Scandalous Passions

by Nicola Davidson

  He would be guarding both.

  Strictly forbidden from either.

  God’s blood. Purgatory on earth, indeed.

  …

  King James was the last man she wanted to see this day. Yet as ever in her life, she had no say in the matter.

  Lady Marjorie Hepburn nodded at the guard who held the chamber door open for her, an opportunity to pause and catch her breath after hauling her plump form up the stairs at great pace to escape the condemning gazes and sneers below. She’d been a fool to think Stirling Castle would be different from imprisonment in the cold, bleak, and lonely convent. There might be men here, the rooms finely furnished, and the clothing fashionable, but she was still unwanted. Still blamed for something her late father had done. Still the young girl she’d once been, yearning for a kind word, an affectionate touch, even one person to love her…and finding none.

  The dream that had sustained her in the convent—how exciting and magical life would be at court—had dwindled now. She had found no freedom behind these ancient stone walls; no laughter or new friends to confide in; no gentle, chivalrous knight to kiss her hand or recite poetry. As ward of the king and existing entirely at his pleasure and mercy, the most she could hope for was a Scottish husband of means who wouldn’t beat her and was young and healthy enough to give her the children she’d always wanted. As a mother, with sons and daughters to lavish affection on, she might at long last find purpose alongside that other elusive emotion: happiness.

  The king smiled. “Lady Marjorie, I bid you welcome. Forgive me for not seeing you sooner, but I had a great many matters of state to attend to.”

  His tone was affable, but as he moved toward her, she could hear a clinking sound, and her heart sank. The convent prioress’s cold warning had been true. James did wear an iron chain of penance under his doublet, in sorrow over his father’s death. Like the courtiers downstairs, he would never forget the high treason Lord Hepburn had been party to.

  “Your Grace,” she whispered, curtsying deeply. “It is an…an honor to be here.”

  “Your chamber is comfortable?”

  “It is lovely. The tapestries are beautiful.”

  “Good, good. There is someone I wish you to meet,” said the king, gesturing to his right.

  “Of course…” Marjorie’s voice trailed off as her mouth abruptly forgot how to form words.

  She was being introduced to Lady Janet Fraser? One of the most influential women in Scotland?

  That would be a mark of favor, surely.

  Confusion turned her mind to mud, but there was no mistaking the stunning beauty now standing in front of her. That blazing-red hair, not quite constrained by a simple hood. Wide green eyes the color of fresh moss. Creamy skin. Unusually tall, enviably slender, wearing a fashionable blue velvet gown with wide fur-lined cuffs, beautifully embroidered sleeves, and a jeweled girdle around her waist. Even at the convent, they’d heard of Fiery Janet, albeit as a stern cautionary tale on the terrible vice of lust. She had been the king’s mistress for several years, and the pair had half scandalized, half delighted the realm with their public displays of affection and heated arguments. The prioress had called her the worst sinner in Scotland. She hadn’t mentioned how utterly compelling Lady Janet was, though, or how her rosy pink lips invited the lewdest of thoughts.

  How do you kiss, lady? Soft and sweet, gentle as the petals of a rose? Or do you take command, teasing and nipping and plundering until your lover whimpers with need?

  The other woman cocked her head, frowning a little, and for one dreadful moment, Marjorie thought she’d said the words aloud. How could she think such a shocking, forbidden thing? Ladies did not have sinful thoughts about other ladies. But then the redhead turned to the king and lightly rested her hand on his sleeve.

  “This is Lady Marjorie, Your Grace?” she said.

  James inclined his head. “Indeed. Lady Marjorie, may I present my most beloved friend, Lady Janet Fraser. A widow, scholar, healer, and a woman of means.”

  “Uh…a pleasure—a great pleasure—to, er, meet you, my lady,” Marjorie said, awkward in her eagerness to make the acquaintance of this bold, beautiful woman, the one person in the realm who might withhold judgment on her. “How very accomplished you are.”

  “His Grace flatters me overmuch. I suspect there is a reason,” said the older woman wryly.

  James shifted a little. “Not at all, beloved. But I have a most wonderful surprise for you both.”

  Now Lady Janet looked wary, and Marjorie stepped back and twisted her fingers together. This did not sound like the king was about to gift them a trinket or offer them a place at the top table during tonight’s feast in the Great Hall.

  “A surprise, Your Grace?” Marjorie asked through bone-dry lips. If he meant to send her to another convent, she would flee in the dead of night and take her chances with beasts, brigands, and warring clans. Even the thought of being imprisoned again was unbearable; unlike the nuns, she took no joy or comfort in silent contemplation, poverty, and chastity.

  James smiled. “Indeed. Until I decide on a husband for you, Lady Janet is to be your new guardian. You will leave Stirling together on the morrow to live with her at her estate in St. Andrews.”

  The startling news made her breath hitch. Once again a decision had been made with no care for her wishes…and yet for the first time, she welcomed it. To live in the country with Fiery Janet herself! While she had little knowledge of the other woman’s character or how she treated servants, it was hard to believe she would oversee a somber household. This woman was bold and learned. Forthright in speech. Experienced in the ways of men.

  “As it pleases Your Grace,” Marjorie murmured, unable to quell the flickering of that wretched flame of hope inside her. Even a short time in the companionship of this woman might be the best of her life.

  Lady Janet looked thoughtful. “The king’s champion, Sir Lachlan Ross, will escort and protect us both.”

  “The Highland Beast?”

  “Some say, lady,” growled a voice to her left.

  Marjorie nearly jumped a foot. Sir Lachlan had moved silently yet was enormous. Even in her innocence of men, he was obviously dangerous. Deadly. His hands rested behind his back in a nonthreatening manner as he inclined his head, but those dark-brown eyes seared straight into her soul, and the ruby-studded hilt of a sheathed dagger glowed at his hip. By the saints, any moment now she would begin confessing all her secrets.

  Somehow she managed a curtsy. But she couldn’t speak; she could only stare at this dark, craggy mountain masquerading as a courtier. No doubt they all considered him rough and raw. Uncivilized. Yet she couldn’t stop her thirsty gaze drinking him in. Would his hands be calloused? Was his massive chest as hard as it looked? How would he kiss?

  Swallowing hard, Marjorie attempted to regather her scattered wits. The Highland Beast and Fiery Janet, darkest night and brightest day, watching over her. Guiding her.

  Pleasuring her?

  She shuddered, her nipples hardening against the bodice of her unadorned gray velvet gown at the shockingly wayward thought. No. She was a grown woman of twenty-two summers, who well knew such miracles did not happen. Not for her would there be strong arms to hold her tightly and long kisses to make her burn. Nor would there be love.

  But there might be conversation. Even friendship.

  And that was more, so much more, than she’d ever had.

  Chapter Two

  Never did he feel more uncomfortable, unlearned, or baseborn than at a feast in the Great Hall.

  Lachlan hesitated at the door, resisting the urge to cross himself before entering. But the building inspired cathedral-like reverence. Beyond the fact it was new—only finished the previous year—and the largest hall in Scotland, it was just so…wondrous. The outside had been coated in lime wash, and the golden glow could be seen for miles around.
There were many pairs of tall windows, some with stained glass, and heating came from not one but five fireplaces. At the far end was a raised dais where the king, queen, and important guests sat. They had their own table and each sat on their own carved chair. Everyone else sat on benches at two long trestle tables covered in a white cloth, which were moved away after the feast for dancing and pageants. Above where he stood now was the gallery where the minstrels played.

  Truly the jewel of Stirling Castle.

  “Sir Lachlan,” said an amused voice behind him, “you are far too competent masquerading as a door. Do allow us inside.”

  Heat flashed along his cheekbones at Lady Janet’s teasing words, but when she placed her hand on his back and attempted to nudge him, he almost moaned. Had anyone else tried such an act, they would have found themselves short a hand. Or at least with several broken fingers. With her, he wanted to stay still just so she would touch him again.

  But that wasn’t what she wanted. And his mind and body had settled humiliatingly quickly into comfort at obeying her commands.

  Even if they weren’t the commands he truly desired.

  Squaring his shoulders, Lachlan marched on. All around him were French and English dignitaries, privy councillors, nobles and their wives, even a few clan lairds seated at the long trestle tables. The noise had already reached deafening levels as conversation battled harp and flute to be heard.

  “Wine, Sir Lachlan?”

  He inclined his head at the servant, gesturing for him to fill Lady Janet’s and Lady Marjorie’s goblets before his own. Then he took a long, fortifying swallow. Plenty would be needed to assist in managing his speech in the presence of two beautiful ladies. Hell. What if they wished to dance later on? His feet might move with the lightness of angel wings on the battlefield, but add in a floor and music, and they became hewn stone.

  “Do you know where we are to sit, Sir Lachlan?” asked Lady Marjorie, and he turned again to see her sky-blue eyes wide and complexion pale as she glanced around.

  “Aye, lady,” he replied as gently as he could to reassure her, when on most days, his voice sounded like chains being dragged through purgatory. He wasn’t named Beast for his size alone. “Just follow me.”

  “May I…may I take your arm?”

  Lachlan blinked at the timid request. He would never be a true courtier; his stone feet, rough voice, and ugly face put paid to that. If he attempted to pick a rose with his paw hands, he yanked out the entire bush, and with his affliction, he would never be able to recite verses of poetry. But for some utterly unknown reason, he found himself offering his left arm to the tiny but mouthwateringly lush Lady Marjorie, and her shy smile warmed a part of him he’d thought frozen forever.

  Then he hesitated, looking uncertainly at Lady Janet. Even the thought of offending her…

  “Do not fret,” she said archly, her green eyes gleaming as she parroted his words from earlier in the day. “I shall walk beside you but not take your sword arm. Or touch your dagger. Unless you ask me very nicely.”

  Lachlan’s breath caught, but before he could reply, she turned to greet a nobleman and his wife. Probably a good thing. Of course she hadn’t meant anything wicked by her words. That was a thousand nights of lusty dreams about Lady Janet trying to trick him.

  Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he moved forward, then adjusted his stride so Lady Marjorie wouldn’t trip on the hem of her gown. She had changed from the gray to one of leaf green; it had a low square bodice that lovingly cupped her ample breasts and hips, silver thread–embroidered sleeves, and a simple silver girdle about her waist.

  “Pretty,” he blurted.

  “Beg pardon?”

  Lachlan groaned inwardly. It would be far better if he didn’t speak at all for the rest of the feast, but Lady Marjorie looked at him expectantly. “Your gown.”

  “Oh! Oh, thank you. It’s my best, if rather unfashionable compared to other gowns. I love the color; it reminds me of leaves after rainfall. And I did the embroidery myself. I enjoy it. Maybe the only thing I liked about convent life—ample time to sew.”

  He nodded as the words tumbled from her lips like a rushing river, and she gripped his sleeve a little tighter. It seemed Lady Marjorie was equally uncomfortable in the Great Hall; understandable when, like him, she was an outsider resented by most of those present. Utterly unjust, when—like his low birth—her father’s treasonous act could not be changed.

  A short trumpet burst saved him from having to say anything further, and gasps went up around the hall as two servants carried out a silver tray with a rampant unicorn sculpted of spun sugar. This meant the first course would be served presently, so he ushered the two ladies to the front of the royal dais, where he bowed and they curtsied to James and Margaret. Then they sat near the end of the cloth-covered trestle table to the right of the dais, the position of highest favor. Thankfully velvet cushions had been tied to the wooden bench; without them it would have been a hard endurance for arses large and small.

  As much as the Great Hall remained too grand for his blood, it stung to know this would be his last feast in the king’s presence for a long while. He would miss James. Their pilgrimages to the four corners of Scotland, the bloodthirsty battles they had fought side by side, the thrill of defeating enemies and then enjoying the spoils of victory. And yet…the thought of hunts rather than war, a large feather bed with thick quilts in a warm chamber rather than a hard pallet in a corner, wasn’t entirely unappealing. Nor was protecting the two most beautiful women in Scotland—one pure fire, bold and brazen and fierce; the other spring rain, soothing and gentle and refreshing.

  He’d lived for years with unrequited lust and tender feelings for Lady Janet. But something stirred within for Lady Marjorie as well, and the notion unsettled him.

  Really, he needed to keep distance from them both.

  If only to retain his own sanity.

  …

  After a lifetime of plain convent food, the countless trays carried out by a small army of servants made her dizzy.

  Marjorie tried not to make owl eyes at the colorful, heavenly-scented array, but it was nigh on impossible. Whole chickens, duck, geese, swans, even fully dressed peacocks. Haunches of beef and venison, boars’ heads with apples in their mouths, pies, jellies, and several kinds of cooked vegetables. Her stomach rumbled, and she licked her lips and stared down at the pewter plate sitting in front of her, lest anyone see how ravenously hungry she was. The bread and butter with small ale she’d had at sunrise seemed a thousand years ago now.

  With admirable efficiency, the servants placed a selection of the dishes into the large stale-bread trencher sitting halfway between her and the man sitting to her left. Lady Janet and Sir Lachlan would share one, but unfortunately she had to eat with a stranger.

  “You’re the Hepburn lass,” said the well-dressed man, glaring at her, his gray-flecked beard twitching in affront. “Bad blood.”

  “Sir,” she began, but he’d already rudely turned away. Nor did he ask what she might like to sample from their shared trencher before carefully using his eating knife to cut slices of meat and a spoon for vegetables and other soft dishes, as was proper and clean.

  No, he was using his hands.

  Her stomach rebelled at the sight of fingers trailing through sauce and handling meat, and Marjorie pressed her fingertips to her mouth.

  “Not hungry, lady?”

  She glanced to her right at Sir Lachlan’s words and watched in envy as he wielded his ruby-hilted dagger with precision to cut choice slices of venison for Lady Janet and place them on her plate.

  “N-no,” she whispered miserably as, of course, her stomach chose that moment to gurgle like a thunderclap.

  Sir Lachlan stared at her, his thick black brows drawing ominously together. “You lie.”

  Marjorie bit her lip. This close, the Beast looked even
darker and more fearsome, and she could only see Lady Janet if she leaned well forward or back. Yet her hunger pains had clearly addled her mind, for even more than before, she wanted to touch him. Stroke that jagged scar on his face. Smooth his hair. Even answer him honestly.

  Taking a deep breath for courage, she tugged on Sir Lachlan’s sleeve so he might lean down. “The man said I had bad blood. And used his hands in the trencher. He touched everything. I don’t think he wishes to share with me. See…like he’s doing now.”

  “Wait, lady.”

  In one surprisingly graceful movement, he stood and stepped back over the bench. A moment later, there was a muffled choking sound, and the stranger was no longer sitting beside her but hanging in midair.

  By the saints, Sir Lachlan had him by the throat!

  Gasping, Marjorie looked left and right, utterly unsure of what to do. People farther along the bench were still eating and talking. Did this happen often? Should she say something? Summon help?

  “Sir Lachlan!” boomed a voice from the dais. “Lord Kerr is turning as red as your doublet. What is his crime?”

  “Poor manners, Your Grace,” replied the Beast, shaking the man as though he weighed no more than a feather.

  King James nodded. “I see. Best remove him from my Hall, then. I’ll only have guests who know how to behave. Do set him on his feet, though.”

  Sir Lachlan actually scowled but allowed the drooling, shaking man to leave, which he did at great pace. Just as swiftly, a servant removed the spoiled trencher. Now others at the table were watching her, some from across the room as well. A few were laughing and pointing, but most were censorious. Queen Margaret’s stony gaze expressed pure dislike.

  Marjorie’s stomach rumbled again, and she fought the urge to weep. The sooner she could leave Stirling Castle, the better.

  “Choose, lady.”

  Startled, she looked up to see Sir Lachlan gesturing at a refreshed trencher being held by two smiling servants.

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