The Maclean Groom (23 page)

“Oh, dear God,” Joanna whispered as he caressed her.

She grasped the collar of his shirt with one hand and clutched the folds of tartan wool draped across his shoulder with the other, wanting the pleasure to go on and on. The sensual need within her spiraled deeper and ever more insistent. Tension and a nearly unbearable expectation swamped her, and she began to undulate beneath his caresses, wordlessly urging him onward.

She waited breathlessly for Rory to penetrate her with his finger, as he'd done before. Instead he withdrew his hand and straightened above her.

“Oh, dear God,” she said once more, but this time it came as a tortured moan.

Joanna sat up and threw her arms around Rory's neck, clutching him tight. Her sensitive nipples pressed against the smooth cotton of his shirt and the thick, rough folds of his plaid. She wanted to arch her back and rub against him like a kitten in a blatant ploy to be petted. The ache of
sexual frustration nearly made her sob, and she had to bite her lip to keep from whimpering in disappointment.

Rory bracketed Joanna's passion-drugged face in his hands. She looked up at him, the desire smoldering in her violet-blue eyes, the confusion and need written across her features. There was only one thing he wanted more than to continue to stroke his wife's trembling body until he brought her to fulfillment.

“Tell me you want me, Joanna,” he said hoarsely. He kissed her delicate cheekbone and the corner of her mouth, his nostrils flaring as he breathed in her intoxicating perfume. “Tell me you want me to take you as a man takes a woman.”

Her long lashes fluttered and fell to shadow her cheeks. She shook her head slowly and deliberately, as an involuntary shudder passed through her slender body.

“Please let me leave now,” she said, her voice barely audible.

Every fiber in his body rebelled at the thought of letting her go, but Rory stepped back and allowed Joanna to smooth her skirts down about her ankles. He watched in silence as she slipped from the workbench and hurried out the door. Then he braced his hands on the bench's rough boards and took a deep, steadying draft of air. His head lowered, he closed his eyes and fought the compulsion to go after her. He wouldn't take his wife against her will. He would wait until she admitted she wanted him.

But he'd be dammed if he'd court her with ballads and poems written by another man. Joanna would have to accept her husband exactly as he was, a plainspoken Highland chief.

 

“You'd best discover what's happening in your private quarters,” Fearchar said quietly as he joined Rory on the barbican's battlement later that morning. “On her way upstairs a few moments ago, Maude let slip a fascinating bit of information which will be the clack of the entire Scottish court by midday, if you don't do something to thwart it.”

Rory turned from watching the master bricklayer measure the placements for the new gun loops and scowled at his cousin. From the hilarity lighting up the burly Highlander's features, Rory knew he'd soon be the butt of everyone's sly jests, if he didn't forestall his wife's latest stratagem—whatever the hell that was.

“What's Joanna up to now?” he asked as he and Fearchar moved out of earshot.

“'Tis only that your docile wee bride has decided to rearrange some bedroom furniture,” his cousin answered cheerfully. “And put several dozen household items on the auction block to be sold to the highest bidder. The sale will start in the great hall after the midday meal and continue till sundown. With some of the wealthiest Scots in the kingdom present for the bidding, plus assorted members of the clergy, the lassie's expectin' to raise quite a sum.”

“Christ Almighty,” Rory muttered under his breath. Not waiting for further explanation, he hurried down the outside stairs of the barbican and across the bailey to the keep.

He arrived at the open doorway of his bedchamber to find Seumas and Davie, under their mistress's supervision, removing the tapestry of the knight and his lady fair from the wall. Maude stood beside Joanna, clucking her tongue and shaking her head in disapproval.

“May I inquire what you're doing?” Rory asked his wife pleasantly.

Joanna whirled at the sound of his voice. Guilt tinged her cheeks with a rosy glow. “Holy hosanna, you startled me,” she complained. “Don't you have anything better to do than spy on us? I thought you were measuring the battlements.”

He lifted his brows at her blustering. She was clearly up to something. “I'm waiting for an explanation, Joanna. Why are you removing that tapestry from our bedchamber?”

“I'm going to sell it,” she declared with a stubborn tilt of her chin. “I brought this wall hanging with me from Cumberland, and I'm going to sell it.”

“Why?”

“Why?” she parroted, staring at him wide-eyed, as though he were daft. “Because I need the coins 'twill bring, that's why. Why else would anyone sell anything?”

“And use the money to pay for the repairs, I suppose,” he said, making no attempt to hide his exasperation.

She lifted her shoulders in eloquent dismissal. “Of course.”

Rory leaned one shoulder against the doorframe and folded his arms across his chest. “Put the tapestry back where it was,” he told the two men, his imperious tone leaving no doubt that he expected their instant obedience. Seumas immediately clambered back up the ladder, while Davie unrolled the colorful hanging on the chamber floor.

Joanna strode toward her husband, her eyes sparking fire. “Why do you care if I sell it?” she asked. “You don't even like that tapestry.”

“That's not true,” Rory replied smoothly. “I happen to be very fond of it.”

She turned her head to stare at the knight dressed in his shiny silver armor, then met Rory's gaze once again. “I don't believe you. Why should you be fond of it?”

“The young fellow reminds me of myself,” Rory replied with a sideways grin.

Joanna snorted derisively. “He does not. You're not anything like him.”

“Milady!” Maude exclaimed in reproach.

“Well, he isn't,” Joanna gritted.

“You mean I'm far more handsome?” Rory inquired blandly. “Or far more chivalrous?”

“Neither,” Joanna said. “You're neither.”

“Joanna,” Maude chided softly. “You're forgetting your manners.”

Behind their mistress, Davie and Seumas were trying unsuccessfully to stifle their chortles as they replaced the wall hanging in its original position.

“Will that be all, milady?” Seumas inquired as he climbed down from the ladder.

Joanna gestured to the low oak chest, which held her furs and gowns. “You can move that as I directed earlier,” she said, her rebellious gaze locked with Rory's.

“You're not selling the chest, either,” Rory told her emphatically.

“I wasn't planning to,” she replied with a brilliant smile. “'Tis merely being moved to another chamber.”

For the first time, Rory noticed the oak stand that belonged beside the bed was missing, as well as the feminine articles that had stood on the tall press cupboard against the far wall. He strode into the room, coming to a halt directly in front of his wife.

Joanna looked up at her large husband and swallowed nervously. She wondered frantically if the Sea Dragon had ever made some poor wretch walk the plank. She could imagine how it would feel, standing on the wrong end of a long, narrow board, with the frigid ocean waves crashing beneath and the implacable ship's captain, sword in hand, standing behind.

Thankfully, MacLean's words were calm and dispassionate when he spoke. “Your things, my dear wife, are remaining right here where they belong.”

Joanna opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it. His words were calm enough, but a muscle twitched in his cheek.

“Will that be all, then, milord?” Seumas asked warily, as he and Davie sidled toward the recently vacated doorway.

MacLean's gaze flicked to meet theirs, then returned to Joanna. “That will be all. Close the door behind you.”

Maude didn't need a special invitation to leave. She dipped a curtsy and beat a retreat behind the two menservants, who'd fled without another word.

“Traitors!” Joanna called after them. Ignoring the irate Highland chief standing in front of her, she turned and walked over to the carved chest at the foot of the bed. “Well, if they won't move it, I will,” she said. She bent and grabbed one of its handles.

Just as Joanna gave a determined tug, MacLean placed his foot on top of the chest. At the sudden, unexpected weight, she fell backward, landing with a plop on a thick fur rug.

“Ouch!” she squawked, rubbing her sore behind. She glared up at her husband. “You did that on purpose!”

Rory knelt on one knee beside his obstinate wife. Hell and damnation, he had no reason to be surprised at her devious schemes. He'd gone into this preposterous marriage with his eyes wide open. No one but a stubborn little donkey would attempt to masquerade as a member of the opposite sex and expect to get away with it. And no bride of one day would believe she could move out of her husband's bedchamber without encountering opposition—except his own vexatious little wife.

He caught Joanna's chin in his hand and tilted her face upward to meet his gaze. She glowered at him, her slight figure stiff with outrage.

“If I decide to administer punishment,” he said softly, “you'll feel more than a wee smack on your butt.”

Her eyes grew wide at the threat, but she wisely refrained from saying anything that would inflame him further.

“I've tried to be patient,” he continued, “but God knows, my patience is starting to wear thin. There'll be no sale of our household goods this afternoon or any day hereafter. And by the time I return to our chamber this evening, Lady MacLean, I want every stick of furniture and every tapestry in its rightful place. I want to see your vials of perfume exactly where they belong on the cupboard. I want to find your silk ribbons and silver hairbrush on the table beside the bed.” He leaned over her, his words sharp and precise, so there'd be no mistaking his meaning. “And I want to find you in it.”

A large lump rose in her throat as Joanna watched the chief of Clan MacLean rise to his feet. For several long, heart-pounding moments he loomed over her like the angel of death. She wanted to contradict him, but the icy glitter in his eyes forestalled her. 'Twas best, sometimes, to listen
to one's commonsense. Sometimes 'twas better still to keep one's intentions a secret, rather than make an outright declaration of war and throw it in the enemy's teeth. Especially when that enemy stood six-foot-four in his stocking feet and had the strength of a young bull.

Joanna swallowed back the retort burning the tip of her tongue and wisely waited until her irate husband had left the room before saying another word.

“If he isn't the most obnoxious, overbearing, highhanded human being I've ever laid eyes on,” she muttered, “I'll stand in the middle of the lower bailey in the pouring rain and honk like a goose.”

She lifted the chest's wooden lid, pulled out her clothing, and piled it on the bed. Then she took hold of one handle and dragged the heavy piece of furniture to the door. It'd take her a while, but she'd have her things moved to the empty bedchamber down the passageway before midday.

 

Rory returned to the battlements, where he found Tam MacLean marking the positions on the stones for the new gun emplacements.

“Wait until everyone's seated at the midday meal,” he told the young man. “Then take Murdoch with you and move all my wife's belongings back to our private chambers. Maude Beaton will show you where they've been placed. And see that this isn't the clack of the servants' quarters. They've better things to do than gossip about their mistress.”

Not daring to question his chief further, Tam gave a quick nod. “Very well, laird.”

D
ropping to her knees in the loft's clean hay, Joanna lifted the tiny kitten and nuzzled its black and white fur. “Hello, pretty one,” she cooed softly, delighting in the feel of its curious, whiskered nose against her cheek. “What shall we name you?”

Three days before the guests had arrived at Kinlochleven, the stable cat had given birth to a family of five. This was the first visit Joanna had managed to squeeze from her hectic schedule. Settling deeper into the hay, she crossed her legs beneath her gown and lifted the kittens, one by one, onto her lap. Tabby rubbed against Joanna's knee, proudly showing off her children.

“Oh, I know,” she told the mother cat as she scratched her under the chin, “you've done a wonderful job. I'm so happy to see that mama and babies are all doing fine.”

“I trust you've finished moving your things back into our bedchamber by now,” MacLean said. At the sudden, unexpected sound of his deep voice, Tabby disappeared, abandoning her offspring to her mistress's safekeeping.

Joanna looked up to find her husband standing at the edge of the loft. She'd been so engrossed in the five tiny kittens that she hadn't heard him come up the ladder. She met his peremptory gaze with all the bravado she could muster in the face of his indisputable advantage in size and strength. The Highland chief might be taller than most men,
and he might be even stronger, but she wasn't going to let any MacLean intimidate a Macdonald.

“You may as well learn the truth now as later,” she told him. “I finished moving my personal possessions out of your chamber after you left this morning. I'm going to be sleeping in another room tonight and every night forthwith, until you leave my castle.”

MacLean smiled with that unflagging self-assurance she'd grown to know so well. “Joanna, lass,” he said, his voice tinged with amusement, “your predictability never ceases to amaze me. A good commander doesn't signal his moves to his enemy before the battle.”

She'd been about to inform the imperious chief of Clan MacLean that she was going to sue for an annulment on the grounds that their two-day marriage hadn't been consummated—and never would be. At his words, she snapped her mouth shut so fast, she bit the tip of her tongue.

“Ouch,” she cried, wincing in pain as she pressed her fingertips to her lips. She glared up at him as though it were his fault.

MacLean crouched down beside her. “Did you bite your tongue, sweetheart?” he asked sympathetically. “Let me see.” He cupped her chin in his long fingers and gently tilted her face upward.

Tears welling in her eyes, Joanna tried unsuccessfully to push his hand away. “Since you're neither a barber-surgeon nor an apothecary, I don't see how 'twould help.”

He bent his head and brushed his lips lightly across hers, and the tenderness of his touch made her skin prickle with goose bumps. “Show me, little wife,” he coaxed in his low, velvety baritone. “I'll kiss it and make it better.”

“Humph,” she said with a derisive sniff. “If you want to make things better, you can stop interfering with my plans to entertain our guests. Everyone was looking forward to the auction until you ruined everything by canceling it.”

MacLean dropped down in the hay beside her with a chuckle. “'Tisn't considered good manners to invite guests into your home and then try to lighten their purses by of
fering your plates and linens to the highest bidder.”

She gazed at him pensively. “I hadn't thought about linens,” she confessed. “Thanks to you, we must now stage an elaborate masque, so people won't be too disappointed. I've also asked Fergus MacQuisten to sing after this evening's supper. Do you think you could write another romantic ballad, this time in honor of Beatrix? 'Twould please her greatly and make up for the canceled sale.”

MacLean stretched out his long legs and propped himself on one elbow. Even in his relaxed position, an aura of power radiated from the body lying so close beside her. Stories of his valor on the battlefield were legendary, and peering at him from the corner of her eye, Joanna had no doubt of their veracity.

A lazy smile played about his lips as he stroked one of the tumbling kittens, which had crawled out of Joanna's lap and was playing with bits of hay. The black kitty wrapped its tiny paws around MacLean's forefinger and nipped the callused tip, and Joanna was forcefully reminded of her own vulnerability. MacLean had snatched the loaded crossbow from her with no more effort than it'd take to discipline a wayward child or brush aside a naughty kitten.

“I'm afraid I'll have to refuse your request,” he said.

Baffled, she tore her gaze from his large, capable hand to meet his eyes, gleaming with amusement. She'd completely lost her train of thought. “What…what request?”

“For me to compose another ballad. 'Twould be impossible. Lady Beatrix just doesn't bring out the ardent lover in me. Fergus will have to offer music of his own composing tonight. What is the theme of your pageant, by the way? Maybe I can make up for my interference by assisting with that.”

“The Greek underworld,” Joanna replied brightly, ready to knock some of that excessive overconfidence he wore like a crown into the dust.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “'Tis a strange choice for guests invited to celebrate a wedding.”

“I thought 'twas rather appropriate,” Joanna stated.
“Persephone being carried off to the land of the dead and ravished by Hades.” She cuddled the kitten under her chin and sent MacLean an ingratiating smile. “You can be Hades.”

“The god of the underworld,” he said with a quick laugh. “Is that how you see me? And are you to be Persephone?”

At the soft rumble of masculine laughter, Joanna felt a tingling sensation that tightened her scalp and set her insides vibrating. She fought the sudden urge to jump to her feet and race to the ladder and safety. Shaking her head, she started to edge away—slowly, so he wouldn't notice and reach out to stop her.

“Idoine will take the part of the goddess,” she replied. “I'm to be Pan.”

Rory fought the compelling urge to touch her, to bury his fingers in her thick coppery curls and kiss her until she gasped for breath and begged for his caresses. Instead he lay back against the pile of loose hay and tucked one hand behind his head. “Now why doesn't that surprise me?” he asked.

With supreme effort, he kept his gaze from drifting over his wife's slender waist and softly rounded curves, well aware that she was a hair's breadth from bolting. “In any case,” he continued, “I prefer to be a spectator rather than a player in your little pageant. You can give the role of Persephone's ravisher to Andrew. 'Twill do the youth good to exhibit a bit of wholesome lust.”

“Andrew's too young and inexperienced for the part,” she replied. “If you won't do it, I'll ask Tam.”

“Tam has other duties to attend to this afternoon.” Rory smiled, softening his refusal. “Why not ask Fearchar? If any man can throw Idoine over his shoulder and carry her off, 'tis my giant cousin.”

Joanna considered the suggestion for a moment and then nodded. She released the spotted kitten to play with the others, while she studied Rory from under her lashes.
“How did you know I was up here in the loft?” she asked. “Were you following me?”

“I saw you enter the stables from the battlements and decided to join you,” he told her, his tone amiable, his posture one of complete relaxation.

When he'd seen her slip into the building, he'd suspected that Joanna planned to take Behind for a solitary ride. He had no intention of allowing her to leave the castle without a MacLean escort.

From beneath lowered lids, he studied the fine-boned face, its faint sprinkling of nutmeg illuminated by the shaft of sunlight streaming through the stable's high western window. Her thick lashes fluttered as she cautiously peeked at him. Doubt and wariness clouded her violet-blue eyes.

Rory tucked his other hand behind his head as well, telling her without words that she was free to leave, if she chose.

Joanna shifted restlessly. Finally, she turned toward him, her low voice filled with hesitation. “You're not angry with me?”

“About what?”

His question caught her by surprise. He could all but see the windmills whirring. She didn't want to remind him of last night's confrontation or the part that her idiot cousin had played in loading the crossbow for her. Nor was it the moment for him to apologize for calling her parents vile names. The wounds were too fresh and too painful.

“About my sleeping in a separate chamber,” she replied with a lift of her chin.

“We'll discuss that later this evening,” he said blandly. “Tell me more about your pageant. What will you wear as Pan?”

“A short toga,” she said, breaking into a shy smile. Her freckled nose wrinkled with a pixie's irreverent humor. “And a wreath of ivy in my hair, which will be pinned up like a boy's.”

Rory gave a mock shudder. “Not under that hideous stocking cap, I hope.”

She laughed, and the deep, husky sound of her contralto made his breath catch in his throat. “'Twasn't as ugly as all that,” she protested with a giggle.

He grimaced as though in excruciating pain, encouraging her lighthearted laughter. “Hell, I should have burned the damn thing days ago.”

Her indigo eyes sparkling, she leaned over him with a teasing smile. “I would never have allowed you to destroy my favorite headdress, MacLean. Why, I'm thinking of having it trimmed with pearls to wear as a nightcap.”

The thought of seeing Joanna in bed garments, pearl-trimmed or otherwise, brought a vision of the evening to come, when he would lift the flowing nightdress from her bare shoulders and cover her pale, slender body with his own. Rory's heart thundered and shook as a sharp, knife-edged longing sliced through him, bringing a hunger no man could deny.

“Kiss me, Joanna,” he said softly.

Her eyes widened at his unexpected request. “I think not,” she declared, as though he'd asked her to partake of poisoned wine.

“Ah, then, 'tis afraid of me you are.”

“I am not!”

“I'll keep both hands clasped behind my head,” he promised, his tone mild and soothing. “They'll stay right where they are now. You've nothing to fear.”

“'Tisn't that I'm afraid,” she scoffed. Her cheeks grew rosy with indignation. “'Tis simply that I've so much to do this afternoon, what with guests scattered from one end of the castle to the other, and all of them looking for relief from their boredom. I don't have time to kiss you or anyone else.”

“Just one kiss, lass,” he goaded, “to prove you're not afraid of me. Then you can go.”

Joanna searched MacLean's mocking gaze, reading the certainty that she'd scurry away like a frightened wee mouse if he made so much as a move toward her.

Holy hosanna, she wasn't
afraid
of him.

She just didn't trust him.

“Macdonalds aren't cowards,” she muttered.

He shrugged complacently. “If you say so, lass.”

Joanna bent closer, glaring straight into his taunting green eyes. “I do.”

He said nothing more, but the smile curving the corners of his sensual mouth dared her to prove it.

Bracing one hand on his solid chest, she dipped her head and brushed her lips across his in a brisk, feather-soft movement. “There,” she stated with a jerk of her head as she straightened back up. “That proves I'm not afraid of you.”

“It does?” he asked incredulously. “Is that what you Macdonalds call a kiss? That insignificant little peck?”

She leaned forward, propping her forearm on his chest. “Not everyone kisses like you do,” she informed him righteously.

He raised his brows in bafflement. “Like I do?”

“You know what I mean…with your tongue.”

“Everyone does, but Macdonalds,” he replied with a jeering laugh. “Hell, I shouldn't be surprised that you don't know how to kiss properly. Your clansmen are known for their ineptitude, especially in the bedroom. 'Tis the gabble of the Scottish court.”

She gasped at his effrontery. “I've never heard such a rumor!”

“You've spent a good part of your life in Cumberland, lass,” he reminded her smugly. “Being part-English, you were shielded from what the rest of the world knows to be a fact. Sassenachs and Macdonalds have ice running through their veins.” Rory made a slight move, as though to rise. “We might as well go, Joanna, if that insipid wee buss is the best you can do.”

“Wait,” she insisted, pressing her hands against his chest. “'Tisn't true! Macdonalds can kiss as well as anyone. Better, I'm certain.”

He grinned, the insufferable, conciliating look on his
sharp features more eloquent than words. “If you say so, lass.”

“I don't have to say so!” she exclaimed. “I'll prove it.”

MacLean shrugged indifferently in halfhearted permission for her to try.

Joanna clasped his bronzed, sea-weathered face in her hands and pressed her lips to his in a kiss so passionate, so fervid, so intensely provocative his toes would curl up in his fancy buckled brogues.

He failed to respond.

She pressed harder, tracing the tip of her tongue across the tight seam of his closed lips. When MacLean remained maddeningly impassive, she tapped his chin with her fingertips, urging him to open for her.

He reluctantly obliged.

Joanna touched his tongue with hers, timidly at first, but the shiver of expectation that went through her at the feel of his moist warmth erased all hesitation. Her entire body responded to the smell and touch of him in a sudden, wild tremor of longing. Angling her face across MacLean's, she smashed her open mouth against his and stroked his tongue with hers in mounting excitement.

The kiss went on and on, till her heart was hammering against her ribs and her pulse grew frantic. Finally Joanna started to pull away, then changed her mind. MacLean didn't seem nearly as stimulated as she felt. She didn't want to stop too soon. She had to make certain he never repeated such an idiotic rumor about the Macdonalds again. After this scorching kiss, Rory MacLean would never again accuse her of having ice in her veins.