Scandalous Passions (Highland Menage)

by Nicola Davidson

  He had arranged food for her. After removing the man who had been so ill mannered, albeit rather violently.

  “Ah, anything, r-really,” stammered Marjorie, her mind still trying to piece together what had just happened. “Whatever is easiest.”

  “What do you wish?” he asked.

  And there it was—the question she had waited her whole life to hear. Not from family or a friend but a man she had met mere hours before.

  “Swiftly, my dear,” said Lady Janet with a mischievous grin, as she held up her wine goblet to be refilled. “Sir Lachlan will carve for you. His hands may look like bear paws, but they are astonishingly nimble. A skill welcome in more than one room of the castle, I wager.”

  Was the Beast…blushing?

  Although she didn’t quite understand what Lady Janet meant, it did sound rather naughty, and Marjorie fought the urge to giggle. Never would she forget her first, and probably only, feast in this Great Hall. “I should like chicken, a little venison, and a slice of beef pie. And some of that pottage with the carrot and leeks. A pear. Oh, and a few almond pastries too…”

  Her voice trailed off, and her own cheeks heated at such gluttony. The prioress would have given her several lashes for this. But Lady Janet merely nodded and pointed out the dishes for Sir Lachlan to take a sample from. Soon her pewter plate was full and her wine goblet replenished.

  When he sat down again, Marjorie leaned close. “Thank you, Sir Lachlan.”

  He nodded, not meeting her eyes. “Lady.”

  “No, I mean…thank you for everything. For helping me,” she said softly, placing her hand over his and gently squeezing.

  By the saints, his hand was warm. So large, hers almost looked childlike on top of it. But as she’d thought, it was rough with slight calluses, and when his hand jerked a little, those calluses rubbed her fingertips. Tingles raced through her body, oddly centering in that forbidden place between her thighs, and she shifted uncomfortably on her cushion.

  Knowing how sinful it was, Marjorie had never dared to touch herself there. But sometimes in bed at night, she’d cup her breasts and rub her thumbs across her nipples until they were taut. Never for long enough, though; to be caught risked great punishment.

  What would those huge calloused hands feel like on her breasts? Unlike her, Sir Lachlan would have no trouble cupping them. And he would rub and rub…

  A soft moan escaped her lips.

  “Eat, lady,” Sir Lachlan growled, and she nearly fainted in embarrassment. Silly Marjorie Hepburn, so desperate for touch she’d been stroking the knight’s hand as though he were a fractious horse.

  Her face hot enough to boil water, Marjorie took a gulp of wine, then used her small eating knife to spear a slice of chicken. The other man had been banished from the Hall for poor manners, but hers weren’t much better.

  It was definitely time to leave Stirling Castle.

  …

  Her last feast here had been memorable, at least.

  Janet sighed and finished her wine. Sir Lachlan turning full Beast on the hapless Lord Kerr aside, the food had been splendid and the jesters amusing. Once they finished eating, the trestle tables had been cleared away, the minstrels had struck up a merry pipe tune, and James gallantly led Margaret to the floor to begin the dancing. Even the queen’s usually dull and proper ladies joined in, and the Great Hall had been alive with the sound of hands clapping, heels stomping, and breathless laughter as they danced until their feet ached.

  She and Lady Marjorie had both tried to coax Sir Lachlan away from the wall, but he’d adamantly refused. Fortunately others had been eager to partner her—lords, lairds, and foreign dignitaries, all swarming in. Of course, they wanted more than dancing. Many had made blunt offers; it was known throughout Scotland she was a lusty woman. Oddly, though, none tempted her.

  Usually during a feast, she would cast her eye over the men—not the married ones, for she preferred a tranquil life free of angry wives—make her choice, then spend the rest of the evening in bed. Back when they’d been lovers, James had always visited her chamber after a feast. Once wed, she’d spent many splendidly debauched evenings with her dear departed Fergus. On this night, though, it seemed she would sleep alone. If that wasn’t irritating enough, she had downed several goblets of the delicious red wine, and as James and Fergus both would have attested, wine provoked her to unearthly heights of wickedness.

  “Are you unwell, lady?” Sir Lachlan asked.

  On another day the low rasp in her ear might have been startling, but comfortably mellow, she began to shake her head at him. Then halted.

  Maybe her evening could be saved after all.

  “I fear so,” she lied. “Would you escort me to my chamber? Lady Marjorie is speaking to the king and queen, so will be quite safe.”

  He hesitated before nodding. “Aye.”

  Moments later, they stepped outside. After the cloying stench of sweat, grease, food, burning wood, and wilted flowers, the cool, fresher air was most welcome, and Janet inhaled heavily as she glanced over to the oldest part of the castle where her chamber was located. Unlike the other royal castles, Stirling had little accommodation for guests. James might have more pressing reasons to send her away, but he wouldn’t be dismayed to have another chamber to make use of.

  As they walked across the inner close, her heel caught on an uneven stone, and she stumbled. But with the reflexes of a cat rather than the bear he reminded her of, Sir Lachlan curled one hand under her elbow and halted a fall.

  There…those wretched tingles again.

  Her heart pounding, Janet tilted her head and studied him. “I find you…intriguing,” she murmured.

  “Oh? How so?”

  “You say very little yet see everything. The king trusts you above all, but you have no family. No wife. I know you and James have rutted your way through the realm, yet unlike him, you have no bairns. You choke an ill-mannered man at a table, would kill an enemy with nary a blink, but are kind to a friendless convent orphan. Although in truth, that isn’t a hardship. Lady Marjorie is rather delicious, is she not?”

  Sir Lachlan glanced down at her, true surprise on his face. “Er…”

  “Oh, come now. God creates beauty in many forms; all must be appreciated. And you liked it when she stroked your hand, yes?”

  He didn’t reply, but his fingers flexed on her arm. A resounding yes from the Beast.

  “I shall counsel you not to bed the king’s virgin ward under his nose,” Janet continued merrily, the wine making her reckless as he led her up the stone steps and into a wide torch-lit hallway.

  “I would not!” he growled. “I mean…no virgins. I like…experience.”

  Janet blinked. Well. This stoic, taciturn Highlander would offer a little something when pushed. “Then I must beg forgiveness, stealing you away from your current mistress. I wager she awaits you, naked and wet and aching to be plundered.”

  Sir Lachlan sucked in a harsh breath. “Your ch-chamber, lady.”

  “So it is,” she said, leaning against the heavy oak door. “Do you know, on nights like this I miss my husband most. He knew wine unleashed wickedness in me. Made me especially demanding…”

  There was a long, long silence. But her escort didn’t move. Then, he gritted out, “It does?”

  Janet closed her eyes in sweet remembrance. “Oh yes. See, our marriage was different than most; in the bedchamber, he ceded total command. Certain men love to receive instruction. They crave it. I would make him kneel and pleasure me with his tongue and fingers, and only when I was thoroughly sated would I permit his release. He spent so hard when I rode him, bucking like a spring colt as he gave me every drop of his seed…”

  The silence stretched again. Inwardly cursing her wine-loosened lips, Janet opened her eyes and looked up.

  Except it wasn’t scorn or disgust on Sir Lachlan’s f
ace. Just pure yearning.

  But how could that be? He was the Highland Beast!

  Shocked to the core, Janet could only stare as his face became impassive as hewn rock. Had her eyes deceived her? Then she glanced down to see a huge bulge jutting against his hose and doublet.

  “My, my,” she purred, reaching out but deliberately halting her hand an inch from his engorged cock. “So wonderfully thick. And in urgent need of stroking. If you were just a little closer…”

  Sir Lachlan’s fists clenched, his chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths. Then, with a guttural sound he stepped forward, thrusting his cock hard against her palm. “Yes.”

  Greedily, her fingers closed around him, squeezing and rubbing through his hose.

  He moaned.

  “Oh, you like that?” Janet teased, excited beyond belief at the thought of this magnificent column of flesh buried deep in her needy cunt after he had pleasured her senseless. “I may allow you in my chamber. But I have rules. Unbreakable rules.”

  His hips jerked, shoving his cock even harder against her hand. “Please. Let me kneel. Whatever you wish.”

  “Very well—”

  “Sir Lachlan!”

  They both froze at the guard’s hail from the end of the hallway.

  “What?” snarled Janet.

  “Beg pardon, my lady, but the king asked for Sir Lachlan. At once.”

  She would boil James in oil. Dismember him with a rusty spoon. Just because he chose not to bed his young wife, everyone else must sleep alone also?

  Damn his eyes.

  Sir Lachlan stepped back with a wince before adjusting his cloak to hide the evidence of their near interlude. “Lady Janet,” he said quietly, bowing. Then he marched away.

  Furious, she stormed into the chamber and latched the door behind her. Right now she wanted to hurl something breakable at the wall. Like the king. Yet for the first time, she was thankful they were leaving for St. Andrews. James could keep his lonely bed at Stirling; at her new estate, it would be another world entirely. A world where Janet Fraser ruled supreme.

  Next time there would be no interruptions.

  Only pleasure.

  Chapter Three

  On the road to St. Andrews, near Loch Leven

  Traveling—even leisurely and in relative comfort—became torturous after a full day, and despite years of accompanying the king or her husband, she would never grow used to it.

  Janet stifled a wince, her bones aching from being jolted up and down and side to side on the rocky, uneven track masquerading as a road. For safety, rather than riding, James had insisted on a sturdy wooden wagon pulled by two horses. The wagon was spacious enough: there was room for their trunks; the baskets of food, wine, and small ale provided by the kitchens at Stirling Castle; and small sections of the leather cover could be rolled up to allow in fresh air. They also had velvet cushions to sit on and furs for warmth. Yet she envied Sir Lachlan, who was outside on horseback, enjoying not only the crisp air and sun on his back but also a far easier journey as his mighty warhorse disdainfully sidestepped the rocks and holes the wagon hit with great precision.

  Lady Marjorie suffered worse, though. Unused to wagon travel, she’d spent most of the journey gripping the wooden bench, her color somewhere between moss and snow. She’d not napped at all and had only managed a few bites when they’d briefly stopped for a meal of bread, cheese, cold sliced beef, dried fruit, and pastries.

  Her beautiful new ward just looked so…lost. Lonely. Again, Janet mentally berated James for a poor decision. Women being punished for the sins of their fathers, brothers, or husbands made her blood boil. Lady Marjorie’s long imprisonment at the convent had only increased her guilt in the eyes of the court, but she’d been a lass of six when the old king was murdered. Hardly party to events.

  Bah. Foolish and unjust.

  Suppressing her irritation, Janet instead smiled sympathetically at Lady Marjorie. “How are you feeling?”

  Her ward tried to smile in return and failed utterly. “A little better.”

  “I shall warn you now, my dear, lying is not something I tolerate. I must insist upon the plainspoken truth. When I ask you how you feel, I do indeed wish to know.”

  “Oh. I…uh…” Lady Marjorie blinked, her bewilderment clear.

  Saints alive. Has no one ever cared about her?

  “I think you are aware,” Janet began, gentling her usually brisk tone, “that I am no prioress or prison guard. I believe the king placed you in my care as an apology of sorts, fully aware that I oversee…hmm…a less structured household. So you might be comfortable, have companionship, and learn the ways of a wife in preparation for your future marriage.”

  “The ways of a wife?” said Lady Marjorie, her eyes brightening for the first time since the start of the journey. “You mean intimate matters…the plainspoken truth?”

  Janet’s lips twitched. “I cannot expect it without providing it. So yes, I would explain wifely duties. With enough detail to curl your toes, because knowledge is power, and young women are all too often kept ignorant. That is what you want, yes?”

  Her ward nodded eagerly, her blue eyes shining with such hope that Janet’s heart clenched a little. That Lady Marjorie could still feel such emotion after her long imprisonment was a miracle in itself. In truth there were places in the Highlands so bleak, so isolated, that not even travelers wished to tarry long. But to live in such a place for sixteen years…

  How different her own life had been. Mistress to the king, a blissful but too-short marriage, adventures, feasts and entertainment, debating law and learning with indulgent scholars, all the court influence she might wish for…simply because she’d been caught bedding a woman.

  Aileen. Her first love.

  Just one long ago summer, but unforgettable. The days where she’d first discovered a fondness for dominating a lover; the power of touch and withholding or granting pleasure; of wicked words; the sweetness of soft lips, taut nipples, and dripping cunt. After they’d been caught, Aileen was hastily wed and sent away. Her own father wanted her locked in a convent, but Mother, infinitely wiser and more practical, arranged for her to go to court and meet the young and infamously lusty King James. The king graciously received his gift and in turn showed her family great favor. While he’d always maintained control in the bedchamber, and his wandering cock irritated her to no end, James had been a good lover. Generous. Affectionate.

  Occasionally she wondered what life might have been like if her affair with Aileen had continued. Would it have eventually ended? Or would they be living together somewhere as dearest friends? There were so many questions left unanswered, and she’d not seen Aileen since that fateful day. Nor had she been tempted by another woman since.

  Until Lady Marjorie.

  Sweet and innocent yet eager to learn. Ready to be conquered yet forbidden.

  “How did you bear it?” Janet asked abruptly, pressing her thighs together to ease the burgeoning ache in her cunt. “Imprisonment in a convent, I mean.”

  Lady Marjorie stared at her hands. “I had no choice. And I can’t remember much of life before it. My mother died when I was three, my father was always at court, and I had no brothers or sisters. But…”

  “Tell me. Plainspoken truth,” she reminded. “And may I add, while I love the king dearly, you’ll not hear defense of his decision from me. It was wrong.”

  “The convent always felt wrong,” replied Lady Marjorie hoarsely. “It wasn’t my home. I was an unwanted guest, just as I was at Stirling Castle. I never had a choice about anything—not what I wore or ate or how I spent my time. There were a great many women, but I was always alone. They wanted to be there, to serve God in a certain way, but I’ve never felt the calling to be a nun. I know the king will choose my husband, but at least as a wife, I will have a say in certain matters. Even a little say…”


  Janet bit her lip so she wouldn’t launch a tirade. Lady Marjorie had been taught to expect naught but crumbs from the table, to be grateful for them, even. And she’d had her spirit crushed. Well. She would find new direction at St. Andrews. A new beginning. “I swear, my dear, you shall have choices under my guardianship. And learn a great many things before you wed.”

  “Thank you. May I ask…did you choose your husband? That is, if you wish to share such a personal matter,” her ward finished awkwardly.

  “I did not choose Fergus Fraser. The king selected him after our long affair ended. But it was an inspired choice, and that is why you must not give up hope for a happy marriage. The king is a practical man but also a romantic at heart.”

  “You loved Master Fraser? Really loved him?”

  Janet closed her eyes briefly against the stab of pain. “I did. I miss him a great deal. He was such a scholar, always reading. And as a privy councillor, he shared the best court chatter. I heard the scandals before most—although in fairness, I caused many of them. My unruly temper or sinful boldness.”

  Lady Marjorie gasped. “He did not beat you for that?”

  “Saints alive, no. He wasn’t that sort of man. Just a gentle soul with a talented tongue and nimble fingers that did not tire.”

  “What?”

  Janet laughed. “Forgive me; that was far too bawdy for virgin ears. I have no desire to disgust or frighten you.”

  “I’m not,” her ward denied quickly. “Just surprised…and curious. I know it’s sinful to be, but it feels like I’ve been standing outside in the cold forever, and at last the door has opened. Please tell me. Please. I don’t have anyone else to ask. And we’re in a wagon. Sir Lachlan rides ahead, and the driver won’t hear. Do you mean he kissed you? Touched you? ”

  “Lady Marjorie—”

  “Just Marjorie. I mean, if you like.”

  Janet nodded. “Very well. Then I’m just Janet. To answer your question, yes he kissed and touched me. Everywhere I desired. I always enjoyed my neck being massaged, but my favorite times were when he sucked my nipples and stroked between my legs until I coated his fingers in honey…oh dear. Your cheeks are as red as my gown. Should I stop?”