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

by Caroline Lee

  God created sexual intercourse for the procreation of humanity.

  Father Stephen’s old sermon sprang into her mind, and Merewyn felt a giggle rising from within her. Procreation of humanity? She was already pregnant, but Rocque had spilled against her womb as if he intended to get her with child again.

  Again? The giggle burst forth. ‘Twas impossible to fall pregnant again while one babe nestled inside her. Her giggles turned to chuckles, and she felt his chest rumble with laughter as well.

  “What are we laughing at, wife?” he finally managed to ask as he straightened away from her.

  Reluctantly, she loosened her legs’ grip on his hips, but reached up to pat his chest. “I dinnae ken!” but she continued to laugh.

  And so did he.

  They ended up on the bed, still chuckling, as he kicked off his boots and peeled down her stockings and slippers. Then he pulled down the coverlets and snuggled them both underneath, tugging her into his arms.

  Neither spoke for a long moment, and she was afraid he’d fallen asleep. The wedding celebration had been boisterous, and she didn’t begrudge him the ale he’d drunk when his men had offered toasts.

  But eventually he stirred, and lifted his hand to stroke her hair. “I love ye, Merewyn Oliphant.”

  He’d sounded so reverent, she had to push herself up on her elbows to stare down at him. They’d left the candles burning, and she could see the serious look in his eyes.

  “I love ye as well, husband. We’re bound together, now.”

  “Aye, after I asked ye a half-dozen times.”

  She smiled, and dropped a kiss to his nose. “Ye ken my reasons. I’m sorry I didnae realize ye did love me. I’m sorry I was so fixated on ye saying the words, when yer actions spoke just as loudly.”

  He hummed and lifted one arm to rest behind his head, finally smiling. “And I’m sorry it took me so long to get my head out of my arse and figure out how to tell ye how I felt. I never should’ve made ye doubt my feelings.”

  “I suppose we’re both stubborn fools, aye?” she asked, propping her head up on one palm while she rested her elbow beside him. Leisurely, she dragged her other hand down her breast, relishing the way her skin felt so alive after that climax.

  His eyes followed her fingertips, and she knew the exact moment his interest turned from idle to aroused.

  But still, he flicked his gaze back to hers. “What I want to know, lass, is when were ye planning on telling me about the bairn?” His large hand dropped from her head to her stomach, caressing the new life growing there. “Were ye ever going to tell me?”

  “Och, dinnae fash,” she assured him with a grin, rolling over to lounge across his chest. “I kenned I could never keep such a secret.” She dropped a kiss to his nose again, then his lips, appreciating that he’d trimmed his beard for the celebration.

  His hand slowly appeared from behind his head, and both settled on her hips. “So ye would’ve told me I had a bairn?”

  She swung her leg over his, so she was straddling him. And when she felt his member twitch to life against the cleft of her arse, she grinned.

  “Ye will be the finest father I’ve ever kenned, Rocque. I would never keep ye from yer son or daughter. I kenned that, even if I didnae swallow my pride and marry ye, ye would still be a part of our bairn’s life.” Slowly, she slid back, until her thighs bracketed his hips, and was rewarded by the way he swallowed suddenly. “Ye’d take care of both of us.”

  His cock now pressed against her, and the knowledge he was ready for her again sent a wave of desire pulsing through her. They’d both known, after their separation, that making love once wouldnae be enough.

  Despite his clear arousal, Rocque’s gaze was serious when he met hers. He cleared his throat. “I will always take care of ye. Ye, and any bairns God grants us. Even when I thought ye couldnae have bairns, I wanted ye to be my wife, Mere. I love ye.”

  He loved her enough to give up his chance at lairdship.

  “I have to warn ye, lover. Just because I’m pregnant doesnae mean one of yer other brothers will no’ beat ye in having a son. Pregnancy and childbirth are mysterious and unpredictable.”

  His lips twitched. “And gross.”

  “Aye, and gross.”

  Now there was a light of teasing in his gaze as he dragged his hands up her hips to her sides, spanning her waist with his hands. “I ken I can lead the Oliphant warriors, Mere, and I ken I’d be a good leader. But I’m no’ as good with people as Finn is, or as smart as Malcolm is, or even as dedicated as Alistair.” His palms skimmed her skin as they rose to tease the outside of her breasts. “If I’m no’ the next laird, ‘tis because God had other plans for me and my brothers.”

  He was the best man she knew. “And ye’re aright with that?”

  Smiling, he cupped her breasts, and she shuddered.

  “Love, I have a cozy home to return to each evening, good food, a supportive family, and a wife who loves me. What more could I ask for?”

  Each of his thumbs brushed over her now-pert nipples, and she moaned.

  “The question is, wife, if ye’re aright no’ being the next Lady Oliphant.”

  She never wanted to be a lady. She was a healer, and soon she’d be a mother. She had a fine husband, and was certain of her place in the clan.

  Things were perfect the way they were.

  Her smile turned to chuckles as she leaned forward, pushing her wet core against the base of his shaft, even as she pressed her lips to his neck.

  “Let me show ye just how aright I am.”

  Chuckling, he wrapped her in his arms and pulled her lips to his.

  Aye, this was where she belonged.

  In her husband’s arms.

  Epilogue

  Hands clasped behind his back, Malcolm strolled to where his brother Alistair was standing, sipping an ale and frowning at the festivities.

  “Och, dinnae say ye’re thinking of work ye can be doing?” he admonished teasingly. When Alistair startled, Malcolm continued, “ ’Tis a celebration! Sometimes work can be put aside.”

  His brother didn’t reply, but took another sip of his drink.

  Malcolm settled beside him, and together they watched Finn and Duncan spin their wives—their identical wives—around in time to the music from the pipers and fiddle. Other married couples were smiling breathlessly at one another as they danced, and the unmarried lasses were being handed from one beau to the next as each tried to claim their hands.

  But none of them were the one Malcolm wanted.

  “Do ye ever think,” he suddenly asked, “that they’re going about it all wrong?”

  “Wrong?” his brother repeated. “In what way?”

  Shrugging, Malcolm tried to put his thoughts into words. “This…falling in love. ‘Tis no’ logical. Marriage is an arrangement, naught more. For certes, I’d like to be attracted to my wife, if I am to get sons on her. But…” He waved his hands at their married brothers. “Why bring love into it?”

  Beside him, Alistair snorted softly. “Love is well and good, if ye have time for it. But ye’re right; a marriage is an arrangement, and I dinnae even have to be attracted to a wife to marry her. I’d need to ken she’s from a strong clan so our alliances will be useful. I need to ken she brings a dowry which will strengthen our own clan—land or goods or whatnot. And then I need her to leave me alone.”

  With raised brows, Malcolm glanced at his brother. In his mind, marriage had always been a partnership; a business arrangement. But what Alistair was saying…

  “Ye want her to focus on her duties so ye can focus on yers?”

  Alistair shrugged. “And why no’? If I cannae take time away from my duties to find a wife, I dinnae expect to have time to devote to her when I am actually married to the woman.”

  Ahh. “Ye’re still hoping to talk Kiergan into wooing one for ye?”

  His brother’s scowl returned, only this time ‘twas directed at Alistair’s twin across the courtyard, who was lau
ghing at something Lara had just said. “ ’Tis no’ a hope. He’ll do it for me, eventually.”

  The two men watched the merriment silently for another few minutes, until Malcolm’s thoughts couldn’t stay silent. He shifted, then exhaled in exasperation.

  “I dinnae mind devoting time to my search—I’ve been devoting time to it. But I willnae allow my heart to make a decision for me, when I have a perfectly useful brain to do it.”

  Alistair hummed. “Ye’re still looking for a widow?”

  “A widow with sons,” Malcolm corrected. “Young enough to bear more for me, and her sons young enough to ensure her womb is still prepared to carry a son.”

  “Is that…how it works?”

  Malcolm opened his mouth to deliver a lecture to his brother, but could tell Alistair wasn’t interested. So he just shrugged.

  “More or less,” he muttered, unwilling to admit that while the hypothesis was strong, he hadn’t done the research to test the theory.

  Alistair downed the rest of his ale. When he lowered the flagon, he belched and slapped Malcolm on the back.

  “Well, brother, I have that list of crofters ye asked about. I’m no’ sure ye’ll find yer widow here on Oliphant lands, but if she’s here, we’ll find her.”

  “Thank ye.” Malcolm allowed himself a small smile. “I also have Aunt Agatha on the case, when she’s no’ yelling about doom and that damned drummer.”

  “Excellent! She seems to ken everyone who has ever even crossed through Oliphant land. And aye, ‘twill do her good to have a distraction from her obsessions.”

  Obsessions? Oh, Alistair had meant the drummer. “If only the damned fool would learn to drum during the day! But I suppose he wouldnae be a Ghostly Drummer if he didnae practice at night.”

  “Ye’ve heard him, then?” Alistair’s brows went up.

  “Och, aye,” Malcolm spat, glaring up at the stone walls where he’d so recently heard the infernal pounding. “Have ye no’?”

  For the first time Malcolm could recall, his brother appeared…flustered.

  “Ghosts dinnae exist, Mal,” he muttered, staring down into his empty flagon.

  Malcolm noticed he hadn’t answered the question.

  But then Alistair shook his head and his smile looked a bit forced when he nodded. “I cannae take the time to look for my own bride, so I’m damn well no’ helping ye find yers. But if ye join me in Da’s solar tomorrow, I’ll get that list for ye.”

  “My thanks.” Malcolm settled back on his heels to watch the revelers. “I am no’ picky. As long as she meets my requirements, she’ll do.”

  And he meant it. Find him a young enough widow with a son, and he’d marry her. Any woman would do.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  On historical accuracy

  This is the third book of the Hots for Scots series, and hopefully you’ve read the first two well enough not to expect any actual historical accuracy in this one?

  Good. There’s very little history in here, after all.

  Instead of worrying about things like geography, timeline or, you know, history, in this book, I tried to cram as many cock jokes as possible.

  ‘Tis what she said.

  HA! Okay, that’s the last one, promise.

  But yes, this series is all about humor instead of setting or history. The only thing I’m going to point out is that yes, Merewyn’s herbal medicine is all accurate. Goatsweed, or St. John’s wort (and snail slime, eew!) was used by medieval herbalists to treat burns. Autumn crocus, musk mallow, and all the other herbs I mentioned were used in those contexts. Even hemlock was used as a painkiller and sedative…but too much can be deadly, because it literally works by slowing down your body’s functions.

  Also, before I get readers up in arms about Merewyn’s ability to live alone as a respected member of the clan, let me just say: Excuse me, strong and independent women have been a part of our history for millennia. Healers like Merewyn would’ve been vital to the continuing health of the clan, and would’ve been considered powerful members of society.

  Shacking up with the clan’s military commander wouldn’t hurt, either.

  I’ve been excited to write Rocque’s story since he first popped, fully formed, in my head. My husband named him, and it was such a hilariously cheesy name, I knew from that moment exactly who Rocque would become. But you know who I’m really excited to share with you? Rocque’s twin brother, Malcolm.

  Malcolm has overcome the same difficult past as his brother, but it’s clearly affected him differently. He’s the intellectual, the scholar of their group, and he’s completely certain he knows exactly how to find a wife.

  Surely he’ll be successful, right? Skip ahead to read a sneak peek from In Scot Water.

  But first, I want to offer you a personal invitation to my reader group. If you’re on Facebook, I hope you’ll consider joining. It’s where I post all the best book news first, and you’ll be able to get to know me personally. My Cohort is also instrumental in helping me name characters and choose covers! So stop on by!

  Sneak Peek

  Okay, who’s ready for a little peek at Malcolm’s story? Here’s the prologue from In Scot Water:

  “Is that her?”

  At Malcolm Oliphant’s side, his brother looked down at a ledger he carried, back up at the woman across the square, checked the ledger once more, and grunted.

  “Aye, she matches the descriptions I received. Evelinde Oliphant and her two sons come to market on the third Thursday of the month.” Alistair scowled up at the dark storm clouds. “No matter the weather.”

  Despite the impending weather, Malcolm only had eyes for the lass arguing with the cloth merchant. “She’s beautiful,” he breathed.

  She was. Her long black hair was pulled back in a simple braid, and she moved with a grace he hadn’t often seen. But as she turned away from the merchant—part of the haggling, judging from the way the portly man began to wave his arms to call her back—Malcolm sucked in a breath at the quiet serenity in her face.

  That, and the signs of her exhaustion.

  What must it be like, to be a woman living alone with her two young ones, far from any civilization? Alistair’s records showed Evelinde had been born a MacRob, and her Oliphant husband had built a croft close to those lands so she could visit her kin. But that meant she was several hours’ travel from the village or any other towns.

  His brother Alistair cleared his throat.

  “I’ll admit yer scheme to find a widow with sons was a smart one, brother. But I’ve taken time from my work to help ye, and now ye’ve spied one ye obviously find pleasing.”

  Malcolm slapped his brother on the shoulder, distractedly. “Aye, and ye have my thanks.”

  “We’re about to be hit with a deluge.” Alistair sounded exasperated. “So go over there and speak to her.”

  Speak to her?

  Speak to that angel? The angel who looked harried as she carefully counted out money with one hand, while holding onto the hand of what looked like a rambunctious lad with the other? He was yanking at her arm, trying to direct her attention to the baker’s shop, and she was speaking quietly to him and the merchant.

  There was a baby strapped to her chest with a piece of Oliphant plaid. Another son, according to Alistair’s records and the research Malcolm had done.

  Aye, she was exactly what he was looking for.

  So why couldn’t he march across the square and swoop her up? Why couldn’t he speak to her?

  He knew how the Earth rotated. He knew how mushrooms reproduced. He knew the major arteries of the human body, and the bloodlines of the great kings, and how to employ levers and fulcrums to simplify structural modifications.

  But he didn’t know this.

  “Well, Mal?” His brother sounded exasperated. “Are ye going to speak to her?”

  She turned away from the cloth merchant, a bolt of simple green wool in her arms, and met Malcolm’s eyes.

 
And he couldn’t move.

  She was beautiful, aye, but delicate. Gentle looking. Exhausted.

  The lad was tugging her, and with a soft smile, she allowed him to lead her toward the delicious smells wafting from the baker.

  She had enough on her mind and enough to handle at this moment. Malcolm had the certain sense that, were he to go to her right now, he would only add to her burdens.

  “Mal?”

  “Nay,” he choked. “The time is no’ right.”

  But as he watched her glance over her shoulder at him once more, Malcolm knew the truth; she would be his.

  ***

  Evelinde couldn’t help risking another glance over her shoulder. The two men who’d been staring at her were still there, and the one on the right…

  Well, she’d never believed in the kinds of connections Father Ambrose had always spoken to her about. She certainly hadn’t felt that tug with her husband. Nay, she’d married him for the security he could offer her—after years spent relying on the charity of the church, she’d been happy for a home of her own—not because of how he made her feel.

  But that man…

  When she’d turned away from the wool merchant, having parted with more of her precious funds than she’d intended, she’d met his blue-gray eyes, and had felt the tug, the pull, deep in her soul.

  And something had stirred in her stomach, something which was connected to the place of her desire, and she instinctively pressed her thighs together to capture the sensation.

  There was promise in the man’s gaze, and she could feel it.

  Even from across the square.

  “Mama! Mama, I want a honey bun.”

  She turned her attention back to her son, where it belonged. “Aright, my wee honey bun.”