Scandalous Passions (Highland Menage)

by Nicola Davidson

  Leaning down, Janet retrieved the pretty silver comb from the floor. “Marjorie—”

  “Forgive me,” Marjorie blurted, twisting her hands together. “I feel so foolish that I didn’t see. I will stay right away from him. Please don’t be angry for what I did at the loch.”

  “What did you do? Tell the truth, now,” she replied sternly. Her ward needed to learn that openness was critical between them. Many things would be tolerated under this roof, but trickery and falsehoods were not in that number.

  Marjorie stared at the floor, her cheeks crimson. “I…I…rubbed my breasts against his chest.”

  “I see. Did Sir Lachlan wish you to do that?”

  “I don’t know. He did not say.”

  Janet tapped the comb against her palm. “Then let that be a second lesson for you. Pleasure must always be pleasure for all, not one. Good men and women ensure their potential lover is willing and excited to be touched. They do not force themselves on another, not even a kiss.”

  “But how do you know for sure if they are willing?”

  “You talk. You tease. They might make a vague suggestion to test the water, so to speak. Or you might. Always beforehand, my dear. If they are receptive, your discussion can become more risqué or even downright wicked. I find erotic talk at the beginning of or during an interlude to be quite, quite seductive, although in fairness not all enjoy it.”

  Marjorie nodded slowly. “I understand. Like we talked in the wagon, before you showed me how to touch myself. I had a choice.”

  “Exactly. Learn what your lover enjoys and encourage them in turn to learn the same about you. Now, come and sit on the bed, and I’ll comb your hair.”

  Soon they were perched side by side on the feather mattress, and Janet began to slide the comb through Marjorie’s thick and unruly brown locks, which fell to the small of her back. It lacked a little shine and was in need of a thorough egg-yolk cleansing followed by a good dousing with rosewater.

  “Are you displeased with me?” said Marjorie tentatively. “For being attracted to Sir Lachlan, I mean.”

  Janet sighed as she attended to a small knot. “No. Attraction is not something you can control. It just happens. You see a man, or a woman, and think they are delicious. There is much to admire about Lachlan. He has worked hard to rise above his birth, has been a loyal friend and companion to the king, and is quite simply the finest swordsman in the realm. Then of course those strong arms and broad chest. What you can control, though, is what you do next.”

  “I understand.”

  “Let me make one thing very clear, though, my dear. This is an unbreakable rule. You are the king’s ward. This means that your first bedding must be with your husband. I wish for you to learn what you will. To have wondrous experiences with lips and tongues and fingers. But to do more than that is to invite the king’s anger, and for all his charm and chivalry, James is not a man to be crossed. It would not just be you punished but myself and Lachlan as well. And I cannot allow that.”

  Marjorie winced, her expression settling into one of resignation. “I know. And I would not hurt either of you for the world.”

  Janet’s heart clenched at the sadness, the frustration, the younger woman felt. It was desperately unfair, all the miseries Marjorie had endured through no fault of her own, and now to live a half life, waiting to see whom the king might select as a husband. Yes, James had arranged some excellent matches in the past, such as her own marriage to Fergus, but that did not mean he would choose so well again. Marjorie’s husband might not even be a Scots nobleman. If the king wished to strengthen the alliance with England or extend the hand of friendship to France, Spain, or the Low Countries with the offer of a beautiful virgin of noble blood, she could be sent far away to wed a stranger.

  Janet paused in her combing as the thought of Marjorie gone twisted something inside her chest.

  No.

  She would do her best for her temporary ward. Allow her as much freedom as possible to learn her own mind, her own desires and preferences. Definitely not more than that.

  Definitely not love.

  “Time for bed,” she said briskly.

  “Yes, Mother,” replied Marjorie with an impish little grin as she scrambled to get under the quilts, managing to show a great deal of plump, dimpled thigh and even a glimpse of that thick brown bush in the process.

  “Mother?” said Janet, appalled even as arousal stirred at the tempting sight. “No thank you. I much prefer Worst Sinner in Scotland. Or Mistress, for brevity.”

  “Very well. Good night…Mistress.”

  Oh, but her ward had a streak of pert. When Marjorie grew in confidence and learned to wear clothing that flattered those lush curves rather than gowns better suited for cleaning rags, when she began to own the sensuality lurking in those big blue eyes and pink lips…men would be lining up from here to the continent, eager to be led about by the codpiece. They would let her run amok, never understanding what she truly wanted and needed: to submit to a stern authority, made to ask—nay, beg for pleasure—and have it be granted so thoroughly she screamed in ecstasy.

  But Janet Fraser knew.

  Sliding from the edge of the bed, she walked the few steps to the head, where Marjorie lay propped up against a small mound of pillows. “Good night, my dear. If you are well enough on the morrow, we might…further your education.”

  Marjorie sucked in a ragged breath, her eyes widening. “Another lesson? Show me what I might be taught, please.”

  “Hmm.” Janet stroked her own cheek, as though deep in thought. Then she leaned down and used one fingertip to trace the younger woman’s lips, circling them again and again until her ward moaned softly. “You need to learn what your mouth and tongue are capable of. Kissing. Sucking. Licking. Do you agree?”

  “Yes,” she said fervently.

  “Excellent. Then we shall meet in the solar at noon…Marjorie, you are quivering. Is your sweet little cunt throbbing?”

  Her ward blushed scarlet, but eventually she nodded.

  Janet stifled a grin. Marjorie was so delightfully responsive. “Then you may touch yourself. Stroke your pearl until you gain release, just like I showed you in the wagon. It will help relax you, and you’ll sleep better. Until tomorrow, then.”

  Marjorie nodded, her hand already moving under the quilts. Satisfied she was back in control, Janet turned and walked toward the door.

  Hopefully Lachlan had finished his inspections.

  She required him for another duty entirely.

  Chapter Six

  Plague take it, imagining herself as a Thoroughbred, sleek and swift, had not worked. Her pursuers nearly had her cornered.

  Marjorie clung to the stair banister, her knees wobbling and breasts aching after the short run.

  “I shall fight to the death!” she wheezed, wishing she had a sword to brandish rather than a single waving finger. It did lessen the theatric impact somewhat.

  “Lady?”

  Marjorie’s hand slipped, and she flopped onto the bottom stair in an ungainly heap before turning and glaring at Sir Lachlan. “We agreed on a cough to warn of your approach.”

  He cleared his throat. “You spoke to no one. Are you well?”

  “I did no such thing. I warned away the women stalking me with the food they wish to put in my hair.”

  Sir Lachlan’s brow furrowed. “Food?”

  Marjorie sighed as her heartbeat finally began to slow. “They claim Janet wishes them to wash my hair. But they don’t have a square of lye soap, just a dish of bacon fat. Raw eggs. Vinegar. Now tell me, Sir Lachlan, does that sound like tools of beauty or the makings of supper?”

  His head tilted, his gaze suddenly far away. “My mother used eggs. One each month. The chicken had…a bad temper. My hands were pecked bloody. But her hair shone. Like sunbeams.”

  The silence str
etched between them as Marjorie absorbed that halting, rasping affectionate tale, surely the longest string of words Sir Lachlan had ever bestowed upon her. But the emotion behind it—he’d loved his mother. It seemed the habit he’d learned as a boy had stayed with the man. He sacrificed and served.

  “Is she…is your mother in the Highlands somewhere?”

  Sir Lachlan’s face shuttered. “No. She died long ago.”

  “Forgive me, I—”

  “Let them wash it,” he said gruffly. “To please Lady Janet. It will look…pretty.”

  And with that pronouncement, he marched past her and out the front door toward the orchard.

  Well.

  Marjorie propped her chin on her hands and stared after Sir Lachlan. Her head had accepted that he belonged to Janet, that they were lovers, that she had no choice but to remain a virgin until her wedding night with a husband of the king’s choosing.

  Her heart had yet to reconcile with those facts.

  It still believed that Sir Lachlan liked her a little. More than duty, which made it difficult to live under the same roof, as she kept pondering what he and Janet might do together in bed.

  Would they ever permit me to watch them?

  The shocking thought lodged in her mind, so wicked, so troubling, Marjorie leaped up and paced the entrance hall. It was sinful enough she wanted so much more from Janet, more touching, to be kissed and stroked and to learn how to do so in return. But to even entertain the thought of watching Janet and Sir Lachlan naked and pleasuring each other, bedding each other…

  Marjorie shuddered, her breathing now shallow pants.

  Wicked. Terribly, shamefully, wicked. Janet was her guardian, kindly teaching her. Sir Lachlan a protector.

  Nothing more.

  “Lady Marjorie,” came a voice to her left, and she turned to see the two servant women intent on turning her hair into a larder. The curtsies were polite, the expressions exasperated.

  She sighed and surrendered. “Very well. Forgive my reluctance, but I’ve only ever washed my hair with lye soap. I did not know there were other remedies.”

  One of the women grimaced. “Lye soap? Oh no, m’lady. This will be so much better. No tangles, and it will smell sweet and fresh too.”

  “Will it take very long? I must meet Lady Janet in the solar at noon. For a, er, lesson.”

  That I wouldn’t miss for the world.

  “A half hour at most. We’ve done it for all the ladies. And our sisters. We’ll have your hair looking right nice in no time.”

  Marjorie shot a doubtful look at the basket. The egg she would try, if for no other reason than Sir Lachlan’s poignant story. But bacon fat? Ugh. “Where?”

  The other woman smiled. “We have a little bathing tent set up outside for privacy. Hood, gown, and kirtle off; shift on. Come with us and we’ll begin.”

  Soon she knelt on a cushion in front of a large wooden bucket. Several other smaller buckets sat nearby, each filled to the brim with fresh water.

  After wetting her hair, two egg yolks were rubbed in. Then the women rinsed it clean with jugs of water. Next came the bacon fat, and Marjorie’s nose twitched at both the smell and the unpleasant cool greasiness on her scalp. Once they’d scraped and rinsed that away, a small deluge of vinegar covered her entire head, trickling onto her arms and down her face, as expert hands firmly massaged. If this was the final treatment, no one would want to sit near her for at least a week. But the vinegar washed away into the wooden bucket, and the servant opened another jar of something green that actually smelled lovely, like fresh herbs.

  Marjorie sniffed appreciatively. “Is that mint?”

  “Aye, m’lady. Will make your head tingle. Plus parsley, thyme, and watercress made into a paste.”

  They let the paste sit in her hair for a few minutes before rinsing, then a servant dried away the excess water with a linen towel. Marjorie prepared to stand, but the other servant’s voice halted her.

  “Two more things, m’lady. We’ll rub your hair with silk, then comb it.”

  She nodded reluctantly, as they were clearly skilled in their work. But when the woman eventually produced a wooden comb, Marjorie gritted her teeth. This was always the worst part.

  The comb slid through her hair like an eating knife through tender meat.

  “It’s not tangled!” she exclaimed. “And it doesn’t hurt! It always hurts. Always.”

  “That’s the bacon fat,” said the woman with a smug smile. “Egg for shine, vinegar to clean and get rid of any nasties, herbal paste for scent. Rubbing with silk adds extra glow. Aye, your hair is clean as a mountain stream now. But leave your hood off until it has dried fully.”

  Marjorie sat back on her heels. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “The coin we earn is thanks enough. As is a kind mistress. You’ll tell Lady Janet you are pleased?”

  “Oh yes,” she replied, nodding fervently. “When I see her in the solar.”

  The two women helped her back into her kirtle and cream-colored gown before curtsying and gathering up their buckets and dishes. “Best go on, then, m’lady. Must be nearing noon.”

  Her heart pounded with anticipation. Janet would be pleased at her obedience, and she could show off her newly beautiful hair. Best of all, it was time for her kissing lesson.

  Hurrying to the solar as fast as she could, Marjorie halted in the doorway of the elegantly furnished space, overheated and panting a little. But her gaze raced over the tapestries, the embroidery frame, the harp and lute, and the low table with jugs of wine and sweetmeats atop it, for Janet sat cool and poised on a cushioned chaise in the center of the room.

  “Am I late? Forgive me!”

  Janet shook her head. “Not at all. I arrived early to inspect the room. We shall enjoy many happy hours here, I’m sure. Come in, my dear. Close the door behind you.”

  Marjorie’s breath hitched as she obeyed the command. “I was getting my hair washed,” she said shyly, completing a turn that made her hair whip about her.

  “Come and sit next to me so I might see better.”

  “I rebelled at first,” she admitted, perching on the chaise. “The food, you see. I didn’t know about eggs and vinegar. Or bacon fat. I was only ever permitted lye soap at the convent. The women here were so kind. So skilled.”

  “Rebellion?” said Janet, as she leaned forward and wound a lock of washed hair around one finger before tugging it gently. “How wicked.”

  Marjorie shuddered at the light prickle on her scalp. How could that make other parts of her body feel warm and restless? But there was far more to come, as her guardian traced the outline of her closed lips. Softly at first, then more firmly, until they parted of their own accord. “Mmmmm.”

  “You sound like a lass ready to learn. Are you?”

  She nodded fervently, her breasts bobbing. “Show me. Please.”

  Janet cradled her cheek, then leaned forward and brushed her lips against Marjorie’s. A gentle and delicate kiss, a slow glide of lip against lip.

  So soft and sweet!

  Yet not nearly enough.

  With a frustrated whimper, Marjorie attempted to kiss her back. To her relief and delight, Janet firmed her lips and pressed harder. Soon she felt the flick of Janet’s tongue, once, twice. Demanding entry? Uncertain, she tentatively opened her mouth, and her reward was a much deeper and more intimate kiss with a pointed tongue that rubbed against her own, a kiss that sent jolts of hot sensation darting through her body and left her squirming on the chaise.

  Overwhelmed, unable to catch her breath, she pulled away.

  “Marjorie?” said Janet, he gaze concerned.

  “I…I can’t breathe,” she whispered. “My gown bodice is too tight. May I…may I take it off?”

  Her guardian nodded, her eyes glittering like emeralds. “Of course.”
>
  …

  Marjorie was so beautiful. So innocently sensual.

  It was taking every bit of willpower she possessed to move slowly in the continuation of this virgin’s awakening, for a first kiss was equally important as a first release. Some might say she should have started her lessons with a kiss, but it was her firm opinion that a woman needed to know her own body, her own mind, before sharing it with another.

  Pressing her thighs together against a fierce wave of arousal, Janet distracted herself by helping her ward remove her gown and kirtle so she wore only her stockings and shift. The linen garment might be modest, but it barely constrained Marjorie’s ample breasts, and her nipples jutted lewdly against the fabric, an unspoken plea to be sucked and bitten and stroked.

  This time when Janet leaned in to kiss her, with merciless self-restraint she allowed her own breasts to briefly brush the younger woman’s, a tease of soft flesh and hard nipples that promised the world and yet delivered nothing more.

  Marjorie moaned.

  Stifling her raging lust, Janet feigned confusion. “Something the matter, dear one?”

  “I…ah…”

  “Tell me,” she said sternly.

  “My nipples ache terribly. I want to touch them,” Marjorie mumbled.

  “Touch them how? Stroke? Circle? Pinch?”

  Her ward bit her kiss-swollen lip. “I’ve only stroked them. Never pinched.”

  Janet nodded. “Depends entirely on the person. Some dislike having their nipples touched at all. Some prefer a light stroking. But others enjoy a hint of pain to heighten sensation and find a pinch very pleasurable.”

  “Show me?”

  “One moment, my dear,” said Janet as she sat back on the chaise. She was so unbearably aroused, a moment was needed to clear her head and regain control.

  Taking a deep breath, she allowed the tranquility of the solar to drape around her like the softest quilt. It was already her favorite room in the manor, created solely for relaxation and privacy from the noise, the bustle, the purpose of the rooms on the ground floor. Today the solar would host a lesson in seduction, but the warmth of the sun shining through the large windows could never compete with the heat between her and Marjorie.