His name. His hand in marriage.
Janet hurried over to where they sat, then reached down and took their hands in each of hers. “Lachlan. Marjorie. There might be a way. But it is a plan fraught with risk.”
“Tell me,” said Marjorie hoarsely. “I’ll do anything. Please.”
“If you were wedded and bedded in the eyes of the law, how could you marry an Englishman?”
“There is no time. I am to go to Carlisle two weeks hence. The banns must be read in church for three!”
Janet gripped her hand tighter. “I did not say in the eyes of the church, dear one. I said the eyes of the law.”
Lachlan sucked in a breath, and she knew he understood to what she referred. Scotland had forever rebelled and forged its own path, and the law in regard to marriage was one of those rebellions. While there were the usual weddings in church with a priest and posting of the banns, three kinds of irregular marriages were also valid. The first, a couple could declare themselves married in front of witnesses. The second, they could make a written promise or spoken oath of marriage, followed by a bedding. The third, a couple could present themselves as wed in public—marriage by habit and repute.
It would be unfair to ask servants or friends to be part of a plot against the crown, and for Marjorie to go about in public presenting herself as a wife would only spark a swift vengeance. But a written promise and a bedding done in secret, then revealed at the right moment…
“How can I be wed if not in church?” said Marjorie, biting her lip. “I don’t understand.”
“An irregular marriage,” said Lachlan slowly.
“Exactly,” said Janet. “A man and a woman consent to be wed, and so it is done. My late husband explained it to me once because lawmakers and clergymen were forever having heated debates about it. But no matter the protests from the church, irregular marriages continue to be legal. They are especially helpful in isolated places without a priest, or to protect young women from unscrupulous men making false promises just to bed them. A willing man—”
“Me.”
Marjorie’s head jerked as she looked up at him. Then she shook it. “I cannot ask that of you, Lachlan. You’re already in trouble for killing Lord Kerr and rough-handling Master Campbell because of me. This is…this is almost treasonous. Isn’t it, Janet?”
“It could be so argued,” she admitted reluctantly. “Defying a royal decree, the king’s ward marrying without permission, and upsetting the English also. As I said, it is fraught with risk. But if you are wedded and bedded, there is a very small chance they might allow the marriage to stand.”
“You aren’t asking. I’m offering,” said Lachlan gruffly. “I know…I have little. No castle or fortune. N-no handsome face. I’ll never read p-poetry. Or dance. But I would p-protect you…til my last b-breath. Care for you. Be loyal unto you.”
Janet looked away, unable to bear the halting sweetness of the words or the sickening churn of terror and jealousy and despair in her stomach. If her plan failed, it could well send Lachlan to the stocks or a dungeon. If it succeeded, they would leave her forever and start a new family, a new life without her. As she’d already said to Aileen, she did not dally with those who were wed.
Either way, the only plan she could think of had the power to hurt her unbearably.
Holding her breath, she waited for her ward’s answer.
“You are the very best of men,” said Marjorie after what seemed like a hundred years of silence, cupping her hands around Lachlan’s face and kissing his cheek. “Kind and generous and far more than I deserve. Yes, Sir Lachlan Ross, I consent to wed you.”
Janet closed her eyes briefly. Then she forced the necessary words to her lips. “Ride to St. Andrews, to the university. There is a lawyer there, Master Shaw. Tell him the fiery one sent you, and he will assist with the proper declaration. Insist on two copies to take away with you. Do not speak to anyone else. This must remain a secret.”
“Lady…” said Lachlan.
She halted his words with a fierce kiss, then stepped back. “Go. Go now.”
And her heart shattered.
Chapter Nine
He was a married man.
Lachlan slapped his heels against Storm’s flanks, urging him to gallop even faster along the road from St. Andrews back to the manor, as though pace could help him outrun his thoughts.
But nothing could change two facts. First, his new wife, Lady Marjorie Ross, clung to his back, and in Storm’s saddlebags were two signed and sealed documents attesting to that. Second, he had utterly betrayed his longtime friend King James, the only man who had judged him on deeds and character rather than learning or speech or appearance. The man who had raised him high.
God’s blood. He knew he’d done the right thing wedding Marjorie, a woman he liked, admired, and lusted for. But a future of great uncertainty loomed: what would happen when James and Margaret discovered their defiance of a royal decree and arranged border-alliance marriage? Would he be imprisoned and Marjorie forced to wed the Englishman anyway? How would their legal union affect Lady Janet—not just his lover but the woman he loved?
His wedding day should be a happy one. Instead, his stomach churned and sweat dampened his body, sensations he’d only experienced before on the eve of a great battle.
As they approached the gate to the manor—not the main gate, but a rear one that led to the vast hunting grounds—he slowed Storm to a trot. A burly guard stepped out of the box, and Lachlan could feel Marjorie’s heightened tension as she gripped his waist tighter.
“Sir Lachlan!” hailed the guard. “Lady Marjorie. I was not aware you had left the manor.”
“An errand,” said Lachlan stiffly.
“Of what
