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

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Getting Scot and Bothered: a ridiculous secret-baby medieval romance (The Hots for Scots Book 3) Page 12

by Caroline Lee


  As he cackled, she felt a part of her, deep inside, shrivel. He was mad.

  And she was alone with him.

  With a sudden yank, he ripped her gown from her shoulder, and she stumbled forward as the thing tore down the middle and down over her arms.

  “Take it off!” he commanded, stepping away from her. He gestured with his blade. “Strip that dress off and toss it in the fire.”

  Her eyes widened. “Why?”

  “Ye’ll be warm enough when I’m done with ye!” he laughed again. “Take it off and burn it, and then ye’ll get on yer knees. I’ll start by using yer mouth the way that bastard did! And when I spread my seed all over ye, it’ll drip down yer skin and ye’ll be mine!”

  God in Heaven, help me!

  But there was no alternative. And with him waving that dagger, she could only take her time and pray he wouldn’t get irritated.

  Slowly, she pulled her ripped gown over her other arm, then stepped out of it. She still wore her stockings, slippers and chemise, although the linen gaped in the front from his blade. Still, it hid her body from his gaze, and although she saw him greedily eyeing her form, it was a comfort.

  For now.

  “Into the fire with it! Do it!”

  Swallowing, Merewyn sidestepped toward the blaze, eyeing him warily. As she watched, he shifted his dagger to his left hand—the one he’d pawed her with—and reached up under his kilt with the other.

  His tongue flicked out over his lips as he began stroking himself, and Merewyn shuddered again.

  “Hurry up, whore,” he rasped. “Throw that away and get rid of that undergown! I want ye naked and on yer knees in ten seconds.” Smiling crudely, he waved the dagger and pumped his hips at her. “Or I’ll have trouble deciding which blade to use on ye!”

  Her time had run out.

  She hurried to drop the gown in the flames, which were smothered momentarily but then caught again easily. While bent over, she reached for the log lying alongside the flames. The end had caught, and as she moved it, the flames extinguished into embers.

  Good enough.

  She turned, holding the log alongside her leg, but hidden by her body. Her best hope was to sidle up to him and swing. He’d have plenty of time to block her blow, but she was hoping he wouldn’t be able to, with his hands full the way they were.

  “I said to take the other gown off, whore,” he spat. “Ye dinnae listen well, but at least ye dinnae talk back. I’ll be able to fill that pretty mouth of yers with something else. Come here.”

  He was pumping himself now, his breaths hitching as he stroked, and she hoped that meant he’d be distracted.

  Stepping toward him, keeping the smoldering log behind her leg, she swallowed, knowing this was her only chance.

  His gaze was on her breasts, greedily panting at the way the linen had fallen open to reveal her skin. Her breasts had been heavier recently, and still hurt from his touch.

  Steady, lass. For the bairn.

  Taking a deep breath, she stepped up in front of him, torqued her torso, and launched herself into motion, swinging the burning log up and around.

  Miracle of miracles, it caught him in the side of the head, and he stumbled back, howling.

  Not good enough. She needed him down.

  So she gripped the makeshift weapon and barreled toward Hamish, as he flailed at his hair, yelling about being burnt.

  But before she could reach him, a shape rose up from behind him.

  A large, dark shape.

  A shape she recognized.

  “Rocque!” she blurted, skidding to a stop an arm’s reach from Hamish.

  He froze. “Rock? Wha—”

  And then his voice—and breath—was cut off when her love snaked an arm around the villain’s throat.

  Over Hamish’s shoulder, she saw Rocque’s blue eyes skim over her, saw the anger in his gaze when he hissed in Hamish’s ear, “Ye’ll never again hurt the woman I love, ye shite-weasel.”

  Shite-weasel, heh. That had been what she’d called him, hadn’t it?

  Wait, the woman I love?

  He…he loved her?

  Her chest expanded as she sucked in a breath, opening her mouth to tell Rocque how she felt about him, and how incredibly grateful she was that he’d found her, when Hamish managed a choking laugh.

  “Aye, I will, ye bastard!”

  And with that, he leaned all his weight back into Rocque, swung his leg up, and kicked her in the chest.

  Merewyn screamed as she flew backward, barely hearing the crack as Hamish’s neck broke. Then she landed in the fire, the flames wrapping around her left calf. She screamed again, rolling away from the pain and the flames.

  Her third scream was cut off abruptly when she felt herself flying through the air yet again. She was in his arms, and he was running.

  When he dropped to his knees, she whimpered from the jostling. Her lower leg felt as if it was on fire.

  Then he yanked her chemise out of the way and dropped her into the stream. He released her legs long enough to splash water over her left calf without releasing her shoulders.

  Blessed Virgin, the relief was enough to bring tears to her eyes.

  Or maybe that was gratitude.

  Her hands clutched his plaid, pulling him closer. Although, given their relative sizes, she only succeeded in pulling herself against his chest.

  “Shh, lass, I have ye,” he whispered, his voice sounding strange.

  When she peered up at him, she couldn’t see his expression, because the fire lit his back. He was intent on her leg, and wasn’t looking at her anyhow.

  Why? Was he…what did he think happened?

  “He didn’t hurt me,” she managed to choke out. Around Rocque’s arm, she could see Hamish’s body, sprawled limply beside the fire. “He didnae—”

  “He hurt ye,” Rocque interrupted, his gentle touch as he examined her leg at odds with the hardness in his voice. “He hurt ye because I wasn’t here.”

  “He didnae r-rape me.” Now that the danger had passed, she felt herself beginning to shake. Or mayhap ‘twas because of the cold water she was all-but-sitting in. “He touched me, but naught—”

  With a violent curse, Rocque swept her up into his arms again, not seeming to care that the water dripped on him. He crushed her to his chest, but that didn’t seem to stop her shivers.

  “St. John’s warts, Mere. I will never forgive myself.”

  Now her breaths were coming in great, heaving gasps. “For—for what?” she managed, pressed against him.

  Kneeling there on the forest floor, he yanked her away from his chest to press his forehead against hers. “I should’ve been with you.”

  “My—my fault,” was all she could manage.

  It had been her fault. If she hadn’t pushed Rocque away last night—in this very clearing—Hamish wouldn’t have found her alone.

  Thoughts of what could’ve happened started her shivering again. And although she knew ‘twas just shock, she couldn’t help wrapping her arms around her stomach and pressing against him.

  The danger was over, but she didn’t want him to stop protecting her. Or the bairn.

  “Merewyn,” he groaned, genuine sorrow in his voice as he pressed his lips to her temple. “Love, I’ll never let ye come to harm, I swear it.”

  Love.

  He’d said he loved her, didn’t he?

  She wanted to ask him, but as soon as she realized it, her shivers stopped. It was as if her entire body relaxed, and as her breathing slowed, her eyelids grew heavy.

  Her leg was blessedly numb—although as soon as the cold wore off, she knew it would hurt fiercely. But at that moment, she was comfortable, in his arms.

  So comfortable…

  She tilted her head back to stare up at his profile, all she could see in the darkness.

  Ye care about me.

  It wasn’t until she saw the flash of his teeth in his beard that she knew she’d whispered the words out loud.

 
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Forever and always, love.”

  Exhaling in satisfaction, she closed her eyes.

  Everything will be aright, she thought to her bairn.

  And then all she knew was blackness.

  Chapter 10

  Rocque was careful not to jostle her leg as he rushed back toward the village, but he couldn’t help squeezing Merewyn against his chest and thanking St. John with every other breath.

  I was almost too late.

  As long as he lived, he didn’t think he’d forget the terror which had hit him when he’d heard what Hamish had planned. The shite-weasel had threatened to kill her after raping her?

  Nay, “shite-weasel” was too kind a term for Hamish, but Rocque couldn’t think of anything better.

  What would he have done had Jessie not stayed to overhear where Hamish was taking Merewyn? She was the real hero here. Rocque’s heart had been in his throat as he’d all but ran to the clearing where Merewyn had left him last night, but he’d forced himself to slow, to listen.

  And what he’d heard had been bad enough, but not as bad as seeing little Merewyn, the woman he loved, scoop up a burning log to use against Hamish.

  As soon as he’d realized her intent, Rocque had wished he could roar in defiance, draw Hamish’s attention to keep her out of danger.

  But he’d also known he was too far away to help, and he could use Merewyn’s distraction to get closer. So although it had damn well killed him to stay quiet, he’d waited until her blow had forced Hamish closer, then grabbed him.

  At first, Rocque had intended to use his blade on the shite-weasel. Or whatever piece of filth Hamish was. But in his rage, he’d reached for the villain with his bare hands, and hadn’t hesitated to snap Hamish’s neck.

  But not before he’d hurt Merewyn one last time.

  “ ’Twill be aright, love,” he whispered hoarsely, as much to remind himself as to reassure her, who—as near as he could tell—was still unconscious in his arms.

  Nay, just fainted from the excitement and pain.

  She would be aright. He swore it.

  As he reached the village, he saw people moving about with torches, and assumed they’d been organized by Brohn. “I have her!” he bellowed, relieved to hear Merewyn moan in response. “Someone fetch Brohn to the healer’s cottage!”

  He didn’t wait to see who was following his command, but turned down the lane and stepped into her garden. Again, the scent of rosemary rose around him, and he wondered if Hamish was responsible for the destruction in the garden he’d seen earlier.

  Inside their little cottage—because it would be theirs, he vowed it—Rocque gently placed her on the big bed and moved the screen out of the way. She moaned again, and rolled to one side.

  Wincing, he tried to pull her chemise closed, hating the reminder of Hamish’s invasion. But the damage to the material was too great, and her breasts still showed through the opening. He couldn’t tell if her skin was bruised, and wasn’t sure she’d even want him touching her.

  For now, he’d focus on what he could do.

  What had she used on Jessie when she’d been burned? He’d watched…oh, aye, goatweed. Rocque’s lips twitched when he remembered the plant’s other name: St. John’s wort.

  St. John, help me find it now to make her healthy.

  Surely he could figure out which of her dozens of pouches and jars contained that salve?

  He lit some candles and stood in the center of the cottage, alternately glaring at the herbs drying above his head and the shelves of jars stored across the back wall. ‘Twas almost a relief when the pounding came at the door, distracting him from his impossible task.

  In two long strides, he wrenched the door open. “What?”

  Brohn didn’t seem offended by his bark, but peered around Rocque to look at the cottage. “Ye found her? Is she safe?”

  “She is now.” Blowing out a breath, Rocque scrubbed a hand over his face. “Hamish had her.”

  “God in Heaven,” Brohn whispered.

  “Aye.” Rocque straightened and gave a nod to the man he already thought of as his second. “His body is in the wood, and near as I can tell, he acted alone. A twisted, sick mind.”

  Brohn was nodding. “Revenge then?”

  Not wanting to go into all the details, Rocque’s answering nod was curt. “Aye. I’ll see to Merewyn now, and will give ye the details in the morning.”

  The man—not much smaller than Rocque himself—clasped Rocque’s forearm. They’d been raised together, and trusted one another to do what was right.

  “Dinnae lose her,” Brohn murmured, his eyes darting to the bed once more.

  For the first time in what seemed like forever, Rocque grinned. “I dinnae intend to.”

  As he shut the door behind Brohn, he heard her whisper.

  “Ye’re no’ going to tell him what he—what he did?”

  His heart leapt, hearing her voice, but he forced himself to take a deep breath and remain at the door. He wanted to rush to her, to crush her against his chest, but he didn’t want to frighten—or hurt—her.

  So he just shook his head once, curtly. “Nae one needs to ken, if ye dinnae want them to. Tomorrow I’ll tell Brohn and Da what they ask, and I willnae lie, but if ye ask me to—”

  “I dinnae mind.” She rolled to her back and planted her palms by her side. “They need to ken he was a complete—what an utter…”

  “Shite-weasel?” he offered.

  She made a little snorting sound which might’ve been an attempt at a laugh as she pushed herself up. “ ’Tis too kind a word. He was scum, and I’m glad he’s dead, although as a healer, I’m supposed to care for my clan.”

  When he realized she was struggling to rise, he hurried to her side, dropped to his knee beside the bed, and gently pushed against her shoulder.

  “Be still, love. Nae one would ever begrudge ye feeling relief at Hamish’s death,” he muttered distractedly, reaching for her chemise’s hem. “Now, I ken ye’re in pain, so lie still.”

  When he gently pulled the linen off her leg, they both hissed. Luckily, it hadn’t stuck in the wound, but the movement must have pained her as much as it pained him to make it.

  “Ach, love, ‘tis a nasty burn.” Swallowing down nausea at the thought of her agony, he stood. “Where do ye keep the goatweed?”

  She blinked up at him. “Ye remember what I use on burns?”

  He was already peering at the pouches of powders she had lined up on a shelf by the door. “Aye, ye mixed it with animal fat, and spread it on Jessie’s burns.”

  “Over there.”

  When he turned, he saw her nodding toward the opposite side of the cottage, so he hurried over. But he wasn’t sure if she meant the jars or the bundles of herbs

  Reaching up, he pulled down one and sniffed it, determined to take care of her the way she cared for so many people. The way she cared for him.

  Hmm, that didn’t smell like goatweed. How did goatweed smell? He reached for another, hanging the first up again. Was this what he needed? It smelled familiar…

  Turning, he thrust the bundle toward her. “Is this goatweed or coriander?”

  Her lips twitched upward, although she looked exhausted. “That’s rosemary.”

  Ahh. He held out the bundle and peered at it. It didn’t look like rosemary, but the scent… He sniffed it again. “I should’ve kenned. ‘Tis my favorite.”

  “Aye,” she murmured, allowing her head to fall back against the pillow. “I ken. ‘Tis why I wear it.”

  He swung around to stare at her, and a certainty bloomed in his chest which had him smiling.

  ‘Tis why I wear it.

  And that’s when he knew.

  Why was he looking at her that way?

  Merewyn risked his irritation by pushing herself up in the bed. When he didn’t say aught—just continued to stare, wide-eyed—she slid the pillows behind her so she could rest more comfortably.

  God’s Wounds, but her l
eg ached. She was hesitant to look at the burn, not wanting to see the damage, but she could sure as hellfire feel it. In fact, ‘twas what it felt like; hellfire.

  But the knowledge that he was trying to help her—he’d even remembered what herb to use!—made her feel warm inside.

  He cared.

  Slowly, his lips pulled upward. “Ye wear it for me?”

  What had they been speaking of? Oh, aye, he’d mistaken rosemary for goatweed. Carefully, not to jar her leg, she shrugged.

  “Aye, ‘tis yer favorite scent. So I hang it around the cottage.”

  “And ye wear it.”

  Why was this so important? “I rub a bit on my skin.”

  His grin grew. “I love the way ye smell.”

  And although she expected a lascivious wink there, all he did was reach up and hang the rosemary bundle back up in the rafters, then turn toward her shelf of jars.

  “Is the goatweed here?”

  There was something going on in his mind, but Merewyn was too drained to figure it out. “Aye,” she murmured. “Third from the left. I keep it…”

  “Pre-mixed, I see,” he finished, pulling the oiled skin from the lid and sniffing at it. “I just smear this on?”

  “Aye, but…” She winced as she shifted her leg, turning it a bit so the burn on her calf was pointed up. “Cold water first, please.”

  “Och, aye!” He slapped himself on the forehead, then shook his head as he put the jar down on the table, grabbed the water pail, and hurried out the door.

  She barely had time to relax against the pillows before he was back. Without having to be told, he went to her stash of rags, folded one carefully, and soaked it in the cool water. Then he picked up a cup and scooped up some of the liquid as he sank down on the mattress beside her.

  “Should I mix some of that powder ye use in here?” he asked, offering it to her.

  Smiling slightly, she took it from him, but had to use both hands to keep it steady. Blessed Virgin, she was tired. The last day had been emotionally exhausting, and the bairn was obviously making her weepy, because the knowledge that she was safe—and Rocque was sitting here caring for her—made her throat thick.

  But she answered truthfully. “No’ yet. I appreciate the offer, but methinks I should be awake for all of this.”

 

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