The Maclean Groom (17 page)

The king's brown eyes twinkled in his lean, pale face as he gazed at Joanna reassuringly. He took her hand and placed it on his crooked elbow. “No one appreciates the attraction of a bonny lass more than your sovereign,” he said, patting her fingers. “Since we must one day choose our bride for political reasons, we can only hope that we shall be fortunate enough to find a lass as fair as Laird MacLean's.”

“Your Majesty is too kind,” Joanna replied with a shy smile. She could see why the king was so immensely popular with most of his subjects—the exception being, of course, the Macdonalds and their allies in the Hebrides.

At a nod from the king, two of his courtiers opened the main doors.

Joanna entered the nave alongside James Stewart, and the congregation rose to its feet. From the choir above them came the magnificently trained voices of the Observantine friars and Poor Clares, accompanied by the sweet lilting strains of a bagpipe. So this was why the friars and nuns had been included in the royal entourage.

Ahead, MacLean waited for her in front of the altar. His observant gaze took in her loosely flowing locks, the white satin gown, and the velvet robe with its long, elegant train. A slow, devastating smile spread across his face as he held out his hand to her.

Rory watched Joanna walk majestically up the aisle on
the arm of the King of Scotland, past the grinning MacLeans and the scowling Macdonalds, past Kinlochleven's faithful retainers and servants, past the entire Scottish court.

The sight of her heart-shaped, gamin face sent his spirit aloft. The wariness and confusion in her marvelous indigo eyes made his throat ache with a need to be tender. To cherish and protect her.

His mother had been right—his lucky star had risen. All the icy cynicism that encased his heart seemed to melt at the sight of his bonny wee bride.

When Joanna and the king reached the altar, Rory took his wife's hand and led her to the pair of prie-dieux. Together they genuflected and knelt on the crimson velvet cushions, and Father Thomas opened his missal.

From the choir came the hauntingly beautiful strains of
Kyrie eleison
, and Joanna and Rory MacLean's wedding Mass began.

S
eated beside Rory at the wedding breakfast, Joanna looked about in wonder at Kinlochleven's great hall. Pink roses and white apple blossoms tied with green ribbons festooned the chamber, along with branches of rowan to ward off evil spirits and ensure the bridal couple's good fortune in the years to come.

Golden candlesticks with beeswax tapers lit every table. Elegant china plates from the Orient, embossed silver goblets, cups, saucers, knives, and rare spoons fashioned by Flemish silversmiths adorned the sparkling white cloths. The hall's herbed rushes had been swept up, and thick carpets from the Levant rolled out across the stone floor.

Great press cupboards sat against the high walls, their doors left open to display exquisitely embroidered linens, bolts of fine wool, taffeta, damask, and cloth of gold. Fine pelts of rabbit, miniver, otter, marten, fox, ermine, and sable spilled over from the low carved chests placed along the rear of the chamber beneath the gallery. Colorful Italian tapestries depicting scenes of ancient Rome hung in the hall's arched recesses. The munificence of the dowry gifts given by the groom and his family to his bride surpassed anyone's remembrance of weddings past.

Overwhelmed by the nearness of her husband, Joanna was barely aware of the others seated at the principal board on the canopied dais. On MacLean's left, King James conversed pleasantly with earls Archibald Campbell of Argyll
and Duncan Stewart of Appin. Beyond them, Lady Emma, Lachlan, and Keir carried on an animated conversation.

Ewen sat on Joanna's immediate right, mute and stony-faced, while Lady Beatrix engaged Godfrey in a stilted conversation. A wrathful frown creasing his handsome visage, Andrew sat beside his sister in festering silence.

Although Andrew hadn't spoken two words to Joanna that morning, he'd followed her every movement with his irate gaze. Attired in red and blue tartan, he made a dazzling display of Highland bravura. The ladies of the Scottish court openly admired his perfect features and gorgeous dark locks, but today he paid them no heed.

Father Thomas had wisely chosen to join the visiting religious at their table on one side of the hall. He rose to say grace, and for a few brief moments, a peaceful quiet reigned. Then the servants wound their way through capering children, carrying enormous trays of roast beef, lamb, salmon, trout, sturgeon and porpoise, and platters piled high with crab, crayfish, oyster and eels. Lackeys in the royal gold and blue livery attended the guests with ewers of water, silver basins, and towels.

Joanna turned to her husband. Though she'd been tricked into saying her wedding vows, she felt good manners demanded that she express her gratitude for the wondrous gifts and, most especially, the thoughtfulness of having his mother bring the exquisite bridal gown. “MacLean, I—”

“Rory,” he insisted as he slipped his arm about her waist. He leaned toward her and cupped her cheek in his large hand. His shimmering, sea-dragon's gaze drifted over her face with a lingering thoroughness. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, then rested lightly on her chin. “Call me Rory,” he murmured, just before kissing her. His tongue followed the compressed seam of her lips, pushing boldly between, till it played an enticing game with her own.

Joanna's eyes flew open as his tongue teased hers. She stiffened at the brazen behavior, though it shouldn't have surprised her. He'd kissed her the same way in church.
Twice. Unconcerned with the sanctity of their surroundings, he'd gathered her in his arms at the close of Mass and kissed her with more blatant eroticism than any lass had ever imagined when dreaming of her wedding day. And that just after taking Communion.

Joanna had never heard of such scandalous tongue-kisses, and wondered wildly if he'd learned the shameless trick from a mermaid.

She tried to pull away, just as she'd done before.

Just as before, he wouldn't allow it.

His fingers tangled in the thick hair at the nape of her neck, holding her in place. “Meek and obedient in bed and at board,” he reminded her with a deep, throaty chuckle as he playfully nibbled at her bottom lip. “You can't have forgotten the words you spoke such a short time ago, wife.”

“'Tis just that I'm not certain we're supposed to be doing this,” she whispered.

He whispered in return. “Doing what?”

Joanna lowered her head, too embarrassed to look at him, nearly too embarrassed to respond. Her words were scarcely audible. “What we're doing.”

“You mean kissing.”

Her lids flew up to meet his gaze. “Well, of course, we're expected to kiss,” she answered with exasperation. “'Tis our wedding day. But not…”

The light in his green eyes fairly danced in amusement, as he bracketed her face in both hands. “Ah, that,” he said in a serious tone, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth told her he wanted to laugh. “Don't worry, lass. 'Tis the way every groom kisses his bride.”

“It is?”

“It is.”

“No one told me to expect it,” she complained with a dubious frown, then looked at him accusingly. “You took me by complete surprise.”

“I'll have lots of surprises for you today, Joanna,” he
promised, as he idly wound a strand of her long hair round his forefinger.

She gazed at him in wonder. A tingle of excitement zig-zagged up and down her spine. A whole field of butterflies took flight inside her belly.

Could it be that he was warning her about his dragon's tail?

“You…you will?”

“I will.” He covered her lips with his and delved into her mouth once again.

Surrendering to his unequivocal demand, Joanna slid her arms around his neck. Seeking further knowledge of this strange way of kissing, she timidly ran the tip of her tongue along the edge of his teeth, then cautiously entered the warm, alluring cavern of his mouth.

The effect upon him was instantaneous. With a strangled sound deep in his throat, he clasped her even nearer, till her soft breasts were smashed against his hard chest. For a startled moment she thought he was going to lift her out of her chair and onto his lap.

Shouts of encouragement at this unbridled license filled the hall. The MacLean soldiers rose to their feet and saluted the bridal couple's passionate kiss with lifted tankards. Laughter and the excited chatter of the guests rose in a babble of voices.

At last, MacLean broke the kiss to nibble softly along her jaw.

Joanna breathed in the fresh scent of pine that mingled with the sweet perfume of her roses and gave a sigh of wonder. When they kissed, she seemed to forget everything but the feel of his lips on hers. “Mm. Thank you—”

“'Tis my pleasure, milady,” he said with a wry grin.

“—for the gifts,” she finished primly. She drew away and sat straight in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. “And for asking your mother to bring such a beautiful gown for me to wear at my wedding.”

He lifted a lock of her hair and threaded it loosely through his long fingers. “Since the sapphires I chose
weren't to your liking, I hoped my mother would succeed where I failed.”

“When did you write her?” Joanna asked in confusion. She lowered her lids and traced a pattern on the fine lace tablecloth with her fingertip. “How long have you known?”

“Would you believe from the start?”

She looked up to meet his gaze, and the laughter in his eyes made her shake her head doubtfully. “Should I believe that?”

He ran his thumb lightly over the bow of her upper lip. “Someday I may tell you, Joanna,” he said in a low, silky tone. The hand at her waist moved to the small of her back, gently stroking the line of her spine. “But not today. Today I'll let you wonder.”

The heat of mortification crept up her neck. “Did you know the evening you ordered me to assist at your bath?”

“Most definitely,” he assured her.

Joanna recalled how he'd allowed her to remove everything but his belt and plaid, then inexplicably ordered her from the room.

Holy heavens.

He knew she'd been perfectly willing to see him naked!

MacLean tipped her chin upward and planted a kiss on the tip of her nose. “Enjoy the celebration,” he told her softly, “while I enjoy the pleasure of watching my wee bride blush.”

“I'm not blushing,” she denied. “'Tis overwarm in here, that's all. And other people are watching, too.”

“Let them,” he said. “They'd be disappointed if the bridegroom didn't kiss his bride.” He followed his words with another scorching kiss, accompanied by the raucous cheers of his men.

MacLean drew away at last when a servant approached to pour more claret in their half-empty goblets. Joanna straightened the crown of roses that wreathed her head and, in an attempt to rein in her galloping heart, tried to con
centrate on the conversation taking place on the other side of her husband.

“MacLean and his brothers are brilliant seamen,” James IV was saying to Argyll. “We weren't anxious for him to end his sailing days and become a prosaic landholder like the rest of us. His fleet of ships made it possible for our trade with the Continent to thrive. And we understood why he'd hesitate to give up his adventurous life, considering the wealth and fame he'd acquired. But our mind was quite set on this match.”

“The old hatreds are as outdated as the old ways,” Archibald Campbell replied glibly. “'Twould appear the invincible Sea Dragon no longer considers the idea of a MacLean marrying a Macdonald quite so distasteful.” He glanced over at the couple and, realizing that the bride sat listening, offered an apologetic smile.

The second earl of Argyll and chief of the Campbells held one of Scotland's largest and most powerful clans in his unrelenting grip. Somewhere in his early fifties, he had the physique of a much younger man. And the wily, reddish-brown eyes of a fox. Those eyes assessed Joanna now with a detached, analytical thoroughness. If he disapproved of her masquerading as a lad, he gave no indication.

Joanna nodded coolly to the earl, then peeked at her husband from beneath her lashes. His jaw had tightened at Argyll's thoughtless words, but he made no comment.

She remembered their conversation in the stables. MacLean had indicated that day that he didn't want to marry the Maid of Glencoe. Later, he'd denied it. But perhaps by then he'd discovered her identity and didn't want to admit the bald, distasteful truth to the unwanted heiress.

The knowledge that he'd never wished to marry her brought the ache of disillusionment. The thought that all of this lavish display might simply be for form's sake came as a crushing blow to her pride.

She'd had no doubts, while living in Cumberland, that her personal worth had been based solely on the extent of
her wealth. That the same remained true in the Highlands left a bitter taste on her tongue.

'Twas only her pride, though, not her heart that felt bruised.

After all, she hadn't wanted to wed him, either. Why else would she have spent the last week dressed as a boy?

Her own feelings bewildered Joanna. She'd willingly kissed the Sea Dragon, even though he'd been responsible for her beloved grandfather's death. God above knew, she shouldn't feel anything but hatred for this brash, overconfident male, whose formidable will swept everyone and everything before it. And she'd gravely disappointed her clansmen. From their end of the table, Ewen and his family's accusing glances reminded her that she'd failed in her most important responsibility as their new chieftain: to marry the man they'd chosen for her.

When MacLean's family had crowded around the bridal couple after Mass, offering their congratulations along with the rest of the Scottish court, only her personal retainers and servants had joined them. Ewen, Godfrey, and Andrew remained apart with the Macdonald men-at-arms, watching in frigid silence. It didn't seem to matter that the decision had been taken out of her hands.

If the Glencoe Macdonalds repudiated Joanna as their chieftain, there'd be a bloody battle as the two sides fought to gain control of Kinlochleven. She and the people of her castle would be caught like helpless pawns in the middle.

 

Course followed sumptuous course, each more elegant than the last; boars' heads, venison, peacocks, swans, suckling pigs, cranes, plovers, and larks. There were great bowls of rice, almonds, figs, dates, raisins, oranges, and pomegranates. Spiced wine and beer appeared in flagons on every table, and the drink flowed freely.

The trestles had been arranged to leave a large open space in the center of the great hall. While the guests feasted, dancers in Highland garb performed to the accompaniment of three bagpipers, Tam MacLean included, play
ing old Scottish airs. Then the king's striking, gray-eyed jongleur strummed a guitar and regaled them with tales of legendary Scots heroes.

During the morning's festivities, MacLean used every opportunity to fondle his new wife. He touched her arm, her waist, her shoulders, her back, and seemed to have a fascination with her long red hair. Twice his large hand drifted across her buttocks. How it found its way under her velvet robe Joanna wasn't quite certain.

The air left her lungs in a rush when she remembered the day he'd slipped his hand beneath her plaid, the long fingers gliding up the back of her bare thigh. 'Twas no accident, she realized now, though he'd pretended not to notice it had even happened.

A rising tide of physical awareness flooded her senses as his callused fingertips lightly caressed the bare skin between the base of her neck and her shoulder. His proprietary gaze repeatedly drifted to her breasts, where the low decolletage revealed the firm mounds rising and falling with each breath.

God's truth, MacLean
was
her husband, however bold he might be. There was nothing she could do in public about the ogling and fondling, short of boxing his ears—which his tutors should have done when he was naught but a lad. What she intended to do in private was another matter. For though he left no doubt that he intended to take his pleasure with her that night, he'd find that the Maid of Glencoe had more than one trick up her sleeve.