Chieftain (11 page)

He grew incredulous at her self-indulgence. “Jump into war? With an army marching toward us, we had little choice. And I thought you carried a royal bastard.”

The fight went out of her. “You could have been killed on the spot and Macqueen Castle reduced to rubble.”

The events of that black day long ago hung like a bad memory in his mind. He had been certain that death would find him before dawn. He hadn’t considered Clare’s plight.

“Who am I to upbraid you for defending yourself?”

He had no reply to that, so he addressed another worrisome topic. “You should have asked me to go with you to Eastward Fork today.”

“It wasn’t necessary.”

“’Twas
my
place.”

“Actually, it’s Sheriff Hay’s responsibility.”

Would she never recognize that she had a husband who had sworn to protect her? “Your safety is mine.”

“I was in no danger. Singer was suffering the effects of too much ale. He had difficulty putting one foot before the other.”

If every woman was as capable as she, men would become as useless as ballocks on a barbican. “Was that before or after you hobbled him?”

Her chin came up. “Both.”

He wanted to rail at her, but she looked so proud, he decided that logic was the better approach. “He’s prone to violence, Clare. That was the reason you went after him.”

“Do you know, I didn’t really think of him or what he might do to me. I was concerned with Maggie’s safety.”

Unselfishness joined the list of her attributes. But he couldn’t help wonder if she would ever be as concerned about him or their sham of a marriage. “A woman’s safety often depends on the mood of her mate.”

Her expression reeked of disbelief. “A woman’s happiness depends on her husband’s good humor? That’s rubbish.”

“Then how do you account for telling me that you’d never known happiness before marrying me. You said you’d devote your life to pleasing me.”

She bowed her head and murmured, “I must have been besotted with you then.”

He gave her high marks for courage. “But you’re not now.”

“I do not know what to think about you. I’m in a quandary, too.”

Having his words tossed in his face made Drummond cross. She needed a strong, guiding hand, and he’d had seven years to contemplate what he wanted of her. He leaned closer to her and said, “You could end your uncertainty by being a good wife.”

She rose on tiptoe, and when their noses were a breath apart, she declared, “I’m as good a wife as you are a husband.”

She had him there. “Then perhaps we should both start over again.”

“How?” she scoffed.

“By doing what other husbands and wives do.”

“Which is?”

He almost laughed out loud at her naivety. “They become close.”

“And if one of them refuses to get close?”

“The other would surely demand an explanation—that, or look elsewhere for his closeness.”

Gone was the bold woman. In her place he saw a shy and tentative girl, her fingers toying with the edges of her wrap. “You mean he would take a mistress,” she said. “You’ve done that before and without provocation.”

And she had lain with the man who was now king of England. Lord, what a farce they’d made of marriage. Drummond couldn’t forgive her, not until she begged for forgiveness. But as matters stood between them now, he’d have more success in demanding she turn pigs into geese than insist that she bare her soul. If he were going to dictate policy to her, he had to go slowly.

He extended his arm and kept his voice even. “Now I merely want someone to hold my hand.”

She glanced toward the main gate, then threaded her fingers in his. Her skin felt cool, softer than he remembered, and her wrist fragile enough to break with a snap of his fingers. He thought of Elton Singer, the wife beater. Did Clare refuse to share Drummond’s bed because she’d seen firsthand the brutality of which a husband was capable?

Driven to know, he said, “Why do you sleep in Alasdair’s bed?”

“Because it’s too small for you.”

He tried to stifle his laughter, but heaven help him, he could not. When she tried to pull her hand away, he clasped it tightly. “I should have asked why you skirt your wifely obligations.”

“Obligations?” She yanked her hand free. “Is that what making love is to you, an obligation?”

Her chilly disapproval quelled his mirth. “It wouldn’t have to be, not if we reacquainted ourselves.”

“Please define reacquaint.”

With long walks in the woods and quiet, private evenings up here, he almost said. Then he caught himself. By the saints, he was contemplating the seduction of his own wife. Part of him objected, but the freedom of the vast night sky lulled him into complacency. Call him weak, but for too long loneliness had been his constant companion, and he wanted her company.

She snapped her fingers. “I have it. Let’s forget what happened before you were taken. Everyday we could share a story, something that occurred during our separation.”

What trick was she playing? Before he could ask, she said, “I could tell you which word Alasdair uttered first. I could describe his first steps. Or recount the time he put salt in the oat bin. I laughed beyond measure at that. So many of his doings were entertaining …”

He ceased listening. He didn’t want to hear. If he’d known about his son, the dark and lonely times in prison would have been unbearable. Instead he’d fantasized about Clare. He had pretended that she visited him often, bringing his favorite foods and warm new clothing that she herself had stitched. Although she looked like Clare, the woman he had conjured was not the faithless wife but the devoted helpmate. More’s the pity, he thought.

“Drummond, are you listening?”

He banished the fantasy and addressed the reality. “And what can I tell you, Clare?” he said through gritted teeth. “Shall I describe the lavish furnishings in an English cell? Perhaps you’d care to hear about the delicacies they served me or the minstrels they provided.”

“Oh, Drummond. I did not think of you as …” Her teeth closed over her bottom lip, and her eyes turned starry.

“As what?”

She embraced him and laid her head on his chest. “I did not think of you as simply a man deprived of his freedom.”

She had always rushed to tend the sick in his village; yet he didn’t want her sympathy, he wanted a confession, then a plea for forgiveness for the crime of adultery.

She felt warm and yielding, and his physical needs overrode his principles. He’d been without a woman for too long, and if she continued to caress his back, he’d have her on hers.

“They had no right to imprison you and tell us you were dead. Why did your family not send word to me?”

“After the first year, they told the Macqueens I’d been hanged and—” His voice broke; he could not face the horror. No matter what had occurred between them, he could not tell her the gory particulars of Edward I’s explanation of Drummond’s demise. “Hanged.”

“Those years must have been wretched for you.”

Bitterness burned inside him. She’d valued this piece of land in the Borders more than her wedding vows. Her heart beat strong and steady against his chest and comfort streamed from her in gentle waves. Give me your burden, her body seemed to say. Worry not, for I’m here to share your pain.

His knees trembled, and he no longer felt like the wronged husband; he became the ordinary man of whom she’d spoken. His arms engulfed her, and he rubbed his cheek against her hair. She smelled of home, and her tender touch brought to life one of a thousand lustful dreams.

In this one, he stood atop a well-fortified castle, freedom as far as his eye could see, a golden haired goddess at his side. She caressed him from temple to waist and lower, her soft lips and dancing fingers playing an erotic melody upon his skin. Then she grew eager and, moaning wantonly, guided his hands over her feminine form. When he expected the woman of his dreams to beg him to love her until dawn, the woman in his arms gave him a final pat and stepped back.

Desire blurred his vision and buzzed in his ears. When he could focus, he saw an expression of wonder on her face. Or was it confusion?

“I, ah …” She paused, staring at the exit door. “I must say good night, Lord Drummond.”

Her formality checked his base urges, for he instinctively knew that she was gripped by emotions she neither welcomed nor understood. As bizarre as it seemed, he felt as if he were still seized by his own fantasy. For she was Clare and yet she was not. He couldn’t let her go.

“And if I command you to stay?”

She pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders. “I would ask that you do not.”

A more honest appeal he’d never heard. “Do you take back your words of comfort?”

“No.” Her voice was thick with grief. “I would wrap them in tinsel thread and lay them at your feet.”

“Then you are tired.”

She stared at his knees. “I have never been less tired in my life.”

“You suffer from an illness?”

“I am exceedingly hale and hearty.”

Her eyes met his, and he felt an odd stirring in his chest, for he saw agony and soul deep fear. “You are beset with bad humors.”

“I could as like call up the merrymakers.”

Desire poured over him like hot honeyed wine, and he lifted his brows in invitation.

Backing away, she said, “Tomorrow is Wares Day, and I must up with the dawn. Good night, Lord Drummond.”

Moonglow pearled on the moisture in her eyes before she turned and disappeared through the dark doorway.

A moment later Alasdair stepped out, battle shield and sword in hand. “What’s wrong with Mother?”

A reply lodged in Drummond’s throat, and he stared at the gaping black portal, willing her to return to him, to finish what she had started, to tell him what was in her heart.

“She didn’t even see me. You won’t tell her I’m here, will you, Father? You said I must begin my soldiering, so I thought to patrol the battlement up here. To protect Mother and Bertie.”

Shaking his head, Drummond tried to cast off the image of her, her turmoil and her quiet dignity. Would she have yielded? He didn’t know for certain, but he’d wager all his sons to come that she’d wanted to, and it both thrilled and frightened her.

“Will you promise, Father?”

With a pledge to further test the boundaries of her self-control, Drummond devised a plan. His strategy set, he ruffled his son’s sleep mussed hair. “I’ll keep your secret, Alasdair, but you must do something for me.”

“Mother, may I have a quince?”

Smothering under a blanket of regrets, Johanna leaped at the diversion. If she couldn’t stop thinking about how much Drummond had suffered, she might as well rush into his arms and tell him precisely why she hadn’t inquired after him.

“Curly and her little sister have quinces.” Walking backward and facing her, Alasdair pouted. “May I please have one?”

Thinking he was due a haircut soon, she reached out to scruff his head. “Will you promise to keep your appointment with Brother Julian?”

He dodged her admirably. “I gave you my word of honor. ’Tis a manly thing.”

In another few years he’d grow away from her. In manhood, he would make her proud. Later he would bring his children to visit. Engulfed in motherly love, she wanted to hug him, but he’d balk at so public a display. “You’re to be there before Vespers.”

He nodded. “I’m hungry, Mother. I’m as starved as a mouse in Glory’s pantry.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“From Sween.” Looking back over his shoulder he steered himself to the clean edge of the lane. “But he says she can keep her sweets to herself.”

The latest episode in the ongoing war of the lovers promised to outdo the rift at Whitsunday last.
Whitsunday.
Drummond’s birthday. How many of those days had he spent alone and hungry in the Tower of London? The grief returned to weight her shoulders and prick her conscience. She should have inquired, for she knew the old king practiced brutality against his enemies. It followed that he would hardly account for their needs or address the concerns of their families. That still didn’t excuse her, she could have asked through a third party.

“Mother, what’s wrong?”

Everything. Alasdair had stopped to stare at her. His fretful expression mirrored a worried frown from Drummond. “Nothing’s amiss, dear, and yes, you may have a quince, but only one.”

“And one for Longfellow.” He spun around and darted down the cross path that would take him to the market.

Johanna dodged a herd of yearling sheep and continued on her way to the tanner to find a protective glove for the cook. Merchant stalls and larger businesses lined either side of the lane. As they displayed their wares, the craftsmen and the castle folk exchanged morning greetings. It was still too early in the day for visitors from the surrounding hamlets, but by noontime the bailey would be filled with carts and wagons and the thoroughfares clogged with customers.

The baker called out to her. “Have a scone, my lady. Lord Drummond said they was as good as his aunt Fiona’s. Ate an even dozen of ’em and said I should deliver up a batch to the keep every morning.”

The aroma of fresh baked bread teased her nose, but she doubted she could swallow even a crumb. She had succeeded in avoiding Drummond this morning, and knowing his whereabouts would allow her to keep it that way. Facing him would come later.

She smiled and hoped she didn’t sound like a woman who’d lost her wits over a man. “When was Lord Drummond here?”

The baker raked his forearms, stirring up a cloud of flour. “Just ’afore he and Sween set off for the tanner. My lord said you’d want to look for him there.”

So much for going to the tanner. She had expected Drummond to be at the carpenter’s shed and had planned her errands to avoid that establishment. That he wanted her to look for him didn’t bear addressing.

“Elton Singer left his harnesses to dry-rot,” the baker was saying. “Sween brought ’em in with him this morning. Mistress Glory’s still in Eastward Fork, y’know. Suppose he’ll fetch her in a day or two. I look for a pleasant makin’ up from ’em.”

Sween and Glory’s troubles were their concern; Johanna had problems of her own. “Thank you.” She put the scone in her basket, which already contained a broken trivet and several jars of honey; then she bade the baker good day and set out for the smithy.

On the way, the shoemaker waved her into his shop. His mouth puckered, he aimed a coarse thread through an outsized needle. Behind him, his fragile wife lounged on a bench.

“Lord Drummond’s at the tanner,” he said, concentrating on his task. “He said you’d be asking after him.”

Johanna would as soon inquire after a doomed hog. “He did?”

When he’d succeeded at his task, the shoemaker smiled and, with a flair, rolled a knot into the thread. “Finer man you couldn’t want. Commissioned Alasdair a pair of boots.”

Wishing Drummond were sending messages from the Highlands and spending money there, she thanked the cobbler and moved on. Just ahead and coming toward her, Morgan Fawr led a basket laden donkey. She’d never met the man, but Alasdair had described the rail-thin fellow perfectly. His closely cropped brown hair and chest length fiery beard made him easily recognizable.

She stopped before him. “I haven’t had the pleasure of welcoming you to Fairhope Tower, Mr. Fawr. I’m Lady Clare.”

“Stories tell you how a person come upon knowin’ ’em.”

Garble mouthed Welshman, Bertie had said. Johanna understood why. “You’re Longfellow’s caretaker.”

“Herdin’ creature, he is for company. Oncet, he shined to a mouser and her kits a-crawlin’ all over him. Skin tougher than a ship’s deck’s next to him.”

She had hoped to glean information about Drummond from this man. Although she already doubted her success, she plunged onward. “Have you known Lord Drummond long?”

“Coming on the time since the wall crumbled at the water gate.”

“The water gate to what?”

The donkey nudged him. With sticklike fingers, he scratched the animal’s snout. “At the piling o’ the rocks the Conqueror threw up on the Thames.”

Garble-mouthed was beginning to sound like a flattering description. Pile of rocks. William the Conqueror. Thames. “You mean the Tower of London.”

“Onliest keep on the river with prisoners wearing out the stairs.”

Now that she was getting somewhere, she jumped on the lucid thought. “You were a prisoner, too?”

His hand stilled. The donkey let out an earsplitting bray. Over the noise, he said, “Wasn’t there hirin’ a room and a bucket o’ eels.”

Even if she did pry information from him about Drummond, Johanna knew she wouldn’t understand much of it. “I hope you enjoy your stay with us.”

“I’ll run it to ground before it gets away. Plantagenets keep their booty close.”

Ignoring the placement of the words and the verbs, she concentrated on the nouns. “The king keeps you close by. He won’t allow you to return to Wales?”

Miraculously, he nodded. “He’s a-certain I’m after shoveling a mountain of elephant dung.”

Baffled, she said, “Are you?”

He blinked, one lid moving slower than the other. “The new king’ll never wear the leek upon Saint David’s Day.”

She jumped at the chance for common ground, for she knew that David was the patron saint of Wales. “Then you’re a religious man.”

“What’s the church got to do with the king?”

At a loss and wanting to yank out her hair in frustration, she handed him the scone. “Here, this is for you.”

He reared back, bumping into the donkey. “Begged food falls into a meek belly.”

She decided that his thinking was as skewed as his speech. “I always pass out scones to the newcomers.”

He peered into the basket. “Full of glad-you-came’s today, eh?”

“Yes,” she ventured. When he smiled, she thrust the scone into his hand. “Eat hearty. Enjoy.”

He turned it over in his hand and mumbled, “A crown upon your head.”

Picking up her step, Johanna vowed that the next time she tried to converse with Morgan Fawr, she’d insist that Drummond interpret. A foolish thought, for she intended to stay as far away from him as possible.

Approaching the smithy, she drew off her mantle in deference to the heat. At his forge, the blacksmith clutched a clamp that held what looked suspiciously like a small helmet “I hope that’s not for Alasdair.”

The clamp slipped from his hand, and the helmet plopped into the water that hissed and boiled. “Lord Drummond came himself to commission it. There’s to be a mail shirt and a breastplate, too.”

An acrid smell made her stomach roil; so she moved upwind. “Perhaps for another boy, but not for Alasdair.”

“My lady,” he pleaded, drawing the sweat-soaked rag from around his neck. “Your husband was particular in his instructions. He’s at the tanner now, asking after gauntlets for the lad. Said to tell you he was there so you wouldn’t lose track of him.”

Lose track of him? His whereabouts could be the fourth biggest mystery, for all she cared. She handed the blacksmith the broken trivet. “I suggest you put your efforts into repairing this, should you value my patronage. Eastward Fork has a new forge, or so they say.”

Wearing a downtrodden frown, he nodded and fished the helmet from the water. He gave it a fond look, then tossed it aside.

Ready to do battle with the despotic Drummond Macqueen, she went to the tanner.

“Not to worry, my lady. He said you’d come looking for him. He’s in the tiltyard with Sween. If you take the alley behind the cooper’s, you’ll get there quicker.”

She almost snapped that she knew the way, but the tanner did not deserve her anger. She went in search of the man who did.

Drummond stood in the center of the yard. Shirtless, his hair tied back with a strip of leather and sweat glistening on his muscled back, he looked like the ancient gladiators Homer had immortalized. Garbed in indecently tight trunk hose and soft leather boots, he had drawn a crowd of adoring women. He seemed unaware of their attention, for he concentrated on the task of uprooting the rotted quintain post. Good, she thought; Fairhope needed no weapons of war. The thing was an eyesore, and the men never used it.

Flexing muscles and long sinewy legs drew her eye. Miffed that she could appreciate a man who would turn his perfectly sweet son into a bully, she marched up to him. “I came to speak with you about the items you commissioned the blacksmith to make for Alasdair.”

Glancing at her over his shoulder, he gave her a devilishly inviting smile. “You found me.”

“How could I not when you left a trail of verbal mouse droppings for me to follow?”

Amusement danced in his eyes, and his lips puckered with mirth. “You look lovely in that color. The shade brings out the yellow in your hair. You must have worn it for me.”

That he had, purely by chance, guessed her exact thoughts while dressing this morning miffed her even more. Chance was all it was. She liked the dress, and that was precisely why she’d worn it. For her, certainly not for him. “Alasdair is not to have a suit of armor.”

He straightened and draped an arm over the top of the post. His gloved hand looked large enough to cup her head, and his massive shoulders blocked out the sun. “Are you always so frisky in the morning?” he asked.

How could she both welcome and despise his cajoling tone? Having no answer, she said, “Will you please address the matter at hand.”

He sighed and shifted his weight to one leg. “Were it up to you, our son would only excel at kissing altar cloths and speaking foreign languages.”

Pride stiffened her backbone. “I speak Latin.”

He laughed. “To whom? Evelyn? John Handle?”

Some of the starch went out of her, for he had a point. But Latin was a language of scholars, the very thing she had in mind for Alasdair. “He must be taught.”

Turning over a hand, he said, much too reasonably, “Then teach him something useful.”

He smelled of leather and hardworking man. To her dismay, she found it particularly appealing. “Like killing?”

“He should learn to protect himself.” He swept an arm in a circle. “And defend everyone here. There’s also philosophy, Roman governing, and Scottish history.” The last two words were said with marked emphasis.

She had intended to find a well-versed Scotsman to school Alasdair, but not yet. “I cannot afford another tutor, nor do I think it wise to disrupt his studies at this time.”

He gave her a sugary grin. “Worry not, my dear. I’ll teach him everything he needs to know. Leave it to me.”

Already the craftsmen were deferring to him and the women gawking. Johanna hadn’t the time to go along after him, cancelling commissions or wondering if he’d settled accounts. She couldn’t bring up the subject of money now, not until she learned if he had means of his own. “I insist that you begin by telling the blacksmith that Alasdair has no need for chain mail. I’ve taken care of the helmet.”

He leveled her a smoldering look that could have melted an ice maiden. “Easy now, Clare, or I’ll have him make you a chastity belt.”

Mortified, she gritted her teeth. “You’ll do no such thing.”

Staring at her hips and lower, he murmured, “On second thought, it might be a sin to lock you up. Tell you what—” He rubbed his back against the post. “I could be persuaded to alter Alasdair’s training, if you could be persuaded to …”

Unsaid words hung between them. When the silence grew, she couldn’t help anticipating the rest of his thought. He’d say that she could give him a house full of children, or that she could share his bed starting tonight. Feeling her cheeks flame, she stared at his broad chest “I could what?”

“Scratch my back.”

Her gaze flew to his. “Your what?”

He jiggled his brows, then turned, presenting her a broad expanse of muscle. Loud enough for even the gateman to hear, he repeated, “Scratch my back.”

She’d rather tell him to wallow on it in the dirt, but with half the eligible women within hearing distance, she checked the thought. Since she had no choice, Johanna put down her basket and did as he asked. He gave a contented groan and shivered beneath her touch, reminding her of the power she could wield over him. But last night she had glimpsed the control he could as easily exercise over her, a talent she had yet to perfect. The trouble was, he’d had vastly more experience than she. As a consequence, she must approach every encounter with caution. She must also be certain they were never alone.

To better accommodate her, he bent his legs and braced his hands on his knees. “I’m glad you stopped biting your nails. Did Alasdair’s birth change that, too?”