Chieftain (21 page)

Battling back fear and pain, Johanna struggled to keep her voice even. “The mark is my affair, Drummond. I had forgotten it.”

His gaze turned steely, and she had the distinct impression that he did not believe her.

“You’ve left me no choice in the matter, have you?” he said. When she made no reply, he continued. “You’re to stay in this bed until Glory gives you leave to move about the keep.”

She’d willingly chain herself to the floor if only he would take himself elsewhere. Discretion gave way to exhaustion. Later she would contrive a plausible explanation for the mishap. “I promise.”

“I’ll bring Alasdair to see you tomorrow.” Then he did the unexpected; he kissed her forehead and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. To Glory he said, “Have you everything you need, Mistress?”

“More, if you count the unwelcome presence of Sween Handle in my life.”

Looking distracted, he rose. “Heal my lady, and I shall oblige you by sending him away.”

“What?” Glory’s mouth fell open and she almost lurched at Drummond. “When? To where will he go?”

“You do not wish him to leave?”

Glory started, then tossed her head. “Of course I wish him gone. He’s another canker on the pocked face of man.”

Drummond turned to Johanna. “After I meet with Red Douglas, I’m off to Eastward Fork. The tanner’s son wants to try his hand at farming, so we’ll be moving him to the Singer place and the Singers into his house here.”

Guilt compounded Johanna’s misery. Moments before she had judged him a poor helpmate, and now he was taking up her causes and assuming her responsibilities. “Thank you,” was all she could manage.

He looked at her strangely, his bearing suddenly rigid. “I need no thanks for carrying out my duties, especially when I doubt you will approve of all the changes I intend to make.”

On that cryptic statement, he exited the room, leaving Johanna to wonder what he meant.

A week later, alone atop the keep’s battlement, Drummond still wondered if she had spoken the truth about the accident. Time and again he had pictured the motions involved in plunging a hot mulling rod into a tankard to warm the contents. How could the iron have touched her shoulder when the motions were downward in direction? Logic told him she had lied. But why and how had the mishap occurred? Or had it been a mishap?

The “why” especially troubled him. If she were now ashamed of the mark, that would account for the discrepancy in her explanation; yet his wife hadn’t possessed the courage to maim herself. Few people would go to such extremes, and she had been proud of her beauty. But as she had so often reminded him of late, she was not the same Clare he’d married.

Thinking perhaps the brand had turned ugly with age, as some scars did, he had casually questioned Evelyn. To his surprise, she had never helped Clare dress or assisted with her bath. Queries to Alasdair about their summer swims had yielded no information on the brand. Odd as it seemed, the two people closest to her had no knowledge of the unusual mark on his wife’s shoulder. The day he’d seen her naked in the pantry and almost made love to her on a barrel, he had not seen the mark. She’d covered it with a towel, and when he had tried to move the cloth aside, she’d held it tightly. Why? She always wore concealing clothing. She bathed alone. She dressed herself.

Dressed.
The dressmaker.

Drummond applauded himself, for he’d discovered the one person who would have knowledge of his wife’s body.

Except Edward Plantagenet, his pride protested. Drummond rejected the thought, for he had no proof of her continued infidelity save the king’s word. But in less than a month, when they traveled to Dumfries, Drummond would know.

Pray she told the truth, his heart cried, for with each passing day, he found something new to admire about her.

Still, the mystery of the accident niggled at him. But now he had a plan, and although he’d never pictured himself visiting a dressmaker, he relished the prospect.

For seven years he’d been deprived of honest companionship and intelligent conversation, and he felt starved for the camaraderie Glory had damned. Yet he found the healer interesting and wondered what had brought her and Sween to such a romantic blockade.

In some ways Drummond felt blessed to abide among people with more on their minds than torturing and hanging. None of these people called him an animal and cursed his ancestors for cave dwelling creatures.

Suddenly hungry for a slice of the rare beef the cook had served earlier in honor of the overlord’s and the sheriff’s departure, Drummond made his way down the stairs and walked softly past Sween, who slept soundly on a pallet near the hearth.

In the pantry Drummond found the plate of meat wrapped in a cloth. He poured himself a mug of cider and took a long pull of the sweet juice. Just as he rewrapped the roast and returned it to the platter, he heard a soft gasp behind him.

His wife stood in the doorway. Beneath a modest shawl, she wore a flowing white gown, and the rope of her braided hair lay over her shoulder and dangled at her waist. The faint light from the hearth behind her was too dim to shine through the fabric, but from past experiences, he knew well her feminine form. In this very room he had pulled her from a bath and held her on his lap. His fingers itched to trace the tapered curve of her waist and he remembered vividly the contours of her breasts, the texture of her pert nipples, and the taste of her skin. He thought of the brand, gone now.

“I thought you were abed,” she said.

Since her injury, Drummond had moved his pallet into the hall. As tonight, Sween often joined him. But Drummond seldom slept there for more than an hour at a time. He liked the freedom of the battlement and the solitude and safety of the keep at night.

He held up the slice of beef. “Would you care to join me?”

“Hum, yes.” She crossed the small room, leaving the door open. “The beef was the best we’ve had all year, thanks to Red Douglas. Do you like him?”

“Well enough, and we’ll soon have our own cattle.”

“Have you decided when to send Sween to Spain?”

“Aye, he’ll leave on Sunday.”

“Does Glory know?”

“He told her after Vespers.”

The light was faint, but he could discern Clare’s smile. “I wish I’d been a flea in the rushes during that discussion,” she said, spreading a cloth over a waist-high barrel.

When she reached for the platter, Drummond stopped her. “Let me, Clare.” He put it on the barrel.

“You needn’t coddle me, Drummond. I’m truly mended, and there’s little meat left on the bone.”

That was true, for everyone, even Alasdair, had asked for a second portion, and the once sizeable haunch of meat would now provide them with only a light repast. She could easily have lifted the platter, but Drummond rather enjoyed seeing her assert herself, even though he always prevailed. She had been agreeable and pleasant. Too much so to Drummond’s way of thinking. What was she about?

They had just begun to eat when a feminine yet compelling voice whispered, “Sween! Wake up.”

He recognized Glory’s husky tones.

“Shush.” Drummond stepped lightly to the door and went down on one knee. Through the arch of the open hearth, he could see into the hall. Glory knelt beside Sween’s pallet and jostled his arm.

The huntsman stirred and sat up. “What do you here, woman?”

She spoke so softly, Drummond couldn’t make out the words, but he couldn’t mistake the question in her voice.

Sween looked around. “He must be sleeping on the battlement.”

“Or with his woman,” Glory said. “Which is where you should be.”

Rubbing the sleep from his face, the huntsman stood. Drummond took his wife’s hand and pulled her with him behind the door that opened into the pantry. He flattened himself against the wall with her beside him, just as Sween moved into the kitchen. Pewter clanged, liquid sloshed.

“Will you share your ale with me?” Glory said.

“Nay,” Sween growled.

“Why not?”

“When last I saw you, you called me a dung-ugly monster and cursed me to Spanish hell.”

“I meant it not, Sween. I was angry, as you often are with me.”

Drummond leaned close and whispered in Clare’s ear. “Know you how to play at being a flea in the rushes?”

She buried her face in his chest to smother a giggle. He wrapped an arm around her, but loosely, still concerned about her injured shoulder. Holding her and snickering like wayward children felt natural, and the joy he found in the moment overrode any guilt he felt at eavesdropping.

“I have just cause to be angry, Glory. Stop that!”

Glory fairly purred. “You lay with Mary Heckley and gave her a stillborn babe.”

“There’s none to say the babe was mine. Everyone took their pleasure of Mary.”

“Everyone laughed at me.” Her voice was thick with tears. “I was ten and five, Sween, and I thought you loved me. But you went to her.”

“So you went to another man.”

“I felt unwanted. But not now.”

“What are you doing?”

Clare had grown still against Drummond, and he knew that she was comparing her circumstances to Glory’s. He wanted to soothe her but couldn’t bring himself to offer comfort. She had willingly lain with another man. Even when confronted, she had not denied her sin. Look for trouble and you’ll find it. He’d look for trouble in Dumfries; then he would know what to do about his wife and his future.

“Kiss me, Sween.”

In the ensuing silence, Drummond tried and failed to marshall his randy body. Tucked against his side, his wife was also affected, for her breathing grew labored and she pressed closer.

“Stop just there, girl,” Sween said, but the command held little authority. “Someone could come upon us.”

“They’re all abed. You like my breasts. I know you do.”

“What have you done to your nipples?”

“I stained them with berry juice. Will you have a taste?”

“Glory, if you take off those trews I’ll do more than fondle you, and you’ll be sorry tomorrow.”

The rustling of clothing told an erotic tale. “I’m sorry now, Sween, and I want you. Touch me here. And here.”

A manly groan vibrated on the still air and settled in Drummond’s groin.

Glory sighed. “Oh, yes, Sween.”

Christ.

“You’ve the body of an angel.”

“Then be my devil, Sween. You cannot deny that you want me. The proof swells in my hand.”

“You’ll have my seed in your palm, too, do you keep that up.”

“Hum. I want to kiss you there and take you into my mouth.”

Clare gasped, but the sound was muffled against Drummond’s chest.

“By the saints, no!”

“Shush! Can you not be a man about this?”

“Not with so much woman in my arms.”

“Your woman?”

In a groan rife with surrender, Sween said, “My woman.”

They were kissing again or moving on to more intimate pleasures, and imagining the reasons for their sighs and moans proved a powerful aphrodisiac to Drummond. Seeking a diversion from the lustful torment, he wondered what his wife was thinking.

Since her accident, she’d been agreeable, even cheerful, as if she’d made a decision and was greatly pleased with herself. Upon questioning she had said, “I’ve decided to follow your advice and Glory’s. If you are calling me to task for it, I shall resume my duties.”

She had been complimentary of his plan to grow oats and millet in the field she’d sacrificed to Red Douglas. She had applauded Drummond’s idea of harvesting the nuts and selling them to the swineherds to fatten up their stock rather than letting the beasts forage at will in the forest.

“The children can participate in the harvest and earn a penny of their own.”

She had dubbed the next Friday Foraging Day and set Evelyn and Bertie to passing the word through the village: All were invited, especially the children.

Sween grunted and Glory moaned, and they panted as if they were running uphill. Were they actually coupling on the kitchen floor? Driven to know, Drummond peered through the crack between the door’s leather hinges. And held his breath, for Sween leaned against the wall, a naked Glory standing before him, her hand wrist deep in his trunk hose.

His face a grimace of either pain or pleasure, Sween grasped her upper arms and set her away from him. “Get your clothes, Glory.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the buttery.”

“Will you take me with you to Spain?” Looking like a wood nymph, Glory crouched before him. “Please.”

“Will you accept me as your lord and master?”

“My husband.”

“Lord and master,” he insisted.

“You’re cruel, Sween Handle.”

“Nay, Glory. I’m desperate for peace between us.”

“Lord and master,” she conceded. “But only in the privacy of our home.”

“It’s a start.”

She squealed in delight and threw her arms around his neck. He enveloped her and turned in a circle.

“What are they doing?” Clare asked.

Hoarsely, Drummond said, “Coming to accord, I believe.”

Glory scooped up her clothing and they hurried from the room.

Drummond cleared his throat. “They’re gone.”

She cupped his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. Her lips felt soft, and she tasted pleasantly of sweet cider. Vowing to stop the seduction before it went too far, he bridled his own need and tested hers. When her breath rushed against his cheek, he slid his tongue across the slick seam of her lips. She opened herself to him, but rather than plunge into her sweetness, he held back, curious to see how far she would go. Her tongue peeked into his mouth, and her fingers curled around his wrist for balance, for she was beginning to sway.

Her breasts heaved against his chest, and when passion spiraled to his loins, Drummond seriously considered hiking her gown and having her here, against the pantry wall. What if she took his capitulation for forgiveness? What if she resumed her position as mistress to a king?

Doubts dashed Drummond’s desire, and summoning strength, he set her away from him. “Shall we eat?”

Her eyes were glazed with passion, but she rallied. “Yes. I’m suddenly famished.”

The next afternoon, Johanna stared at the ledgers, but her thoughts kept straying to the night before. She relived the giddy moments when she and Drummond had dashed to shelter behind the pantry door. She’d felt carefree and young and at ease in his company, and she instinctively knew he had felt the same. The titillating exchange between Glory and Sween had inspired Johanna. Glory’s erotic words had chipped away at Sween’s stalwart resistance. If Johanna and Drummond could reach accord, they too could enjoy the freedom of expressing their affection.

In the next breath, Johanna’s naivety fled, replaced by a woman’s desire for love, countered by a man’s concern for her health. Or was it resistance?

The wound had almost healed, leaving a patch of smooth pink skin. The mark had been a part of Johanna, and puzzling as it was, she almost missed the tiny symbol. Her tribulations over losing her sense of herself had proved groundless. In every movement and method, every deed and action, she was still Johanna Benison. She would continue to thrive as she had since coming to the Borders, and she would stop craving to hear the sound of her own name on Drummond’s lips. He was coming to care for the person she was; why else would he show so much concern for her welfare?

Yearning filled her, and she clung to the feeling, for she knew the end was near. Tonight she would ply him with wine, then entice him to take her to bed. A delicious shiver coursed through her, and she anticipated the event, pictured waking in his arms and being sheltered by his embrace. By God’s grace, she would one day labor in their bed to bear his children.

Too distracted to concentrate on the figures before her, she checked the store of wine and changed the bed linens herself. She scattered sweet marjoram in the rushes and put a heather scented candle on the bedside table. Then she languished in her bath.

When she returned to her room she found Drummond sitting on the bed. In his hands he held her green surcoat.

He looked up. His face was set in stern lines and his gaze seemed intent, yet detached.

“Come in.” He motioned her forward. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

She felt like a servant caught stealing the salt and called to task before the master.

“I’ve been asking myself how you came to burn your shoulder the way you said you did. How could you hold a mug just so.” He draped the garment over his forearm and held his left hand in the air. “And an iron like this.” He raised his right arm. “And manage to burn yourself up here.” He touched his shoulder.

Johanna went hollow inside. His theory didn’t trouble her, for she had anticipated this interrogation. What hurt was the surety that he had already made up his mind. She could counter his objections, but what if the doubt remained and surfaced again when next she erred?

As part of her defense she affected nonchalance. “It’s simple, Drummond. Rather than return the iron to its hook, I put it on the mantel. Being round, it rolled off and struck my shoulder.”

Unmoved by her display of indifference, he nodded and stared at the garment in his hands. “Miraculously you did not ruin your dress. ’Tis free of even the smallest ash. I find this odd, Clare.”

He’d pilfered the key to her trunk. Like a thief in the night, he had plundered her keepsakes. Had he noticed the significance of the twin locks of golden hair, or understood why she kept a pair of matching rosaries? Must she now destroy the only remaining mementos of her childhood? She’d lost her sister. Was she to have nothing of her past?

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and his lack of emotion only complicated her indecision.

“How did you accomplish so baffling a feat?” he said.

She had removed the green surcoat and pulled the bliaud off her shoulder. When the deed was done, Bertie had helped her upstairs, then fetched Glory. The version told to Drummond would stand. “The dress is unharmed because I wore another that night.”

His blue eyes glittered with accusation. “Bertie claims ’twas this one. He found you.”

“Yes, but Bertie is disremembered of it.” She went to the larger trunk and took out an old sack where she kept the rags she used during her woman’s time. Pulling out a handful of the clean cloths, she said, “I was wearing an old dress, which was burned beyond repair. From the remnants I made these items for my personal use.”

As she had hoped, he reddened. Exhaling, he raked a hand through his hair. Doubt still lived in his eyes. “You burned yourself apurpose, Clare. Why?”

Without doubt, she knew this was not the last direct lie she must tell him. Pity. “I did not, Drummond, and I am wounded that you would doubt me.”

“I’ll find out,” he said reasonably. “Perhaps not today or tomorrow, but I will. Do you not care?”

“Care that you doubt me?” Hope for the future dwindled, and the years stretched before her, endless and infinitely lonely. He would never return her love, and she must keep her affection to herself. “I would name this the sorriest moment since your return.”

“As would I.”

She must change his mind, but how? Only the truth would suffice, and she couldn’t endanger Sister Margaret for the sake of her own romantic yearnings. To aid Johanna in her quest for independence, the abbess had willingly stained her kind soul with a lie. One was plenty for the abbess.

“Have you nothing more to say?” he asked.

Volumes of unspeakable truths weighted her conscience. “May I have the key to my trunk?”

“Certainly.” He stood and handed her the dress. “’Tis still in the lock.”

His quiet words and slow movements as he left the room gave proof that he, too, was troubled. Bother it, she told her breaking heart. She had fallen in love with him, and she could bloody well fall out of love with him, but she would not betray the first person to show her kindness.

There would be no tiny infant girl to suckle at her breasts and fill her life with joy. There’d be no sons to tag along after Alasdair and inherit his trinkets and wear the shoes she’d carefully packed away.

Without the brand, Johanna was Drummond’s wife and no one could gainsay her. But she wasn’t truly his wife, nor did she care to be. Until the very next day when Alasdair resumed his campaign for a little sister.

He’d come into the solar still wearing his chain mail shirt, his gauntlets, and his sword strapped around his waist. Since acquiring his accoutrements of war and practicing every afternoon, Alasdair had grown more confident He’d even come to morning table dressed for battle. He’d quickly learned the maneuver of retreat.

“’Tis a poor excuse, Mother, for denying me a sister. She can have
my
room.”

Lord, he was even beginning to speak like his father. “And where will you sleep?”

He puffed out his chest. “I’m old enough to stay in the barracks with the men.”

And she was a Venetian moneylender. Drat her for also affecting Drummond’s ways. Now she must outwit both of them, day in, day out. “That’s a fine way to show your affection for the beloved sister you cannot live without. I thought you wanted her.”

Arms flapping at his sides, Alasdair stared at the ceiling. His sword rattled, and the belt slipped low on his skinny hips. “I do want her, but I’ll be becoming a man soon. You cannot deny that.”

“If you’re a man, then that makes me a grandmother, and much too old to bear another child.”

“You must!” He stamped his foot, and the sword belt fell to the floor. Squatting, he yanked the belt back up to his waist. “A knight’s belt must not bind,” he murmured.

If she challenged his tantrum, he’d grow more peevish. Changing the subject seemed best. “Where is your father?”

Suddenly alert, he toyed with his gloves. “If I fetch him will you wet his wick and get me that sister?”

Mortified by his crude speech, she shot to her feet. “The last time you said that to me, you did not understand what it meant. Now you do.”

“Aye.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Father told me all about what older people do. Will you do it now?”

She’d have Drummond’s head on a pike. “Where is your father?”

“I want a sister.”

She clasped her hands when she wanted to wring them in despair. “Answer my question.”

Lips pursed, he squirmed. “He’s grooming Longfellow’s feet. If he knows you’re angry with me, he’ll never let me sleep in the barracks.”

She wanted to laugh at that, for Drummond couldn’t give a rotten nut for her feelings. He’d named her a liar. Pray God he did not learn she was also an imposter. But how could he? The brand was gone. She was Clare, wife to the mighty chieftain of the Macqueens and mother to this rascally lad. “No, your father will not punish you.” When Alasdair relaxed she added, “I will.”

“But I’ve only had custard once since the last time you punished me.”

She had intended to unpack Drummond’s sword and have him present it to Alasdair. Now he’d have no sword at all. “This time you will yield your sword.”

His mouth flew open, and he spat, “Nay.”

“And if you protest further, I shall carry it ’round from sunup to sundown and ask every woman in the village to touch it.”

Once he would have been crestfallen; now Alasdair screwed up his face in anger and fisted his hands in defiance. “I’ll find another.”

“Then I shall begin a collection.”

Unsheathing the sword, he threw it down and ran from the room yelling, “I hate you.”

His words cut deeply, but she knew he did not intend to be cruel. His life had changed drastically since Drummond’s return, and he was too young to accommodate the changes with grace. But he was a resilient and kind child at heart. Guidance was what he needed.

Johanna left the weapon where it lay and went in search of Drummond. From across the yard, she saw Alasdair gesturing wildly and pleading with his father, who stood near the elephant, a file as long as her arm in his hand.

Would Drummond stand by her? He had before, and even if he didn’t believe her about the burn, he wouldn’t be petty enough to spoil Alasdair just to spite her. Would he? No. In his heart, Drummond Macqueen was a good man. Fate and politics had conspired to alter his destiny. He loved Alasdair, and although he still struggled with the role of father, his intentions were good.

At her approach Drummond nodded. “My lady.”

If he wanted formality, she could oblige. But why did her heart have to ache and her stomach float at the sight of him? Because she loved him. “My lord. I wish—”

Longfellow trumpeted and sent his trunk dancing on the air before her. She waited for the elephant to complete his inspection before he went back to devouring a hayrick.

“What brings you here?” Drummond asked.

“Absolute justification.” She stared at Alasdair. “I wish to talk to you about this bully’s foul mouth and ill manners.”

He patted his son on the head and cheerfully said, “This Alasdair? A bully? Surely not.”

Chin up and reveling in self-worth, her son seemed a veritable stranger. The changes in him both troubled and challenged her. She had expected him to outgrow his need for motherly approval; all lads did. She had not counted on it happening this year or next or with such lack of grace.

“That
Alasdair indeed.” She told Drummond what the boy had said. “I took away his sword.”

His jaw worked in agitation as he stared down at his son. “Did I not tell you ’twas rude, and warn you never to repeat the remark in the presence of a lady, especially your mother?”

Alasdair’s nod was almost imperceptible.

“Did you say it to her, Alasdair?”

“Nay.”

Drummond looked at Johanna, and he seemed so detached that she wondered if he thought she had lied. “Alasdair, tell your father the truth,” she said.

With the toe of his boot, Alasdair nudged a pebble. “Aye, I said it.”

“Why?” demanded Drummond.

Alasdair’s sweet face turned pitiful with misery. “I want a sister and there’s no one else to get me one.”

Drummond studied the file. “Alasdair, do you understand what a lie is?”

Alasdair’s shoulders slumped and he rolled his eyes. “A lie is when you say something apurpose that is not true. You lied to me, so why cannot I?”

Drummond reared back. “’Tis a serious accusation, Alasdair. When did I lie to you?”

“When we stayed the night in the forest. You said Mother hates lizards.”

Johanna’s head began to pound.

His face drawn in a worried frown, Drummond spoke softly. “Your mother does hate lizards.”

Swinging his head, Alasdair dragged out the word “Nay. You said when I was so little I wasn’t born yet, you put a lizard in her dress and she squealed. You said she hates lizards, but that’s a lie. She even makes baskets for catching bugs, and she never squeals.” Looking up, Alasdair pleaded with his eyes. “Is that not a lie?”

From beneath his lowered brow, Drummond glanced at Johanna. She cringed at the confusion he did not try to hide. “Clare, I defer to you.”

She grew uneasy under their dual scrutiny, but too much was at stake. Fairness dictated that she corroborate Drummond’s statement, but Alasdair knew better. She must find a way to appease both of them. “Alasdair, lizards are harmless to me and beneficial to the kitchen garden.”

Drummond’s gaze didn’t waver. “That’s no answer for the lad. Explain to him.”

They looked so much alike, father and son, and so united in their cause that Johanna felt the outsider. Caught in yet another trap of her own setting, she seized her only escape. “I misspoke the tale, Alasdair. Your father did not lie. Sister Margaret taught both Johanna and me how to weave the baskets and trap lizards. Johanna was always braver than me, but I was too proud to admit it. When I came here I conquered my fear of insects.”

“You told a lie,” Alasdair insisted, as disillusioned as the night he’d learned his father had been declared a traitor.

A stab of guilt pierced her. She looked at Drummond. “How do I explain a nuance?”

“You do not. I have tried.” To Alasdair, he said, “Two wrongs do not make a right, Son. You spoke a vulgarity to your mother after I expressly forbade you to do it. That is the crux of this discussion.”

“But I lied for a sister. ’Tis a cause good and true.”