The Maclean Groom (14 page)

Lachlan stepped forward to greet his future good-sister with a warm smile. “Good morning, Joey,” he said, his voice filled with fraternal affection. “I hope we didn't keep you awake with our card playing last night.”

“I slept through it all,” Joanna replied. She bestowed an answering smile on the debonair chief of Clan MacRath, but when she turned her bonny blue eyes on Rory, her expression grew solemn. “I'd like to speak with you in private, laird. 'Tis about something important.”

“Very well,” Rory said, glancing at his brother and cousin. “If you gentlemen will excuse us?”

Joanna watched the two men leave, then joined Rory at the battlement's parapet. “I like your family,” she confided with guileless sincerity. “They're very nice.”

“I'm glad you like them,” he replied as he rolled up the building plans. “My brothers think you're a lad of parts, and Lady Emma couldn't say enough kind things about
you. It seems you kept her highly entertained with your frank observations yesterday.”

Joanna's long lashes fluttered at his words, and she turned stiffly to face the scene before them. She clasped the edge of the stone wall and stared straight in front of her. “Did she tell you what we talked about?”

“She didn't,” Rory answered truthfully.

His mother had refused to indulge his curiosity, telling him only, between bouts of bubbling laughter, that his lucky star must have risen in the night sky that year, because no man could ever be more fortunate on his wedding day than Rory would be on his.

At the crimson rising on Joanna's cheeks, he had a hunch their conversation was all about him—and none too flattering at that.

Anxious to redirect the conversation, Joanna pointed to the ruins of an ancient island fortress in the loch. “Eilean Ceilteach is said to be the place where Fraoch slew the fiendish monster that guarded the magic fruit. My nursemaid told me the story when I was just a wee bairn.”

Rory smiled as he recalled the tale his mother had told him of the Celtic hero, who'd brought back the healing berries to his ailing lover, the exquisite Mai.

“But you must know the story already,” Joanna added happily, “since you named your stallion after the valiant warrior.”

“I didn't,” he replied. “My mother had already named the mean-tempered brute when she presented him to me.”

Joanna wrinkled her impudent nose in disappointment, but made no comment. 'Twas clear she'd hoped Rory had been as enthralled with the legend as she.

Together, they looked out across a glen surrounded on three sides by mountains. Splendid woodlands of oak and birch wound like ribbons along the foothills. The great Mamore Forest stretched across the higher ranges to the north. Through the eastern gorge, with its bold granite crags overhanging steep slopes, the river cascaded down to the floor of the valley and the cold saltwater loch, teeming with fish
and studded with islets. The Observantine monastery could be seen on one island, with its chapel dedicated to St. Findoca.

“'Tis very beautiful,” she said quietly.

He glanced down at her. Thick curving lashes hid the magnificent indigo eyes. The fine bones of her gamin face defied the application of soot from the hearth. In spite of the tattered clothes, her slim figure stood straight and proud, betraying her noble birth. He asked himself for the hundredth time how anyone could think she'd be able to fool him for the space of a day, let alone one full week.

Looking out at the vista once more, he spoke with suppressed intensity. “I've sailed the seas and visited countless foreign cities, and I've never seen a sight fairer than the one before my eyes this morning.”

“I would like to travel to faraway places,” Joanna said, a wistful note in her low contralto. “Especially France. I'd like to visit Paris and Orléans.” She canted her head and looked up at him. “Have you been there, laird?”

“I have.”

He patted her slender shoulder in his best brotherly fashion, though his fingers ached to follow the enticing curve of her nape beneath the ribbed edge of her stocking cap. He wanted to lift her stubborn chin with his fingertips and gaze into those thick-lashed, wondering eyes as he bent to kiss her.

He wanted Joanna to want him.

Tomorrow the detested cap would come off. And the decrepit shirt and frayed plaid. Until then he'd have to content himself with just having her near, and the sure knowledge that they would be married the next morning.

He'd laid his plans carefully, wanting her to be swept away. He wanted their wedding day to be as romantic as every starry-eyed lassie's dream. As for their wedding night…His body hardened at the thought. Well, that promised to be a dream come true for the randy, hot-blooded bridegroom.

“With your spunk, Joey,” he continued conversationally, “you'd make a fine sailor.”

“Do you really think so?” she asked with a puckish grin.

“I do. Someday I'll take you aboard the
Sea Dragon
. We can sail to the outer isles in the springtime, then spend the summer calling on ports from Le Havre to Cadiz.”

“Where is your ship now, milord?”

“She lies at anchor in Loch Linnhe, near Stalcaire.”

The longing for adventure glowed in Joanna's eyes. “It must be wonderful to own a fleet of ships and be able to go anywhere you wish.”

His gaze fixed on her radiant face, he spoke in a low tone. “Many men would covet what I now possess. I intend to guard it wisely.”

Her arched russet brows drew together as she searched his eyes with a puzzled expression. “'Twould have to be a very strong foe to wrest your possessions from you.”

“No man will ever take what is mine,” he told her bluntly. “Not while I'm alive.” He tapped the rolled parchment lightly on the top of her cap and smiled indulgently. “Now, what was it you needed to talk about, lad?”

Her head bent, she scuffed the toe of her oversized shoe across the rough stones of the battlement. “'Tis about the wedding,” she replied in a smothered voice.

“What about the wedding?”

Too uneasy to meet his perceptive gaze, Joanna fidgeted with her belt buckle. “I was wondering what you planned to do tomorrow, if 'tis proven that Lady Idoine really isn't Joanna Macdonald after all.”

Folding his muscular arms across his broad chest, he spoke with absolute conviction. “I'm not mistaken about Lady Joanna's identity. And I'm going to marry her in the morning.”

Joanna planted her hands on her hips and glared at the pigheaded, stiff-necked man. “Godsakes, MacLean! How can any creature on God's green earth be so obtuse? We've told you that Lady Joanna is missing. She's wandering about somewhere in a daze!”

He met her obvious dismay with a dazzling smile that deepened the creases around the corners of his eyes and displayed his even white teeth. “Now that the king is at Kinlochleven, I expect the truth from everyone at the wedding.”

Joanna flung her hands wide in exasperation. “What if you're mistaken? Won't you feel foolish standing at the altar without a bride?”

“I'm counting on the Maid of Glencoe to be at the wedding,” he stated. He strode along the barbican, the wide pleats of his belted plaid swinging about his bare thighs. The breeze ruffled the three eagle feathers in his green bonnet and stirred the lace at his throat.

Joanna stayed right beside him, hoping to make the intractable man see reason.

“By now,” he continued, “the news of our marriage celebration has spread through the countryside. If Idoine isn't the Maid of Glencoe, my future bride will have heard the reports. She'll know about the preparations taking place at this moment—the banquet, the flowers in the chapel, the large number of guests, including the King of Scotland, who'll be present at the ceremony.”

Joanna had to take two steps for every one of his, but she refused to be left behind. “Won't it be rather…humiliating…to stand in front of the altar before all those guests, if she doesn't appear?”

“'Tis my hope that very fact will motivate her to attend her own wedding.”

“And what if she doesn't?” Joanna demanded, catching his sleeve and tugging persistently. “The maid is simpleminded, if you recall.”

He halted and with a smile of absolute confidence tapped the rolled parchment on her shoulder as though bestowing knighthood. “I appreciate your concern, Joey, but I've made alternate plans.”

“You have?” She gaped at him in shock. Disappointment threatened to choke her, and her contralto dropped to a hoarse croak. “You'll marry someone else?”

Rory chuckled at the look of consternation on Joanna's dirty face. He wanted to lift her up and twirl her around in a circle, informing her bluntly that she was the most outrageous little minx in Scotland. Then he'd lower her soft, supple form inch by sweet inch, till he could nuzzle the valley between the firm young breasts hidden beneath that overlarge shirt, and tell her she belonged to him. To him and no other.

“I hadn't thought of choosing another bride,” he said, pretending to give the idea some consideration. “But I'd best honor the king's wishes and marry Lady Joanna.”

“But how can you marry her, if she's not at the wedding?”

“She'll be there.”

Scowling, Joanna turned to go, and Rory clasped her shoulder to hold her in place beside him. “Everyone's to be attired in his best garments for the ceremony.”

She glanced down at her shabby clothing. “This is my best,” she declared stubbornly. “'Tis the only plaid and shirt I own.”

For once, she was undoubtedly telling the truth.

“Then make certain you take a bath this evening,” he warned her. “Don't appear at my wedding with a dirty face and grimy hands, laddie, or I'll take it as a personal insult. Just because you have an aversion to bathing doesn't mean you don't have to clean up for the celebration like everyone else in the castle. Tomorrow's going to be a very special day.”

The blue eyes flashed with ire. “I'm not sure I'm even coming to your stupid wedding,” she retorted.

“Everyone in Kinlochleven has been ordered to attend,” he said in a low, threatening voice. He bent closer for emphasis. “You be there, Joey, or I'll skin the hide off your wee frame and nail it to the chapel door.”

Joanna shrugged his hand away and started toward the stairs. “All right, I'll be there,” she grumbled. “All scrubbed and shiny. But you're going to feel like a first-class jackass standing at the altar all by yourself.”

“You let me worry about that,” Rory called to her back with a grin.

 

After the guests had retired for the night, Joanna dragged a laundry tub into the buttery with Maude's help. She washed her long hair with her companion's assistance and wrapped it in a large linen towel that had been warmed before the kitchen fire. Then Maude left the small service room, locking the door from the outside and dropping the key into her pocket to make sure her young charge wouldn't be disturbed.

Lolling back in the steaming water, Joanna enjoyed the luxury of an unhurried bath at last. She propped her heels against the smooth wooden staves and wiggled her toes in ecstasy. She'd had to forgo the perfumed soap she loved; she couldn't risk anyone noticing at the wedding tomorrow that Joey Macdonald smelled like a bouquet of roses. But that small sacrifice didn't spoil the pleasure of the moment.

Joanna released a long, drawn-out sigh as she gazed about at the bottles of wine and flagons of ale stored on the shelves along the wall.

The Sea Dragon had bathed earlier in the evening. She'd seen Abby hustling up and down the stairs to his bedchamber with buckets of hot water.

The image of MacLean stepping into his bath naked as the day he was born brought a warm, tingly feeling inside. Scooting down in the water, she rested her turbaned head against the back of the tub and closed her eyes, imagining what it would be like to touch him. She longed to smooth her hands over his bare male flesh, bury her fingertips in the thick mat of golden-brown hair on his chest, and learn the strength of his corded muscles. Would his solid, imposing frame feel as hard and unforgiving as it looked?

Like Cuchulainn in the old Celtic ballads, the mighty warlord seemed the epitome of courage and strength. Whether he had a sea dragon's tail no longer seemed to matter, though the possibility that he'd cavorted with mermaids brought a sudden frown.

Joanna clicked her tongue and shook her head in censure. She could imagine the scandalous sight of him entwined with a voluptuous water nymph, his muscular limbs enclosing the willing, nubile form. The creature's soft, lush breasts pressed against his hairy chest as he ran his questing hand over her smoothly rounded rump and pulled her even closer.

But mermaids didn't have rumps, smoothly rounded or otherwise; they had tails like a fish.

Godsakes, MacLean wasn't holding a water nymph in his arms.

He held Joanna—Joanna Macdonald without a stitch of clothing on.

Like a seductive sea maiden, she wrapped her arms around his naked body. His fingers tangled in her long red hair as he kissed her—a hot, scorching, passionate kiss that branded her as his mate. Forever.

An unfamiliar ache spread through Joanna, so intense, so compelling, she could feel her nipples tighten and her breasts grow full and taut. A pulsing sensation spread at the juncture of her thighs as the warm water lapped against her secret places. What would it be like if he were to touch her there?

Her eyes flew open, and she sat up straighter in the tub. A flush scalded her cheeks.

Good Lord! Her tutors at Allonby had warned her of the dangers of an idle mind.

Pursing her mouth resolutely, Joanna picked up the yellow soap on the stool nearby and briskly lathered a small cloth, scolding herself for her wanton thoughts.

Her kinsmen still regarded her with skepticism because of her English blood. If they suspected her enthrallment with the Sea Dragon, they'd renounce her as their chieftain. Black magic or not, she hadn't proven immune to MacLean's physical charms. Seeing him beside Andrew, Joanna had been forced to admit that she'd much rather wed the golden-haired chief than the callow sixteen-year-old lad, whose world centered solely around himself and his amuse
ments. But more than anything, she yearned to be loved and accepted by her clansmen—even if it meant marrying Andrew.