Marjorie’s eyes grew as round as pewter plates as she unsuccessfully attempted to stifle her laughter. “Sword fighting…naked?”
Lady Janet nodded. “Indeed. But then an English envoy cut his leg, so the swords were put to one side. They decided to instead measure their cocks at full mast to declare the winner. ’Tis fortunate the wedding was held in August rather than December; otherwise a thumb might have triumphed.”
“Clearly, Lachlan did not compete,” said Marjorie, her cheeks pink.
“Duties elsewhere,” he replied, his own cheeks burning.
Lady Janet raised her goblet in a salute. “You are admirably dedicated to duty, just like I am admirably dedicated to finishing my wine and resting on this cushion while someone else speaks. My throat is protesting. Lachlan, I’m sure you have many bawdy stories you could tell. All those evenings spent in taverns with the king…”
He did. Probably hundreds. Yet even the thought of attempting such a feat with his affliction made cold sweat gather at the back of his neck. Only his mother and the king had accepted the flaw without judgment or scorn. His tongue refused to work when he tried to string together more than four words. It was like his mouth became separated from the rest of his body, a deserter who refused to follow orders.
“Naught of interest,” he said eventually. “Shall we eat? I’ll go rinse…my hands.”
Both women stared at him as he got to his feet, heads tilted and eyes sharp.
Plague take it. Had they guessed?
He fled to the stream.
…
Confused and troubled by Lachlan’s sudden departure, Marjorie glanced at Janet. “He, ah, really does not wish to speak.”
Janet’s brow furrowed. “No, he doesn’t. And I don’t believe for a moment it is any reluctance for the topic. Lachlan is no prude and knows how I am. He also knows you aren’t nearly as innocent as you look.”
A giggle escaped. “That is the truth. Lachlan doesn’t speak very much ever, though. Only a few words at a time.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Always only a few words at a time. Any more and he pauses. I wonder…” Janet tapped her chin, then raised her voice. “Lachlan! Do come back, my pet.”
Their protector returned from the stream like a man who’d walked the entire length of Scotland, his steps heavy and shoulders stooped. His gaze wary. “Yes?”
Janet patted the ground beside her. “Come sit by me a moment. Then we’ll eat.”
Lachlan obeyed but with obvious reluctance. That, and a hint of panic in his dark eyes. Knowing Janet was probably about to ask him a very difficult question, Marjorie sat down beside him and rested her head on his shoulder, twining her fingers with his. His hand felt cold from the stream water, but it soon warmed, and she almost cheered when his fingers briefly squeezed back.
“Lachlan, my pet,” said Janet, her tone unusually gentle. “I’m going to ask a rather personal question. Of course you are free to refuse, but I hope you will answer.”
“Ask,” he replied stiffly.
“Does it hurt for you to speak? I mean, more than a few words and your mouth hurts? Maybe an old injury?”
Lachlan went rigid, now more like a cornered Beast, his gaze darting between them as though searching for escape. “No.”
Bolder than she’d ever been in her life, Marjorie said softly, “We know your mind is swift and sharp. How else would you be such a magnificent warrior? But maybe…your mouth is slower? In my mind I run like a Thoroughbred. But everything bounces, and my knees hurt, and I move more like that cursed wagon. It is terribly frustrating.”
He stared at the rug, his free hand gripping his thigh so hard his knuckles were white.
“I have…a speech affliction,” Lachlan rasped eventually, his gaze remaining resolutely down. “Words get stuck in m-my mouth. I know…I know what I w-want to s-say. But it does n-not work. Since I was a boy. The k-king knows. No one else. I say little. I pause. So they d-do not laugh. What man cannot speak?”
Janet reached out and grasped his chin, forcing him to look at her. “Heed me well, Lachlan. The king assigned you as protector, but I choose to have you as a companion. You have proven in deeds, on countless occasions, that you are a man of great courage, loyalty, and skill. A man of great character. An exemplary lover. I understand you will always be aware of your battle scars. And your speech. But neither of those things changes how I feel about you. Not one bit. You are the Highland Beast. My pet.”
He shuddered, staring at Janet. Then he turned and looked at Marjorie, and the rawness of old shame, the burgeoning hope in his glistening eyes, struck her to the core. Those were emotions she knew all too well.
Marjorie beamed at him before kissing his cheek. Janet curled against his other side, and they held him tightly, stroking his hair, murmuring words of praise for sharing his painful secret with them. Gradually Lachlan began to relax, and they nudged him down onto the cushion and covered him with their bodies. He shuddered again, and a brawny arm slid around each of them, clamping them to his chest.
How long they lay together like that—with the warmth of the early-afternoon sun on their faces, the only sounds the stream and a few birds—she could not say.
Well, the only sounds except for her stomach. Mortified, Marjorie pressed on it, but naturally, it let out a second gurgle more like a thunderclap. “Do forgive me.”
Lachlan slowly sat up. “I must feed you b-both. Both.”
“What is in the basket?” asked Janet.
“Bread. Cheese. Apple tarts. A dish of berries.”
Somehow, the simple meal was the best she’d tasted, and Marjorie sighed in bliss as they finished all the food and the last of the wine.
Abruptly, Janet laughed. “My dear, you have a spot of
