“Aye.” His arms tightened, his lips brushing her forehead in the briefest of caresses that branded her for eternity.
Yet they both well knew when the time came…
Staying would not be a choice.
Chapter Eight
After several days of biting winds and just enough rain to trap everyone inside the manor until they paced like caged animals, to see the clouds had cleared and naught more than a gentle breeze stirred the trees was a great relief.
Lachlan waited at the bottom of the stairs for Marjorie and Lady Janet, at his feet one basket with food and flagons of wine and small ale and another with an old woolen blanket and several cushions. They were all in need of some sunshine and fresh air after the foul weather, but more especially, time alone together. Lady Janet had been furious when she’d learned of Angus Campbell’s behavior in the garden and had forbidden the man from visiting the manor again. She had offered reassurance regarding her absence with Aileen Campbell, yet there remained an air of tension about her. He hoped in a less formal setting, she might confide what weighed on her mind.
“Do I see wine in that basket?”
He smiled as Lady Janet descended the staircase like an empress. Well. Empress of his world, at least. “Aye, lady. Enough for merriment.”
“Excellent,” said Marjorie, trailing just behind. “Where are you taking us, Lachlan? Are we riding?”
“No need. It’s a short distance. Half mile or so.”
Lady Janet nodded. “Lead on, then. If I’m trapped one more moment within these walls, I shall go mad. I always find a walk helps to clear my mind.”
It was tempting to press her further, but servants were bustling about, equally eager to make use of the fine weather and complete their tasks before chapel. Some had been given leave to visit their families for the afternoon and moved particularly swiftly with baskets of linens to be laundered, silver to be polished, and rugs to be beaten free of dust and dirt.
Instead, he, Lady Janet, and Marjorie made their way down the gravel path, past the flower garden and orchard, toward the hunting grounds. When they reached a large clump of shrubbery, he directed the ladies to the right, down a narrow way that had been gouged out of a bank to allow access to the stream below.
“Here,” said Lachlan, leading them to a small sand clearing about twenty feet wide and deep. “Thought this might do.”
“Oh, it’s lovely,” said Marjorie, clasping her hands together.
Eager to serve, he unpacked the first basket, spreading out the rug and arranging the cushions in a half circle. Lady Janet sank onto the rug with a deep sigh, leaning back on a cushion and lifting her face to the sun.
“I’ll need all the lemon juice in Scotland for the freckles I shall gain this day, but it will be worth it. Hold your noses now, I’m removing my shoes and stockings.”
As soon as she did so, Marjorie began to cough and sway before pressing her hand to her forehead, swooning onto the cushion and twitching, then lying deathly still.
Lachlan applauded.
Lady Janet raised an eyebrow. “Saucy. Both of you.”
“Are you going to punish us, mistress?” said Marjorie, batting her lashes, and her guardian couldn’t help but smile.
“Indeed. An extra half hour on your knees—”
“Hooray!”
“In chapel.”
They both stared at her in horror. Lady Janet stared back for a few moments, then she began to laugh. “Your faces.”
The sound warmed his heart, as did the easy way she lounged. God’s blood, he wished he could declare his heart, but it never seemed to be quite the right time, and he had no wish to make a fool of himself. Instead, Lachlan unpacked the second basket and poured a goblet of wine for each of them. Soon they lay together in companionable silence, the sound of birds chirping and water trickling over ancient rocks enough.
Eventually, Marjorie sat up. “Will you tell us a story from court, Janet? A bawdy one?”
Lady Janet held out her goblet to be refilled. “A bawdy tale? From me? Impossible, my dear. I have led a quiet and scandal-free life…that wasn’t a snort, was it Lachlan?”
“Noooo, my lady,” he replied, unable to halt his lips twitching.
“It was,” she said archly. “For that you may rub my feet. And I’ll tell you a tale of the time I found a French envoy fucking an English border lord in a privy closet. France had England tamed and well conquered, I assure you…”
Soothed by her husky tone, Lachlan settled into his task and circled one thumb into the arch of her foot. Lady Janet had a gift for storytelling; the detail she remembered, alongside her sharp wit and her ability to mimic voices of certain courtiers, amused him to no end.
Some events he recalled, like the occasion she and James had a particularly hot-tempered argument. She’d hurled a goblet—missing the king by several feet at least—which instead flew straight out a window and knocked unconscious a hapless guard taking a piss against the wall. James had sworn he was done with her, a threat which lasted all of an hour. Though they had ceased to be lovers some years prior, all of Scotland knew she remained close to the king’s heart.
At one point his thigh was nudged, and he glanced down to see a small foot before glancing up to see Marjorie’s hopeful smile. He wordlessly shuffled across the rug a little so she could rest her foot on his leg before using his other thumb to rub her instep.
Like this, it was easy to pretend they were both his ladies, unlikely as the dream might be.
“I am getting parched,” said Lady Janet. “It is time for someone else to tell a tale. Lachlan?”
His gut twisted. “Nay,” he said swiftly, refilling her goblet again. “You have the gift.”
She smiled, took a few sips of
