Chieftain (24 page)

She came willingly and melted against him in a surrender too sweet to deny. Even as her tongue swirled against his, he wondered which of them was truly yielding.

“Shall I carry you?” she teased.

“I am not besotted with drink.”

“Not anymore.”

Confidence made her coy. Drummond could disavow her of the belief that he’d been too tippered to notice the obvious. But she was smiling sweetly and his body craved
this
woman, whatever her name.

He swung her into his arms and returned to their bed, where he taught her new ways of making love. She proved to be an exceptionally bright student.

Sometime later, she lay on his chest, her knees hugging his waist and another part of her hugging him elsewhere.

“I could fall asleep like this,” she purred against his neck.

Replete to his bones, Drummond said, “When ‘like this’ loses appeal, lass, I’ll be too old to care.”

“I cannot imagine being too old to love you.”

Love? Not from her, a liar. The truth tainted his contentment but could not spoil the memory of the pleasure they had shared.

Still astride him, she sat up straight and winnowed her fingers through her hair, flipping it back over her shoulders. Her naked breasts looked deliciously pert, and her eyes glittered with satisfaction. “Shall I fetch you a sleeping gown?” she asked.

Holding her waist, he thrust upward. “I have one.”

Her hearty laughter left him completely naked.

“Oh,” she pouted, so openly disappointed at his withdrawal that he smiled.

A liar. Who made his heart sing and his soul soar. An imposter. Who’d built a life and a future here in the Borders and expected him to share it with her.

“I command you to rest.” He rolled to his side, pulled her against him, and drew up the blankets.

Confusion robbed him of sleep. He should have guessed the truth, but he’d been too interested in condemning her for a whore and lusting after her.

Questions stood out in his mind. From this moment forth, he would be relentless in his pursuit of answers.

I am not the woman you married.

She had taunted him with the truth. Now he would repay the favor. She would reveal her secrets, and he would relish watching her squirm to keep them.

Thinking the sky couldn’t be prettier even if God had painted the clouds gold, Johanna climbed the steps to the keep. Her leap of faith last night had proved successful and worthwhile. Her cheeks ached from smiling, and her body sang with contentment. She wanted to plow a field or milk a cow, but most of all she wanted to rush into Drummond’s arms and tell him who she really was and explain why she’d deceived him. But she could not, not when she couldn’t trust him and not when Sister Margaret’s fate hung in the balance.

Methods and consequences aside, she loved him and through deed and action she would demonstrate her devotion. One day he would forgive her, and now she would build a foundation of friendship on which to lay his pardon.

Decorum behind her, Johanna almost skipped down the hall and into the solar. She found him seated at her desk, a stack of ledgers at his elbow. At the sight of her, his interest sharpened. She knew the feeling well.

“Good day, my lord.”

Putting down the quill, he rose. “How fare you, my lady?”

Waving her arms in the air and dancing a jig seemed a natural response. But she composed herself. “I fare well, and you?”

He tapped the ledgers. “Wealth always sweetens a man’s humor.”

What had happened to the adoring and tireless lover of last night? He had no words of affection. “Wealth?”

From the stack of books, he withdrew the king’s writ. “Shall we burn this now or have a ceremony?”

How could he not feel cheerful and at peace with the world? Because he still knew her for an adulteress. “What do you mean by that? Why burn it?” she asked.

“’Tis simple. You are not the widow Macqueen.”

Sweet Jesus, he knew. Her hands trembled and her euphoria fled. Or did he know? “Of course I am.”

“Only if I’m dead, lass, and you keep me very much alive.”

The compliment soothed her fear and brought a return to her high spirits. “The writ proves ownership of the land.”

“True.” He rubbed his chin, and his eyes glowed with cunning. “With this decree, we could sell the land and have a healthy purse for it.”

She had dedicated herself to making this land prosper. He could not sell it. Fear made her bold. “Where would we go? Sheriff Hay said the king has forbidden you Scotland.”

Hurt flickered in his eyes, but then he laughed. “There’s France and England and a wee bit left of Wales.”

“I would rather stay here.”

“You?” Grinning, he waved her forward. “You’ll have to convince me you’ve changed your mind about exploring every corner of England.”

Oh, Clare, Johanna lamented, you should have come to this man for guidance instead of taking the word of a demented Plantagenet prince. But poor Clare was dead, and Johanna had no right to scour for faults. She must abide with this man. “I’ve lost the wanderlust, my lord. In that, too, I have changed.”

With male pride to spare, he folded his arms over his chest. He looked at home among her possessions, perfectly suited to the role of lord and master. Pray God she could keep him that way.

“For the better, I must say. You were as spoiled as any queen,” he said.

Loyalty to Clare made Johanna defensive. “I was not so bad as all that.”

“Nay?” He chuckled, but without humor. “You struck your maid and refused to rise before noon.”

An excuse popped into her mind. “Because I dallied with you until almost sunrise.”

He regarded her closely. “Our most recent dalliance has made you brave.”

According to Glory, a woman could enthrall a man with her body, and at the moment Drummond was not attentive enough for her purposes. She resorted to flattery and feminine wiles.

Crossing the room, she stood before him and placed her hands on his chest. “I am your servant my lord.”

“Perhaps now, but what of your pouting and complaining?”

Why was he speaking so cruelly about Clare? It was almost as if he wanted her to defend her sister or herself or both their actions. Oh drat. Johanna wasn’t sure what he wanted, so she told the truth. “I am subject to neither of those weaknesses.”

“Good. Alasdair pouts and complains enough for the three of us. I just hope his siblings do not learn from him.”

Drummond did want more children, and the knowledge filled Johanna with hope that she would soon conceive. “As do I.”

With a work-worn finger, he traced the edge of her ear. “It must have been lonely for you at the abbey, growing up without siblings. I recall you did not speak often of your life there.”

Johanna fought the sensual pleasure his touch inspired. She was treading dangerous ground. Clare could not have spoken in detail about her childhood. The old King Edward had forbidden her to reveal that she had a twin sister. “On occasion it was lonely, but I did have friends in Meridene and Johanna.”

“They were as sisters to you, did you not say?”

She could put the matter to rest and end her fear of discovery by telling him now that Johanna was dead. God help her, but the words would not come. “Yes, we were close.”

“Were there other orphans there?”

Guilt dragged at her conscience and made her cross. “I have no family, Drummond, save you and my son. Can we not embrace a cheerier subject than relatives I’ll unfortunately never know?”

“You never cared about my relatives, either,” he challenged.

How could he have been so loving last night and so callous today? She did not know, but she had no intention of yielding her pride. “I tell you, I was too young to know better.”

“You refused to attend the funeral of the child my mistress had borne the winter before. The wee lad offered no threat to you.”

Had Clare been so selfish? Had she not even offered him comfort? The possibility brought tears to Johanna’s eyes. She could not justify her sister’s actions, but neither could she listen to more charges. Unsure of what to say or do, she murmured, “I’m sorry,” and returned the ledgers to the wall shelf.

“Lass?” he said, his voice thick with regret. “’Twas cruel of me to recall that day. You couldn’t have known my feelings. ’Twas natural for a prideful young man to keep them to himself.”

Misery choked her. “But I should have. I’m very sorry, Drummond. The poor lad was a gift from God. I will pray for him today at Vespers.”

He embraced her, sheltering her in his arms and showering her with comfort. “Worry not now, lass. He was well-shriven and his passing honestly mourned.”

Compelled to right the wrong, Johanna lowered her guard. “What was his name?”

“’Twas Evander.”

“Then give me another son, Drummond, and we shall name him for the lad you lost.”

He kissed her then with an intensity of passion that was new and yet as old as time. No barrier existed between them save the trappings of propriety, and when his breathing grew ragged and his need too great to ignore, Johanna pulled away and bolted the door.

All roused and ready male, he leaned against the desk. “What mischief are you about, lass?”

As wanton as Eve, she began peeling off her clothes. “Only my mischievous wifely duties. Have you an objection?”

He lifted his jerkin and looked down at the bulge in his hose. “See you an objection here?”

“No. I see a man wearing far too many clothes.”

He loved her there, on the desk, with rare September sunshine pouring through the windows and the promise of forever hanging in the air.

An hour later, their clothing righted and their eyes aglow with the remnants of passion, they went into the yard to oversee the building of the charcoal oven.

Their task was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger from Sister Margaret.

Praise God that Lord Drummond has been spared. We at Scarborough Abbey are visited of the Archbishop of Lancaster until Michaelmas, else I would tender personally my greetings to your husband.

Stay true to the one who resides in your heart, my child Confess often and only to God, and should the opportunity arise for travel, know that our doors are always open to you and yours.

Johanna crushed the vellum. Although cloaked in good advice, the abbess’s meaning was clear, Johanna was not to reveal her identity, and if she wished to flee, she would find sanctuary at Scarborough Abbey.

Her heart rebelled. She had intended to tell Drummond the truth, for he deserved honesty from her. Could she share his bed and bear his children and deceive him all the while? The lie would grow with the passage of years, and the weight of her burden would eventually crush her spirit.

Raindrops splashed on the window casement, and the dreary turn of the day matched perfectly her mood. Suddenly chilled, she moved to the stool near the hearth and stared at the rushes on the solar floor.

For seven years, she had lived a borrowed life. Now she was being called to task for it. But, oh, the physical aspects of marriage gave her an inner glow. In this very room only hours ago, she had found comfort and bliss in Drummond’s arms.

Even so, she knew he would continue to recall the mistakes of his young wife, and Johanna would have to shoulder the guilt and accept the blame. Today it had been Clare’s lack of sympathy over the death years ago of Drummond’s son Evander. Tomorrow Drummond would condemn her for another of Clare’s transgressions.

Unless Johanna fought back. But with what weapons? Patience was easily exhausted, for she sensed in her heart that she and Drummond could build a prosperous life together would he but look to the future. Defense offered a partial strategy, but she had only limited knowledge of Clare’s life in the Highlands, and those precious bits of information had come during the last hours of Clare’s life. Each time Johanna must defend her sister, she recalled her own loss. But therein, too, lay a defense, for she could not let him defame her sister’s memory.

Clare had been young and carefree. On the day word had come to Scarborough Abbey of her betrothal to the legendary chieftain of the Macqueens, she had danced on air.

At the memory, heartache burned in Johanna’s chest. She had been wildly jealous. As was often the case, Sister Margaret had known and taken her aside. After showering Johanna with affection, the abbess had made her understand that happiness would come to her in time.

“Fret not, my child,” Sister Margaret had said, her brown eyes filled with love. “You could as well wed a prince. And pity his majestic soul when he learns that his bride is worthy and as strong willed as any king.”

Life’s irony made Johanna smile. She was possessed of an inner strength, and where her heart led, determination would follow.

According to Clare, Drummond had made mistakes. Perhaps if Johanna reminded him of his shortcomings and those of his family, he would cease recalling Clare’s. Then, and only then, could they abide in happiness and joy. Johanna would fight, for she knew no other method. She had fought her distractors to build this keep. She would fight for the man she loved.

Sooner than she expected, a new battle was struck.

The rain continued through most of the afternoon, turning the lane into a quagmire and making the walk to the chapel an ordeal. At the close of Vespers, Drummond began his verbal nit-picking.

“’Tis odd, lass, that you did not fashion the chapel within the confines of the keep.”

The rain had dwindled to a heavy mist. Johanna and Drummond walked the clean edge of the lane. Alasdair ran ahead of them, hopscotching from puddle to puddle and splattering his boots and hose with mud. “The church is for all the people of Fairhope, and a walk never did any harm that I know of.”

Drummond ducked beneath the cobbler’s sign. “You no longer grouse over muddying your slippers?”

Passersby nodded, and Johanna smiled in return. Inside she wanted to scream, but a tantrum would yeild her nothing. “I was only ten and three when you met me, Drummond. If you’ll recall, I came to you with a pair of slippers and my serviceable boots.”

“Are you charging that I could not support my wife? I gifted you with the best velvets in the Highlands.”

She must show him the error of his thinking and steer the conversation to familiar ground. “I would have preferred your patronage to your purse, and you made a practice of imparting both elsewhere and often. But those times have passed, my lord, for I have all of the velvets I require.”

He clutched her elbow and steered her around a pile of refuse. “What of my patronage?”

She gave him a saucy smile and leaned close. “In case you have forgotten, you properly patronized me earlier today.”

“Then you have no complaint?”

“As I said before, my lord. I began loving you when you took my side against Elton Singer.”

The stiffness went out of him. “Your love is a formidable weapon, lass.”

“As is your long and
un
forgiving memory, my lord.”

“I anticipate falling prey to your affection again—tonight.”

“I pray for … for …” She paused, unwilling to beg a pardon for a crime she had not committed.

His fingers tightened on her arm. “You pray for what?”

Build a new memory, her logic insisted. Think not like Clare, but Johanna. “I pray for a dozen sons to keep you occupied.”

“’Twill be costly,” he teased. “If I must outfit them all with weapons of war.”

He was taunting her, for he knew well her feelings on the subject of war. “You will not make mercenaries of my children.”

“As their father, I will do as I may with the lads.”

“Unless they are as stubborn as you.” She laughed, picturing him surrounded by his own obstinate offspring.

“What cheers you?”

“Oh, nothing, save the future.”

“I’ll wager ’tis at my expense,” he grumbled.

“Just so. I was imagining you trying to lead a dozen battle-hungry lads who bristled at being governed. Better you should
not
teach them all the tricks of war you know.”

“Better you should mind our daughters.”

Her ploy worked, for he was responding to her rather than a memory. “I’ve not done badly with Alasdair, but I’m sure you will have of it a different opinion.”

“Did you see him in the tiltyard before the rains came?”

She’d been reading Sister Margaret’s letter and lamenting over the past. “Nay.”

“Then boast not yet, dear wife. Since we forbade him a sword, your son announced that without weapons, he had no need of his eyes. So he pretended to be blind. He used a stick to find his way and a porridge bowl to beg for alms. For the better part of an hour, he recanted his every ill word and deed, all the while bemoaning the fact that his parents would not forgive him. I swear on the soil of Scotland, he wailed like a lass who’d been jilted by her beau.”

She could see Alasdair doing those very things. “What did you say to him?”

“I bade him pretend to be a mute on the morrow.”

Johanna burst out laughing. “A perfect response, my lord.”

He fairly preened, shoulders squared, arms suddenly swinging at his side. Gazing after Alasdair, he murmured, “His vision returned with miraculous haste.”

Drummond wore fatherly pride like a magnificent mantle. “His time of punishment has been worthwhile. What say you to giving him your old sword? You have another finer blade now.”

His expression grew blank with surprise. “Where did
you
acquire it?”

Taken aback by the accusation, Johanna could not think of a reply. It was almost as if Drummond knew her secret. Impossible. Both the brand and her maidenhead were history. The prince had given the weapon to Clare, along with a promise to intervene with his father on Drummond’s behalf. In that, Prince Edward had been true to his word, for Drummond had survived. Young Edward’s largesse had not stopped there, for upon his father’s death last year and his ascension to the throne, he had pardoned Drummond.

Emboldened, Johanna said, “Where do you think I acquired it?”

“I meant to say that I’m surprised you kept it.”

“Well, I did. I hoped one day to give it to Alasdair. I’m sorry to say it’s probably rusted, for I packed it away.”

“And forgot about it.”

“As I forgot about you.” She finished his thought, and her words hung like specters between them in the misty air.

To her surprise, he let go of her elbow and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Close to her ear, he said, “Did you, at Vespers, thank God for my return, and ask Him to keep me well?”

When Drummond turned on the charm, he could win over a nun. Basking in his affection, Johanna looked up at him. “I prayed that He would gift you with humility.”

Mirth glimmered in his eyes. “Then your prayers have been answered, for I’ll gladly submit to your tender mercies.”

“I believe, my lord, that you have confused the carnal and the spiritual.”

As sly as a hungry fox, he said, “At a given moment, they have been known to converge.”

He was speaking of their lovemaking and his habit of calling upon a saint at the moment of his greatest pleasure.

“’Tis impolite to whisper,” Alasdair grumbled, now standing before them at the base of the steps to the keep.

“’Tis rude to correct your parents,” Drummond said.

“I’m only curious. You would not tolerate an ignorant dolt for a son.”

Drummond choked in surprise. “Where did you hear that sally?”

Grinning, and looking very much like his sire, Alasdair glanced at Johanna.

“Aha!” Drummond said. “’Tis your mother’s influence. That being the case, lass. I insist that you tell Alasdair what we were whispering about.”

If he thought to embarrass her in front of Alasdair, he could think again; she’d had more practice than he. “Of course, I’ll tell him.” Looking Drummond square in the eye, she said to Alasdair, “Your father was just lamenting that he has only invoked St. Ninian once today.”

His mouth fell open, but he recovered quickly. With a look that promised retribution, he said, “You clever—”

She slapped a hand over his mouth to cut off the diatribe. “Careful what you say,” she warned. “Unlike his Scottish ancestors, your son has a long and forgiving memory.”

Shaking his head, he ushered her up the stairs and into the hall. Excusing herself, she went to the solar and fetched his sword from the chest where she’d stored it years ago.

Wrapped in an old woolen blanket, the heavy weapon had been spared the ravages of rust. The scars of battle, however, were plain to see, for the scabbard bore myriad pocks and scrapes. What she could see of the sword itself was unadorned, save the pommel, which featured an engraving of the rampant wolf of the Macqueens. The leather grippings on the handle had dried and stiffened with age, revealing the fine wood beneath.

Years before, out of curiosity, she had tried to pull the blade from its sheath, but the weapon would not budge. Now she hefted the heavy weapon and tried again. Pieces of the leather wrapping crumbled against her palm. She gritted her teeth and jerked with all her might, but the sword would not come free of the scabbard.

What if Drummond could not draw the sword? Would he be embarrassed in front of Alasdair? No, she did not think so, for Drummond seemed secure in his own masculinity. He would take the weapon to the blacksmith and seek the craftsman’s expertise.

Her course decided, Johanna lifted the blade to her shoulder and returned to the hall. She stopped on the threshold. Alasdair sat cross-legged atop the table and Drummond lounged on the bench. A fire blazed in the hearth. The shutters had been drawn and the lanterns lighted.

“You’ve never even drunk goose milk?” Alasdair was saying.

It was one of his favorite jokes, for it always garnered smiles and chuckles from his audience.

Eager to hear Drummond’s response, Johanna leaned the sword against the wall and approached the table. Drummond looked up, and the tender plea in his eyes was unmistakable. He took his customary seat at the head of the table and patted his knee.

“Sit here, lass,” he said. “Alasdair professes to know the secret of acquiring goose milk.”

Squirming with self-importance, the lad said, “Care you to listen again, Mother?”

She cared a little more for the chance to sit on Drummond’s knee. He drew her down. The muscles of his thigh rippled beneath her buttocks and his hand felt secure at her waist. To maintain her balance, she wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“Now?” said Alasdair.

“Now,” answered Drummond.

All animation, the lad leaned forward. “To acquire the rare and precious milk of the goose, you must first acquire a pail and then chase a goose to ground.”

Drummond said, “How does one tell a goose from a gander?”

Alasdair’s face went blank. Then he rallied, pointing a finger in the air. “Only a skilled goose hunter can know for certain.”

Drummond nodded sagely. “One such as yourself.”

“As myself,” Alasdair chirped. “Well, once you’ve caught the goose, you hold her over the pail and say, ‘Give up your milk, goose. I do command thee.’ You must say it three times with no mistakes.”

“And then what happens?” Drummond asked.

Scooting close, Alasdair tweaked Drummond’s nose. “The goose pinches you, because everyone knows there’s no such thing as goose milk!” Holding his sides, he fell back onto the table and chortled with glee.

Drummond rolled his eyes and laughed so hard his shoulders shook.

“You’ll toss me to the floor,” Johanna complained.

Eyes twinkling, Drummond murmured, “Only when I’ve a mind to invoke St. Ninian.”

Johanna blushed to her toes. “A win to you, my lord.”

His pleasure filled gaze scoured her face. “Then for my boon, I’d have our rowdy lad sleep in the barracks tonight.”

As quick as a cat, Alasdair rolled onto all fours. “May I, Mother? May I please?” The drawn out plea, accompanied by soulful eyes and a pouting lower lip, robbed her of denial.