The Maclean Groom (22 page)

Joanna had rolled over on her stomach, buried her head in her arms, and was now sobbing as though her heart would break.

His sweet, innocent bride was probably devastated because she hadn't succeeded in killing him.

Without another word, he stepped into the passageway and slammed the door, leaving his treacherous Macdonald wife to nurse her disappointment with her salty tears.

The cool evening air and the warm aqua vitae acted like a soothing tonic on Rory's raging temper. Holding the silver flask in one hand, he rested the other on the parapet and looked up at the sky. A full moon hung just above the mountaintops, bathing the peaceful landscape in its silvery glow.

He hadn't wanted to return to the hall, where people were still celebrating his nuptials. A bridegroom rejoining the wedding festivities after spending such a short time with his bride would raise eyebrows and start tongues clacking.

So he'd taken the inner stairs to the keep's battlement two at a time and kept his own sorry counsel with the fiery Scotch brew and the dispassionate moon. In the solace of the whisky and the star-studded night, the irony of the situation occurred to him. While he'd been practicing the lines of his brother's addlebrained poetry, his wife had been conspiring to kill him.

God above. What a glorious ass he'd made of himself.

Lumbering around the great hall's floor with his bride, when everyone knew he couldn't dance any better than a trained bear.

Giving Joanna time to change into a lovely gown before proceeding with the wedding Mass, even though she'd tried to deceive him by pretending to be a stable boy for the past week.

Luring her into the library for a brief interlude of gentle seduction, where, like a wayward schoolboy, he'd felt compelled to admit that he'd slept with another woman. He was twenty-eight and had taken no vows of chastity. Did she think he'd lived like a priest before he met her?

Hell and damnation, he was through trying to act like someone he wasn't. Joanna would have to set aside her fanciful dreams of knights in shining armor and accept the harsh reality of life with the chief of Clan MacLean. At seventeen, 'twas well past time she grew up. Many girls were wed by fourteen, and mothers by fifteen.

Lady MacLean would have to learn she was married to
a man who placed practical considerations foremost—first, last, and always. He didn't believe in romantic love, and he sure as hell didn't intend to act as if he did. She'd have to settle for a husband who could administer their estates, secure their castle from marauders, and protect her and their children from harm.

Christ, what more could an intelligent wife expect?

Rory tipped the flask and took another slow, appreciative sip. Leaning against the parapet, he looked down at Kinlochleven's upper and lower baileys, at the thick curtain walls, the barbican and gatehouse, where repairs had already been started. He gazed across the battlements to the night-shrouded forest beyond and the still waters of the loch, reflecting a wide swath of moonlight.

He held everything he'd ever hoped for in the palm of his hand. A mighty fortress, far-flung lands, and incredible wealth. And a young, healthy wife to give him bairns.

But the taste of ashes remained, despite the scalding effects of the raw spirits he'd imbibed.

His bride saw him as some kind of inhuman monster.

Rory bitterly rued the day he'd let his temper get out of control and shouted the epithets about her parents. He could understand Joanna's indignation. Had any man ever been foolish enough to accuse Lady Emma of being a witch, he'd be rotting in his grave.

Back at Stalcaire Castle, Rory had made a grievous error. But it was surely a mistake that could be mended, given time. Although most marriages usually began under more auspicious circumstances, many couples started their life together as near strangers. Perhaps if he told Joanna he was sorry that he'd labeled her mother and father so harshly, she'd be willing to begin again, as polite acquaintances who'd only just met.

Taking a last swallow of whisky, Rory slipped the half-empty flask into his sporran. He'd given his unhappy bride enough time to cry herself to sleep. When she awoke to his presence in their large, soft bed, he'd apologize for what he'd said about her parents. Then he'd salvage what was
left of his wedding night. And perhaps, if he were very fortunate, he'd sire an heir.

 

When Rory entered his bedchamber for the second time that evening, the candles were smoking stubs. The fire on the grate had died down to a few glowing embers. Only the shaft of moonlight coming in through the tall window illuminated the silent room.

The broken glass and spilled wine remained on the floor, along with the remnants of the crossbow. Its quarrel was still embedded in the door.

Joanna lay facedown atop the comforter just as he'd left her. Whether she'd fallen asleep or was only pretending, he'd soon discover. Avoiding the scattered debris, Rory crossed the rug to stand beside his bed. His bride didn't stir.

He moved closer to her motionless form and touched her shoulder. “Joanna,” he said softly, “I'm sorry for what I said about your mother and father.”

She remained still, and he smiled knowingly—now she was going to dish up a taste of the silent treatment.

Women were so damn predictable.

“Joanna,” he repeated with quiet gravity. He wasn't going to let her goad him into nearly losing control again.

When she continued to ignore him, Rory eased her onto her back and stared down at her tearstained face. She was fast asleep. With a long, resigned exhalation of air, he pushed the covers aside and slipped her slender form beneath them.

He watched Joanna turn on her side and snuggle into the warmth of the bedclothes. Bending, he kissed her gently on the cheek.

Then he slipped off his clothing, crossed to the far side of the bed, and sank down on the mattress. Propped on several pillows, Rory stacked his hands beneath his head and stared at the silken canopy above him.

He could wake up Lady MacLean, of course, though he knew from previous experience that she slept like the dead.

He could then insist on his rights as her husband and laird.

But he wanted the spirited lass to come to him eagerly. He wanted to see the need that pulsed within him mirrored in her eyes.

Damn—'twould be a long, uncomfortable night. But tomorrow he'd launch a seduction that would prove irresistible. And his bonny bride would discover, with his guidance, the delights that awaited her in their marriage bed.

T
he next morning Joanna came slowly awake, not by the kitchen hearth, but in her big canopied bed. She had a vague memory of a large masculine body sleeping beside her during the night. The uncomfortable suspicion that she'd cuddled up to the warmth radiating from her bed companion's muscular frame made her eyes pop open.

Holy hosanna, he'd been naked.

She was sure of it.

Her cheeks burning at the thought, Joanna brought the covers up to her chin and cautiously surveyed the chamber. There was no sign of her enraged bridegroom. Only the broken glass on the floor and the crossbow quarrel embedded in the door proved that the previous evening hadn't been some horrible nightmare.

God above, he'd been angry.

She'd never really intended to shoot MacLean—just make him admit that he'd accused her mother of witchcraft. Well, bloody hell, he'd admitted it, all right. And without a single jot of remorse. Joanna sniffed self-righteously. 'Twas no more than could be expected from the fiend who'd captured an innocent man and carted him off to the gallows.

The muffled sound of hammers brought Joanna to her feet. She crossed to the window, opened the casement, and stared down in dismay at the scene in the lower bailey. A team of workmen was pounding on the old, rusted port
cullis that protected the main gateway. From the tools and new iron grate lying on the ground nearby, 'twas clear they'd started the improvements that MacLean had talked about.

Skirting the shards of glass, Joanna threw on her clothes and raced down the stairs. She ignored the glances of her startled guests as she crossed the great hall, not pausing for a word of explanation.

Usually a new bride remained in seclusion the day after her wedding, too modest to face the knowing looks of others. This was one bride, however, who had nothing to feel immodest about.

Joanna left the keep and stalked toward her
supposed-to-be
husband, who was never going to be her
real
husband, no matter what he thought. His broad back to her, The MacLean stood watching the work in progress, as yet, unaware of her approach.

“Stop!” she called to the men, who glanced over their shoulders in surprise at their mistress. “Stop what you're doing this instant. All of you.”

Her clansmen halted and turned their curious gazes first on her and then on MacLean, as though awaiting his orders.

“Go on,” he told them quietly. “Take it down.” He waited until they were once again at work, then turned to meet her furious gaze with an untroubled smile. “I see you're finally awake, Lady MacLean. I should have known, from the way you used to sleep through our card playing, that the only thing that could disturb your rest would be the clanging of hammers on iron bars. You look lovely this morning, by the way.”

Joanna's cheeks burned. Every man within hearing had to assume that the very reason she'd slept so late that morning stood beside her with a look of blissful contentment on his smug face.

“This work has to stop,” she declared with a scowl.

MacLean stepped closer and fingered a lock of her hair, which spilled loose over her shoulders. She hadn't taken time to do more than run a brush through her tangled curls.

“Just because I'm a new bridegroom,” he said softly, “I can't loaf the day away. We'll have plenty of time this afternoon, lass, to enjoy a leisurely talk.”

The light flashing in his lecherous green eyes matched the sparkle of his emerald earring. He didn't fool her for a moment: he planned to do a whole lot more than just talk. Good Lord, did the man think of nothing but debauchery?

While MacLean openly leered at his bride, the laborers, who were all Macdonald clansmen hired from the nearby villages, lifted the rust-covered iron grate down and laid it on the ground beside the new one.

Joanna propped her hands on her hips and glared at them. “Replace that old portcullis immediately.”

Not a man moved. They stood still and silent, their apprehensive gazes glued on the chief of Clan MacLean. At his curt nod, they started knocking the corroded hinges off the dilapidated wooden gate that guarded the drawbridge.

In a state of near panic, Joanna looked around the bustling castle grounds. Everywhere, workmen scurried about. A master mason stood with his apprentices, going over a set of plans. A crew of laborers had started to dig a new well, while other men were busily removing all the postern gates. Quarried stone had been brought in by the wagonload and stacked near the south curtain wall.

Joanna clapped a hand to her forehead. Good God, she'd never be able to pay for all these improvements. Most of her tenants paid their rents with produce from their farms and fields. Cattle, hogs, and poultry populated her byres and yards. Baskets of grain and vegetables filled her overflowing storehouses. But at the moment, there were mighty few sillers in her coffers.

Joanna clutched MacLean's forearm. “What do you think you're doing to my castle?” she demanded. “I never gave permission for these repairs.”

His determination was evident in the cast of his square jaw; yet his unruffled tone held a hint of amusement. “I'm doing what should have been done years ago. The outer walls need to be reinforced, and the old gates must be re
placed.” He pried her stiff fingers from his sleeve and lifted them to his lips for a brief salute. “And Kinlochleven Castle is mine, Lady MacLean,” he added. “I determine what will and will not be done within its walls.” Releasing her hand, he turned and strode away.

Joanna followed on his heels. “Just wait one minute,” she said, indignation tightening her throat. When he continued to ignore her, she raised her voice. “I want to talk to you, MacLean. Now!”

Oblivious to her demands, he strolled into the armory, and Joanna stalked in behind him.

Inside the stone building, Fearchar was directing several MacLeans in the tallying of weapons and armor. Rory's cousin turned and greeted the newly wedded couple with a wide smile. “Good morning, Lady MacLean,” he said.

Joanna nodded absently, her attention diverted by the chaos inside. Stacks of outdated breastplates and greaves covered the workbenches, along with mounds of helmets, their silver blackened by time. Lances, pikes, and Lochaber axes lay piled on the floor.

“These can be turned over to the smithy,” Fearchar told Rory, pointing to several ancient claymores. “Jacob and Lothar can use the steel to forge new broadswords.”

MacLean nodded his agreement, seemingly unaware of the outraged female beside him.

With a belligerent toss of her head, Joanna crossed her arms and glared at them. “I want these weapons put back where they belong,” she announced. “And I want all the old gates placed back on their hinges and the old portcullis rehung at once.”

Several MacLeans paused for a second to toss her a curious glance before resuming their tasks.

Fearchar gazed down at her from his great height, his pale blue eye alight with amusement. Then he motioned to the other MacLeans, who were watching their clan chief from the corners of their eyes in fascination. Without another word, everyone filed out of the armory. The last to leave, Fearchar quietly closed the solid door behind him.

Before she could say another word, MacLean caught Joanna round her waist and set her on a workbench. Shoving aside a stack of worn gauntlets, he placed a large hand on either side of her hips and leaned closer. “Now suppose you tell me exactly what's bothering you this morning, wife.”

“Bothering me!” She swept her hand in an all-inclusive gesture. “You've removed every gate in the castle. Kinlochleven has been left open to any attacking force riding by.”

MacLean chuckled softly. He slid his hands up her blue velvet bodice, his thumbs lingering just below her breasts. “Attacking forces don't usually ride by, Joanna. They remain to lay siege. And since all my enemies are
inside
the castle walls at the present moment, what difference does it make if the portals stand wide?”

Before she could answer, he brushed her tousled curls aside, bent his head, and nuzzled her earlobe. His breath felt warm and moist, and when he dipped his tongue into the hollow of her ear, the gesture seemed astonishingly intimate. A tingle of excitement caromed through her, and she stiffened her spine. She wouldn't allow him to take liberties with her person the way he'd done the previous day. This time she was ready for any guileful assault he might attempt.

Joanna placed her hands on the man's broad shoulders with the intention of pushing him away. In spite of her determination, he drew nearer with ridiculous ease.

“Most of my rents are tendered in livestock and produce,” she said angrily. “I don't have the crowns to pay for these costly repairs.”

“I do,” MacLean murmured, leaning ever closer.

Joanna's heart did a strange little kick. His breath fanned across her face, and the tangy scent of pine engulfed her. He brushed his lips across hers, then delved into her mouth with his tongue, stroking and caressing in blatant enticement. He tasted of wintergreen and snow-covered mountaintops.

Joanna tried vainly to control the ripple of excitement unfurling inside her. Breaking the kiss, she resolutely turned her face away.

“I shall never be able to repay you for such a great expense,” she warned him breathlessly. She squirmed and tried to edge away, only to bump against the heavy armor piled beside her.

“You won't have to,” MacLean replied.

But Joanna knew he was wrong. She'd have to repay every blessed siller he spent on her castle, once their wedding vows were declared null and void. She tried to envision which household items she could sell to raise such an enormous sum. Her favorite Italian tapestries, brought all the way from Cumberland, would have to go. And the silver plate. And the gold candelabra. The dowry gifts, of course, would have to be returned to the rejected bridegroom and his family, so there'd be no help there, confound it.

While her mind whirled frantically, toting up what each piece might bring, the Sea Dragon buried his long fingers in the curls at the nape of her neck, holding Joanna captive in the most primitive manner imaginable. As he cupped the back of her head in his palm, his mouth trailed down the slope of her neck to her shoulder. The low, square décolletage of her gown provided ample opportunity for his questing lips, and when he nibbled on her bare skin, her mental calculations collapsed in a flurry of prickly sensations.

She gasped when his hands cupped her breasts. Joanna could feel the heat of his body through her layers of clothing. Lord, he'd felt so warm lying beside her while she slept that she'd dreamed of lying in front of a roaring fire, wrapped in his arms.

Rory inhaled the feminine scent of his bride, and a low, male growl of sexual intent rumbled deep in his throat. She'd burrowed against him in the night, and it had required all his willpower not to take her while she slept.

His decision to wait had nothing to do with chivalry, dammit. He was determined that Joanna would want him
as much as he wanted her. And he was stubborn enough to hold out for her unconditional surrender.

“You smell nice,” he murmured as he eased the sleeves of her gown off her shoulders. A scattering of cinnamon dusted her ivory skin. He pressed a kiss just below the fragile shoulder bone, then explored the hollow of her clavicle with his tongue.

Joanna tipped her head back, and her coppery hair cascaded over his hands. “'Tis rosewater,” she said nervously. “I'm glad you like it. Some find its perfume too light and elusive. They prefer lavender or jasmine or even musk.”

“I like it,” he assured her. “I like everything about you, lass, from the top of your red head to your bonny wee toes.”

Rory edged Joanna's velvet bodice down to reveal the smooth globes of her breasts. The need for her brought an ache so deep inside he nearly groaned. He bent his head and laved the rosy peaks, savoring the feel of the taut buds against his tongue and the exquisite silk of her breasts in his sword-hardened palms. His heart lurched toward his throat as her long, drawn-out sigh of pleasure foretold her inevitable surrender.

The pagan urge to claim his wife there on the rough wooden bench, amid the rusty breastplates and mailed gauntlets, throbbed within him. As he suckled her, the lust that pooled in his groin nearly drove all thoughts of waiting from his mind. When it came to sex, he'd never been a patient man.

'Twas different now. Hell, he was more aroused kissing Joanna than coupling with any other woman. But he refused to rush her into something she'd later regret.

Rory raised the hem of her blue gown, pushing it upward inch by precious inch, till he could edge her knees apart and stand between her creamy thighs. Beneath his plaid, his engorged male member pulsed with heat and a primitive urgency that wouldn't be denied.

“God above, Joanna,” he whispered thickly.

His lungs compressed as he drank in the sight of the pale, silken skin above the gartered stockings. She was the very essence of femininity, sweet and fragile and so small he could cup her little butt in his hands. He eased Joanna back till she lay before him on the bench's gouged planks.

“Remember when I touched you yesterday,” he murmured. “Remember how good it felt, darling lass. I will be just as careful, just as gentle now, I promise you.”

Rory bent again, this time to press his lips to her abdomen, kissing her through the thin chemise. He smoothed his fingers up her legs, then cupped the mound of springy curls at the juncture of her thighs.

With a ragged exhalation of air, Joanna threaded her fingers through Rory's golden waves, unable to find the words to command him to stop. The memory of the intimacy they'd shared in the library pushed aside all thoughts of duty to her clan. As his callused fingertips sought her secret place, she tensed in heart-stopping anticipation. He parted her smooth folds, and she grew swollen and slick beneath his touch.