Chapter Three

On the road to St. Andrews, near Loch Leven

Traveling—even leisurely and in relative comfort—became torturous after a full day, and despite years of accompanying the king or her husband, she would never grow used to it.

Janet stifled a wince, her bones aching from being jolted up and down and side to side on the rocky, uneven track masquerading as a road. For safety, rather than riding, James had insisted on a sturdy wooden wagon pulled by two horses. The wagon was spacious enough: there was room for their trunks; the baskets of food, wine, and small ale provided by the kitchens at Stirling Castle; and small sections of the leather cover could be rolled up to allow in fresh air. They also had velvet cushions to sit on and furs for warmth. Yet she envied Sir Lachlan, who was outside on horseback, enjoying not only the crisp air and sun on his back but also a far easier journey as his mighty warhorse disdainfully sidestepped the rocks and holes the wagon hit with great precision.

Lady Marjorie suffered worse, though. Unused to wagon travel, she’d spent most of the journey gripping the wooden bench, her color somewhere between moss and snow. She’d not napped at all and had only managed a few bites when they’d briefly stopped for a meal of bread, cheese, cold sliced beef, dried fruit, and pastries.

Her beautiful new ward just looked so…lost. Lonely. Again, Janet mentally berated James for a poor decision. Women being punished for the sins of their fathers, brothers, or husbands made her blood boil. Lady Marjorie’s long imprisonment at the convent had only increased her guilt in the eyes of the court, but she’d been a lass of six when the old king was murdered. Hardly party to events.

Bah. Foolish and unjust.

Suppressing her irritation, Janet instead smiled sympathetically at Lady Marjorie. “How are you feeling?”

Her ward tried to smile in return and failed utterly. “A little better.”

“I shall warn you now, my dear, lying is not something I tolerate. I must insist upon the plainspoken truth. When I ask you how you feel, I do indeed wish to know.”

“Oh. I…uh…” Lady Marjorie blinked, her bewilderment clear.

Saints alive. Has no one ever cared about her?

“I think you are aware,” Janet began, gentling her usually brisk tone, “that I am no prioress or prison guard. I believe the king placed you in my care as an apology of sorts, fully aware that I oversee…hmm…a less structured household. So you might be comfortable, have companionship, and learn the ways of a wife in preparation for your future marriage.”

“The ways of a wife?” said Lady Marjorie, her eyes brightening for the first time since the start of the journey. “You mean intimate matters…the plainspoken truth?”

Janet’s lips twitched. “I cannot expect it without providing it. So yes, I would explain wifely duties. With enough detail to curl your toes, because knowledge is power, and young women are all too often kept ignorant. That is what you want, yes?”

Her ward nodded eagerly, her blue eyes shining with such hope that Janet’s heart clenched a little. That Lady Marjorie could still feel such emotion after her long imprisonment was a miracle in itself. In truth there were places in the Highlands so bleak, so isolated, that not even travelers wished to tarry long. But to live in such a place for sixteen years…

How different her own life had been. Mistress to the king, a blissful but too-short marriage, adventures, feasts and entertainment, debating law and learning with indulgent scholars, all the court influence she might wish for…simply because she’d been caught bedding a woman.

Aileen. Her first love.

Just one long ago summer, but unforgettable. The days where she’d first discovered a fondness for dominating a lover; the power of touch and withholding or granting pleasure; of wicked words; the sweetness of soft lips, taut nipples, and dripping cunt. After they’d been caught, Aileen was hastily wed and sent away. Her own father wanted her locked in a convent, but Mother, infinitely wiser and more practical, arranged for her to go to court and meet the young and infamously lusty King James. The king graciously received his gift and in turn showed her family great favor. While he’d always maintained control in the bedchamber, and his wandering cock irritated her to no end, James had been a good lover. Generous. Affectionate.

Occasionally she wondered what life might have been like if her affair with Aileen had continued. Would it have eventually ended? Or would they be living together somewhere as dearest friends? There were so many questions left unanswered, and she’d not seen Aileen since that fateful day. Nor had she been tempted by another woman since.

Until Lady Marjorie.

Sweet and innocent yet eager to learn. Ready to be conquered yet forbidden.

“How did you bear it?” Janet asked abruptly, pressing her thighs together to ease the burgeoning ache in her cunt. “Imprisonment in a convent, I mean.”

Lady Marjorie stared at her hands. “I had no choice. And I can’t remember much of life before it. My mother died when I was three, my father was always at court, and I had no brothers or sisters. But…”

“Tell me. Plainspoken truth,” she reminded. “And may I add, while I love the king dearly, you’ll not hear defense of his decision from me. It was wrong.”

“The convent always felt wrong,” replied Lady Marjorie hoarsely. “It wasn’t my home. I was an unwanted guest, just as I was at Stirling Castle. I never had a choice about anything—not what I wore or ate or how I spent my time. There were a great many women, but I was always alone. They wanted to be there, to serve God in a certain way, but I’ve never felt the calling to be a nun. I know the king will choose my husband, but at least as a wife, I will have a say in certain matters. Even a little say…”

Janet bit her lip so she wouldn’t launch a tirade. Lady Marjorie had been taught to expect naught but crumbs from the table, to be grateful for them, even. And she’d had her spirit crushed. Well. She would find new direction at St. Andrews. A new beginning. “I swear, my dear, you shall have choices under my guardianship. And learn a great many things before you wed.”

“Thank you. May I ask…did you choose your husband? That is, if you wish to share such a personal matter,” her ward finished awkwardly.

“I did not choose Fergus Fraser. The king selected him after our long affair ended. But it was an inspired choice, and that is why you must not give up hope for a happy marriage. The king is a practical man but also a romantic at heart.”

“You loved Master Fraser? Really loved him?”

Janet closed her eyes briefly against the stab of pain. “I did. I miss him a great deal. He was such a scholar, always reading. And as a privy councillor, he shared the best court chatter. I heard the scandals before most—although in fairness, I caused many of them. My unruly temper or sinful boldness.”

Lady Marjorie gasped. “He did not beat you for that?”

“Saints alive, no. He wasn’t that sort of man. Just a gentle soul with a talented tongue and nimble fingers that did not tire.”

“What?”

Janet laughed. “Forgive me; that was far too bawdy for virgin ears. I have no desire to disgust or frighten you.”

“I’m not,” her ward denied quickly. “Just surprised…and curious. I know it’s sinful to be, but it feels like I’ve been standing outside in the cold forever, and at last the door has opened. Please tell me. Please. I don’t have anyone else to ask. And we’re in a wagon. Sir Lachlan rides ahead, and the driver won’t hear. Do you mean he kissed you? Touched you? ”

“Lady Marjorie—”

“Just Marjorie. I mean, if you like.”

Janet nodded. “Very well. Then I’m just Janet. To answer your question, yes he kissed and touched me. Everywhere I desired. I always enjoyed my neck being massaged, but my favorite times were when he sucked my nipples and stroked between my legs until I coated his fingers in honey…oh dear. Your cheeks are as red as my gown. Should I stop?”

“No,” whispered Marjorie, squirming on her seat, her nipples now visibly pressing against the bodice of her gray gown. “Please don’t stop.”

…

This was wicked talk. The most scandalous of conversations.

Yet after a taste, Marjorie wanted so much more. To know all the secrets of love. Right here in the covered wagon that shielded her and Janet from the world like a cocoon, and right now before the king decided on her husband and yanked her away. This was not the day for retreat back to that little girl whose life had been governed by strict rules and the chime of bells but to try and become the woman she so wanted to be: one who made her own decisions and marched forth with great courage.

“Please don’t stop,” Marjorie said again, her inability to sit still nothing to do with the rocking, jolting wagon. Her body felt strange, like her gown was a full size too small, her breasts sensitive, her skin warm and prickling.

Janet smiled and leaned back against her seat. “I won’t. Prepare yourself, my dear.”

Her guardian was just so sensual. As Janet had taken off her hood to travel, her unbound hair fell to the small of her back like liquid flames. Her green eyes were glittering, and the red velvet gown with silver embroidery she wore had tucked up around one slender thigh, offering a glimpse of stocking and satin garter. Would her skin be as soft to touch as it looked? Was the bush between her legs the same hue as her hair?

Swallowing hard against the shamefully lewd thoughts, Marjorie forced a smile. “I’m ready.”

“Hmm. Where was I? Oh yes. An ode to being stroked between my legs. I often bring myself to release when alone, but it really is quite delicious when a lover does it. Do you touch yourself? I daresay you must. A body has needs.”

She blushed. “I…ah…”

Janet frowned. “Marjorie. Never say you’ve been denying yourself that.”

“It’s sinful,” she protested weakly. “The punishment was ten lashes.”

“Bah. If you don’t know your own body, what you like and dislike, how can you guide a husband? They must be instructed kindly but firmly, so when it is time for bed, it is something you delight in, not dread. An ill-prepared woman is one who will feel pain. Besides. If God did not intend for women to feel pleasure, He would not have furnished us with our own special little pearl.”

“Our what?”

Again, that husky laugh echoed in the wagon. “Pleasure pearl. That small bud between your legs with no other purpose than making you feel good. Forget everything else; this is all the evidence required that God truly loves us.”

Marjorie blinked in confusion. “I don’t…I don’t know what you speak of. I’ve only touched my breasts. Nowhere else. Apart from bathing, but that was too swift to feel anything.”

“That must be remedied at once.”

Excitement flared, so strong Marjorie almost whimpered. “You mean…”

“I mean,” said Janet, her eyes darkening to emerald as she flicked her lips with the tip of her tongue, “if you wish, I shall offer instruction on how to touch yourself and gain release.”

“Yes! Er…yes, please. I would like that.”

“Well then, my eager little student, raise your gown so we might begin.”

Marjorie gripped the folds of her kirtle and gown, which were once cream colored but now more gray tinged after frequent wearing and sponging…then stilled. If she raised them, Janet would see her bare thighs. They weren’t long and sleek and smooth but short, plump, and dimpled. Not to mention her rounded, fleshy belly. Would Janet be dismayed like the prioress and nuns had been, always advising Marjorie to fast, to work harder in the gardens, to walk another circle of the convent?

“I must warn you,” she said miserably. “I am—”

“Delicious. Curved and ripe,” replied Janet softly. “The way your hips sway and breasts bounce…I am envious. Dale to your hill. But whether we are tall and slender or petite and plump, we are all worthy of love, respect, and hours of tongue appreciation. Now, be a good lass and lift that gown.”

Marjorie shuddered, both soothed and stirred by the kind but unmistakable command, the avid interest in Janet’s gaze. “Very well.”

Slowly, awkwardly, she gathered all layers of fabric and lifted them to her knees, then higher, as heat scorched across her cheekbones. How difficult this was.

“Spread your thighs, my dear,” said Janet gently. “At once.”

Taking a deep breath, she obeyed, and cool air ruffled the thick tangle of brown curls covering her mound. A new scent teased her senses, and she wrinkled her nose at the unusual spiced muskiness of it.

Oh no. The scent came from down there.

Embarrassed, Marjorie glanced up at Janet. Yet there was no dismay or disgust there, only smiling approval. “What should I do now?”

“Stroke yourself. Feel how soft your inner thighs are.”

But her hands remained attached to her gown, seemingly unable to break free from the hold of convent life. “I can’t,” she choked out, bracing herself for a scolding.

Instead, Janet nodded sympathetically. “You think I don’t understand what is swirling around that pretty little head of yours, but I do. Years of enforced shame. Of being told your body wasn’t beautiful and needed to be corrected. Of being denied what it craved. This first time, it might be easier if I showed rather than told you.”

Marjorie’s eyes widened. “You would touch me? Guide my hand?”

“If you wish. Come and sit in front of me.”

As if in a dream, she moved across the swaying wagon and settled herself between Janet’s splayed thighs, her head resting on Janet’s shoulder. It was the strangest thing in the world sitting so close to another woman, her back pressed hard against breasts, her body encircled by another. And yet it felt wonderful. She’d never felt so warm and safe. So cared for. More importantly, she’d chosen to do this.

Marjorie held out her right hand, and Janet covered it with her own. Then her guardian gently pushed both down between Marjorie’s legs, gliding back and forth along her inner thigh, brushing the crisp hair between her legs but not parting it.

A soft whimper escaped her lips, and her hips jerked, trying to force touch to her aching mound.

Janet tsked. “Naughty.”

“Are…are you going to strap me?”

“Quite unnecessary. I shall simply withhold pleasure until you behave.”

Marjorie shuddered at the murmured words that tickled her ear. “I’ll be good.”

“Delighted to hear it.”

Soon Janet guided their hands down again, parting her nether curls and teasing her most secret flesh with feather-light strokes. The sweet torment made her pant, but she’d learned her lesson and neither closed her thighs nor thrust her mound higher. Her reward was a caress to her slick, petal-soft folds, and the briefest nudge of a spot so sensitive she cried out.

“Is that…?”

“It is indeed your pearl. Small but sensitive and craving affection.”

“Like me,” Marjorie replied with an unsteady giggle. “I…ooooh…”

How can anything feel so good?

Their fingertips were slick with musky wetness, and now Janet guided them to surround Marjorie’s swollen pearl. Circling. Rubbing. Unable to stop herself, she rocked her mound against their interlaced fingers, desperate for ease. As if she understood, Janet applied firmer pressure with the heel of her hand, forcing Marjorie’s fingers to cup her mound and shallowly penetrate her entrance with a fingertip.

Sounds escaped her mouth, raw and wild. Something was happening inside of her, something overwhelming that would change her forever. A part of her resisted, thrashing in an attempt to escape the intense sensation, while the rest begged for more.

“No, do not fight it,” said Janet harshly, holding her firmly. “You are going to be a good lass and spend for me. I want to hear your pleasure. Feel every spasm of that sweet virgin cunt.”

At the wicked words, a mighty wave of sensation began at her core and flowed outward with a rush. Barely able to muffle the scream that tore from her throat, Marjorie surrendered helplessly to her first release.

Eventually she slumped back against Janet’s chest, shaking.

“Shhh, there now,” Janet crooned, smoothing her hair. “How did that feel?”

“I don’t even know how to describe it. Like I swooned. Or soared. Maybe both,” she replied, knowing she’d sinned—with another woman, at that—yet too befuddled in the aftermath of intense pleasure, the sheer delight of being held and touched, to care.

“Let me—”

Something thudded into the side of the wagon, and they both froze. A heartbeat later, an arrowhead pierced the leather cover, and as Marjorie shrieked in fear, Janet shoved her onto the wagon floor before protectively covering her.

“Wh-what is happening?” she asked as icy terror gripped her, a stark contrast to the heat of moments before. Was it a raiding party? They could have no better champion than Sir Lachlan, but he was one man. Their driver was no warrior.

Janet didn’t lie. “The wagon is under attack.”

…

Never had Lachlan felt such ferocious rage, such pure bloodlust, as he did right now.

Lady Janet and Lady Marjorie had been threatened. But whoever these raiders were, they would never succeed. They would not abduct or hurt the ladies under his protection. He wasn’t a child, a frightened little boy who could be knocked aside now. He was the Highland Beast, the king’s champion, a hardened warrior who had killed countless men in battle. And in his current state of unrequited love and unsated lust for Lady Janet, the additional swirling confusion around his attraction to Lady Marjorie, he positively ached for a fight.

Lachlan unfastened his mantle and slid from his saddle, his longsword thumping against his thigh as he hit the ground. Storm, his pitch-black mount, nickered softly and pawed the ground. Eager, just like his rider.

“Guard the wagon,” he snarled at the ashen-faced driver, who nodded, dagger already in hand.

Then his gaze roamed the line of trees. The snap of twigs under feet and flashes of black and brown cloaks promised at least three people. Maybe more. But their ineptness eased him; skilled assassins didn’t clomp their way through forest or get so close. This was personal.

Moments later, four men burst forth from the trees, one bellowing, “A Kerr!”

A grim smile twisted Lachlan’s lips. So, his mannerless friend from the Great Hall had decided to attempt vengeance for his undignified departure. Or ransom the ladies. It would be the last mistake he ever made.

“Bastard knight!” called Lord Kerr as he and three men halted about twenty feet away, each brandishing a sword. “Give us the women, and we shall kill you mercifully. We have a taste for Jezebel and virgin this day.”

“Ride on,” Lachlan growled.

“You are but one man. You think to defeat four? Foolish bastard!”

In a movement so practiced he could have performed it half-asleep, Lachlan retrieved the dagger strapped to his thigh and hurled it. The second man in the row flopped to the ground, bright-red blood spraying from the neck wound.

“Three,” he replied, baring his teeth like the Beast he was. These Lowlanders were rock-headed to believe they could defeat him on the soil of his ancestors.

Lord Kerr stared at his fallen friend, his face paling. Then, with a high-pitched cry, he charged forward, sword raised, his two remaining men at his side.

Unsheathing his own sword, Lachlan waited. These fools could stumble over the slippery leaves, the barely dried mud, the unkempt road, and raise a sweat. They had chosen to engage rather than depart. He would not grant them a single boon this day.

Lord Kerr’s accomplices hindered rather than helped. It soon became clear they were accustomed to threatening rather than fighting; they swung their expensive swords in wide arcs that left their chests and bellies exposed, and their thrusts were weak and easily turned aside. Almost lazily, he helped them both unto judgment with two brutal slashes that spilled their innards onto the ground.

“Penniless, landless bastard,” spat Lord Kerr, now a defiant army of one. “Fed scraps from the noble table like a dog your whole life. I won’t kill you quite yet. Just maim. I’ll let you watch me fuck your women, over and over. They’ll scream and cry, but you’ll be able to do naught. Except know how badly you failed.”

Lachlan merely stared, his gaze unblinking. The word “bastard” had long ago lost the power to hurt. Besides, the man would not get near the king’s precious jewels, let alone hurt them. “Kill me?” he challenged. “Try, then.”

The Lowlander lunged, and their swords clashed, the metallic shriek overloud in the stillness of the roadside. Lord Kerr was far more competent than his men and driven by hurt pride, unflagging in his attack. But Lachlan had the superior height, reach, and strength advantage, and the older man soon dripped blood from several deep cuts.

“Son of a whore!” said his enemy, feinting left, then right, stabbing at Lachlan’s left shoulder. The sword tip parted the fabric of his shirt and doublet and took some flesh with it, a stinging reminder of his mortality.

His temper reignited, Lachlan’s sword arced and slashed through the air in a deadly dance and at last forced the Lowlander to his knees. “Yield.”

“Never.”

“Yield.”

Lord Kerr laughed. “I’ll return, you know. You’ll not be free of me. I’ll bring the best warriors in Scotland, and we’ll butcher you slowly. Tar and feather—no, crushed on the wheel like the baseborn sinner you are. I should like to watch that. I’ll make your women watch too. The king will get them back for gold, but they’ll be broken. So very broken. And they’ll deserve it, the whore and the traitor’s daughter…”

The word hung in the air like heavy mist, and the Lowlander looked at him in confusion. Then his body fell one way, his head the other.

Lachlan sucked in slow, deep breaths to ease his racing heart. Today his victory was a rather hollow one; while he had killed countless on the battlefield and resolved many a “delicate matter” for the king, this was a little different. He had slain a Scottish nobleman. There would be much to explain and seek penance for.

“Driver!” he called, and the man ran over. “Wrap and bury them. With a cross. And a prayer…for their souls.”

“Aye, sir!”

His cut shoulder burning, Lachlan did his best to wipe away the other men’s blood spray with his shirtsleeve as he marched back to the wagon. He could only imagine how feral he looked, but he needed to see with his own eyes that the ladies were unharmed.

“Lady Janet. Lady Marjorie. All is well.”

Moments later, the leather rolled up, and two faces peered out the back of the wagon. He breathed a sigh of relief. Shaken, but unhurt.

“S-Sir Lachlan!” stammered Lady Marjorie, her blue eyes huge. “Are you injured?”

“Nay, lady,” he said swiftly. “Not my blood.”

“Who were they?” said Lady Janet calmly, a woman who had seen and heard many things as the king’s mistress. “Do you know?”

“Lord Kerr. Three others.”

Lady Marjorie gasped. “From the Great Hall? Then this is my fault.”

“No, dear one,” said Lady Janet, smoothing her ward’s hair. “They chose to attack. The most foolish men in Scotland, to take on Sir Lachlan.”

His cheeks warmed at the brisk praise, but in truth he would have preferred the hair smooth, filthy as he was. Apart from Lady Marjorie’s touch of gratitude in the Great Hall, how long had it been since he’d felt a woman’s soothing hands? It was hard to remember. But he well knew how good Lady Janet’s hand felt; he had lain awake for hours after leaving her alone outside her chamber. Both he and his cock had been more than a little angry at the king for his interference. Lachlan had probably looked like Lady Marjorie did now, all closed eyes and parted lips, silently pleading for more.

Envy surged through him, alongside a swift resurgence of fierce lust.

Now that the battle was won and his ladies safe, the familiar need rose in him to celebrate victory in his favored way: to rut until spent. Alas, this day he would find companionship with his palm rather than a warm, wet, and eager cunt.

Lachlan cleared his throat. “Loch Leven is nearby. We can camp there. The water is fresh…the fish are p-plentiful. As are the f-fowl.”

Damn his affliction! He’d been doing so well, and now Lady Janet’s brow furrowed.

“Are you sure you are unhurt?”

“Aye.”

“Good,” she said softly. “For when we reach the loch, I must speak privately with you. The matter we discussed outside my chamber…must be brought to conclusion.”

All the air left him. Surely he couldn’t be so fortunate.

Could he?

Lachlan inclined his head. “As you wish, lady.”

The mile or so to camp would be the longest of his life.

But if such a reward awaited him…no hardship at all.