The Maclean Groom (11 page)

“Thank heavens,” Beatrix muttered crossly.

Maude said nothing, merely giving Joanna a penetrating look from narrowed eyes. Beneath the silent scrutiny, Joanna could feel the heat of a blush creep up her cheeks. The realization of just how close she'd come to seeing the mighty chief of Clan MacLean in all his bare-arsed splendor struck her with a near-paralyzing impact.

Godsakes! What in the names of all Scotland's saints had she been thinking? She could have given herself away and ruined everything.

Joanna had to keep her identity a secret until Ewen came
to rescue her. She wouldn't fail her clansmen and prove herself unworthy to be their chieftain.

“Let's go,” she said with a weak smile, “before the Sea Dragon changes his mind and wants me to scrub his scaly back.”

 

Rory unbuckled his belt and let his plaid drop to the floor. Then he picked up his tankard of ale and padded to the tub. Stepping into the warm water, he sank down with an agonized groan. Jesu, he felt like a rutting stallion, locked out of a pen holding twenty mares. His balls hadn't ached this way since he was a fifteen-year-old cub dallying with a milkmaid who liked to play tease and tickle in the hay.

He lifted the pewter cup in a salute to the damn puling knight in the tapestry. “You won that joust, you mealy-mouthed sonofabitch,” he taunted with a mocking grin. “The fine, fair lassie standing on that balcony may be captivated by your bonny face, but Lady Joanna won't be for long.”

Rory had never been any good at pretty speeches. He'd never engaged in devious intrigues or devised clever strategies to capture a reluctant lady's attention. He'd certainly never misled any woman to make a sexual conquest. There'd never been the need.

The chief of Clan MacLean had always prided himself on his honest, straightforward behavior, and the females he'd bedded had been just as forthright in their sexual desires.

In a few more days his family would arrive at Kinlochleven, and Lachlan could teach him everything there was to know about courting a fine lady. The man was a goddamn genius at wooing. He could play the rebec, harpsichord, and lute; compose ballads and poetry; dance with consummate grace; and twist any lass around his finger with disgusting ease.

Of course, Lachlan was much comelier than his older brother. Slimmer, more graceful, with a face almost as braw
as the knight's on the wall there. When it came to the lassies, Lachlan made Rory feel like a great, lumbering brute.

The thought that Joanna might see a resemblance between Lachlan and her fantasy hero brought a scowl. Rory sipped his ale and stared in rueful cogitation at the tapestry. Outwardly, his brother was the image of the illusory knight, but Lachlan was intrepid in battle and had the scars to prove it beneath his clothing. Inwardly, Rory's brother hadn't escaped life's emotional scars either, though his charming ways with the lassies kept them well-hidden.

Since the Maid of Glencoe was already betrothed to Rory, his brother would never purposely set out to court her; there was nothing to worry about there. But he didn't want Joanna to pay more attention to Lachlan's refined, gentlemanly talents than she did to her eager bridegroom.

This evening she'd almost discovered for herself how eager he was. He smiled at the memory of her ingenuous eyes when she'd asked him that cockamamie question.

She'd find out on her wedding night if he thought of her as a younger brother.

Rory tipped his head back and gave a sharp bark of laughter.

“Ah, Joanna,” he said, lifting his tankard to the gentlewoman on the balcony, “you're about to discover how romantic and chivalrous the chief of Clan MacLean can be when he puts his mind to it.”

 

Two mornings later, the expected guests arrived with the skirling of bagpipes and beating of drums. Joanna watched the cavalcade ride beneath the raised portcullis from her perch on the keep's castellated parapet.

King James rode a magnificent caparisoned steed beside a beautiful woman she assumed was Lady Emma MacNeil, MacLean's widowed mother. On the sovereign's right rode the arrogant and ambitious Archibald Campbell, second earl of Argyll, whom Joanna had seen from a distance in Edinburgh. Directly behind them came a middle-aged gentle
man with two younger enormous warriors, who could only be MacLean's uncle and brothers.

They were followed by what appeared to be the entire Scottish court. James's household included over a hundred personal retainers, many of them of gentle birth. In addition to the richly clothed lords and ladies, there were grooms, clerks, a barber, a tailor, and a falconer—for the king was inordinately fond of falconry. Musicians, singers, dancers, acrobats, mummers, and minstrels swarmed into Joanna's lower bailey. Even a dozen Observantine friars from the nearby monastery and a small group of Poor Clares, apparently on a pilgrimage, had attached themselves to the royal retinue for safety while traveling.

The twenty Macdonald men-at-arms, who'd been coerced into swearing their fealty to the king, were also now returning to Kinlochleven. Joanna's heart lurched painfully when she spotted her clan's war commander, Ewen Macdonald, and his brother, Godfrey, with Ewen's sixteen-year-old son Andrew riding between them.

Andrew's handsome face looked up to the battlement where she sat, but he didn't recognize her in disguise. His dark brown eyes swept the upper bailey, then moved back to his father for guidance, as they always did.

Joanna pressed her hand against her waist and told herself it was the very size of the entourage that caused the sharp pain in her belly. What had MacLean been thinking to invite so many people?

The past Sunday, Father Thomas had read the banns at Mass exactly as MacLean ordered. Poor Idoine had squirmed in the pew, her face white and drawn with fear. Joanna had assured her cousin again that she'd never allow the Sea Dragon to force her into marriage with him. Upon her father's arrival, Ewen would identify Idoine as his daughter, and The MacLean would have to accept the fact that he'd been outfoxed from the start.

After greeting the king, MacLean lifted his mother down from her horse. She threw her arms around him in an openly affectionate greeting and said something in his ear
that made him laugh. Then he shook the older gentleman's hand with a welcoming smile. His brothers whacked him on the back with blows that would have sent any other man flying. She suspected by their animated conversation that they were congratulating him on his upcoming nuptials.

MacLean grinned as though he hadn't a care in the world. He'd soon have to explain to all these people that the bridegroom was ready and willing, but the elusive bride-to-be—whom he'd mistakenly believed to be Idoine—was nowhere in sight. The thought made her cringe. In a strange, bittersweet way, she actually felt sorry for him.

When the King of Scotland entered the donjon with a fanfare of trumpets, Joanna knew she could dally no longer. She'd need to go down and see that Ethel and Peg had everything running smoothly in the kitchen and buttery. She prayed her mercurial cook hadn't become so flustered by the influx of the king's cup-bearers, turnspits, kitchen varlets, and head chef that she'd started nipping from a bottle of spirits again. And that Davie had assigned the guest bedchambers on the fourth floor in the correct order of status. If James Stewart ended up in a smaller room than one of his vassals, heads would roll. And her chamberlain's would be the first.

Joanna scowled with annoyance at all the trouble that stiff-necked MacLean was causing, and climbed down from the edge of the parapet.

Arms folded across his massive chest, Fearchar stood directly behind her, engrossed in the pageantry below. She hadn't heard him join her on the battlement, but she wasn't surprised by his quiet presence. The giant often appeared nearby, as though he'd nothing better to do than keep his cousin's apprentice gillie company.

“What was MacLean thinking to have invited the entire court to his wedding?” she asked crossly as she tripped down the stairs beside him.

The huge warrior's wide smile split his bearded face. “Forbye, laddie, he'd be thinking how proud he is of his lovely bride.”

“Humph,” she sniffed. “Lady Joanna will be lucky if that mass of malingering humanity doesn't eat her out of house and home before they finally leave.”

“Och, there's naught to worry about there, lad. The lassie's bridegroom is a wealthy man. He could feed the chattering apes for a month and never see a dent in his coffers.”

She stopped on the stone step and stared at him, horrified. “A month! You don't think they'd stay that long, do you?”

Fearchar puckered his lips and scratched the bristly flaxen whiskers beneath his chin. “Well now,” he said, “I doubt they'll stay more than a few days. But I've fought alongside The MacLean for the last ten years, and I've never known him to count the cost when it came to getting something he wanted.”

“Godsakes, what has that got to do with it?” she snapped in exasperation.

He grinned complacently, his one eye twinkling merrily. “Not one of the fortresses he vowed to conquer lasted a month beneath the assault of his cannons.”

Joanna groaned and resumed her descent to the ground floor. “Fortresses and cannons,” she muttered under her breath. “That's all warriors think about.”

R
ory joined his family in the solar early that afternoon after speaking at length with the king. He found his mother in front of a large wooden frame, which had been turned toward the light of one of the tall, narrow windows that graced the tower room.

When he entered, Lady Emma smiled in welcome, then returned her gaze once again to the tapestry. “Rather a fantastic depiction, don't you think?”

Rory had never been in the castle's solar, the common retreat of gentlewomen. He'd certainly never had the inclination to join Lady Beatrix and Lady Idoine as they plied their needles. Expecting to find another insipid portrayal of a knight offering tokens of love to his lady fair, he went over to stand beside his mother.

The nearly completed scene showed a ship of ancient origin with a gruesome dragon's head on its prow. In the vessel a row of men-at-arms stood along the rail, looking out across the curling whitecaps. A bevy of bare-breasted water nymphs sat on the rocky shore, combing their long silken locks.

Rory glanced indifferently at the tapestry, then looked closer. In the foaming waves, a naked man with a green scaly tail the size of a sea monster's frolicked with a voluptuous mermaid, his intentions clear from the lascivious look on his evil face.

“Something from mythology, I suppose,” Rory said
with a puzzled frown. “Lady Joanna's companion, Maude Beaton, seems to have a special interest in yarns and dyes. This must be her creation, though I admit it surprises me.”

Curious, Keir and Lachlan left their game of chess and came to join them in front of the unfinished wall hanging.

Lachlan grinned at the blatantly erotic images. “It doesn't look like any story told by the Greeks that I ever read. But 'tis rather unique. I'd like to have van Artevelde's artistic opinion.”

Rory glanced at his handsome brother before returning his intrigued gaze to the engrossing seascape. “I was sorry to learn the little Fleming didn't come with you. I'd hoped to have him paint a portrait of Joanna in her wedding gown.”

“The poor man had to remain at Stalcaire,” Lady Emma explained. “He's nursing a putrid throat.”

Six months ago, Lachlan had brought the renowned Flemish painter, Jan van Artevelde, to Castle Stalcaire to render the earl of Appin's portrait. On board the
Sea Hawk
, the two men, so different in physical stature and temperament, had shared their mutual gift for languages.

“Is he still trying to master the Gaelic?” Rory asked.

“He's made phenomenal progress,” Lachlan commented absently, his attention still fastened on the wall hanging with its resplendent blues and greens.

Grinning, Keir moved closer to study the titillating scene for a moment. “Maybe 'tis something from the Macdonald clan history,” he suggested with a bawdy leer. “If Rory's bride starts trilling a siren's song on his wedding night, he could be in for a wild ride. He'll be lucky if she lets him come up for air.”

Lady Emma clucked her tongue at her youngest son's ribald humor, then looked inquiringly at Rory. “When do we meet your intended bride?” she asked for the third time that day.

This time Rory didn't put her off with the excuse that Joanna was busy at the moment and he'd introduce them to his betrothed later. “You've already met her.”

Duncan Stewart, earl of Appin, who'd been gazing disinterestedly out the window at the loch below, turned in astonishment. “We have?”

Rory's family looked at one another in mystification as his uncle, a dapper man with graying brown hair and perceptive hazel eyes, came to join them before the large wooden frame.

During the sumptuous repast set out for the guests in the great hall earlier that day, Rory had waited impatiently to see if one of them would discover the truth. His impertinent bride-to-be had been right in front of his family the entire time.

Joanna had helped the servants serve the food. Zipping from one trestle table to the next like a bumblebee working a garden of blossoms, she hadn't lit in one place long enough for any visitor to even speak with her. Not a single person had given the disheveled, ragtag laddie a second glance.

Rory nodded as he met the perplexed gazes of his loved ones. “My betrothed is parading around the castle in disguise,” he explained dryly.

Keir and Lachlan exchanged looks of wry amusement. “Which lass is she?” Keir asked.

“I'd rather you puzzled it out for yourself,” Rory replied.

Duncan left the tapestry to sink down in a chair beside the table holding the chessboard and its carved ivory pieces. “We've been told the heiress favors the Red Wolf of Glencoe,” he said with a quizzical lift of his brows.

Rory was genuinely fond of his uncle. When Duncan's tightfisted father had died, leaving him a title and wealth at the age of thirty-four, Duncan had provided for his young bastard nephew with openhanded generosity. When it came time for Rory to be fostered at the age of eight, the earl had sent him to the Camerons, who were caring Stewart allies. Later, he'd paid for Rory's university schooling in Paris and provided the funds for his initial venture into shipbuilding.

“And you were expecting Somerled Macdonald's bulbous nose and frizzled hair,” Rory replied softly, unable to suppress a grin.

Lady Emma's brilliant eyes clouded. She lifted her hand to her throat, an expression of maternal sympathy on her lovely face. “Surely not…not Lady Idoine?”

“I suspected Idoine myself, at first,” Rory conceded. “She was the most logical guess. But the sullen lass with the coarse features and bristly hair is definitely not the Maid of Glencoe.”

“But who—”

A soft tap on the door interrupted Lachlan's question.

Rory lifted his hand in warning. “Don't say a word about this in front of anyone. Not a soul.”

At his call, Fearchar swung open the door, and Joanna, a scowl creasing her smudged forehead, stepped past him into the chamber. Rory's cousin closed the door quietly behind them. He crossed his arms and leaned one hefty shoulder against the doorjamb, making certain they wouldn't be disturbed.

“You wanted to see me, laird?” Joanna asked, her harried expression telling Rory she had more important things to do than play the role of his gillie-in-training. Today of all days, she didn't have time to be at his beck and call.

The mangy striped stocking cap, pulled low over her ears, covered every wisp of her hair. Her frayed, overlarge plaid hung down past her knees, held in place by a decrepit belt, and her tattered, raveling stockings, fastened by worn garters, fell in loose folds around her calves.

That morning she'd taken care to smear her face heavily with soot from the hearth. The impression of her slender fingertips could still be seen on one cheek, where she'd hurriedly dabbed it on.

“Come in, Joey,” Rory said, motioning her forward. He waited till she stood beside him, wanting his family to get a good, long look at the bedraggled serving lad before he continued. “My mother has several chores she'd like you to do for her.”

'Twas the first Lady Emma had heard of it, and she glanced at her eldest son in surprise, but didn't say a word to the contrary.

Though there were already enough tasks to keep her busy till sunset, Joanna smiled at the pleasant lady standing beside MacLean and bowed politely. “Whatever milady wishes.”

MacLean placed his hand on Joanna's shoulder and gave her a friendly squeeze. “Lady Emma was so impressed with the letter you wrote for me, Joey, that she'd like you to write one for her.”

“I'll be happy to, milord,” Joanna replied as she gazed at the Sea Dragon's mother in wonderment.

In her mid-forties, Lady Emma had light brown hair and soft, rounded features. Like her brother, the earl of Appin, she was somewhat taller than average and slender in form. MacLean must have inherited his great height and Herculean physique from his father's people.

Joanna wondered what else he'd inherited from the former chief of Clan MacLean. A green dragon's tail, perhaps? And knowledge in the black arts?

She shifted nervously from one foot to the other as she met the combined gazes of the four newcomers, who watched her in absolute silence. Beneath the layer of grime on her cheeks, she could feel the creeping warmth of a blush.

Didn't they know it was impolite to stare—no matter how small and filthy and insignificant the other person appeared?

Standing shoulder to shoulder, the trio of Highland lairds would have filled anyone with foreboding. Even if she weren't a chieftain of the rebellious Macdonald clan, whose power had been broken by these three ferocious warlords, Joanna would have been shaking in her overlarge shoes.

God's truth, they were awesome.

Known to the Scottish people as the Sea Hawk, Lachlan MacRath stood nearly as tall as his older brother. Leaner of build, he had a whipcord strength and a handsome mien
with finely chiseled features. His reddish-brown hair curled about the embroidered collar of his white linen shirt. A friendly, inquisitive smile curved the corners of his mouth, giving him a more gracious, urbane appearance than MacLean. He was the comeliest man she'd ever seen—even bonnier than Andrew, and that was saying a lot. But the undeniable power and unquestioned authority were there, and the intelligent gaze fastened upon Joanna was exactly the same.

In fact, all of MacLean's family, with the exception of his uncle, had eyes the precise color of the Sea Dragon's. A deep, piercing green that seemed to look into the innermost places of your soul.

Swallowing convulsively, Joanna shifted her gaze to Keir MacNeil and shivered. The Black Raven had the soaring height and immense build of The MacLean. But there was something even more sinister in the cast of his blunt-cut features, enhanced by a battle scar that slashed through one eyebrow and crossed the broken bridge of his nose. Though approximately eight years younger, he had an aura of ruthlessness that matched MacLean's for sheer intimidation.

The fondness for earrings appeared to be another family trait. A faceted ruby sparkled on MacRath's right earlobe, while MacNeil sported a large gold hoop that dangled and swayed malevolently. Joanna knew without being told that a black raven, the sacred bird of Woden, decorated one burly arm.

“Wait for Lady Emma in her bedchamber, lad,” MacLean instructed Joanna with a dismissive pat on the back. “My mother will join you shortly.”

Casting them a last, furtive look from beneath lowered lids, she sent a quick prayer to Jeanne d'Arc for her deliverance from such formidable enemies.

Rory watched his intended wife beat a hasty retreat with Fearchar at her heels, then turned to his family with a smile of satisfaction.

“The charming wee vixen…” Lachlan murmured the moment the door closed behind her. “You lucky seadog.”

The light in Lachlan's laughing eyes told Rory he'd noted the delicate features, the smooth skin beneath the layer of soot, the long, silken lashes. Trust Lachlan to spot a bonny lassie.

Keir's gaze remained mystified. “You jest,” he said with a disbelieving frown, and Rory shook his head in reply.

Hope lighting her soft features, his mother reached out and touched Rory's sleeve. “You don't mean that quaint child is…”

“She's no child,” Rory told his loved ones with a wide grin. “Though she's as naughty and impudent as any laddie playing pranks on Hallowmas Eve, she's seventeen years old and a Sassenach noblewoman to boot. That scamp, my dear family, is my bonny wee bride-to-be, the irrepressible Lady Joanna, Maid of Glencoe and chieftain of the Glencoe Macdonalds.”

“But…but why is the heiress dressed in boy's clothes? And ragged ones at that?” Lady Emma touched a fingertip to her temple. “Is she simpleminded?”

Rory chuckled. “That's exactly what the Macdonalds would like me to believe. But Joanna's as bright as a newminted crown. Someone or something convinced her to take part in this ruse, and the rest of the castle has aided and abetted her in the deception. Lady Beatrix and Lady Idoine; Father Graham, the clan chaplain; her companion and former nurse; her household staff—everyone.”

“Have you told the king?” Duncan asked, his astute eyes dark with misgiving.

“I have,” Rory told his uncle. “Fortunately, since I was the butt of the joke, His Majesty chose to find the entire escapade amusing.”

“Thank heavens for that!” Lady Emma said, her voice bright with relief.

“I'd stake my reputation that Ewen Macdonald is the real culprit,” Duncan shrewdly observed as he picked up a discarded bishop lying next to the chessboard. “I've learned that he's filed for a dispensation in Rome so he can marry Lady Joanna to his son Andrew.”

Rory had met the youth for the first time that morning, and it'd taken only minutes to see the callow immaturity in his dark brown eyes. “You must be mistaken,” he growled. “The boy's an idiot.”

“There's no mistake about it,” his uncle replied. He placed the bishop beside a rook on the checkered board. “One of the friars traveling with us translated the papers into Latin after Ewen filed the petition with the Archbishop of Appin. The Macdonalds hope to keep Kinlochleven under their control by wedding the two cousins. But nothing can be done until they receive permission from the Vatican.”

“Any dispensation from Rome will come too late,” Rory said grimly. “The wedding takes place the day after tomorrow. Lady Joanna will marry me just as the king has commanded. And the Macdonalds will attend the ceremony and offer their cheerful congratulations, or face charges of treason. There's not a damn thing they can do about it now.”

“Be wary of a plot,” Lachlan cautioned. The diplomat among them, he had his finger on the pulse of Scottish politics. “James Stewart wants this alliance in order to bring the Macdonalds of Glencoe securely under his rule by wresting their allegiance from Donald Dubh Macdonald and transferring it to a new chieftain loyal to the Crown.”