Chapter Two

Never did he feel more uncomfortable, unlearned, or baseborn than at a feast in the Great Hall.

Lachlan hesitated at the door, resisting the urge to cross himself before entering. But the building inspired cathedral-like reverence. Beyond the fact it was new—only finished the previous year—and the largest hall in Scotland, it was just so…wondrous. The outside had been coated in lime wash, and the golden glow could be seen for miles around. There were many pairs of tall windows, some with stained glass, and heating came from not one but five fireplaces. At the far end was a raised dais where the king, queen, and important guests sat. They had their own table and each sat on their own carved chair. Everyone else sat on benches at two long trestle tables covered in a white cloth, which were moved away after the feast for dancing and pageants. Above where he stood now was the gallery where the minstrels played.

Truly the jewel of Stirling Castle.

“Sir Lachlan,” said an amused voice behind him, “you are far too competent masquerading as a door. Do allow us inside.”

Heat flashed along his cheekbones at Lady Janet’s teasing words, but when she placed her hand on his back and attempted to nudge him, he almost moaned. Had anyone else tried such an act, they would have found themselves short a hand. Or at least with several broken fingers. With her, he wanted to stay still just so she would touch him again.

But that wasn’t what she wanted. And his mind and body had settled humiliatingly quickly into comfort at obeying her commands.

Even if they weren’t the commands he truly desired.

Squaring his shoulders, Lachlan marched on. All around him were French and English dignitaries, privy councillors, nobles and their wives, even a few clan lairds seated at the long trestle tables. The noise had already reached deafening levels as conversation battled harp and flute to be heard.

“Wine, Sir Lachlan?”

He inclined his head at the servant, gesturing for him to fill Lady Janet’s and Lady Marjorie’s goblets before his own. Then he took a long, fortifying swallow. Plenty would be needed to assist in managing his speech in the presence of two beautiful ladies. Hell. What if they wished to dance later on? His feet might move with the lightness of angel wings on the battlefield, but add in a floor and music, and they became hewn stone.

“Do you know where we are to sit, Sir Lachlan?” asked Lady Marjorie, and he turned again to see her sky-blue eyes wide and complexion pale as she glanced around.

“Aye, lady,” he replied as gently as he could to reassure her, when on most days, his voice sounded like chains being dragged through purgatory. He wasn’t named Beast for his size alone. “Just follow me.”

“May I…may I take your arm?”

Lachlan blinked at the timid request. He would never be a true courtier; his stone feet, rough voice, and ugly face put paid to that. If he attempted to pick a rose with his paw hands, he yanked out the entire bush, and with his affliction, he would never be able to recite verses of poetry. But for some utterly unknown reason, he found himself offering his left arm to the tiny but mouthwateringly lush Lady Marjorie, and her shy smile warmed a part of him he’d thought frozen forever.

Then he hesitated, looking uncertainly at Lady Janet. Even the thought of offending her…

“Do not fret,” she said archly, her green eyes gleaming as she parroted his words from earlier in the day. “I shall walk beside you but not take your sword arm. Or touch your dagger. Unless you ask me very nicely.”

Lachlan’s breath caught, but before he could reply, she turned to greet a nobleman and his wife. Probably a good thing. Of course she hadn’t meant anything wicked by her words. That was a thousand nights of lusty dreams about Lady Janet trying to trick him.

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he moved forward, then adjusted his stride so Lady Marjorie wouldn’t trip on the hem of her gown. She had changed from the gray to one of leaf green; it had a low square bodice that lovingly cupped her ample breasts and hips, silver thread–embroidered sleeves, and a simple silver girdle about her waist.

“Pretty,” he blurted.

“Beg pardon?”

Lachlan groaned inwardly. It would be far better if he didn’t speak at all for the rest of the feast, but Lady Marjorie looked at him expectantly. “Your gown.”

“Oh! Oh, thank you. It’s my best, if rather unfashionable compared to other gowns. I love the color; it reminds me of leaves after rainfall. And I did the embroidery myself. I enjoy it. Maybe the only thing I liked about convent life—ample time to sew.”

He nodded as the words tumbled from her lips like a rushing river, and she gripped his sleeve a little tighter. It seemed Lady Marjorie was equally uncomfortable in the Great Hall; understandable when, like him, she was an outsider resented by most of those present. Utterly unjust, when—like his low birth—her father’s treasonous act could not be changed.

A short trumpet burst saved him from having to say anything further, and gasps went up around the hall as two servants carried out a silver tray with a rampant unicorn sculpted of spun sugar. This meant the first course would be served presently, so he ushered the two ladies to the front of the royal dais, where he bowed and they curtsied to James and Margaret. Then they sat near the end of the cloth-covered trestle table to the right of the dais, the position of highest favor. Thankfully velvet cushions had been tied to the wooden bench; without them it would have been a hard endurance for arses large and small.

As much as the Great Hall remained too grand for his blood, it stung to know this would be his last feast in the king’s presence for a long while. He would miss James. Their pilgrimages to the four corners of Scotland, the bloodthirsty battles they had fought side by side, the thrill of defeating enemies and then enjoying the spoils of victory. And yet…the thought of hunts rather than war, a large feather bed with thick quilts in a warm chamber rather than a hard pallet in a corner, wasn’t entirely unappealing. Nor was protecting the two most beautiful women in Scotland—one pure fire, bold and brazen and fierce; the other spring rain, soothing and gentle and refreshing.

He’d lived for years with unrequited lust and tender feelings for Lady Janet. But something stirred within for Lady Marjorie as well, and the notion unsettled him.

Really, he needed to keep distance from them both.

If only to retain his own sanity.

…

After a lifetime of plain convent food, the countless trays carried out by a small army of servants made her dizzy.

Marjorie tried not to make owl eyes at the colorful, heavenly-scented array, but it was nigh on impossible. Whole chickens, duck, geese, swans, even fully dressed peacocks. Haunches of beef and venison, boars’ heads with apples in their mouths, pies, jellies, and several kinds of cooked vegetables. Her stomach rumbled, and she licked her lips and stared down at the pewter plate sitting in front of her, lest anyone see how ravenously hungry she was. The bread and butter with small ale she’d had at sunrise seemed a thousand years ago now.

With admirable efficiency, the servants placed a selection of the dishes into the large stale-bread trencher sitting halfway between her and the man sitting to her left. Lady Janet and Sir Lachlan would share one, but unfortunately she had to eat with a stranger.

“You’re the Hepburn lass,” said the well-dressed man, glaring at her, his gray-flecked beard twitching in affront. “Bad blood.”

“Sir,” she began, but he’d already rudely turned away. Nor did he ask what she might like to sample from their shared trencher before carefully using his eating knife to cut slices of meat and a spoon for vegetables and other soft dishes, as was proper and clean.

No, he was using his hands.

Her stomach rebelled at the sight of fingers trailing through sauce and handling meat, and Marjorie pressed her fingertips to her mouth.

“Not hungry, lady?”

She glanced to her right at Sir Lachlan’s words and watched in envy as he wielded his ruby-hilted dagger with precision to cut choice slices of venison for Lady Janet and place them on her plate.

“N-no,” she whispered miserably as, of course, her stomach chose that moment to gurgle like a thunderclap.

Sir Lachlan stared at her, his thick black brows drawing ominously together. “You lie.”

Marjorie bit her lip. This close, the Beast looked even darker and more fearsome, and she could only see Lady Janet if she leaned well forward or back. Yet her hunger pains had clearly addled her mind, for even more than before, she wanted to touch him. Stroke that jagged scar on his face. Smooth his hair. Even answer him honestly.

Taking a deep breath for courage, she tugged on Sir Lachlan’s sleeve so he might lean down. “The man said I had bad blood. And used his hands in the trencher. He touched everything. I don’t think he wishes to share with me. See…like he’s doing now.”

“Wait, lady.”

In one surprisingly graceful movement, he stood and stepped back over the bench. A moment later, there was a muffled choking sound, and the stranger was no longer sitting beside her but hanging in midair.

By the saints, Sir Lachlan had him by the throat!

Gasping, Marjorie looked left and right, utterly unsure of what to do. People farther along the bench were still eating and talking. Did this happen often? Should she say something? Summon help?

“Sir Lachlan!” boomed a voice from the dais. “Lord Kerr is turning as red as your doublet. What is his crime?”

“Poor manners, Your Grace,” replied the Beast, shaking the man as though he weighed no more than a feather.

King James nodded. “I see. Best remove him from my Hall, then. I’ll only have guests who know how to behave. Do set him on his feet, though.”

Sir Lachlan actually scowled but allowed the drooling, shaking man to leave, which he did at great pace. Just as swiftly, a servant removed the spoiled trencher. Now others at the table were watching her, some from across the room as well. A few were laughing and pointing, but most were censorious. Queen Margaret’s stony gaze expressed pure dislike.

Marjorie’s stomach rumbled again, and she fought the urge to weep. The sooner she could leave Stirling Castle, the better.

“Choose, lady.”

Startled, she looked up to see Sir Lachlan gesturing at a refreshed trencher being held by two smiling servants.

He had arranged food for her. After removing the man who had been so ill mannered, albeit rather violently.

“Ah, anything, r-really,” stammered Marjorie, her mind still trying to piece together what had just happened. “Whatever is easiest.”

“What do you wish?” he asked.

And there it was—the question she had waited her whole life to hear. Not from family or a friend but a man she had met mere hours before.

“Swiftly, my dear,” said Lady Janet with a mischievous grin, as she held up her wine goblet to be refilled. “Sir Lachlan will carve for you. His hands may look like bear paws, but they are astonishingly nimble. A skill welcome in more than one room of the castle, I wager.”

Was the Beast…blushing?

Although she didn’t quite understand what Lady Janet meant, it did sound rather naughty, and Marjorie fought the urge to giggle. Never would she forget her first, and probably only, feast in this Great Hall. “I should like chicken, a little venison, and a slice of beef pie. And some of that pottage with the carrot and leeks. A pear. Oh, and a few almond pastries too…”

Her voice trailed off, and her own cheeks heated at such gluttony. The prioress would have given her several lashes for this. But Lady Janet merely nodded and pointed out the dishes for Sir Lachlan to take a sample from. Soon her pewter plate was full and her wine goblet replenished.

When he sat down again, Marjorie leaned close. “Thank you, Sir Lachlan.”

He nodded, not meeting her eyes. “Lady.”

“No, I mean…thank you for everything. For helping me,” she said softly, placing her hand over his and gently squeezing.

By the saints, his hand was warm. So large, hers almost looked childlike on top of it. But as she’d thought, it was rough with slight calluses, and when his hand jerked a little, those calluses rubbed her fingertips. Tingles raced through her body, oddly centering in that forbidden place between her thighs, and she shifted uncomfortably on her cushion.

Knowing how sinful it was, Marjorie had never dared to touch herself there. But sometimes in bed at night, she’d cup her breasts and rub her thumbs across her nipples until they were taut. Never for long enough, though; to be caught risked great punishment.

What would those huge calloused hands feel like on her breasts? Unlike her, Sir Lachlan would have no trouble cupping them. And he would rub and rub…

A soft moan escaped her lips.

“Eat, lady,” Sir Lachlan growled, and she nearly fainted in embarrassment. Silly Marjorie Hepburn, so desperate for touch she’d been stroking the knight’s hand as though he were a fractious horse.

Her face hot enough to boil water, Marjorie took a gulp of wine, then used her small eating knife to spear a slice of chicken. The other man had been banished from the Hall for poor manners, but hers weren’t much better.

It was definitely time to leave Stirling Castle.

…

Her last feast here had been memorable, at least.

Janet sighed and finished her wine. Sir Lachlan turning full Beast on the hapless Lord Kerr aside, the food had been splendid and the jesters amusing. Once they finished eating, the trestle tables had been cleared away, the minstrels had struck up a merry pipe tune, and James gallantly led Margaret to the floor to begin the dancing. Even the queen’s usually dull and proper ladies joined in, and the Great Hall had been alive with the sound of hands clapping, heels stomping, and breathless laughter as they danced until their feet ached.

She and Lady Marjorie had both tried to coax Sir Lachlan away from the wall, but he’d adamantly refused. Fortunately others had been eager to partner her—lords, lairds, and foreign dignitaries, all swarming in. Of course, they wanted more than dancing. Many had made blunt offers; it was known throughout Scotland she was a lusty woman. Oddly, though, none tempted her.

Usually during a feast, she would cast her eye over the men—not the married ones, for she preferred a tranquil life free of angry wives—make her choice, then spend the rest of the evening in bed. Back when they’d been lovers, James had always visited her chamber after a feast. Once wed, she’d spent many splendidly debauched evenings with her dear departed Fergus. On this night, though, it seemed she would sleep alone. If that wasn’t irritating enough, she had downed several goblets of the delicious red wine, and as James and Fergus both would have attested, wine provoked her to unearthly heights of wickedness.

“Are you unwell, lady?” Sir Lachlan asked.

On another day the low rasp in her ear might have been startling, but comfortably mellow, she began to shake her head at him. Then halted.

Maybe her evening could be saved after all.

“I fear so,” she lied. “Would you escort me to my chamber? Lady Marjorie is speaking to the king and queen, so will be quite safe.”

He hesitated before nodding. “Aye.”

Moments later, they stepped outside. After the cloying stench of sweat, grease, food, burning wood, and wilted flowers, the cool, fresher air was most welcome, and Janet inhaled heavily as she glanced over to the oldest part of the castle where her chamber was located. Unlike the other royal castles, Stirling had little accommodation for guests. James might have more pressing reasons to send her away, but he wouldn’t be dismayed to have another chamber to make use of.

As they walked across the inner close, her heel caught on an uneven stone, and she stumbled. But with the reflexes of a cat rather than the bear he reminded her of, Sir Lachlan curled one hand under her elbow and halted a fall.

There…those wretched tingles again.

Her heart pounding, Janet tilted her head and studied him. “I find you…intriguing,” she murmured.

“Oh? How so?”

“You say very little yet see everything. The king trusts you above all, but you have no family. No wife. I know you and James have rutted your way through the realm, yet unlike him, you have no bairns. You choke an ill-mannered man at a table, would kill an enemy with nary a blink, but are kind to a friendless convent orphan. Although in truth, that isn’t a hardship. Lady Marjorie is rather delicious, is she not?”

Sir Lachlan glanced down at her, true surprise on his face. “Er…”

“Oh, come now. God creates beauty in many forms; all must be appreciated. And you liked it when she stroked your hand, yes?”

He didn’t reply, but his fingers flexed on her arm. A resounding yes from the Beast.

“I shall counsel you not to bed the king’s virgin ward under his nose,” Janet continued merrily, the wine making her reckless as he led her up the stone steps and into a wide torch-lit hallway.

“I would not!” he growled. “I mean…no virgins. I like…experience.”

Janet blinked. Well. This stoic, taciturn Highlander would offer a little something when pushed. “Then I must beg forgiveness, stealing you away from your current mistress. I wager she awaits you, naked and wet and aching to be plundered.”

Sir Lachlan sucked in a harsh breath. “Your ch-chamber, lady.”

“So it is,” she said, leaning against the heavy oak door. “Do you know, on nights like this I miss my husband most. He knew wine unleashed wickedness in me. Made me especially demanding…”

There was a long, long silence. But her escort didn’t move. Then, he gritted out, “It does?”

Janet closed her eyes in sweet remembrance. “Oh yes. See, our marriage was different than most; in the bedchamber, he ceded total command. Certain men love to receive instruction. They crave it. I would make him kneel and pleasure me with his tongue and fingers, and only when I was thoroughly sated would I permit his release. He spent so hard when I rode him, bucking like a spring colt as he gave me every drop of his seed…”

The silence stretched again. Inwardly cursing her wine-loosened lips, Janet opened her eyes and looked up.

Except it wasn’t scorn or disgust on Sir Lachlan’s face. Just pure yearning.

But how could that be? He was the Highland Beast!

Shocked to the core, Janet could only stare as his face became impassive as hewn rock. Had her eyes deceived her? Then she glanced down to see a huge bulge jutting against his hose and doublet.

“My, my,” she purred, reaching out but deliberately halting her hand an inch from his engorged cock. “So wonderfully thick. And in urgent need of stroking. If you were just a little closer…”

Sir Lachlan’s fists clenched, his chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths. Then, with a guttural sound he stepped forward, thrusting his cock hard against her palm. “Yes.”

Greedily, her fingers closed around him, squeezing and rubbing through his hose.

He moaned.

“Oh, you like that?” Janet teased, excited beyond belief at the thought of this magnificent column of flesh buried deep in her needy cunt after he had pleasured her senseless. “I may allow you in my chamber. But I have rules. Unbreakable rules.”

His hips jerked, shoving his cock even harder against her hand. “Please. Let me kneel. Whatever you wish.”

“Very well—”

“Sir Lachlan!”

They both froze at the guard’s hail from the end of the hallway.

“What?” snarled Janet.

“Beg pardon, my lady, but the king asked for Sir Lachlan. At once.”

She would boil James in oil. Dismember him with a rusty spoon. Just because he chose not to bed his young wife, everyone else must sleep alone also?

Damn his eyes.

Sir Lachlan stepped back with a wince before adjusting his cloak to hide the evidence of their near interlude. “Lady Janet,” he said quietly, bowing. Then he marched away.

Furious, she stormed into the chamber and latched the door behind her. Right now she wanted to hurl something breakable at the wall. Like the king. Yet for the first time, she was thankful they were leaving for St. Andrews. James could keep his lonely bed at Stirling; at her new estate, it would be another world entirely. A world where Janet Fraser ruled supreme.

Next time there would be no interruptions.

Only pleasure.