Scandalous Passions (Highland Menage)

by Nicola Davidson

  “What must we do?” asked Marjorie in a hushed, reverent tone.

  Janet smiled. “Lachlan is going to pleasure my cunt. Aren’t you, pet?”

  “Aye,” he said hoarsely, gratefully kneeling between her thighs. But before she permitted him his feast, she leaned forward and tangled her fingers in his hair, plundering his mouth in a brutal, heated kiss.

  “And you, Marjorie, are going to sit beside me and tend to my nipples. They are in desperate need of pinching. And sucking.”

  He’d not thought this day could be improved. Yet above him, as he lapped at Lady Janet’s soaked cunt, Lady Marjorie attended to her guardian’s taut, pale-brown nipples with the same air of curiosity and eagerness that she’d displayed for his cock. Touching. Kissing. And at last, sucking.

  Lady Janet moaned. “I’ve not had two lovers together before. This is heavenly. Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop…”

  Lachlan glanced at Lady Marjorie, who grinned and winked at him before sucking harder on Lady Janet’s nipple. Not to be outdone, he rasped his short beard across Lady Janet’s inner thighs, pushed two fingers inside her cunt, and fastened his lips around her pearl. Their cool, controlled lover writhed on the chaise, but they continued to pleasure her until she threw back her head and screamed in ecstasy, grinding her cunt against Lachlan’s face as release overcame her.

  Licking his lips to retain the taste of Lady Janet in his mouth, Lachlan rested his head on her belly and draped his arm over her thighs. On the chaise, Lady Marjorie had pressed herself close, resting her head on her guardian’s shoulder. Now this, this was heavenly.

  “I suppose we must…rise soon,” he mumbled. “Guests for supper.”

  “Guests?” said Lady Marjorie. “What guests?”

  “From the neighboring lands, those whom the king was friendly with,” said Lady Janet. “I have not met them as yet.”

  “I have,” said Lachlan. “It’s the Sinclairs. Niall and Jean. And the Campbells. Hamish and Aileen.”

  Lady Janet froze. “Aileen Campbell?” she choked out. “Let me up. Let me up.”

  Stunned, he could only watch as she dislodged herself from them and darted over to her pile of discarded clothing to pull on her shift. She was tense and upset, looking as though she wished to flee not just the solar but the manor as well.

  Why would Aileen Campbell coming to supper make her react so? Were they old enemies?

  The back of his neck prickled. Perchance at supper he would find out.

  …

  She held onto peace of mind by the thinnest of threads.

  Taking another gulp of wine, Janet counted to ten in Gaelic, French, and Latin in her head just to suppress the bloodcurdling shriek threatening to unleash at any moment.

  For in this hall, sitting just a few feet away to her right, sat ebony-haired, violet-eyed Aileen, her first lover. Her first love.

  And no one else at the table knew.

  Janet forced a smile as conversation flowed around her and the men and women sampled the many sweet and savory dishes the kitchens had prepared. Next to Aileen sat her beefy red-haired husband, Hamish, then Jean Sinclair, a pretty blonde. At the other end of the table was Niall Sinclair, a silver-haired diplomat. To her left were Lachlan and Marjorie, and Hamish’s equally red-haired younger brother, Angus, a charming and extraordinarily well-dressed courtier she didn’t trust for a moment. But try as she might, she couldn’t stop herself from glancing at Aileen. Aileen couldn’t stop glancing at her either.

  And she knew that Marjorie and Lachlan had noticed something amiss. They were whispering, their foreheads nearly touching, and sending her concerned glances.

  This would not be something she could brazen her way through. Not after the blissful hours they’d spent together in the solar. But she needed to speak to Aileen privately, without any of the other guests growing suspicious. Or guessing their truth.

  “What on earth are you two whispering about, Sir Lachlan? Do share it with the table,” said Jean Sinclair with a friendly smile.

  Lachlan went rigid in his seat, his cheeks darkening a little. “Nothing of importance.”

  The older blond woman laughed. “Nonsense. You both looked quite serious. Are you and Lady Marjorie sweethearts?”

  Marjorie sent her an anxious glance. Lachlan’s expression settled into impassiveness, a sure sign that he did not wish to be questioned. In truth, this afternoon the three of them had become lovers. While in the past she would have paraded her latest lover about, she didn’t want to reveal that tidbit to these courtiers. It was too new. Too complex. Too precious.

  Janet cleared her throat. “Lady Marjorie is my ward until the king selects a husband for her, and Sir Lachlan was appointed to protect us both. More wine, Jean?”

  “You are fortunate, Lady Janet, to have so fair a maiden under your roof,” said Angus Campbell, raising his goblet to both her and Lady Marjorie. “We are starved of beauty and overrun with scholars and monks in St. Andrews.”

  Aileen shook her head at her husband’s brother. “Starved of beauty? Jean and I are thrilled to learn we are gargoyles, Angus. But you are right. Beauty has arrived, and we should rejoice.”

  As though a cord about her neck tugged at her, Janet met Aileen’s soft, yielding yet heated gaze. Saints alive, she played a dangerous game with her husband sitting next to her!

  “Mistress Campbell,” said Lachlan abruptly. “You know Lady Janet?”

  Oh no.

  Hamish Campbell raised a bushy red eyebrow at his wife. “You did not say so, sweetheart.”

  “Ah…from a very long time ago,” said Aileen, her smile strained. “One summer we—”

  “Shared a French tutor,” said Lady Janet crisply before her former lover wilted under questioning and hurt those at the table. Only both sets of parents knew the real reason for Aileen’s swift marriage to Hamish and Janet being gifted to the king. “The worst in history. Half of every lesson, he grumbled about all Scotland’s faults compared to France. Too cold! Too rainy! And the food, mon dieu!”

  Aileen laughed, her shoulders visibly relaxing. “I always wondered why he did not leave if it was all so terrible.”

  “Maybe debts in France,” said Niall.

  “A cellar full of dismembered limbs,” said Angus, his eyes glinting.

  Hamish glared at his brother. “There are ladies present.”

  “No ordinary ladies, brother! Most interesting ones. Especially Lady Janet, here. Revered the length and breadth of the country as—”

  “Proudly the worst sinner in Scotland,” said Lady Janet archly, not at all inclined to hear false flattery. “It shall be a sad day when I am forced to relinquish the title. I do so enjoy turning the menfolk’s hair white.”

  Lachlan lifted his wine goblet. “Long may you reign.”

  She winked at him and raised her own. “To mischief and mayhem.”

  The others at the table added their salute. “To mischief and mayhem!”

  Niall then frowned. “But not too much. Those south of the border are ever ready to invade. Sir Lachlan, you have fought in many battles. Would you say the threat remains?”

  Janet hesitated, torn at the turn in conversation. While she was greatly relieved to no longer have all gazes on her and knew without looking that her former lover felt the same, Lachlan hated to speak in public. He’d always been the one who lurked in the shadows, the man of deeds rather than words. The only person he’d felt comfortable talking with for any length of time was the king.

  Indeed, Lachlan appeared to be wishing himself miles away.

  “Aye,” he said eventually. “Always will.”

  “But we have an English-born queen now,” said Angus. “Surely you are overcautious.”

  Janet snorted. “Time will tell where Margaret’s true loyalties lie. Her Tudor blood flows strong.”

  �
�When there is a Scots prince in the cradle, we’ll all feel better,” said Jean. “’Tis a woman’s most sacred duty, after all. None more so than a queen.”

  “Indeed,” Janet replied, gritting her teeth. Now it was she who wished to flee into the night. Each day she thought she’d finally accepted her barrenness. Then a woman would comment on pregnancy or childbirth, and it would sting like a thousand little cuts.

  “More wine, lady?” said Lachlan, an understanding in his gaze that made her heart clench.

  “I believe I will,” she replied softly.

  “Before you do, Lady Janet,” burst out Aileen. “I am feeling a little unwell. Do you have some peppermint tonic, by chance?”

  She hesitated, torn. They did need to talk. And yet somehow leaving the table with Aileen, in a sense choosing her over Lachlan and Marjorie, felt like a betrayal after everything that had happened on the journey from Stirling Castle and since they’d arrived.

  Do I still desire Aileen?

  Janet studied her former lover. She was indeed an attractive woman. But it had been so long, and she’d had so many lovers since. Besides. She wasn’t Marjorie, with luscious, plump curves, bright-blue eyes, and a smile like sunshine. Or brawny, gruff, deliciously obedient Lachlan. Maybe now it was time to lay the past to rest forever.

  “I do,” she replied, turning to the others but truly addressing Lachlan and Marjorie. “Please excuse us just for a few minutes while I assist Aileen.”

  They walked from the room, and she directed Aileen into a small antechamber next to the chapel that served as a storage room of sorts, without a tonic to be found.

  “Janet…” Aileen said huskily, reaching for her.

  She stepped back. “It’s been a long time.”

  “What is the matter? You still want me. I know you do. We couldn’t take our eyes off one another at supper.”

  Janet shook her head. “I was shocked to see you. I did not know you and Hamish were the longstanding guests of the king. But I do not dally with those who are wed. An unbreakable rule of mine.”

  The other woman pouted. “You and your rules. Do not think of my husband; we have an understanding now that he has his heirs. Think of me. Think of us and all that time lost because of my silly father. I never stopped loving you.”

  “No, Aileen,” she murmured. “That summer will always hold a special place in my heart. But a memory it shall remain.”

  “Is it the king’s Beast? Or your ward?” Aileen said abruptly, her violet eyes flashing with jealousy. “I saw the tender look you gave her.”

  “Do not—”

  “You’ll forget Lady Marjorie once she’s wed, and I’ll be waiting. I’ll win back your love, and it will be just like before; you’ll see.”

  Dismay gathered like storm clouds. They could not tarry in this room any longer, or the other guests would grow curious. But it seemed her former lover was determined to recapture the past no matter what she was told…an act that could unleash several kinds of trouble.

  And more trouble was the last thing she needed.

  …

  Everything had been so right. And now it was all wrong.

  Marjorie stared at the duck, beef, and cooked vegetables on her pewter plate, her appetite gone since Janet had left the room with Aileen Campbell. She and Lachlan had seen there was some sort of bond between the two women—he’d even asked if they knew each other—but she didn’t believe for a moment the story about sharing a tutor. Two people did not share stolen glances over a tutor. And that made her heart hurt.

  Their time in the wagon and in the solar with Lachlan had meant everything. She’d thought Janet felt something for her in return. But maybe that was just the loneliness that had been her most faithful companion, tricking her, seeing something that wasn’t there.

  Angus Campbell cleared his throat. “I am desperate for some air. Lady Marjorie, would you care to walk in the gardens for a bit? I should enjoy hearing of your convent life.”

  “Sun is setting,” growled Lachlan before she could reply.

  “Nonsense,” said Angus. “Plenty of time for a short walk. No need to scowl, Sir Lachlan. You know, if you scowled less and smiled more, you might find a wife as pretty as Mistress Sinclair here.”

  Lachlan glared at him. “Not looking.”

  Not looking.

  Marjorie winced. Just two words and her heart had crushed to powder.

  The second rejection shouldn’t hurt; she wasn’t free to choose Lachlan even if she wished to. But it did. Especially after Janet had chosen Aileen. Especially when in the solar she had touched him so intimately, had him in her mouth, reveled in the splash of his seed on her breasts.

  It seemed no matter what she said or did, she would always be unwanted.

  “Lady Marjorie? A walk?”

  She studied Angus Campbell. The man appeared her opposite in every way: slender, handsome, red hair falling to his shoulders without a single strand out of place. His clothing was new, costly, and in the French style. In truth, he did not make her heart beat faster like Lachlan did—or Janet, for that matter. And his elaborate flattery seemed to extend to all women rather than her in particular—a true courtier. Yet no one else had asked her to take a walk in the garden nearby, and in her guardian’s absence, Jean Sinclair clearly approved. She was smiling indulgently at the notion of her accompanying Angus.

  Could she grow to love such a man, one already in the king’s favor?

  There was only one way to be sure.

  “Yes,” Marjorie said abruptly. “I should like that, Master Campbell. The flowers in the garden are lovely.”

  “Not as lovely as you,” he replied gallantly, rising to his feet.

  Lachlan snorted, and she ignored it completely. Hearing a waterfall of compliments might go a way to mending her bruised heart.

  Outside, the sun had begun to set, bathing the manor in a pretty pinkish glow. Insects and birds chirped merrily, and the closer they moved to the well-tended gardens, the stronger the scent of blooms became. In truth she preferred the fresh scent of herbs, especially the peppermint the women had washed her hair with, but flowers were quite nice also.

  “So,” said Angus, offering his arm. “Tell me of yourself. Oh, and mind my doublet sleeve; it is satin and newly arrived from Paris.”

  Marjorie sighed inwardly. She would have to become accustomed to such warnings; many of the men at court took as much care with their clothing as ladies and only wore rich, colorful fabrics from Paris or Rome. “There is little to tell, sir,” she said slowly. “I lived most of my life in a convent, until the king in his mercy brought me to court and placed me in the care of Lady Janet, for which I am most grateful.”

  “Really? A gentle lady like yourself would find her coarse, surely.”

  “Not at all,” she replied firmly. “I have found her most kind and generous.”

  Especially in lessons of a lusty nature.

  Angus chuckled. “Your loyalty is commendable. An admirable trait in a wife, alongside a handsome dowry. Such a shame your traitor father’s lands belong to the crown now.”

  Marjorie halted, looking up at the man in disbelief. “Beg pardon?”

  He smiled ruefully. “Forgive me. I misspoke. Do you embroider? Play an instrument?”

  “I enjoy embroidery,” she said stiffly. “It is starting to get dark. We should return to the hall.”

  “How unfriendly,” Angus scolded, stepping closer so he loomed over her. “Does the king know how ill mannered you are? How cold? Do not fret, Marjie. I shall warm you.”

  Before she could inform him she neither required warming nor appreciated her name being shortened so, Angus slid his hands to either side of her face and kissed her.

  She felt…nothing.

  Well, nothing but anger at this stranger handling her without permission and disgust at the slimy t
ongue attempting to gain entry to her mouth. Janet had spoken of pleasure for all, of not forcing your will on another. Clearly this man had not received the correct guidance. Lifting her hands, she pressed them against his chest in an attempt to push him away.

  “There, there,” Angus muttered, kissing a wet trail to her ear. “I know you are virgin and quite overcome with my skill. Do not worry; I shall teach you…ow! My foot!”

  Marjorie stepped back. Really, she needed a cloth to wipe him from her face, but her gown sleeve would have to suffice. “You are fortunate my eating knife is in the hall, sir.”

  His eyes narrowed, his cheeks bright red. “Fat as a sow and ugly as well. Who would want to wed you anyway? I am far superiorrrrrrrrrahhhhhh…”

  In the blink of an eye, Angus was jerked away and slammed into a tree trunk.

  “What did you say?” snarled Lachlan, the sound of his meaty fist tearing the other man’s satin doublet, newly arrived from Paris, far more satisfying than she would ever confess.

  “Naught! Put me down! I am friend to King James!”

  Marjorie folded her arms. She had become a terrible person. At Stirling Castle, the sight of Lachlan punishing another man for bad behavior had alarmed her. Now, she rather liked it. If he continued holding Angus just so, she could probably land a few kicks to the shin in retribution for that slimy tongue. But darkness was encroaching rapidly, and it would be difficult to explain this without causing Janet embarrassment.

  “Lachlan,” she said softly. “Let him go.”

  “He insulted you.”

  “I know. And he will have a sore foot and ruined doublet to show for it. He is not worth your further effort. Or mine.”

  The Beast growled at Angus but let him drop to the grass in a heap. “Run, rabbit. To return…is to be hunted.”

  The other man went whiter than snow, scrambled to his feet, and hurried back toward the manor.

  “Thank you, once again, for your assistance. I did not want to say it in front of that snake, but you already angered the king because of me. I should not like to see you in trouble.”