“I don’t know what t-to do,” he bit out, frustration and helplessness for once transparent on his face. “I can fight. I can kill. Both skills useless here. James willnae gainsay Margaret. A border alliance w-will suit him. Even our names t-to a petition…n-no help. Plague take it!”
About to join Lachlan in unleashing every curse she knew, Janet came to an abrupt halt as one of her lover’s words pounded in her mind.
Name.
Lady Janet Fraser could protest, but it would make no difference at all against the queen’s decree. Sir Lachlan Ross, however, a man, or more specifically a bachelor…had something quite different to offer.
His name. His hand in marriage.
Janet hurried over to where they sat, then reached down and took their hands in each of hers. “Lachlan. Marjorie. There might be a way. But it is a plan fraught with risk.”
“Tell me,” said Marjorie hoarsely. “I’ll do anything. Please.”
“If you were wedded and bedded in the eyes of the law, how could you marry an Englishman?”
“There is no time. I am to go to Carlisle two weeks hence. The banns must be read in church for three!”
Janet gripped her hand tighter. “I did not say in the eyes of the church, dear one. I said the eyes of the law.”
Lachlan sucked in a breath, and she knew he understood to what she referred. Scotland had forever rebelled and forged its own path, and the law in regard to marriage was one of those rebellions. While there were the usual weddings in church with a priest and posting of the banns, three kinds of irregular marriages were also valid. The first, a couple could declare themselves married in front of witnesses. The second, they could make a written promise or spoken oath of marriage, followed by a bedding. The third, a couple could present themselves as wed in public—marriage by habit and repute.
It would be unfair to ask servants or friends to be part of a plot against the crown, and for Marjorie to go about in public presenting herself as a wife would only spark a swift vengeance. But a written promise and a bedding done in secret, then revealed at the right moment…
“How can I be wed if not in church?” said Marjorie, biting her lip. “I don’t understand.”
“An irregular marriage,” said Lachlan slowly.
“Exactly,” said Janet. “A man and a woman consent to be wed, and so it is done. My late husband explained it to me once because lawmakers and clergymen were forever having heated debates about it. But no matter the protests from the church, irregular marriages continue to be legal. They are especially helpful in isolated places without a priest, or to protect young women from unscrupulous men making false promises just to bed them. A willing man—”
“Me.”
Marjorie’s head jerked as she looked up at him. Then she shook it. “I cannot ask that of you, Lachlan. You’re already in trouble for killing Lord Kerr and rough-handling Master Campbell because of me. This is…this is almost treasonous. Isn’t it, Janet?”
“It could be so argued,” she admitted reluctantly. “Defying a royal decree, the king’s ward marrying without permission, and upsetting the English also. As I said, it is fraught with risk. But if you are wedded and bedded, there is a very small chance they might allow the marriage to stand.”
“You aren’t asking. I’m offering,” said Lachlan gruffly. “I know…I have little. No castle or fortune. N-no handsome face. I’ll never read p-poetry. Or dance. But I would p-protect you…til my last b-breath. Care for you. Be loyal unto you.”
Janet looked away, unable to bear the halting sweetness of the words or the sickening churn of terror and jealousy and despair in her stomach. If her plan failed, it could well send Lachlan to the stocks or a dungeon. If it succeeded, they would leave her forever and start a new family, a new life without her. As she’d already said to Aileen, she did not dally with those who were wed.
Either way, the only plan she could think of had the power to hurt her unbearably.
Holding her breath, she waited for her ward’s answer.
“You are the very best of men,” said Marjorie after what seemed like a hundred years of silence, cupping her hands around Lachlan’s face and kissing his cheek. “Kind and generous and far more than I deserve. Yes, Sir Lachlan Ross, I consent to wed you.”
Janet closed her eyes briefly. Then she forced the necessary words to her lips. “Ride to St. Andrews, to the university. There is a lawyer there, Master Shaw. Tell him the fiery one sent you, and he will assist with the proper declaration. Insist on two copies to take away with you. Do not speak to anyone else. This must remain a secret.”
“Lady…” said Lachlan.
She halted his words with a fierce kiss, then stepped back. “Go. Go now.”
And her heart shattered.
Chapter Nine
He was a married man.
Lachlan slapped his heels against Storm’s flanks, urging him to gallop even faster along the road from St. Andrews back to the manor, as though pace could help him outrun his thoughts.
But nothing could change two facts. First, his new wife, Lady Marjorie Ross, clung to his back, and in Storm’s saddlebags were two signed and sealed documents attesting to that. Second, he had utterly betrayed his longtime friend King James, the only man who had judged him on deeds and character rather than learning or speech or appearance. The man who had raised him high.
God’s blood. He knew he’d done the right thing wedding Marjorie, a woman he liked, admired, and lusted for. But a future of great uncertainty loomed: what would happen when James and Margaret discovered their defiance of a royal decree and arranged border-alliance marriage? Would he be imprisoned and Marjorie forced to wed the Englishman anyway? How would their legal union affect Lady Janet—not just his lover but the woman he loved?
His wedding day should be a happy one. Instead, his stomach churned and sweat dampened his body, sensations he’d only experienced before on the eve of a great battle.
As they approached the gate to the manor—not the main gate, but a rear one that led to the vast hunting grounds—he slowed Storm to a trot. A burly guard stepped out of the box, and Lachlan could feel Marjorie’s heightened tension as she gripped his waist tighter.
“Sir Lachlan!” hailed the guard. “Lady Marjorie. I was not aware you had left the manor.”
“An errand,” said Lachlan stiffly.
“Of what nature?”
Behind him, Marjorie laughed—a high, forced sound. “Oh, sir, ’tis my fault entirely. I am a silly woman who desired the tang of sea air in her lungs more than anything on this earth, and I pleaded with Sir Lachlan to take me to town. I believe he did so just so he would not hear my voice a moment more.”
Lachlan held his breath, but the guard relaxed, his lips twitching.
“My mother loves to watch the fishing boats. I don’t know why. Come in, then, but remember to inform the guardhouse if you are leaving so we know where you are.”
“Aye,” said Lachlan, nodding as they rode through the gate. With Storm at full gallop again, they crossed the hunting grounds in no time at all, then approached the stables at a brisk trot.
Even before the stable boy had a chance to come out and take the reins, Lachlan swung down onto the ground and swiftly moved the precious marriage documents from the saddlebag to be concealed under his doublet.
Then he reached up for Marjorie. “Home, lady wife,” he rasped.
“Thank you, husband,” she whispered in his ear, and as he helped her down from Storm’s back, he had to fight down a surprising rush of emotion at the word. Husband.
Despite everything, it sounded good.
They walked in silence to the manor front door, and his gaze darted left and right, fully expecting to be ambushed at any moment. While he trusted the discretion of the silver-bearded lawyer, Master Shaw—distant kin to Lady Janet and possessing a loathing of all Tudors,
whom he called upstart usurpers of the Plantagenet throne—others at the university could have recognized them.
Lachlan halted at the foot of the stairs. “What do you wish to d-do?”
Marjorie visibly swallowed, her face pale, and he thought he might know her mind. Lawful completion of their marriage declaration required a bedding, the sooner the better. It was no wonder she appeared as skittish as a newborn colt.
“Could we…could we possibly step into the chapel for a moment?” she asked hesitantly. “I should like to pray. To confess. And to ask for God’s blessing.”
“As you like.”
Hurrying to the altar, Marjorie then knelt on a purple velvet cushion in front of it and crossed herself. When she raised an imperious eyebrow at Lachlan, he reluctantly dropped to his knees beside her. Give him a battlefield over a holy place of worship any day.
“If I am struck b-by lightning…’tis your fault,” he growled.
His wife made a noise that sounded much like a hastily suppressed laugh. Then she clasped her hands together. “Bless us, Heavenly Father, for we have sinned. Er…quite a serious one. Defied the decree of your anointed sovereign’s wife and wed without permission. An irregular marriage without priest or banns. Ah, please do forgive us for that. We mean no harm or malice. But I’m sure you understand that I cannot wed an Englishman, for obvious reasons…”
Lachlan was far less successful in suppressing his levity, but Marjorie elbowed him sharply in the ribs and he grunted in discomfort.
“As I was saying,” she continued, “I could not wed an Englishman. But I consented to wed Sir Lachlan Ross instead. He is the best of men. Good and loyal and so kind to me. I am most fortunate. And he consented to wed me. Tell Him, Lachlan.”
“Aye, I consented. With a free and g-glad heart,” he said, solemn now, and Marjorie leaned over and rubbed her cheek against his like a kitten. Again he swallowed hard against a rush of emotion. He’d wed a good woman, at least. One who liked him in return, was affectionate, and accepted his faults and flaws. In other circumstances he would have been happy indeed.
Marjorie took a deep breath and raised her gaze to the roof. “Now we must go upstairs, and, ah, well…you know. So we ask thy blessing and humbly beseech thee for a long and…er…fruitful union. Amen.”
“Amen,” he echoed.
“Thank you,” she said as they got to their feet before leaving the chapel. “I know it is foolish—”
“It is not,” he said firmly.
Fortunately the servants were busy with preparations for supper and weren’t paying close attention to them. They climbed the stairs in silence, but the closer they got to Marjorie’s chamber, the more her steps faltered. When she pushed open her door, her hand visibly shook.
Lachlan grimaced in sympathy. In truth, this was the first time in hours that something felt wrong. Even after what they’d done in the solar, she would still have a virgin’s anxiety, and he didn’t know exactly what to say to reassure her. Lady Janet would. She always knew what to say, especially in regard to lusty matters. But she was away in her own chamber.
“I wish Janet were here,” Marjorie blurted before staring at him in horror. “Forgive me. That was beyond awful. After your noble sacrifice, I didn’t mean…I just—”
“I wish the same,” he said simply, choosing to be as honest as she had been, for she deserved such respect. “It feels…wrong without her.”
Her shoulders sagged. “I want to be bedded by you. I do. I care for you so very much, and I know you will make it as nice as possible. But I would be less anxious if Janet watched and instructed me.”
A flame lit inside him, one that made his cock jerk. “Watched and instructed us.”
Marjorie licked her lips, her eyes darkening to pure sapphire. “We should go and find the mistress of the manor, then, husband.”
He bowed. “As you desire, lady wife.”
…
Marjorie and Lachlan were consummating their marriage, and she had only her ever-faithful companion: wine.
Janet took another gulp from her goblet and stared out the window of her bedchamber, watching the shadows lengthen in the late-afternoon sun.
The day had started so promisingly with the jaunt to the stream. How pleasant it had been to relax with her lovers, laugh and tell bawdy tales, and eat delicious food outside in the secluded spot. When Lachlan had shared his secret, a new tenderness and protectiveness for him had rushed through her. But when they had returned to the manor…
She shuddered. A dark chasm had opened, threatening to swallow her at any time. From the moment Lachlan and Marjorie had ridden away—he had saddled Storm himself, and they’d managed to leave between guard changes—she had been terrified that spies loyal to the queen might discover the plan and arrest them. It seemed like she’d held her breath for hours, until the sound of horse hooves on gravel sent her into a half swoon against the wall…thoroughly unnerving for a woman who prided herself on her confidence in, and command of, all situations.
Now the terror had abated somewhat to be replaced by emotions equally as poisonous to well-being: jealousy and despair.
Now that Lachlan and Marjorie were wed, they were lost to her, for they wouldn’t need a mistress at all. They would leave and set up their own household, bed only each other, maybe remember her fondly for a time with brief letters that would dwindle to nothing as the months passed. Eventually, she might look upon this act with a quiet pride and contentment that she had put others above herself and also thwarted that damned child-queen. But not now. This moment, agonizing pain clawed her insides, the kind she’d never wanted to experience again: the pain of loss. Doubly worse, for not just one snatched from her but two. Already she knew that never again would there be another Lachlan and Marjorie, eagerly submissive lovers who suited her so well. Never again would the solar bear witness to the glorious passion only found in three. And this knowledge was crushing.
A knock at the door sounded, and Janet turned and glared at the oak. “I asked…I asked not to be disturbed,” she managed from a boulder-clogged throat.
“It is Marjorie and Lachlan, mistress.”
Janet stilled at the muffled feminine reply, her heart lurching. She did not believe for a moment they had bedded each other already. And Marjorie had said mistress.
Setting down her goblet on a side table, Janet walked over to the chamber door and opened it slowly. “Come in.”
The two entered the room like penitent students, heads bowed and hands at their sides. Further stunned and more than a little intrigued, Janet folded her arms and tilted her head. “It is done?”
“Partly,” said Lachlan, dropping to one knee before reaching into his doublet and pulling out two small, tightly rolled scrolls, each with a red wax seal affixed.
“Partly?” she repeated, taking one of the scrolls and locking it within a cleverly hidden compartment in the large wooden chest at the foot of her bed. Lachlan could keep the other copy in his own chamber; it was never sensible to keep two in the same place. Especially with documents as important as these—apart from Master Shaw, the papers were all they had to prove that a formal promise of marriage had taken place.
“Wedded…but not bedded, mistress,” said Marjorie. “We…we decided it felt wrong without you.”
Tears burned her eyes, forcing Janet to take a deep breath for composure. “Did you now?” she replied softly, turning back to look at them both.
“Aye,” said Lachlan, his dark gaze both hot and yielding in a way that made her squeeze her thighs together against a rush of pure arousal.
“Well then. I can see you are both dusty from your ride to town. Best you undress and have a sponge bath before such an important occasion as a marital bedding.”
As Lachlan began to remove his doublet, Janet crossed the chamber to latch the door. When she returned, she assisted Marjorie with her hoo
d, leaf-green gown, kirtle, and shift. Soon the newlyweds stood naked—Lachlan unperturbed, Marjorie clearly at war with herself as she resisted the urge to cover her breasts and mound as taught her whole life.
Both belonged to Janet Fraser.
Excitement entwined with pure relief surged, and when Janet dipped a sponge into a bowl of cool water sprinkled with herbs that rested on a stand, her hand trembled and made a small splash.
She went to Marjorie first, gently sponging her back, bottom, and legs. Then she moved to stand in front of her ward before attending to her neck, arms, and stomach. Naturally, she took special care with those delectable plump breasts, rubbing the damp and slightly rough sponge over Marjorie’s swollen nipples until the younger woman quivered. After rewetting the sponge, Janet trailed it down between Marjorie’s thighs, parting the brown bush of hair and dragging it back and forth against the petal-soft pink flesh, smiling when Marjorie whimpered with need but deliberately denying her release.
“Now you, pet,” she purred, wetting the sponge once again.
Lachlan shuddered, and without prompting, placed his hands atop his head. Already his magnificent cock had grown thicker and longer, and her mouth watered to suck it down her throat. But no. Her Beast would have to wait for such pleasures. Instead, she tormented him with the sponge, firmer than she’d been with Marjorie, although she lightened her touch when washing his scars. The naughty man had removed the bandage she’d applied at the loch, but his most recent wound appeared to be healing well. Last of all she washed his cock, dropping the sponge and instead using her hands to roughly massage the engorged length until he pleaded to be permitted to spend. But she denied him release too.
“What next?” said Marjorie, her eyes wide and cheeks flushed, the heady scent of her wet cunt perfuming the chamber.
“You’ll both pleasure me first,” said Janet. “Marjorie, help me with my gown. Lachlan, fetch the brown bottle of oil from my satchel.”
Scandalous Passions Page 11