Scandalous Passions

by Nicola Davidson

  Minutes later she stood as naked as her lovers. Both poured a small quantity of oil into their palms and began to rub it into her skin; Marjorie attending to her front and Lachlan her back.

  Janet barely stifled a moan as Marjorie’s soft fingers tweaked her nipples, a delicious contrast to Lachlan’s strong hands on her back, rubbing the knots of tension from her shoulders. When her needy cunt couldn’t bear any more luscious teasing, she twisted to take each hand and guide them down between her legs.

  “Duel,” Janet commanded harshly.

  “I…um…what?” asked Marjorie, biting her lip.

  Lachlan pressed closer. “Ease your fingers…in the m-mistress’s cunt. I’ll ease mine…in her arse. A duel ’til release.”

  Marjorie brightened. “Oh! I see. I may lack experience, but I warn you, husband, I shall win this battle.”

  “Not a chance,” rasped Lachlan, his oiled fingers circling Janet’s back entrance.

  At the gentle press of two fingers into her cunt and two fingers into her back entrance, Janet gasped in delight. But when they began a wondrous duel of thrusts and strokes only separated by thin flesh, a wild cry burst from her lips. Lachlan wrapped his free arm about her waist to hold her up, yet his marauding fingers were relentless, as were Marjorie’s. Then he bit her neck just as Marjorie laved her right nipple, and Janet barely muffled her scream of ecstasy as a violent, prolonged release tore through her trembling body.

  Sheer perfection.

  When Janet at last regained her senses, she gently dislodged both, then walked over to her bed. When she’d arranged herself on the pillows, a wicked smile lifted her lips. Now they would receive their reward: a marital bedding like no other.

  “Do join me, newlyweds.”

  …

  She was a wedded wife. And soon, so soon, she would be a bedded one.

  Quivering with a combination of excitement, anticipation, and anxiety about the unknown, Marjorie allowed Lachlan to escort her over to the bed.

  What an overwhelming day of twists and turns it had been: The lighthearted fun and gentle intimacy of their time beside the stream. That terrible letter from the queen that had turned her world upside down. Janet’s knowledge and Lachlan’s comfort to devise a plan. A hasty, irregular, and possibly treasonous marriage in a lawyer’s chambers. And now, the occasion she’d awaited so long…learning all the secrets of the marriage bed. If she’d had to do this with an elderly English stranger, it would have been unbearable. But she had Lachlan—her gruff, brawny hero—and Janet, her lusty and commanding mistress, and although the unknown and the possibility of pain were unnerving, she was eager to begin and share this special moment with them.

  Together, she and Lachlan had willingly served their mistress and brought her to a screaming release with their wicked duel. Now it was their turn to pleasure each other as Janet instructed.

  “Come sit here, between my legs, Marjorie dear,” said Janet as she lounged on the pillows, her thighs spread wide, one hand lazily stroking her jutting nipples.

  Taking a deep breath, Marjorie climbed onto the large bed and crawled into position, settling herself against Janet’s breasts. Her mistress clearly understood the emotions swirling within her, for she began to stroke her skin and murmur words of encouragement before kissing her on the mouth, light kisses that soon turned deeply passionate.

  She moaned, drawing away to catch her breath. “I don’t…I don’t know what to do. How it is supposed to be.”

  “How do you w-wish it to be?” asked Lachlan, perched on the side of the bed.

  Marjorie smiled at his care and courtesy. His cock was so hard and ready for release he was clearly in discomfort, but not by so much as a twitch had he insisted upon his need being met before hers. “I should like, ah, to be touched some more before you, er, enter me. If you are willing.”

  “Oh, my dear,” said Janet, very seriously. “We shall both ensure you are ready. I know the first time can be overwhelming because you just don’t know. It can be a little unpleasant to start as your body adjusts; occasionally there is pain and some bleeding. But while it is our duty to assist and support and pleasure you, it is your duty to tell us how you are feeling, whether something is not enough or just right or too much, because we cannot know your mind. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, mistress,” said Marjorie huskily as a slow throb began between her legs. Janet explained lusty matters so clearly. It was so freeing, so reassuring, to know exactly what she must do rather than awkwardly stumble, and that she might stop something she did not enjoy. “Kiss me, Lachlan.”

  He leaned over and cupped her cheek before brushing his lips against hers. But she did not want such gentleness, instead curving a hand around his neck and kissing him back firmly, her tongue darting against his lips until he opened his mouth and kissed her properly.

  Janet really was a most excellent tutor.

  “What next?” rasped Lachlan eventually, his chest rising and falling, and it did her heart good to know he was equally affected by their kisses.

  “I want…I want…please, Janet, touch my breasts. And Lachlan…down there.”

  He hesitated and glanced at Janet.

  “No, dear one,” said her stern mistress. “Down there is not sufficient. If you wish him to kiss your pearl, say so. If you wish him to stroke or lick your sweet little cunt, say so. He will do as you desire, but you must state plainly what that desire is. Do not force us to withhold release from you in punishment.”

  Marjorie squirmed on the bed at the reprimand. She had indeed been instructed many times on plain speaking and did indeed know better. Now was not the time to retreat to the comfortable familiarity of convent virgin. She was a married woman with a husband and a mistress, who had been well taught on how to give and receive pleasure.

  “It aches, Lachlan,” she whispered. “My…my cunt aches. Use your tongue until I scream. Until I make your mouth all wet.”

  “There now,” said Janet, and Marjorie whimpered when those nimble fingers rewarded her candor with caresses and light pinches of her swollen nipples.

  Lachlan moved to kneel between her spread legs. By the saints, the way he was looking at her right now, reverent and yet so hungry, as he ran his hands along her sturdy thighs, as he carefully parted the crisp brown hair that covered her mound and exposed her silky-wet and spicy-scented pink flesh. She felt beautiful. Desirable. And that was lovely indeed.

  Janet laughed. “Cunt-struck, pet?”

  “Aye. Only one other…so perfect.”

  “Then feast.”

  At the first flick of her husband’s tongue across her aching pearl, such a jolt of sensation raced through Marjorie’s body that she jerked and moaned. But with his huge hands resting on her thighs, and Janet cupping her breasts and kissing her neck, she was a willing captive. Then he dragged his tongue again and again from her pearl to her back entrance, pausing only to push his tongue inside her and coat it with the honey trickling from her center. With each movement his short beard rasped her inner thighs, and the contrast of gentle and rough was so delicious she couldn’t help the bucking of her hips in an attempt to get closer or the choked cries escaping her lips. A little more…just a little more…

  All at once he pressed hard on her pearl with his thumb and drove his tongue deep inside her, hurling her over the edge into a storm of bliss. Fortunately Janet had the foresight to muffle her scream of pleasure with a firm hand; otherwise every servant in the manor would have come running.

  Lachlan inhaled shakily and licked his lips. “Again.”

  Even in the foggy mist of pleasure aftermath, that seemed wrong. She was soaking wet, had been carefully prepared for his cock, was ready and eager to feel him inside her…and he did not enter her? It was plainly obvious he wanted to. His manhood bobbed against his abdomen, hard and thick, a little pearly seed dampening the tip. She could see the n
eed in his eyes, the strain at holding back.

  Perplexed, she reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Why are you denying me your cock? Why are you denying yourself?”

  Color darkened his cheeks. “You aren’t quite ready.”

  Marjorie frowned. “Beg pardon?” she replied, affronted. She most certainly was ready!

  Janet cleared her throat. “I know you mean well, pet, but that is for your wife, not you, to decide. Besides, a cunt is most robust. It is made to stretch. Now, do get on with your husbandly duty.”

  He glanced at Marjorie, his expression rueful. “Forgive me.”

  She grinned mischievously. “Only if you fuck me. Is that plain enough?”

  Lachlan did smile then, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Aye, lady wife. Most plain.”

  Moments later he took his length in hand and rubbed the head against her slick center. Then, he began to penetrate her.

  Marjorie gasped at the stretch, the overwhelming feeling of fullness, and winced at the brief stinging pain as he eased his cock in. But when he settled into an easy rhythm of advance and retreat, pushing his cock in before slowly easing out, it felt better, then much better, then very, very good. Deciding then and there that Lachlan moved with entirely too much caution, she dug her heels into the bed and thrust upward, embedding him fully inside her.

  A guttural groan tore from his throat as he thrust harder. “So hot…so tight…so good…”

  “More,” said Marjorie greedily, her nails scratching his back, her legs locking tightly around his waist to hold him to her, desperate to reach the blissful release that teased her once again.

  “Spend,” Janet commanded harshly.

  She cried out as her inner walls clamped around Lachlan’s cock, and a wave of sensation sent her soaring to the stars, only made better by the sound of her husband’s low roar of ecstasy, the gush of his seed flooding deep inside her.

  Indeed, a wedding bedding to remember.

  Chapter Ten

  The air was heavy with the scent of ecstasy, the sounds of gasping breaths and twitching bodies sliding across crisp linen sheets.

  Janet smiled as Lachlan and Marjorie settled themselves on either side of her, glad they had the foresight to move so she wasn’t crushed beneath their combined weight. Her chamber—or more specifically, her bed—had become a sanctuary for forbidden lust, and although she well knew that sanctuary was an illusion…for the moment she would embrace the feeling of peace. Of gratitude that the bedding had gone so well, that she had been a part of it. Well, more than that. She had been in command of it.

  “How are you both?” asked Janet. “After that important task.”

  Marjorie cuddled closer, tucking her head into Janet’s shoulder even as she reached across and clasped Lachlan’s hand. “I am well. I couldn’t have hoped for a better first time. With you both. I feel…so fortunate. I mean…it hurt a little bit at first. Like a pinch. Then it didn’t. Lachlan moving helped the ache, but he moved too slow. So I…ah…helped him along.”

  Janet couldn’t help but laugh. “You are impatient, dear one.”

  “I know. ’Tis my flaw. Lachlan, I hope I didn’t hurt you with my fingernails.”

  He looked briefly startled. “No. Not at all.”

  “And you, Lachlan? Now you are a wedded and bedded husband?” said Janet.

  He hesitated. “It was wonderful. But…”

  “But?” said Marjorie, tensing. “What is the matter?”

  Lachlan sighed and propped himself up on one elbow. “I must beg forgiveness. I did n-not ask your w-wishes. In spending, I mean. Outside or in.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would you spend outside? You must do so in, so I might conceive a child. I would like a baby more than anything. Son or daughter, I do not mind. I have always wanted to be a mother, ever since I was a little girl, and now that I have a husband, it is right and proper to do so.”

  Janet closed her eyes, trying not to flinch as each innocent arrow found its mark and ripped open a wound that refused to heal. Of course Marjorie and Lachlan should have a conversation about children. She had encouraged them to speak plainly of their desires and needs. But so soon, and in bed? She was ill prepared, without the armor of clothing or distance or an activity to distract. Here with two people she cared deeply for, she might not be able to mask the pain of her barrenness. She had felt wretched earlier thinking them snatched from her, then bedding in private…but this was far too much. Poor Marjorie did not know the agony she caused. She would probably be mortified. And it wasn’t her fault; a new wife longing for motherhood would naturally be excited for the future.

  But devil take it, the hurt did not lessen. Time did not heal or bring acceptance.

  She had been confused but a little relieved as the months passed and her belly did not swell with the king’s child, as his attentions were enjoyable and she hadn’t felt ready to be a mother. But when the months turned into years, the confusion had turned into fear. She’d been advised to take tonics, to bed in certain positions, to pray. Nothing. Others had insisted it would be different in the holy bonds of matrimony, yet her belly remained flat with Fergus also.

  Her husband had been so calm, so understanding, each month when she bled. She had raged and wept, pleaded and threatened and cajoled. It made no difference. Each month, as night followed day, her body taunted her with the harsh reminder there was something she could not command. And no manuscript, no ancient wisdom or physician, could explain why. Even her own knowledge of herbals…worthless. Worst of all, she was constantly surrounded by women succeeding. Shared tales of early nausea and fatigue, swollen bellies and ankles, the triumph of a healthy birth. All of James’s other mistresses had given him a child; before he’d wed Margaret Tudor, the cherished bairns had resided at Stirling Castle.

  But Janet had failed.

  And every time there came a new pregnancy or birth announcement, she had to be delighted. Smile even as her broken heart shattered once more and buried her under a rockslide of why. Why must she be the barren one? Why must she suffer the annoyance of bleeding and belly gripes each month but never the jolt of a little kick or the tranquility of rocking an infant to sleep? Not once had Fergus scolded or blamed her, nor had he yelled or hurled a single item. After a while they’d stopped speaking of children at all, and she’d been torn whether to love him more for such kindness or hate his admittance of defeat.

  To be bested by strength, wit, or learning was one thing.

  Bested by your own body?

  Soul destroying.

  “Janet?” said Marjorie, her brow furrowing. “Are you well?”

  No!

  She gritted her teeth. “Of course. I just need to use the chamber pot. Do let me out, my dear, or I shall be worse than an untrained pup.”

  Marjorie grinned and shuffled toward the pillows to give her room. “Yes, mistress.”

  As sweet freedom from the emotional tempest beckoned, Janet sat up and prepared to flee. Until Lachlan put his hand on her arm.

  “Are you sure…you are w-well? Not upset?”

  A pox on the man for knowing her history. Why did he have to see?

  “Quite well, pet,” said Janet, twisting away from him and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “Also quite serious about my need to use the chamber pot.”

  Hurrying over to the other side of the room and behind an embroidered screen she could kiss right now for the privacy it provided, Janet covered her mouth and shrieked into her hand. Yes, it changed nothing. But if she did not lance the wound, it would fester inside her, and she did not have the luxury of tears. Although, later she would be drinking enough wine to launch a ship at supper.

  Lachlan clearing his throat sounded like thunder rumbling in the silence. “Do you think, mistress…Marjorie conceiving a c-child would help…or hinder us?”

  Janet sh
rieked into her hand again, furious when a tiny squeak escaped. Then she took several breaths, squared her shoulders, and walked back around the screen as though her burdens were feather light rather than crushing boulders.

  “I cannot be certain, of course. However, it seems rational that the king and clergy might be less inclined to protest a union that would leave an innocent babe a bastard. If you are both ready to welcome a child early in your marriage, then by all means try for one…we really must dress. I’m sure suppertime is fast approaching, and we must not give any of the servants cause for concern.”

  Lachlan looked like he might say something further, but she held up a hand and added a stern glare for good measure, and he fell silent.

  No. She would permit no more distressing talk until she’d drained the manor dry of wine. Or celebrated her hundredth birthday.

  Preferably the latter.

  …

  Lady Janet was not well. Not at all.

  Lachlan pressed his lips together so he did not speak as he swiftly sponged himself with the cool cloth by the bowl of water, then dressed.

  His mistress wore the same brittle, unhappy expression she had at the supper with the Campbells and the Sinclairs and the thoughtless comment about a woman’s true purpose. He knew her past miseries; the king had often spoken of Lady Janet’s sadness, his own disappointment in not having a child with his fiery one. Today he had been equally as thoughtless as Jean Sinclair, blurting out those words in front of Lady Janet when he could have easily spoken to Marjorie privately.

  Damned fool.

  The marital bedding had gone so well with the three of them together, as he was starting to believe they should be forever. Lusty and pleasurable and powerful. Then he had ruined it— twice, in fact. First the spending discussion, then asking Lady Janet’s opinion on a possible pregnancy for Marjorie.

  Baseborn, hell-spawned fool.

  Grimly, he watched Lady Janet and Marjorie help each other with their shifts, kirtles, and gowns. His wife kept biting her lip and glancing at their mistress, a sure sign she was troubled but didn’t know what to say. Not that he knew either. Even if he did, no doubt it would tumble out all wrong. Lady Janet had been so generous, so accepting of his speech affliction. Yet she shied away like an unbroken colt when it came to matters concerning herself, especially something that might disturb her sense of control and command. If she did not wish to discuss her barrenness, he had to respect her wishes, even if the stone wall and moat she had built around her heart hurt him.