Page 4 of Scandalous Passions

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.

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.”