Scandalous Passions (Highland Menage)

by Nicola Davidson

  Lachlan puffed out a short breath and flexed his fingers. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No. But he kissed me, and I did not want him to. Oh, Lachlan, it was awful. I called him snake because of his slimy tongue. He put it in my ear! Ugh!”

  “Lady Marjorie—”

  “Just Marjorie,” she said swiftly. “We might not be sweethearts, but after today I think we are becoming friends?”

  Lachlan looked to the heavens, but when he gazed at her again, the tender heat in his eyes burned her. “Good friends.”

  A sob caught in her throat, and she flung herself at his chest. When his arms slowly closed around her and one hand rubbed her back, she burrowed against his warmth. “I…I do not wish to leave here. To wed a stranger. I want to stay with you and Janet. I like you both. So very much.”

  “Aye.” His arms tightened, his lips brushing her forehead in the briefest of caresses that branded her for eternity.

  Yet they both well knew when the time came…

  Staying would not be a choice.

  Chapter Eight

  After several days of biting winds and just enough rain to trap everyone inside the manor until they paced like caged animals, to see the clouds had cleared and naught more than a gentle breeze stirred the trees was a great relief.

  Lachlan waited at the bottom of the stairs for Marjorie and Lady Janet, at his feet one basket with food and flagons of wine and small ale and another with an old woolen blanket and several cushions. They were all in need of some sunshine and fresh air after the foul weather, but more especially, time alone together. Lady Janet had been furious when she’d learned of Angus Campbell’s behavior in the garden and had forbidden the man from visiting the manor again. She had offered reassurance regarding her absence with Aileen Campbell, yet there remained an air of tension about her. He hoped in a less formal setting, she might confide what weighed on her mind.

  “Do I see wine in that basket?”

  He smiled as Lady Janet descended the staircase like an empress. Well. Empress of his world, at least. “Aye, lady. Enough for merriment.”

  “Excellent,” said Marjorie, trailing just behind. “Where are you taking us, Lachlan? Are we riding?”

  “No need. It’s a short distance. Half mile or so.”

  Lady Janet nodded. “Lead on, then. If I’m trapped one more moment within these walls, I shall go mad. I always find a walk helps to clear my mind.”

  It was tempting to press her further, but servants were bustling about, equally eager to make use of the fine weather and complete their tasks before chapel. Some had been given leave to visit their families for the afternoon and moved particularly swiftly with baskets of linens to be laundered, silver to be polished, and rugs to be beaten free of dust and dirt.

  Instead, he, Lady Janet, and Marjorie made their way down the gravel path, past the flower garden and orchard, toward the hunting grounds. When they reached a large clump of shrubbery, he directed the ladies to the right, down a narrow way that had been gouged out of a bank to allow access to the stream below.

  “Here,” said Lachlan, leading them to a small sand clearing about twenty feet wide and deep. “Thought this might do.”

  “Oh, it’s lovely,” said Marjorie, clasping her hands together.

  Eager to serve, he unpacked the first basket, spreading out the rug and arranging the cushions in a half circle. Lady Janet sank onto the rug with a deep sigh, leaning back on a cushion and lifting her face to the sun.

  “I’ll need all the lemon juice in Scotland for the freckles I shall gain this day, but it will be worth it. Hold your noses now, I’m removing my shoes and stockings.”

  As soon as she did so, Marjorie began to cough and sway before pressing her hand to her forehead, swooning onto the cushion and twitching, then lying deathly still.

  Lachlan applauded.

  Lady Janet raised an eyebrow. “Saucy. Both of you.”

  “Are you going to punish us, mistress?” said Marjorie, batting her lashes, and her guardian couldn’t help but smile.

  “Indeed. An extra half hour on your knees—”

  “Hooray!”

  “In chapel.”

  They both stared at her in horror. Lady Janet stared back for a few moments, then she began to laugh. “Your faces.”

  The sound warmed his heart, as did the easy way she lounged. God’s blood, he wished he could declare his heart, but it never seemed to be quite the right time, and he had no wish to make a fool of himself. Instead, Lachlan unpacked the second basket and poured a goblet of wine for each of them. Soon they lay together in companionable silence, the sound of birds chirping and water trickling over ancient rocks enough.

  Eventually, Marjorie sat up. “Will you tell us a story from court, Janet? A bawdy one?”

  Lady Janet held out her goblet to be refilled. “A bawdy tale? From me? Impossible, my dear. I have led a quiet and scandal-free life…that wasn’t a snort, was it Lachlan?”

  “Noooo, my lady,” he replied, unable to halt his lips twitching.

  “It was,” she said archly. “For that you may rub my feet. And I’ll tell you a tale of the time I found a French envoy fucking an English border lord in a privy closet. France had England tamed and well conquered, I assure you…”

  Soothed by her husky tone, Lachlan settled into his task and circled one thumb into the arch of her foot. Lady Janet had a gift for storytelling; the detail she remembered, alongside her sharp wit and her ability to mimic voices of certain courtiers, amused him to no end.

  Some events he recalled, like the occasion she and James had a particularly hot-tempered argument. She’d hurled a goblet—missing the king by several feet at least—which instead flew straight out a window and knocked unconscious a hapless guard taking a piss against the wall. James had sworn he was done with her, a threat which lasted all of an hour. Though they had ceased to be lovers some years prior, all of Scotland knew she remained close to the king’s heart.

  At one point his thigh was nudged, and he glanced down to see a small foot before glancing up to see Marjorie’s hopeful smile. He wordlessly shuffled across the rug a little so she could rest her foot on his leg before using his other thumb to rub her instep.

  Like this, it was easy to pretend they were both his ladies, unlikely as the dream might be.

  “I am getting parched,” said Lady Janet. “It is time for someone else to tell a tale. Lachlan?”

  His gut twisted. “Nay,” he said swiftly, refilling her goblet again. “You have the gift.”

  She smiled, took a few sips of wine, and launched into a recollection of James and Margaret’s wedding feast the previous year at Edinburgh. Or rather, the antics after the king and queen had retired.

  Marjorie’s eyes grew as round as pewter plates as she unsuccessfully attempted to stifle her laughter. “Sword fighting…naked?”

  Lady Janet nodded. “Indeed. But then an English envoy cut his leg, so the swords were put to one side. They decided to instead measure their cocks at full mast to declare the winner. ’Tis fortunate the wedding was held in August rather than December; otherwise a thumb might have triumphed.”

  “Clearly, Lachlan did not compete,” said Marjorie, her cheeks pink.

  “Duties elsewhere,” he replied, his own cheeks burning.

  Lady Janet raised her goblet in a salute. “You are admirably dedicated to duty, just like I am admirably dedicated to finishing my wine and resting on this cushion while someone else speaks. My throat is protesting. Lachlan, I’m sure you have many bawdy stories you could tell. All those evenings spent in taverns with the king…”

  He did. Probably hundreds. Yet even the thought of attempting such a feat with his affliction made cold sweat gather at the back of his neck. Only his mother and the king had accepted the flaw without judgment or scorn. His tongue refused to work when he tried to string toge
ther more than four words. It was like his mouth became separated from the rest of his body, a deserter who refused to follow orders.

  “Naught of interest,” he said eventually. “Shall we eat? I’ll go rinse…my hands.”

  Both women stared at him as he got to his feet, heads tilted and eyes sharp.

  Plague take it. Had they guessed?

  He fled to the stream.

  …

  Confused and troubled by Lachlan’s sudden departure, Marjorie glanced at Janet. “He, ah, really does not wish to speak.”

  Janet’s brow furrowed. “No, he doesn’t. And I don’t believe for a moment it is any reluctance for the topic. Lachlan is no prude and knows how I am. He also knows you aren’t nearly as innocent as you look.”

  A giggle escaped. “That is the truth. Lachlan doesn’t speak very much ever, though. Only a few words at a time.”

  Her gaze sharpened. “Always only a few words at a time. Any more and he pauses. I wonder…” Janet tapped her chin, then raised her voice. “Lachlan! Do come back, my pet.”

  Their protector returned from the stream like a man who’d walked the entire length of Scotland, his steps heavy and shoulders stooped. His gaze wary. “Yes?”

  Janet patted the ground beside her. “Come sit by me a moment. Then we’ll eat.”

  Lachlan obeyed but with obvious reluctance. That, and a hint of panic in his dark eyes. Knowing Janet was probably about to ask him a very difficult question, Marjorie sat down beside him and rested her head on his shoulder, twining her fingers with his. His hand felt cold from the stream water, but it soon warmed, and she almost cheered when his fingers briefly squeezed back.

  “Lachlan, my pet,” said Janet, her tone unusually gentle. “I’m going to ask a rather personal question. Of course you are free to refuse, but I hope you will answer.”

  “Ask,” he replied stiffly.

  “Does it hurt for you to speak? I mean, more than a few words and your mouth hurts? Maybe an old injury?”

  Lachlan went rigid, now more like a cornered Beast, his gaze darting between them as though searching for escape. “No.”

  Bolder than she’d ever been in her life, Marjorie said softly, “We know your mind is swift and sharp. How else would you be such a magnificent warrior? But maybe…your mouth is slower? In my mind I run like a Thoroughbred. But everything bounces, and my knees hurt, and I move more like that cursed wagon. It is terribly frustrating.”

  He stared at the rug, his free hand gripping his thigh so hard his knuckles were white.

  “I have…a speech affliction,” Lachlan rasped eventually, his gaze remaining resolutely down. “Words get stuck in m-my mouth. I know…I know what I w-want to s-say. But it does n-not work. Since I was a boy. The k-king knows. No one else. I say little. I pause. So they d-do not laugh. What man cannot speak?”

  Janet reached out and grasped his chin, forcing him to look at her. “Heed me well, Lachlan. The king assigned you as protector, but I choose to have you as a companion. You have proven in deeds, on countless occasions, that you are a man of great courage, loyalty, and skill. A man of great character. An exemplary lover. I understand you will always be aware of your battle scars. And your speech. But neither of those things changes how I feel about you. Not one bit. You are the Highland Beast. My pet.”

  He shuddered, staring at Janet. Then he turned and looked at Marjorie, and the rawness of old shame, the burgeoning hope in his glistening eyes, struck her to the core. Those were emotions she knew all too well.

  Marjorie beamed at him before kissing his cheek. Janet curled against his other side, and they held him tightly, stroking his hair, murmuring words of praise for sharing his painful secret with them. Gradually Lachlan began to relax, and they nudged him down onto the cushion and covered him with their bodies. He shuddered again, and a brawny arm slid around each of them, clamping them to his chest.

  How long they lay together like that—with the warmth of the early-afternoon sun on their faces, the only sounds the stream and a few birds—she could not say.

  Well, the only sounds except for her stomach. Mortified, Marjorie pressed on it, but naturally, it let out a second gurgle more like a thunderclap. “Do forgive me.”

  Lachlan slowly sat up. “I must feed you b-both. Both.”

  “What is in the basket?” asked Janet.

  “Bread. Cheese. Apple tarts. A dish of berries.”

  Somehow, the simple meal was the best she’d tasted, and Marjorie sighed in bliss as they finished all the food and the last of the wine.

  Abruptly, Janet laughed. “My dear, you have a spot of berry juice on your chin. Let me assist you.”

  She lifted her chin, thinking Janet would wipe it away with her thumb. Instead, her guardian cupped her cheek, flicking the spot with her tongue before kissing her deeply. A jolt ran through her body, centering between her legs, and she moaned.

  Lachlan watched them, his gaze glittering. “The sun is overwarm. We should return indoors.”

  “Agreed,” said Janet wickedly. “My ward requires further lessons. She must learn how it feels to have a man’s tongue on her pearl and in her cunt. Also, she should observe me riding my lover until he bucks like a stallion.”

  “Until his lover…screams with p-pleasure.”

  Excited beyond words, Marjorie put on her stockings and shoes before scrambling to her feet. “I’m ready.”

  When Janet had put on her stockings and shoes, they repacked the baskets and returned to the manor at a much brisker pace than they had left it. Nothing needed to be said; they all had the same purpose in mind. The solar and its sturdy chaise.

  But when they reached the front door, a servant met them there, holding a missive.

  “Letter came while you were out, mistress,” he said, bowing respectfully. “From Stirling Castle.”

  As though all three had been doused in icy water, they froze.

  “Thank you,” said Janet, her smile forced. “You may go.”

  Once the servant had left them, Janet took the small eating knife attached to her girdle and slid the blade under the red sealing wax. Then she unfolded the parchment and began to read. When her face went gray and she pressed a hand to her breast, Marjorie’s heart plummeted.

  “What does it say?” she choked out.

  “The king?” growled Lachlan.

  Janet shook her head, her expression grim. “Nay. Queen Margaret. Come with me into the chapel.”

  Nausea roiled in Marjorie’s stomach as they walked into the cool, dark sanctuary of the manor chapel, and for a moment she thought she would retch onto the floor. It clearly wasn’t a letter advising of a visit or a summons; her guardian looked far too angry.

  “What does the letter say?” she asked again, swallowing hard. Desperate not to hear the words she feared most.

  “Tell us, lady,” said Lachlan, even as he took Marjorie’s hand and squeezed it.

  “Her Grace writes,” Janet bit out, “that she has heard of Lady Marjorie Hepburn’s intemperate behavior toward a gentleman of good standing and knows in her heart that it is time for the king’s ward to wed so a husband might lead her back to virtue and grace. To strengthen the English alliance, it is hereby decreed Lady Marjorie Hepburn shall wed the English border baron, Lord Seaton, at Carlisle two weeks hence. Preparations are being made for travel.”

  Marjorie’s legs buckled, a wail of despair unleashing from her throat.

  “Please,” she begged, tears pouring down her face as she let go of Lachlan’s hand and threw herself at Janet’s feet. “Please do not let them take me away.”

  …

  She might be struck down for blasphemy in a chapel, but damn the queen. Damn men who decided a woman’s future with no care for her wishes. Damn that sniveling peacock Angus Campbell, who had scurried to court to whine when his pitiful attempt at seduction hadn’t su
cceeded.

  Janet sucked in a deep breath, a futile attempt at calming her rage so she might return to a place of rational reason. So she might think.

  After that wretched dinner where Aileen had unexpectedly appeared back in her life and declared a desire to rekindle their past, she’d been quite out of sorts. But this, this was beyond all. Despite her best efforts at keeping emotionally distant from her ward, this terrible letter and Marjorie’s distress were tearing her heart in two. Under no circumstances would she allow her to be snatched away because of a foolish child-queen and scorned male courtier. Certainly not to wed an Englishman, who would be utterly unworthy of such a treasure.

  Crouching down, Janet cupped Marjorie’s tearstained face and blotted the moisture with her thumbs. Then she grasped her chin firmly and kissed her. “As I said to Lachlan earlier this day, heed me well.”

  Marjorie sniffled, her shoulders still shaking. “Y-yes?”

  “I will think of a way to stop this, dear one. But you must rise from the floor and cease your tears so I can pace and ponder. Lachlan, help her onto a chair.”

  Their protector scooped Marjorie from the floor, but rather than placing her on the chair, he sat down and settled her in his lap. She buried her face in his chest, her shoulders gradually shaking less and less.

  Janet nodded approvingly at his tender care and began to march from one end of the chapel to the other, her heels overloud on the stone floor. “Good. Good. Now, let me see…”

  It took every bit of her will to show only command and control, for the task ahead was near impossible. To defy the Queen of Scotland’s decree and save Marjorie from the marital clutches of an ancient, pox-ridden English baron could be argued treasonous.

  At best, she faced losing both her lovers.

  At worst, she could forfeit all she had, including her own freedom.

  “Do we run?” asked Lachlan, his voice low and tense.

  Janet rubbed her hand across her face. “No. To run is to become a fugitive, to add abduction of the king’s ward to offenses against the crown for defying a royal decree, and add a bounty on our heads from both the Scottish and English purses. We would be hunted, imprisoned, possibly killed, and Marjorie dragged back to wed the border lord.”