The Maclean Groom (33 page)

His vision blurring, Rory pressed his mouth again to Joanna's rounded abdomen. His heart ached with happiness as his hands roved over the smooth, taut mound. Teardrops crept down his bearded cheeks. Had anyone who knew him been told that the chief of Clan MacLean broke down and wept, he'd never have believed it.

“Rory,” she whispered, touching her fingertips to his face, “you're crying.”

“They're tears of joy, lass,” he said. He caught her fingers and pressed them to his lips. “Joy that I've been so undeservedly blessed.”

He lay beside her and spoke quietly. “I'm going to take you now, darling, but I promise to be very, very careful.”

“Oh, Rory, I've wanted you so,” she murmured against his lips, then kissed him passionately.

He turned Joanna on her side, her back against his chest, her rump pressed enticingly against his thickened sex. His aroused, eager body reacted with a sexual energy that pulsated through every muscle and vein. The vibrant ache of lust threatened to steal his control, and Rory clamped down hard on his rampaging instincts. He clenched his teeth and set his jaw, promising himself he'd be slow and gentle if it killed him.

His arms around his precious wife, he caressed her breasts, playing tenderly with the tightened buds. With his other hand, he delved into the nest of auburn fluff at the juncture of her thighs and lightly teased her silken folds until she grew sleek with moisture. She arched her back and released a long sigh of gratification.

“Does this please you?” he whispered in her ear as he stroked her delicate nub with the pad of his thumb.

“Mm,” she hummed, moving against his hand. “'Tis unbelievably pleasurable, milord dragon. I can't think why I wasted so much time dressed like a laddie. 'Tis
so
much more enjoyable being your wife than your gillie-in-training.”

He nibbled on her earlobe and inhaled the perfume of her hair. “I was afraid I'd have to guess what guise you'd adopted this time. I wondered if I should look in the armory for an armorer's wee apprentice or search the donjon for a redheaded barber's assistant.”

She laughed softly. “I'll wager you didn't expect to find me costumed as a pregnant lady.”

“Not in my wildest dreams, sweetheart,” he said with a low chuckle.

Carefully, Rory lifted her slender thigh to allow him better access and eased into her. Their physical joining nearly robbed him of his breath, the tight warmth of her narrow passage squeezing his turgid erection with dazzling currents of pleasure. He was far too big to sheath himself to the hilt in her diminutive body. When he bumped cautiously against her womb, he paused and waited. He closed his eyes, marveling at the wondrous feeling, as he enfolded his wife in his arms while buried deep inside her. He just held her, wanting the moment to go on forever.

“Oh, God, Joanna,” he whispered. “How many nights I have dreamed of this.”

She laughed softly and brought his hand up to her bulging tummy. “Not quite like this, I don't think.”

He grinned and nipped her shoulder. “Only because I'm too much of a jackass to even think of such a splendid thing. I spent months worrying about an annulment that could never have been granted.”

Slowly, leisurely, Rory moved inside Joanna as he stroked and caressed her with his hands. He kept the pace steady, using more restraint than he'd ever thought himself capable of.

Joanna made a short, breathless sound in the back of her throat, part sigh and part sob.

“Tell me if I'm hurting you,” he said thickly, though 'twould be the death of him to stop now.

Her breath coming heavy and fast, she ran her hand down his arm and lightly touched his fingers, urging him on. “It feels wonderful. Don't stop, Rory. Oh, please, don't stop.”

He played with her gently as he thrust steadily in and out, bringing her to fulfillment and then prolonging her pleasure, till she grew limp and relaxed in his arms. Drawing her closer to his straining body, he climaxed with great, shuddering jerks. The physical ecstasy heightened the overpowering feelings of tenderness and caring that Joanna and the baby had awakened inside him. The joy he experienced at that moment surpassed everything he'd ever longed for, ever dreamed of.

“Ah, Joanna,” he said on a hoarse rush of air, “darling of my heart, I love you.”

Rory stopped, dead still, as he realized what he'd just said. The words had come unbidden and unrehearsed, torn from deep inside him.

Her head came back sharply against his shoulder, but she didn't say a thing. He could tell she was as startled by the admission as he'd been. For breathless moments, he waited, hoping against hope that Joanna would tell him she loved him in return.

But 'twas not to be.

Rory bent his head and kissed her cheek. The taste of her salty tears seared the open wound that once was his unconquerable heart.

He told himself that it would be all right. In the years to come, he'd teach her to love him. But his pragmatic brain warned his battered soul that Joanna might never love him—not unless he confessed to a guilt and repentance he didn't feel for the capture and execution of Somerled Macdonald.

Rory eased his wife around in his arms and cuddled her close, and while she quietly cried herself to sleep, he silently and bitterly cursed the Red Wolf of Glencoe.

February 1499
Inverary Castle
Loch Fyne

“T
he incompetence of your guards at Innischonaill cost me my freedom,” Godfrey complained bitterly. “I don't dare show my face outside these walls. I might as well be clapped in a dungeon myself.”

Archibald Campbell peered at Godfrey from the corner of his eye with cold indifference. They were in the laird's suite of private rooms at Inverary Castle, seat of the earls of Argyll. The present earl was having his portrait painted.

“MacLean and his brothers took the lives of some of my finest men-at-arms,” Argyll replied in an unruffled tone. “You don't hear me ranting like a madman.”

One hand on his hip, the other on the hilt of his broadsword, Argyll stood in the feeble light of the window, flanked by four freestanding candelabras. Draped across the back of a settle beside him was a banner with his coat of arms; on the cushions lay a magnificent claymore. A brass-studded targe, throwing back the candlelight, had been propped against the bench leg.

“Finest men! Pah!” Godfrey replied with a snort. “Andrew said over a dozen of your soldiers fell beneath the three brothers' blades in a matter of minutes. Only their gross incompetence kept MacLean from guessing the brig
ands were actually Campbell clansmen in disguise. My God, if your men couldn't abduct a bit of a lassie and an awkward lad, they were worthless to begin with.”

Godfrey glanced over at the artist with a scowl of annoyance. Upon his arrival in the sitting room, Argyll had assured him that Jan van Artevelde spoke no Gaelic; they communicated with each other in French.

The earl, in his attempt to preserve himself for posterity, had engaged the Flemish painter while meeting with the king at Castle Stalcaire. The short, stocky man from Ghent had painted both Duncan Stewart, earl of Appin, and James IV of Scotland. 'Twas the height of vanity, not to mention vulgar ostentation. Wisely Godfrey held his tongue and didn't mention either subject.

“MacLean killed eight more of my clansmen single-handedly on the road from Archnacarry Manor,” Argyll said pleasantly as he flicked a piece of lint off his sleeve. Attired in a predominantly black tartan, he sported a forest green jacket, a sleek badger sporran, and a black bonnet adorned with three plumes. He looked over at Godfrey, and his umber eyes reflected the gleam of the candlelight in cold, calculating appraisal. “You shouldn't have gotten the big fellow so damn mad, my friend. It took twenty husky men-at-arms to drag him down from his horse, disarm and bind him.”

“I should have slit the sonofabitch's throat when I had the chance,” Godfrey snarled. The artist looked up from his palette, mild astonishment in his eyes at the openly hostile tone.

Ignoring the baldheaded foreigner, Godfrey clenched his fists, longing to have MacLean on his knees before him once again. This time he wouldn't hesitate. Since the day he'd learned that the bloody bugger had escaped the island fortress on Loch Awe, he'd been shaking in his brogues.

Argyll smiled at the display of impotent anger. “I had hopes that the annulment would eventually be granted. In faith, I planned to free MacLean from Innischonaill after
Joanna and Iain were safely wed. There's no argument more convincing than a fait accompli.”

“My brother had other plans for Joanna,” Godfrey reminded him bitterly. “What makes you think Ewen would have relinquished the heiress once he obtained an annulment?” In mounting irritation, he watched van Artevelde putter with his brushes and oils. Damnation. Argyll hadn't even shown the good manners to meet with him in private.

“You forget,” the earl said placidly, “I have far more influence with the king than Ewen Macdonald ever had. Without James Stewart's permission for his ward to wed, no marriage contract would have stood up in the civil courts. And in the Western Highlands I
am
the civil courts.”

What he said was true. Argyll obtained Crown charters of forfeited lands and bought up other chiefs' debts and mortgages. Using his overwhelming power in the Argyllshire courts, he obtained legal decrees giving him possession of their lands. And the earl wasn't afraid to use force, if necessary. He and his Campbell clansmen backed up their unscrupulous strategies with sword and dirk.

The earl looked down at the hand he'd braced flamboyantly on his hip and studied his large ruby ring. A nauseating complacency curved his thin lips, and Godfrey hoped to hell the portrait painter would capture it.

“With MacLean missing, presumably dead,” Argyll continued, “the youngest son of the chief of Clan Campbell would have been a fine political choice for Lady Joanna's husband. But I underestimated MacLean's determination. This time I agree with you, Godfrey. He needs to be killed. And I'm going to give you a second chance to rid the world of the King's Avenger.”

“What good would it do to kill him now, for Christ's sake?” Godfrey demanded. “There'll be no annulment. Not only does the rutting bastard have his wife back home at Kinlochleven, she's presented him with a son.”

Argyll stirred restlessly and readjusted a fold of his plaid. The Fleming stepped from behind the easel, a frown on his
intent features, and twitched the fold back in place. When the Scottish laird turned a thunderous scowl on him, the chubby fellow shrank behind the bulwark of his canvas.

“I'm well aware that a healthy male child has been born to Laird and Lady MacLean,” Archibald Campbell replied in a sullen tone. “I had a very uncomfortable interview with the large gentleman in the presence of the king two weeks ago. It took all my wiles to convince James Stewart that I had nothing to do with MacLean's interment at Innischonaill.”

His jaw clenched, Godfrey's words came sharp and stilted. “I suppose you placed the blame squarely on me.”

Argyll shrugged and lifted his brows. “Whom else could I blame, my dear fellow? I told His Majesty that you and your clansmen had taken The MacLean to the fortress on Loch Awe and, through guile and deceit, convinced the captain of the garrison that you were acting under my orders.”

Godfrey sank down on a low chest and covered his bearded face with his hands. It was worse than he'd expected. He was a dead man.

“Don't despair,” Argyll told him smoothly. “There's still a way out of this mess.”

Godfrey looked up, and his voice held the hoarse ache of utter defeat. “How, dammit?”

With a wave of his hand, Argyll signaled van Artevelde that the sitting was over and came to stand in front of his fellow Scotsman. “If you kill MacLean,” he said without a trace of emotion, “the lovely widow will have to remarry for the sake of her clan and to safeguard her fortune. Given the chance, I know I can convince James Stewart that my son Iain would be the right choice. With my unqualified support, the alliance between the Glencoe Macdonalds and the Campbells would strengthen the king's hold on the entire western coast of Scotland.”

“But MacLean's brat will inherit Joanna's estates and the chieftainship of the Glencoe Macdonalds,” Godfrey re
torted. “Not her second husband or the issue of that marriage.”

“The lives of small children hang by a very fine thread,” Argyll replied. He went to stand in front of the easel, studying his unfinished portrait intently. “A fever, an unfortunate accident, can snuff out their young lives in a matter of hours, minutes even.”

Godfrey rose to his feet and straightened his shoulders belligerently. “Why should I take the chance?”

“
Très bien
,” Argyll said, nodding his approval to the artist, then turned to Godfrey. “Because you are the one who knows Kinlochleven like the back of your hand, my dear fellow. And no one, least of all MacLean, would expect you to show your face within fifty miles of his castle.”

A tiny flicker of hope sprang up in the midst of Godfrey's despair. “Getting into Kinlochleven wouldn't be easy,” he said, half to himself.

“There's to be a christening in two weeks,” the earl told him. “Relatives and friends have been invited to a grand banquet to celebrate. At Lady MacLean's request, even Beatrix and Idoine, accompanied by a small retinue of Macdonalds from Mingarry, are planning to attend. It seems the besotted husband is willing to grant his wife's kinsmen a pardon, provided they swear their loyalty to him on the dirk.”

“I'm sure that pardon doesn't extend to me,” Godfrey said with a humorless laugh.

“I'm afraid not,” Argyll agreed. He picked up a decanter from a table nearby and poured sherry into three glasses as he continued. “But the celebration will provide an opportunity for you to slip inside the castle unnoticed. If you lie in stealth and take MacLean completely by surprise on what will certainly be one of the most joyous days of his life, you'll have a chance to rid us both of the King's Avenger once and for all.”

Godfrey took the glass he offered. “And if I succeed?”

“If you succeed, I will see that you are safely transported
to France with enough money to last through your lifetime—provided you're frugal.”

By God, it wasn't much. A refugee's life in some dreary, backwater village. But if Godfrey stayed in Scotland, he'd eventually be apprehended and hanged. MacLean wasn't called the Avenger for nothing.

He met the shrewd earl's unblinking gaze and read the unspoken ultimatum. If Godfrey knew what was best for him, he'd do exactly as he was told.

“You'll kill him?” Argyll questioned amiably as he handed Jan van Artevelde a glass.

“What choice do I have?”

“Then I propose a toast,” Archibald Campbell said with a smile of immense satisfaction. “To the death of Rory MacLean.”

He lifted his glass, and the Flemish portrait painter, beaming happily, joined them.

The three men downed the wine in one hasty gulp. When Argyll dashed his glass against the hearthstone to seal the bargain, Godfrey did the same. The little Fleming looked from one man to the other in frank curiosity, then, with a grin, followed suit.

 

The day had been gray and stormy, but Kinlochleven sparkled with candlelight and swaths of green and black tartan. In spite of the chilly March weather, guests had come from as far as Castle Stalcaire to attend the christening of James Alasdair MacLean. Everyone had assembled in the great hall for the lavish banquet following the High Mass and baptism ceremony. There'd been jugglers in bright silks and jesters with painted faces, muscular acrobats in doublets and hose, minstrels playing harps, flutes, drums, and bells; and mysterious dancing gypsies with black flashing eyes.

After the feasting and entertainment, the titled visitors mingled, shoulder to shoulder, with the castle staff and garrison in the high-ceilinged chamber—laird and lady, steward, scullery maid, and soldier—in celebration of the
marvelous day. Even Ethel and her shy daughter, Peg, their dimpled cheeks aglow, came from the kitchen, blushing and smiling and hiding behind their lifted apron skirts, to join in the toast to the bonny wee bairn.

When Joanna and Rory had returned to Kinlochleven after the storming of Dhòmhuill, the Macdonald men-at-arms had been angered at learning that he'd killed their war leader. But Joanna told them how Ewen had abducted her, after forcing her to lie under oath to save her husband's life. She related her suspicions that Ewen had planned to do away with her baby once it was born. Each clansman had then willingly sworn an oath of loyalty to his chieftain's husband.

Joanna's household servants had been frightened of their new laird as well—after all, they'd helped her deceive him. But Rory had been willing to overlook past mistakes. He demanded only their loyalty from that day forward. His courage and intrinsic honor had shown in his actions these past five months. He'd been decisive and fair when it came to matters involving the castle, estates, and tenants and had proven himself a capable and just chief.

Now Seumas and Davie, Jacob Smithy and his burly son Lothar, Jock Kean, Abby, and Sarah stood beneath the gallery, where the musicians had started playing a lively round. Mary and several other pretty dairymaids whispered to one another in a corner, casting covert glances at a group of tall, rugged MacLeans and wondering if they were going to join in the dancing that was about to begin.

Lady Beatrix, Idoine, and Andrew had also attended the baptismal Mass, escorted by Tam MacLean and a small contingent of Macdonald men-at-arms. They'd stood a little apart from the throng of well-wishers in the great hall until Joanna approached, offering her hand in welcome to each. She knew her cousins had been dominated by Ewen's forceful personality. They were her kinsmen, and for the sake of her clan, she'd forgiven them. With Rory's acquiescence, she'd allowed the dispossessed trio to reside once again at Mingarry Castle.

Rory had begun, at Joanna's request, the subtle negotiations necessary to find Idoine a suitable husband. When Joanna had told her cousin they'd settled on a likely prospect, a joyous smile lit her round face, revealing the comeliness hidden behind the past sour disposition. Idoine had fussed over Jamie, her longing for motherhood tangibly expressed in the way she held the bairn close and kissed the wisps of golden hair. Away from their father's self-centered influence, both Idoine and Andrew would mature into the responsible adults they were meant to be.

Joanna moved from group to group in her role as chatelaine, making certain that everyone was enjoying the festivities. She waved to Lady Emma and her brother, Laird Duncan, from across the chamber, then threw a kiss to the Camerons. Lady Nina had graciously consented to be the baby's godmother, and Lachlan became the proud godfather.

The next chief of Clan MacLean was upstairs with Maude, sleeping peacefully in the cradle beside his parents' great canopied bed. Joanna had noticed Fearchar following her dear friend up the stairs and smiled to herself at the possibility that the two would soon ask their laird's permission to marry.