The Maclean Groom (20 page)

A feeling of lethargy drifted over Joanna as she rested in the protective circle of his arm. She took in a long, steadying draft of air and idly fingered the lace at his throat, waiting for her heart to gradually cease its frantic race.

Rory placed light, reassuring kisses on her forehead, her cheeks, her nose and chin. “Sweet little wife,” he crooned as he readjusted her petticoat and gown and smoothed down the wrinkled satin folds.

Joanna met his heavy-lidded gaze, unaware of anything or anyone beyond the two of them. She traced his eyebrows and prominent cheekbones with her fingertips, studying
each feature as though seeing it for the first time, then brushed her fingers over his lips.

“Ah, lass,” he whispered against the pads of her exploring fingers, “do you know how your husband hungers for you?” He took one finger into his mouth and bit her lightly with his sharp, even teeth.

“Ouch!” Joanna exclaimed, resisting the urge to laugh at his playfulness as she jerked her hand away.

What had she been thinking to brook such familiarities on his part? She'd foolishly allowed herself to forget for the moment that he was her clan's sworn enemy. There'd be no bedding, no carnal pleasures to come. Once they were alone in her bedchamber that evening, she would inform MacLean that there'd be no intimacies between them. He'd tricked her into saying the marriage vows, and she intended to seek an annulment on those grounds.

Her bridegroom nipped the bridge of her nose. “I plan to keep you in bed for the next fortnight, Lady MacLean, and devour you like the tasty wee morsel you are.”

“If you devour me like a tasty wee morsel, Laird MacLean,” she told him with a skeptical frown, “there'll be nothing left for the second fortnight.”

He grinned lecherously. “Then I'll have to take very tiny, wee bites, won't I?”

 

“My brother has everything planned,” Godfrey told the solidly built man standing by the bartizan's narrow window. “Andrew will leave with her tonight.”

Looking out across Kinlochleven's upper bailey at the battlements, Archibald Campbell, second earl of Argyll, took another sip of chamomile tea. He occasionally suffered from gout and had left the festivities in the great hall to retire early. Usually fastidious to a fault, this evening he received his clandestine visitor attired in a blue velvet chamber robe and comfortable slippers.

The earl had been allotted the castle's second-best suite of guest rooms—the best having naturally been awarded to the king. The spacious chamber boasted a thick carpet on
the planked floor and several fine pieces of carved oak. A large court cupboard held an array of glassware and silver, along with decanters of expensive wine and brandy.

“You'll never get the lass out of this castle,” Argyll said dispassionately. “MacLean, along with his two brothers and that behemoth kinsman of his, could slay every one of your men-at-arms without breaking a sweat. And from the gleam of lust in his eye today, I'd say The MacLean would gladly do all the killing himself, should any man try to steal his new bride.”

Godfrey held a glass beaker between his palms, warming the cognac it held. “We've no intention of fighting our way out,” he replied. “There'll be no alarm raised. Just make certain your men are waiting near Rannoch Mill when the two young lovers and their escort ride by.”

“How many will there be?”

“Andrew and four men-at-arms, plus the girl. I've convinced my older brother that only a small party stands a chance of getting past the guards unchallenged. And don't worry about MacLean. By the time they reach the mill, he'll have already met his maker at the hands of his Macdonald bride.”

“Never,” Argyll scoffed. He turned away from the window and peered at Godfrey with open skepticism. “That tiny lass couldn't kill any man, let alone her able-bodied bridegroom.”

Godfrey shrugged. “If she doesn't, 'twill not matter overmuch, for I can make it look as though she did. The king will be enraged, of course, when he discovers his favorite Highlander slain. But he won't hang Joanna. 'Twill look like a tragic accident. A panicked bride, frightened of being bedded by her ancient enemy, tries to protect her virtue and elope with her handsome cousin. Her attempt goes sadly awry, and the overeager bridegroom falls victim to virginal terror.”

Campbell sank into a chair and placed the cup and saucer on a small table beside him. He steepled his fingers in quiet contemplation.

“It'd be best not to kill MacLean,” he said at last. “If you can prevent the consummation of the marriage, 'twould be enough. There's no point in risking the king's retribution for the murder of his beloved friend. Not unless it's absolutely necessary.”

“Now you sound like my faint-hearted brother,” Godfrey replied with a chortle. He breathed in the fumes of the fine French cognac and took a sip. As the brandy burned its way down his throat, his determination to rid the world of the King's Avenger increased. He'd never feel safe until the bastard was planted in his grave.

The earl lifted his brows in polite inquiry, and Godfrey continued. “My brother wants it to look as if Joanna and Andrew were the only two people involved. Ewen has instructed the lad to leave MacLean trussed up like a suckling pig in the middle of his marriage bed for his brothers to find in the morning. That way if anything goes wrong, Ewen can plead that he had no knowledge of his son's intentions. He'll claim the two youngsters were carried away by their passion for one another, thereby playing on the king's sympathy. Everyone knows James Stewart is a romantic at heart.”

“The king might be touched by the story,” Argyll commented dryly, “but the spurned bridegroom will be a little less sympathetic. Just how do you intend to spirit the two impetuous lovers out of the castle?”

“There's a secret stairway.”

Archibald Campbell smiled. It was a peculiarly humorless smile.

Ewen Macdonald wasn't the only man who coveted the Macdonald heiress for his son. Argyll's youngest boy, Iain, had barely turned fifteen, but he was man enough for his father's purpose: to marry the Maid of Glencoe and bring the mighty fortress of Kinlochleven and the vast estates of the Glencoe Macdonalds firmly under Campbell control.

“If I get the chance,” Godfrey said malevolently, “I'll slit MacLean's throat. It's the only way we'll ever be free
of him. I don't care to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life.”

The earl slouched back in the carved oak chair and propped his swollen foot on a tufted stool. “You can't honestly think James will believe the maid killed her bridegroom. God's Mass, the two of them have been billing and cooing like a pair of turtledoves all day.”

Godfrey downed the rest of the cognac in one quick gulp and went to the cupboard to pour another. “Kissing and fondling is a far cry from swiving,” he tossed over his shoulder, “especially for a frightened, inexperienced lass. Besides, she'll be gone when they discover his corpse. By the time the king learns that Joanna's at Inveraray and married to Iain, he'll be willing to overlook the death of MacLean. It'll be that…” He paused to lift his glass in a salute. “…or accuse one of the most powerful chiefs in Scotland of outright treachery.”

If Argyll appreciated the flattery, he gave no sign. “Nevertheless, I want MacLean left alive. What time should my men expect the fleeing lovers?”

“Before midnight, if all goes well. Warn your men that they'll be dressed as Observantine friars. And remember, Andrew is not to be harmed. Is that understood? Otherwise I'll—”

“Otherwise you'll do what?” Argyll asked softly.

Godfrey gripped the beaker's stem and stared down at the cognac. Silently cursing the misfortune that had put him in Argyll's clutches, he drained his glass without further comment.

F
ollowing supper, Rory's brothers stole the gold buckle off his left shoe in the old Highland tradition.

“'Tis to prevent witches from depriving your lusty bridegroom of the power of loosening the ribbons that fasten the virgin zone,” Keir reminded Joanna with his hearty laugh. When she blushed charmingly, he added sotto voce, “Of course, I don't think there's much to worry about there.”

Then everyone sipped the bridal posset, made of hot wine, milk, eggs, sugar, and spices.

Lachlan lifted his silver cup in a salute to the newly wedded couple. “The wine will give your bridegroom strength,” he told Joanna after the toast, his eyes gleaming with mirth, “and the sugar will make him kind and tenderhearted.”

“Now 'tis time for the bride to retire,” Lady Emma said with a warm smile.

From his place in front of the enormous hearth, Rory watched Joanna make her way across the great hall with her escort of women. Lachlan and Keir stood on each side of him, making good-natured jests about their older brother's patent eagerness to follow in his wife's wake. He'd taken their ribald humor in stride that evening, though Joanna's ears would have been scorched had she heard even half of what had been said among the men.

He gave up trying to concentrate on the conversation
around him. As he stared at his bride's retreating back, he repeated over and over in his mind the lines of the sentimental poem Lachlan had written.

Rory wanted to get it perfect.

He wasn't going to botch this evening with his usual direct, plain-speaking ways. He intended to keep the lust that surged through his loins well under control, until he'd dazzled his bride with the magical words of romance penned by his clever brother.

Rory pulled the piece of paper from his sporran and turned the writing to the firelight. He scanned it quickly, and before anyone noticed, shoved it back into his sporran.

Jesu, would he ever get the damn thing memorized?

 

While the guests enjoyed the dancing that followed the light supper, and the king dallied in the solarium with his mistress of the hour, Joanna's women led her toward the stairs.

Fearchar followed the ladies to the foot of the main stairwell. “Forbye, milady,” he said to Joanna, “I'll see that the rest of your evening goes undisturbed.”

She turned and smiled thankfully.

Arms folded across his broad chest, Fearchar was prepared to stand guard during the night, lest the more obstreperous celebrants decided to pay a midnight call on the bridal couple, banging kettles and tooting horns in a noisy charivari.

“Please make certain my husband is the only one allowed to come up,” she said.

The large man winked at his new mistress. “That I will, to be certain. Sleep well. Lady MacLean.” His gaze moved to Maude, on the step above. “And sweet dreams to you, demoiselle.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” Maude replied with a disapproving snort. “I'm too realistic to have dreams and too old to be addressed as a maiden.”

He grinned mischievously, and his eye, the soft blue of a robin's egg, glimmered with gentle humor. “You've the tongue of an adder, Maude Beaton, but you're sonsy and braw for all that.”

“My faith,” she grumbled to Joanna, “the man's jaw clacks like a broken waterwheel.” But a smile skirted her lips before she turned and continued upstairs.

Carrying a flambeau to light the way, Maude preceded her mistress. Lady Beatrix and Abby followed behind, while Idoine, being a virginal maid, remained in the great hall with Lady Emma and the others.

Her tension mounting, Joanna's breathing grew labored as they climbed the stone stairs. The intimate moments she'd shared with her groom that afternoon would have only added to the natural exhilaration felt by any other bride, for she'd now had a foretaste of the pleasures a man could give a woman. But she was no ordinary bride, and her wedding night would bring no sweet moments of bliss.

As Joanna and her companions turned from the dark stairwell to approach her bedchamber on the third floor, Ewen and Andrew stepped out of the shadows.

Maude stopped in her tracks, and Joanna almost bumped into her. Abby gave a squeal of surprise before clapping her dimpled hand over her mouth.

“What are you doing here?” Maude demanded. She lifted the candlestick higher and scowled at the intruders.

Lady Beatrix immediately stepped closer to Joanna and clutched her by the elbow, as though afraid she might try to run away. “Your cousins merely wish a moment of your time, dear,” Beatrix said, her words barely above a whisper.

“Could this not wait until morning?” Joanna inquired, her thoughts on the night ahead. MacLean might protest, cajole, and wheedle, but all his blandishments would be for naught. Her mind was set, her decision unequivocal. She folded her hands in front of her and regarded the two men abstractedly.

The glow of the candlelight illuminated the strands of silver in Ewen's dark brown hair and beard. The day's strain had taken its toll. His lean face stark and unsmiling, he looked far older than his forty-one years. “As your war commander,” he said tersely, “I have the right to speak with you about matters pertaining to the clan, Joanna.”

If some problem demanded her immediate consideration, she had no choice but to attend to it. Married or not, she was still their chieftain. Though the delay in her confrontation with MacLean would stretch her nerves to the breaking point, she must put duty first and foremost.

“Very well,” she agreed. She turned to Maude and Abby. “Go in and prepare my chamber while I speak with Ewen.”

Maude wrinkled her nose disdainfully, as though smelling something rotten. “This is extremely inconsiderate on your cousin's part, milady.” She turned her critical gray eyes on the two interlopers, and her uncompromising features revealed her displeasure. “Lady MacLean's bridegroom will be coming upstairs to join her soon,” she told them bluntly. “Your intrusion on their evening had best be brief.”

His hand on his sword hilt, Andrew stood, sullen-faced and silent, beside his father. He glared at the tall woman with overt belligerence, his jaw tight with anger.

“This won't take but a minute,” Ewen replied smoothly.

Joanna motioned for the women to leave. “Pray, go on, ladies. I'll be there presently,” she urged with a reassuring smile.

She waited until the trio of females entered her room and Beatrix had shut the door behind them. Then she turned to her two cousins. “You could have chosen a better time,”
she chided. “Why didn't either of you speak to me about this matter before now?”

“Because every time Andrew or I tried to get near you today,” Ewen answered with a snarl, “a MacLean came between us. They made it bloody impossible for any Macdonald to have a moment's privacy with you. We had to sneak up here and lurk in the shadows like common thieves.”

“Well then, what is it you wish to say?” she questioned, looking from father to son.

Andrew stepped closer. “Can you guess what it feels like to have your betrothed stolen away?” he asked petulantly. “I've been forced to watch MacLean paw you all day, when you never so much as allowed me a chaste kiss.”

“You and I were never betrothed, and well you know it,” Joanna replied in exasperation. “Our betrothal couldn't take place until the dispensation came from Rome.”

Andrew braced his hands on his hips. A sneer marred his perfect features. “And you couldn't wait long enough for the papal permission to arrive.”

On the rare times they'd been together alone since her grandfather's death, the sixteen-year-old had tried to press his clumsy attentions on her and been roundly slapped in the face for his efforts. He'd been the one who couldn't wait.

Joanna turned to Ewen, hoping for some common sense from the older man. “What was I supposed to do? I made every effort to hide my identity. I entered the chapel this morning believing that The MacLean thought me a lad. Once he led me up to the altar, there was nothing I could do but say the vows or be tried as a traitor for refusing to obey the king.”

Ewen grasped her arm and pulled her deeper into the recessed arch along the stone wall. He lowered his voice, though they were entirely alone, his words a challenge. “But there is something you can do now, Joanna.”

“I am fully aware of that,” she replied tautly. What did
he think she intended to do—leap joyfully into bed with the Sea Dragon?

His dark eyes glittered in the faint glow of moonlight streaming through the slotted window. A smile curved his thin lips. “Then you'll leave with us tonight?”

“Are you insane?” She met their determined eyes and took a step back. “How could I possibly leave when every MacLean soldier in this castle would give his life to stop me? And kill any man who attempted to take me with him.”

At Ewen's thunderous scowl, she continued smoothly. “My marriage is no more than lines written on a piece of paper. Until the vows are consummated, there is no marriage. When MacLean comes to my bedchamber, I'll forbid him to touch me.”

Ewen laughed scornfully. “Do you really think you can stave off your bridegroom's attentions indefinitely?” He took a step closer and waved his hand toward the closed door. “Do you really believe, Joanna, that you can spend the entire night in that bedchamber with the chief of Clan MacLean and prevent him from consummating your marriage?”

She lifted her chin and glared at her cousin. “That's my intent.”

“You won't have to hold him off all night,” Andrew said eagerly. “My father has a better plan.” He tossed back a thick lock of hair and sniggered like a defiant schoolboy. “I've hidden a weapon under your bed.”

“A weapon!” she cried softly.

“You'll need our help, lass,” Ewen said. “We'll see that you get away before he overpowers you.”

Joanna shook her head. “He won't force me against my will.”

“For God's sake, lass!” Ewen said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You're deluding yourself. MacLean hates anyone with the name of Macdonald. Don't you know what everyone is saying?”

At her look of bewilderment, he leaned toward her and
sadly shook his head. “MacLean never wanted to marry you in the first place. He outright refused the king's orders to take a Macdonald to wife. The slimy bastard only agreed to the alliance under threat of dire punishment.”

Joanna straightened her spine and stared at the wall behind him. “I know he didn't choose to wed me,” she replied through stiff lips. “I didn't wish to marry him, either.”

Ewen caught Joanna's chin in his hand and forced her to look at him. “If you don't have any pride as a Macdonald,” he grated, “or as the daughter of a valorous Highlander killed on the battlefield fighting the old Stewart tyrant, surely you must hold some tiny jot of pride for your Sassenach mother.”

Joanna gazed into his infuriated eyes, and icy apprehension sliced through her belly. She shoved his hand away, fighting the tears that threatened, and spoke in a thin, reedy voice. “What has any of this to do with my mother?”

Ewen stepped back, his gaze raking her coldly. “Don't you know anything, girl?” he asked in disgust. “MacLean said he'd rather burn in hell before he married the spawn of the devil and a witch.”

The accusation of witchcraft stunned her. A woman could be disinterred from her resting place in sacred ground if such a calumny could be proven against her. Joanna put out her hand as though to ward off the image of her mother's grave being desecrated, of Lady Anne's coffin being set afire or tossed into a pond to see if it would float. Her throat tightened till she could barely speak. “I…I don't believe you. He'd never accuse Mama of black magic. He never even knew her.”

“You don't have to believe me, Joanna,” her cousin said softly. “Ask your treacherous, bastard bridegroom.” He jerked his bearded chin toward the stairwell. “Ask anyone down there celebrating the gullible Macdonald bride's easy capitulation to her clan's mortal enemy. MacLean's profane refusal could be heard through a closed door at Stalcaire. Everyone in the Scottish court knows of it. Hell, half of
them probably heard him. They were all laughing up their sleeves as you minced around the dance floor with the very man who labeled your heroic father a devil and your poor, dead mother a witch.”

From the absolute confidence in his voice, Joanna knew that Ewen spoke the truth. Rory had accused her sweet, loving mother of witchcraft. Disillusionment invaded her soul, crushing every hope of happiness. She could feel her heart shatter into a thousand pieces, the pain almost beyond bearing. All her childhood dreams came crashing down around her. A man capable of slandering the good name of someone as gentle and kind as Lady Anne was capable of anything. Her belief that she could reason with MacLean had been hopelessly naïve.

There were no knights, no ladies fair.

Only evil-minded dragons who delivered old, helpless men to the gallows and slandered virtuous noblewomen.

Inhuman, despicable dragons who deceived and seduced foolish, foolish girls.

Joanna rubbed her arms, suddenly shivering in the drafty, unlit passageway. “All right,” she said through trembling lips, “I
will
ask him. I'll have the truth from him tonight.”

Ewen's teeth flashed white in his dark brown beard. “I only hope he has the balls to admit it.”

His eyes black in the night shadows, Andrew grabbed her hand. “There's a loaded weapon beneath your bed, Joanna,” he whispered excitedly. “Wait until your women leave and MacLean comes up. While he's disrobing, take it out—”