The Maclean Groom (12 page)

Keir braced one foot on a low stool and rested his large hand on the hilt of his broadsword. “And every member of that infernal clan secretly supports the heir to the deposed Lord of the Isles,” he added with a grimace of disgust, “regardless of how many oaths of fealty they've sworn to King James.”

“Exactly,” Duncan agreed. He moved a knight forward to protect the white king, then looked up, his gaze pensive. “Which is why His Majesty wants Kinlochleven Castle and the surrounding countryside securely under Rory's command.”

“But Donald Macdonald's no more than a lad,” Lady Emma protested with a wave of her elegant hand. “And
held under lock and key by the earl of Argyll. He'll never lead a rebellion in the Hebrides.”

“Don't be too sure,” Lachlan replied. “The laddie will one day be a man, and there'll always be disgruntled chiefs of the Isles willing to flock to Donald Dubh's banner—if it holds out the promise of enough reward for them.”

“And never, ever trust Argyll,” Duncan warned them. “His one and only goal is the spread of Campbell rule throughout the Western Highlands.”

“But he'd never release Donald Dubh,” Keir argued. “The Campbells detest the Macdonalds almost as much as we do.”

Rory clapped his youngest brother's shoulder. “Nothing is certain in this life, Keir, least of all the loyalties of Archibald Campbell. Argyll will do whatever it takes—using statecraft, legal cunning, and force when necessary—to achieve his aims.”

Lady Emma moved to the table, poured wine into a goblet, and gave it to her brother. “What do the Macdonalds of Glencoe think of their half-Sassenach chieftain?”

Taking the silver cup she offered, Duncan rose to stand beside his sister. “Except for her immediate staff here at Kinlochleven, Lady Joanna's clansmen are suspicious of her. Before Somerled died on the gallows, he named his granddaughter as his heir by law of tanistry, and there's been no open talk of disputing her right to the chieftainship.”

Keir scowled as he shoved the low stool aside with his foot. “But by marrying the maid to his son, Ewen can consolidate all the power of the Glencoe Macdonalds in his own two hands.”

Rory took the goblet his mother offered, then leaned against the table's edge. “That's one of the reasons I've kept my discovery of Joanna's identity a secret from everyone but my own men,” he told them. “I'm taking no chances that the Macdonalds will try to spirit her away before the wedding. As long as they believe I think Joey Macdonald is an orphan serving lad, they'll bide their time.
They plan, no doubt, to wait until just before the marriage ceremony to prove that Lady Idoine isn't the real heiress after all. And by that time, 'twill be too late for them to do anything but watch in respectful silence as Joanna and I take our vows.”

Lady Emma poured three more goblets of wine, handed one to Lachlan, one to Keir, and then raised her own. “Let's set the subject of plots and politics aside for now. The wedding morn will soon be here, and I propose a salute,” she said with a happy sigh, “to the new bride and groom.”

“To the bride and groom,” they chorused.

Rory straightened from the table and joined them in the toast. “To my bride.”

“What else can we do to help?” Lachlan inquired, after draining his cup. “Outside of not killing any of your future relatives before the ceremony.”

“And not giving away the secret of your wee bride's identity,” Keir added with a sly wink.

Rory met his brothers' amused gazes. There was no point in trying to conceal what he was about to say from his mother and uncle. They'd know soon enough, dammit. Hell, the whole blasted Scottish court would know at the wedding feast. He squared his jaw and scowled ferociously, daring them to laugh at his urgent request.

“You can teach me how to dance.”

R
ory's family stared at him, scarcely able to believe their ears.

“You heard me,” he grated through clenched teeth. “I want to learn to dance.”

Lachlan gave a long, low whistle of amazement. “After twenty-eight years of ignoring such flummery, you finally decide you want to dance with the ladies?”

“Not with the ladies, you ass,” Rory said. “With my bride. Most bridegrooms dance with their bride on their wedding day. Is that a hanging offense?”

“You big lummox,” Keir said with a chuckle. “You couldn't dance your way out of a prison cell if your life depended upon it.”

Tucking his chin, Rory flexed his shoulders and glared at his younger brother. “I don't have great talent for tiptoeing across a dance floor, I admit. But if every imbecile in the court can learn the steps of a simple pavane, why can't I?”

“Why can't he, indeed!” his uncle admonished. “I've never seen any man match Rory's swordplay. He's light enough on his feet when it comes to skewering an opponent with dirk and broadsword.”

Keir grinned wryly, a devilish gleam in his eyes. “Ah, but put my big brother around the fair demoiselles and his tongue and feet both stop working. Rory's never chosen a
partner for the evening in his life. He's always waited till one picked him.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Rory gritted.

“Not your dancing, you thickheaded loon.” Keir waved his goblet at Rory, amusement softening his rugged features. “You've been here for over a week, man. I'd have thought by now you'd have seduced the maid.”

“Seduction's a trifle difficult,” Rory said stiffly, “when the lassie's pretending to be a boy.”

Lachlan and Keir looked at each other and burst into laughter.

“That's enough,” Duncan rebuked mildly, though a smile skipped over his lips. “Let's not forget there's a lady present.”

“A wise decision,” Lady Emma concurred. Her eyes twinkled with merriment as she gazed at her eldest son. “And I think it's wonderful, my dear, that you want to dance at your wedding.”

“I agree,” said Lachlan. “Keir and I will be happy to teach you the steps of the pavane. Is there anything else we can do to help?”

“There is,” Rory said, his words clipped and abrupt. He'd known this wasn't going to be easy, but he'd be damned if he'd scuttle his plans just to avoid his brothers' gibes. “I want you to compose a ballad in honor of Lady Joanna. It's to be sung at the wedding feast. Can you do it?”

“Of course,” Lachlan replied with a shrug. “Do you intend to serenade your new wife or should I?”

Rory glowered at Lachlan. “You know I can't sing a damn note. And I sure as hell don't want you standing in the middle of the hall, looking like some fabled Adonis and warbling an ardent refrain to my impressionable bride. Joanna's not to know you had anything to do with it.”

“Have Fergus MacQuisten sing the ditty,” Keir proposed. “We'll swear the old bard to secrecy. He can announce at the wedding feast that Rory composed the ballad
especially for Joanna and taught it to him. No one will know any different.”

Rory smiled at the brilliant suggestion. Twisted and gnarled with age, the seventy-year-old Fergus had a voice sweeter than birdsong in springtime. Joanna would be listening to the troubadour's lilting tenor, but she'd be looking at Rory.

“There's something else, isn't there?” Lachlan asked with canny intuition.

Setting his wine goblet on the table, Rory set his jaw and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “If either of you so much as snicker,” he cautioned his brothers, “I'll knock the pair of you boneheads down and stomp on you.”

Keir and Lachlan's eyes danced with hilarity, and their mouths twitched in barely suppressed grins. Till that moment, they'd never known their oldest brother to give a bloody damn about capturing any female's attention. Here was their chance to roast him on the spit.

“They won't laugh,” Lady Emma quickly interjected. She frowned in admonition to her two younger sons, then turned to Rory with an encouraging smile. “What is it you wish them to do?”

“I want Lachlan to write a sonnet to my bride,” he said with a defensive lift of his chin. “Something praising her beauty and charm. The kind of folderol that lassies like to hear.”

“But wouldn't it be better to express your feelings in your own words, dear?” Lady Emma asked.

Lachlan put his arm around their mother's shoulders and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “Not unless you want to hear him compare his bonny bride's charms to the finer qualities of a siege engine.”

Slapping her second son's hand playfully, she made a disapproving moue, but she didn't contradict his assertion.

“Will you have Fergus recite the poem at the banquet?” Duncan asked him.

“I'll memorize the lines myself,” he said in a strangled voice, “and I'll recite them when the time is right.”

Just as he'd expected, his brothers' mirth erupted into loud guffaws.

Lady Emma clasped her hands joyfully, her eyes shining. “Why, Rory, I think the lass has stolen your heart!”

He jerked his thumb toward his chest. “My heart's right here where it's always been,” he stated. “But Joanna's young and filled with starry-eyed dreams, like many a lassie before her.”

His mother stiffened, and he immediately regretted his careless words. He'd rather bite off his tongue than hurt her. But the truth remained: at the tender age of fifteen, she'd run away with his father in spite of her parents' objections, and her bastard son had paid dearly for her impulsive behavior.

“I have no regrets, Rory,” she said, her gaze somber. “I only wish for once you'd allow your emotions to rule that hard head of yours. That you'd surrender your heart to that darling lass.”

Rory scowled at her. “Don't be foolish, Mother. I'm marrying the maid because the king commanded it, and because I want estates to leave my future heirs. This alliance gives me a chance to build something permanent for my MacLean kinsmen and myself.”

Coming to stand directly in front of him, she reached up and touched his cheek. “When I eloped with your father,” she said, “I willingly gave up my family and my inheritance for the man I loved.”

Rory met her entreating eyes. With a reluctant smile, he caught her hand and kissed the slender fingertips. Still beautiful at forty-four, she hadn't a single strand of gray in her lustrous brown hair, in spite of the fact that she'd out-lived three stalwart husbands.

“Only a rosy-cheeked lassie with her head in the clouds would mistake the throb of physical attraction for a fancy called love,” he told her gently.

“'Tis true, I loved your father beyond reason,” she admitted, her voice filled with sweet reminiscence. “Someday, Rory, you'll love a woman so deeply you'll forget
everything but the need to be with her. And then you'll find it in your heart to forgive me.” The absence of a matrimonial settlement had meant that her firstborn son was left illegitimate and homeless when his father died on the battlefield at the age of eighteen.

“There's nothing to forgive,” he denied. “No one could have a more wonderful mother.”

She smiled pensively. “And what should I have Joanna do when I return to my chamber?”

Clasping her shoulders, Rory bent his head and brushed his lips across her forehead. “Anything you wish, Mother. Just keep her occupied and out of trouble while Lachlan and Keir teach me the rudiments of the pavane. I don't want her alone with Ewen Macdonald or that damnfool idiot son of his.”

 

Joanna sat on the velvet pillows stacked in the deep window embrasure of Lady Emma's bedchamber. She'd brought along paper, pen, and ink, and waited impatiently for MacLean's mother to appear, her mind concerned with the preparations for supper.

“Here I am at last, child,” Lady Emma said, as she entered with a rustle of rose satin. She sank down on a small cushioned settle and beamed at Joanna. “Isn't it exciting? There's nothing like a wedding! All the delicious sweetmeats and the frivolity and the guests dressed in their most colorful velvets and satins.”

Joanna could hear the clank and clash of swords coming from the ground below, as men strove to exhibit their prowess before the admiring ladies. There'd be games of archery later that afternoon with long bow and crossbow. A papingo shoot was planned, with the best archers trying to knock the brilliant bird from the top of a high pole.

“Seems to be a lot of work for a few minutes of churching,” Joanna said with acerbity. “Do you have a letter you wish to dictate, milady?”

The vivacious widow nodded, her gaze flitting to the small writing desk balanced across Joanna's knees. “I do.
And I see you came prepared. But there's no great hurry. We can get to my correspondence in good time.”

“I've many tasks to complete before the evening meal,” Joanna informed her gravely. “In fact, I'm needed in the kitchen right now.”

Lady Emma fluttered her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Mercy, don't fret about that, child. My son said you were to attend me for the rest of the afternoon and run any errands I needed. Some other lad can take over the chores in the scullery.”

Joanna bit her lip to keep from uttering a protest. No one but the chatelaine of the castle could make the myriad decisions necessary that day.

With the fragrance of lavender drifting about her, Lady Emma rose from the bench and moved to the chamber's great bed. Its linen hangings had been tied back and the quilted comforter piled high with feminine clothing. She lifted a magnificent emerald gown and held it up for Joanna to admire.

“My faith, isn't it lovely?” she asked. “As mother of the groom, I'm expected to dress in my finest raiment. I don't want to disappoint my son. He's never been married before. What do you think?”

Joanna peered at the exquisite damask silk. “I think 'tis the finest gown I've ever seen,” she answered abruptly. “MacLean won't be disappointed. Do you wish to dictate that letter to me now, milady?”

“I believe I'll wear my gold-trimmed headdress,” Lady Emma mused. She laid the gown on the bed and smoothed her fingers along the fur trim. “Though perhaps the one with the pearls would be more appropriate.”

Joanna rolled her eyes in exasperation. The entire family was demented. What difference did it make which finery the lady chose to wear on Sunday morning? There wasn't going to be a wedding without a bride.

“I think the gold one would be best,” Joanna said, tapping the nib of her pen restlessly on the leather-covered desk.

Lady Emma returned to the settle. “Why don't we start?” she suggested with a smile.

With head bowed over the paper and her pen poised above the vellum, Joanna waited. “I'm ready when you are, milady.”

“My dear Lady Joanna,” the widow began in a dreamy tone.

Joanna's head flew up in surprise.

Oblivious to her lackey's astonishment, Lady Emma continued blithely. “By the time you read this, you'll be my daughter—”

“She can't read.”

At last Joanna had the flighty woman's complete attention. The holly-green gaze flew to meet hers. “She can't?”

“She's had no schooling. She's simple.”

MacLean's mother pressed her hand to her breast, sympathy written across her lovely features. “Ah, poor soul.” Overcome with disappointment, she lowered her head and traced her fingertips over the embroidered edge of her girdle.

Joanna waited for Emma MacNeil to declare that her son shouldn't marry the poor witless soul. Once again, she'd misjudged MacLean's family.

The widow looked up and smiled reassuringly. “But I'm certain my son will be very gentle with the unfortunate lass.”

“I doubt that,” Joanna stated baldly. “MacLean said he planned to put a leash on her.”

Lady Emma stood up, then sat back down, her eyes widened in shock. “Surely not!”

“He said he'd feed her carrots and apples, till she was eating out of his hand and jumping through hoops.”

Lady Emma covered her eyes with a handkerchief, her words smothered and far away. “My son said that?”

For a moment, Joanna suspected the widow of laughing at her own son's unqualified callousness, then pushed the unlikely thought aside and continued in righteous indignation. “He did. He said he'd teach Lady Joanna how to see
to his comforts, and that she'd eventually produce a fine batch of weans. God's truth, he talked as if she were a piece of furniture he'd purchased at the fair.”

Wadding the lace-edged square of linen in her hands, Lady Emma gazed out the window behind Joanna. Her lovely eyes sparkled with tears, but her voice was calm and sober when she spoke. “What…what else did he say?”

Somewhat mollified, Joanna leaned back against the pillows. The widow appeared sincerely moved by the unfortunate heiress's plight at the hands of her ruthless, diabolical son. That was more compassion than MacLean had ever shown for the tragic Maid of Glencoe. “He defended his harsh attitude by reciting an odious proverb.”

“Hmm,” Lady Emma said thoughtfully as she dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “Let me guess. ‘My own goods, my own wife…'”

Joanna nodded. “That's the one.”

“I see what you mean, child. But my son also believes in the old Gaelic proverb, ‘Say but little and say it well.' Rory's not given to flowery speeches, but you mustn't assume he hasn't deep feelings. Quite the contrary.”

Joanna could barely keep from snorting. “What do you mean, milady?”

“Rory's always been short of words,” the widow replied as she tucked her handkerchief into the small purse that hung from her girdle. “But that doesn't mean he has no affection for others. Beneath that brusque exterior is a man yearning to be loved. You mustn't believe the terrible lies spread by his enemies, child. Time and again, he's demonstrated his willingness to risk his own life to defend others, but there are many people envious of his courage and unswerving loyalty to the king.”