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.
Chapter Four
“Thank you for this. Forgive me for being such a poor traveling companion.”
Janet smiled reassuringly as she expertly mixed a pinch of powdered herbal sleeping draught with watered wine for Marjorie. She had begun to droop during the simple but delicious evening meal of fresh fish that Sir Lachlan had caught and cooked over the campfire. Now her face was gray with fatigue, and her eyes were shadowed. “Think nothing of it, my dear. Wagon travel is ghastly at the best of times, even more so for someone unused to it. I much prefer horseback myself, but the king did insist…and to be fair, he was correct to think of our safety.”
Nodding, Marjorie shifted on the wagon bench to make herself more comfortable. “Sir Lachlan had a lot of blood on him. I’m glad…I’m glad I did not see what happened—what we heard was bad enough. Do you think he told the truth when he said he was unhurt?”
A proper guardian would lie to protect delicate sensibilities. Alas, she would never be a proper guardian, as she had already demonstrated in stroking her ward to a screaming release.
“I’m not sure,” Janet admitted. “I do not think badly injured, for he moved all limbs freely in setting up camp and catching the fish. But maybe there are wounds he concealed. I suspect Sir Lachlan is not a man who would readily reveal pain or ask for assistance.”
“No,” said Marjorie. “Will you tend to him? I don’t like thinking he has no one. I would do so, but I can scarcely keep
