Scandalous Passions

by Nicola Davidson

  A proper guardian would lie to protect delicate sensibilities. Alas, she would never be a proper guardian, as she had already demonstrated in stroking her ward to a screaming release.

  “I’m not sure,” Janet admitted. “I do not think badly injured, for he moved all limbs freely in setting up camp and catching the fish. But maybe there are wounds he concealed. I suspect Sir Lachlan is not a man who would readily reveal pain or ask for assistance.”

  “No,” said Marjorie. “Will you tend to him? I don’t like thinking he has no one. I would do so, but I can scarcely keep my eyes open.”

  Janet kept her gaze on the herbal concoction. Indeed, she would shortly be tending to Sir Lachlan most thoroughly. Not just for his benefit but to ease her unfulfilled needs too. After her earlier interlude with Marjorie—and Lachlan saving them both from those vile Lowland vermin before silently, stoically, serving them food on bended knee—her emotions were in turmoil and threatening to burst forth. But she could not allow herself to open her heart to either her ward or her protector. She’d already had Aileen and Fergus snatched from her, and she could not endure such terrible pain again.

  No. Pleasure was the only thing required to restore her peace of mind. No hearts, no flowers, and certainly no falling in love. All she wanted was a willing, obedient man underneath her to ride into the blessed oblivion of release.

  “Yes,” Janet replied softly. “I will tend to him. After I have tended to you.”

  “You are so good to me.”

  Before Janet could reply, Marjorie leaned forward and kissed her cheek. A brief, awkward kiss from a blushing virgin who hadn’t yet learned the power of her lips and tongue, but she felt it like a brand, a lightning bolt that scorched between her legs and caused her pearl to throb.

  This most certainly would not do.

  Janet set down the pewter goblet of sleeping draught and gave her ward a stern frown. “You forget my instruction from earlier this day. Impatience is disobedience. And what is the punishment for disobedience?”

  Marjorie quivered. “Pleasure is withheld.”

  “Indeed. When we get to St. Andrews, a good ward—an obedient ward—could learn all the secrets of love. Pleasure so great, her earlier release would be as a puddle is to a loch. However, a disobedient ward will remain innocent as a little lamb until the king decides her husband,” she finished idly, tracing a fingertip across the other woman’s lips before trailing it down the side of her neck, along her collarbone, delving under the bodice of her linen shift to stroke the tops of her ample breasts.

  Marjorie whimpered, and Janet punished her further by allowing that fingertip free rein to circle the younger woman’s distended nipples but not to touch them. Once. Twice. Then she withdrew her hand and reached for the goblet. “Drink. You will feel much refreshed after a good sleep.”

  Still trembling, Marjorie downed the contents in one swallow. Then she lay down on the bench and pulled up her fur covers. “You will be kind to Sir Lachlan?” she mumbled, her eyes closing. “He needs kindness. He’s so lonely. Like me.”

  Janet froze, but moments later, her ward was fast asleep. Rather a relief, as she’d been on the verge of taking the younger woman into her arms. Holding her close.

  Irritable at her own weakness and dressed only in her shift and a fur-lined robe, Janet climbed out of the wagon and stalked toward the campfire. In her hand, she held her leather satchel containing fresh batches of tonics, ointments, and neatly rolled linen bandages, and the small glass bottles and dishes clinked together with her strides. That sound was nothing compared to the driver’s ale-induced snores over to the left, but this night she would leave him be. In that he’d witnessed all Sir Lachlan’s kills, maybe assisted in the burials, the man deserved all the flagons he’d consumed, and good rest…

  Devil take it.

  Janet stared in dismay at the sight of Sir Lachlan perched on a fallen log, attempting to dab at a gash at his shoulder with a rag, his grimace visible even in just firelight. A dull resignation, too, as though long used to tending to himself.

  He needs kindness. He’s so lonely. Like me.

  “Stop,” she barked as Marjorie’s words echoed in her mind.

  Sir Lachlan stilled. “Lady?”

  Marching up to him, her shift and robe billowing about her legs, Janet halted and dropped her herb satchel to the ground. “Do not dare put that filthy rag near your shoulder. I shall tend your battle wound. The wound you neglected to inform me of.”

  “’Tis but a scratch,” he said gruffly. “You need not scold…as my late mother did.”

  “Clearly a woman of greater sense than you. I am the healer; I decide what a scratch is and is not. Take off your doublet and shirt.”

  Sir Lachlan silently complied, and she caught her breath at the revelation of his chest, stomach, and arms. The kind of muscles sculpted by vigorous activity…vigorous deadly activity, for his swarthy, hair-roughened flesh was marred by countless scars. Some stitched. Some cauterized. Long-faded white to pink and healing.

  It should have been ugly, enough to turn her stomach. And yet this warrior, this Highland Beast, caused a fierce lust in her that no man had before. Not the king. Not her late husband or any of the other men at court.

  Only him.

  “You don’t have to,” he rasped into the silence. “I know I’m…it’s not fit for…a lady.”

  Janet gritted her teeth against another unwanted surge of emotion. Bad enough she’d been tempted to hold and soothe Marjorie, but now Sir Lachlan also? She needed to take command of the situation, reestablish control, and outline terms for a possible bedding-only affair. Certainly nothing more.

  “Hush, now,” she said briskly. “And let me explain how matters will proceed. I know you are named Beast, but you’ll be docile as a newborn kitten while I attend to your shoulder. It is not a deep cut but needs to be cleaned and bound to prevent infection. Then…you and I shall talk terms.”

  “Terms?” Sir Lachlan asked hesitantly, but there was a glimmer of something in his dark eyes that looked painfully like hope. Damn him!

  “Quite. For an affair.”

  …

  Lady Janet wanted an affair.

  Lachlan wrestled with the thought as she rummaged through her satchel, then withdrew two glass bottles and a neat roll of clean linen bandage.

  As in the king’s chamber when he’d discovered his future, he was in two minds. A part of him rejoiced at the thought of having her in his arms, of obeying her instructions and bringing her pleasure. A part of him was crushed that she wanted no more than that, even as he understood no highborn lady desired to wed a landless bastard whose looks were best described as frightening. Only a fool wished for the stars. But even as his soul yearned for more, his damned body—with its fierce craving to be touched, to be commanded by an experienced woman—made the decision for him.

  “Your terms?” he said abruptly.

  Lady Janet smiled, as aided by the light of the roaring campfire, her nimble fingers cleaned his shoulder with an herbal concoction that stung his skin. Then she smoothed a thick, cooling peppermint-scented poultice across it and lastly covered it in a bandage that she looped under his arm and fastened with a knot. “After our interrupted discussion at Stirling, I believe you understand my preference to lead and are content with such an arrangement. But I have other rules. I expect loyalty from my lovers for the duration of the affair; I do not appreciate those who stray. I expect a man to use his tongue and his fingers as well as his cock. And I expect him to advise me if at any time he does not like something. Pleasure is pleasure for all, not one. Do you accept?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your terms?” she asked.

  Love me, as I love you.

  “Time,” Lachlan said hoarsely. “I mean, er…time outside bed. Together.”

  Lady Janet nodded, her eyes growing heavy lidded.
“Very well. Shall we begin?”

  “Wait. Should I spill…inside or outside?”

  She frowned. “It matters not. Surely you know that I am barren.”

  “What do you wish?”

  Lady Janet’s frown cleared, and it was like the sun appearing from behind a cloud as she smiled approvingly. “An excellent question. I rather like inside. Nothing to distract from that glorious end. Now, Beast, are you ready to be ridden? For I know I am ready to ride.”

  His cock surged, a fervent yes to the suggestion. But damn it, he needed her taste in his mouth. “You said…tongue and fingers.”

  “So I did,” she purred, discarding her robe and spreading it across the log before sitting upon it and parting her thighs. “Kneel.”

  Disobediently, Lachlan turned and brushed his mouth against hers, eager to know the softness of her lips first. She made a sound of surprise, but moments later those nimble fingers cupped his face, angling his head, and her tongue darted against his lips, demanding entry. He surrendered at once, delighting in the firm and hungry expertise of her kiss until she drew away.

  “My nipples,” she said huskily. “Suck them. Hard.”

  Lachlan nodded, his heart thumping with excitement as he moved to kneel between her legs, watching closely as Lady Janet tugged down the bodice of her shift. Her breasts were small, dusted with freckles, and tipped with pale-brown nipples. When she cupped one breast and offered it to him, he fell on it like a starving man, taking the entire perfect little mound into his mouth. Sucking. Biting. Licking. Rasping her with his short beard.

  “Forgive me—”

  “I like it,” she gasped. “The other. Suck the other. Now.”

  He’d have happily attended to her nipples for hours, but soon her hands pressed on his shoulders, an unspoken instruction for him to move lower. Disappointment flashed through him at the gentleness of the action, but of course a lady born couldn’t know the true depth of his most secret and depraved need—to be forced, to be taken rough and hard by the woman he loved. Yet he couldn’t stay disappointed for long, not when such a reward awaited him.

  The spicy scent of Lady Janet’s cunt teased his nose, her bush flaming red like her hair, and Lachlan reverently parted the crisp curls to reveal the slick pink folds and her swollen pearl. Unable to resist, he dragged his tongue from her entrance up to her pearl. Her flavor exploded in his mouth, addicting him forever, and with a fierce growl, he settled in to feast.

  Lady Janet moaned. “Yes, just like that. A bit higher. Mmmm. Lick my pearl, a little to the side…oh heavens, yes. There. Now fuck me with your tongue. Deep. Yes, Lachlan. Ohhhhh…”

  Joy surged through him when her hips jerked, her mound grinding against his face as her inner walls pulsed around his tongue and sweet honey trickled down his throat. Greedy for more, to hear his name again as a keening release, Lachlan lapped at her folds. Then he licked his way up to her pearl, circling it with just the tip of his tongue before fastening his lips around the swollen bud and sucking it until she bucked against him with a wild cry.

  About to start again, Lachlan was halted by a sharp tug on his hair so good he almost spilled his seed. He glanced up. “Lady?” he asked, knowing he’d brought her pleasure and yet equally concerned he’d failed her in some way.

  “I have need of your cock in my cunt,” she said harshly, her eyes glittering in the firelight, her cheeks flushed with passion. “Now.”

  A little unsteadily, Lachlan rose to his feet and tugged down his hose before sitting on the log atop Lady Janet’s robe. His cock bobbed against his stomach, harder than stone, and when she wrapped her fingers around him and squeezed, he gasped in agonized pleasure as his seed dampened her fingers.

  Praying he wouldn’t disgrace himself like the greenest of lads, he began mumbling in Gaelic.

  “It won’t help, you know,” said Lady Janet with a wicked grin as she tormented his balls and the dripping head of his cock with feather-light strokes. “The counting.”

  “You know Gaelic?”

  “Oh yes. My father thought it too vulgar for a lady, which is precisely why I took it upon myself to find a tutor. I make my own rules, like taking a Beast for my pet.”

  The words were teasing, but Lachlan shuddered in fierce yearning. To belong to Lady Janet in every way, to serve and cherish and protect her the rest of their days…

  Thankfully such whimsy halted when she straddled him, and slowly, so slowly, the hottest, wettest, most exquisite cunt in Scotland swallowed his cock whole. Aye, Lady Janet was a miracle, a marvel, and as she rode him like an expert horsewoman, he could only groan in grateful ecstasy.

  When she took his hand and guided it between her legs, he thought she wished him to stroke her pearl, but she shook her head.

  “Wet your finger,” she commanded between panting breaths. When he complied, she moved his hand to her arse. “Enter me.”

  “There?” Lachlan replied, stunned that Lady Janet knew of such forbidden pleasures when he should not be. Of course this lusty angel would know. Gently, he penetrated her back entrance with just a fingertip, rocking it back and forth in time with his cock.

  “Yes. Oh yes.”

  Moments later Lady Janet fell forward, muffling her scream of release by biting his shoulder. The tiny jolt of pleasure-pain shoved him over the edge into bliss, a low roar tearing from his throat as his seed flooded the sweet haven of her cunt.

  Indeed this night, he had witnessed a glimpse of heaven.

  All he would ever see.

  …

  She’d had the deepest sleep of her life. But now her skin was clammy with perspiration under the pile of too-warm furs, and abruptly; that, and the confines of the wagon were suffocating her.

  Air. She needed fresh air. And some cold water to splash on her face and arms.

  Shoving away the furs, Marjorie sat up on the bench before carefully opening her trunk and retrieving a simple brocade robe to put on over her linen shift. When she got to her feet and began to move toward the rear of the wagon, a floorboard creaked under her, and she glanced back with an apologetic wince. Fortunately, Janet did not stir.

  Once she had mastered the ties and hooks fastening the leather cover, Marjorie scrambled out of the wagon with a deep sigh of relief. The morning was cool—a little gray overhead, but the air wonderfully fresh—and away in the distance, the birds that called Loch Leven home were noisily announcing the arrival of a new day.

  Freedom.

  The word twirled around in her mind. At this moment, with no audience, no rules, she could do whatever she pleased…a thought both heady and terrifying. What did people do when their life was not governed each moment by bells and orders, straps and prayer?

  Wet your feet in the loch. The prioress would never have permitted such a thing.

  Before she could change her mind, Marjorie hurried past their snoring driver, the smoldering campfire, and the canvas tent where Sir Lachlan slept, down to the water’s edge.

  Then stopped. And gulped.

  This close, Loch Leven was nothing short of daunting. The blue-green expanse stretched for miles and miles, more than enough to drown her and swallow her body forever. Considering she’d never stood in water more than ankle deep—those rare times the prioress had permitted usage of the copper tub for bathing—and could not swim, even being near the loch was dangerous and rather foolish. But if she did not at least try to face this fear, how would she ever overcome it?

  Courage, Marjorie.

  Straightening her shoulders, Marjorie leaned down and gathered up the hems of her shift and robe, twisting them into a large, loose knot. Now her legs were scandalously bared to the knee, but it would be easier to wade with the fabric out of the way. One deep, shuddering breath, and she inched forward until the cold loch waters lapped at her toes.

  By the saints, this was difficult.

 
“Too cold, lady?”

  She yelped, almost losing her footing, and only a huge paw under her elbow halted an unceremonious face-first bath. “Sir Lachlan. Once again, I did not hear you. I think I need to affix a bell around your neck.”

  One thick black brow lifted. “Should I cough?”

  “Yes. Or hire a troubadour. Sir Lachlan approaches! At least until I no longer jump a foot in the air.”

  “I frighten you.”

  Marjorie hesitated at the flat words that somehow held a great deal of feeling. “No,” she said softly. “You have been naught but kind to me. But you are the size of a mountain, and you move so quietly, with such grace. And I am so unused to men…”

  “I’ll make a sound,” he said, nodding. “Will you swim?”

  “I cannot swim. Actually, this is my first time in a loch. I thought to wade just a little, but I am not as brave as I thought.”

  “You are brave,” Sir Lachlan said, frowning. Then he held out his hand. “Come. We’ll wade together.”

  Her heart leaped, and Marjorie bit her lip. Although he neither kissed hands nor read poetry, this knight captivated her far more than was fair. An ice-blooded warrior of few words, and yet the way he watched over her and Janet felt like more than duty. If only she wasn’t the king’s ward and obligated to marry where he wished. “You are the best of men,” she said. “But your hose and stockings—”

  “They will dry. Come.”

  Gripping his hand, Marjorie gingerly followed him into the water. Ankle deep. Calf. Knee. It was unnerving, and the water chilled her skin as little waves sloshed against her legs, yet it was so refreshing she sighed. “Oh, that’s lovely.”

  “Freshwater loch. Good for bathing. And cleaning linen.”

  “Oh, certainly. I—”

  Marjorie lost her words entirely as something nudged her leg. Something slimy. A shriek tore from her throat, and she threw herself at Sir Lachlan, wrapping her arms and legs around him and clinging like a kitten to a tapestry. Somehow he didn’t stumble under her weight or drop her in the water. In fact, with nary a blink, he merely curved one bulging arm under her bottom as a sort of seat.