She lifted her chin, thinking Janet would wipe it away with her thumb. Instead, her guardian cupped her cheek, flicking the spot with her tongue before kissing her deeply. A jolt ran through her body, centering between her legs, and she moaned.
Lachlan watched them, his gaze glittering. “The sun is overwarm. We should return indoors.”
“Agreed,” said Janet wickedly. “My ward requires further lessons. She must learn how it feels to have a man’s tongue on her pearl and in her cunt. Also, she should observe me riding my lover until he bucks like a stallion.”
“Until his lover…screams with p-pleasure.”
Excited beyond words, Marjorie put on her stockings and shoes before scrambling to her feet. “I’m ready.”
When Janet had put on her stockings and shoes, they repacked the baskets and returned to the manor at a much brisker pace than they had left it. Nothing needed to be said; they all had the same purpose in mind. The solar and its sturdy chaise.
But when they reached the front door, a servant met them there, holding a missive.
“Letter came while you were out, mistress,” he said, bowing respectfully. “From Stirling Castle.”
As though all three had been doused in icy water, they froze.
“Thank you,” said Janet, her smile forced. “You may go.”
Once the servant had left them, Janet took the small eating knife attached to her girdle and slid the blade under the red sealing wax. Then she unfolded the parchment and began to read. When her face went gray and she pressed a hand to her breast, Marjorie’s heart plummeted.
“What does it say?” she choked out.
“The king?” growled Lachlan.
Janet shook her head, her expression grim. “Nay. Queen Margaret. Come with me into the chapel.”
Nausea roiled in Marjorie’s stomach as they walked into the cool, dark sanctuary of the manor chapel, and for a moment she thought she would retch onto the floor. It clearly wasn’t a letter advising of a visit or a summons; her guardian looked far too angry.
“What does the letter say?” she asked again, swallowing hard. Desperate not to hear the words she feared most.
“Tell us, lady,” said Lachlan, even as he took Marjorie’s hand and squeezed it.
“Her Grace writes,” Janet bit out, “that she has heard of Lady Marjorie Hepburn’s intemperate behavior toward a gentleman of good standing and knows in her heart that it is time for the king’s ward to wed so a husband might lead her back to virtue and grace. To strengthen the English alliance, it is hereby decreed Lady Marjorie Hepburn shall wed the English border baron, Lord Seaton, at Carlisle two weeks hence. Preparations are being made for travel.”
Marjorie’s legs buckled, a wail of despair unleashing from her throat.
“Please,” she begged, tears pouring down her face as she let go of Lachlan’s hand and threw herself at Janet’s feet. “Please do not let them take me away.”
…
She might be struck down for blasphemy in a chapel, but damn the queen. Damn men who decided a woman’s future with no care for her wishes. Damn that sniveling peacock Angus Campbell, who had scurried to court to whine when his pitiful attempt at seduction hadn’t succeeded.
Janet sucked in a deep breath, a futile attempt at calming her rage so she might return to a place of rational reason. So she might think.
After that wretched dinner where Aileen had unexpectedly appeared back in her life and declared a desire to rekindle their past, she’d been quite out of sorts. But this, this was beyond all. Despite her best efforts at keeping emotionally distant from her ward, this terrible letter and Marjorie’s distress were tearing her heart in two. Under no circumstances would she allow her to be snatched away because of a foolish child-queen and scorned male courtier. Certainly not to wed an Englishman, who would be utterly unworthy of such a treasure.
Crouching down, Janet cupped Marjorie’s tearstained face and blotted the moisture with her thumbs. Then she grasped her chin firmly and kissed her. “As I said to Lachlan earlier this day, heed me well.”
Marjorie sniffled, her shoulders still shaking. “Y-yes?”
“I will think of a way to stop this, dear one. But you must rise from the floor and cease your tears so I can pace and ponder. Lachlan, help her onto a chair.”
Their protector scooped Marjorie from the floor, but rather than placing her on the chair, he sat down and settled her in his lap. She buried her face in his chest, her shoulders gradually shaking less and less.
Janet nodded approvingly at his tender care and began to march from one end of the chapel to the other, her heels overloud on the stone floor. “Good. Good. Now, let me see…”
It took every bit of her will to show only command and control, for the task ahead was near impossible. To defy the Queen of Scotland’s decree and save Marjorie from the marital clutches of an ancient, pox-ridden English baron could be argued treasonous.
At best, she faced losing both her lovers.
At worst, she could forfeit all she had, including her own freedom.
“Do we run?” asked Lachlan, his voice low and tense.
Janet rubbed her hand across her face. “No. To run is to become a fugitive, to add abduction of the king’s ward to offenses against the crown for defying a royal decree, and add a bounty on our heads from both the Scottish and English purses. We would be hunted, imprisoned, possibly killed, and Marjorie dragged back to wed the border lord.”
“I don’t know what t-to do,” he bit out, frustration and helplessness for once transparent on his face. “I can fight. I can kill. Both skills useless here. James willnae gainsay Margaret. A border alliance w-will suit him. Even our names t-to a petition…n-no help. Plague take it!”
About to join Lachlan in unleashing every curse she knew, Janet came to an abrupt halt as one of her lover’s words pounded in her mind.
Name.
Lady Janet Fraser could protest, but it would make no difference at
