The Maclean Groom (13 page)

Joanna gazed at the woman in speculation. “Is MacLean like his father?”

Lady Emma didn't seem perturbed to have a mere lackey ask such a personal question. “Oh, indeed,” she replied, “and I loved Niall passionately.”

Joanna brushed the quill's plume under her chin, her
mind racing. Since the lady seemed so willing to share her intimate feelings, Joanna might as well ask the one question she was longing to have answered.

“When you…ah…when you spent your first night with Niall MacLean, were there any…er…surprises?”

The corners of Lady Emma's eyes crinkled just like her son's when she smiled so widely. “What do you mean by surprises, child?”

“Oh, anything at all. Anything you weren't particularly…expecting?”

“I was very young and very naïve, so I suppose I was a trifle surprised that night. What maiden isn't when she loses her virginity?”

Joanna probed gently. “But nothing repulsed you?”

Lady Emma tipped her head to one side, regarding her with a quizzical look. “Nothing at all.”

“That's a relief,” Joanna murmured under her breath as she stared down at the sheet of vellum.

“What did you say, child?”

Joanna looked up to meet the lady's kindhearted gaze. “I said I'm relieved that you think the heiress will have no unhappy surprises on her wedding night. MacLean told me that when a man beds his wife, he treats her just like he treats his horse.”

Lady Emma rested her forehead in her palm and shook her head in resignation. “He probably didn't mean that the way it sounded,” she said. “But why was he discussing such a private matter with a wee laddie like you?”

“MacLean caught me peeking at Tam and Mary in the stables,” Joanna admitted. “He picked me up by my collar and shook me till my teeth rattled, then lectured me on my behavior. One thing led to another and I asked him if he'd bedded any lassies. Next thing I knew, he was talking about slipping a bridle on Lady Joanna.”

Lady Emma slapped her hands against her cheeks and bolted from the settle. She hurried across the room to a washstand, poured out a pitcher of water and proceeded to
bathe her face. Her shoulders shook as she bent over the basin, splashing water like a wild woman.

Joanna set the lap desk aside and walked across the room. “I didn't mean to upset you, milady,” she apologized, stricken at the effect her thoughtlessness had caused. After all, the insensitive, hard-hearted brute
was
her son.

Lady Emma buried her face in a linen towel. “You didn't upset me, child,” she gasped, her words muffled. “I'm just so happy my son is being wed in two days, that I started to cry. Did you ever burst into tears from sheer happiness?”

Joanna shook her head in incomprehension. “I guess I've never been that happy.”

 

Joanna had assumed that with Arthur Hay's return to Kinlochleven, her duties as MacLean's gillie would be completed, and she'd be free to oversee the castle's staff. But Lady Emma kept Joanna with her until it was time for the evening meal. Fortunately Maude undertook the supervision of the kitchen servants, and the vast array of food was prepared without Ethel threatening to slip a knife between the royal chef's ribs or sneaking into the buttery to guzzle a flagon of ale.

While the guests feasted on venison and suckling pig, musicians played in the gallery at the far end of the great hall. A group of mummers performed a farce that made everyone roar with laughter, and nimble acrobats demonstrated their astonishing abilities to leap and tumble across the rush-covered stone floor.

Every time Joanna came near MacLean, he was discussing plans for the improvement of Kinlochleven's fortifications.

“The size of the castle provides ample facilities for storing provisions that would last a year,” he told the king, who was seated beside him. “Once the modifications are completed, we could hold out against an attacking force ten times our number.”

When she poured his wine, MacLean paused to look up
and give her a brotherly smile. James Stewart smiled too, his brown eyes warm and friendly.

Considering that she appeared as bedraggled as ever, His Majesty's kindness to a mere kitchen varlet seemed astounding. She had to admit James IV of Scotland was much nicer than she'd ever imagined.

Ewen Macdonald caught Joanna's eye as she scurried around the great hall carrying an enormous tray of dirty trenchers. At forty-one, the Glencoe Macdonalds' war leader commanded the respect of his clansmen. Though not as tall and powerful as MacLean or his brothers, he'd proven his courage and strength in battle. Streaks of silver glinted in his walnut-brown hair and well-trimmed beard. He had the same dark eyes as his son, but his gaze glittered with a cunning intelligence.

“Meet me in the stables,” he said in an undertone when she casually made her way to where he sat. “I want to speak with you alone.”

“I'll sneak out as soon as possible,” she whispered. She glanced cautiously at the dark-haired lad beside him.

Ewen shook his head, warning her silently not to speak to his son. Andrew's taut features betrayed his smoldering anger. He'd always taken it for granted that they'd be married one day, and Kinlochleven and all its lands and revenues would be his. 'Twas no wonder his father feared that, in his hurt pride, he'd reveal her secret and the game would be lost.

Godfrey Macdonald glanced up as Joanna took his empty trencher, a sneer curling his lips. He made no attempt to hide his disgust at her filthy male apparel.

“Hello, Godfrey,” she said quietly.

Younger than Ewen by three years, he showed none of his brother's innate leadership or his nephew's bonny looks. Deep pock marks that even a scraggly beard couldn't conceal riddled his bloated face. A distended blue vein pulsed on his protuberant nose, and his breath reeked of alcohol.

“Go away,” he responded in a hiss, “before someone
becomes suspicious.” Tipping his head back, he drained his tankard in one long, greedy gulp.

In the crush of people, it should have been easy to slip out of the donjon unnoticed. But whenever Joanna tried to leave, either Fearchar or one of MacLean's brothers lingered nearby. Several times she almost walked into one of them. Standing eyeball to mammoth chest, she felt like she'd fallen asleep and awakened in a land of giants.

When supper was over, the menservants dismantled the trestle tables and pushed the benches to the side of the chamber. Rushes were swept from the stone floor for the dancing, and many of the lairds and ladies swayed and dipped in a stately branle around the chamber.

To Joanna's disappointment, MacLean didn't leave his chair on the dais beside the king. She wanted to see the fearsome warlord executing a courtly révérance to Lady Beatrix or Lady Idoine. From the sulky pout on her cousin's face, Idoine felt the same way.

But MacLean didn't even glance at the dancers. God's truth, the confounded man hadn't the tiniest spark of romance in his black soul.

Late in the evening, Joanna still could find no opportunity to meet the Macdonalds' clan commander. She'd hoped to creep out to the stables once everyone sought his bed, but MacLean and his two brothers joined Davie and Seumas in their nightly game of cards at the kitchen's large table.

The Sea Dragon had made a habit of spending half the night gambling with the men who stood guard over Joanna while she slept. Apparently the vice ran in his family, for Lachlan and Keir showed no more sign of retiring at a decent hour than he did. Exhausted, she fell asleep in front of the hearth to the drone of their quiet masculine voices as they made their bets over the tarots.

“Here's a crown that says you're bluffing, Davie,” MacLean softly challenged. “And I warn you, I can see through a Macdonald's blatherskite like the wings of a moth circling a flame.”

The last thing Joanna heard was the warrior's deep chuckle and the chink of a coin being thrown atop the pile of shillings on the table.

She smiled sleepily. The rich timbre of his baritone was just about the nicest sound a lass could hear as she drifted into slumber.

 

It wasn't until the next morning that Joanna finally had a chance to slip away unnoticed. She handed a note to Jock as she brushed by him in the stables, whispering that it was for Ewen, then hastened to the chapel.

Inside, everything glistened from Abby and Sarah's energetic cleaning. The warm oak of the pews glowed from being polished. The gold candlesticks on the altar gleamed. Sparkling white and freshly pressed, the altar cloths lay draped across the Communion railing in readiness for the next morning's ceremony. In the vestibule, huge bouquets of roses, lilies, and apple blossoms stood in buckets of water, waiting to be placed in the tall vases on the main and side altars.

Their perfume drifted about her, reminding Joanna of the floral-scented soap she'd been forced to abandon with MacLean's arrival. A hurried bath in the buttery using Ethel's hard, yellow cakes couldn't compare with lingering in a warm tub before the fire.

Joanna looked carefully around to be sure no one lurked in the shadows, then hurried up the aisle to the row of blue votive lights burning in front of the Virgin's altar. With another quick glance to be certain she was alone, she bent forward and blew out the flames. Crossing herself, she made a hasty genuflection and sent a prayer heavenward that she'd be forgiven for such a grievous sin.

A soft tread sounded behind her, and Joanna's heart leaped like a frightened roe bounding for freedom. If MacLean had caught her, she'd be led to the stake and set afire like a torch.

“B
lowing out candles isn't going to save you, Joanna.”

She whirled and gasped in relief when she recognized Ewen's solid frame outlined in the rosy light streaming through the stained glass window behind him.

“Thank God, 'tis you,” she croaked hoarsely.

“I got your note,” he said as he strode up the side aisle. “We'd best speak quickly.” He caught her elbow and drew her into a small alcove, out of view.

“Have you come to take me to Mingarry?” she asked, hoping he wouldn't detect the disheartenment in her voice. She should be thrilled to escape the Sea Dragon's clutches, yet the very thought of leaving Kinlochleven seemed to carve a hole in her chest where her heart should be.

'Twas her beloved castle she'd pine for, Joanna reassured herself, and most definitely
not
the ferocious Highland chief who intended to wed her on the morrow.

Ewen's dark brows met in a scowl as he released her arm. “Not right away. Your disappearance now would only cause alarm. They'd be searching the countryside, certain who you were, before we were halfway to Ballachulish.”

A tremor shivered through her, and Joanna clasped her hands to keep them from shaking. “But what should I do?” she asked breathlessly. “MacLean plans to wed Lady Joanna in the morning.”

“Just keep up with your excellent stratagem,” Ewen
said. He offered her a brief, sour smile as his gaze traveled down the tattered shirt and worn plaid to the short hose sagging about her ankles. “When we announce that Idoine is truly my daughter, just as she claimed from the start, he'll be the laughingstock of the Scottish court. MacLean can't marry a bride he can't find. There'll be nothing left for the King's Avenger but to go back to Stalcaire empty-handed.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “And I'll be free to become Lady Joanna again.”

Ewen stroked his short, pointed beard with calm assurance. “All we need do then is wait for the dispensation to arrive from Rome. Once it comes, you can marry Andrew. And that will be the end of James Stewart's plans to bring the Glencoe Macdonalds under his iron fist.”

Joanna's heart plummeted at his words. “How soon do you think permission will come?”

“It could be a matter of months.”

Ewen watched her through narrowed eyes, and Joanna turned away from his hard, discerning gaze.

He grasped her arm and pulled her around to face him. “It's what your kinsmen expect of you,” he insisted curtly. “The entire Macdonald clan is depending on you to meet your obligation as their chieftain and marry the man chosen for you. You're not some tavern wench or poor crofter's daughter, Joanna. Whom you marry is of the utmost importance to your kinsmen. We can't allow Kinlochleven to fall into the hands of our foes.”

“I understand,” she said, lowering her lids to conceal her unhappiness. She'd never been fully accepted by her English relatives in Cumberland. Aunt and Uncle Blithfield had often scolded Lady Anne for her daughter's wild Highland ways, and her Neville grandparents had tried to curb her tempestuous Scottish nature. Joanna wanted desperately to be needed and loved by her clansmen, but her heart rebelled at the sacrifice she was being asked to make for their sakes.

Ewen's terse words bristled with an unmistakable warn
ing. “Don't do anything to give yourself away, Joanna.”

She rubbed her hands over her upper arms to ward off the shivers that plagued her, then raised her eyes to meet his cold stare.

“Now that the king is here, I'm frightened,” she confessed. “Should my identity be discovered, I could be hanged for a traitor.”

He caught her wrist and squeezed the bones in his unrelenting grasp. His sharp reply came like a headsman's ax, slicing through the peaceful stillness of the chapel. “Nothing will happen to you, lass, if you keep up the deception. But no Macdonald will ever forgive you if you betray yourself—purposely or otherwise.”

Making no attempt to break free of his painful hold, Joanna bowed her head. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. “I know.”

“Never forget,” Ewen said, somewhat mollified by her easy capitulation, “MacLean captured Somerled and turned him over to his executioners. He hounded that old man unmercifully, till he ran the Red Wolf to the ground like a common felon. No Macdonald should ever feel anything but contempt for the King's Avenger.” He paused, then added harshly, “Unless you believe your grandfather was guilty of the charges against him.”

“Grandpapa was innocent!” Joanna exclaimed. “He'd never have killed anyone without just cause. I'm certain of it.”

Convinced of her sincerity, Ewen patted her hand. “Place your loyalty to your clan above all else, Joanna, as your father and grandfather would have wished you to do. Once you're married to Andrew, I'll give the two of you free rein here at Kinlochleven.”

Joanna knew what her cousin's promise implied. More concerned with his falcons and horses, Andrew would take little interest in the mundane duties of the laird of the castle. His frivolous attachment to heavy gold chains, velvet jackets, and fur-lined gauntlets would far exceed the attention he'd give to the deer parks, fishponds, rabbit warrens, and
dovecotes on their estates. Though she'd have to take care that her self-indulgent husband didn't drain their coffers dry, she'd be free to make the day-to-day decisions over their far-flung holdings. As her clan's war leader, all Ewen would ask in return was that Joanna's men-at-arms remained loyal to the Macdonalds, if another rebellion should break out in the Hebrides and spread to the mainland.

“I'd better go now,” Ewen said. “If any MacLean should see us talking like this, he might start to wonder.” Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode down the aisle.

Joanna moved to a niche at the side of the chapel, where a stained glass window depicted a slender maid dressed in silvery armor holding a banner adorned with the lilies of France. With trembling fingers, she lit a candle in front of the Maid of Orléans, just as she'd done every morning since she'd first been told, after the death of her grandfather, that she was to marry Ewen's son. She looked up at Jeanne d'Arc's brave, shining face and fought the despair that tugged at her aching heart.

Day after day, Joanna had prayed for a gallant champion to come and rescue her from her betrothal to Andrew. Instead of a valiant knight-errant, though, the Sea Dragon had appeared at the castle gate. An ogre who'd been responsible for her grandfather's death.

Not really an ogre, she admitted. She'd seen what a strong and wise chief The MacLean could be in his dealings with her kinsmen. Forthright, just, slow to wrath, the bold Highland warrior had a natural ability to lead. Many of Joanna's loyal retainers had grown to admire him, and the practical, outspoken Maude was slowly but surely being won over to his side. As Joanna's husband and the laird of Kinlochleven, MacLean would protect their estates and increase their wealth.

His patience with the halflins in the castle—including the obstreperous Joey Macdonald—proved he'd never have killed the wee laddie as he'd threatened that first day. And the afternoon he'd patiently given a stripling lad a lesson
in archery remained a delightful memory she couldn't erase. That very same day, he'd saved her life.

One thing seemed certain: though Joanna believed in her grandfather's innocence, she knew instinctively that MacLean must have been convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that Somerled was guilty of murdering Gideon Cameron in cold blood. Otherwise, he would never have hunted him down so remorselessly.

There wasn't a shadow of a doubt, however, that someone in heaven had made a serious mistake when answering her prayers. For in sending this valiant Highland chief to rescue her from marriage to Andrew Macdonald, the saints had sent the one man she could never marry in his stead.

For if she married the chief of Clan MacLean, she'd earn the enmity of every member of her clan.

Joanna's heart fluttered like a bird caught in a net at the thought of becoming MacLean's wife. What would it be like to lie down beside the mighty warlord? To draw the bed curtains about them and be held in his muscular arms in the velvety stillness of the night? To feel his strength surround her as his determined lips sought hers in a possessive, all-conquering kiss?

A tiny shudder went through her, and she pressed her fingertips against her closed lids, trying to block out the enthralling image of that virile man lying beside her, their naked bodies touching intimately.

Holy heavens, she wouldn't allow herself to think of it.

For marriage to the chief of Clan MacLean was a path she could never go down.

The sound of footsteps broke the chapel's silence, and Joanna straightened, refusing to allow the tears to fall. Blinking furiously, she glanced over her shoulder to find Fearchar standing in the main aisle.

“Here you are, laddie,” he said. “The last I caught sight of you, you were heading for the stables.”

Brawny arms akimbo, he watched her with thoughtful regard. The black eye patch and ragged scar on his cheekbone, the gold stud in his ear, and the narrow braids that
decorated his long blond hair no longer seemed so alarming, for she could read the concern in his one good eye.

Like the humble serving lad she portrayed, Joanna sniffed and wiped her nose on her dirty sleeve. “Were you looking for me, sir?”

“Is aught amiss, lad?”

She lifted a shoulder noncommittally. “I was cleaning and got a speck of dust in my eye, 'tis all.”

Fearchar joined Joanna and looked at the brilliant stained glass in open admiration. “Forbye,” he said, “'twas brave and braw the Maid of Orléans was. She reminds me of another wee lassie I know.”

“Does she?” Joanna asked in awe. She gazed up at the slim girl in chain mail, a helm at her feet and the light of undaunted courage glowing in her pale face. “I wish I knew someone like her.”

The robust, gentle-hearted man beside her glanced down at the burning candle, and his teeth flashed white in his bearded face. “Lady Emma would like you to wait upon her again today, Joey.”

“Please tell her I need to speak with The MacLean first,” she said. “Do you happen to know where he is?”

“'Tis up on the battlements he is, lad,” Fearchar replied. “I'll accompany you there.”

 

Rory stood with Lachlan on the barbican, looking out over the valley below. He'd laid the plans for the castle's improvements across the wide stone parapet and was pointing out the changes he intended to make.

“As you can see,” he told his brother, “Kinlochleven is impenetrable on the west, where the cliffs drop straight down to the loch. But the south-facing curtain wall, the barbican, and the main gate are all highly vulnerable. I plan to reinforce the existing stone curtain with buttresses, put gun loops along the walls, replace the aging portcullis with a much stronger one, and build a new gate. All the posterns will be reinforced and another well dug in the lower bailey.
When the alterations are complete, we'll be able to withstand anything thrown by catapult or cannon.”

Lachlan nodded his agreement and clapped his brother on the shoulder. “You may not be much of a dancer, Rory, but you're a blasted wizard when it comes to fortifications.”

Rory met his teasing gaze with a crooked grin. “I've stormed enough castles to know every weakness imaginable. And now, thanks to you and Keir, I'll be able to dance at my wedding banquet without stomping on my bride's wee toes—or her fancy gown.”

The three brothers had spent most of the previous afternoon locked in the solar, while Fearchar guarded the door and Lady Emma kept Joanna occupied.

Lachlan had played a lute, calling out instructions like a persnickety French dancing master, and Keir took the part of the lassie. It'd been damn awkward for Rory, pointing his toe and mincing about like a popinjay, while Keir, who stood well over six foot in his stocking feet, curtsied and simpered and pretended to drag a train five yards long behind him. Rory's brothers had guffawed hilariously every time he'd stepped on the imaginary swath of white satin.

Lachlan chuckled at the ridiculous picture they'd made. “Just remember, Rory, you don't merely glide around the floor with a lady, holding her hand. You
dance
with her. Gaze into her eyes and will her to come closer than propriety allows. Let the damsel read your hunger for her in every move you make.”

Rory scowled. He might hunger for Joanna, but he wasn't about to expose his feelings to the entire court.

“Don't look so uncomfortable at the thought of showing your tender regard for the lassie,” Lachlan said cheerily. “'Tis only natural, given she's such a peach.”

“You misread my intentions,” Rory informed his brother, who merely grinned and shook his auburn head, unimpressed and unconvinced. “Certainly, I feel admiration and respect for Joanna—and desire. Hell, who
wouldn't? But I'm far too sensible to make a fool of myself over a slip of a lass like some idiots do.”

Lachlan laughed. “Don't try to tell me you haven't fallen for the delectable wee maid, Rory. I know you better than that. Why else the dance lessons and the ballad and the sonnet? Which, by the way, are almost finished.”

Rory bristled at his sibling's smug assumption. “Joanna believes in the myths of chivalry portrayed in the troubadours' ballads, that's why. And if she wants to be swept off her feet by a knight in shining armor, I'm more than willing to play the part—and reap the obvious rewards. But that doesn't mean I'm in love with her. Wives are chosen for pragmatic reasons.” He flung up his hand in mounting irritation. “So you can wipe that smirk off your face, dammit.”

Lachlan shrugged concedingly, but his eyes never lost their sparkle of amusement.

“Joey wishes to speak with you, laird,” Fearchar called from behind them. The brothers turned to see him climbing the outside stairs with Joanna, who looked as ragged and unwashed as ever.