Swallowing hard, Marjorie attempted to regather her scattered wits. The Highland Beast and Fiery Janet, darkest night and brightest day, watching over her. Guiding her.
Pleasuring her?
She shuddered, her nipples hardening against the bodice of her unadorned gray velvet gown at the shockingly wayward thought. No. She was a grown woman of twenty-two summers, who well knew such miracles did not happen. Not for her would there be strong arms to hold her tightly and long kisses to make her burn. Nor would there be love.
But there might be conversation. Even friendship.
And that was more, so much more, than she’d ever had.
Chapter Two
Never did he feel more uncomfortable, unlearned, or baseborn than at a feast in the Great Hall.
Lachlan hesitated at the door, resisting the urge to cross himself before entering. But the building inspired cathedral-like reverence. Beyond the fact it was new—only finished the previous year—and the largest hall in Scotland, it was just so…wondrous. The outside had been coated in lime wash, and the golden glow could be seen for miles around. There were many pairs of tall windows, some with stained glass, and heating came from not one but five fireplaces. At the far end was a raised dais where the king, queen, and important guests sat. They had their own table and each sat on their own carved chair. Everyone else sat on benches at two long trestle tables covered in a white cloth, which were moved away after the feast for dancing and pageants. Above where he stood now was the gallery where the minstrels played.
Truly the jewel of Stirling Castle.
“Sir Lachlan,” said an amused voice behind him, “you are far too competent masquerading as a door. Do allow us inside.”
Heat flashed along his cheekbones at Lady Janet’s teasing words, but when she placed her hand on his back and attempted to nudge him, he almost moaned. Had anyone else tried such an act, they would have found themselves short a hand. Or at least with several broken fingers. With her, he wanted to stay still just so she would touch him again.
But that wasn’t what she wanted. And his mind and body had settled humiliatingly quickly into comfort at obeying her commands.
Even if they weren’t the commands he truly desired.
Squaring his shoulders, Lachlan marched on. All around him were French and English dignitaries, privy councillors, nobles and their wives, even a few clan lairds seated at the long trestle tables. The noise had already reached deafening levels as conversation battled harp and flute to be heard.
“Wine, Sir Lachlan?”
He inclined his head at the servant, gesturing for him to fill Lady Janet’s and Lady Marjorie’s goblets before his own. Then he took a long, fortifying swallow. Plenty would be needed to assist in managing his speech in the presence of two beautiful ladies. Hell. What if they wished to dance later on? His feet might move with the lightness of angel wings on the battlefield, but add in a floor and music, and they became hewn stone.
“Do you know where we are to sit, Sir Lachlan?” asked Lady Marjorie, and he turned again to see her sky-blue eyes wide and complexion pale as she glanced around.
“Aye, lady,” he replied as gently as he could to reassure her, when on most days, his voice sounded like chains being dragged through purgatory. He wasn’t named Beast for his size alone. “Just follow me.”
“May I…may I take your arm?”
Lachlan blinked at the timid request. He would never be a true courtier; his stone feet, rough voice, and ugly face put paid to that. If he attempted to pick a rose with his paw hands, he yanked out the entire bush, and with his affliction, he would never be able to recite verses of poetry. But for some utterly unknown reason, he found himself offering his left arm to the tiny but mouthwateringly lush Lady Marjorie, and her shy smile warmed a part of him he’d thought frozen forever.
Then he hesitated, looking uncertainly at Lady Janet. Even the thought of offending her…
“Do not fret,” she said archly, her green eyes gleaming as she parroted his words from earlier in the day. “I shall walk beside you but not take your sword arm. Or touch your dagger. Unless you ask me very nicely.”
Lachlan’s breath caught, but before he could reply, she turned to greet a nobleman and his wife. Probably a good thing. Of course she hadn’t meant anything wicked by her words. That was a thousand nights of lusty dreams about Lady Janet trying to trick him.
Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he moved forward, then adjusted his stride so Lady Marjorie wouldn’t trip on the hem of her gown. She had changed from the gray to one of leaf green; it had a low square bodice that lovingly cupped her ample breasts and hips, silver thread–embroidered sleeves, and a simple silver girdle about her waist.
“Pretty,” he blurted.
“Beg pardon?”
Lachlan groaned inwardly. It would be far better if he didn’t speak at all for the rest of the feast, but Lady Marjorie looked at him expectantly. “Your gown.”
“Oh! Oh, thank you. It’s my best, if rather unfashionable compared to other gowns. I love the color; it reminds me of leaves after rainfall. And I did the embroidery myself. I enjoy it. Maybe the only thing I liked about convent life—ample time to sew.”
He nodded as the words tumbled from her lips like a rushing river, and she gripped his sleeve a little tighter. It seemed Lady Marjorie was equally uncomfortable in the Great Hall; understandable when, like him, she was an outsider resented by most of those present. Utterly unjust, when—like
