by Caroline Lee
Chapter 11
As the crowd of wedding revelers cheered, Rocque lowered his head to kiss his wife. His wife. St. John’s knees, the thought made him proud!
Merewyn was finally his! Not just in the eyes of the clan, but in the eyes of God.
And she was carrying his bairn!
Grinning against his lips, she stretched up and wrapped her arms around his neck, twining her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck—hair she’d trimmed for him only that morning.
It had been over a sennight since the night she’d been taken by Hamish; the night Rocque thought he’d lose her. The night which changed his life forever.
Her burn had healed sufficiently, allowing her to walk and move without pain, although ‘twould likely scar, she said. He didn’t care; as far as he was concerned, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
And now she was his.
A slap on the back had him stumbling forward, but he wrapped Merewyn in his arms and protected her by pulling her to one side. Scowling, he twisted around and met his father’s grinning gaze, his aunt on his arm.
“The two of ye are putting on quite the show, lad!” Da chuckled. “Mayhap ye should retire to yer cottage?”
The hoots of laughter and cheers from the crowd flustered Rocque, but Merewyn merely grinned and curtseyed.
“Laird Oliphant, how kind of ye to grace us with yer presence. And Lady Agatha.” Another deep curtsey, and Rocque wondered if they would sense the sarcasm. “Ye’re looking remarkably fit for a woman whose gout was so bad I had to get up from my sickbed, hobble my arse up to the castle, and massage ye two days ago.”
“First of all,” the old woman snapped, holding up a finger, “Whatever ye do to my foot, ‘tis no’ massage. Ye twist and pull until I’m ready to cry.”
Merewyn grinned innocently. “That must be why ye always insist on me doing it, aye?”
Aunt Agatha scowled. “Second of all—well, I cannae remember my second point.” As William Oliphant rolled his eyes, she held up a third finger. “And lastly, if ye really were in yer sickbed two days ago, ye should no’ be dancing with this great oaf now, much less trying to taste his—his—what is that dangly thing in the back of his throat?” She turned to her nephew. “Willie! What is the dangly thing in the back of yer throat, which the Healer was obviously trying to lick?”
The laird reared back. “She was trying to lick my dangly thing?”
Aunt Agatha smacked his arm. “No’ yer dangly thing, ye daft man. Rocque’s.”
“Rocks dinnae have dangly things, Aunt Agatha,” Malcolm drawled as he strolled up to the little group.
Rocque was pleased to see his twin, if only to have some backup in this strange group. Da was looking exasperated, but Merewyn was grinning as if she was enjoying herself.
He slapped his brother on the back. “Thank ye for yer help, Sir Rocks Dinnae Have Dangly Things.”
Malcolm blinked. “Is this a cock joke? ‘Tis hard to tell sometimes.”
Merewyn leaned in and lowered her voice. “ ’Tis what she said.”
As Da broke into loud guffaws and Agatha sniffed, Malcolm looked delighted. “I see ye’ve heard my latest invention, aye?”
“ ’Tis yer joke.” Merewyn snaked her arm through Rocque’s arm, but nodded at Malcolm. “But I think the entire clan has heard it, thanks to Kiergan.”
Agatha sighed. “That lad is helpless. Has the sense of humor of a—a—pickle!”
“A pickle?” Rocque repeated with a straight face. “Ye mean, something long and thick and bumpy?”
“And green and sour tasting, laddie,” the old woman snapped, “So if ye’re making another cock joke, ‘twill take some stretching.”
Da’s eyes widened at his aunt’s crude words, but when Merewyn nodded solemnly and whispered, “ ’Tis what she said,” he broke into guffaws again.
Rocque was busy chuckling himself, so when his father reached out and pulled Merewyn from his embrace, he didn’t react quickly enough. Not that he would’ve stopped his father, really, but he liked having her in his arms.
But Da—big and brawny and bearded, an older version of Rocque himself—pulled her into his arms and gave her a hug strong enough to lift her feet from the ground. Rocque winced, wondering if that was safe for the bairn, but when Merewyn returned the hug, he quelled his urge to object.
After a long moment, Da set her back on the ground, and they were both grinning. “Welcome to the family, lass. I expect ye to give my lad many strong lads of his own, aye?”
Eyes twinkling, Merewyn exchanged a glance with Rocque. They’d decided—after discussions during the last week as she recovered—to keep the news of her pregnancy quiet for now. If naught else, they didn’t want to alarm his brothers that they were ahead on the contest.
“Thank ye, milord. I am—”
But the older man just tsked and held her hand out for Rocque to take. “Ye’re part of my family now, lass. Call me Da!”
Merewyn’s grin bloomed, and this time her curtsey was more serious. “And can I call ye Aunt Agatha, milady?” she asked, clearly teasing.
But the old woman just waved her hand and rolled her eyes. “I dinnae see why no’—everyone else does.”
Malcolm nodded seriously. “ ’Tis true. Half the keep calls her ‘Aunt’.”
Nodding, Rocque pointed out, “ ’Tis because she’s related to half of them.”
The old woman’s hand lashed out, quick as lightening, and pinched Malcolm. “And I want be related to more of them! When yer twin here presents yer father with a grandson—before ye, I’ll point out, since ye’re taking yer time!—he will be my great-great-nephew!”
Wincing, Malcolm rubbed his arm where she’d pinched him, and stepped out of her reach. “I’m no’ taking my time. I’m going about the decision methodically and purposefully.”
Da nodded. “The clan would do well to have a future laird who plans and thinks things through.” Then he offered Rocque a smile. “Just as well as we’d do to have a laird who is strong and a good fighter.”
Most of the clan had heard what had happened in the wood a sennight before; how Hamish had attacked Merewyn, how she’d been wounded, and how Rocque had killed the villain for his crimes. When Jessie had come forward with her story, they’d all been disgusted by the shite-weasel’s plans, and agreed that a quick death had been too good for him.
Now, Rocque’s gaze darted across the courtyard to where Jessie was dancing with Nessa as the two giggled together over something or other. ‘Twas good to see the lassie fully recovered from her ordeal, and he felt a fierce sort of pride that he’d protected her as well as Merewyn.
Shifting his hold to her waist, he pulled his wife against his side, and when he met Da’s proud gaze, he knew his father was thinking the same thing.
Suddenly, under the noise of the revelers and the music, Rocque heard a pounding. A sort of distant drumming, coming from the walls of the keep, which somehow still seemed to reverberate through the courtyard.
As Aunt Agatha cackled, and Da frowned thoughtfully, Merewyn turned in Rocque’s embrace and smiled up at him. Distracted by the perfection she presented in his favorite purple dress, her red curls flowing around her shoulders, Rocque almost forgot to wonder about his father’s expression. Da heard the drummer too? What did that mean?
“Bloody hell,” Malcolm murmured beside him. “There goes that infernal drumming.”
Well, that snapped Rocque’s attention sideways. “Ye hear it too? Ye ken what that means?”
“Doooooooommmm!” Agatha shrieked.
But Mal just rolled his eyes. “When I marry, ‘twill no’ be because hormones or love compels it, brother. Nae offense,” he added belatedly to Merewyn.
“None taken,” she offered with a giggle, twining her arms around Rocque’s neck.
His twin continued. “When I find the right woman—and dinnae worry, Da, I’m compiling a list—then I’ll propose marriage. We will go about this logicall
y, instead of—of—”
“Hormonally?” Agatha offered.
“Exactly.”
But Rocque wasn’t paying attention anymore, because Merewyn was grinning up at him, and he could tell she thought Malcolm’s theories were downright ridiculous as well. All she had to do was give him a little tug, and he went willingly, dropping his lips to hers.
It was the sexy little groan—too quiet for the others to hear—which she made against his lips that had him hardening under his kilt. Mayhap Da was right, and they should retire to their—their—cottage early.
“Och, there they go again!” he dimly heard Agatha snap in the background. “Malcolm, ye ken things!”
“All sorts of things, Aunt Agatha,” Rocque’s twin offered in a teasing tone. “I can tell ye how to calculate the circumference of a sphere, or about the cameleopard’s grazing habits, or why the early martyrs most commonly—”
“What’s the dangly thingy in the back of Rocque’s throat? That the lassie looks like she’s trying to lick?”
In his arms, Merewyn pulled away from the kiss, but not out of his embrace. Rocque was breathing hard, but ‘twas hard to concentrate with the chatter around them.
“Well, I dinnae ken what Rocque’s is called, Aunt Agatha. Stephen? Larry? Mongo?”
Agatha scoffed as Merewyn pressed her forehead against Rocque’s neck. “Larry? Who would name their dangly thing Larry? Fergus now, Fergus is a fine name.”
Malcolm’s voice sounded strained when he replied. “Mayhap ye should suggest Rocque name his dangly thing Fergus.”
As Merewyn began chuckling, muffling the sound against his skin, Rocque scowled over her head at his twin. “I’m no’ naming my dangly thing Fergus or Larry or aught else.”
“Uvula!” Da burst out, and when they all turned to him, he nodded happily. “ ’Tis called a uvula.”
“I cannae believe ye recall that,” Malcolm said softly, obviously impressed.
But Da just grinned. “Yer auld father still has some brains left, lads. Now…” Taking his aunt’s hand, he tucked it into the crook of his elbow again. “I can pick up on hints. I’ll take Aunt Agatha over there to see Fergus, that fine warrior who arrived with yer sister-in-law Skye. He’s been making eyes at my aunt all evening. I dinnae think I can take much more.”
Agatha lifted her chin. “ ’Tis what she said.”
Silence met her joke. Da stared at her with an open mouth, Merewyn burrowed her face in Rocque’s upper arm, and Malcolm made a sort of choking noise.
Rocque exchanged a glance with his father, and saw his own surprise reflected back.
Then, as if they’d both come to an unspoken agreement not to reply to the old woman’s comment, they nodded and took a deep breath.
“Right.” Da cleared his throat, then cleared it again for good measure. “Right. We’ll…we’ll go do that. Malcolm, ye run off and find one of yer other brothers to annoy or something to fix.”
With an elaborate bow, Mal murmured, “I live to serve, father dearest.” Then he winked at Rocque and strolled over to where Alistair was watching the festivities with a frown.
Da snorted, then jerked his chin toward Rocque. “And the two of ye, go back to yer cottage and get started on a grandson for me, aye? I dinnae want to have to tell the wee bairn how he was begat right here in the courtyard because his da couldn’t keep his hands off his mam.”
Merewyn smiled up at Rocque. “I believe our laird has commanded us to have sex, my love.”
“Lots of it!” Da called over his shoulder as he led Aunt Agatha away.
And Rocque, ever the dutiful son, swept his wife up into his arms and, over her squeals of laughter, headed home.
They’d barely made it through the front door, before Rocque’s hands were reaching for the ties of her gown. Laughing, Merewyn helped him, but as soon as the bodice loosened, his large hands snaked inside the material to cup her breasts, and her chuckles turned to moans of need.
“Blessed Virgin, I’ve missed this!” Arching her back, she pushed her mounds into his palms, even as she scrambled to loosen the rest of her gown.
As his callused thumbs brushed across her nipples, she felt a spark run from his touch down through her stomach to her aching core, and tug. Her gown dropped to her hips as she scrambled to yank her chemise down as well, and each movement—hers and Rocque’s—sent her thighs rubbing against her wetness in a cruel mockery of what she needed.
“St. John’s tits, Mere!” His voice sounded hoarse, and when she paused, already panting with need, he was staring at her almost reverently. “If I ever suggest we go this long without touching one another, slap me.”
It had been his idea to sleep separately for the last sennight. He’d claimed it was so he wouldn’t accidentally jostle her leg as she healed, but she wondered if he did it to heighten their eventual pleasure.
“Aye, husband,” she drawled. But instead of slapping him, she reached for his belt and began to unravel his plaid, desperate for more of his body.
Instead of helping, he lowered his mouth to her breast, pulling one pebbled nipple into his mouth. Her hands froze as she forgot everything but her name and her next breath. Her entire being was focused on what his tongue was doing to her nipple, and when he hummed, she felt the reverberations through her whole body.
“Rocque,” she whimpered. “Please.”
He didn’t speak, but transferred his mouth to her other breast, as he reached for his belt. In one swift movement, his kilt was on the floor, and he stood there in only his fine linen shirt. They must look a pair—him with his arse bared and her with her tits bared—but Merewyn couldn’t care.
This was Rocque. Her husband.
He was hers, and she was his.
She knew his body, knew him.
And knew what he liked.
Desperate now, arching under his tongue, she reached blindly for the hem of his shirt, and fumbled beneath for his cock. ‘Twas swollen and eager, and her mouth filled with saliva at the thought.
Nay, no’ this time.
Neither would last long—it had been too long since they’d lain together.
He pulled away from her skin long enough to groan, “Ye’re killing me, lass,” and although she hadn’t thought it possible, she felt him grow even fuller in her grasp.
“Turn around,” he gasped, and she eagerly followed his command.
She only stumbled once on her way to the table, then she braced her arms against the wood and peered over her shoulder. Rocque had pulled his shirt over his head, and now stalked toward her, rubbing his own cock. Wide-eyed, she watched him pump at the shaft, spreading the bead of liquid from the tip all over its length.
Breathlessly, she lifted her eyes to his face, skimming across the broad chest, and saw the need in his eyes as well. She thrust her arse into the air, dropped her weight onto her elbows, and held her breath when he yanked up her gown to pile it atop her hips.
The cool air hit her wet, aching core, and she didn’t bother hiding the moan which escaped her lips. And when he grabbed her arse cheek, dragging two fingers from front to back, her knees spasmed.
“Please, Rocque!”
And then he was there, his tip filling her. Together, they exhaled in relief as she sank back onto his cock, enveloping it fully. His strong hands locked around her hips—one atop her gown, the other beneath—and he moaned.
“Are ye ready, wife?” He sounded breathless.
Ready? God’s Wounds, she’d been ready for days. Ready for certes since he’d kissed her there on the steps of Castle Oliphant. Ready to be his wife.
But instead of answering, she dropped her cheek to the wooden table-top, which thrust her arse further against him, and scrambled for the skirts of her gown.
As he began to thrust into her, she pulled aside the final piece of material, reaching for the pearl of her pleasure. She brushed a finger across it, and mewled in need at the sensation. God’s Truth, when he took her this way, from behind, the way animals mat
ed, she felt—there were no words for it, other than knowing she’d awakened this need in him.
She was powerful, and the way he was panting with each thrust told her so.
“Aye, give me yer seed, husband,” she encouraged him, as he bent over her and planted one hand against the table by her head. “Make me yers.”
“Merewyn,” he groaned near her ear. “My wife.”
When she stroked herself again, she shivered, thrusting back to meet his onslaught, and wrapped her free hand around his strong forearm. The Blessed Virgin knew she loved his forearms!
He rocked against her, his breath bursting from him with each thrust, and she stretched to reach back to her opening. Aye, she could keep the heel of her hand against the center of her pleasure, and use her two fingers to bracket his cock on either side of her core, prolonging his pleasure.
“Mere!” He reared up, away from her back, and his next two thrusts were strong enough to cause her to lose her grip. When he slammed into her like this—when all she could do was hold on to the table and remember to breathe as the pleasure tightened deep inside—her knees went weak and her toes curled.
He must’ve known, because between one thrust and the next, he flipped her over on the table.
One moment she was face down, the next she was staring wide-eyed up at him as he scrambled to move her gown out of the way. With one yank, he had it off her legs, throwing it to the floor beneath the table, and he’d pulled her stocking-clad legs up.
“Hold onto yer knees, wife,” he growled, and then he was pressing into her again.
God save her, this position was even better! She felt his cock reaching deep within her, and she pulled her own knees back so he could sink in even farther as he held her hips.
Her mouth fell open, panting with desperation, and she knew the little mewls of pleasure coming from her lips were all that he wanted, and more.
He captured her gaze. “Now?”
“Please, husband,” she moaned.
So he dropped his large hand to her pearl, and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. Just the way she liked.
Screaming his name, she came apart, the white-hot pleasure exploding behind her eyelids as she thrust her legs out and around him, pulling—pulling—him closer. He roared wordlessly and pumped twice more, then froze as he spilled his seed against her womb.