Chieftain (9 page)

Color blossomed on her cheeks. “I regret I cannot.”

He took pleasure in her maidenlike response and knew he could grow accustomed to her shy reaction. “Another time, perhaps?”

“Duty calls me elsewhere.”

He noted her evasion but let it pass; she had not refused him outright. “Where are you off to?”

“To Eastward Fork, a village beyond the burn we visited yesterday.”

We.
Her use of the collective eased his guilt and gave him hope that they could come to accord. She would confess her sin and recount the details of her liaison with Edward. Another need niggled at Drummond, for the more time he spent with her, the greater his interest about her grew. “What will you do in Eastward Fork?”

A pensive smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Then she looked him square in the eye. “I’m going to do something I should have done years ago. I’ll be home before Vespers.”

Her cryptic reply and strength of purpose further roused his curiosity, but he decided not to pry. Instead he responded in kind, for he intended to change his tactics. “Then we’ll both share surprises when you return.”

Later that afternoon, Drummond stood in the tiltyard and leaned against the quintain. A pleasant breeze cooled his skin, and the high, pillowy clouds blocked most of the August sun. A group of children ringed the yard, their parents looking on. The intermittent ringing of the blacksmith’s hammer punctuated the laughter and conversation. From the open window of the barracks came the hearty snores of toilworn huntsmen.

Sween Handle, the master of the hunt, had spent the afternoon watching Drummond instruct Alasdair in the use of sword and shield. Even without hearing Sween’s family name, Drummond would have recognized him as the butcher’s younger brother, for they favored each other, down to the streak of pure white in their thick brown hair. Drummond liked the man’s jovial and straightforward manner.

Earlier in the day, when Alasdair referred to another of Clare’s expansive tales about Drummond, and he expressed concern about being perceived as a legend, Sween had been objective in his reply.

“Only the young ones believe Lady Clare’s tales,” the huntsman had said. “’Tis the best way to get them to sleep—or so the married folks say.”

At first, Drummond had been surprised to learn that Sween was a bachelor, a landless adventurer, as Alasdair called him. Then he’d been suspicious and wondered if Sween could have an affection for Clare. That had surprised Drummond more, for he’d never been jealous of another man or possessive of any of his women.

After a hour in Sween’s company, Drummond learned that the huntsman’s affections lay with another.

Alasdair was now sauntering around the yard. Wearing a too large helmet and carrying a sword and shield, he faced off against an imaginary foe.

“He struts like the cock o’ the walk,” Drummond said.

Sween folded his arms over his chest. “True, and he’s stronger with his left hand, but quicker with his right.”

Drummond felt a burst of pride. “He’ll learn to wield a sword in either hand.”

“Were you schooled in that fashion?”

Childhood memories came rushing back. Drummond thought of the happy times—before England had declared war on Scotland. “Some say it’s a God given talent, but I doubt I was so blessed. With a bevy of sibling lads nipping at my heels, I had little choice but to fend them off from both sides,” he said.

Tipping his head toward Drummond, Sween put his hand over his mouth. “I’ve heard the Highlanders fight naked. Is it true?”

After seven years among the English, Drummond was all too familiar with the misconceptions about his people. Unlike the taunting prison guards, Sween was asking out of curiosity, so Drummond took no offense. “Not in my experience—unless a man’s caught in the wrong bed.”

Sween threw back his head and laughed. “An ignoble way to die.”

Drummond laughed, too. “Dying in itself is ignoble.”

With a hand as big as the quintain counterweight, the huntsman slapped Drummond on the back. “Amen, and bless old Edward for sparing you his wrath. I’ve never seen him show mercy to an enemy.”

Even though he’d heard that opinion before, Drummond sensed a familiarity in Sween’s tone. “You sound as if you knew the late king.”

Alasdair called out, “Watch me!” Jerking his elbow to and fro, he jabbed mercilessly at his phantom opponent and swore, “Take that, you scurvy toad.”

After praising the lad’s efforts, Drummond told him to keep his wrist steady and save his breath. Then he turned to his companion. “You were saying, Sween?”

Matter-of-factly, he said, “I fought with Edward the First in Wales, back in ’eighty-two.”

“Against Llewellyn? That was twenty-six years ago. You must have been a lad at the time.”

“I was ten and five. I left his service when he made war on the Scots. I’ve no taste for killing my mother’s kinsmen.”

“She’s a Highlander?”

“Nay, from the Lowlands, but a Scot all the same. We make no distinctions here in the Debatable Lands. She was a Douglas, with a temper to match her red hair.” Squinting, he stared into the sun. “She died the same year as Bertie lost his wife.”

Drummond had forgotten the wrenlike woman who had accompanied his wife to the Highlands years ago. And why not? With Clare in a room, few of the other female occupants received more than a passing notice. His brothers had stood agog at the first sight of her. His mistress had become exceedingly pliable.

Standing beside Drummond on the steps to the kirk years ago, Clare had looked like a virginal goddess. He thought of the way she had looked this morning and the conviction she hadn’t disguised. What was the purposeful errand she had been so driven to complete?

Images of last night intruded. He remembered the feel of her hands in his hair and her tongue sliding into his mouth. His loins grew heavy, and he again glanced toward the castle gates. Where was she?

As if reading his thoughts, Sween said, “She’ll be back before nightfall.”

“Does she never stay away?”

“Nay.”

The helmet jostling on his head, Alasdair attacked the quintain. Drummond jumped out of the way just in time to avoid a blow from the short and deliberately dull blade. “Watch yourself, lad,” Drummond warned. “Or I’ll take that sword away.”

Snickers sounded from the crowd. Alasdair flushed with embarrassment, then whirled and whacked away at the wind.

Drummond turned back to Sween. “Clare never calls on her overlord, Red Douglas?”

“She did once and came back with two of his wards. Fostered the lassies for three years.” His eyes glowed with fondness and he shook his head. “She grieved for a fortnight when they returned home.”

Then why didn’t she want a daughter of her own? Most likely she didn’t want another of Drummond’s children. He’d disavow her of that notion. “How long ago was that?”

“A year or so. Alasdair pouted, too—missed having so many females fawning over him.”

With his left arm, Alasdair held up the shield, and with his right, he brandished the sword. Lunging, he stirred up the dust and the crowd urged him on. A lassie of about six, her hair a mass of red ringlets, left the group and came to stand in front of Sween.

He smiled down at her. “Where did you get the tart, Curly?”

She wiped crumbs from her mouth. “From Mistress Glory,” came the lispy reply.

Rumor had it that Glory was the village seamstress and midwife. She was also in love with Sween.

He winked at Drummond. “How fares the lady?”

The clouds moved away from the sun. Closing one eye, the girl peered up at Sween. “She’s pot throwing mad, Uncle Sween.”

“Did she mention me?”

The child’s nod was almost imperceptible. “She says if you do not take her to collect simples, she’ll rip off your ears and use ’em for fish bait.”

Sween put his hands on either side of his head. “You tell her I’ll do as I may. And she’s welcome to try to steal my ears, but she’ll have to catch me first.”

Laughing, the lass dashed off.

“Warring is safer than women,” Sween said.

Rumors of Sween and Glory abounded. Prideful, they called her. Stubborn as the church, they said of him. Drummond had yet to meet the infamous Glory, but suspected she was a match for Sween. “You could marry the lass,” he said.

Sween kicked at a pebble. “That life’s not for me.”

Drummond caught a note of sadness in the reply, but before he could address it, the bannerman raced toward them.

Face flushed and gasping for breath, the fellow said, “My lady’s coming, and she’s got Elton Singer with her.”

Sween’s mouth fell open. “The devil you say.”

“By my oath, I saw ’em, Sween. The watchman let me look through the spyglass.”

Drummond had met dozens of new people today; Sween had told him stories about many of the other residents, but no one had mentioned the name of this newcomer. “Who is Elton Singer?”

The bannerman spat on the well-packed earth.

Sween said, “He’s a boil on the butt of man and not worth the seed it took to sprout him.”

“He’s rotten to the core,” the bannerman put in.

Drummond grew alarmed. “What’s he doing with Clare?”

“More’s the question,” Sween murmured, “what’s she doing with him?”

Johanna flipped the reins, and the horse trotted up the incline leading to the main gate. Although his clothes were freshly washed, her passenger smelled of last year’s ale. “If you whine one more time, Elton Singer, I’ll treble your punishment.”

The worthless cur jerked his hands, which were bound at the wrists and tied to the cart seat. “But, my lady, I’ll lose the use o’ me hands.”

“As well you should.”

The gateman rushed forward and took control of the horse. Drummond helped her from the cart, his blue eyes anxious with concern. “What’s happened?”

A surge of giddiness took her breath away, for she could grow accustomed to his attention. “Justice.” She motioned for Sween to come forward. “Take Mr. Singer into the barracks.”

The huntsman’s face grew blank with disbelief. “Him? But why? He cannot even nock an arrow.”

Johanna almost smiled, for Sween obviously thought she was enlisting Singer into service. In a way, she was. “I know,” she said with fake pleasantness. “I had arranged for Mrs. Singer to help scour the barracks this week. Since she has been stricken ill, Mr. Singer has graciously offered to take her place. Haven’t you, sir?”

Laughter rang through the throng of onlookers. Someone yelled, “Singer’s doin’ women’s work.”

Drummond looked confused.

Like a trapped animal, Singer scanned the men in the crowd. “Lady or not, she can’t punish a man for doing what he’s a right to. Ain’t it so, brethren?”

Except for a few inquisitive rumblings, his speech fell on deaf ears.

Inspired and eager to carry her mission through, Johanna faced Singer. “First, the law that allows a man to beat his wife is unfair,” she said through her teeth. “And second, your fist is not a rod the size of your thumb, as the law stipulates. Take him away, Sween, and if I learn that any other man visits cruelties on his wife, he will pay a stiffer price.”

“My Lord Drummond,” Singer wheedled, his bound hands held in supplication. “They said you had come home to us, and bless the saints for our fair fortune. We’re sore needin’ a man’s justice. Tell my lady about a man’s rights. She’ll listen to you.”

Drummond held his hands palms up, as if warding off a foe. “You’ll get no allegiance from me. My lady cites the law true and to the letter.” Then he gave her a winsome smile. “We’ll abide by her decision.”

Johanna felt like laughing and crying at once. She hadn’t expected the people of Fairhope to question her, but she could not have known what Drummond would do. She almost thanked him, before she regained caution.

She had come dangerously close to succumbing to him last night. She had lain awake for hours, reliving her mistake. If she yielded, he would know her for a virgin and an imposter. With time she could better play the role of wife and wield the female power she had glimpsed last night.

But now she had other work to do. “Sween, once Singer is settled in the barracks you’re to take Glory to Eastward Fork. Maggie Singer needs tending.”

“You had better have Bertie take her.”

“Have you quarrelled again?”

“She quarrelled. I listened.”

“I need Bertie here, so put your differences aside.”

“Aye, my lady.”

Singer looked crestfallen. “I’ll look after my dear Maggie.”

Johanna shot him a triumphant stare. “When fish walk on land!” Then she picked up her basket and walked to the steps to the keep.

“Mother!”

At the muffled sound, she stopped. Alasdair ran toward her, a war helmet bobbing on his head, the accoutrements of battle in his hands.

She lifted off his heavy headgear and put it in her basket.

His hair was plastered to his scalp and his face stained with dirt and sweat. “What did Elton Singer do?” he asked.

With her fingers, she combed his hair off his forehead. “He beat his wife. A man should never lift a hand to a woman or a child.”

“That’s why you never whip me … even when I’m bad.”

“Yes. I’m stronger.”

He stood taller. “And I’m a bright lad.” Solemnly he added, “Violence begets violence.”

It seemed an odd statement to Johanna, considering his warlike attire. She asked the obvious.

He banged the blade against the shield, which bore the symbolic wolf of the Macqueens. Chin up, he declared, “I’ve been learning soldiering. Father says I have quick feet and a right goodly balance.”

In Latin, she said, “How were your studies today?”

He sighed dramatically and waved his arm before her. “Don’t you see, Mother? I have a sword arm now. I must perfect it.”

He seemed so determined, she knew she must nip his destructive obsession in the bud. “Who told you that?”

“I thought it up myself.”

She hadn’t heard Drummond’s approach. He stood behind her. She was immediately reminded of last night, of his breath warm on her neck and his arm snug around her waist. The rapturous kiss. The hollow weakness that followed. The maidenly fear that even now tightened her chest and reminded her that she must fight her attraction to him. “Alasdair was supposed to study an extra hour with Brother Julian.”