Scandalous Passions (Highland Menage)

by Nicola Davidson

  “No,” whispered Marjorie, squirming on her seat, her nipples now visibly pressing against the bodice of her gray gown. “Please don’t stop.”

  …

  This was wicked talk. The most scandalous of conversations.

  Yet after a taste, Marjorie wanted so much more. To know all the secrets of love. Right here in the covered wagon that shielded her and Janet from the world like a cocoon, and right now before the king decided on her husband and yanked her away. This was not the day for retreat back to that little girl whose life had been governed by strict rules and the chime of bells but to try and become the woman she so wanted to be: one who made her own decisions and marched forth with great courage.

  “Please don’t stop,” Marjorie said again, her inability to sit still nothing to do with the rocking, jolting wagon. Her body felt strange, like her gown was a full size too small, her breasts sensitive, her skin warm and prickling.

  Janet smiled and leaned back against her seat. “I won’t. Prepare yourself, my dear.”

  Her guardian was just so sensual. As Janet had taken off her hood to travel, her unbound hair fell to the small of her back like liquid flames. Her green eyes were glittering, and the red velvet gown with silver embroidery she wore had tucked up around one slender thigh, offering a glimpse of stocking and satin garter. Would her skin be as soft to touch as it looked? Was the bush between her legs the same hue as her hair?

  Swallowing hard against the shamefully lewd thoughts, Marjorie forced a smile. “I’m ready.”

  “Hmm. Where was I? Oh yes. An ode to being stroked between my legs. I often bring myself to release when alone, but it really is quite delicious when a lover does it. Do you touch yourself? I daresay you must. A body has needs.”

  She blushed. “I…ah…”

  Janet frowned. “Marjorie. Never say you’ve been denying yourself that.”

  “It’s sinful,” she protested weakly. “The punishment was ten lashes.”

  “Bah. If you don’t know your own body, what you like and dislike, how can you guide a husband? They must be instructed kindly but firmly, so when it is time for bed, it is something you delight in, not dread. An ill-prepared woman is one who will feel pain. Besides. If God did not intend for women to feel pleasure, He would not have furnished us with our own special little pearl.”

  “Our what?”

  Again, that husky laugh echoed in the wagon. “Pleasure pearl. That small bud between your legs with no other purpose than making you feel good. Forget everything else; this is all the evidence required that God truly loves us.”

  Marjorie blinked in confusion. “I don’t…I don’t know what you speak of. I’ve only touched my breasts. Nowhere else. Apart from bathing, but that was too swift to feel anything.”

  “That must be remedied at once.”

  Excitement flared, so strong Marjorie almost whimpered. “You mean…”

  “I mean,” said Janet, her eyes darkening to emerald as she flicked her lips with the tip of her tongue, “if you wish, I shall offer instruction on how to touch yourself and gain release.”

  “Yes! Er…yes, please. I would like that.”

  “Well then, my eager little student, raise your gown so we might begin.”

  Marjorie gripped the folds of her kirtle and gown, which were once cream colored but now more gray tinged after frequent wearing and sponging…then stilled. If she raised them, Janet would see her bare thighs. They weren’t long and sleek and smooth but short, plump, and dimpled. Not to mention her rounded, fleshy belly. Would Janet be dismayed like the prioress and nuns had been, always advising Marjorie to fast, to work harder in the gardens, to walk another circle of the convent?

  “I must warn you,” she said miserably. “I am—”

  “Delicious. Curved and ripe,” replied Janet softly. “The way your hips sway and breasts bounce…I am envious. Dale to your hill. But whether we are tall and slender or petite and plump, we are all worthy of love, respect, and hours of tongue appreciation. Now, be a good lass and lift that gown.”

  Marjorie shuddered, both soothed and stirred by the kind but unmistakable command, the avid interest in Janet’s gaze. “Very well.”

  Slowly, awkwardly, she gathered all layers of fabric and lifted them to her knees, then higher, as heat scorched across her cheekbones. How difficult this was.

  “Spread your thighs, my dear,” said Janet gently. “At once.”

  Taking a deep breath, she obeyed, and cool air ruffled the thick tangle of brown curls covering her mound. A new scent teased her senses, and she wrinkled her nose at the unusual spiced muskiness of it.

  Oh no. The scent came from down there.

  Embarrassed, Marjorie glanced up at Janet. Yet there was no dismay or disgust there, only smiling approval. “What should I do now?”

  “Stroke yourself. Feel how soft your inner thighs are.”

  But her hands remained attached to her gown, seemingly unable to break free from the hold of convent life. “I can’t,” she choked out, bracing herself for a scolding.

  Instead, Janet nodded sympathetically. “You think I don’t understand what is swirling around that pretty little head of yours, but I do. Years of enforced shame. Of being told your body wasn’t beautiful and needed to be corrected. Of being denied what it craved. This first time, it might be easier if I showed rather than told you.”

  Marjorie’s eyes widened. “You would touch me? Guide my hand?”

  “If you wish. Come and sit in front of me.”

  As if in a dream, she moved across the swaying wagon and settled herself between Janet’s splayed thighs, her head resting on Janet’s shoulder. It was the strangest thing in the world sitting so close to another woman, her back pressed hard against breasts, her body encircled by another. And yet it felt wonderful. She’d never felt so warm and safe. So cared for. More importantly, she’d chosen to do this.

  Marjorie held out her right hand, and Janet covered it with her own. Then her guardian gently pushed both down between Marjorie’s legs, gliding back and forth along her inner thigh, brushing the crisp hair between her legs but not parting it.

  A soft whimper escaped her lips, and her hips jerked, trying to force touch to her aching mound.

  Janet tsked. “Naughty.”

  “Are…are you going to strap me?”

  “Quite unnecessary. I shall simply withhold pleasure until you behave.”

  Marjorie shuddered at the murmured words that tickled her ear. “I’ll be good.”

  “Delighted to hear it.”

  Soon Janet guided their hands down again, parting her nether curls and teasing her most secret flesh with feather-light strokes. The sweet torment made her pant, but she’d learned her lesson and neither closed her thighs nor thrust her mound higher. Her reward was a caress to her slick, petal-soft folds, and the briefest nudge of a spot so sensitive she cried out.

  “Is that…?”

  “It is indeed your pearl. Small but sensitive and craving affection.”

  “Like me,” Marjorie replied with an unsteady giggle. “I…ooooh…”

  How can anything feel so good?

  Their fingertips were slick with musky wetness, and now Janet guided them to surround Marjorie’s swollen pearl. Circling. Rubbing. Unable to stop herself, she rocked her mound against their interlaced fingers, desperate for ease. As if she understood, Janet applied firmer pressure with the heel of her hand, forcing Marjorie’s fingers to cup her mound and shallowly penetrate her entrance with a fingertip.

  Sounds escaped her mouth, raw and wild. Something was happening inside of her, something overwhelming that would change her forever. A part of her resisted, thrashing in an attempt to escape the intense sensation, while the rest begged for more.

  “No, do not fight it,” said Janet harshly, holding her firmly. “You are going to be a good lass and spen
d for me. I want to hear your pleasure. Feel every spasm of that sweet virgin cunt.”

  At the wicked words, a mighty wave of sensation began at her core and flowed outward with a rush. Barely able to muffle the scream that tore from her throat, Marjorie surrendered helplessly to her first release.

  Eventually she slumped back against Janet’s chest, shaking.

  “Shhh, there now,” Janet crooned, smoothing her hair. “How did that feel?”

  “I don’t even know how to describe it. Like I swooned. Or soared. Maybe both,” she replied, knowing she’d sinned—with another woman, at that—yet too befuddled in the aftermath of intense pleasure, the sheer delight of being held and touched, to care.

  “Let me—”

  Something thudded into the side of the wagon, and they both froze. A heartbeat later, an arrowhead pierced the leather cover, and as Marjorie shrieked in fear, Janet shoved her onto the wagon floor before protectively covering her.

  “Wh-what is happening?” she asked as icy terror gripped her, a stark contrast to the heat of moments before. Was it a raiding party? They could have no better champion than Sir Lachlan, but he was one man. Their driver was no warrior.

  Janet didn’t lie. “The wagon is under attack.”

  …

  Never had Lachlan felt such ferocious rage, such pure bloodlust, as he did right now.

  Lady Janet and Lady Marjorie had been threatened. But whoever these raiders were, they would never succeed. They would not abduct or hurt the ladies under his protection. He wasn’t a child, a frightened little boy who could be knocked aside now. He was the Highland Beast, the king’s champion, a hardened warrior who had killed countless men in battle. And in his current state of unrequited love and unsated lust for Lady Janet, the additional swirling confusion around his attraction to Lady Marjorie, he positively ached for a fight.

  Lachlan unfastened his mantle and slid from his saddle, his longsword thumping against his thigh as he hit the ground. Storm, his pitch-black mount, nickered softly and pawed the ground. Eager, just like his rider.

  “Guard the wagon,” he snarled at the ashen-faced driver, who nodded, dagger already in hand.

  Then his gaze roamed the line of trees. The snap of twigs under feet and flashes of black and brown cloaks promised at least three people. Maybe more. But their ineptness eased him; skilled assassins didn’t clomp their way through forest or get so close. This was personal.

  Moments later, four men burst forth from the trees, one bellowing, “A Kerr!”

  A grim smile twisted Lachlan’s lips. So, his mannerless friend from the Great Hall had decided to attempt vengeance for his undignified departure. Or ransom the ladies. It would be the last mistake he ever made.

  “Bastard knight!” called Lord Kerr as he and three men halted about twenty feet away, each brandishing a sword. “Give us the women, and we shall kill you mercifully. We have a taste for Jezebel and virgin this day.”

  “Ride on,” Lachlan growled.

  “You are but one man. You think to defeat four? Foolish bastard!”

  In a movement so practiced he could have performed it half-asleep, Lachlan retrieved the dagger strapped to his thigh and hurled it. The second man in the row flopped to the ground, bright-red blood spraying from the neck wound.

  “Three,” he replied, baring his teeth like the Beast he was. These Lowlanders were rock-headed to believe they could defeat him on the soil of his ancestors.

  Lord Kerr stared at his fallen friend, his face paling. Then, with a high-pitched cry, he charged forward, sword raised, his two remaining men at his side.

  Unsheathing his own sword, Lachlan waited. These fools could stumble over the slippery leaves, the barely dried mud, the unkempt road, and raise a sweat. They had chosen to engage rather than depart. He would not grant them a single boon this day.

  Lord Kerr’s accomplices hindered rather than helped. It soon became clear they were accustomed to threatening rather than fighting; they swung their expensive swords in wide arcs that left their chests and bellies exposed, and their thrusts were weak and easily turned aside. Almost lazily, he helped them both unto judgment with two brutal slashes that spilled their innards onto the ground.

  “Penniless, landless bastard,” spat Lord Kerr, now a defiant army of one. “Fed scraps from the noble table like a dog your whole life. I won’t kill you quite yet. Just maim. I’ll let you watch me fuck your women, over and over. They’ll scream and cry, but you’ll be able to do naught. Except know how badly you failed.”

  Lachlan merely stared, his gaze unblinking. The word “bastard” had long ago lost the power to hurt. Besides, the man would not get near the king’s precious jewels, let alone hurt them. “Kill me?” he challenged. “Try, then.”

  The Lowlander lunged, and their swords clashed, the metallic shriek overloud in the stillness of the roadside. Lord Kerr was far more competent than his men and driven by hurt pride, unflagging in his attack. But Lachlan had the superior height, reach, and strength advantage, and the older man soon dripped blood from several deep cuts.

  “Son of a whore!” said his enemy, feinting left, then right, stabbing at Lachlan’s left shoulder. The sword tip parted the fabric of his shirt and doublet and took some flesh with it, a stinging reminder of his mortality.

  His temper reignited, Lachlan’s sword arced and slashed through the air in a deadly dance and at last forced the Lowlander to his knees. “Yield.”

  “Never.”

  “Yield.”

  Lord Kerr laughed. “I’ll return, you know. You’ll not be free of me. I’ll bring the best warriors in Scotland, and we’ll butcher you slowly. Tar and feather—no, crushed on the wheel like the baseborn sinner you are. I should like to watch that. I’ll make your women watch too. The king will get them back for gold, but they’ll be broken. So very broken. And they’ll deserve it, the whore and the traitor’s daughter…”

  The word hung in the air like heavy mist, and the Lowlander looked at him in confusion. Then his body fell one way, his head the other.

  Lachlan sucked in slow, deep breaths to ease his racing heart. Today his victory was a rather hollow one; while he had killed countless on the battlefield and resolved many a “delicate matter” for the king, this was a little different. He had slain a Scottish nobleman. There would be much to explain and seek penance for.

  “Driver!” he called, and the man ran over. “Wrap and bury them. With a cross. And a prayer…for their souls.”

  “Aye, sir!”

  His cut shoulder burning, Lachlan did his best to wipe away the other men’s blood spray with his shirtsleeve as he marched back to the wagon. He could only imagine how feral he looked, but he needed to see with his own eyes that the ladies were unharmed.

  “Lady Janet. Lady Marjorie. All is well.”

  Moments later, the leather rolled up, and two faces peered out the back of the wagon. He breathed a sigh of relief. Shaken, but unhurt.

  “S-Sir Lachlan!” stammered Lady Marjorie, her blue eyes huge. “Are you injured?”

  “Nay, lady,” he said swiftly. “Not my blood.”

  “Who were they?” said Lady Janet calmly, a woman who had seen and heard many things as the king’s mistress. “Do you know?”

  “Lord Kerr. Three others.”

  Lady Marjorie gasped. “From the Great Hall? Then this is my fault.”

  “No, dear one,” said Lady Janet, smoothing her ward’s hair. “They chose to attack. The most foolish men in Scotland, to take on Sir Lachlan.”

  His cheeks warmed at the brisk praise, but in truth he would have preferred the hair smooth, filthy as he was. Apart from Lady Marjorie’s touch of gratitude in the Great Hall, how long had it been since he’d felt a woman’s soothing hands? It was hard to remember. But he well knew how good Lady Janet’s hand felt; he had lain awake for hours after leaving her alone outside he
r chamber. Both he and his cock had been more than a little angry at the king for his interference. Lachlan had probably looked like Lady Marjorie did now, all closed eyes and parted lips, silently pleading for more.

  Envy surged through him, alongside a swift resurgence of fierce lust.

  Now that the battle was won and his ladies safe, the familiar need rose in him to celebrate victory in his favored way: to rut until spent. Alas, this day he would find companionship with his palm rather than a warm, wet, and eager cunt.

  Lachlan cleared his throat. “Loch Leven is nearby. We can camp there. The water is fresh…the fish are p-plentiful. As are the f-fowl.”

  Damn his affliction! He’d been doing so well, and now Lady Janet’s brow furrowed.

  “Are you sure you are unhurt?”

  “Aye.”

  “Good,” she said softly. “For when we reach the loch, I must speak privately with you. The matter we discussed outside my chamber…must be brought to conclusion.”

  All the air left him. Surely he couldn’t be so fortunate.

  Could he?

  Lachlan inclined his head. “As you wish, lady.”

  The mile or so to camp would be the longest of his life.

  But if such a reward awaited him…no hardship at all.

  Chapter Four

  “Thank you for this. Forgive me for being such a poor traveling companion.”

  Janet smiled reassuringly as she expertly mixed a pinch of powdered herbal sleeping draught with watered wine for Marjorie. She had begun to droop during the simple but delicious evening meal of fresh fish that Sir Lachlan had caught and cooked over the campfire. Now her face was gray with fatigue, and her eyes were shadowed. “Think nothing of it, my dear. Wagon travel is ghastly at the best of times, even more so for someone unused to it. I much prefer horseback myself, but the king did insist…and to be fair, he was correct to think of our safety.”

  Nodding, Marjorie shifted on the wagon bench to make herself more comfortable. “Sir Lachlan had a lot of blood on him. I’m glad…I’m glad I did not see what happened—what we heard was bad enough. Do you think he told the truth when he said he was unhurt?”