And how hard could it be to get a wife?
No’ just any wife, laddie.
He sighed.
Nay, if he were honest with himself, no’ just any woman would do.
There was only one woman who filled his thoughts…and his nights. Only one woman who made him smile and considered his needs.
Only one woman he wanted to marry.
As if his thoughts had conjured her, a pair of small, lightly callused hands slipped in front of his eyes. “Guess who?”
He didn’t need to guess; Rocque’s lips curled upward.
She was the only woman he knew who carried the smell of herbs around with her. If that weren’t enough of a hint—if his nose were plugged or some such thing—then the feel of her breasts pushing against his back as she held her hands over his eyes, would be more than enough.
He knew those breasts. He knew that body.
He knew this woman.
Still smiling, he turned in her arms, pulling her even closer. “Hello, Merewyn.”
Her arms snaked around his neck, and he settled his big hands on her hips, snugging her up against his hardening cock.
“Hello, lover,” she said with an impish smile, as she tugged his lips down to hers.
This kiss was quick, but hot enough to make Rocque long for the quiet of her little cottage. He pulled back and placed his forehead against hers, loving the feel of her in his arms.
“Marry me, Mere.”
When she sucked in a gasp, he straightened, wanting to be looking into her eyes when she agreed to become his wife.
The look in her eyes faded from shock to…to something else, as her fingers still played in the hair at the base of his neck. She didn’t say anything for a long time, and he began to wonder if she was doubting his proposal.
“Merewyn, we fit well enough. Marry me. Be my wife.”
“Oh, Rocque,” she said softly, her lips curling into a soft sort of smile. “ ’Tis sweet of ye to ask.”
So why wasn’t she agreeing?
“Ye will, aye?”
She shook her head, her gaze turning apologetic. “Nay. I cannae marry ye.”
Author’s Note
AUTHOR’S NOTE
on Historical Accuracy
* * *
There’s no historical accuracy.
There. Boom. Author’s Note done.
There’s no year indicated in this series (on purpose), and the locations are vague, at best. Again, on purpose. I seriously hope you didn’t pick up this book—or this series—expecting it to be historically accurate?
I set out to write a comedy as near to something Shakespeare might write—complete with dick and fart jokes—as possible. I think I nailed it, but maybe that’s because I have an immature sense of humor.
Seriously, the only thing I can think to mention is that Lairg and Larg are the same place (Larg is the historic spelling of the current town). And that there were plenty of Frenchmen (and women!) gallivanting around Scotland during its long history…thanks mainly to the treaties between the two countries.
I should also point out that my editor gave me grief about not translating all of Pierre’s lines. But if you went through the effort of translating them, then you know that was the point. If you didn’t…well, then, you’re missing half the jokes!
Um…yep. That’s it. Nothing else about this book was serious enough to warrant an Author’s Note! We’re done!
Anyhow, I’d love to know what you think of the Hots for Scots series. Find me on Facebook or email me at [email protected] and let me know!
If you enjoyed the book, and are curious about the rest of the Oliphant lads, you’re in luck; Rocque’s story is ready for you! He’s fallen for a woman who is as hard-headed as he is! Keep reading for a sneak peek at Getting Scot and Bothered!
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!
And now, for Rocque and his Merewyn…
Sneak Peek
Wow. When Rocque worked up the bollocks to offer marriage to Merewyn, the Oliphant healer, she just flat-out turned him down, huh? Don’t tell me you’re not curious what’s going on with that relationship!
Well, wonder no more, my friends, because Rocque and Merewyn are waiting for you in Getting Scot and Bothered!
* * *
He loved waking up beside her.
There was something about waking up in a woman’s bed; knowing the sheets were all clean and fresh-smelling, and there’d be something warm to break his fast. But ‘twas not just any woman who made him smile when he opened his eyes.
‘Twas Merewyn.
Grinning, he rolled over and propped himself up on his elbow. She was stretched out beside him, limbs akimbo, the coverlet kicked down around her waist and one of her red curls stuck in the dried drool beside her mouth. As he watched, she grunted and shifted position, as if personally affronted by the pillow.
She was beautiful.
He loved the way she could be as stubborn as he was, unwilling to settle for anything less than what she knew was the best. And as the Oliphant healer, Merewyn often knew what was best.
For everyone else, at least.
Rocque’s smile slowly faded as he remembered the night before. They’d made love, and he’d asked—yet again—for her hand in marriage.
And yet again, she turned him down.
Gently, he placed his large hand against her stomach, and when she didn’t move, spread his fingers across her skin. He could imagine her swelling with his bairns, caring for them the way she cared for the villagers. They could be happy here together, in this little cottage.
She murmured something, and his gaze darted up to her face, but her eyes were still closed. And his lips twitched upward once more.
He’d been with her for almost a year. They’d spent the long winter keeping one another warm here in this very bed. He knew what she liked, and knew she liked what he liked.
Like mutual morning likings, for one thing.
Slowly, sneakily, he shifted until he was lying beside her, his body stretched out along hers, and his manhood already aching. She smelled of rosemary—the way she always did.
‘Twas his favorite scent.
Mayhap the movement woke her, because she rolled toward him and opened her eyes.
They laid like that, their heads sharing the same pillow, gazing at one another.
He knew the moment she blinked away all the sleep, the moment she realized his unspoken suggestion.
Her brow twitched. “Good morning, lover.”
He lifted himself up on one elbow, looming over her, and her lips stretched lazily to match his. As he lowered his lips, she reached one arm up to pull him closer.
A good morning, indeed.
* * *
Oh boy! This book is going to be hot! Check our Rocque and Merewyn’s contentious affair in Getting Scot and Bothered!
Scot on Her Trail Page 14
