The Maclean Groom (15 page)

MacLean was the hellhound who'd captured her grandfather.

She mustn't ever forget that.

After Joanna's mother had died, Somerled Macdonald had come to Cumberland to rescue his granddaughter from her restricted and circumscribed life with her aunt and uncle. He'd arrived before Allonby Castle's gate with his men-at-arms, threatening to raze the fortress if they didn't turn the Maid of Glencoe over to him at once.

Wakened from a sound sleep, Joanna had been frightened at first, not knowing which fierce Highland chieftain demanded her person. Aunt Clarissa begged her to save them all from certain death, while Uncle Philip assured Joanna she'd merely be held for ransom and not tortured and killed.

Joanna knew better. If the hostile Scots on the other side of the walls were MacLean clansmen, her ancient foes would inflict a great deal of pain and humiliation on her before they killed her.

The walk across the outer bailey had seemed to drain Joanna of whatever courage she possessed. With each step she invoked a different saint to save her, in a litany motivated by sheer cravenness.

The castle gate had opened slowly, creaking on its thick iron hinges, and Joanna walked beneath the raised portcullis, her heart pounding, but ready to face her enemies as a true Macdonald.

Standing several paces in front of the other Highlanders, the huge, gray-bearded chieftain stood waiting for her. The moment she appeared within the glow of their torches, he held out his gloved hand.

“Child,” he called softly in the Gaelic, “'tis really you.”

At the sound of his familiar, beloved voice, she stopped short and peered at him through the darkness. “Grandpapa?” she squeaked.

“'Tis me, lass,” he said with a broad smile. “I knew those blasted Sassenachs would never let you come with me unless I threatened to destroy the whole blessed castle first.” With a raucous burst of laughter, he opened his arms, and Joanna flew to him.

Somerled Macdonald, labeled the Red Wolf because of his implacable resistance against the Stewart kings, enclosed her in his welcoming embrace. Lifting her completely off the ground, he kissed her temple and cheek as he hugged her tight.

“'Tis time to be going home, darling of my heart,” he'd said, using his pet name for her. “Time to go home to the Highlands.”

Through the buttery door, the sound of male laughter in the kitchen brought Joanna back from her bittersweet memories.

Even on the eve of his wedding, MacLean was participating in the nightly game of tarots. She heard his deep chuckle as he won a pile of coins.

Well, let the notorious Sea Dragon laugh. Tomorrow he'd face the ultimate humiliation of standing alone at the altar like a pathetic and rejected buffoon.

Godsakes, she'd tried to warn him.

If the arrogant laird believed that Lady Joanna would appear at the church steps to save him from his self-inflicted mortification, he was sadly mistaken. No Macdonald could ever feel anything but contempt for a MacLean.

Joanna would squelch every trace of tender feeling for the King's Avenger from her heart. Her duty lay with her clan. She could never marry the man responsible for Somerled's death on the gallows.

T
he morning of the wedding bloomed as sweet and delicate as the apple blossoms in the May sunshine. An azure sky dotted with puffs of white clouds promised a day the inhabitants of Kinlochleven Castle would long remember—some with immense pleasure, others with deep resentment, depending on whether they were MacLeans or Macdonalds.

Lairds and ladies in costly velvets and taffetas paraded down the center aisle of the chapel and took their places in the pews, as though this were just another ordinary marriage ceremony.

Joanna slipped into her seat alongside Maude, apprehension slithering around in the pit of her belly like the evil serpent in the Garden of Eden. Ewen and Godfrey planned to wait until the last possible moment before announcing to the entire congregation that The MacLean's intended bride was missing. His mistaken assumption that Lady Idoine was the Maid of Glencoe hadn't been their doing. Ewen's daughter had sworn to her true identity on a sacred relic, but the King's Avenger had refused to believe her. There were several impartial witnesses present in the chapel who could verify their statement.

For the tenth time that morning, Joanna reminded herself that MacLean's coming humiliation wouldn't be her fault. God knew, she'd tried to warn him from this demented farce.

She clenched her hands in her lap and watched from the corner of her eye as Keir MacNeil, splendid in his green and blue plaid, escorted his lovely mother to the front pew. His straight black hair, tied with a thong, hung to the middle of his back. The MacNeils were descended from a long line of Celtic sea rovers, and his rugged features, swarthy complexion, scarred brow, and broken nose gave him the roguish air of a pirate. Attired in red and black tartan, Duncan Stewart, second earl of Appin, followed his sister and nephew.

Lady Emma had chosen the pearl-studded headdress to go with her green satin gown, after all. Ladies Beatrix and Idoine proudly displayed their finest ensembles as well. Loaded down with gold chains, brooches, and bracelets, with tasseled purses hanging from their girdles and elegant gloves on their hands, they took their places in the front pew of the chapel.

That morning, Idoine had completed her toilette with special care, tinting her round face with skin whitener and pink rouge. 'Twas a shame the sulky frown that creased her forehead ruined the sought-after effect of meek and mild virginal maid. Joanna knew that if MacLean actually tried to marry her cousin, Idoine would throw a fit, kicking and screaming and pointing out Joey Macdonald as the real bride.

Tugging her stocking cap snugly over her ears, Joanna glanced down at her threadbare apparel and edged closer to Maude's large, reassuring frame. Her companion had been delayed with last-minute tasks and hadn't been able to meet Joanna in the pantry at sunup as planned.

There hadn't been enough time for Maude to weave Joanna's unruly mane into a tight braid as she'd done every other morning since the Sea Dragon's arrival. Together, they'd hastily scooped up Joanna's long hair, piled it on top of her head, and anchored it loosely in place with two combs.

Joanna prayed the wayward locks would remain hidden throughout the lengthy High Mass. Afterward, she and
Maude could slip into one of the small service rooms off the kitchen and braid her hair securely. She couldn't chance having her hair tumble down past her shoulders in front of the entire Scottish court during the banquet to follow.

That would put every Macdonald at sword's point and herself in the shadow of the hangman.

After MacLean's explicit instructions the previous afternoon, she hadn't dared to apply soot to her face and hands. She felt almost naked without the dirt to hide behind. Several Macdonalds had glanced at her that morning and grimaced, certain the deception was over. But the MacLean men-at-arms only smiled and waved a friendly hello to the worried-looking serving lad.

Good Lord! Clan MacLean was easier to dupe than a wagonload of country bumpkins at a fair.

The congregation rose when James Stewart, King of Scotland, entered, decked out in traditional Highland garb in honor of his trusted friend. His close advisers accompanied him, attired in tawny satin doublets and coats of blue velvet. Everyone waited in respectful silence as the dignified procession wended its way up the aisle and His Majesty, facing the gathering, settled himself in a large wooden chair on the altar's dais beneath a blue and gold canopy.

Joanna's breath caught when MacLean entered from the side of the chancel, accompanied by Father Thomas and his brother Lachlan.

Tall and resplendent, the bridegroom wore a fine linen shirt with lace at the collar and cuffs, and a green velvet jacket. A jeweled bodkin fastened the corner of his green and black belted plaid to his shoulder. A sealskin sporran, jewel-encrusted dress sword, silver mounted dirk, checkered short hose with rosette points, and black brogues with shiny gold buckles completed his costume.

There was no mistaking the power and wealth of this forceful Highland chief on his wedding day.

There was no mistaking the confusion written across Father Thomas's gaunt face either. The priest looked around
the chapel at the assemblage, his dark, deep-set eyes betraying his bafflement.

“My dear friends,” he began after a minute's painful hesitation, “earlier this morning, His Majesty, King James, as Lady Joanna's guardian, signed the marriage contract, as did the chief of Clan MacLean. Laird Lachlan MacRath and Lady Emma MacNeil witnessed the signing. The banns having been duly read, there is no legal impediment to the marriage of Joanna Macdonald and Rory MacLean.”

The congregation shifted in their seats, looking at one another in wonderment. From where Joanna sat, she could see Ewen turn to his brother and son with a smirk and murmur something under his breath. Godfrey's shoulders shook with silent laughter, but Andrew's chin jerked upward in an unconscious display of nervous tension.

“Laird MacLean had hoped,” Father Thomas continued in a stilted manner, “that Lady Joanna would choose to attend the wedding this morning, but to his disappointment, she has not come forward. So at the request of The MacLean, and by permission of His Gracious Majesty, the vows for the absent bride will be said by a proxy.”

A startled silence descended on the assembly for one long, incredulous moment, then the rustle of satins and silks and the whisperings of astounded men and women filled the chapel. Everyone looked around in astonishment, trying to discover which lass had been chosen to take the part of the missing bride.

In the front pew beside her mother, Idoine preened in her garish orange velvet, certain that as the Maid of Glencoe's cousin, she'd be the obvious choice. Joanna sent a plea heavenward that this time the presumptuous damsel was correct.

Clasping his prayer book so tightly his knuckles turned white. Father Thomas cleared his throat, and the crowd gradually quieted. “His Majesty has left the selection of the substitute bride to the groom, who informed me this morning that he'll chose another Macdonald to say the vows for Lady Joanna during the ceremony.” Hollow-eyed,
the spare, grim-faced cleric turned to MacLean expectantly.

Joanna slouched down beside Maude, attempting to hide behind Davie, who was seated in front of her, so she couldn't be seen from the altar. She peered cautiously around the nave, and the back of her neck prickled with fear. MacLean men-at-arms stood at every portal, their brawny shoulders filling the door frames. Even in the hallowed sanctuary of the church, they bristled with weapons.

Stealthily, she straightened her spine and peeked over Davie's stooped shoulder.

A confident smile curved the corners of MacLean's mouth as he stepped down from the altar's dais. He moved through the open gates of the chancel railing and stood at the front of the center aisle.

The brideless groom gave no sign of the abject mortification he should have been feeling. Truth was, he appeared to be in complete control of the entire situation.

“For the person who will stand at the altar beside me and recite my bride's vows,” he said in a clear, ringing tone, “I have chosen my wee friend, Joey Macdonald.”

Joanna gasped in dismay and slunk lower in her seat. She could feel her scalp tighten beneath the frayed cap, as the serpent in her belly sank its fangs into her vitals.

Rory moved to where Joanna sat cringing beside her former nursemaid. The deep violet-blue eyes grew wider with each step that brought him closer, till he stood beside her at the end of the pew.

Bowing her head, she closed her eyes, folded her hands, and started to pray in earnest. Had she bothered to look over at Maude, she'd have seen the glow of happiness shining on her companion's face.

“Since you were so concerned for me yesterday,” Rory said to the crouching demoiselle, “I was certain you'd be willing to assist me this morning.” He extended his hand to her. “Help me out of this dilemma, lad. Come say the vows for Lady Joanna.”

“Surely not me, laird,” she mumbled, her head still bent. The long lashes fluttered like silken fans above her rosy
cheeks. “You don't want a poor orphan lad to take the place of your heiress bride.”

“Ah, but I do,” he quietly insisted.

She slumped farther down on the bench, refusing to meet his gaze. “I can't, milord. 'Twouldn't be right.”

This time his words carried an uncompromising conviction. “I insist.”

Joanna's russet lashes flew up and she stared at him, speechless with horror. Her gaze locked with his, she slowly reached out her fine-boned hand, and their fingers touched. He drew her up, and she accompanied him past the congregation to the altar as though in a daze.

The Scottish courtiers gaped in disbelief, confusion apparent on their stunned faces. In his seat in the front pew, the haughty earl of Argyll frowned at the startling turn of events. Then he folded his arms and waited with calm indifference for the ceremony to proceed with a mere wisp of a lad taking the vows for the absent bride.

Ewen and Godfrey glared at Rory, the creases deepening on their foreheads. Beside his father, Andrew followed Joanna's slight form with worried, questioning eyes. But the trio did nothing to give the secret of her identity away—exactly as Rory had predicted.

As he and Joanna made their way to the front of the chapel, the Macdonald men-at-arms stirred restlessly on the hard benches. Short of open rebellion against the king, there was nothing they or anyone else could do. To draw arms in a church would be just cause for excommunication.

Rory was well aware that his own men, stationed before every exit, were grinning broadly at the wee bride attired in boy's clothing. From the moment they'd learned of her disguise, they'd been mesmerized by the indomitable lassie. The ferocious MacLeans considered her attempt to deceive them a hilarious jest. Their chief's new lady was a plucky Scots lass with more spunk than any Sassenach maid had ever shown.

Side by side, Rory, in full Highland splendor, and
Joanna, in a serving lad's shabby garments, stood before the priest at the altar, and the chapel grew eerily silent.

 

Joanna's muddled mind could scarcely comprehend what Father Thomas was saying as he opened his prayer book and made the sign of the cross over them.

Great Lord above!

What an incredible stroke of bad fortune to have MacLean choose Joey Macdonald to be his bride's proxy!

She could almost feel Ewen's infuriated glare boring into her back. If her clan's commander thought she'd bravely refuse to speak the vows and risk hanging as a traitor, he was woefully mistaken. Jeanne d'Arc couldn't help her now. Not all the angels and saints in heaven could deliver her from this debacle.

Joanna's body trembled from shock and a burgeoning awareness of what was about to transpire.

Godsakes, this wasn't the wedding she'd always dreamed of!

Blindly, Joanna looked up at the rose window above the altar and blinked back tears of disappointment and chagrin. Dressed like a lowly servant in boy's garb, with a hideous stocking cap covering her long hair, she felt her cheeks flame with embarrassment.

Exasperation at MacLean's obtuseness, resentment at Ewen's selfish scheming, but most of all, anger at herself burned inside Joanna. The ruse had been her own idea; she now had only herself to blame. Certainly not MacLean, who believed her the lad she pretended to be.

Why did he have to be so blasted trusting?

Gathering her scattered wits about her, she realized that MacLean had taken her shaky hand in his firm, warm grasp and drawn her close beside him. The sheer size of her bridegroom took her breath away. His broad shoulders blocked out the sight of her disgruntled kinsmen. All she could see was the magnificent Highland laird she was about to marry.

Timidly, Joanna looked up to find his gaze upon her, and
though she wanted to look away, she could not. He held her enthralled with his dragon-green eyes.

At the sight of the tears clinging stubbornly to her lashes, he drew her even nearer. A tender smile flickered across his mouth, and he rubbed his callused thumb across her knuckles in a reassuring gesture.

Though she'd carried her deceitful guise through to the end, Joanna was going to marry the chief of Clan MacLean, after all. She would soon be his wife. A sudden, inexplicable tingle of excitement coursed through her at the thought, making it hard to breathe. A fragile yet undeniable thread of longing tightened around her heart.

The truth, so long denied, sprang forth like the tender shoots of the snowdrop through the late-winter snow.

She wanted to be his wife
.

Father Thomas had been speaking for some time, though she hadn't heard a syllable he'd uttered. But now the priest raised his voice, slicing through Joanna's dreamlike trance as he addressed the entire assembly. “If anyone knows of any just cause or impediment as to why this wedding should not go forward, speak now, or forever hold thy peace.”