The Maclean Groom (18 page)

She leaned toward him with a docile smile and spoke behind a cupped hand. “Apparently no one taught you, milord husband, that 'tis considered poor manners to stare down the neckline of your table partner's gown.”

He had the indecency to laugh out loud. “You're not merely my table partner,” he replied, his gaze continuing its indolent scrutiny. “'Tis my bed partner you are, Lady MacLean. Every man looks forward to the sugared dainties that follow the meal. I'm merely enjoying a glimpse of the sweet confections to come.”

Using the pretext of examining the rope of pearls his mother had given her, MacLean brushed the back of his fingers across her exposed bosom. With a start of surprise, Joanna felt her breasts swell and her nipples tighten in response.

A faint, knowing smile played across his lips. “Who would have thought such bounty lay hidden beneath that overlarge shirt?” he murmured, his words a low, throaty rasp in her ear. “And now 'tis all mine for the plundering.”

Belatedly, Joanna realized his intent.

Her husband was seducing her.

Right here in Kinlochleven's great hall.

It didn't seem to matter that the room was crowded with people. From the smoldering fire in his eyes, she wondered for a moment if he intended to throw her over his shoulder like a bundle of kindling and carry her up the stairs to their bedchamber.

Every part of Joanna seemed to come alive at the thought. She squirmed in her chair, warmth oozing through her like honey in the sunshine, and read the sure knowledge in his gaze.

She was his for the taking.

 

After the meal, the guisers performed a bawdy farce filled with innuendoes and sly allusions. The receptive audience roared with glee when the elderly husband greeted his toothsome young wife with a lascivious leer, then fell flat on his face as he lunged for her.

Next one of the king's Italian minstrels favored them with a pastorale in which the heroine was a charming shepherdess. The guests, replete with food and drink, listened in quiet appreciation.

Finally an elderly bard holding a Celtic harp took the floor. He bowed low to the king and again to Joanna, then settled himself on a high, three-legged stool.

“I have the privilege on this very special occasion,” he announced, “to sing a ballad composed by the chief of Clan MacLean in honor of his lady wife.”

Suddenly tense, Rory watched Joanna from the corner of his eye. He clenched his hand on the tablecloth, while his other hand remained fixed and still about Joanna's small waist.

Lachlan had refused to allow his older brother to hear the composition, saying there wouldn't be time to make any changes. Whether Rory was satisfied or not, the music and words would have to suffice as written.

Joanna leaned forward, her attention focused on the gnarled figure, wondering, no doubt, why her husband had chosen such an ancient, white-bearded man to sing the love song to her. When Fergus MacQuisten's magnificent full-throated tenor filled the hall, an awed hush descended over the company.

The words and music Lachlan had composed expressed an unrequited, nearly hopeless yearning of a lord for an exquisite yet unattainable lady. Like Venus shining in the night sky, she was the unreachable goal, the unattainable quest. The subtle yet unmistakably romantic praises for her beauty and intellect surpassed anything they'd ever heard.

Lofty and noble as the words were, an earthly hunger had been woven throughout. Plaintive and sweet, the song spoke to each listener's secret longing, the grand passion hidden within each lonely heart.

As Fergus sang, Joanna turned within the compass of Rory's arm and gazed up at him. He met her dreamy eyes, certain in the knowledge that she was seeing him in a whole new light.

Not as a rough, crude soldier, but a gallant champion.

A knight in shining armor.

Rory wasn't quite sure how, but in some way, his brother had managed to capture the aching need he felt for this tiny slip of a lass and yet could never hope to put into words. How he would ever repay Lachlan, he couldn't imagine. At this moment, nothing seemed enough.

As the last strains of the ballad faded away, Joanna leaned toward him. “'Twas beautiful, Rory,” she said on
a sigh. She placed her fingers lightly on his cheek. “I've never heard anything so moving.”

For the first time that day, she initiated a kiss. A kiss of such tenderness, such tentative, wondering exploration, Rory's heart nearly exploded. His entire body reacted to her shy, hesitant touch with a ravenous lust that pulsed through his veins and tightened every muscle.

Dammit, he couldn't give in to his rampaging carnal desires now. 'Twas barely past midday, far too early to make a seemly exit, though he longed to sweep his wife into his arms and carry her upstairs, ignoring the shocked looks of the guests. He yearned to lay Joanna on their bed and slowly, lingeringly remove the satin gown and the fragile chemise beneath.

But even greater than the need to slake his lust, Rory wanted this day, this moment, to remain in Joanna's memory forever as a magical dream come true.

Someday he'd tell her the truth—that the tenderly erotic love song had been written by his brother. And they'd laugh about it together, because by then they'd have a half-dozen weans, bonny daughters and sturdy sons, crawling over their bedcovers in the mornings, demanding attention.

But the nights…ah, the nights…they'd have all to themselves.

The stately strains of the pavane being played by the musicians in the gallery slowly impinged upon Rory's consciousness. He reluctantly released Joanna and rose to his feet.

“I think 'tis time for our wedding dance, Lady MacLean,” he said with a nervous smile. He need only perform this one last feat, then he could sit back and enjoy the rest of the day.

Rory led Joanna down from the dais and to the center of the hall, where he managed a passable bow. Aware of the curious eyes fastened upon them, he intended to concentrate on the instructions Lachlan had called out as he'd practiced with Keir. If his movements appeared somewhat labored
and stilted, so be it. Most of all, he was determined not to step on her long velvet train.

Joanna rose from her deep curtsy and took the hand Rory held out to her. Her face shone with pleasure in the dance, the indigo eyes with their thick russet lashes sparkling like starshine. The glorious mane of coppery hair drifted past her shoulders and fell to her waist in lustrous silken curls. Petite and fine-boned, she moved across the floor with an unconscious elegance.

He'd known she'd be attractive once she set aside the boy's clothes and dressed befitting a lass, but even in his most vivid imaginings, he'd never dreamed how adorably feminine she'd be.

Joanna pointed her foot in a graceful, gliding movement, and Rory's blood ran cold at the size of the white satin slipper. One misstep and he'd break every bone in that dainty wee foot.

He'd lost count long ago of how many foes he'd slain on the field. In one battle alone, he'd brought down fourteen men with his sword and dirk. Yet this slight lassie had him shaking in his shiny dress brogues. A fine sheen of sweat broke out on his brow. He only hoped she wouldn't guess the effect she had on him.

“Our wedding feast was wonderful,” Joanna confided. “I've never seen some of the exotic dishes the king's chef prepared.”

Every time his wife sank low in one of the many curtsies required in the pavane, Rory bent forward in a courtly révérance. He discovered to his incredible delight that he was afforded a sight of her bosom that would have turned an eighty-year-old archbishop into a rutting stag. The smooth, dewy globes of her breasts rose firm and high above the low neckline, so creamy white and delectable they made a man salivate with just one peek.

Rory smiled. Dancing with Joanna was proving far more pleasurable than he could have possibly envisioned. If she'd only dip just a bit lower, he'd be blessed with a glimpse of those sweet, rosy peaks.

“Thankfully,” he replied, “my mother took over the task of guarding you.”

“Guarding me!” she exclaimed. “From what? Going into the kitchen?”

She dipped again, and Rory ran his tongue across his lips like a man parched with thirst. He gave a quick nod, his gaze fastened on the mouthwatering display. “Why else?”

Joanna tilted her head, fixing him with a quizzical look before she came to a graceful halt and dropped into a final curtsy.

The high rafters rang with applause. Rory realized in surprise that the music had stopped and the dance had come to an end. He released a pent-up breath of satisfaction. His wee bride still had all ten toes, and not a footprint could be seen on the pristine white velvet of her train.

Keir and Lachlan waited at the edge of the dance floor, wide smiles creasing their faces. They met the couple as Rory led Joanna toward the dais.

Lachlan grabbed his older brother around the neck, pulled him close, and spoke in a low, amused tone. “When I said to show your hunger for your bride. I didn't mean you were to strip the poor lass naked with your eyes on the dance floor, ye bloody fool.”

Rory frowned. He hadn't realized his emotions were so blasted transparent.

“Why the hell not?” Keir asked with a chuckle. “She's his now. He can do as he damn well pleases with her.”

Joanna had heard their exchange, and from the spark of indignation in her eye, was about to offer a scathing retort. Before she could say a word, Keir snatched his good-sister's hand and tugged her out of Rory's grasp.

“The next dance in the suite is a galliard,” Keir said as he deftly slipped the sleeveless robe off Joanna's shoulders and handed it to her bridegroom. “I suggest you go have another glass of wine, Laird MacLean, while I gallop around the floor with your lady wife.”

Rory scowled down at his youngest brother's big feet. “Just be sure you don't step on her,” he warned.

 

In the afternoon, the guests were treated to a joust. To Joanna's obvious delight, the MacLeans had unearthed armor and weapons—captured from Sassenach soldiers nearly a hundred years before—in the castle's armory. They'd polished the steel helmets, breastplates, greaves, and gauntlets till the pieces gleamed like silver in the spring sunshine.

A pavilion had been erected in the grassy meadow outside the castle walls, where bright pennons snapped in the breeze. When Joanna and Rory took their places beside the king, Fearchar rode to the center of the field on his huge steed. Armed with shield and lance, he approached the three and tipped his weapon in salute.

“With my laird's permission,” he said in his booming voice, “and if milady will allow, I will act as her champion.”

Rory signaled his approval, and Joanna tied a green satin ribbon to the end of Fearchar's lance.

“For luck,” she told her knight-errant. Blue eyes shining, she clasped Rory's arm in excitement and leaned closer to him. “How could you have planned all this without my knowing?”

“The MacLeans are rather good at keeping secrets,” he said with a crooked grin. “Especially from Macdonalds.”

She wrinkled her freckled nose and flashed him a puckish smile. “'Tis very clever you'll be thinking yourself, milord husband. But the next time you try to surprise me, I won't act so surprised. That will serve you.”

The men had blunted the weapons for safety. Even so, every time Fearchar unseated his opponent, a roar would go up from the enthusiastic crowd. As the toppled warrior hit the ground with a thud, Joanna would wince and cover her eyes.

Thick-necked and barrel-chested, Murdoch MacLean proved the blond titan's biggest threat, just as expected. At the first pass, Fearchar shattered a lance on his kinsman's shield without Murdoch even losing the stirrups. The sec
ond try proved more successful. The thud of iron-tipped lance against steel jacket resounded, and Murdoch flew from his horse to fall unconscious on the ground.

The prone man quickly regained his wits, though, and with a bow to his sovereign and the bridal couple, strode from the field.

“Thank God,” Joanna said with a grateful sigh. She slipped her hand into Rory's and laced her fingers with his.

The simple move to seek his reassurance and strength stormed the keep of Rory's well-guarded heart. His chest compressed, as though the thick-walled bastions protecting his vulnerable emotions crumpled inward beneath her gentle onslaught. Her slightest touch carried more power, more potential for his own destruction, than a claymore wielded by a foe.

“My men are all battle veterans,” he told her, his voice tight and strained with the need to maintain some small measure of distance.
She
was supposed to be swept away, not Rory. “This joust is no more than child's play to them.”

Her eyes grew somber. “Still, I would feel terrible if one of them were seriously hurt, especially on my behalf.”

“Why, Lady MacLean,” he said, bringing her fingers to his lips, “I think you're starting to like us.”

She lifted one shoulder noncommittally. “Some of you, perhaps.”

“Which of us?” he prodded.

“Tam and Arthur, and Fearchar, of course,” she said, idly measuring the length of her fingers against his own. “He even helped Maude gather lichens and brambles to make dyes for her yarn, so she can complete the tapestry she's making.”

Rory recalled the hedonistic scene depicting a dragon-tailed sea raider sporting with a water nymph. “The one in the solar?”

“That one.”

He arched an eyebrow quizzically. “We wondered if it portrayed some little-known Greek myth.”

Joanna pursed her lips, as though to keep from laughing. Avoiding his eyes, she studied their clasped hands. “Not Greek,” she said after a moment, “nor Roman, either. The tapestry was inspired by an old Celtic legend.”

He smiled at her with open skepticism. “Not any I've ever heard of.”

“Oh, 'tis a legend known only to the Macdonalds,” she explained. When she met Rory's gaze, her eyes sparkled with naughtiness, warning him there was more to the tapestry than she was willing to reveal.