As soon as he dismounted, a young lad bounded up to take Storm away to the stables to be fed and watered, giving him time for a brief inspection of the manor while he waited for the wagon.
Folding his arms, Lachlan let his gaze travel over the large modern stone buildings. Indeed, they were fit for a king. To the left sat the kitchens, buttery, larder, and granary, connected to the main manor by a covered walkway. The ground floor included the hall, warmed by two fireplaces, and a chapel. Upstairs were the private rooms—the bedchambers and a solar for the ladies to read, play music, or embroider in. Over to the right were the flower and herb gardens, an orchard, and he could hear the faint sound of the stream splashing against small rocks as it wound its way toward the sea. Further afield were the king’s hunting grounds, an expanse of deep-green forest that he would make full use of to provide fowl and meat for the table.
“Lachlan! Help me down from this devil-plagued contraption.”
He stifled a grin. The wagon hadn’t even stopped moving, and Lady Janet near dangled from the back in her haste to be free of the confinement. “Aye, lady.”
He marched over to carefully tug free the rest of the leather cover that she had partially opened. Then he reached up, gripped Lady Janet’s waist, and lowered her to the ground. Just for a moment, she slumped against him, and he grimaced in sympathy as he took the opportunity to touch her further, rubbing her back as gently as he could.
“I swear, by all the saints, I am never traveling in a wagon again,” she muttered, actually permitting him to ease her aching body, and his heart leaped.
“No need,” he replied. “Fine stable here.”
Far sooner than he wished, Lady Janet stepped away and smiled wearily. “I’m glad to hear it, although all I want this night is something that does not move, so soft I can sink into it. Oh yes, and enough wine to launch a ship.”
“You’ll have it,” he promised, glancing over to see dozens of servants gathering on the steps of the manor to welcome them. “All is ready.”
“I shall go and greet the servants. Would you assist Marjorie for me? She is not well.”
Lachlan hesitated, but it was concern in her gaze rather than anger or trickery, and he nodded. “We’ll meet you…in the hall.”
When he turned back to the wagon, Lady Marjorie was waiting for him, face pale and shoulders stooped with fatigue. Wordlessly, he reached up for her, and she near flopped into his arms. At first he set her on the ground, but when her legs buckled, he scooped her up, and she looked at him, her eyes glistening with tears.
“I do not like wagon travel,” she whispered, burying her face in his shoulder.
“Worse than fish kisses,” he replied gruffly, hating to see her upset, but when Lady Marjorie’s laugh was watery at best, he added quickly, “Don’t cry. There’ll be wine.”
“Wine is well and good, but all I want is bed.”
Lachlan gritted his teeth. Only the worst of men would think lustful thoughts of a highborn virgin in desperate need of rest and comfort. Yet his mind taunted him with a vision of Lady Marjorie in the thin shift that concealed nothing, reclining on a large pile of pillows, reaching for him…demanding he pleasure her with his mouth…demanding he take her…
No.
He needed to stay as far away as possible until this madness passed. He loved and wanted Lady Janet. Had done so for years, and those feelings had not dimmed one bit. A good man—a worthy man—did not have tender feelings for more than one woman.
Indeed, if he just avoided Lady Marjorie, all would be well.
Surely.
…
When Sir Lachlan carried her from the wagon into the manor so easily, so carefully, she had wanted to cling to his broad chest and never let go. Now, when the three of them sat at the end of the long rectangular oak table, eating supper, he wouldn’t meet her gaze.
And it was entirely her fault. He wasn’t her husband, betrothed, or family member but a bodyguard appointed by the king. Yet she kept touching him, throwing herself at him, when he clearly did not wish her to do so. Just because she admired him did not mean he returned the sentiment, and she needed to accept that like a sensible grown woman.
Alas, far easier said than done.
Unhappily, Marjorie mopped up the last of her delicious chicken-and-vegetable broth with a chunk of soft white bread. As though the cook and kitchen staff knew exactly how tired they all were, how unsettled their stomachs and aching their bones, they had served a simple, tasty supper that didn’t require any carving—and, as promised, a great deal of French wine. But even as her body sighed with appreciation, her spirits remained low, and for a moment she missed the familiarity of the convent. She had disliked the strictness and confinement, but at least she’d known her place in the world. Outside it, she walked on a cliff edge, always unsure if the next thing she said or did would be acceptable or deserving of reprimand or punishment. The rules were just so…arbitrary. A woman could be celebrated or shunned for a deed at any given moment, and on many occasions, both.
She turned to Janet, who sat at the head of the table. “How do you find your broth?”
“I never thought chicken broth would be worthy of song, but I’m tempted. Much as I love a feast, I have no desire to fall asleep atop a boar’s head or dressed goose. The kitchen staff—actually, all the servants here are excellent. I was cautious, understanding full well that they would know of me and might disapprove of the choices I’ve made in my life. But none have as much as quirked an eyebrow.”
Sir Lachlan took a gulp of
