Page 7 of Scandalous Passions

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.”