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 shrieked 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.

“I wonder what we are having for supper,” said Marjorie awkwardly into the silence. “I find I am hungry. Very hungry.”

Lady Janet smiled briefly as she smoothed her hair and adjusted her hood. “It has been quite the day. I understand there will be beef. Fowl also. I must admit, after living at Stirling Castle—and before that, traveling with the king and his privy councillors—I forgot how many tasks are involved in running a household. Food and supplies, linens, stables, servants’ wages and other expenses…attending to the finer details is not something I enjoy overmuch. I prefer to lead the army—or at least entertain them rather than decide how many carrots they may eat or which color hose they wear.”

“I wonder if,” said Marjorie very, very tentatively, “I could help?”

Lachlan almost laughed at the thought of a lady eager to take on those menial tasks, until he saw the wistfulness on her face. “At the convent,” he asked, “did you have…such duties?”

She twisted her fingers together. “The only nun who didn’t tell me to run along and stop bothering her was Sister Elspeth in the kitchens. Her mind was sharp, but her eyes and hands were not so well anymore. So I helped her make lists. What we grew in the gardens, the supply of butter and herbs, of grain and flour. Each week I would make note of all our supplies and tell her. Then when the men came from town in their wagons, with fish and fowl or other goods, I helped to purchase them. Sister Elspeth showed me how to select the best. To know when I was being cheated. Some of the men thought a nun would be sweet and kind and would forgive them their sins if they did so, but Sister Elspeth set the kitchen dog onto them. He was mean and liked to bite ankles and bottoms. They soon learned to bring only the best.”

This time Lachlan couldn’t halt the laugh that rumbled in his chest. Even the thought of sweet little Marjorie and a wily old nun placidly watching a feral kitchen dog latch onto a merchant’s arse after he tried to cheat them with less-than-fresh food…

“Lady Janet,” he said gruffly. “Maybe you could…train Marjorie in your p-preferences. Allow her to assist you. Ease your b-burden.”

Marjorie beamed at him before turning to Lady Janet with so much hope in her eyes it was almost painful to witness. “May I? I should so like to be useful to you. All your favorite foods and wines, and only the freshest and best goods from town. I would personally ensure your table is the finest in St. Andrews. Oh yes, and that you always have the herbs you need for your tonics and poultices.”

Lady Janet held up both hands. “Very well. Very well! I cede control of the larder. You can take charge of the linen cupboard also. Mind you don’t become a tyrant, though. Save that for the marketplace when some fool tries to sell you fish so old it has gray hairs sprouting from the gills. Now, let us go downstairs to supper before they send an army to find us.”

Marjorie near twirled toward the chamber door, but Lachlan paused and stared hard at Lady Janet. “Mistress—”

“No, pet,” she replied softly but firmly. “I have been flung in several directions today, and all I want this night is a full belly and an empty goblet. To make merry. One thing I am equally certain about is a strong aversion to prying questions regarding the private body matter that half of Scotland knows about because everyone shares and comments on it.”

Lachlan hesitated, then took her hand and squeezed it. “Just know…we are here. That we care. If you ever wish to t-talk. As we did b-by the stream.”

Lady Janet’s face shuttered. “I am glad that discussion bought you comfort, but I do not wish the same for my matter. I’ve had enough advice, enough suspicious looks, and enough blunt questions to last ten lifetimes. I will not be pitied. If you cannot obey that simple command…”

Although her voice trailed off, Lachlan knew what she meant, and icy cold fear slithered down his spine. To be banished from Lady Janet’s presence, to live in a world without the fire that warmed him, that urged him to be better…to be without the woman who understood his desire to be owned and commanded in the bedchamber, and brought him greater pleasure than he’d ever known…

Unthinkable.

“As you wish, lady,” he conceded, willing to say anything to return to her good graces, to make her forget that he’d been a blundering fool. As a bastard son, he well knew how it felt to be the object of talk, and as someone who’d had difficulty speaking for as long as he could remember, he also knew how tiresome and sometimes infuriating the advice and pity could be.

No one wanted to be noted for an affliction, one thing they could not change. Especially when they worked so very hard to succeed in other aspects of their lives. He had honed weaponry and battle to a fine art, and Lady Janet was a bold, learned, lusty woman who had conquered kings, nobles, and common men alike.

To have her affection, to live in this manor and sleep in her bed, was a miracle for a man who had long ago stopped believing in such things.

Nothing could be allowed to spoil that.

Nothing.

…

She had done something terribly wrong but had no idea what it was.

Marjorie gripped her wine goblet tighter as dismay churned around and around in her stomach. Supper had indeed been beef and fowl, roasted, with several sauces, plus a selection of jellies, puddings, vegetables, and poached pears in cream. She had eaten more than her fill due to the stilted conversation at the table and Janet’s coolness, and now her belly might well burst open.

Her very first proper bedding had been wonderful. More than wonderful—pure bliss. Never had she felt so free to be herself, so cared for, in her entire life. And then it had all gone wrong. Somehow, she had angered or displeased Janet, one of the two people she would never, ever wish to hurt, and that knowledge clawed her heart.

What on earth could it be?

Marjorie watched in miserable silence as servants bustled about, clearing away the platters of uneaten food, which they would soon enjoy for their own supper. If Janet was particularly angry, would she change her mind in allowing her ward to oversee aspects of the household? That would be a terrible blow. Being alone and unwanted at the convent, then Stirling Castle, had been punishment enough. To be unwanted here…she might not recover from that.

Abruptly, Janet pushed her chair back and got to her feet. “Forgive me, both of you, but I think I shall retire for the evening. I can scarcely keep my eyes open.”

Lachlan pressed his hands to the table. “Should we—”

“No.”

The word was said gently but had the impact of a boulder crashing through a roof.

Stricken, Marjorie rose to her feet so quickly her chair tumbled backward with a clatter onto the hall floor. “Janet, what is the matter? What is wrong?”

“Do not fret. I am just very tired. I shall see you in the morning, and we’ll talk further on your duties in regard to the larder and linen closet. Good night, Lachlan. Do escort Marjorie to her chamber when she is ready.”

In stunned silence, they watched their mistress depart the hall without a backward glance. Yet Janet hadn’t marched away at her usual brisk pace, or even walked. It had been more of a shuffle, her shoulders stooped, as though she carried the weight of several castles. As though she had been defeated.

And somehow, that was worse than anything else.

What could possibly defeat a bold tempest like Janet Fraser?

“Lachlan,” she said hoarsely. “What just happened? I feel like I have done or said something terrible, but I don’t know what it is, and I cannot bear it.”

He hesitated, taking far too much care in removing the linen napkin draped over his left shoulder and placing it on the table, and perspiration broke out on her neck. Lachlan knew what it was but did not know how to say it.

By the saints, it truly must be something awful.

“Tell me,” Marjorie demanded, yanking off her own napkin and hurling it onto the table. “Tell me or I shall go mad.”

“Let’s go upstairs,” he replied, failing utterly in his attempt at a reassuring smile.

After setting her chair to rights and nodding their thanks to the servants clearing away the plates and goblets, Marjorie and Lachlan left the hall and made their way to her chamber. As soon as they were safely inside, away from curious eyes and ears, she hurried over to the fireplace. It wasn’t a cold evening at all, but holding her hands in front of the healthy blaze and listening to the crackle and hiss of burning wood offered some blessed distraction.

“Tell me,” she said, quietly this time.

Lachlan sighed and rubbed a hand across his face. “You weren’t to know. H-how could you? And it is my f-fault, in truth. I said something thoughtless. You answered…as a new wife w-would. But we both hurt our mistress.”

“How? What did I say?”

“When you spoke of…conceiving a child. Lady Janet is…b-barren, you see.”

All the air fled her lungs, and Marjorie choked on a horrified gasp. “Oh no. That is…oh no. Lachlan, I was cruel! I didn’t mean to be…but I was!”

Tears gathered in her eyes and began to spill down her cheeks. Even when his arm closed around her shoulders and pressed her to his chest, she couldn’t entirely stop them, and she spent several moments sniffling and coughing in a most humiliating manner.

How could I not have known?

Yes, no one had told her, but the evidence was plain. Janet had been the virile king’s mistress for a long time, and while he had several children to other women, they had none together. Then Janet had wed Master Fraser. And she’d had many other lovers, including Lachlan.

But no children. Never any children.

“I am a fool,” Marjorie said painfully. “A fool who does not see what is right in front of her.”

“Not a fool,” said Lachlan as he patted her back. “Just unaware. But now you know. Also know this: Lady Janet d-does not wish…to speak of it. Ever. I believe it c-causes her…great pain.”

She winced. “I understand. But what of us?”

Lachlan guided her to the chair in front of the fireplace before lowering himself to sit on the thick woven rug. “I have thirty summers. My life was…fighting for the k-king. I did not think of ch-children. My mother was wonderful. A strong woman. My father…uh…they did not wed.”

“That is not your sin!”

“Yes. But I lived w-with it. I did not w-want a child t-to suffer as I d-did. Forgive me. My speech gets worse.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she said firmly. “Please do go on if you can. I feel I need to know this, even if it stings.”

Lachlan took a deep breath and curled his arms around his knees as though armoring himself. “I didn’t think…to wed. No land, no home. A bastard knight. So I did not w-want children. But now I am w-wed.”

Somehow, she forced the words out, both desperate to know and afraid to hear the answer. “So do you wish to have a child now? A child with me?”

He met her gaze unflinchingly, his face grave. “I am…unsure. Not because of you. But…”

Marjorie closed her eyes briefly, heartsick to her core. “Janet.”

“And our marriage. The queen will f-find out. When you d-don’t go to Carlisle. They may forgive. Or…they may not. I would n-not want to leave a f-fatherless infant. If I am…in prison.”

Slumping back in the chair, Marjorie fought the urge to howl. Not a single thing Lachlan had said could be judged unfair or unreasonable. Their marriage was precarious at best, and one or both could indeed be punished severely for defying a royal decree. Not to mention, her conceiving a child would be very difficult for Janet.

And yet a small, selfish part of her wanted to scream: What about me?

In this fine chamber, when it might seem to an outsider that she had everything she wanted—a strong, protective husband; elegant home; friendship—she could feel her most cherished dream of being a mother slipping from her grasp.

Of all the heartbreaks and disappointments she had taken in her life, this might well be the hardest to bear.