Chapter One

Stirling Castle, Scotland, July 1504

The knock at her chamber door sounded more battering ram than human. Powerful. Relentless. Deadly.

Even before the heavy oak swung open, Lady Janet Fraser knew who it was. There was only one man King James IV sent when he had reached the end of his tether with a recalcitrant courtier: Sir Lachlan Ross, his Highland Beast.

And she had been most recalcitrant, choosing to remain in the castle rather than leaving it, as the king’s other former mistresses and illegitimate children had been ordered to do when he wed the young English princess Margaret Tudor.

Now Janet’s day of reckoning had come. And if James had sent the Beast, he was most displeased.

“Lady,” Sir Lachlan growled. “The king will see you. Now.”

Janet swallowed hard as she got to her feet, forcing herself to meet the warrior’s frigid brown gaze. Everything about Sir Lachlan was terrifying. She was tall for a woman, as tall as most men, but he towered over her by a full head. His shoulders were massive, his chest broad, his arms thick with muscle after many years of expertly wielding a longsword in battle, and he always wore black from hat to hose, apart from a red doublet that many whispered was refreshed in the blood of his enemies. And while his pitch-black hair reached shoulder length, as was fashionable, he always wore it tied back with a length of leather. All the better to see the scar that dissected one slashing black brow and stretched to his ear.

Terrifying.

“Will he, indeed?” she retorted, pleased when her voice quavered only a little. Even after their affair had ended and the king married her off to one of his privy councillors, he had been kind to her. When her husband passed of a fever, he had been kinder still. Surely James would show her mercy today.

Sir Lachlan scowled, one huge paw of a hand curving around her elbow. “Now.”

The jolt that raced through her at his impersonal touch was so startling Janet stumbled. Saints alive! Had she lost her wits? Clearly she needed a new lover in her bed if her body responded to Lachlan Ross. Especially when it appeared he wanted to snap her like a twig. Or heave her over the ramparts. It certainly wasn’t lust darkening those fathomless eyes.

“One moment,” she said just to compose herself. “I need to…hook up the train of my gown.”

Surprisingly, Sir Lachlan released her and stepped back, granting permission with a curt nod. Yet even as she bent down to gather up an armful of dark-blue velvet, she could feel his eyes burning into her, and it made her usually dexterous fingers clumsy. When at last she had finally conquered that task, adjusted her gable hood so it sat straighter on her head, and smoothed the wide fur-lined cuffs at her wrists, she again met his gaze.

“There. You may escort me to see the king,” Janet announced crisply. “Is he receiving many this afternoon? They are not long arrived from Linlithgow; I thought he and the queen might have tarried there longer. I’m sure she prefers Linlithgow to Stirling Castle.”

“No.”

Janet hesitated, forcing a laugh. “No? To which point?”

Sir Lachlan’s lips tightened, and he took her elbow again, leading her across the comfortably furnished chamber and out into the torch-lit hallway. Even in summer the stone walls and floor held a cool dampness, and the row of torches sitting in their small wrought-iron cradles were a welcome source of light and warmth.

“Only you,” he said. “And Lady Marjorie Hepburn.”

Confusion furrowed her brow. She well knew what her own sins were, but it was hard to imagine Lady Marjorie’s—the king’s beautiful young ward had only recently been released from imprisonment in a remote convent. Allegedly for her comfort and protection, but as Lady Marjorie’s father, Lord Hepburn, had been involved in the death of the king’s father at Sauchieburn back in 1488, it was hard to see it as anything other than punishment.

“Oh.”

“Fret not, lady. No harm will befall you. I swear.”

Janet almost stumbled again. As soon as she returned to her chamber, she would throw those almond-paste comfits out the window. Bad enough the sweet treat had caused her to feel lust at the Highland Beast’s touch, but now she’d heard a faint note of tenderness in his tone?

Impossible.

Thoroughly unnerved, she remained silent for the rest of their walk across the inner close. While Stirling Castle had stood for centuries, a brooch that fastened the Highlands and Lowlands together, James had made several improvements. The two newest buildings were the King’s House, where he entertained privately and listened to petitions, and the jaw-droppingly magnificent Great Hall.

The King’s House had three principal rooms; on the ground floor there was a hall, where visitors and petitioners waited, and a great chamber for favored noblemen. However, up a turnpike staircase was his private chamber, where only his closest friends and advisers were permitted. This was their destination, and all those watching enviously knew it. Few had unfettered access to the king, but this day Janet would gladly decline the honor and return to her book of poetry.

How angry would James be at her disobedience? In what way would he punish her? Hopefully not banishment to a convent. Virginal Lady Marjorie might have survived years in one, but Scotland’s most notorious sinner wouldn’t last an hour.

At the foot of the stairs, two armed guards waited. One inclined his head. “Sir Lachlan. Lady Janet. The king awaits you.”

How she hated these stairs. Whether climbing or descending, the spiral made her dizzy, and the walls always seemed to press in on her. Oddly, with her escort behind her, she felt a trifle safer. Another armed guard opened the door at the top with a polite bow and ushered them into the lavishly furnished chamber.

“Lady Janet,” greeted the king, his cool formality unnerving her further.

“Your Grace,” she murmured, sinking into a deep curtsy.

James Stewart wasn’t a tall man or especially broad shouldered, but his fashionable, fiercely intelligent presence filled a room. Visitors were often lulled by his easy charm, humor, and gift for languages, but those shrewd brown eyes missed nothing. He’d won several decisive victories on the battlefield and lured back many Scottish nobles who had abandoned the court in disgust because the previous king had disastrously surrounded himself with advisers who were tailors and masons.

“False meekness from my fiery lass is unbecoming,” he continued sharply. “Look at me and explain why you disobeyed my order. Do you know the trouble you’ve caused me? The queen is in a lather.”

Janet bit her tongue, lest she comment on the tiresome lathers of a fourteen-year-old queen. The king had wed for duty, not love, and an unhappy wife could mean trouble with England. “Forgive me. I meant no disrespect to Her Grace.”

Her former lover sighed. “King Henry has at last sent Margaret’s second dowry installment. And money for her expenses. She and her retinue of English ladies are damned expensive…I cannot afford any unpleasantness. Our peace treaty is uneasy at best.”

“Your Grace—”

“You must leave, Jannie,” said James, his temper easing to familiar affection. “I’ve sent away all my mistresses. All my bairns. It claws my soul, but such is the burden of a king with an unsteady crown.”

Her shoulders slumped. To be forced to leave Stirling Castle, the only place that had ever truly felt like home, was a crushing blow. “When?”

James took her hands and squeezed them, smiling sadly even as his relief shone through at her acquiescence. “Tomorrow, beloved.”

So soon! Plainly, he would not be turned or teased in this matter. Rejection by the king, her former lover and dear friend, hurt more than words could express.

“Where must I go?”

“I am granting you land near St. Andrews. Fresh air, excellent hunting. I shall visit when I can. Sir Lachlan will escort you there and keep you safe henceforth.”

Janet froze.

What?

…

Sir Lachlan will escort you there. And keep you safe henceforth.

The king’s words had the impact of a boulder into a pond, so startling that Lachlan could scarcely comprehend them.

In one breath, he’d been granted his dearest wish—to be close to Lady Janet Fraser, the woman who dominated every lusty dream he’d ever had—but also forced to face his worst fear: sent from the king’s side, a position of favor he’d held for seventeen years.

His early childhood had been pleasant enough; his bold, strong, and affectionate mother was the cherished mistress of a laird. But one winter day, they’d been out walking, and a raiding party from a rival clan had knocked him unconscious and taken her. Days later, her body was recovered, and all light disappeared from his life. With his mother gone and his father inconsolable and turning on him, his half brothers took the opportunity to show him a disdain and resentment that became crueler as the years passed.

Until he grew and began to best them in fights, of course.

Then his father had taken notice and started training him with longsword, pike, mace, and dagger. At just thirteen summers, he’d fought his first battle—against that rival clan. His father had been killed, but they’d won a decisive victory, and important men had taken note of Lachlan’s size and skill. Mere weeks later he’d been brought to court to serve as a guard and companion to then Prince James. They had done everything together: fought battles the length and breadth of Scotland, bedded comely wenches, drank taverns dry. James had ensured Lachlan mastered French and Latin, and he in turn helped James with Gaelic so he might converse easier with those in the Highlands.

But now…his king—his close friend—was sending him away.

Lachlan squared his shoulders against the harsh and unexpected blow. Yet he couldn’t remain silent. Or stoic. Not in regard to this.

“Your Grace,” he began, taking a breath to slow his words, lest he humiliate himself in front of Lady Janet. The king knew of his longstanding and most wretched speech affliction—how he deliberately spoke in short, clipped sentences to manage it—and now waited patiently for his question. “You wish me…to stay at St. Andrews?”

James glanced over at Lady Janet. “Will you excuse us a moment, Jannie?”

The redheaded beauty stared back at him, her green eyes blazing with hurt, but she eventually curtsied and retreated to the sun-warmed window seat to give them some privacy.

“My fiery lass is unhappy with me,” said James with a rueful smile as he absently pulled his purple-velvet ermine-lined mantle tighter about his shoulders. “But she’ll soon see ’tis for the best.”

“I did not think,” replied Lachlan carefully, not wanting to offend the king, “that you would send me t-to protect Lady Janet in her new home. Have I d-displeased you?”

“No! The very opposite. I ask this boon because you are the only man in Scotland I dare trust with the task. Yet I confess, Jannie is but one half of it. She does not know it yet, but I am awarding her guardianship of Lady Marjorie Hepburn until I decide on a husband for the lass. So you see, I am placing not one but two precious jewels in your care. Because I know you will not mistreat or hold them captive for your own ends but protect them with your life.”

Lachlan nodded. Everyone knew of the king’s affection for Lady Janet, and his ward was quite a marriage prize, despite her unfortunate father. Men would commit devilish acts to command women far less valuable than these. But while he could see it pained the king to send the three of them away, James was a practical man. Queen Margaret did not appreciate beautiful unwed Highland ladies at court, and the king had a peace treaty with England to maintain.

“And Lady Janet?” Lachlan asked. “Is she to be m-married also?”

“I wager not. Jannie has expressed no desire to wed again, for she loved Master Fraser well. Besides. She is a woman of thirty-three summers, and barren. Men want a younger wife who can give them heirs,” said the king with a shrug almost cruel in its dismissiveness.

Lachlan barely suppressed a snort. Maybe noblemen or those with a crown did, but even after thirty summers, he felt no great urge for a family. A tall flame-haired wife with a saucy tongue and plentiful spirit…well, that was a different matter entirely. Not even on his deathbed would he confess the lewd, forbidden thoughts he had about Lady Janet most nights. Those slender, bejeweled fingers tangling in his hair as she pressed his face between her thighs. Her long legs straddling him as she rode him hard. Her pouty lips wrapped around his cock or whispering wicked demands in his ear.

Alas, the chance of having such a highborn, intelligent beauty in his bed was as likely as the sun rising in the west. Lady Janet had been the king’s mistress and then wed Fergus Fraser, a privy councillor and learned scholar who’d studied ancient manuscripts and even practiced alchemy. Who had written verse as fine as William Dunbar’s.

A worthy man.

Far better than a landless knight with little means and only his sword arm to offer. In truth, Lachlan was still unused to hearing Sir before his name. He had climbed high for a bastard son, and there were those who hated him for it. None had dared to challenge him as yet, but he remained ever watchful, ever ready to slay an enemy. He was the king’s Highland Beast, after all.

“Of course, Your Grace. Many heirs,” Lachlan muttered eventually, wanting to kick himself for his poor conversation. James had never once mocked his speech or his lack of learning, but it was hard to feel anything other than inadequate in front of someone so gifted. The king could speak on any topic, with any man, even change language from one sentence to the next. He was equally comfortable with envoys from foreign lands as he was breaking bread with a lowly crofter. It was how he’d taken a realm torn apart with lawlessness, deceit, and divided loyalties after his father’s disastrous reign and slowly, painstakingly began to sew it back together.

James smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll go with my blessing and friendship. And a bag of gold. Do not think for a moment I am ungrateful for your service and loyalty. No one has been a better companion, and as I said, I would trust no other with this task. Have you met the Lady Marjorie?”

“I have not.”

But I am curious about this young woman—imprisoned most of her life—whom I must protect. Is she plotting revenge? Broken of soul? Excessively pious? Something else entirely?

“Virgin still,” James explained, “but a buxom little beauty made for long nights in bed. If Margaret were not here…”

Lachlan almost smiled as James sighed irritably and leaned against a cloth-covered oak table. The king’s gifts were not limited to matters of state. He could charm the birds from the trees, and many a fair maiden had happily surrendered her virtue to him. James loved women. All women. If his young English queen expected fidelity, she would be sorely disappointed, but at this time she had thwarted his romantic plans.

“Have you told Lady Marjorie of her fate?” Lachlan asked.

“Not yet. But soon…ah, here she is now,” said James, as the heavy chamber door swung open.

Lachlan turned. And almost forgot to breathe.

For there stood a beautiful young woman, brown haired and petite, wearing a modest linen gown that in no way disguised what must be the plumpest, most luscious curves in Scotland. About as different from tall, slender, flame-haired Lady Janet as possible and yet equally as alluring.

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.