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

by Caroline Lee

  Besides, she had something to ask him.

  So, after sipping the water, she tightened her grip around the cup and watched him as he wrung the water out of the cloth and patted her burn.

  God’s Wounds! ‘Twas agony!

  But…but somehow, knowing Rocque was the one caring for her, she didn’t mind the pain quite so much.

  Who knew he had such gentleness in those big hands of his? Well, actually, she did know that; she’d been his lover for the last year. Tonight, she’d watched him snap a man’s neck without even breathing hard, but he’d cared for her so gently, she knew he was capable of softness.

  Soon, he’d hold their bairn that way.

  Their bairn. Their cottage.

  Aye. He was her man…and she was his woman. They’d be together.

  Exhaling, Merewyn sunk further into the pillows.

  “I am no’ hurting ye, am I?” he asked with an anxious glance at her.

  “Nay—aye, well, ‘tis painful. But the cold water helps.”

  He looked so serious when he bent back over his task. “I could fill a barrel and dunk yer leg in it. Would that help?”

  The image he presented had her smiling, remembering the way he’d dropped her in the stream to numb her pain. But he’d taken the time to keep her chemise dry, which showed his caring. Thinking of that now, she cradled the cup in one hand and used the other to self-consciously pull the rent in the garment closed.

  It didn’t really work.

  The movement attracted his eyes, because he glanced up at her naked breasts. His gaze lingered there for a moment, but she didn’t see lust in his expression—only sorrow. Finally, he met her eyes.

  “I’m sorry I didnae get there sooner, lass. Ye’ll never ken how sorry I am.”

  “Ye got there in time,” she assured him. “ ’Twas what matters. I wasnae sure what to do when he didnae go down.”

  The sorrow was still in his eyes, but his lips twitched under that beard of his, and he dropped his attention to her injury once more. “When I saw ye pick up that burning log, I almost yelled. I wanted his attention on me, but kenned he was still too close to you.”

  Dipping the cloth into the cold water again, he shook his head. “I couldnae believe ye hit him with it.” When he pulled it out to squeeze the water from it, she could see his hands shaking the tiniest bit. “St. John’s tits, Mere! I am sorry. I should’ve been there!”

  Although his hands were gentle when he laid the cloth across her burn, she could see the coiled tension in his forearms, so she dropped her chemise and laid her hand there.

  “Rocque, there’s no need for forgiveness. Ye saved me.” Saved us.

  “If Jessie hadnae defied Hamish, and stayed to hear where ye were going…”

  He wasn’t looking at her, but Merewyn could see the way he’d clenched his jaw, and knew he was chastising himself.

  “She came to find ye?” At his quick nod, Merewyn smiled softly. “Then she saved me just as much as ye did. God’s Truth, Rocque, ‘tis my fault for chasing ye away from our home.”

  At that, he finally looked up and met her gaze, his expression curiously blank.

  Finally, he murmured, “Our home?” and sounded almost…hopeful.

  She nodded carefully, suddenly nervous. She swallowed, then swallowed again. Why couldn’t she say what she needed to say?

  She’d waited too long, because his attention dropped back to her injury and he pulled the cloth from it one last time. He used the coverlet to dry the burn as carefully as possible, then reached for the jar of salve.

  “I’m going to just dab this on, aright?”

  He didn’t wait for her agreement, but scooped up a tiny amount on his first two fingers, and reached for her burn.

  Knowing she had to speak her question now, or she’d lose all courage, she blurted, “Ye said ye loved me.”

  He froze, his fingers hovering above her burn, for a few more heartbeats than was necessary. Then he exhaled.

  And nodded.

  His fingers dropped to the injury, and he began rubbing in the salve. She was so focused on him that she almost didn’t feel the pain from his touch.

  Finally, he said softly, “I do love ye,” his attention on his actions.

  “Why—why did ye no’ say something?”

  He still didn’t look up. “Ever? Or last night?”

  Last night—had it only been last night?—she’d been the one to tell him he didn’t love her. And because he didn’t love her, she wouldn’t marry him.

  God forgive her, she’d been so certain.

  “Last night,” she choked out.

  “Because I didnae ken then.” His movements still slow and deliberate—still not looking at her—he dipped his fingers into the jar again.

  “And now?” she whispered.

  He’d smeared the salve over almost all her burn before he blew out a breath and said, “And now I ken the truth.” His blue gaze darted up once, then back to his work. “This feeling I have, ‘tis love. I’m not certain I would have said something if ye hadnae confronted me last night.” He finished coating the edges of the injury, but didn’t look up. “And I might no’ have had the ballocks to declare myself now, if ye hadnae just told me ye wear rosemary for me.”

  He loved her.

  Merewyn’s hands were shaking when she lifted the cup to her lips. He loved her.

  But… “What does the rosemary have to do with…aught?” she asked, her lips hidden by the rim of the cup, trying to decide if the pounding of her heart meant she were about to cry or faint.

  Taking a deep breath, he reached for the wet rag and wiped his fingers as he finally—finally—met her eyes. “Ye wear rosemary because ye ken I like it. Ye make my favorite meals…ye take care of me.”

  It wasn’t a question, but she nodded. Of course she took care of him. ‘Twas what she did.

  “Ye care for me, Merewyn. No’ just taking care of me, but ye care for me.” Shaking his head, he dropped the cloth back into the bucket. “Och, I’m making a mess of this. My point is—I dinnae ken.”

  When he dropped his elbows to his knees and leaned forward to lace his fingers together, his broad shoulder turned her way, and somehow, that made it a little easier for Merewyn to breathe. She took another sip of water, and blinked away unexplained tears.

  “Even if ye dinnae love me, Mere, ye care for me,” he finally said in a low voice, staring at the colorful rug on the dirt floor. “Ye care for me, and ‘tis enough for me to tell ye how I feel. Ye said ye wouldnae marry a man who doesnae love ye, so…” Taking a deep breath, he straightened, but didn’t turn toward her. “So now I’m telling ye, ye willnae have to. I want to marry ye, and I—I love ye.”

  When he swung about, piercing her with a serious stare, she inhaled sharply at the intensity in those blue eyes.

  “But, Mere,” he said, reaching for the hand which wasn’t holding the cup, “I also love ye enough to accept your decision if ye decide ye cannae marry a man ye dinnae love—”

  “I love ye.”

  Mayhap she shouldnae have blurted it out so suddenly, judging from the way his eyes went round, but how could she not? How could she allow him to blather on, believing she didn’t return his feelings?

  With shaking hands, she placed the cup on the table beside the bed. “It took some time to admit it, aye,” she whispered, “but my love for ye is why it hurt so much to think of spending the rest of my life with ye…ye no’ returning my feelings.” Swallowing, she met his eyes. “So nay. I mean, aye.” She smiled softly. “Aye, I love ye, Rocque Oliphant.”

  His eyes darted between hers, as if looking for the truth. Finally, he nodded once, firmly, as if he’d known the truth all along.

  But, “Good,” was his only response to her confession. Then he squeezed her hand. “So I can ask ye again.”

  “To marry ye?”

  He nodded.

  I love ye enough to accept your decision…

  Her heart pounding—knowing her answer a
lready—she had to ask, “If I say nay, are ye really willing to accept my decision?”

  Was that fear she saw in his eyes before he glanced away? “Aye.” He swallowed.

  Mayhap she wasn’t doing either of them a favor, but she had to know. “And after ye accept my decision, ye’ll go find yerself another woman to become yer wife, so ye still have a chance at becoming the next laird?”

  He reared back as if she’d slapped him, dropping her hand. “Nay!” He shook his head, his mouth still twisted in a frown. “Mere, ye’re the only woman for me. I thought ye understood that? If I cannae marry ye, I willnae marry.”

  He loved her.

  He loved her enough to give up the lairdship.

  Suddenly, he lunged for her hands again, scooping them both up in both of his. The movement jostled her leg, but the goatweed was beginning to work, and she barely felt the movement. Besides, she couldn’t focus on aught but the intensity in his expression.

  “Do ye no’ understand, Merewyn? I love ye. That means I want ye, and only ye. Even if ye cannae have bairns, and I dinnae have a chance at winning my father’s little contest—"

  Cannae have bairns? “What?” she sputtered, her stomach flip-flopping.

  Or mayhap that was his bairn, making his presence known.

  “Well…” Awkwardly, he rolled his shoulders, but didn’t drop her hands. “We’ve gone a year without a babe, aye? I ken ye’ve been…” He flushed, then swallowed, and jerked his chin toward the board with the marks hanging on the wall. “I ken ye count the days to prevent pregnancy.” Was it her imagination, or did he sound a little proud he’d figured that out? “But…is that method always faultless?”

  Unbidden, a little laugh burst from her, and she clamped her lips to contain another. Her heart was pounding, her stomach was clenching. She was nervous and excited all at once, anticipating what she had to tell him.

  Or ‘twas the ague.

  One of the two.

  Slowly, she shook her head. Counting was not always faultless…as evidenced by the fact she was pregnant now. Her counting had been flawed three fortnights ago.

  He was staring at her as if he couldn’t understand her response, but he nodded once, as if glad to have it all decided. “So I want ye to ken I dinnae care, Mere. Well, I do care, because I want bairns. But even if we must adopt children, I want to—”

  “Let me get this straight,” she interrupted. The laughter was threatening to spill out again, but it felt almost desperate now. Mayhap she was suffering some sort of infection. “Ye’re willing to marry me even though ye think I might be barren?”

  Meeting her eyes, he nodded solemnly.

  He loves me.

  This time the laughter did burst from her lips, but when it emerged, ‘twas joyful. “Ask me again!” she demanded, using her grip on his hands to pull herself upright in the bed. “Now!”

  He was frowning—likely thinking her mad by her reaction—but he clarified. “Ask ye to marry me?”

  She was laughing too hard to answer, so she just nodded.

  “Merewyn, will ye marry me? Be my wife?”

  And just like that, her laughter turned to sobs, and she pulled her hands from his to throw her arms around his neck.

  “Aye!” she cried against his chest. “Aye, I’ll marry ye, Rocque!”

  The sound he made was somewhere between relief and joy as he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed tight enough to push another sob from her.

  “St. John’s heart, love, I—God forgive me, I forgot about yer ordeal!”

  He yanked her arms from around his neck, pushing her back, as if that would help. But she was laughing and crying all at once, and used the backs of her hands to wipe at her eyes.

  “God’s Truth, Rocque, the goatweed is working—I can barely feel my leg.”

  “But, yer tears…”

  “Aye,” she half-sobbed, half-laughed. “I am sensitive these days.”

  He was frowning when he stood and reached for her cup, then crossed to her little kitchen. Their little kitchen.

  She settled against the pillows and tried to calm her breathing while she watched his nice-looking backside as he poured her some ale from the pitcher she kept on the counter for him.

  Returning to her bedside, he thrust it at her.

  “Drink this, lass. Ye’re obviously having a delayed reaction to the shock.”

  “The shock of what?” she teased as she took the ale. “Agreeing to marry ye?”

  “The shock of what happened— Och!” he burst out, when he realized she’d been joking, then planted his hands on his hips. “What is wrong with ye, Mere? Ye were crying a moment ago, and now ye’re smiling. ‘Tis like ye’re…”

  When he shrugged, she took a sip of the ale to calm her stomach and hide her grin.

  “Mood changes are no’ the only thing, lover,” she managed in a serious tone, as she stared down at the cup. “I am more tired these days, have ye noticed?”

  “Aye,” he offered hesitantly.

  She had to fight to keep her lips straight. “And places—like my breasts—are more sensitive to the touch. And I’m eating more.”

  “St. John’s elbows, Mere!” Suddenly, he was on his knees beside the bed. “I have noticed!” He grabbed her hand, causing ale to slosh over her breasts and lap. “What is wrong with ye? Ye’re the healer, ye should ken.”

  Carefully, she took another sip of the ale, then twisted to place it on the table, drawing out the moment.

  “I do ken,” she finally confessed.

  He snatched up her other hand and pulled them to his lips. “Tell me,” he commanded, placing a kiss on the back of each. “Ye’ve just agreed to become my wife, Merewyn, and I love ye. Tell me.”

  So, eyes twinkling, she did. “I am pregnant. With yer bairn.”

  He blinked.

  Her smile finally bloomed. “I’m carrying yer bairn, and if the Oliphants are lucky, it’ll be a son and ye’ll be laird one day.”

  “Ye’re pregnant?” he repeated.

  She nodded.

  “With my bairn?”

  She nodded again.

  “And ye hope ‘tis a lad?”

  Thinking this was getting repetitive, she nodded a third time.

  Slowly, he lowered her hands, placing them gently on the mattress before him. Then he hoisted himself from his knees and stood. Moving deliberately, as if in a daze, he sat on the mattress beside her.

  “I’m going to be a Da?” he whispered, staring straight ahead. “A father.”

  She shifted forward, resting her hand on his arm.

  “Ye’re going to be the best father, Rocque.”

  When he turned to her, there were tears in his eyes.

  If she hadn’t seen it—the big, burly Oliphant commander with tears in his eyes—she wouldn’t have believed it.

  “A da?” he whispered again.

  This time it was she who pulled him into her arms, and he went easily, as if he was happy to be led around. With only a little wincing, she managed to shift over, pulling her chemise out of the way so he could lie beside her, his arms around her middle and his head pillowed on her breasts, which still peeked from under her torn chemise.

  But he didn’t seem to notice.

  They laid like that for a long moment, his cheek pressed against her heart, until his arm moved, and he settled his big hand against her stomach.

  Against his bairn.

  “A babe,” he murmured.

  “Aye,” she yawned. Her eyes were closed, her head tipped against the pillows. The laughter, the pain, the terror and excitement had drained her. Or mayhap the goatweed was affecting her. Either way, she felt boneless as his weight pushed her comfortably into the mattress.

  “When?”

  She understood what he was asking, and her fingers rose to play with the hair at his temples. “I’m only a few weeks along now. So mayhap a month or two after Hogmany?”

  He was quiet for long enough she drifted in the darkness. But his words
pulled her into wakefulness once more.

  “ ’Tis why ye have no’ counted for the last moon, aye?”

  “Aye. I’m sorry I didnae tell ye sooner. I didnae realize ye thought I was barren.”

  But he’d wanted to marry her, even if she was.

  She felt his chuckle against her skin. “Ye should’ve heard Malcolm trying to explain yer cycle to me.”

  “Och, a woman’s cycle is mysterious and wonderful—”

  “And gross.”

  Smiling in the darkness, she sighed softly. He wasn’t wrong.

  After a long moment, she had to ask, “Ye’re happy, aye?”

  In a moment, he’d pulled her hand from his hair, and pressed his lips against her palm. “I cannae believe ye have to ask, love,” he murmured against her skin. “I’m going to have a bairn, and ye’re going to be my wife!”

  The feel of his lips against her skin stirred a longing in her. She was too comfortable—and too worn out—at that moment to act on it, but she shifted slightly under him.

  “As my husband, ‘tis yer responsibility to drive away all memories of his hands on me.”

  He pushed himself up on his elbows, and she could see his grin, even in the dim light. “I’ll do my best.”

  She yawned, then managed. “Now?”

  Chuckling, he pushed himself upright, then to his feet, and padded across the room to blow out the candles. “Nay, no’ now, love.”

  Darkness engulfed the cottage as she exhaled, drifting closer to sleep. She heard him remove his plaid, then the mattress shifted as he joined her. Although they both preferred to spread out as they slept, tonight, when he gathered her in his arms, she didn’t mind it one bit.

  “When?” she murmured, exhausted, but craving his touch.

  His lips brushed against her hair. “Mayhap I’ll wait until ye’re my wife.”

  Darkness was closing in, but she smiled softly and burrowed into his hold. He’d keep her safe and warm and happy.

  “ ‘Twould be cruel, Rocque,” she whispered against his chest, “to make me wait so long.”

  “Then I’ll wait for ye to heal.”

  “Even crueler.”

  He chuckled. “Go to sleep, Merewyn.”

  So she did.