Scandalous Passions (Highland Menage)

by Nicola Davidson

  His lips twitched. “You’re safe, lady.”

  “What was that?” she spluttered.

  “A fish?”

  Marjorie groaned inwardly. A shriek to wake the dead and a leap as though pursued by rabid wolves…for a fish. “Does it not know we supped on them last evening? We are death to fish! It should be rushing to warn its friends and family, not…not…kissing my leg!”

  Sir Lachlan shuddered, and an odd choking sound emerged. “Indeed. Not sporting.”

  “Are you laughing at me, sir? When I was just accosted by a monster of the sea?”

  “Of the loch,” he replied, his shoulders now shaking. “And no. Never.”

  Amusement transformed his face. His brown eyes gleamed, attractive little lines appeared at either side of his mouth, and just for a moment that air of lonely heaviness that usually surrounded him rose.

  She had done that. Made the Highland Beast smile.

  “Fortunate for you,” she said pertly, knowing she was too heavy a burden yet selfishly unwilling to let his warm, hard body go. Not when the risk of more fish kisses remained. “Everyone thinks I am a kitten. But I am a fierce full-grown cat. With claws.”

  “Yes,” he rasped.

  At the odd change in his tone, Marjorie glanced down.

  Oh no.

  Her robe had slipped right off her shoulder, fully exposing the rounded neckline of her linen shift…and the tops of her breasts. Worse, in the cool air, her nipples were visible hard points, straining against the fabric.

  Mortified, Marjorie tried to shrug the robe back up. As she wriggled against Sir Lachlan, trying desperately to cover herself, she only succeeded in rubbing her breasts against his chest.

  Oh. It felt good.

  She had always been starved of the touch she craved. Yesterday, Janet had unleashed something inside her, a need she could no longer deny, and now she couldn’t halt her wayward body from seeking more. With a helpless whimper, she deliberately rubbed her aching, tingling nipples against his chest.

  Sir Lachlan sucked in a harsh breath. “Lady—”

  “What on earth are you two doing?”

  Marjorie froze. Over his shoulder, about twenty feet away, Janet stood on the shoreline, fully dressed in her red velvet traveling gown, her arms folded. Sir Lachlan went rigid, and Marjorie quickly slid down his body back into the water, then stepped well away from him.

  “Good morning,” said Marjorie awkwardly to her guardian, her cheeks burning. How could she even explain such unseemly behavior? “There was a, er…fish.”

  Janet tilted her head. “In a loch, I’d wager many,” she replied coolly. “But you should get dressed so we might break bread and then recommence our journey. The driver is readying the horses.”

  “Of course.”

  Miserable, unable to meet Sir Lachlan’s eyes after her shameful display, Marjorie waded back to shore. Janet had been so kind, so generous, had deigned to show her the most exquisite pleasure imaginable, and this was how she repaid her.

  Why could she never do anything right?

  Chapter Five

  The rest of the journey to St. Andrews passed without incident; rather unfortunate, when he wanted nothing more than to take out his frustration on some hapless brigand.

  Lachlan slowed Storm to his least-favored pace, a slow walk, as they approached the stone wall announcing the boundary of the king’s former property, the estate now belonging to Lady Janet.

  How could he have been such a damned fool?

  She had told him she required loyalty from a lover. That she did not appreciate straying. And the very next day, he’d had another woman in his arms: her virgin ward.

  A woman he’d been overwhelmingly tempted by.

  Lady Marjorie was sweet. So innocent. She’d made him laugh with her jests about the fish. But there had been nothing sweet or innocent in the way she’d rubbed her ample breasts against him and scraped his chest with large pink nipples that her shift hadn’t fully concealed. Or the needy little whimper. Lady Marjorie might have been imprisoned in a convent most of her life, but like water rising behind a wall of sand, he suspected she was ready to burst forth and embrace the ways of lust. That made her a threat to both his willpower and peace of mind. To bed her, even to want her, would be to betray Lady Janet and his friend the king.

  Unthinkable.

  “This the place, sir?” the wagon driver asked, breaking into his thoughts.

  Lachlan glanced back at him, and the man gave him a look of such naked hope that he almost smiled. The driver would return home to Stirling in the morning, and it seemed that after their eventful journey, that moment could not come swiftly enough. “Aye,” Lachlan said.

  “Very nice. All them trees to lessen the ocean winds, a little stream…fine home too. The ladies will be happy here.”

  That remained to be seen. St. Andrews had gathered many great minds, and Scotland’s first university had been founded by papal bull nearly one hundred years prior. Lady Janet would probably enjoy renewing acquaintances she’d made through the king and her late husband, and challenging the scholars with her learning and bold opinions. But the small town was also an ecclesiastical center, with pilgrims from all corners journeying to the ancient cathedral. In that she had never seen eye to eye with the church, and Lady Marjorie had endured such an unpleasant experience in her convent—not to mention that Lady Janet had always shone in the glittering, unruly world of the Scottish court…

  Lachlan grimaced. Paradise or purgatory.

  With a light click of Storm’s reins, they moved toward the sturdy wooden gate. Moments later, an armed guard appeared.

  “Halt in the name of—oh, good evening, Sir Lachlan. The ladies are in the wagon?”

  “Aye,” he replied, grunting in approval at the alert guard, the gate that swung open on well-oiled hinges, and the wall in good repair. James might have visited the place only a few times each year, but they were prepared. “Ready for supper. And rest.”

  The guard nodded. “All is well. The king sent word, and the servants are eager to welcome their new mistress.”

  “Good,” said Lachlan, riding on. The path from the gate to the manor was well kept and free of rocks; no doubt the ladies would appreciate it. He couldn’t imagine how sore they would be after two days’ travel in a wagon. A few years prior, during a bloody battle with a few clan chiefs who’d rebelled against the king’s authority, he had been injured and transported in such a manner. Torturous was the word he would use to describe that swaying, jolting journey.

  As soon as he dismounted, a young lad bounded up to take Storm away to the stables to be fed and watered, giving him time for a brief inspection of the manor while he waited for the wagon.

  Folding his arms, Lachlan let his gaze travel over the large modern stone buildings. Indeed, they were fit for a king. To the left sat the kitchens, buttery, larder, and granary, connected to the main manor by a covered walkway. The ground floor included the hall, warmed by two fireplaces, and a chapel. Upstairs were the private rooms—the bedchambers and a solar for the ladies to read, play music, or embroider in. Over to the right were the flower and herb gardens, an orchard, and he could hear the faint sound of the stream splashing against small rocks as it wound its way toward the sea. Further afield were the king’s hunting grounds, an expanse of deep-green forest that he would make full use of to provide fowl and meat for the table.

  “Lachlan! Help me down from this devil-plagued contraption.”

  He stifled a grin. The wagon hadn’t even stopped moving, and Lady Janet near dangled from the back in her haste to be free of the confinement. “Aye, lady.”

  He marched over to carefully tug free the rest of the leather cover that she had partially opened. Then he reached up, gripped Lady Janet’s waist, and lowered her to the ground. Just for a moment, she slumped against him, and he grimaced in s
ympathy as he took the opportunity to touch her further, rubbing her back as gently as he could.

  “I swear, by all the saints, I am never traveling in a wagon again,” she muttered, actually permitting him to ease her aching body, and his heart leaped.

  “No need,” he replied. “Fine stable here.”

  Far sooner than he wished, Lady Janet stepped away and smiled wearily. “I’m glad to hear it, although all I want this night is something that does not move, so soft I can sink into it. Oh yes, and enough wine to launch a ship.”

  “You’ll have it,” he promised, glancing over to see dozens of servants gathering on the steps of the manor to welcome them. “All is ready.”

  “I shall go and greet the servants. Would you assist Marjorie for me? She is not well.”

  Lachlan hesitated, but it was concern in her gaze rather than anger or trickery, and he nodded. “We’ll meet you…in the hall.”

  When he turned back to the wagon, Lady Marjorie was waiting for him, face pale and shoulders stooped with fatigue. Wordlessly, he reached up for her, and she near flopped into his arms. At first he set her on the ground, but when her legs buckled, he scooped her up, and she looked at him, her eyes glistening with tears.

  “I do not like wagon travel,” she whispered, burying her face in his shoulder.

  “Worse than fish kisses,” he replied gruffly, hating to see her upset, but when Lady Marjorie’s laugh was watery at best, he added quickly, “Don’t cry. There’ll be wine.”

  “Wine is well and good, but all I want is bed.”

  Lachlan gritted his teeth. Only the worst of men would think lustful thoughts of a highborn virgin in desperate need of rest and comfort. Yet his mind taunted him with a vision of Lady Marjorie in the thin shift that concealed nothing, reclining on a large pile of pillows, reaching for him…demanding he pleasure her with his mouth…demanding he take her…

  No.

  He needed to stay as far away as possible until this madness passed. He loved and wanted Lady Janet. Had done so for years, and those feelings had not dimmed one bit. A good man—a worthy man—did not have tender feelings for more than one woman.

  Indeed, if he just avoided Lady Marjorie, all would be well.

  Surely.

  …

  When Sir Lachlan carried her from the wagon into the manor so easily, so carefully, she had wanted to cling to his broad chest and never let go. Now, when the three of them sat at the end of the long rectangular oak table, eating supper, he wouldn’t meet her gaze.

  And it was entirely her fault. He wasn’t her husband, betrothed, or family member but a bodyguard appointed by the king. Yet she kept touching him, throwing herself at him, when he clearly did not wish her to do so. Just because she admired him did not mean he returned the sentiment, and she needed to accept that like a sensible grown woman.

  Alas, far easier said than done.

  Unhappily, Marjorie mopped up the last of her delicious chicken-and-vegetable broth with a chunk of soft white bread. As though the cook and kitchen staff knew exactly how tired they all were, how unsettled their stomachs and aching their bones, they had served a simple, tasty supper that didn’t require any carving—and, as promised, a great deal of French wine. But even as her body sighed with appreciation, her spirits remained low, and for a moment she missed the familiarity of the convent. She had disliked the strictness and confinement, but at least she’d known her place in the world. Outside it, she walked on a cliff edge, always unsure if the next thing she said or did would be acceptable or deserving of reprimand or punishment. The rules were just so…arbitrary. A woman could be celebrated or shunned for a deed at any given moment, and on many occasions, both.

  She turned to Janet, who sat at the head of the table. “How do you find your broth?”

  “I never thought chicken broth would be worthy of song, but I’m tempted. Much as I love a feast, I have no desire to fall asleep atop a boar’s head or dressed goose. The kitchen staff—actually, all the servants here are excellent. I was cautious, understanding full well that they would know of me and might disapprove of the choices I’ve made in my life. But none have as much as quirked an eyebrow.”

  Sir Lachlan took a gulp of wine, then cleared his throat. “If anyone should…tell me. I will resolve it.”

  Janet grinned and leaned over to pat his hand. “You are a treasure. But I am quite adept at thunder and brimstone when the need arises. Everyone soon learns that life is pleasant when my rules are obeyed.”

  “Very pleasant,” he rasped, and Janet’s cheeks went a little pink.

  Marjorie stilled at the banked heat, the knowledge and intimacy in their exchanged glance.

  Of course. Janet and Sir Lachlan were lovers.

  Embarrassment at how long it had taken for her to see the plainly obvious made her wince, but another emotion swiftly engulfed that: pure envy. Janet, a widow, and Sir Lachlan, a bachelor, had all the freedom in the world to indulge in an affair. Especially now that Janet had her own land, her own home. It was all so unfair. Because of her late father’s actions, Marjorie had been imprisoned for sixteen years, and now, rather than being able to choose a younger, virile lover like Sir Lachlan, she would be forced to wed at the king’s desire. Yes, Janet had said the king was a romantic at heart and not to give up hope of a happy marriage, but it was hard to imagine that outcome. She’d seen the men at court, the nobles and lairds and dignitaries. Marriages were never a reward for the lady but usually for a man’s long service to the crown or to join the lands of two great families.

  A scream of frustration about to tear from deep inside her, Marjorie abruptly pushed back her chair and got to her feet. “Forgive me, Janet, Sir Lachlan. My, ah, stomach is still unsettled after the journey, and I would like nothing more than to lie down.”

  Sir Lachlan stared at her, his lips parting as though he might speak before they clamped shut.

  Janet’s gaze was all sympathy. “Poor dear. I had the servants put your trunks upstairs in the chamber next to mine. Second door on the left side of the hallway. I’ll send up some hot water for a sponge bath and visit you later.”

  “Thank you. Good evening,” said Marjorie with a curtsy, then she turned and walked out of the dining hall.

  Fortunately it was not yet dark outside, and with the manor boasting a number of windows with expensive glass panes, she could see without the need for a torch or candle. The stairs were wooden, and while she winced a little at the heavy thud of her footsteps, at least they weren’t spiral to make her head spin more than it already was.

  When she opened the door to her chamber, her breath caught.

  Oh. It was lovely.

  Not especially large but generously furnished. Intricate tapestries of unicorns at play and maidens picking flowers hung from the walls to stop draughts, and the woven rugs on the floor were thick enough for her shoes to sink into. Two windows with shutters to keep out the wind and rain overlooked the gardens, and a fire had already been lit in the small stone hearth. A cushioned chair and table sat in front of the fire, but her gaze stopped worshipfully on the four-poster bed on the other side of the room. Not a cot or a pallet or a wooden board, but a bed.

  Marjorie moaned as she hurried to it, yanking the embroidered quilts back to reveal crisp linen sheets covering a feather mattress with no sag. It looked new. About ready to hurl herself onto it and sleep for a hundred years, she halted when a knock at the open door revealed a smiling servant with a bowl of steaming water and a cloth.

  “For you, milady. The mistress ordered it. I’ll just put it over here on the stand.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No trouble. You need anything, just ask. We’re glad to have you here. Serving the king was a great honor, but he only visited a few times each year. Steady employment is a boon.”

  Marjorie nodded. “This room is beautiful.”

  �
��Aye. The king oversaw all the furnishings, you know. He’s a man of refined tastes. Loves them French fashions, even if he didn’t always love the French. This James is a good one, unlike him before.”

  Stifling a laugh at the older woman’s plain speaking, so typical of a Highlander, Marjorie nodded again. “May the king prosper.”

  “Do you need help with your gown?”

  “Please.”

  Once the servant departed, Marjorie went to the bowl of hot water, dipped the cloth in, and wiped it over her face and body. Oh, it felt nice. Then she went to her trunk and found a fresh linen nightgown and her most prized possession: a silver comb that had belonged to her mother. Attending to her long tresses was a necessary chore; if she did not, they would be a bird’s nest by morning.

  Grimacing, she began to tug the comb through her hair. “Ow!”

  “Easy, my dear,” said a familiar female voice laced with amusement. “Few ladies have the bone structure to suit baldness. Let me comb it for you.”

  Marjorie glanced over at Janet. Her lips were plump and pink—clearly she’d been recently and quite thoroughly kissed—and that stab of envy surged through her again. “Sir Lachlan has retired?”

  “No, he’s gone to inspect the manor and grounds. He takes his duties very seriously, fortunately for us. We have plenty of time to discuss your attraction to him.”

  Her comb clattered onto the stone floor.

  …

  Her ward’s expression was part stricken, part guilt, part rabbit caught in torchlight, and on another occasion Janet might have laughed. Courtiers well knew her habit of saying what needed to be said rather than dancing around the topic, but of course Marjorie didn’t. No doubt she was accustomed to diversion and dissembling, if she got conversation at all.

  But they did need to talk about this, and a few of her unbreakable guardian rules.