Janet grinned and leaned over to pat his hand. “You are a treasure. But I am quite adept at thunder and brimstone when the need arises. Everyone soon learns that life is pleasant when my rules are obeyed.”
“Very pleasant,” he rasped, and Janet’s cheeks went a little pink.
Marjorie stilled at the banked heat, the knowledge and intimacy in their exchanged glance.
Of course. Janet and Sir Lachlan were lovers.
Embarrassment at how long it had taken for her to see the plainly obvious made her wince, but another emotion swiftly engulfed that: pure envy. Janet, a widow, and Sir Lachlan, a bachelor, had all the freedom in the world to indulge in an affair. Especially now that Janet had her own land, her own home. It was all so unfair. Because of her late father’s actions, Marjorie had been imprisoned for sixteen years, and now, rather than being able to choose a younger, virile lover like Sir Lachlan, she would be forced to wed at the king’s desire. Yes, Janet had said the king was a romantic at heart and not to give up hope of a happy marriage, but it was hard to imagine that outcome. She’d seen the men at court, the nobles and lairds and dignitaries. Marriages were never a reward for the lady but usually for a man’s long service to the crown or to join the lands of two great families.
A scream of frustration about to tear from deep inside her, Marjorie abruptly pushed back her chair and got to her feet. “Forgive me, Janet, Sir Lachlan. My, ah, stomach is still unsettled after the journey, and I would like nothing more than to lie down.”
Sir Lachlan stared at her, his lips parting as though he might speak before they clamped shut.
Janet’s gaze was all sympathy. “Poor dear. I had the servants put your trunks upstairs in the chamber next to mine. Second door on the left side of the hallway. I’ll send up some hot water for a sponge bath and visit you later.”
“Thank you. Good evening,” said Marjorie with a curtsy, then she turned and walked out of the dining hall.
Fortunately it was not yet dark outside, and with the manor boasting a number of windows with expensive glass panes, she could see without the need for a torch or candle. The stairs were wooden, and while she winced a little at the heavy thud of her footsteps, at least they weren’t spiral to make her head spin more than it already was.
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
