When she took his hand and guided it between her legs, he thought she wished him to stroke her pearl, but she shook her head.
“Wet your finger,” she commanded between panting breaths. When he complied, she moved his hand to her arse. “Enter me.”
“There?” Lachlan replied, stunned that Lady Janet knew of such forbidden pleasures when he should not be. Of course this lusty angel would know. Gently, he penetrated her back entrance with just a fingertip, rocking it back and forth in time with his cock.
“Yes. Oh yes.”
Moments later Lady Janet fell forward, muffling her scream of release by biting his shoulder. The tiny jolt of pleasure-pain shoved him over the edge into bliss, a low roar tearing from his throat as his seed flooded the sweet haven of her cunt.
Indeed this night, he had witnessed a glimpse of heaven.
All he would ever see.
…
She’d had the deepest sleep of her life. But now her skin was clammy with perspiration under the pile of too-warm furs, and abruptly; that, and the confines of the wagon were suffocating her.
Air. She needed fresh air. And some cold water to splash on her face and arms.
Shoving away the furs, Marjorie sat up on the bench before carefully opening her trunk and retrieving a simple brocade robe to put on over her linen shift. When she got to her feet and began to move toward the rear of the wagon, a floorboard creaked under her, and she glanced back with an apologetic wince. Fortunately, Janet did not stir.
Once she had mastered the ties and hooks fastening the leather cover, Marjorie scrambled out of the wagon with a deep sigh of relief. The morning was cool—a little gray overhead, but the air wonderfully fresh—and away in the distance, the birds that called Loch Leven home were noisily announcing the arrival of a new day.
Freedom.
The word twirled around in her mind. At this moment, with no audience, no rules, she could do whatever she pleased…a thought both heady and terrifying. What did people do when their life was not governed each moment by bells and orders, straps and prayer?
Wet your feet in the loch. The prioress would never have permitted such a thing.
Before she could change her mind, Marjorie hurried past their snoring driver, the smoldering campfire, and the canvas tent where Sir Lachlan slept, down to the water’s edge.
Then stopped. And gulped.
This close, Loch Leven was nothing short of daunting. The blue-green expanse stretched for miles and miles, more than enough to drown her and swallow her body forever. Considering she’d never stood in water more than ankle deep—those rare times the prioress had permitted usage of the copper tub for bathing—and could not swim, even being near the loch was dangerous and rather foolish. But if she did not at least try to face this fear, how would she ever overcome it?
Courage, Marjorie.
Straightening her shoulders, Marjorie leaned down and gathered up the hems of her shift and robe, twisting them into a large, loose knot. Now her legs were scandalously bared to the knee, but it would be easier to wade with the fabric out of the way. One deep, shuddering breath, and she inched forward until the cold loch waters lapped at her toes.
By the saints, this was difficult.
“Too cold, lady?”
She yelped, almost losing her footing, and only a huge paw under her elbow halted an unceremonious face-first bath. “Sir Lachlan. Once again, I did not hear you. I think I need to affix a bell around your neck.”
One thick black brow lifted. “Should I cough?”
“Yes. Or hire a troubadour. Sir Lachlan approaches! At least until I no longer jump a foot in the air.”
“I frighten you.”
Marjorie hesitated at the flat words that somehow held a great deal of feeling. “No,” she said softly. “You have been naught but kind to me. But you are the size of a mountain, and you move so quietly, with such grace. And I am so unused to men…”
“I’ll make a sound,” he said, nodding. “Will you swim?”
“I cannot swim. Actually, this is my first time in a loch. I thought to wade just a little, but I am not as brave as I thought.”
“You are brave,” Sir Lachlan said, frowning. Then he held out his hand. “Come. We’ll wade together.”
Her heart leaped, and Marjorie bit her lip. Although he neither kissed hands nor read poetry, this knight captivated her far more than was fair. An ice-blooded warrior of few words, and yet the way he watched over her and Janet felt like more than duty. If only she wasn’t the king’s ward and obligated to marry where he wished. “You are the best of men,” she said. “But your hose and stockings—”
“They will dry. Come.”
Gripping his hand, Marjorie gingerly followed him into the water. Ankle deep. Calf. Knee. It was unnerving, and the water chilled her skin as little waves sloshed against her legs, yet it was so refreshing she sighed. “Oh, that’s lovely.”
“Freshwater loch. Good for bathing. And cleaning linen.”
“Oh, certainly. I—”
Marjorie lost her words entirely as something nudged her leg. Something slimy. A shriek tore from her throat, and she threw herself at Sir Lachlan, wrapping her arms and legs around him and clinging like a kitten to a tapestry. Somehow he didn’t stumble under her weight or drop her in the water. In fact, with nary a blink, he merely curved one bulging arm under her bottom as a sort of seat.
His lips twitched. “You’re safe, lady.”
“What was that?” she spluttered.
“A fish?”
Marjorie groaned inwardly. A shriek to wake the dead and a leap as though pursued by rabid wolves…for a fish. “Does it not know we supped on them last evening? We are death to fish! It should be rushing to warn its friends and family, not…not…kissing my
