She shuddered. A dark chasm had opened, threatening to swallow her at any time. From the moment Lachlan and Marjorie had ridden away—he had saddled Storm himself, and they’d managed to leave between guard changes—she had been terrified that spies loyal to the queen might discover the plan and arrest them. It seemed like she’d held her breath for hours, until the sound of horse hooves on gravel sent her into a half swoon against the wall…thoroughly unnerving for a woman who prided herself on her confidence in, and command of, all situations.
Now the terror had abated somewhat to be replaced by emotions equally as poisonous to well-being: jealousy and despair.
Now that Lachlan and Marjorie were wed, they were lost to her, for they wouldn’t need a mistress at all. They would leave and set up their own household, bed only each other, maybe remember her fondly for a time with brief letters that would dwindle to nothing as the months passed. Eventually, she might look upon this act with a quiet pride and contentment that she had put others above herself and also thwarted that damned child-queen. But not now. This moment, agonizing pain clawed her insides, the kind she’d never wanted to experience again: the pain of loss. Doubly worse, for not just one snatched from her but two. Already she knew that never again would there be another Lachlan and Marjorie, eagerly submissive lovers who suited her so well. Never again would the solar bear witness to the glorious passion only found in three. And this knowledge was crushing.
A knock at the door sounded, and Janet turned and glared at the oak. “I asked…I asked not to be disturbed,” she managed from a boulder-clogged throat.
“It is Marjorie and Lachlan, mistress.”
Janet stilled at the muffled feminine reply, her heart lurching. She did not believe for a moment they had bedded each other already. And Marjorie had said mistress.
Setting down her goblet on a side table, Janet walked over to the chamber door and opened it slowly. “Come in.”
The two entered the room like penitent students, heads bowed and hands at their sides. Further stunned and more than a little intrigued, Janet folded her arms and tilted her head. “It is done?”
“Partly,” said Lachlan, dropping to one knee before reaching into his doublet and pulling out two small, tightly rolled scrolls, each with a red wax seal affixed.
“Partly?” she repeated, taking one of the scrolls and locking it within a cleverly hidden compartment in the large wooden chest at the foot of her bed. Lachlan could keep the other copy in his own chamber; it was never sensible to keep two in the same place. Especially with documents as important as these—apart from Master Shaw, the papers were all they had to prove that a formal promise of marriage had taken place.
“Wedded…but not bedded, mistress,” said Marjorie. “We…we decided it felt wrong without you.”
Tears burned her eyes, forcing Janet to take a deep breath for composure. “Did you now?” she replied softly, turning back to look at them both.
“Aye,” said Lachlan, his dark gaze both hot and yielding in a way that made her squeeze her thighs together against a rush of pure arousal.
“Well then. I can see you are both dusty from your ride to town. Best you undress and have a sponge bath before such an important occasion as a marital bedding.”
As Lachlan began to remove his doublet, Janet crossed the chamber to latch the door. When she returned, she assisted Marjorie with her hood, leaf-green gown, kirtle, and shift. Soon the newlyweds stood naked—Lachlan unperturbed, Marjorie clearly at war with herself as she resisted the urge to cover her breasts and mound as taught her whole life.
Both belonged to Janet Fraser.
Excitement entwined with pure relief surged, and when Janet dipped a sponge into a bowl of cool water sprinkled with herbs that rested on a stand, her hand trembled and made a small splash.
She went to Marjorie first, gently sponging her back, bottom, and legs. Then she moved to stand in front of her ward before attending to her neck, arms, and stomach. Naturally, she took special care with those delectable plump breasts, rubbing the damp and slightly rough sponge over Marjorie’s swollen nipples until the younger woman quivered. After rewetting the sponge, Janet trailed it down between Marjorie’s thighs, parting the brown bush of hair and dragging it back and forth against the petal-soft pink flesh, smiling when Marjorie whimpered with need but deliberately denying her release.
“Now you, pet,” she purred, wetting the sponge once again.
Lachlan shuddered, and without prompting, placed his hands atop his head. Already his magnificent cock had grown thicker and longer, and her mouth watered to suck it down her throat. But no. Her Beast would have to wait for such pleasures. Instead, she tormented him with the sponge, firmer than she’d been with Marjorie, although she lightened her touch when washing his scars. The naughty man had removed the bandage she’d applied at the loch, but his most recent wound appeared to be healing well. Last of all she washed his cock, dropping the sponge and instead using her hands to roughly massage the engorged length until he pleaded to be permitted to spend. But she denied him release too.
“What next?” said Marjorie, her eyes wide and cheeks flushed, the heady scent of her wet cunt perfuming the chamber.
“You’ll both pleasure me first,” said Janet. “Marjorie, help me with my gown. Lachlan, fetch the brown bottle of oil from my satchel.”
Minutes later she stood as naked as her lovers. Both poured a small quantity of oil into their palms and began to rub it into her skin; Marjorie attending to her front and Lachlan her back.
Janet barely stifled a moan as Marjorie’s soft fingers tweaked her nipples, a delicious contrast to Lachlan’s strong hands on her back, rubbing the knots of tension from her shoulders. When her
