“I shall counsel you not to bed the king’s virgin ward under his nose,” Janet continued merrily, the wine making her reckless as he led her up the stone steps and into a wide torch-lit hallway.
“I would not!” he growled. “I mean…no virgins. I like…experience.”
Janet blinked. Well. This stoic, taciturn Highlander would offer a little something when pushed. “Then I must beg forgiveness, stealing you away from your current mistress. I wager she awaits you, naked and wet and aching to be plundered.”
Sir Lachlan sucked in a harsh breath. “Your ch-chamber, lady.”
“So it is,” she said, leaning against the heavy oak door. “Do you know, on nights like this I miss my husband most. He knew wine unleashed wickedness in me. Made me especially demanding…”
There was a long, long silence. But her escort didn’t move. Then, he gritted out, “It does?”
Janet closed her eyes in sweet remembrance. “Oh yes. See, our marriage was different than most; in the bedchamber, he ceded total command. Certain men love to receive instruction. They crave it. I would make him kneel and pleasure me with his tongue and fingers, and only when I was thoroughly sated would I permit his release. He spent so hard when I rode him, bucking like a spring colt as he gave me every drop of his seed…”
The silence stretched again. Inwardly cursing her wine-loosened lips, Janet opened her eyes and looked up.
Except it wasn’t scorn or disgust on Sir Lachlan’s face. Just pure yearning.
But how could that be? He was the Highland Beast!
Shocked to the core, Janet could only stare as his face became impassive as hewn rock. Had her eyes deceived her? Then she glanced down to see a huge bulge jutting against his hose and doublet.
“My, my,” she purred, reaching out but deliberately halting her hand an inch from his engorged cock. “So wonderfully thick. And in urgent need of stroking. If you were just a little closer…”
Sir Lachlan’s fists clenched, his chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths. Then, with a guttural sound he stepped forward, thrusting his cock hard against her palm. “Yes.”
Greedily, her fingers closed around him, squeezing and rubbing through his hose.
He moaned.
“Oh, you like that?” Janet teased, excited beyond belief at the thought of this magnificent column of flesh buried deep in her needy cunt after he had pleasured her senseless. “I may allow you in my chamber. But I have rules. Unbreakable rules.”
His hips jerked, shoving his cock even harder against her hand. “Please. Let me kneel. Whatever you wish.”
“Very well—”
“Sir Lachlan!”
They both froze at the guard’s hail from the end of the hallway.
“What?” snarled Janet.
“Beg pardon, my lady, but the king asked for Sir Lachlan. At once.”
She would boil James in oil. Dismember him with a rusty spoon. Just because he chose not to bed his young wife, everyone else must sleep alone also?
Damn his eyes.
Sir Lachlan stepped back with a wince before adjusting his cloak to hide the evidence of their near interlude. “Lady Janet,” he said quietly, bowing. Then he marched away.
Furious, she stormed into the chamber and latched the door behind her. Right now she wanted to hurl something breakable at the wall. Like the king. Yet for the first time, she was thankful they were leaving for St. Andrews. James could keep his lonely bed at Stirling; at her new estate, it would be another world entirely. A world where Janet Fraser ruled supreme.
Next time there would be no interruptions.
Only pleasure.
Chapter Three
On the road to St. Andrews, near Loch Leven
Traveling—even leisurely and in relative comfort—became torturous after a full day, and despite years of accompanying the king or her husband, she would never grow used to it.
Janet stifled a wince, her bones aching from being jolted up and down and side to side on the rocky, uneven track masquerading as a road. For safety, rather than riding, James had insisted on a sturdy wooden wagon pulled by two horses. The wagon was spacious enough: there was room for their trunks; the baskets of food, wine, and small ale provided by the kitchens at Stirling Castle; and small sections of the leather cover could be rolled up to allow in fresh air. They also had velvet cushions to sit on and furs for warmth. Yet she envied Sir Lachlan, who was outside on horseback, enjoying not only the crisp air and sun on his back but also a far easier journey as his mighty warhorse disdainfully sidestepped the rocks and holes the wagon hit with great precision.
Lady Marjorie suffered worse, though. Unused to wagon travel, she’d spent most of the journey gripping the wooden bench, her color somewhere between moss and snow. She’d not napped at all and had only managed a few bites when they’d briefly stopped for a meal of bread, cheese, cold sliced beef, dried fruit, and pastries.
Her beautiful new ward just looked so…lost. Lonely. Again, Janet mentally berated James for a poor decision. Women being punished for the sins of their fathers, brothers, or husbands made her blood boil. Lady Marjorie’s long imprisonment at the convent had only increased her guilt in the eyes of the court, but she’d been a lass of six when the old king was murdered. Hardly party to events.
Bah. Foolish and unjust.
Suppressing her irritation, Janet instead smiled sympathetically at Lady Marjorie. “How are you feeling?”
Her ward tried to smile in return and failed utterly. “A little better.”
“I shall warn you now, my dear, lying is not something I tolerate. I must insist upon the plainspoken truth. When I ask you how you feel, I do indeed wish to know.”
“Oh. I…uh…” Lady Marjorie blinked, her bewilderment clear.
Saints alive. Has no one ever cared about her?
“I think you are aware,” Janet began, gentling her usually brisk tone, “that I am no prioress or prison guard. I believe the king placed you in my care as an apology of sorts, fully aware that I
