A Scot Mess: A comedy of errors, page 14
So she was smiling as she reached the place where she’d wanted to be.
Had it been just last night she’d stared at his velvety-smooth, steel-hard member—complete with freckle!—and wondered what it would taste like?
Well, now she would know.
Cupping his bollocks, she grasped his shaft with her other hand and turned to grin at him.
“Are ye determined to drain me in the next hour, lass?” he managed in a choked whisper.
Ah, that was right. They had to meet Stewart to sign the marriage contract in…less than an hour now.
But that left her plenty of time to explore her soon-to-be-husband. Her lips tugged upward naughtily.
“Every last drop, my love.”
“St. Ninian’s tits, but I do love ye, Fiona.”
“Now and forever, Finn?”
In her hand, his cock throbbed, a pulse which matched the aching in her core. His hand dropped to her arse, his fingers curling under and around, finding the place she needed his touch.
But he held her gaze. “Now and forever, love.”
Smiling, she lowered her lips to him.
Epilogue
Duncan stood, arms folded, watching the revelers at his brother’s wedding.
Who knew a ceremony could be arranged so quickly?
Da had insisted on the finest foods and ale, so poor Moira had been running about for a sennight arranging things. There were fiddlers and pipers, and fresh flowers galore, and so much merriment you could cut your teeth on it.
‘Tis sickening!
If Duncan ever got married—and that was a big if, although he wasn’t so opposed as his brother Kiergan—he’d make do with something simple, and hope his betrothed felt the same.
Of course, he knew Finn fairly well. They’d shared a womb, after all. And they’d had even more times to speak this week, so Duncan had discovered his brother would’ve been fine with a simple ceremony as well, if it meant claiming Fiona as his own much sooner.
Or mayhap he might’ve happily been able to prolong the waiting, had he at least had access to his Fiona. But in the last sennight, Duncan’s twin had been bedding down at the forge with him, rolled in their plaids on a makeshift pallet, because the bride’s sister refused to vacate their room long enough to allow Finn to sneak in.
That same sister now spun Fiona—the newly forged Fiona Oliphant, that was—happily, their identical hair braided with identical flowers, wearing identical smiles.
Aye, they were as alike as he and Finn were, but only a fool would mistake them for one another.
Where his brother’s new wife was always giddy and bubbly, blurting out her thoughts and caring for others, her twin was thoughtful and quiet.
Or mayhap she was only that way with him.
She had punched him, after all.
Unconsciously, Duncan raised his fingertips to his left cheekbone. Her blow hadn’t left a bruise, but he wasn’t going to forget the way her blue eyes had spat fire at him as she’d awoken, swinging her fists.
She’d been stunning, and not just in the slam-ye-in-the-head-with-a-caber kind of stunning.
His scowl deepened, and he dropped his hand, reaching instead for a flagon of ale on a nearby table. There was less than a mouthful left, and he drained it easily.
It wasn’t enough.
He suspected there would never be enough ale to forget the shame of kissing her without her permission. Or discovering she was his brother’s betrothed.
And then discovering she wasn’t the Lady Fiona at all, but her identical twin sister—
St. Simon’s big toe, was there no more ale in this place?
With a growl, he slammed the flagon back on the table, wishing he could wash away the shame—the desire—just as easily.
“Are ye thirsty?”
He spun around.
There she was—Skye—holding two flagons of ale. He peered at her, then at the flagon.
“ ’Tis poisoned?”
A smile flitted across her lips, but was gone before his body could react. “If I wanted to kill ye, Dunc, I’d no’ do it with poison.”
Dunc. He’d always hated when his brothers called him that—sounded too close to Duck—but when she said it…?
Well, when Skye MacIan called him that, it didn’t sound quite so bad.
Cautiously, he took the ale. Sniffing it, he decided she was likely telling the truth and it was safe, so he took a sip.
She’d turned back to the celebration, but hadn’t left his side.
Swallowing, he cast about for a topic of conversation. One which didn’t have anything to do with her anger, his gaffe, or the desire they’d both felt when they’d touched one another.
“How would ye do it?” he blurted out.
“Do what?”
She wasn’t looking at him, which made it easier. “How would ye kill me, if ye wanted to?”
Her lips curled into that enigmatic smile once more, her attention on the revelry. “If I wanted to kill ye, Dunc, I’d do it with a blade.” Slowly, she turned to him, that smile still in place. “And I’d do it facing ye.”
St. Simon, bless me!
The lass looked as if she meant what she said. But surely a Lady wouldn’t know anything about blades or swordplay?
Duncan hurriedly took another drink, noticing she still cradled her flagon. He’d made more than a few blades in his day, but preferred not to use them. Oh, he’d trained, the same as all of his brothers, but he would rather use his wits to get out of danger. Besides, the size of his shoulders usually scared any would-be attackers away.
That thought led to another, and he took a few steps away from her. “Do ye have reason to want to kill me?”
She shrugged, then lifted her flagon to her lips.
And that was enough of an answer, wasn’t it?
He’d insulted her, and she’d likely not forget that in a hurry.
“When are ye going home?” he blurted, then hid his wince by turning to thump the ale down on the table beside him. He’d apparently had enough, if he was asking such bald questions.
And apparently, she knew it, judging from the dryness of her tone. “Soon, I suspect. Stewart will want to see Fiona settled as Finn’s wife, but his own wife is expecting his heir soon, so we’ll likely hurry back. Ye’ll be rid of me soon enough.”
Soon enough?
Not likely.
Until she left, he wouldn’t be able to forget how much of a fool he’d been.
And wouldn’t be able to stop wondering when she’d strike.
So he cleared his throat, his decision made.
“I’ll likely be saying my goodbyes even sooner.”
“Oh?” She was just being polite, he was certain.
Still, he nodded, already mentally preparing his exit. “I have a journey to Eriboll. My master has sent me to pick up some pieces, and I expect to be gone—gone for some time.”
Exchanging the jewelry for coin would take little time, but he’d do his best to linger in Eriboll, if it meant not having to see Skye again…and keeping his body intact.
The noise she made at the news, however, was speculative as she watched her sister and his brother dancing. Finally, she nodded.
“Well, yer journey will take ye near MacIan land. I’m certain my brother will welcome yer visit, if ye’d like to stop.”
“Thank ye, but—” But nay. He searched for a politer answer. “I’ll—I’ll consider it.”
“Well, then…”
To his surprise, she shifted her flagon to one hand and thrust the other one toward him. As if they were men. As if they were men, who’d just closed a deal.
Hesitating more than a little, he finally took her hand in his.
It wasn’t the traditional forearm grip he and his brothers shared. But it caused a warmth to jolt up his arm so quickly, he sucked in a breath.
She must not have felt it, because she just nodded.
“Safe journey, Dunc.”
And then she dropped his hand, offered him the slightest smile—was there mockery in it?—and turned away.
As she crossed the hall to her brother, Duncan cradled his hand against his chest, staring after her. Trying not to admire the way her arse moved under that silk gown.
And failing.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
I’ll leave tomorrow. I’ll sleep in the rain and the cold. I’ll walk if the pain in my feet will drive out the memory of her.
But when he opened his eyes and saw her throw her head back, he knew it was a futile effort. Skye MacIan—and the anger they shared—couldn’t be dismissed so easily.
Shite.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
On Historical Accuracy
Listen, this is the place where I talk history, right? Usually, I mention how the great kilt didn’t become a thing until the 16th century, but how we’re going to ignore that because OMG heroes in kilts, am I right?
Or I talk about the location of the book or the famous players, or even the social history like—I dunno—leprosy or painting techniques or whatever.
But…
But surely you realized this book wasn’t intended to be factually accurate. About anything.
I purposefully didn’t even give you a good idea on the time period, because I wanted this series to be vague and hilarious and more than a little irreverent. The best you’re going to get out of me is the location of the Oliphant lands; north of Inverness and south of Wick, which is pretty darn vague.
So… Sorry. I have no history lesson for you here. There’s plenty of stuff in this book which I didn’t even intend to be accurate. Like coffee. And ghosts which warn of the cheese turning. And pretty much the entire plot set up.
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. I’d love to know what you think! Find me on Facebook or email me at Caroline@CarolineLeeRomance.com and let me know!
If you enjoyed the book, and are curious about the rest of the Oliphant lads, you’re in luck! Duncan’s story is ready for you! Keep reading for a sneak peek at Scot on her Trail!
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 Duncan and Skye…
SNEAK PEEK
We know how Duncan Oliphant met Skye MacIan…and we know it wasn’t exactly a great memory for either. Well, Skye might not have minded that eye-full she got of Dunc, standing in the great hall with his kilt up around his ears. And Duncan definitely didn’t mind that searing kiss they shared…up until she punched him.
But clearly they’re unsuited for one another, right? Let’s see what happens when they meet again in Scot on Her Trail…
* * *
When he spied the flash of crimson in the hedge by the side of the road, he slowed his horse. Frowning, he glanced about.
The road was bordered by a copse of fir trees on one side, and the brambles on the other. No reason for there to be anything crimson out here.
Not seeing any danger, he cautiously edged his horse closer.
There, in the ditch beside the road…why was there silk piled there?
And…was that a hand? A woman’s hand?
Before his mind really processed what he was seeing, Duncan was out of his saddle, sprinting for the flash of red silk.
Aye, ‘twas a woman!
Dropping to his knees beside her, Duncan realized his hands were curled into fists. St. Simon’s hairy bollocks, but he felt useless! He forced himself to breathe as he studied her.
She was lying on her side, curled up as if in pain. Her brown hair—luscious curls—fell freely around her face and shoulders, ground into the dirt under her.
What had happened?
He forced his hands to open, to reach gently for her. His fingertips skimmed her arm, her shoulder, as gently as he handed his gold and silver. She made no sound or movement, and he couldn’t tell if anything was broken.
There was no blood though, so that was good.
Where in damnation was her horse? Duncan dragged his gaze away from her to scan the road and the trees once more. Naught. And she was still just as unmoving.
He needed to turn her over, to check or more injuries.
Bending, he slid his left arm under her shoulder, tilting her head so her hair fell away from her jaw. It was clenched, as if she were conscious and in pain, but her eyes were shut.
“Shh, lass,” he whispered gently, not sure if she could hear him. “’Twill be aright. I’ve got ye.”
Gently, he straightened and sat on his heels, pulling her with him. She turned in his arms, her left arm still hidden under her body, and opened her eyes.
He almost dropped her.
‘Twas Skye MacIan, the woman who had been haunting his dreams for weeks.
“Where—where am I?” she murmured, lifting her right hand to her head while her left swept around toward his side. Duncan felt something sharp poking him under his ribs, and just as soon as he could make his brain work, he’d figure out what that was.
But for now, Skye MacIan was in his arm, in the middle of the road, miles from her home.
“Lass?” he prompted her.
“I had the strangest—” She got a good look at him, and suddenly her eyes opened wide.
Trying to be helpful, he supplied, “Dream? Accident? Spiritual encounter with a saintly apparition? Gastrointestinal difficulties?”
Her eyes widened further. “Shite.”
Ah, so it was the gastrointestinal one. “Shite?”
She shook her head, and the sharp prick in his side made him frown.
“Shiteshiteshitefook.”
Duncan’s brows went up at her vocabulary. “’Tis good to see ye too,” he said drily.
“Put me down, ye great oaf.”
Oaf? He shook his head, realizing he was quite enjoying having her here in his arms. “Nay, no’ until I ken ye’re no’ hurt.”
“I’m no’ hurt, but ye will be if ye dinnae release me.”
The way her gaze darted over his shoulder, then down to his side, had Duncan glancing down.
She was holding a dagger. A dagger which was currently pressed against his ribs, aimed for his heart.
“What are ye doing?” he asked mildly.
“I was robbing ye.”
“What, alone?”
“Nay, laddie, no’ alone,” came the rumble behind him.
Instinctively, he tried to shield the lass in his arms from whatever the threat behind him might be, but when she jabbed him with that damn dagger again, he jerked back and loosened his hold on her.
When she kicked at him, Duncan fell back on his arse as she tried to scramble away from him. “By St. Simon’s gilded piss, what in damnation are ye doing, lass?”
Even her frown was adorable. “Getting stuck in this bloody ridiculous gown, is what I’m doing,” she muttered, her dagger not leaving her hand.
He was reaching for her, the primal need to help her overriding whatever threat she might claim to pose, when a shadow fell over them both.
“Here,” the shadow grunted, manifesting a huge hand and reaching down to offer help to Skye.
She took the shadow’s help, damn him, and stood with only a few curses.
And to Duncan’s surprise, he found the idea of Skye MacIan—a proper lady—cursing to be strangely arousing.
The sound a steel being drawn from leather dragged his attention away from Skye, who was trying to brush dirt from her skirts. That silk molded to her in the most interesting ways, but the scowling older man with the sword made it difficult to focus on her.
“Ye’re no’ supposed to cuddle with her, ye crumpety clot-heid!”
Crumpety? “I was no’ cuddling with Skye,” Duncan said an affronted air as he pushed himself to his feet. “I needed to make sure she wasnae hurt.”
The older man jabbed forward with his sword, enough to make Duncan step back, but not close enough to hurt him. “Ye’re no’ supposed to ken her name, either.” He scowled at the mustached man by his side. “Pierre dinnae say aught of kenning ye.”
At the accusation in his tone, the other man shrugged. “Regardez combien son sac est lourd!”
Duncan knew some French, thanks to his years studying with Master Claire. His right hand twitched toward his purse, while the other rested on the hilt of his sword.
“Ye really are bandits?”
The youngest member of their group shook his head. “We’re highwaymen.”
“Oh, well, my apologies then.” Duncan cut a glance at Skye, while trying to keep the other men in his sights. “Ye’re a part of this?”
With a sigh, she jammed her dagger back in its sheath and planted her fists on her hips. “I’m their leader, ye bumbled-headed clackdish. And it was rotten luck Pierre chose ye as our next mark.”
The MacIan laird’s sister was a highwayman?
Nay. Look at her in that gown. She’s verra much a highwaywoman.
One he wouldn’t mind cuddling with again.
* * *
Ready to find out if Skye succeeds in robbing Dunc of his gold? Grab your copy of Scot on Her Trail today!
* * *
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