“What did you do? Tell the truth, now,” she replied sternly. Her ward needed to learn that openness was critical between them. Many things would be tolerated under this roof, but trickery and falsehoods were not in that number.
Marjorie stared at the floor, her cheeks crimson. “I…I…rubbed my breasts against his chest.”
“I see. Did Sir Lachlan wish you to do that?”
“I don’t know. He did not say.”
Janet tapped the comb against her palm. “Then let that be a second lesson for you. Pleasure must always be pleasure for all, not one. Good men and women ensure their potential lover is willing and excited to be touched. They do not force themselves on another, not even a kiss.”
“But how do you know for sure if they are willing?”
“You talk. You tease. They might make a vague suggestion to test the water, so to speak. Or you might. Always beforehand, my dear. If they are receptive, your discussion can become more risqué or even downright wicked. I find erotic talk at the beginning of or during an interlude to be quite, quite seductive, although in fairness not all enjoy it.”
Marjorie nodded slowly. “I understand. Like we talked in the wagon, before you showed me how to touch myself. I had a choice.”
“Exactly. Learn what your lover enjoys and encourage them in turn to learn the same about you. Now, come and sit on the bed, and I’ll comb your hair.”
Soon they were perched side by side on the feather mattress, and Janet began to slide the comb through Marjorie’s thick and unruly brown locks, which fell to the small of her back. It lacked a little shine and was in need of a thorough egg-yolk cleansing followed by a good dousing with rosewater.
“Are you displeased with me?” said Marjorie tentatively. “For being attracted to Sir Lachlan, I mean.”
Janet sighed as she attended to a small knot. “No. Attraction is not something you can control. It just happens. You see a man, or a woman, and think they are delicious. There is much to admire about Lachlan. He has worked hard to rise above his birth, has been a loyal friend and companion to the king, and is quite simply the finest swordsman in the realm. Then of course those strong arms and broad chest. What you can control, though, is what you do next.”
“I understand.”
“Let me make one thing very clear, though, my dear. This is an unbreakable rule. You are the king’s ward. This means that your first bedding must be with your husband. I wish for you to learn what you will. To have wondrous experiences with lips and tongues and fingers. But to do more than that is to invite the king’s anger, and for all his charm and chivalry, James is not a man to be crossed. It would not just be you punished but myself and Lachlan as well. And I cannot allow that.”
Marjorie winced, her expression settling into one of resignation. “I know. And I would not hurt either of you for the world.”
Janet’s heart clenched at the sadness, the frustration, the younger woman felt. It was desperately unfair, all the miseries Marjorie had endured through no fault of her own, and now to live a half life, waiting to see whom the king might select as a husband. Yes, James had arranged some excellent matches in the past, such as her own marriage to Fergus, but that did not mean he would choose so well again. Marjorie’s husband might not even be a Scots nobleman. If the king wished to strengthen the alliance with England or extend the hand of friendship to France, Spain, or the Low Countries with the offer of a beautiful virgin of noble blood, she could be sent far away to wed a stranger.
Janet paused in her combing as the thought of Marjorie gone twisted something inside her chest.
No.
She would do her best for her temporary ward. Allow her as much freedom as possible to learn her own mind, her own desires and preferences. Definitely not more than that.
Definitely not love.
“Time for bed,” she said briskly.
“Yes, Mother,” replied Marjorie with an impish little grin as she scrambled to get under the quilts, managing to show a great deal of plump, dimpled thigh and even a glimpse of that thick brown bush in the process.
“Mother?” said Janet, appalled even as arousal stirred at the tempting sight. “No thank you. I much prefer Worst Sinner in Scotland. Or Mistress, for brevity.”
“Very well. Good night…Mistress.”
Oh, but her ward had a streak of pert. When Marjorie grew in confidence and learned to wear clothing that flattered those lush curves rather than gowns better suited for cleaning rags, when she began to own the sensuality lurking in those big blue eyes and pink lips…men would be lining up from here to the continent, eager to be led about by the codpiece. They would let her run amok, never understanding what she truly wanted and needed: to submit to a stern authority, made to ask—nay, beg for pleasure—and have it be granted so thoroughly she screamed in ecstasy.
But Janet Fraser knew.
Sliding from the edge of the bed, she walked the few steps to the head, where Marjorie lay propped up against a small mound of pillows. “Good night, my dear. If you are well enough on the morrow, we might…further your education.”
Marjorie sucked in a ragged breath, her eyes widening. “Another lesson? Show me what I might be taught, please.”
“Hmm.” Janet stroked her own cheek, as though deep in thought. Then she leaned down and used one fingertip to trace the younger woman’s lips, circling them again and again until her ward moaned softly. “You need to learn what your mouth and tongue are capable of. Kissing. Sucking. Licking. Do you agree?”
“Yes,” she said fervently.
“Excellent. Then we shall meet in the solar at noon…Marjorie, you are quivering. Is your sweet little cunt throbbing?”
Her ward blushed scarlet,
