Chieftain (12 page)

Sister Margaret used to say that bad habits avoided Johanna and flocked to Clare. “You might say that.”

Leaning to the right, he said, “Yes. Just there. Ah. You slept well?”

She’d hardly closed her eyes. In a cheery tone, she said, “Famously.”

“You said you had never in your life been less tired.”

Blast his memory. “It was a fleeting feeling.”

“Hum. Then the next time we dally, I’ll strive to make the experience a lasting one.”

A memory stirred vividly to life; she felt sheltered again, safe in his arms. More disturbing, she had wanted a greater closeness with him and not only the physical kind. Sharing the events, both sad and joyous, of his life, held particular appeal.

“There is no Wares Day,” he said. “’Twas a feeble excuse to run away from me and your vows last night.”

“Feeble?”

“’Twas easily verified.”

“I sought only to comfort you.”

In a husky whisper, he said, “Oh, and you did. I still recall the feel of your head resting on my chest.”

She withdrew her hand. “I met Mr. Fawr.”

Facing her again, he gave her a look that said he wasn’t fooled by her conversational zigzag. “Fawr’s not his family name. ’Tis rather a description.”

“Meaning what?”

He rubbed his stomach. “The great.”

“He thinks well of himself.”

“As he should. He was the last one standing on the Welsh side of a battle.”

“Edward the First took him prisoner.”

“He told you that?”

“I managed to untangle a word or two.”

A mischievous twinkle brightened his eyes. “Careful, or you’ll be gathering up enough double
l’
s and stretched out
o’
s to get sight of a friend.”

Laughter burst from her. “You’ve been around him too long. You sound as garbled as he.”

His expression sobered, and he wiped a glove across his brow. “Seven years.”

Sympathy welled up inside her. “What can I say to you, Drummond? Had I been in a position to do so, I would have set you free.”

He paused, his elbow in the air. “Your position with the new king has never been in question. You knew him well enough.”

“That was precisely what I had in mind when I—” She clamped her lips shut. He had tried to trick her. She could not, would not, address Clare’s sin, not to him, not to anyone.

The expression in his blue eyes turned chilly. “When you what?”

His deceptively calm tone didn’t fool Johanna; he wanted a confession from her. He’d go to his grave wanting it. Clare had sinned to save him. Johanna would not belittle her sister’s decision.

She moved away. “I thought you were building a shelter for Longfellow this morning.”

He cupped his hand to his ear. “Hear the hammers?”

With her mind dwelling on regrets about last night, she hadn’t noticed the pounding noises coming from the direction of the main gate. She turned toward the sounds and saw Sween in the lane, a freshly cut post over his shoulder, a skipping Alasdair beside him. They were headed for the tiltyard.

Anxious to conclude her discussion in private with Drummond, she said, “Why are you replacing the post?”

“Because as it stands you could knock it down.”

“I forbid you to teach Alasdair to use it.”

“I say he does.”

“Then you face disappointment.”

“You can forbid until your Roman centurions return. I’ll do as I may.”

“How will you pay for it?”

“With the profits from this demesne, which I intend to double by raising Spanish cattle.”

“Fairhope belongs to me.”

“’Twas left to the widow of Drummond Macqueen. You are not that woman.”

Fear crawled up Johanna’s throat. Had he guessed? Swallowing back the panic, she searched his stern expression but saw no sly motive lurking there. “What do you mean, I am not that woman?”

“She does not exist, for I am hale and hearty.” He peered into her eyes. “And you are as white as snow on ice. What’s amiss, Clare?”

Clare. Relief poured over Johanna and she thought her sister’s name had never sounded sweeter. She grabbed a snippet of his conversation. “I am committed to supplying grain to the overlord. I have no spare pasture for cattle, Spanish or otherwise.”

“That and other things are changing.”

Only the Second Coming could have altered her life more than the arrival of Drummond Macqueen. “I would have things stay as they are.”

His brows shot up and his mouth dropped. “For heaven’s sake why?”

Determined to have the last word, she picked up her basket. “I rather like being a widow.”

Certain that the plan he had devised last night would now work, Drummond bowed from the waist. “And I rather like friskiness.”

To his delight, her pretty mouth pursed in frustration. If he could keep her off guard, he could get her into bed. Once there, she’d tell him what he wanted to know, for she’d never been able to keep her secrets from him in the dark.

“Who’s frisky?” demanded Alasdair, staring at the both of them.

A cunning smile blossomed on her face. “The horse your father is going to buy you.”

She marched off, leaving Drummond to deal with an excited Alasdair and a brooding Sween.

Alasdair gulped down a mouthful of spoon cake. “Father said I could nail the horseshoe over Longfellow’s door. That’ll keep the witches away from him.”

Johanna opened her mouth to caution him about the dangers involved in scaling a ladder, but paused, for advice would sound like another lecture. Feeling left out of his life, she raked the garnishing hazelnuts to the edge of the bowl.

“I doubt a spirit would go seeking the beast,” said Brother Julian. “God made few provisions in the scriptures for beasts of burden.”

Drummond rested an elbow on the table. “Then what was Noah doing?”

Eager to defend his territory, the cleric pushed the trencher toward Alasdair. “He was obeying the will of God and preserving all of his creatures.”

Huffing, Drummond said, “Sounds like a provision to me.”

“I meant to say that animals do not merit further concern, my lord. They lack souls.”

“What say you, Clare? Does Longfellow have a soul?”

How delightful that she’d been consulted on something other than the reasons for Glory’s jealous nature or the cause of the cobbler’s wife’s fainting spells. Hearing the peevishness in her own thoughts, she glanced at the man beside her. “I believe that God put animals here to serve man.”

Interest twinkled in his blue eyes. “Not for his own purposes? Surely God can appreciate a fine hound or a skilled falcon. They are also his creatures.”

So, Drummond Macqueen fancied himself a philosopher. She, too, enjoyed a lively discussion on the higher purpose of man. “True, but they are trained by man to do our bidding.”

Drummond waved his spoon. “Dogs are not trained to hunt. ’Tis natural for them in the wild. Domestication only trains them to obey the will of man. There’s a difference.”

“A subtle one,” murmured Brother Julian.

Scanning the others at the table, Johanna saw proof of how easily Drummond commanded attention. Alasdair stared, enraptured; Brother Julian looked keenly attuned, and Bertie seemed unable to turn away. Once they had preyed on her every word. She knew that jealousy fueled her ill-humor, but Johanna couldn’t help saying, “When it comes to domination, man is seldom subtle.”

His faith engaged, Brother Julian said, “My lord, next you’ll have me shriving animals and Lady Clare setting a place at table for them.”

“Is Longfellow going to Mass with us?” said an incredulous Alasdair.

The cleric huffed, “Of course not.”

“’Twould be a waste.” Drummond leaned close to Johanna. “Since he doesn’t speak Latin.”

“Do you?” she challenged.

“Nay, Latin is for the frisky at heart. I’m but a simple man.”

She scoffed. “And I’m Robert the Bruce.”

Joining in, Alasdair declared, “And I’m a landless adventurer.”

“You’re an exhausted, landless adventurer. Find your bed,” Drummond said. “And rest well.”

The boy’s excitement vanished. Something passed between father and son. A moment later, Alasdair grew animated again. “Mother, will you tell me a story?”

Bertie rose, bless him. “Come along, lad. It’s late, do you see, and we’re all toilworn.”

As if to verify his loss of interest in her, Alasdair murmured good night and left the table. When Brother Julian excused himself, Johanna rose.

“Stay.” Drummond put a hand on her arm.

With gentle pressure he kept her there until Evelyn had cleared the table, banked the fire, and excused herself.

“I’m sending Sween to Spain to purchase a bull.”

Her heart jumped. Had he discovered her carefully hoarded savings? “How will you pay for a bull?”

Looking very much like the chieftain, he said, “I have my own funds.”

“Shouldn’t you go yourself? Who will lead the hunt?”

He shot her a who-do-you-think look. “According to you, I can fell a hart with a blunted arrow from three hundred paces.”

Had she erred? On reflection, yes, but her intentions had been pure. Same as Clare. Oh, dear sister, she thought, did your heart beat fast and your logic flee in the presence of this compelling man?

Feeling like a fool, Johanna caught him staring at her. “Can you fell a hart with a blunted arrow?”

He shrugged. “I haven’t had the opportunity, but rest assured that in Sween’s absence, I will contrive to keep meat on our table. We will not starve.”

“I’ll sleep ever so much better knowing that. Did you find Alasdair a horse?”

“Nay. The blacksmith says Red Douglas has the best stock. I’d like for you to write to him and say we’re coming to visit—you, me, and Alasdair.”

“As a family?”

“Aye. I have no other wives or sons hidden away.”

He hadn’t the one wife anymore, much the pity.

“I also intend to discuss your grain obligation to Douglas. ’Tis unfair.”

“He lent me money when I had none.”

“According to the ledgers, you’ve already given him a fair return and more. He’s taking advantage of you.”

If he continued to usurp her authority she’d soon be relegated to supervising the porter, the cook, and Evelyn. “I will abide by my agreement”

“I’ll renegotiate it.”

Just as she was about to object, Alasdair returned. Wearing his long nightgown and cap and a forlorn expression, he straddled the bench and laid his head on her shoulder. “I cannot sleep, Mother. Will you tell me a story?”

Her heart melted, and she embraced him. “I would, but we’d awaken Bertie.”

Drummond got to his feet. “I’ll say good night.”

Deciding that Alasdair could sleep in his bed and she’d make a pallet on the floor, she led him away.

Giving them time to get settled in Alasdair’s room, Drummond paced the rush-strewn floor of his chamber. The dried grasses had been liberally laced with basil and thyme, and the pleasing odors permeated the room.

Nowhere, he thought, were the changes in his wife more evident than in this cozy chamber. She’d lost her penchant for expensive looking glasses and fancy silken tassels. Instead of bouquets of rosebuds in delicate vases, she now favored clay pots from the wheel of a local potter, filled with bundles of heather.

The spacious bed sported linen sheets and woolen blankets, rather than lace and ruffles. To his great relief, she no longer slept on a mountain of pillows, for he’d often awaken with a painful crick in his neck. But he’d been young and his wiry body quick to recover from minor discomforts. After seven years on a hard cot, he shuddered to think of how he would feel after a night on a cloud of goose down.

He’d brave it, though, for the chance to possess her again.

Wait, his conscience said. ’Tis too soon yet.

Resolved, he strolled to the waist-high table by the window. On a finely embroidered cloth lay an assortment of keepsakes from her son. Among them were an almost square box containing a lock of curly black hair, a leather pouch filled with dried rose petals, a faded red ribbon, and a sheet of vellum with the words
A Joyous Day
printed in a lad’s scrawl above the date of her birth,
19 March 1286.
Drummond remembered the day for another reason, same as all Scots did; their beloved and capable Scottish king, Alexander III, had died that night. Some said he was rushing to see his new wife, Yolande; others told of a breakneck ride to witness the birth of his illegitimate twin daughters, delivered of a noblewoman named Margaret.

A search for Alexander’s lover and his identical lassies yielded only the rumor that Edward I, in his quest to claim Scotland, had spirited them to England. Alexander’s favorite and his offspring were never found, and the tale was relegated to fiction.

Drummond was reminded of the tales Clare had spun to amuse Alasdair. The lad had responded by laboring to make the items on the table. Loving gifts, gifts to warm a mother’s heart. Upon Drummond’s arrival, she had removed her book of days and her prayer book and left her treasures. She had wanted him to see them. Why? To soften the heart of a husband wronged?

Her ploy had worked, for Drummond did feel closer to her, and with each passing day he found that he liked her more. He smiled, thinking about their first meeting this morning. Lord, she’d come to the tiltyard ready to brave the lion himself to defend her kit. As if Alasdair needed her defense. Clever beyond his years, the lad had carried out his part of tonight’s plan to perfection.

Anticipating the gratifying meeting ahead, Drummond extinguished the lamp and went in search of her.

He heard her voice before he reached the open door to Alasdair’s room.

“… women and children, and even the clansmen trembled in fear of the crazed boar, but not Lord Drummond.”

“It was the biggest and most enormous boar of all times, wasn’t it?” Alasdair put in.

Looking at his wife’s back, Drummond leaned against the doorjamb and made not a sound. He couldn’t see Alasdair, Clare sat on a stool near the head of the bed, blocking the lad from view.

“Yes,” she said, drawing out the word for added drama. “It was the meanest boar that ever lived. His tusks were razor sharp, and his nose and eyes were as keen as the best hound in the land. Alone, with only his dirk for a weapon, your father stalked the beast, night and day, for a week.”