Impossible.
Thoroughly unnerved, she remained silent for the rest of their walk across the inner close. While Stirling Castle had stood for centuries, a brooch that fastened the Highlands and Lowlands together, James had made several improvements. The two newest buildings were the King’s House, where he entertained privately and listened to petitions, and the jaw-droppingly magnificent Great Hall.
The King’s House had three principal rooms; on the ground floor there was a hall, where visitors and petitioners waited, and a great chamber for favored noblemen. However, up a turnpike staircase was his private chamber, where only his closest friends and advisers were permitted. This was their destination, and all those watching enviously knew it. Few had unfettered access to the king, but this day Janet would gladly decline the honor and return to her book of poetry.
How angry would James be at her disobedience? In what way would he punish her? Hopefully not banishment to a convent. Virginal Lady Marjorie might have survived years in one, but Scotland’s most notorious sinner wouldn’t last an hour.
At the foot of the stairs, two armed guards waited. One inclined his head. “Sir Lachlan. Lady Janet. The king awaits you.”
How she hated these stairs. Whether climbing or descending, the spiral made her dizzy, and the walls always seemed to press in on her. Oddly, with her escort behind her, she felt a trifle safer. Another armed guard opened the door at the top with a polite bow and ushered them into the lavishly furnished chamber.
“Lady Janet,” greeted the king, his cool formality unnerving her further.
“Your Grace,” she murmured, sinking into a deep curtsy.
James Stewart wasn’t a tall man or especially broad shouldered, but his fashionable, fiercely intelligent presence filled a room. Visitors were often lulled by his easy charm, humor, and gift for languages, but those shrewd brown eyes missed nothing. He’d won several decisive victories on the battlefield and lured back many Scottish nobles who had abandoned the court in disgust because the previous king had disastrously surrounded himself with advisers who were tailors and masons.
“False meekness from my fiery lass is unbecoming,” he continued sharply. “Look at me and explain why you disobeyed my order. Do you know the trouble you’ve caused me? The queen is in a lather.”
Janet bit her tongue, lest she comment on the tiresome lathers of a fourteen-year-old queen. The king had wed for duty, not love, and an unhappy wife could mean trouble with England. “Forgive me. I meant no disrespect to Her Grace.”
Her former lover sighed. “King Henry has at last sent Margaret’s second dowry installment. And money for her expenses. She and her retinue of English ladies are damned expensive…I cannot afford any unpleasantness. Our peace treaty is uneasy at best.”
“Your Grace—”
“You must leave, Jannie,” said James, his temper easing to familiar affection. “I’ve sent away all my mistresses. All my bairns. It claws my soul, but such is the burden of a king with an unsteady crown.”
Her shoulders slumped. To be forced to leave Stirling Castle, the only place that had ever truly felt like home, was a crushing blow. “When?”
James took her hands and squeezed them, smiling sadly even as his relief shone through at her acquiescence. “Tomorrow, beloved.”
So soon! Plainly, he would not be turned or teased in this matter. Rejection by the king, her former lover and dear friend, hurt more than words could express.
“Where must I go?”
“I am granting you land near St. Andrews. Fresh air, excellent hunting. I shall visit when I can. Sir Lachlan will escort you there and keep you safe henceforth.”
Janet froze.
What?
…
Sir Lachlan will escort you there. And keep you safe henceforth.
The king’s words had the impact of a boulder into a pond, so startling that Lachlan could scarcely comprehend them.
In one breath, he’d been granted his dearest wish—to be close to Lady Janet Fraser, the woman who dominated every lusty dream he’d ever had—but also forced to face his worst fear: sent from the king’s side, a position of favor he’d held for seventeen years.
His early childhood had been pleasant enough; his bold, strong, and affectionate mother was the cherished mistress of a laird. But one winter day, they’d been out walking, and a raiding party from a rival clan had knocked him unconscious and taken her. Days later, her body was recovered, and all light disappeared from his life. With his mother gone and his father inconsolable and turning on him, his half brothers took the opportunity to show him a disdain and resentment that became crueler as the years passed.
Until he grew and began to best them in fights, of course.
Then his father had taken notice and started training him with longsword, pike, mace, and dagger. At just thirteen summers, he’d fought his first battle—against that rival clan. His father had been killed, but they’d won a decisive victory, and important men had taken note of Lachlan’s size and skill. Mere weeks later he’d been brought to court to serve as a guard and companion to then Prince James. They had done everything together: fought battles the length and breadth of Scotland, bedded comely wenches, drank taverns dry. James had ensured Lachlan mastered French and Latin, and he in turn helped James with Gaelic so he might converse easier with those in the Highlands.
But now…his king—his close friend—was sending him away.
Lachlan squared his shoulders against the harsh and unexpected blow. Yet he couldn’t remain silent. Or stoic. Not in regard to this.
“Your Grace,” he began, taking a breath to slow his words, lest he humiliate himself in front of Lady Janet. The king knew of his longstanding and most wretched speech affliction—how he deliberately spoke in short, clipped sentences to manage it—and now waited patiently for his question. “You wish me…to stay at St. Andrews?”
James glanced over at Lady Janet. “Will you excuse us a moment, Jannie?”
The redheaded beauty stared back at him, her green eyes blazing with hurt, but
