Page 20 of Scandalous Passions

When she opened the door to her chamber, her breath caught.

Oh. It was lovely.

Not especially large but generously furnished. Intricate tapestries of unicorns at play and maidens picking flowers hung from the walls to stop draughts, and the woven rugs on the floor were thick enough for her shoes to sink into. Two windows with shutters to keep out the wind and rain overlooked the gardens, and a fire had already been lit in the small stone hearth. A cushioned chair and table sat in front of the fire, but her gaze stopped worshipfully on the four-poster bed on the other side of the room. Not a cot or a pallet or a wooden board, but a bed.

Marjorie moaned as she hurried to it, yanking the embroidered quilts back to reveal crisp linen sheets covering a feather mattress with no sag. It looked new. About ready to hurl herself onto it and sleep for a hundred years, she halted when a knock at the open door revealed a smiling servant with a bowl of steaming water and a cloth.

“For you, milady. The mistress ordered it. I’ll just put it over here on the stand.”

“Thank you.”

“No trouble. You need anything, just ask. We’re glad to have you here. Serving the king was a great honor, but he only visited a few times each year. Steady employment is a boon.”

Marjorie nodded. “This room is beautiful.”

“Aye. The king oversaw all the furnishings, you know. He’s a man of refined tastes. Loves them French fashions, even if he didn’t always love the French. This James is a good one, unlike him before.”

Stifling a laugh at the older woman’s plain speaking, so typical of a Highlander, Marjorie nodded again. “May the king prosper.”

“Do you need help with your gown?”

“Please.”

Once the servant departed, Marjorie went to the bowl of hot water, dipped the cloth in, and wiped it over her face and body. Oh, it felt nice. Then she went to her trunk and found a fresh linen nightgown and her most prized possession: a silver comb that had belonged to her mother. Attending to her long tresses was a necessary chore; if she did not, they would be a bird’s nest by morning.

Grimacing, she began to tug the comb through her hair. “Ow!”

“Easy, my dear,” said a familiar female voice laced with amusement. “Few ladies have the bone structure to suit baldness. Let me comb it for you.”

Marjorie glanced over at Janet. Her lips were plump and pink—clearly she’d been recently and quite thoroughly kissed—and that stab of envy surged through her again. “Sir Lachlan has retired?”

“No, he’s gone to inspect the manor and grounds. He takes his duties very seriously, fortunately for us. We have plenty of time to discuss your attraction to him.”

Her comb clattered onto the stone floor.

…

Her ward’s expression was part stricken, part guilt, part rabbit caught in torchlight, and on another occasion Janet might have laughed. Courtiers well knew her habit of saying what needed to be said rather than dancing around the topic, but of course Marjorie didn’t. No doubt she was accustomed to diversion and dissembling, if she got conversation at all.

But they did need to talk about this, and a few of her unbreakable guardian rules.

Leaning down, Janet retrieved the pretty silver comb from the floor. “Marjorie—”

“Forgive me,” Marjorie blurted, twisting her hands together. “I feel so foolish that I didn’t see. I will stay right away from him. Please don’t be angry for what I did at the loch.”

“What did you do? Tell the truth, now,” she replied sternly. Her ward needed to learn that openness was critical between them. Many things would be tolerated under this roof, but trickery and falsehoods were not in that number.

Marjorie stared at the floor, her cheeks crimson. “I…I…rubbed my breasts against his chest.”

“I see. Did Sir Lachlan wish you to do that?”

“I don’t know. He did not say.”

Janet tapped the comb against her palm. “Then let that be a second lesson for you. Pleasure must always be pleasure for all, not one. Good men and women ensure their potential lover is willing and excited to be touched. They do not force themselves on another, not even a kiss.”

“But how do you know for sure if they are willing?”

“You talk. You tease. They might make a vague suggestion to test the water, so to speak. Or you might. Always beforehand, my dear. If they are receptive, your discussion can become more risqué or even downright wicked. I find erotic talk at the beginning of or during an interlude to be quite, quite seductive, although in fairness not all enjoy it.”