Scandalous Passions (Highland Menage)

by Nicola Davidson

  Lachlan nodded. “If they have coin. Others lay wares on c-cloaks or blankets.”

  His wife wriggled on her saddle, her excitement clear. “I cannot wait to admire everything. Well, admire all that is fresh and well made, of course. Anything else shall feel the full weight of my scorn and wrath.”

  Lady Janet laughed. “And that is what I cannot wait to admire.”

  The manor was only a few miles from the town proper, and in little time a sprinkling of crofter cottages—with their small plots of land boasting rows of vegetables, pig pens, and hen houses—came into view. Approaching from the south as they were, soon they would be able to see the upper reaches of St. Andrews castle to the left and the cathedral to the right, two ancient and imposing stone guardians that had stood between the town and sea for hundreds of years.

  Yet Lachlan shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. It might be because the town was one of the holiest places in Scotland and because of his own uneasy relationship with God, but he felt on edge that no word had arrived from Stirling about Marjorie’s proposed marriage or details on travel arrangements. It made him suspicious. His late mother had taught him as a young lad to never ignore his instincts, and that advice had served him well, even saved his life on a few occasions.

  Glancing left and right, he watched townspeople go about their day. They seemed innocent enough, but as he well knew, people were not always as they seemed.

  In this market town full of strangers, he would need to keep his wits about him.

  …

  Last time she had set foot in St. Andrews, she had been too anxious, too overwhelmed, too rushed in her haste to be wed to really notice anything about the town.

  This time, she could admire everything.

  Marjorie gripped her reins, lest she slide from her saddle as her head jerked up and down and left and right, trying to see all that was around her as they reached the bottom of Market Street. Tradesmen and merchants had set up stalls the entire length of it, and even from here she could see trays of vegetables; pens containing chickens, pigs, and cows; tinkers selling pots, pans, and knives; a stall entirely of leather goods; many selling various fabrics; even a smithy working metal and a carpenter sanding a small table while onlookers watched. There were several fishmongers bellowing about fresh catch, and her nose wrinkled at the briny scent combined with tilled soil, meat roasting on spits, and small piles of manure.

  “Fragrant, isn’t it?”

  She turned to Janet, who regarded her with glinting eyes. To have her mistress look at her with fondness again rather than distant politeness relieved her no end. The last few days in the manor had stretched her nerves to breaking point, but as Janet refused to discuss how her barrenness hurt her, or the matter of a child, how to proceed had been unclear.

  Saints willing, today could change everything.

  “So fragrant,” Marjorie agreed. “I just hope when I dismount, I land in cool dirt rather than something fresh and warm.”

  “Indeed. We should probably tie up the horses at this end of the street rather than further down. The closer we get to the cathedral, the busier it will be. So many pilgrims travel here, wanting to look at the relics.”

  “Relics,” Lachlan grunted, sliding from his mount before handing the reins and a coin to one of the young lads offering to feed, water, and walk horses in a roped-off square. “So they say.”

  After he helped them both from their horses, Marjorie tentatively approached her guardian. To her delight, Janet linked arms with her, and they began to walk.

  “I must beg forgiveness,” she blurted. “I did not know about your, ah…”

  “Barrenness?”

  “I feel so terrible. Chattering on and on and all the while causing you pain—”

  “No, dear one,” said Janet, shaking her head. “Not here. I swear we shall speak of the matter soon and come to some agreement where we can all be happy. For now…think about what you shall beg me for when we return to the manor, retreat to the solar, and make use of that sturdy chaise.”

  Marjorie quivered. Touching herself had brought some relief the past few endless nights alone in bed, but nothing in the world could compare to the soul-shattering pleasure she’d known with Janet and Lachlan. “I…I can think of a few things.”

  “So eager. You’ve missed your lessons, then?”

  Janet’s tone and smile were indulgent, but a hint of something far deeper lurked in her eyes. Almost as though her bold, commanding mistress felt a little uncertain. And to that, she could only give honesty. Probably too much, too soon, but after so much upheaval, she did not want to hide her true feelings any longer. Who knew what the future would hold for them all?

  “So much,” said Marjorie rawly. “I need you, as I need Lachlan. In bed and out. Always. I…I love you.”

  Janet swallowed hard, her gaze softening, her hand tightening on Marjorie’s arm. “Well. Well. That is sweet music to my ears. I…ah…where is your husband? Lachlan, stop scowling at the cathedral, or you’ll be struck by lightning.”

  He joined them and grunted again. “Relics. Probably chicken bones. Or some unfortunate duck.”

  “Have you seen them?”

  “Yes. Have you?”

  Janet rolled her eyes. “One cannot be part of the king’s retinue and not see them.”

  “What is it like?” Marjorie demanded, both disappointed Janet had avoided expressing herself fully once again and curious about the holy place she’d heard so much about. “Inside St. Andrews cathedral, I mean.”

  “Warm,” said Lachlan, as he placed his hand at her back and rubbed it in that wonderfully soothing manner, just the way she enjoyed. “There are…so many candles. That and the incense…stings the eyes.”

  Janet nodded. “They do burn a lot of incense. But it is quite magnificent inside, dear one. You enter the north doors and progress to the relics. There are a great many shrines, and as Lachlan said, all lit up with candles. Also stained-glass windows, brightly painted effigies…St. Andrew at the highest point, of course…then you get to the casse, the jeweled box containing the bones. In truth I cannot be certain that they are real. But when you are there…it feels real. And it seems that is enough for the pilgrims. Now. We must look at these stalls so I can witness your best scorn and wrath.”

  Marjorie grinned reluctantly. “Which stall first?”

  “Fishmonger?” said Lachlan, gesturing to a large stall several feet away. “We know how…you adore fish.”

  “Oh, you!” she replied, swatting her husband’s chest when he puckered his lips and made a kissing sound, possibly the most playful act of his life. “Beast.”

  “So they say.”

  Marjorie blushed at the warmth in his eyes. With Janet’s wicked promise still echoing in her mind, and now Lachlan’s palpable tenderness, she wanted to leave the market and return to the manor at once so they could reunite properly. After days without their touch, she craved them both more than air. “I…ah…”

  “Devil take it.”

  Startled at the curse, she glanced at Janet, but her mistress’s gaze was directed down Market Street, and her smile had vanished. “What do you see?”

  “The Campbells are here. Hamish, Aileen, and that wretched peacock Angus.”

  Wishing the fashionable man to purgatory, Marjorie gritted her teeth. The incident in the garden had been unpleasant, but what the snake had done after that, she would never forgive him for. He was responsible for the queen deciding she must swiftly wed the English baron in Carlisle. He had nearly ruined her life with his petulant act of vengeance when she had rejected his advances. It might be due to Lachlan’s warrior influence, but her thoughts at this moment were bloodthirsty rather than forgiving as she’d been taught. The prioress and nuns would be horrified, although Sister Elspeth and her kitchen dog might understand the sentiment.

  In truth, the thought of t
hat dog taking a large nip of Angus’s bottom cheered her greatly.

  “I won’t speak to them,” Marjorie announced, uncaring if the Campbells thought her impolite or cold, as her would-be lover had accused.

  “He’s fortunate…to retain all limbs,” growled Lachlan.

  Janet folded her arms. “I won’t speak to Angus; that hell-spawned rodent is dead to me. But I should greet Hamish. And Aileen.”

  Marjorie stilled. Something in the way Janet said the other woman’s name didn’t ease her temper but made her want to spit needles. “How do you know her, really?”

  “I told you at that supper,” said Janet, looking away. “We shared a tutor a long time ago.”

  “Mistress,” said Lachlan, frowning. “We deserve truth.”

  Her guardian’s expression turned hunted, and Marjorie’s heart plummeted. Indeed, there was certainly more to the tale than a shared tutor.

  Janet straightened her shoulders. Then she sighed. “Yes, you do. Aileen…her father’s lands marched alongside my father’s. We saw each other often. We did share a tutor, but…”

  “But?” whispered Marjorie, glancing across at Lachlan. He looked as grim as she felt.

  “Aileen was my lover. My first. And a woman I once loved.”

  …

  Devil take it, why did everything wonderful have to be swiftly followed by disaster?

  Janet winced, an action becoming all too familiar. For a woman who prided herself on plain speaking, she tied herself in terrible knots when it came to her two lovers. And by the hurt on Marjorie’s face and Lachlan’s impassiveness, that mask he only wore when concealing a great deal of emotion, she had blundered badly. Again.

  Marjorie had declared her love. And she’d been so overcome that she’d babbled like an infant and changed the subject. The worst possible subject. How foolish she’d been not to tell Marjorie and Lachlan the truth about Aileen after that supper. Naturally it had been prudent not to speak of it with blissfully unaware Hamish and Angus at the table, but she’d had ample opportunity to do so since then.

  “I should have confessed,” said Janet into the heavy silence. “It was wrong of me not to tell the whole tale.”

  “Why did you not tell us?” asked Marjorie, her beautiful face ashen.

  “I’m not sure. I honestly did not know Aileen and Hamish lived near the manor, so it was a great shock to learn they were the supper guests. I have not seen either of them in many years. Since that summer, in fact. Aileen and I were discovered naked together, you see. My parents sent me to court as a gift to the king, and her parents arranged a hasty marriage.”

  “Do you still”—Lachlan pursed his lips as though he’d tasted something bitter—“care for her?”

  At least this question she could answer.

  Being alone with Aileen, she’d not felt any desire to retreat into the past. Not even a kiss or embrace. She would always remember that summer…more so for what she had learned of herself: that she lusted for women as well as men. Also some regret that their affair had been halted by others rather than coming to its own end as it should, so each could have walked away knowing they had not found their forever love and to keep searching. It had been that way with James. Yes, she had loved Fergus dearly and would always miss him, but she now knew for certain that her heart had found two new people to settle on: Lachlan and Marjorie.

  Janet took a deep breath. “Let me explain it thus—”

  “Lady Janet!”

  At the booming hail from Hamish Campbell, she wanted to hurl manure at his chest, which was quite unfair. Unlike his rodent brother, Hamish remained an amiable, decent man. “Master Campbell,” she said, then shifted her gaze. “Aileen.”

  Angus glared at her when she did not greet him but remarkably remained silent.

  Aileen held out a hand, her smile forced. “Will you walk with me, Janet?”

  A chill of unease slithered down her spine at the odd request. They really didn’t have anything to discuss that required privacy. “Why?”

  “Just over here for a bit,” Aileen coaxed. “Come along, now.”

  Janet glanced back at her lovers. Marjorie shook her head, her eyes pleading and face even paler than before. Lachlan’s hand moved to his sword hilt, his gaze menacing as it rested on the Campbells, but he, too, said nothing. “I’d rather not. I’m here with Sir Lachlan and Lady Marjorie.”

  “You must!” shrieked Aileen as she grabbed Janet’s arm and yanked her away from the group.

  In the blink of an eye, hell unleashed.

  Men appeared. So many men, wearing the royal livery and armed with swords. Lachlan pulled Marjorie behind him and unsheathed his own sword, looking ready to slay each and every one, but the men stood shoulder to shoulder and continued to advance, trapping the two against a wooden fence.

  Horror engulfed Janet like a sodden cloak, dark and suffocating. “Aileen. What have you done?”

  “I did it for us,” her former lover hissed. “A lady deserves so much better than the forced company of a traitor’s daughter and a bastard knight. They shame you. And have betrayed your trust. Did you know they were seen marrying in this town? Against the queen’s command? They are traitors! But do not worry; I shall protect you. Your very own Aileen, who loves you still. And you’ll forget them soon enough.”

  Swallowing hard against the bile threatening to choke her, Janet shook her head. “No. No.”

  But her words were swept away by the cool sea breeze. The townspeople had fled; the tradesmen and merchants cowered behind their stalls. No one would come to their aid. It would have to be her, and her alone.

  “Sir Lachlan Ross!” bellowed one of the liveried strangers. “Lay down your sword in the name of Queen Margaret.”

  “No,” snarled Lachlan. “I protect my own.”

  “Have a care for life and limb. You and Lady Marjorie Hepburn—”

  “Ross,” said Marjorie defiantly as she curled her hand around Lachlan’s left arm. “My name is Lady Marjorie Ross.”

  Ignoring her words, the young man instead unrolled a piece of parchment. “Sir Lachlan Ross. Lady Marjorie Hepburn. You stand accused of unlawful acts and offenses against the crown. You shall stand trial one week hence and until that time shall be confined to the dungeon below St. Andrews castle—”

  Dungeon!

  “They will not!” said Janet sharply as she wrenched away from the woman now her sworn enemy. For Aileen to conspire with the English-born queen, to commit such a heinous act of betrayal against Marjorie and Lachlan for her own selfish ends—unforgivable.

  “Madam. I am ordered—”

  “Do not dare madam me, laddie,” snapped Janet, marching straight to him and poking his lean chest with one finger. “You know who I am?”

  He gulped. “Aye, Lady Janet.”

  “Then you understand I have the king’s ear, his great favor, and know his mind. Do you truly believe His Grace would permit his champion and his ward to be held in a dungeon?”

  “Queen Margaret did so order,” protested the young man weakly.

  Janet itched to slap him a dozen times, to scream in her righteous fury and agonizing fear. But only a cool head, a steely spine, would win this day. “That may be how matters progress in England. Are you certain our enlightened, anointed Scottish sovereign is fully aware of the young queen’s barbaric plan?”

  “Uh…”

  “Save your own neck, lad. Do not act in haste but confine the two so accused in chambers at my estate. There we can await the king’s orders and ensure all due process for a celebrated knight and a lady born.”

  He turned to confer with his men, and Janet looked over at Lachlan and Marjorie, trying to convey without words her unwavering support, her affection, her determination to defy the devil-spawned Margaret Tudor until she drew her last breath.

  After an eternity, the queen�
��s man turned back. “Very well,” he said grudgingly. “We’ll send word to His Grace and await him at your estate. Any trouble, though, and it will be the dungeon for them both.”

  Marjorie trembled, but she raised her chin, and Lachlan inclined his head before turning and very deliberately kissing her on the lips, another defiance and the act of an unashamed and affectionate husband. Then, he slowly sheathed his sword.

  Relief at the respite she’d gained nearly sent Janet to her knees, but she could not falter.

  The sternest battle of her life lay ahead: defeat the queen and win freedom for her lovers or be defeated…and lose them forever.

  Chapter Twelve

  After weeks of freedom, to be imprisoned again was unbearable. Although saints and Janet be praised, she’d been confined the past two days to a comfortably furnished chamber rather than a dungeon.

  A dungeon.

  Marjorie pressed her knuckles to her lips to halt a wave of nausea. She might still be sent there if Queen Margaret had her way. The king’s English wife was young, but she had a firm opinion on her superiority over anyone not of Tudor blood. She’d also already proven that she did not tolerate disobedience and would punish infractions in the harshest of ways.

  Now, Marjorie’s only hope, and indeed Lachlan’s only hope—the brave, strong warrior who had sacrificed all to help her—was the king’s prerogative of mercy. Which he might not be at all inclined to grant, considering she had wed without his permission and ruined a much-needed alliance with an English border lord.

  A sharp trumpet blast clawed her already shredded nerves, and she rushed to the window to see the king, queen, and a long retinue of others on horseback, plus several wagons, approach the manor.

  The day of reckoning had arrived. And she had no idea what to do or what to say. Trays of food and watered wine had been delivered by stone-faced guards, but she’d been forbidden visitors. Although from raised voices outside her chamber she knew Janet had attempted to see both her and Lachlan, who had been confined to another chamber farther down the hallway.