Chieftain (13 page)

“But Father never tired, did he?”

“Of course not. He was the best hunter in Scotland, and he was on a great quest.”

Alasdair peered around her until he spied Drummond. The lad’s eyes widened; then he snuggled deeper into the mattress. His mother noticed and turned around. Surprise enhanced her youthful appearance, and Drummond wished, for the hundredth time, that she’d been constant in her wifely devotion. Even as he admired her beauty, her expression changed to acceptance, then suspicion. She glanced at Alasdair, then back to Drummond.

“Please continue,” he said, stepping into the room.

Alasdair sat up straight. “Oh, hello, Father. Fancy seeing you here.”

Drummond winced at the practiced cadence of his son’s words.

Clare gave him a smile that smacked of punishment to come. “Do join us, my lord. I was just about to tell Alasdair a new tale about you.”

He didn’t like the sound of that, but followed his plan and sat on the edge of the bed.

“You have to finish the tale about the boar, doesn’t she, Father?”

Stiff with anger, she arched her brows. “Perhaps your father would care to do the honors himself.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Drummond said.

“Well, good. Now.” She fairly wiggled with satisfaction. “This is the tale of the flying, fire-breathing dragon that once preyed upon the Macqueens.”

Alasdair gasped. “A flying dragon?”

She sidled a glance at Drummond. “That breathed fire and wreaked havoc upon the land.”

Second thoughts turned to misgivings.

“Once upon a time, Lord Drummond was out collecting berries so his stepmother could make him a pie. He was a dutiful son and always obeyed his father’s second wife. Didn’t you, my lord?”

Her skin shouldn’t glow so prettily in the lamplight. Her mind shouldn’t work so quickly, either. “Aye.” It came out as a squeak.

Folding her hands primly in her lap, she continued. “His search led him to a forbidden cave. He knew he wasn’t supposed to go in, for his stepmother had told him not to. But the berry vine had spread and grown into the opening, and the fattest fruit lay just out of his reach. So he ignored the advice of his stepmother and crawled inside to pick the vine clean.”

“Did the dragon come after him?” Alasdair said.

“Most definitely, and Lord Drummond ran as fast as he could, but the enormous dragon flapped his wings and took to the air.”

Enthralled, Alasdair clasped his hands and drew them to his chest. “Wha-whatever did Father do?”

She snapped her fingers. “Quick as could be, he ripped a limb off a tree and, with his trusty dirk, fashioned himself a bow and an arrow.”

“And he killed the dragon dead!” cheered Alasdair.

“With only one shot, straight through the heart.” Giving Drummond a cheeky grin, she added, “He was dubbed the finest archer in all of Scotland.”

Lord, he’d underestimated her. But beneath the guilt, deeper emotions stirred inside Drummond. His convent-bred wife had grown into an exciting and challenging woman.

“Oh, Father. Can I have a bow and arrow? Will you teach me to shoot? I’ll practice until my fingers fall off. I swear by my oath, I will. Please?”

Knowing whatever he said would worsen his lot, Drummond took the easiest way out. “I’ll … uh … I’ll think about it.”

“I’m sure you’ll make an admirable teacher, my lord,” she said. “But let’s not overlook the lesson in this tale. Do you know what it is?”

He was reminded of the time he’d been called to task for using his father’s battle ax to chop firewood. Still, he wasn’t about to grovel, no matter how clever she was. “The moral is, picking berries is woman’s work.”

Disappointment pinched the corners of her mouth, and Drummond knew he’d compounded his mistake.

Calmly, she said, “Picking berries is the work of anyone who wants to eat the pie.” To a confused Alasdair, she said, “What is the moral of the story?”

He screwed up his face and stared at the beamed ceiling. “A lad should always obey his parents?”

“Yes, but more specifically … ?”

The lad brightened. “His mother.”

“You’re the joy of my life, Alasdair Macqueen.” She kissed his cheek. “I shall say good night to you both.”

“Wait.” Drummond rushed after her and grabbed her arm.

She turned slowly, and the lamplight glistened on her shiny hair. Their eyes met.

“Talk to me, Clare.”

“I hope you are proud of yourself. You used an unsuspecting boy for your own selfish reasons. I never thought you’d stoop to manipulating a child.”

“Stop being facetious. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Only one more thing. Let go of my arm.”

He released her, and she walked slowly away.

Her silence lasted three days, and when she did speak, Drummond could not believe his ears.

“The sheriff holds an affection for me.”

Johanna held her breath and waited for Drummond’s reaction. She had expected his features to harden with disgust. He didn’t disappoint her, but beneath the glaring disapproval she noted regret. It made her want to cry, for life had been woefully unfair to Drummond Macqueen. Greatness had been his destiny, misfortune had become his lot.

“How thoughtful of you to prepare me.”

Unwilling to cower or confirm his base speculation, she faced him squarely. “Sheriff Hay is an honorable man, and if you would but try to engage a friendship, I think you will admirably succeed. I have never encouraged his intentions, and I certainly have never—” The words stuck in her throat. When the intensity in his eyes fled, replaced with cool acceptance, she marshalled her courage and told him a truth. “I have never lain with Sheriff Hay, nor any other man.”

“I see.” Fake wonderment tinged his words, and he reached up and grabbed a beam that supported the nearly completed shelter. His upper arms bulged and his naked torso rippled beneath the strain. “We wore out our marriage bed, conceived a son, and after a seven-year absence, God has blessed me with a virginal wife. Hear you that, Longfellow?” he said over his shoulder. “I am truly a son of providence.”

Transfixed, Johanna watched the elephant wrap its trunk around Drummond’s waist in the strangest hug she’d ever seen. When the tip of the animal’s snout mussed Drummond’s hair, her jaw went slack. “He does like you.”

Drummond responded with a halfhearted lopsided grin. “You were telling me about your association with the honorable sheriff who is, as we speak, plodding across our outer bailey.”

Our bailey. Our marriage bed. Nothing in her life had prepared Johanna for this discussion; she was accustomed to people, strangers and friends alike, thinking the best of her. Drummond’s scorn opened a wound, but she hid her pain. “Red Douglas is with him.”

“How cozy.” Drummond’s arms went loose, giving the impression that he dangled from the beam. “Tell me, do they flip a coin or roll the dice to determine who lies first with you?”

Anger shimmered through her, and she balled her fists to control her rage. Ramsey and the overlord seldom came to Fairhope together. Ramsey had been visiting Douglas when Johanna’s message reached him. “That’s preposterous. Douglas is my overlord.”

“Not a king? Tisk, tisk. ’Tis a pity you had to lower your standards.”

The watchmen scrambled for position on the wall. Bertie hurried the dung cart out of the lane. Perched on stilts, Alasdair and another lad raced toward a group of cheering children near the well. Outwardly life went on as it should.

Inwardly, Johanna cringed. Especially when she looked up into Drummond’s face. Even in pique he commanded admiration. His blue eyes glistened like gems in the sunlight. Black curly hair fanned across his chest and dwindled to a thin line that stopped at the waist of his gray trunk hose. He inhaled, and she could see that the line of hair continued downward, past his navel. Shocked that she had seen that part of him, she looked up. He was watching her like a hawk sighting prey.

His strength of will surpassed hers, and she yielded. “Ask me to swear on something, Drummond, for I would have us declare a truce during their stay.”

The tip of Longfellow’s trunk skimmed over Drummond’s arms, neck, and legs. The odd caress seemed so erotic that Johanna wondered how many women had touched Drummond just so. The strain of their three-day separation still dragged at her. Pride and anger had prevented her from approaching him. Necessity and the imminent arrival of guests had forced her to relent. He had used the unsuspecting Alasdair to get her alone.

“If you disgrace me again, Clare, I will take Alasdair away.” With deadly calm, he added, “You will never see him again.”

The heart went out of her. “Someday you will regret your treatment of me, for I harbored no ill will toward you before you made that threat.”

“’Tis no threat, but a promise.”

“Oh, Drummond. Your perception of me is tarnished.”

“You expect me to sing hosannahs to your name?”

“Of course not.” His true wife had committed a crime; Johanna could only pay the price. But she would not grovel. She had loved Clare and often wondered if their special closeness hadn’t begun before birth, for they had shared their mother’s womb. Now they shared the same sin and the same man. “I’m merely saying that should you look long enough for flaws in me, you will surely find them.”

Wearing a particularly menacing grin, he looked her up and down.

She swallowed her pride. “All right. I will occupy your chamber if it will ease your mind.”

“How generous, but I must decline,” he said, much too cordially. Then his tone changed to insistence. “You will stay in Alasdair’s room. The lad will stay with me. Bertie can barrack with the huntsmen. Our guests will occupy his chamber.”

“I have always given them my bed.”

“Not,” he said, “in my presence.”

Sweet Saint Mary, her words had come out wrong. Just as she grew weary of convincing him, his expression softened. Taking advantage, she moved close enough to see her own image in his eyes. “When important guests visit, I always occupy Alasdair’s room, and he stays with Bertie. Ask anyone, Drummond. You know the custom well, so don’t pretend otherwise. You’re just being wicked to me because you think I deserve it.”

He said “cuddle up” to the elephant. Longfellow’s trunk snaked about both their waists, bringing her flush against Drummond’s half-clothed body. She gasped at the feel of the elephant’s cushiony snout, for it held her immobile. As unyielding as a stone wall, Drummond’s body dwarfed her. She trembled in fear. “Drummond, tell him to let me go.”

“You must learn to trust your husband.” His grip tightened on the crossbeam overhead. “You were saying?”

When she realized that Longfellow would not squeeze the life out of her, she calmed, but only a little. “I was saying that you have the wrong impression of me. Look around you, Drummond. I could not command the respect of these people did I behave with abandon. I am a respectable widow.”

His brows rose in mock surprise. “Your husband is very much alive.”

He’d labored most of the morning to complete Longfellow’s shelter, yet he still smelled of minty soap. “You mean you’re—ah …”

He writhed against her. “I mean that a certain one of my ungovernable extremities is ‘touched’ by your nearness and quite sympathetic with the plight of a lonely widow.”

She recalled the first kiss he’d given her, the strength of his passion stirring beneath her hand. Even through his clothing his desire had been evident and shocking that night. The tight trunk hose he now wore would leave nothing to the imagination. “You’ll be embarrassed, too.”

“Aye, but ’twill be tempered by the envy of every man who hears the tale. If not, I shall contrive to abide the shame.”

The jangle of harnesses and the pounding of hooves told her their guests were nearing the main gate. They would enter the yard momentarily. “What must I do to make you release me?”

He took his time appraising her. At length he said, “Put your arms around my neck and kiss me.”

Drat her for walking into his trap. From her vantage point her view consisted of him from his naked shoulders up, and Longfellow’s huge head behind him. “They’ll see.”

Seemingly unconcerned, he scanned her face. “Now that I think on it, I would have you kiss me on the lips.”

Leather creaked; their guests had dismounted. Against her breast, Drummond’s chest rose and fell. “Please, Drummond. Stop being foolish.”

He licked his lips. “Having time to think truly stirs the imagination,” he went on conversationally. “I would have you kiss me with your tongue.”

Behind her horses danced restlessly, and a man, probably her overlord, cleared his throat. Were they close enough to hear? Incensed that they might, she hissed, “You’ll regret this.”

“I could order you to rip off your coif and let down your hair.”

Like dread, awareness of his ploy seeped into her shocked senses. “If I do not kiss you now, on the lips—”

“With your tongue,” he reminded in a chiding tone. “And they cannot hear us.”

She sighed. “If I do not kiss you on the mouth and with my tongue, you will think of other, more intimate ways of embarrassing me.”

His response was a sly wink. “Bright lass.”

Banishing her good sense, she twined her arms around his neck. He made a great show of rearing back, his face a mask of shock. But under his breath, he commanded the elephant to hold them tighter.

He was making her act the wanton! The beast.

“You begged for a truce, Clare. I offer you what you asked for—only don’t look so long-suffering when you claim me for your own.”

Through a haze of mortification, she recalled the adoration that Glory on occasion bestowed on Sween and copied the expression.

“Splendid,” he murmured.

Feeling the rumble of his voice, she cupped his nape, pulled him down, and pressed her mouth to his. His lips parted, waiting; his heart hammered, or was it her own? Hollowness spread through her, and when shame threatened to fill the void, she forced it away, rallied her feminine power, and slipped her tongue into his mouth. His response was immediate and expected; he became the aggressor, twisting his mouth for a better fit and radiating a heat that seeped through her clothing to warm her skin.

Fearful that he was pushing her too far, she hummed a scold into his mouth, and he grew still again. With a final twining of her tongue against his, she brought the kiss to an end. Leaning back to see the results, she was disappointed to find him staring past her.

He murmured, “If the sheriff is not your lover, why then, does he look like a calf taken too soon from the teat?”

“Because he has an affection for me, not a passion.”

When he huffed in disbelief, she said, “Savor that kiss, Drummond Macqueen, for it’s the last you’ll get willingly from me.”

His gloating grin faded, and she hoped his ardor with it. “We’ll see,” he said. Then he spoke to Longfellow, who released them. Johanna stepped back, fighting the urge to fuss with her surcoat before she faced the sheriff and her overlord. Pretending normalcy, she turned.

If manly envy had put the grin on Red Douglas’s craggy features, it had made Ramsay Hay look like he’d swallowed a snake.

Drummond came up beside her and pulled off his gloves. Folding his arms over his chest, he held the work gauntlets in the hand nearest to her.

Ramsay Hay stood ramrod straight, his chain of office slightly off center, his dark green jerkin dusty from the road. His hazel eyes normally brimmed with humor, but today they were clouded with disappointment. A kind, intelligent man, he commanded the admiration of everyone she knew. He was horribly uncomfortable, and for that she was completely sorry.

Red Douglas, as stocky and solid as a stunted oak, removed his bonnet and gave her a perfunctory nod. Then he turned to Drummond. “Macqueen.”

Drummond flicked his wrist, bringing the gloves to rest on her shoulder. The possessive gesture shocked her, but she did not move away.

“Welcome to our home, Dubhghlas,” Drummond said.

The overlord brushed the air with his hand. “We seldom speak the Gaelic in the Borders.”

They seemed to be squaring off like dogs ready to fight. Before being declared a traitor, Drummond, as chieftain of the mighty Macqueens, outranked Douglas, who commanded only his clan and the landowners in Drumfries. To quell the unexplained animosity between the two men, Johanna considered throwing them a conversational bone, but thought better of it. Their behavior was not her concern.

Instead, she took pity on Ramsay Hay, who put on a grim smile to hide his disappointment. “How nice to see you, Sheriff Hay. May I present my husband, Drummond Macqueen.”

Ramsay stepped forward. “When did His Majesty set you free, my lord?”

Tonelessly, Drummond replied, “Two months after his coronation.”

That would have been in April, over three months ago. Where had he been since then? The gloves grazed her upper arm, as if to remind her of his presence and his authority over her. Bother him, she silently scoffed, and decided that she didn’t care a rusty needle where he’d been.

Red Douglas pitched the reins of his mount to one of the dozen clansmen who had accompanied him. “The new king also gave you the elephant? I’ve heard of its existence.”

Drummond shrugged. “Edward the Second had little choice, for Longfellow follows me everywhere. I doubt the king opines the loss, for I now shoulder the enormous cost of feeding the beast.”

The overlord stared at Longfellow, who sent his trunk dancing in the air near the newcomers. Lifting his bushy eyebrows, Douglas said, “Just as well. The king can use the coin to pay off the debt his father left him.”

Drummond made a chopping motion with his hand; Longfellow went back to coiling his trunk around snatches of hay and tucking the food into his mouth. “’Tis for certain he’ll not fill his coffers by raiding the Highlands.”

“He knows that,” said Douglas. “I expect that we in the Debatable Lands will suffer for it in higher taxes.”

“For the war Edward the First waged on my people?” Drummond asked, incredulous. “Pardon me if I’m unsympathetic for your loss of gold.”

Douglas’s eyes narrowed. Drummond seemed unconcerned. Ramsay glanced cautiously from one man to the other, before sending Johanna a searching look.

Drummond didn’t miss the silent exchange between his wife and the sheriff. To again illustrate his command of her, he handed her the gloves. “Will you fetch my shirt, Clare? ’Tis draped on the manger in Longfellow’s castle.”

She opened her mouth, but closed it before stating her mind. A curse for him, most likely.

“Of course, my gracious lord.” She retrieved the garment and waited until he’d pulled it on. “Perhaps our visitors would like to come inside and refresh themselves.”

“The alehouse’ll do,” said Douglas.

Drummond wanted to talk to both men—alone. “My lady, you go along and have that talk with Bertie. Tell the cook we have guests.”