Page 5 of Scandalous Passions

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.