The Maclean Groom (34 page)

Murdoch and Tam chatted with Father Thomas by the blazing hearth, while Isabel and Raine Cameron, seated at a bench beside one of the trestle tables, visited animatedly with Arthur Hay. At another table, Keir and Lachlan were engrossed in a game of chess. Rory watched over their shoulders, offering acerbic advice to both.

After pausing to compliment Ethel and Peg on the delicious food they'd worked so hard to prepare, Joanna joined Lady Nina and Laird Cameron.

The rich blue satin of Nina's gown brought out the rose tones in her gold hair and complemented her peaches-and-cream complexion, reminding Joanna, once again, of a celestial being.

“Tell us about this tapestry in your bedroom that has Lady Emma so intrigued,” Nina implored with her warm
hearted smile. “I understand it's quite unusual. Rory's mother believes the figures may be based on little known Greek mythology.”

“Oh, 'tis not exactly
Greek
mythology,” Joanna replied. “Originally, I had a scene of a knight in full armor bringing gifts to his lady fair hanging on my bedroom wall. I'd brought it with me from Cumberland, but my husband wasn't overly fond of it. So I had it removed to please him.”

“What's so intriguing about this particular knight and his lady?” Alex asked, his hazel eyes inquisitive. At the mention of mythology, his scholarly interest had clearly been aroused.

“Nothing,” Joanna admitted. “'Twas the tapestry Rory hung in its place that's…well, different.” At their looks of fascination, Joanna continued reluctantly. “'Tis the depiction of a Highland laird who has a dragon's tail. He's…ah…frolicking with a sea nymph.”

“Sounds rather scandalous,” Alex said with a good-natured smile.

Rory joined them at that moment, and the two men exchanged distinctly masculine glances that spoke volumes about the differences between men and women and what they considered humorous.

Her eyelids lowered, Joanna smoothed her hand down the jeweled edge of her girdle. “For some strange reason,” she said in a perplexed tone, “my husband thinks the laird in the tapestry is supposed to be the chief of Clan MacLean.”

Nina's musical laughter rang out in startled surprise. “Why ever would he think that?”

Joanna met her husband's sparkling eyes. “Who knows?” she replied brightly. “I can't imagine where he would get such a nonsensical idea.”

Nina and Alex turned their gazes on Rory, impatiently awaiting an explanation.

“That's something I intend to keep to myself,” he said. He touched Joanna's long curls and grinned complacently.
“But I will tell you that my wife insisted the sea nymph be given bright red hair before she'd allow the tapestry to be hung in our bedroom.”

As their friends laughed, Joanna wisely held her tongue. Sometimes in the evenings, Rory would look at the colorful wall hanging and burst into laughter all over again. She'd scolded him the last time, demanding to know if he was ever going to let her forget her mistake, but he'd been guffawing too hard to answer.

They'd spent the long winter evenings before Jamie was born sitting in their big bed, with a roaring blaze in the hearth nearby, learning about each other. Joanna had told Rory of her girlhood years at Allonby and Kinlochleven. He'd entertained her with stories of his marvelous adventures at sea. And she'd learned, though not to any great surprise, that the perfidious, diabolical, salacious Sea Dragon had a very sharp and very wicked sense of humor.

 

Rory put his arm about his wife's waist and drew her apart from the chattering guests. “I don't want you getting overtired,” he told her quietly as he searched her face for any sign of fatigue.

Joanna had insisted on nursing Jamie herself, rather than allowing a wet nurse to nourish the babe. Resting against the pillows, she'd sit in their bed at night, cuddling him in her arms and cooing while he sucked greedily at her milk-swollen breasts. The loving tableau never failed to stir Rory's deepest emotions. He'd watch in awed silence until Jamie, milk pooled at the corners of his tiny pink mouth, fell asleep and was tucked in his cradle nearby. Then Rory would gather his wife in his arms and hold her against his heart, till they were all sound asleep once again.

“I'm not a bit tired,” Joanna assured Rory now. “God's truth, I'm so happy, I'm floating.” Her eyes agleam, she reached up, pulled his head down and kissed him lightly on the mouth.

He took the kiss and improved upon it, as greedy as his little son. “What's that for?” he teased.

She patted the lace on his shirt collar and fiddled with the gold buttons on the jacket he'd worn on their wedding day. “For bringing the Welsh troubadour all the way from Allonby Castle to sing at the banquet,” she replied. “'Twas a wonderful surprise.” A smile curved her lips, and her face glowed with happiness. “How did you know I loved his ballads as a child?”

He touched the tip of her freckled nose playfully. “Maude told me about him. She said you used to sigh like a moonstruck lass over the verses he'd trill about the gallant knights-errant.”

“Well, I don't anymore,” she said pertly. “I'm not a dreamy-eyed lassie any longer. I have a real flesh-and-blood hero, who sleeps beside me every night.”

He pulled her closer. “Do you now, lass?”

“Umhm,” Joanna replied, scarcely able to keep from laughing. “And his name is Jamie.” She wrinkled her nose impishly. “Let's go take a peek at him.”

“Let's,” Rory agreed. He caught Keir's eye as he guided Joanna toward the doorway of the great hall, signaling his brother that he was going upstairs.

Upon his arrival two days prior, Duncan Stewart had brought his nephew a message from Jan van Artevelde. Rory had spoken to the talented artist at Stalcaire, when he'd met with the king and the earl of Argyll a month ago. Upon learning that the little man from Flanders had been offered a chance to paint Archibald Campbell's portrait, Rory encouraged him to go to Inverary Castle and learn what he could about the connection between Godfrey Macdonald and the earl. Van Artevelde had quickly agreed, adding that the chief of Clan Campbell was unaware of his knowledge of the Gaelic, which had continued to improve since his shipboard studies with Lachlan.

From the painter's letter, Rory knew that Godfrey intended to sneak into Kinlochleven and assassinate him, most likely on the day of the christening. After conferring with his brothers and Fearchar, Rory had decided to go unarmed—except for the armpit knife hidden under his
shirt—in an attempt to lure Godfrey from hiding.

From the day Duncan arrived with Lady Emma, the sentries had been alerted at the gatehouse and all entrances to the keep had been well guarded. But Rory hadn't told Joanna of the threat; there was no point in worrying her needlessly. Either Fearchar, Lachlan, or Keir, fully armed and ready for a surprise attack, would be with her and the baby at all times.

R
ory caught Joanna's elbow as they climbed the stone stairwell and drew her to a halt. It was the first moment they'd been alone since awakening that morning.

“'Tis in a terrible hurry you are, lass,” he said with a chuckle. “And for no very good reason that I know of.”

“Was there something you wanted to tell me, sir dragon?” Joanna asked, a naughty smile peeking out enchantingly. “Or did you merely wish to reassure me that you haven't sprouted a scaly green tail since last I checked?”

She stood on the step above him, nearly eye level. Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she leaned forward for his kiss.

Rory covered her lips with his open mouth, stroking her velvety tongue with his own as he rejoiced in her sweet femininity. They hadn't coupled since the birth of their son, and he was wild with ardor.

During the months before the babe's birth, he'd longed for Joanna to tell him she loved him. Each time they'd joined physically, he'd waited in eager anticipation for her to voice affection for her husband. The eagerness had turned to disheartenment, and he hadn't made the mistake of speaking of his own love again. Rory had too much pride to embarrass Joanna by trying to force a declaration she couldn't make.

He'd also learned to avoid calling his wife by a certain
Gaelic endearment, for it always brought tears. The tender phrase revived painful memories, and he didn't have to be a gray-haired philosopher to guess what they were.

But he hadn't given up hope entirely. Lately he'd taken to hiding the love charm that Raine had fashioned under Joanna's pillow while she slept and removing it in the morning. Not that he believed in such rubbish. Still, a man who'd fallen helplessly in love with his strong-willed wife—a wife who refused even to consider the fact that she might be mistaken—could use all the help he could get.

When he broke the kiss, Joanna brushed her lips across his clean-shaven cheek and spoke in his ear. “We're supposed to wait for a month. That's what Maude and Lady Emma both told me.”

“It's been a month,” he reminded her. His hands about her waist, he drew her nearer still.

“Ah, so it has,” Joanna replied with a winsome smile. She lowered her eyelids, feigning a maidenly shyness he knew for a sham. “Then tonight is the night, I suppose.” She fluttered her long russet lashes outrageously. “That is, if you're willing, milord husband.”

“I'm willing,” he said huskily. She started to turn around and continue up the stairs, but he caught her elbows and held her fast. “Joanna, have I told you how happy I am? Seeing you with Jamie in your arms, watching you suckle him at your breast, seeing the love for our son glowing in your eyes. 'Tis the most wonderful sight a man could behold.”

A hint of tears brightened her luminous gaze. She started to speak, and he placed two fingers against her lips.

“The night our son was born,” he continued in a low, hushed voice, “I was beside myself with fear. Fear because you had to suffer the pain of childbirth, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it. Fear that the bairn wouldn't be healthy and strong. But most of all, lass, fear that I might lose you. I learned that night, as I prayed on my knees in the chapel where we were wed, that though our marriage had been contracted as a political and economic alliance,
my life would be meaningless without you. The castles and the estates and the fiefs be damned. If you'd come to me, with nothing but the clothes on your back, sweetheart, I'd still have stormed that island fortress for you.”

“Oh, Rory,” she whispered unsteadily. “I…I…” She paused, and the anguish in her violet-blue eyes nearly brought his heart to a standstill. Her lower lip quivered as she clasped his face in her shaky hands. “I'm…so very…touched by your words.” She pressed her lips against his in almost frantic desperation.

Rory could only hope that one day the memories of Somerled would fade, while his own presence would remain vivid and constant. More than that, Jamie's birth had forged a bond that could never be broken. And their future children would bind Joanna to him as nothing else could.

At last, Rory understood why his mother had run away with a man who owned no lands, no castles. The power of love was greater than any power on earth or in the heavens.

He broke the kiss and ran his fingertips across her satiny cheeks, brushing the teardrops from the tips of her lowered lashes. “Come, milady wife,” he said tenderly. “Let's go see our bonny son.”

His arm about her waist, her head resting on his shoulder, they continued up the stairs side-by-side.

Just as they stepped onto the stone landing, a brightly clothed jester, his face painted in a comic mask, moved out of the shadows in a blur, catching them unawares at the very brink of the stairwell. The flicker of a blade gleamed in the dimly lit passageway.

In automatic reaction Rory threw his arm up, knocking the man's blow aside, while at the same time pushing Joanna forward and out of danger. She fell on her knees on the hard floor with a sharp gasp of pain, and Rory glanced to see if she'd been hurt. That brief instant gave his adversary the time he needed.

Using the momentum of his surprise attack, the man struck out viciously with the palm of his left hand, hitting Rory squarely on the jaw and cracking the back of his head
against the wall behind him with a sickening thud. Momentarily stunned, Rory fought the blackness that threatened and slid to the floor, his back braced against the rough stones.

Sprawled on all fours, Joanna stared up in horror, unable to comprehend what was happening. The castle was filled with friends and kinsmen, many of whom were armed. But that day Rory wore no sword or dirk.

Wild-eyed and grinning deliriously, the buffoon in gaily spangled blouse and tight hose stood over her husband, his long, glittering blade poised to strike a lethal blow.

“Don't!” she gasped breathlessly. “Stop!” She flung herself at the man's back. With one arm wrapped around his neck, the other reaching to scratch his painted face, she hung on to him with all her weight.

The jester gave a feral snarl and brought the point of his razor-sharp blade back over his shoulder, stabbing Joanna. Shocked by the blow, she released her hold and tottered backward. The agonizing pain brought her to her knees, and darkness overtook her.

On the landing at Godfrey's feet, Rory kicked out with one foot, catching his enemy in the back of his ankle and knocking his leg out from under him. The portly man crashed on his back and slid down the stairs head first, the dirk clutched tight in his grasp. Rory drew his short armpit knife from beneath his shirt and scrambled after him.

Winded and dazed, Godfrey staggered to his feet in the middle of the stairwell. He braced one hand on the wall to catch his balance. As Rory approached, he struck out wildly with the eighteen-inch blade.

Rory twisted aside to dodge the frenzied blow. Certain of his advantage, Godfrey moved upward on the stairs, closing in on his foe in the narrow space. He lashed out with a low, strangled grunt, missed, and jumped back from the shorter blade just in time.

Rory wrenched past his opponent, gaining the lower step, where he ducked and dropped to one knee, avoiding the dirk's blue steel once again. Springing up from his crouch,
he slashed out with his armpit knife, ripping across the man's paunch.

A look of disbelief contorted Godfrey's painted face. His weapon fell from his slack hand to rattle and bang its way down the length of the stairs. Incredulous, the brilliantly costumed jester looked down at his stomach. With a whimper of despair, he leaned one shoulder against the wall and slowly sank down, blood oozing between his fingers.

“Get me the priest,” Godfrey moaned.

“You can find a priest in hell, you bloody bastard.” Rory turned and raced up the stairs.

At the top of the landing, Joanna's still form lay prone on the cold floor, blood pooling on the stones beneath her shoulder. Rory turned his unconscious wife over gently, lifted her in his arms, and carried her into their private chamber. Maude and Fearchar, who'd been standing together at the window, turned in surprise.

“Christ, what's happened?” Fearchar asked, moving swiftly across the spacious room.

“Godfrey stabbed her.” Rory laid Joanna tenderly on the bed and lifted her long locks away from the bleeding wound. “She was trying to save my life,” he added, his voice raw and hoarse.

“My poor lambkin!” Maude cried as Fearchar headed for the door, sword in hand.

Rory glanced at the cradle. The sight of his sleeping son's cherubic countenance reassured him. His eyes closed, the laddie sucked noisily on his thumb.

“Godfrey's dead,” Rory called over his shoulder to Fearchar's wide back. “But you can get my mother. And tell Lachlan and Keir what's happened without disturbing the guests.”

Together, Rory and Maude bent over his wife's inert figure. “Damn,” he cursed softly, “why couldn't it have been me?”

He took the scissors she handed him and carefully cut away Joanna's blood-soaked gown, bodice, and shift. At
the sight of the clean cut, he breathed a prayer of thanksgiving.

Joanna had been struck in the fleshy part of her shoulder above the clavicle. In the glancing blow, the dirk had missed bone and major artery. The blood had already started to congeal. Considering the size of the two-edged blade and the smallness of her body, it'd been nothing short of miraculous. Rory would take his miracles any way he could get them.

Maude sighed with relief. “'Twill need a few stitches, but my wee chick will be fine. She'll have a slight scar to remember the day by, is all.”

Rory met the woman's sensible gray eyes, grateful for her cool-headed presence.

“I won't try to revive her just yet,” he said quietly. “'Tis better if she's unconscious while we sew her up.”

He pressed the folded linen cloth that Maude handed him against the wound while she prepared the needle and thread. Brushing the coppery strands away from Joanna's pale face, he gazed at her drawn features. The freckles across her nose and cheeks stood out like a sprinkling of nutmeg on snow.

In only minutes, Lady Emma entered in a flurry of lavender satin. Immediately behind her came Keir. Rory's mother hurried to stand beside him at the bed, assessing the damage with quick, expert moves.

“She'll be fine, Rory,” she assured him.

“Rory,” Keir called from the open doorway, “you need to come with me. There's something you should hear.”

“Not now,” he answered curtly, making no attempt to hide his annoyance. His youngest brother had the single-minded determination of a wounded bear, but nothing could be more important than being with Joanna at that moment.

“It's all right, dear,” his mother assured Rory with her usual serenity. “Go with Keir. Maude and I will stitch up the cut. There's nothing more you can do here at the moment, and you're needed below.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” Rory said, but he moved out
of the way so Maude and his mother could work on Joanna's shoulder.

Lachlan appeared at the door, a worried frown on his chiseled features. “How is she?”

“Nothing serious,” Lady Emma called. “Though she won't be carrying Jamie around for a while.”

At her cheerful words, Lachlan strode across the rug and placed his hand on his older brother's shoulder. “This is important, man, or we wouldn't be calling you away.”

“What the hell is it?” Rory growled in exasperation.

The anxiety in Lachlan's green eyes warned him that whatever the matter was, it needed his immediate attention. Muttering an oath under his breath, Rory turned and headed for the door.

At the bottom of the stairs, Godfrey lay supine on the stones, grotesquely costumed in the multicolored blouse and long hose of a court fool. On his knees beside him, Father Thomas bent over the dying man. Making the sign of the cross, the priest began the rite of Extreme Unction.

To Rory's astonishment, Fearchar cradled Godfrey's head and shoulders, helping him to make his last confession. “The MacLean's here now,” the flaxen-haired giant told Godfrey the moment Rory sank to one knee beside them. “You can say your penance.”

Godfrey had shaved off his dark beard to apply the black, white, and red pigment to his pocked, coarse features. 'Twas no wonder he hadn't been recognized. His glazed eyes moved to Rory, making certain he was truly there. Then he took a shuddering breath and began.

“'Twas I who killed your foster father, MacLean, not Somerled,” he gritted, clenching his teeth in agony. “I lost my temper when Gideon Cameron accosted me…alone on the road…and berated me as if I were one of his lackeys. I thought the gossip I'd repeated a week earlier was…no more than common knowledge. But God…I should have kept a civil tongue in my mouth that day.”

Dumbfounded, Rory stared at the mortally wounded man
and felt the skin crawl on the back of his neck. He didn't want to hear this.

Dammit, not this!

Godfrey paused, his breath coming in shallow pants. Runnels of sweat covered his face, smearing the jester's mask in hideous streaks.

“Cameron threatened…to cut out my tongue…if I repeated…scurrilous gossip about his family again. Christ…I should have known better in the first place. Everyone knew…how fond the laird was…of his bonny wife.”

Gasping and groaning, he stopped and waited for a moment before beginning again. The pain must have been excruciating. Only sheer willpower kept him from passing out.

Rory met Keir's eyes, too stunned to say a word, then looked at Lachlan, who stood across from him. Neither man's calm gaze betrayed his own inner torment.

“Hell,” Godfrey wheezed, his stained mouth twisted with bitter irony, “'twas obvious…the old fool had been cuckolded. One look at Raine Cameron…and any idiot would know…the black-eyed lassie's not the man's issue.”