The Maclean Groom (3 page)

As the supposed lad stared at the toes of his scuffed brogues, Rory noted the delicate features beneath the striped stocking cap that hid every strand of hair, the long, curving russet lashes—lowered now to hide the startling blue eyes—the arched brows, the graceful hands. Could this be the missing heiress?

The idea that this slim lass, barely over five feet, resembled the mighty Somerled Macdonald seemed preposterous. Then Rory remembered the gray-haired man's indigo eyes—eyes the deepest blue he'd ever seen.

Eyes exactly like this dirty-faced urchin's.

And the fierce chieftain had been named the Red Wolf in his youth because of his head of coppery hair.

The astonishing—nigh unbelievable—possibility that Lady Joanna might be attempting to hide right under his nose stunned Rory. If it were true, everyone in the whole damned castle had taken part in the deception. Once again, he looked around the great hall.

Could it be possible?

Had all these people connived to fool their new laird?

At that moment, the lass looked up to meet Rory's gaze. The brilliant blue eyes danced with mirth. He found it incredible that a Sassenach noblewoman—an heiress worth a damn fortune—would play the role of a servant. What would she do if he set her to mucking the stables?

Well, he'd go along with the ruse for now, pretending to believe Idoine was his future bride, while he sent messengers to Mingarry Castle to notify Ewen Macdonald of the marriage alliance and to make certain that Lady Joanna wasn't there. Meanwhile, 'twould prove an interesting diversion to learn the true identity of the little vixen dressed in a boy's shirt and plaid.

“Rather than return with my future bride to Stalcaire immediately as first planned,” he told the Macdonalds coldly, “we'll await the arrival of your war commander.” He favored Idoine with a brief glance. “He can accompany Lady Joanna and me to my uncle's castle, where we will be wed. From this moment on, I'll assume the responsibilities and privileges of your new laird.”

Idoine started to protest, but Lady Beatrix clapped one hand over her daughter's mouth before she could utter a word. Grumbles of dissatisfaction swept through the hall. The Macdonalds' furious expressions told him they'd expected the chief of Clan MacLean to dash off to Mingarry Castle, thinking to find Lady Joanna with their clan commander, Laird Ewen.

“Place a guard at the gate and posterns,” Rory told Fearchar. “No one is to leave without our consent, not even the lowliest serving boy. And send four men to Mingarry to invite Ewen Macdonald to his cousin's wedding.”

With a nod, Fearchar left the chamber with several broad-shouldered MacLeans.

Next, Rory addressed the twenty weaponless Macdonald men-at-arms. “By order of His Majesty, King James, you are to travel to Stalcaire, where you will swear your fealty to him. Any man who does not appear there within the next two days will be charged with treason and dealt with accordingly. You have my permission to leave at once.”

As the dispirited Macdonald soldiers filed out of the upper hall, Rory motioned to David Ogilvy, and the bailiff hurried as fast as his dragging gait would allow. “Have the chamberlain take my things to the castle's finest bedchamber.” He glanced at Beatrix and Idoine, whose bottom lip was thrust out in a sulky pout. “I trust that won't inconvenience either of you ladies.”

“Certainly not, laird,” Beatrix answered sharply.

With a jerk of his head, Rory brought the brown-robed cleric a step nearer. “You may take the relic back to the chapel, Father.”

“Father Thomas Graham,” the priest replied, belatedly introducing himself.

“And have a candle lit before the Virgin's altar,” Rory added as he turned to leave. “My gillie will bring you a crown for the offering as soon as my saddlebags are unpacked.”

“For what intention, laird?” the priest asked in surprise.

“For the wedding couple,” Rory told him with a frown. He'd thought the reason obvious. “That the bride and groom, soon to be joined in holy wedlock, will be blessed with a long and fruitful union.”

Father Graham hunched his narrow shoulders as though caught in an embarrassing mistake. “Of course, milord. Of course.”

L
ater that evening Rory entered his new bedchamber, nearly certain that his future bride was masquerading as a serving lad called Joey Macdonald. He'd watched the lad
—lass, dammit—
seated by the fireside playing backgammon with Seumas Gilbride, Kinlochleven's steward, after supper. Each time the boy
—girl—
made a successful move on the board, he
—she—
would laugh out loud. The soft, husky laughter, filled with a naughty, irrepressible merriment, convinced him further of his suspicions.

He opened the low carved chest at the end of the four-poster. The scent of roses drifted up, enticing and evocative. Filled with costly and stylish robes, it brought to mind the image of a pampered Englishwoman whose world centered on her own shallow interests. This, then, was her chamber; these, her fine garments trimmed with fur. He lifted a lavender wool gown adorned with sable from the stack of folded clothing and held it out at arm's length.

Its owner was a tiny thing. The top of her head would barely reach the middle of his chest. He pictured Joey—the height would be correct for a twelve-year-old boy, but could also be that of a diminutive seventeen-year-old female.

Returning the gown to the pile, he went to the table that held an assortment of feminine trifles. Pulling open a drawer, he fumbled through the things, picked up a silver brush, and brought it closer to the candle flame. A strand
of silken hair clung to the bristles, glowing like hammered copper in the moving light.

Christ! Blue eyes and red hair!

He'd been so damned sure Lady Joanna would look like Idoine, sour-faced and frizzled, that he'd never even considered the possibility the maid he would marry might be bonny.

Cold fury swept through him as he stared with unseeing eyes at the tapestry on the far wall. He'd like to turn the lying wench over his knee, lift up that tattered plaid she wore, and whale on her backside till her howls of outrage shook the rafters. If he attempted to thrash her as she so richly deserved, the Macdonalds would never stand by and allow him to lay one blow on her little bare butt. They'd stumble all over themselves confessing her true identity.

Hell, even the priest was in on the sham.

Rory sank down on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes and stockings, stopped, and smiled grimly. The Macdonalds weren't the only ones who could play this idiotic game of make-believe. They'd had a good laugh at his expense; now it was his turn.

He lay back on the mattress and stared up at the silk canopy. God, what a hellion, to try such a trick.

Meting out physical punishment would be letting her off much too easily. There'd be far more satisfaction in going along with the ruse till he'd evened the score.

He rose, crossed the room, and poured a glass of porter from the flagon on the side table. Twirling the ale, he stared into its dark brown depths. How much more gratifying to show Lady Joanna who really controlled Kinlochleven. He'd take the serving boy under his wing, and set all the Macdonalds wondering what they could do to protect their mistress from discovery and still not reveal her identity.

He smiled to himself in anticipation. His revenge would be slow and thorough, and all the sweeter for the waiting.

 

Rory sat up with a frown, uncertain how long he'd slept. He'd drifted off, fully clothed, on top of the coverlet and wakened with troubled thoughts.

Locked out of her bedchamber, what nighttime refuge had Joanna found that was completely safe? Not with any of the womenfolk; the sight of a lad going into the women's chambers in the evening and not coming out until dawn would be noticed and remarked upon.

Not the stables, either. Too risky.

Nor the great hall with his men-at-arms.

So where the hell was she sleeping?

He left the room, candle in hand, and descended to the ground floor. The snores of his soldiers, lying on the rushes, mingled with their grunts and groans as they tossed about in their sleep. The faint sound of male voices caught his attention, and he moved down the long gallery.

Two Macdonalds looked up in surprise when Rory entered the kitchen. Seumas and Jock Kean, the stable master, sat at one of the rough wooden tables, playing cards by the light of a tallow dip. They rose to their feet at the sight of him, their faces puckered in consternation.

“M-milord,” Seumas said, his overwide smile splitting his whiskered cheeks, “is there something you're needing?”

Jock's eyes darted to the fireplace, and Rory followed his gaze. There before the hearthstones, cocooned in a swath of red and blue tartan, lay Joey, sound asleep.

“Nothing,” Rory said. “I was merely restless. Rather than disturb any of the servants, I thought I'd check the pantry myself for something to eat.” He looked at the tarots spread across the tabletop. “I enjoy a good game of cards. I'll join you, if I may.” Without waiting for an invitation, he set his candle on the table and dropped to the bench across from Seumas.

“Certainly, laird, certainly,” Jock said, and the two sat back down.

Rory pulled a crown out of his sporran and tossed it on the pile of coins in the center. “You men keep late hours.”

“Ah, well,” Jock answered, shuffling the tarots with his knotted fingers, “like you, we couldn't sleep, so we thought we'd bide the time with a bit o' harmless gamblin'.”

They hadn't played for long when Kinlochleven's bailiff shambled into the kitchen. Rubbing his eyes, Davie came to a sudden halt at the unexpected sight of his new laird.

“You couldn't sleep, either, I take it,” Rory said with a brief nod as he made his discard.

Abashed, the stoop-shouldered man adjusted the pleats of his belted plaid as though he'd dressed hastily in the dark. He peered at the fireplace from the corner of his eye; then, meeting his comrades' worried gazes, slipped onto the bench next to Rory.

Across the table, Seumas stretched and yawned. “Well, I'm for bed,” he declared, picking up his winnings. “If you'll excuse me, milord?”

He nearly bumped into Father Thomas on the way out. The chaplain's dark brown eyes grew wide as he entered the room. “What in heaven's name—” He stopped short, his gaze flying to Joey, then nodded politely. “Evening, laird.”

Rory smiled down at the king, queen, and knave in his hand. His few remaining doubts were completely wiped away by the changing of the guard. As Jock made his excuses along with Seumas and trundled off to bed, Davie and Father Thomas joined Rory at the table, ready to while away their shift.

What could look more innocent than two men sitting in the warmth of the kitchen over a friendly game of tarot, while a serving lad slept by the fire?

Laying his cards facedown, Rory stood, walked over to the wood box by the hearth, and picked up a log.

“Here, I'll do that for you, laird,” Davie said, pushing himself up from the bench. He started to move toward the fireplace, favoring his lame leg.

“Sit down,” Rory told him. “I can stir the fire.”

He crouched over the sleeping figure and shifted the embers about with a poker, than added a log.

Illumined by the flickering light, Lady Joanna's translucent skin glowed with vitality. The delicate features had been scrubbed clean of the dirt smudges, and a sprinkling
of cinnamon dusted her pert nose. Her soft, pink mouth had parted slightly in her sleep, and her long lashes rested on her silken cheeks. The knit stocking cap had been replaced by a lad's cotton nightcap, which had shifted in her nocturnal movements, revealing strands of lustrous red hair curving about her face.

Hell and damnation.

How could they think him so blind?

All the girl's innocence and sweet femininity lay right before him. He rose and turned to find her two clansmen, now both on their feet, watching him with sickly apprehension.

“The laddie sleeps like the dead, doesn't he?” Rory commented with a chuckle.

“He does, laird,” Father Thomas replied, unable to manage the faintest of smiles.

Dusting his hands, Rory walked back to the table, sat down, and picked up his tarots. “Now, if you men are ready, let's get down to some serious card playing. And I warn you, I'm very hard to bluff.”

The other men's eyes met, sharing a secret amusement. “Oh, we've no doubt you're a canny one, laird,” Davie said, his protruding eyes lighting up like beacons. “But you'd have to get up fair early to outfox a Macdonald.”

Rory returned his grin. “I'm glad to hear that. I wouldn't want to trounce you fellows too quickly—there's no pleasure in an easy victory.”

 

“You told the men?” Rory asked Fearchar as he joined him in the library the next morning. Spread across the table lay the building plans of Kinlochleven, which he'd been studying. While the keep's interior boasted luxuries more common to an English manor house than a Scottish castle, the outer fortifications needed repair and reinforcement. He intended to renovate the fortress as quickly as new plans could be drawn up and masons hired.

“They all know,” his cousin said, bracing his hands on his hips. The pale blue eye glistened with mirth, at odds
with the somber black patch. “They could scarcely believe the truth at first, but I managed to convince them.”

“And they understand my orders? No one is to touch her.”

“I gave them your warnin', forbye,” he replied. “If any man lays a finger on the lass, he'll beg to die before we're through with him.”

Satisfied, Rory rotated his shoulders and massaged the back of his neck. He left the table and strode across the carpet. Bracing one hand on the edge of the narrow window, he looked out at the kitchen garden and paused for a moment to enjoy the bucolic scene.

Lady Joanna Macdonald, in her lad's clothing and carrying a large bundle of laundry, came into view. Making her way through the rows of peas and onions, she stopped for a moment to speak to the bairn Rory had threatened to kill the day he'd arrived. The child's mother, smiling with delight at the spate of cooing and gurgling from her youngster, continued to pick green peas and drop them into her cupped apron.

At Rory's sudden scowl, Fearchar spread his big, scarred hands across the building plans and braced his considerable weight on the table. “What's really eating your insides?” he asked. “The fact that the lassie's the granddaughter of Somerled Macdonald or the knowledge that she doesn't care to wed you any more than you wish to marry her?”

Turning from the window, Rory braced his shoulders against the wall. “Maybe 'tis both,” he said, “maybe neither. Maybe 'tis just that I'd always planned to choose my own bride, not have one foisted on me by royal decree.”

“You haven't tumbled arse over alepot for a bonny face and a braw smile when I wasn't lookin', have ye now? A fellow has to be sensible in spite of the urgings of his heart—or his loins.”

Rory chuckled at his cousin's sly leer, but didn't bother to answer. They both knew he was far too pragmatic to believe in romantic love. Whatever the circumstances, his
choice of a bride wouldn't be based on some fatuous myth perpetuated by bards and heartsick maidens.

“Dod, man,” Fearchar said, “if 'tis bothering you that much, ride back to Stalcaire and ask the king to reconsider.”

Rory folded his arms with a grimace of resignation. “'Twould be a waste of time. I tried my damndest to talk James out of this asinine scheme the day he first proposed it. Lady Joanna is the granddaughter of the late Marquess of Allonby, and the Nevilles have always been close to the English throne—so doubtless the maid inherited their fierce loyalty to Henry Tudor. But none of this swayed the king. When I told him flat out that a MacLean could never wed a Macdonald, he refused to listen. To hear James Stewart tell it, he's the one making the sacrifice in allowing me to end my sailing days and take up the prosaic life of a landholder.”

“There's a good many reasons for the king wanting these nuptials, as you damn well know,” Fearchar said. “By uniting you and Lady Joanna in holy wedlock, her title and property will be safely in MacLean hands, rather than in the grasp of her misbegotten clan's pawky commander, Ewen Macdonald. And James isn't worried about the lass's loyalty, Sassenach or no—only her future husband's. Her English heritage makes the proposed alliance all the more desirable. Through your marriage, the Scottish Crown will gain a toehold in Cumberland.”

“I'm fully aware of the political advantages to James IV and Scotland,” Rory said sharply. “But have you forgotten the lady's grandfather murdered Gideon Cameron? I lost a brilliant mentor and ally due to nothing more than a cantankerous old man's spite and greed.”

“If the lassie's willing to forget the fact 'twas you who captured the Red Wolf and delivered him up for the hangin',” Fearchar retorted, “you should be able to overlook the murder of your foster father. Lady Joanna had nothing to do with the plaguey affair.”

“She's a Macdonald. That alone condemns her.”

His face puckered in a scowl, Fearchar came around the table. “'Tis high time you took a bride,” he said bluntly. “You're not getting any younger. And a married man needs estates to leave his weans.”

Rory clenched his jaw to stifle an oath. He didn't need to be reminded that he held no lands of his own. Since he'd been old enough to comprehend the full meaning of that unfortunate fact, he'd realized that as chief of Clan MacLean, he must one day wed an heiress, thereby providing a home for his dispossessed kinsmen, who'd otherwise end up as broken men, forced to sell their services as mercenaries in foreign lands.

In his years of faithful service on the sea, Rory had accumulated considerable wealth. And because of his loyalty to the king, he'd hoped to be awarded the estates that had once belonged to Somerled Macdonald. But that dream had been nothing more than an illusion. There was no gain without a price—and the greater the gain, the costlier the price.