Chieftain (20 page)

“It’s a man’s task you’ve ahead of you, my lord,” Sween had said, his soldierlike demeanor comical with exasperation.

And so it had been, Drummond reflected, still watching her. But why? No one in Fairhope would think her slothful for time spent recuperating from what they called a perilous injury. According to Sween, since after matins she had listened to a steady stream of lectures and queries before escaping to the kitchen garden and declaring it off limits to all save Evelyn.

Perhaps Clare’s stubbornness stemmed from concern for Alasdair. She probably expected the lad to fret insufferably over her when he heard about her injury. What would the lad do when he saw her?

Drummond found out half an hour later, when Alasdair entered the room, a garland of flowers dangling from his wrist and a pewter mug in his hand.

“Evelyn said you should make Mother drink this broth.”

“Shush!” Drummond held up his hand.

Looking as forlorn as the first spring lamb, the lad peered at his mother. Drummond’s heart went out to his son, and he patted his own thigh. Alasdair sat down.

Taking the mug, Drummond set it beside him on the bench, then leaned close to his son. “She’s resting well, but you must be very quiet.”

Alasdair nodded so vigorously, he teetered on Drummond’s knee. Steadying him, Drummond pictured the three of them through a stranger’s eyes. He saw a father and son sitting vigil at the bedside of the woman they both needed and loved. He saw a family enduring one of life’s misfortunes. Sadly, he wondered if he, an exiled Scot, were destined to always want a family of his own.

“Father, I’m afraid.”

Drummond hugged his son. The lad smelled of the forest, and he trembled with fear. “She’s on the mend,” Drummond whispered.

“God won’t take her to the angels?”

“Nay. She said so herself.”

Leaning back, he dashed away tears. “You swear?”

“As I’m a Macqueen.”

Alasdair sagged, so great was his relief. “I wanted to give her this.”

They had gathered the wildflowers during their return to Fairhope this morning. Drummond had helped him fashion the chaplet. “You may, when she awakens. But we must not disturb her now.”

“What if she doesn’t wake up until tomorrow?” he asked, eyes wide with confusion.

She was sleeping soundly, and Drummond intended to see that she continued to do so. “Then she will have enjoyed a good night’s rest.”

The lad stared at her and sighed. “She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Aye.”

“Will my sister look like her?”

Clare’s words echoed in Drummond’s ears.
He’ll ask you dozens of questions. You’ll lose your patience and hurt his feelings.

A good parent. Softly, Drummond said, “Of course she will. Bide quietly with me now, and later you can go with Morgan when he takes Longfellow to the burn.”

The request proved an impossibility, and when Alasdair began to squirm, Drummond excused him.

Alasdair cupped his hands around his mouth and moved close to Drummond’s ear. In a wet and loud whisper, he said, “I’ll come back after sword practice.”

Wincing, Drummond waved the lad out the door. Then he touched her cheek to see if she’d fevered. Her skin was cool to the touch.

Relieved and unable to resist the lure of her hair, he stroked the thick mane, delighting in the silky texture and smelling the odd aroma of kitchen herbs.

The wall of disdain he’d erected between them began to crumble, as it had every time he kissed her or they shared a companionable moment. He imagined himself cradling her head and spooning a nourishing broth past her lips. He saw himself as the lovestruck husband blustering orders to the servants and demanding that Glory heal his wife or suffer the consequences. He pictured her on the mend and imagined himself lying beside her, holding her and murmuring words of comfort. In return for his devotion, she declared her love and said she would have no other but him.

No other. Except a prince cum king.

Drummond couldn’t want her now, not for more than obvious and base reasons. He understood his physical craving for her, Clare possessed beauty enough to ignite his desire. Baffling were the unexpected ways that she pleased him. He could not deny that he enjoyed her sharp wit and her ready sense of humor, neither could he spurn her forthright manner and her integrity.

Bother her admirable traits, he grumbled to himself, and vowed he would not share her bed until he’d observed her with her old lover.

In October, he would take her to Douglas’s castle in Dumfries and present her to the visiting Edward Plantagenet. If the new king had been telling the truth about his continued liaisons with Clare, Drummond would surely know. If she acted with decorum and proved to him that Edward II had lied, Drummond would consider forgiving her. If his suspicions proved valid, and she showed too much favor to her old lover, Drummond would suffer the moment. Then, when everyone else slept, he’d take Alasdair and make for the Highlands. Morgan and Longfellow would travel north at their own pace.

If Edward the King followed, he risked striking the battle anew with Scotland. Drummond gambled that the newly crowned king would avoid the conflict, for he had neither the treasury to finance another siege of Scotland nor his father’s loyalty from the troops. The Highlanders, however, after learning of Drummond’s treatment at the hands of the English, would crave revenge.

Anticipating the bloody battles that would result, Drummond shifted on the bench. The wooden legs squeaked loudly.

Her eyes drifted open. She’d ever been slow to awaken.

Her gaze focused on him. “It’s bad luck to watch a woman whilst she sleeps.”

“Your friend Meridene used to say that.”

“She’s a superstitious Scot.”

Delivered without rancor, the remark inspired a friendly reply. Striking up conversations, he was beginning to realize, came as easily to her as nurturing a garden. “We’re not all beholden to our fears.”

She looked fatigued but not muddled. “What are you beholden to, Drummond?”

Considering he’d been contemplating the possibility of another war between England and Scotland, Drummond steered his thoughts to her. “I’m beholden to getting you well, so your son will stop mewling like a lost kitten, as Sween would have of it.”

She smiled, but her eyes radiated little humor. “Now that he’s a nuisance, he’s
my
son. When he behaves, he’s a branch off the mighty tree of the Macqueens.”

Ready humor. Quick wit. Faithless wife. Damn her for remembering his every word and making him glad he’d said each one. Damn him for bringing her into this room; she looked too appealing in his bed. “Aye, and I wonder how you tolerate him once each month, when your menses send you to bed.”

Her mouth rounded in surprise; but then she relaxed. “I told you, I no longer suffer as I did.”

He had not listened, and now, shocked, he scanned her slender and very womanly form. “You’ve lost the ability to bear more children?”

She turned away, murmuring, “No. It’s just another blessing from Alasdair’s birth. I’m well-suited to motherhood.”

Again sleep claimed her.

When next Johanna awakened, the sun was low in the sky and Drummond sat on a bench beside her bed. He picked leaves from her hair. She squeezed her eyes shut so he would think she still slept.

Her shoulder throbbed mercilessly, as if the blacksmith were flaying it with a hot mace. She had expected to feel pain, but not this bone deep ache. On reflection her plan had been faulty from the start. The hall had been too dark. The iron had been too hot. The pain—just thinking about it brought a return of the agony, and she could not stifle a moan.

Something touched her lips.

“Drink,” came Drummond’s soft, commanding voice.

The moment a drop of Glory’s musky tasting brew touched Johanna’s tongue, she drew back. A tearing sensation ripped through her shoulder, and pain shot up the side of her neck. Blackness narrowed her vision and her head went light.

“Clare?”

Through a tunnel of pain, Johanna heard her sister’s name. She was alive, for no one in the hereafter would call her Clare. “No potions. Water.”

“You’re in pain.”

She forced her eyes open and saw beguiling blue eyes. The insistent set of his mouth promised a battle.

Again the vial touched her lips. “Drink it.”

She had seen what the drug could do, even to a grown man; last year it had turned John Handle into a babbling penitent. He’d confessed to every misdeed from stealing quinces as a lad to taking pleasure in seeing his wife naked. Johanna Benison had far more sinful secrets, and she intended to keep them.

She pressed her lips together and willed the pain away. When it receded enough, she said, “Water, please, Drummond. I’m fair parched.”

He hesitated, his gaze raking her face, looking for the truth. If she so much as flinched, he’d scour deeper, and heaven help her, she hadn’t the strength to hold on to her secrets for long. Reaching within herself, she found the will to return his probing gaze.

She saw a man who’d dropped his barriers, and beneath the bold and handsome exterior she spied a worried and wounded soul. She saw a man who’d lived for seven years in a cell with no one to call his name in friendship or seek his counsel in need. She saw a man beset by miseries too great for a single heart to bear. Could she convince him she would share the burden? If love were the means, she surely would succeed.

Her vision grew blurry with tears and she reached for him.

Her shoulder screamed in pain. He flinched, but whether from surprise at her outcry or in defense of her intrusion, she did not know. Like a cloud moving over the moon, the moment of discovery passed, and Johanna was left with a feeling of emptiness and a throbbing pain.

Aching, she watched him cap the vial and produce a pewter mug. Using her left arm, she levered herself up enough to drink. He held the mug to her lips but stared at the garden glove she’d discarded earlier. The metal felt as cool as his mood had become.

But he had the right to conceal his emotions from her, just as she had the option of pursuing him again, and she would. She intended to make a life with this man, and now she could begin the campaign for his affection. The telltale brand was gone. She was his wife and bound to appease his physical needs.

She had almost emptied the mug of broth before rational thought returned and she realized the consequences of taking so much liquid. In the next instant, she felt the need to relieve herself.

Lifting her chin, she let him know that she’d had enough. He reached across her and slipped a hand around her back, then eased her onto the mattress.

His face was inches away from hers. He smelled of woodsmoke and a night in the forest. “You’ve a gentleness about you, Drummond Macqueen.”

He pulled his arm free and took his time putting the tankard on the floor. “You’re injured.”

She took a risk, hoping he would warm to her again. “Some hurts are not so obvious, are they?”

Like slamming shutters before a storm, he covered his vulnerability. “Or so easily healed.”

Striving for congeniality, she said, “What is that I smell?”

“Basil and …” He brought a handful of her hair to his nose and sniffed. “Chervil. There’s a nest of it in your hair.”

She’d pretended ignorance in the garden when he noted her skill with plants. She had even uprooted a basil to prove it, but thanks to Evelyn’s tart mouth, Johanna’s attempt to emulate her sister had gone awry.

“How long did you think you could keep the truth from me?”

Johanna’s heart sank. He knew. Just when she’d found the courage to obliterate the last evidence of her true self. But she would gladly suffer the same pain again, if it meant she could tell him the truth and hear her own name spoken softly by this man who tried to conceal kindness and vulnerability behind a warrior’s veneer.

“Clare?”

Her fear eased at the sound of her sister’s name. Even as she relaxed, Johanna knew that one day she must tell him the truth. But not yet. She couldn’t take that chance until she’d captured his heart.

“How long did you intend to keep the truth from me?” he repeated.

Grappling for an answer that would appease him, she chose an equally general reply. “As long as I could.”

“Why?”

“It was a foolish accident.”

His guarded expression softened. “And you dislike acting foolish?”

“Immensely so.”

His gaze flicked to her shoulder. “What happened?”

“I was clumsy and careless with the new mulling iron.”

“You?” He mimicked Evelyn’s border drawl.

“I may be different, Drummond, but I haven’t lost my pride.”

A rueful grin gave him a rakish air. “Nay, you’ve trebled it and your stubbornness, too. Why else would you disregard the danger of putrefaction?”

Fatigue dragged at her, but they were conversing easily on a moderately safe topic. “You haven’t actually spoken with Glory, else you’d know she’s confident my wound will not fester.”

One side of his mouth tipped up. “I haven’t actually ever set eyes on the elusive Glory. As Sween would have of it,” he mocked the huntsman’s local speech. “The lass flits about like a new midge on a fresh pile of dung.”

“Then call up the trumpeters,” said a familiar and compelling voice from the door. “It seems His Majesty Sween Handle has admitted to thinking like the royal insect he is.”

Drummond turned toward the door. As Johanna expected, his eyes grew wide in surprise at his first glimpse of the unusual Glory Roade.

As always, Johanna enjoyed seeing a stranger’s first look at Glory. In defiance of custom, the healer kept her wavy chestnut hair sheared shorter than that of most men. Unlike
any
man she was as lithe as a doe in an open meadow. It was often said that if Brother Julian tended the souls of Fairhope, the twenty-six-year-old Glory tended their bodies and tried their Christian patience.

Openly beholden to no one, the outspoken woman had smokey gray eyes and pale skin. Her upturned nose and high cheekbones were dusted with freckles. Today she wore forest green trunk hose and an ankle-length overdress slit up the sides and embroidered with overlapping rainbows. The nail on her right index finger was inordinately long. For poking it where she ought not, Sween liked to say. Draped over her arm was one of Johanna’s favorite bliauds, and slung over her shoulder was a leather pouch bulging with the tools of her trade.

Glory was independent, forthright, and deeply in love with Sween Handle.

She glanced at Johanna’s reclining form, nodded approvingly, then in graceful strides, marched up to Drummond. He sprang to his feet and studied her from head to slippers.

“Disapproving of me, are you?” Glory shrugged. “Take yourself off then, so the sight of a woman in trews doesn’t bruise your manly pride.”

Drummond folded his arms over his chest and shifted his weight to one leg. “’Twasn’t my pride, lass, but surprise that you would so casually order your betters about.”

Johanna winced, for the unsuspecting Drummond had fallen into Glory’s favorite verbal trap.

“Think you, you are better than me?” She bowed from the waist. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Glory Roade, a woman of wealth and taste.”

Some men were angered, others appalled at her boldness. To his credit, Drummond appeared intrigued. “I wish neither to eat you, nor to take your purse, Mistress Glory.”

Taken aback, the normally redoubtable Glory examined her one long fingernail. A moment later, she glanced up. “What
do
you want?”

Drummond burst out laughing. “Sween was right about you.”

Her lips thinned. “Sween has never once”—she held up the elongated fingernail—“in his meaningless life been correct.”

Wiping a tear of mirth from his eye, Drummond said, “I beg to differ. He said you were the only woman in Christendom for him, and ’twas his penance that God put you here.”

Like a spider on a newly trapped beetle, she pounced. “Pray tell me where on your chart lies Christendom? Is it located in the bloated bellies of hungry babes? In the blackened eyes of Maggie Singer?”

Turning, Drummond faced Johanna, a curious expression lifting his brows. She felt bound to say, “Continue at your own peril, my lord. She will defend all women against the evils of men, and she seldom loses.”

His features grew serene with confidence, and he addressed Glory again. “The hungry are soon fed and the guilty punished.”

She lifted her arms. “And praise be to your God for that?”

“God answers the prayers of man.”

“Man.” Glory nodded, but Johanna knew that her compliance portended greater insult. “What makes men better than women that God should speak directly to them? Speak you a different tongue, you and God?”

“’Twas meant in the broadest sense,” he grumbled. “You must concede that God favors man. He created him first.”

“And made a poor job of it, so he corrected his error.” She planted her hands on her hips. “You see before you his perfection: woman.”

“He gave man greater strength.”

“Indeed.” She grew contemplative, a posture that usually sent men running for the safety of a malleable female or a fair measure of spirits. “So you can wield your sword and slap each other’s backs in celebration of your blessed camaraderie?”

“God made man for a higher purpose.”

“Higher purpose, you say. Let us review your lofty callings.” Using her long nail, she tapped the index finger on her opposite hand. “You cannot give birth.” She tapped her middle finger. “You cannot survive the evening without four pints of ale.” In a wilting pose, she brought the back of her hand to her forehead. “You cannot abide a soiled nappy or the travail of the birthing chair.”

Angry, but disguising it well, Drummond said, “What can
you
abide, Mistress Glory?”

Her mission accomplished, Glory now soothed her wounded prey. “How gracious of you to inquire,” she purred. “I can abide a day without looking into the dung-ugly face of Sween Handle.”

Somewhat mollified, Drummond resumed his casual pose. “Do you speak this way to him?”

“I do not speak to Sween at all, if I can prevent it. His thinking is as skewed as the speech of your Welshman is garbled. A fall at birth, I should think. Will you oblige me by banishing him to Norway?”

“I will oblige you as you oblige me, Mistress Glory. My name is Drummond Macqueen, lord of this domain and protector of this injured woman, whom we seem to have carelessly forgotten.”

At his sensible and polite answer, her face went blank. The calmness only accentuated her earthy beauty. “A win to you, my lord,” she conceded amiably. “If you will excuse us, I’ll tend my lady.”

“After you challenged my manhood?” He laughed, but more at himself than her. “Nay, Glory. I’ll stay and offer what assistance a feeble man may.”

Glory’s mouth twitched with humor, revealing what Sween called the devil’s own dimples. “You succeeded in getting her to bed, my lord. Hardly feeble work in any man’s guild. With luck you may rejoin her in it in a fortnight.”

Outraged, Johanna yelled, “Glory!”

“Perhaps a sennight,” she revised, and sat on the edge of the bed. “At least her sensibilities are rallying.”

Either Drummond hadn’t heard or did not care, probably the latter, thought Johanna, for he stared at the small pouch he’d had in the garden.

“How fare you, my lady?” Glory asked. “You did not take the sleeping potion.”

Johanna swallowed. “Nor will I.”

“Mind-dulling swill, she called it,” Drummond said to Glory, and pitched the pouch onto the bed.

Glory shrugged and helped Johanna to sit up. Lying down had offered a respite from the pain, but now it returned with a vengeance. Drummond stepped forward to offer his assistance, but too late.

“I altered your dress.” Glory held up the garment. The right sleeve and the neckline of the bodice had been removed, the side now closed with laces. The dress design would easily facilitate tending the wound.

“How clever,” Johanna said, wishing she were wearing it now so she wouldn’t have to bare herself to the waist before Drummond. As her husband he’d have to abide a scarred wife. Better he see only the result.

“I’ll help.” He reached for the fastenings on Johanna’s surcoat.

“Really, my lord. Glory and I can manage.”

For reply, he gave her a bland stare.

Forced to move or challenge him, Glory scooted to the foot of the bed and began taking medicinals from her pouch and arranging the salves and bandages on the bed. Drummond took her place near Johanna.

Grinning, he said, “Tending the sick might be my higher calling. Think you I should trade my sword for a healer’s pouch?”

With his winsome ways, he had even disarmed the formidable Glory, who huffed halfheartedly in response. In spite of herself and the situation, Johanna smiled.

“You
are
on the mend,” he said.

Disarmed better suited her feelings at the moment, for when he chose, Drummond Macqueen could charm the whitewash from the walls. How much stronger could her love for him grow? Considering Clare’s romantic descriptions of the private moments they had shared as man and wife, Johanna both feared and longed for the intimacies to come.

“I’ll be very careful, Clare.” His hands were deft in their movements, probably from so much practice undressing his former mistresses, Johanna thought peevishly.

“You’re frowning,” he said, all attentiveness. “Is the pain suddenly worse?”

Which pain and from what source? She had a variety to choose from: jealousy over his penchant for mistresses, regret from the past, and doubt about the future. Better she address the simplest ache. “My shoulder is better now.”

Seemingly satisfied, he unfastened her surcoat, taking great care to avoid her injury. His fingers felt feather-light on the closure of her bliaud, and she couldn’t help wishing that his insistence and tenderness stemmed from affection for her rather than duty.
Lord of this domain and protector of this injured woman.

Only on her fanciful days had Johanna wished for a man to help ease her burden of responsibility, fill her lonely moments, and give her a keep full of children. If she were lucky, Drummond would grant her one of the three, for she could not picture him as helpmate and comforter. Even at the risk of suffering greater heartache, she must try to build a life with him. But not until she’d recovered.

“Now, let us see what havoc you’ve wreaked.”

Alarmed again, Johanna grew desperate. Over his bowed head, she glared at Glory, who frowned in confusion. Johanna shot a pointed glance at him, then willed Glory to help her get him to leave the room.

Glory blinked in understanding. “My lord,” she said, still fishing through the contents of her pouch. “Before you remove that dressing, will you ask Evelyn to fetch hot water and cold?”

He had loosened Johanna’s underdress and reached for the placket to ease the garment off her shoulders. He paused and shot them a look that indicated he knew they were conspiring to get rid of him, but he went.

The moment he disappeared into the hallway, Johanna said, “Help me into that dress, Glory, and quickly.”

The midwife paused, a roll of clean cloth in her hand. “Why do you shy from him? He doesn’t seem the sort to go green at the sight of injury.”

“I have my reasons.”

“I believe he’s truly concerned. More than Sween would be should I lie injured.”

Drummond was concerned, but only out of curiosity. Sween Handle was Glory’s business.

“My lady?”

Johanna didn’t reply, but peeled off her clothing herself; she’d learned years ago that the best way to deal with Glory was not to try. Just as she stepped into the newly altered dress, she heard Drummond in the stairway passing on the request for water to Evelyn.

Biting her lip to stave off the pain, Johanna held the garment in place with her injured right arm and threaded her left through the sleeve. She had to work the dress up over her hips. The gown had been altered in other ways.

“What have you done to my dress?”

Glory’s eyes glittered with mischief. “A tuck here, a smaller one there. You have Lord Drummond’s pleasure to consider. It’s obvious he finds you beautiful, why not give him more to admire?”

Now that Drummond had returned to Fairhope, Glory probably expected Johanna to commiserate on the intimate side of marriage; the women often talked among themselves on personal matters. Johanna had always avoided the discussions. She could not speak knowledgeably when she knew only the rudiments of the subject. “Why indeed? At the moment I hardly feel like enticing him.” That much was certainly true.

“You admit that you should have stayed abed?”

She did feel better since coming inside, so Johanna gave Glory the answer she wanted. “Yes, and you were correct I cannot use my arm. It’s too sore. Will you please help me!”

Her objective met, Glory laced up the dress, but not too snugly. “Do you promise to rest?”

Listening for Drummond’s return, Johanna said, “I promise.” But her agreement came too late, for he stood in the doorway, his gaze moving from her waist to her naked right arm and settling on the trail of bandages that began at her shoulder, wound beneath her right arm, partially covered her right breast, and circled her neck.

Glory produced shears from her pouch, and with her mouth set in concentration, she cut away the old dressing. The shears felt cold against Johanna’s skin, and she shivered, both at the hard touch of the metal and the cold dread about what Drummond would say.

“My lord,” Johanna interjected, using her good arm to hold the now loosened bandage in place. “Glory is capable —more capable than the king’s own physician.”

Disregarding her, he crossed the room and reached for her wrist. “I want to see what you’ve done to yourself.”

“Oh, very well, but it looks worse than it is.” She waited until he released her wrist; then she peeled back the dressing.

He winced and his gaze fled to hers. “By the saints, Clare. I’ve seen men suffer lesser wounds and claim debility for weeks and more. You’ve hurt yourself badly.”

If she hadn’t lost her grip on the iron the moment it touched her skin, the wound would have been the size of her palm, as she had planned. But the wayward iron had fallen back to her shoulder and rolled toward her neck, searing a patch of skin larger than her hand.

Glory peered over Drummond’s shoulder. “The salve has brought down the swelling.”

“Brought it down?” he asked, engrossed in the wound. “’Twas worse?”

“Yes. My lady swooned,” Glory said. “Bertie found her in a heap near the hearth. Her shoulder is tender from the fall, which is why she favors her right arm.”

His gaze captured Johanna’s. “What were you doing swinging a hot mulling iron over your shoulder?”

Did he doubt her story? She hadn’t considered that he would ask for a detailed explanation. Finding the courage to carry out the deed itself had taxed her no end. He couldn’t know how long she had grappled with the decision. The harm was done. She must go forward from here. “I was not swinging it over my shoulder. ’Twas an accident.” From which he would also benefit, for she could now truly become his wife and hopefully fulfill his wish for more sons.

His mouth pulled into a tight line, his eyes brimming with regret, he shook his head. “We’ll discuss your accident at another time.”

“Why?”

“You’ve obliterated the old brand on your shoulder. One might wonder if you did it on purpose—to obscure the mark.”

Over the pounding of her heart, Johanna heard Glory gasp.

“Mark?” said the midwife. “What mark?”