-eyed through the flames. His grin was manic as he stalked toward her.

  “There now, we cannae have ye catching fire,” he crooned, almost gently, as he yanked her to her feet. His tone was juxtaposed with his grip, and she winced.

  When he pulled her against him, and dropped his face to her neck, her stomach churned at his breath. Or maybe it was fear, making her nauseated. The fire was bright and hot at her back, so she couldn’t flinch away, as much as she wanted to.

  Instead she closed her eyes and sent a silent prayer for strength heavenward.

  She was pressed against his body, a mockery of the embraces she’d shared with Rocque. But whereas Rocque’s size had always made her feel protected, Hamish…Hamish made her feel weak.

  She hated feeling weak.

  Twisting her face away from his, she opened her eyes and unerringly found the last log she’d placed. It wasn’t in the fire, but close enough that the tip was smoldering. It would catch soon, and it would be the only weapon she had.

  “Take off yer dress.”

  She wasn’t sure she’d heard his murmur correctly, but when she felt his tongue slither up the side of her neck, she shuddered.

  “Never mind, I’ll do it for ye.”

  And the blade in his hand pierced the wool of her gown, slicing it up toward her breasts.

  She didn’t have time to flinch away, before the dagger flashed away again, and slowly, her bodice gaped open. He’d cut through her chemise as well, and she’d barely noticed the rush of cold night air against her breast before one of his hands closed greedily over it.

  “So good,” he moaned, squeezing harshly.

  She sucked in a gasp—both at the invasion of his touch and at the suddenness of it all—but that only caused him to chuckle and move his hand to the other breast.

  “Does that hurt, whore?” He squeezed again, and she managed not to whimper. “I want it to hurt. But no’ yet, no’ yet.” He shook his head, squeezing again. “Ye’ll hurt later. And now. And later.”