The Maclean Groom (35 page)

“So you sneaked up behind Gideon as he turned to leave and buried your dirk in his back,” Rory stated angrily. “Then severed his head.”

“That last part was none of my doing,” Godfrey replied. He moaned, a low, whimpering, animal sound, and then went on determinedly. “Archibald Campbell discovered me that afternoon…before I'd had a chance to flee.”

“What happened?”

“Argyll hacked off Cameron's head with a claymore…wrapped it in my tartan…pinned it with my clan badge…and had it delivered to Lady Cameron…with the compliments of the Red Wolf of Glencoe.”

Rory glanced up at Alex, who'd come to join them beside the man in the last throes of death, and read the startled comprehension in his eyes. A long-running feud had existed between Gideon Cameron and Somerled Macdonald over a
land title, and Argyll had seized the opportunity to place the blame for Cameron's murder on the laird's hated enemy. The enmity between Gideon and the Red Wolf was the reason they'd all been so quick to believe the evidence against him.

“You had ample time to speak up,” Rory told Godfrey, his harsh voice grating with suppressed fury. “You didn't have to keep silent when Somerled was captured and taken to Edinburgh for the hanging.”

Godfrey tried to reach up and grasp Rory's sleeve, but didn't have the strength, and his hand fell to the floor. “Oh, I paid the price,” he said, his words coming now as a faint, breathy whisper. “My silence saved my neck…but condemned me to be Campbell's pawn…for the rest of my life.” He turned his faltering gaze to the priest. “For this…and for all my sins, Father…I am heartily sorry.”

As Godfrey Macdonald's life ebbed away, Father Thomas anointed his forehead, lids, and mouth with holy oil, praying softly in Latin.

Rory rose blindly to his feet, feeling as though he'd just been struck at point-blank range with a cannonade of stoneshot.

Jesus, God Almighty.

He had delivered an innocent man to his executioners.

He had sent his wife's innocent grandfather to the grave
.

Barely aware of the three men who'd helped him capture the Red Wolf, Rory stared blankly at the wall. Lachlan, Keir, and Alex stood near the dying man, mute with shock. They'd been so sure. They'd all been so damn sure.

Unable to speak, weighed down with guilt and regret, Rory turned and went back upstairs, carrying a burden that would last a lifetime. He would get down on his knees and beg his wife's forgiveness for what he'd done. Pray God, she would find it in her heart to forgive him.

Maude stood on the landing with Jamie in her arms. She must have heard something of what had been said at the foot of the stairs, for she gazed at Rory with heartfelt compassion.

Lady Emma met her son just outside the bedchamber door, her lovely features creased with worry. “Joanna's conscious and calling for you, dear. I can't seem to quiet her. She refused to believe us when we assured her you were alive. She's afraid you've been killed, and she needs desperately to tell you something. 'Tis something she's never told you before. I can't get her to explain what's wrong.”

From the passageway, Rory could hear Joanna's terrified sobbing. “Why isn't he here?” she cried plaintively. “My husband would be with me if he were alive!”

When he entered, he found his wife propped up on the pillows and thrashing about restlessly. Afraid she'd endanger the stitched wound, Rory hurried to the bedside and knelt down beside her. He took Joanna's pale, shaky hand and brought the cherished fingers to his lips.

“I'm here, sweetheart,” he said with a smile, though inside he was drowning in remorse. “I'm right here beside you. What did you want to tell me, lass?”

Bursting into fresh sobs, she reached up with one hand and slid her fingertips across his cheek. Her indigo eyes overflowing with tears, she pulled his face down to hers and rained kisses on his brows, lids, and cheeks.

“Darling of my heart,” Joanna whispered raggedly, adding with each tear-soaked kiss, “I love you…I love you…I love you.”

From her place in the open doorway, Lady Emma wiped the moisture from her eyes. With a tremulous smile, she withdrew, closing the door quietly behind her.

April 1503
Kinlochleven Castle

J
an van Artevelde had fallen in love with Rory's wife. Hell, Rory couldn't blame the fellow. Her vivid coloring and vibrant temperament had proven an artist's delight. The portrait of Joanna in her bridal gown hanging above the mantel in Rory's library was a masterpiece. The mass of coppery hair framing a gamin's heart-shaped face, with its startling violet-blue eyes and luxuriant russet lashes, would enthrall any man with a breath of life in him. But to the talented little Fleming, Lady MacLean offered an opportunity seldom realized by those few portrait painters whose innate sense of beauty was combined with a Flemish love of realism and a brilliant mastery of the techniques of oil painting.

The adoration lavished upon Joanna by the short, pudgy, balding foreigner was purely of an aesthetic nature, of course. Still, Rory would be thankful when the present portrait had been completed, and van Artevelde could pack up his palette and paint pots and return to Stalcaire, while the family resumed the normal routine of daily life.

“Jamie, hold still,” Joanna cautioned their son. “'Twill not be much longer, dearest, and then Mama will give you a sweetie.” She peeked up at her husband from beneath her long eyelashes and flashed him a dazzling smile. “You,
too, milord husband,” she added with a throaty laugh. “Try to be patient for a wee bit longer.”

“I've been patient for the past three weeks,” Rory complained. “My stewards are waiting for the final decisions on everything from the acreage of oats and barley to the beginning of the new barns.”

“Only a few more minutes, milord,” Jan called in his heavily accented Gaelic from behind the tall easel. “Then we'll be done. I can put the finishing touches on it tomorrow without you.”

Van Artevelde had arranged the family grouping in the upper hall near a corner well lit by two windows. Rory, in his Highland chief's finery complete with feathered bonnet, stood beside his seated wife. Attired in a lavender velvet gown, Joanna held their two-year-old daughter in her lap, while Jamie was supposed to be standing next to his mama with one arm perched on her knee. Coaxing the active four-year-old to stand still had been nearly as difficult as getting his busy father to find a spare moment for the sittings.

“I'll be good,” Jamie promised for the sixth time that morning. “But I'm getting
very
tired just standing here.”

“Dada, Dada,” Christine chattered, “up, up, up.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Rory told his squirming daughter as he lifted her into his arms.

Jamie's green gaze and golden hair reflected his father's, while Chrissy had been blessed with her mother's brilliant coloring. She patted her father's cheeks with her dimpled hands and pressed a dewy kiss on the side of his nose. As always, Rory's heart did a quick somersault at the feel of his tiny daughter's soft, wet mouth and chubby fingers on his face.

Life couldn't get much better than this.

“Enough,” Jan said, coming out from behind the wooden frame to beam at them. “We're done. Complete.”

“Hurrah!” Jamie exclaimed and dashed for the door. “I can ride my new pony.”

Lachlan nearly crashed into the child as he came through the open doorway. “Whoa! Not so fast, ye wee loon.”
Scooping the laddie up, he tossed him toward the ceiling. “You can ride on your Uncle Lachlan's shoulders, while you say hello to your Grannie and Uncle Keir.”

Jamie obligingly straddled his uncle's strong neck and grabbed a handful of the wavy auburn hair. “Gid'up, horsie, gid'up.”

With a tolerant grin, Lachlan pried the small fingers loose from his tousled hair and held his nephew's hands for safety as he strode across the carpet.

Lady Emma and her youngest son followed Lachlan into the hall. Keir carried a stack of presents for Jamie and Chrissy, which he set on a press cupboard. They'd traveled from Stalcaire to celebrate the lassie's second birthday.

Joanna hurried to embrace them. “Oh, you've come at last,” she said, standing on tiptoe and pressing kisses of welcome on their cheeks. “We were hoping you'd arrive in time for dinner. I thought we'd have our meal here in the upper hall today. 'Tis much cozier.”

Rory relinquished Chrissy to her grandmother, dropped a kiss on both foreheads, and then turned to give his two brothers a handshake and a hearty whack on the back. After warm greetings were exchanged all round, everyone gathered in front of the portrait.

“'Tis wonderful,” Lady Emma said as she jiggled her chirping granddaughter on her hip. She looked at van Artevelde and smiled appreciatively. “You've captured them perfectly, sir. I've never seen a finer portrait.”

The little Fleming grinned from ear to ear at the well-earned praise. “Thank you, milady. I believe 'tis my best yet.”

Chrissy pointed to the painting excitedly. “Mama, Dada,” she said with a happy crow of laughter. “Jamie. Me!”

“Too bad,” Keir commented dryly, as he shook his head. His gaze traveled from Rory's face to the portrait and back to Rory once again. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “The damn thing looks just like you, big brother.”

Rory studied the canvas with enormous satisfaction. The time-consuming sittings had been worth it. Jan van Artevelde had captured more than just their exact images on the canvas. Wit and liveliness shone on Joanna's pixie face, the indigo eyes sparkling with inner radiance. The unblemished innocence on the two young countenances would have touched the hardest of hearts. And Rory's sharp, sea-weathered features, while revealing to the most casual observer his obstinate Scots pride and his readiness to fight for his convictions and his country, also subtly imparted his personal happiness and the deep, abiding love he felt for his family.

Engrossed in the portrait, Lachlan stood quietly beside him. “How did you ever get so damn lucky?”

“I ask myself that question every day,” Rory replied, his gaze fixed on the image of his bonny wife.

For Joanna had forgiven him. Completely and without reservation. The summer following Jamie's birth, they'd brought Somerled's remains from Edinburgh to be interred in Kinlochleven's graveyard beside the old man's wife and son. A special chapel had been built in his honor at the Observantine Priory nearby, where Joanna could visit to light candles and offer prayers for the repose of his soul.

“You told me once,” Joanna had said, as they stood at Somerled's freshly marked grave, “that we must accept the tragedies fate brings us and carry on. I know you acted with complete conviction, Rory, certain that Grandpapa was guilty of murdering your foster father. 'Tis a blessing we have a son who carries my grandfather's blood in his veins, and God willing, we'll have more sons and daughters in the years ahead. 'Tis their future we must think of now. Our devotion to each other will be the foundation for their happiness, as well as the security of both our clans.”

The charges Rory had lodged against Archibald Campbell could never be proved. There'd been only Godfrey's word against the wily earl's, and Argyll furnished a dozen plausible reasons why the dying man had chosen to falsely accuse him. But James Stewart had made it clear that
should anything happen to Rory, his widow's hand would never be given to Iain Campbell—or any other man of that clan. At Joanna's impassioned pleading, Rory had agreed to end the matter at that. A bitter and prolonged feud with Clan Campbell would serve no purpose, and Rory was committed to bringing peace to the Western Highlands.

Lachlan's firm hand on Rory's shoulder interrupted his solemn reverie. “I have some news to share,” his brother announced to the room at large.

“What news?” Joanna asked eagerly. “Are you betrothed?”

A grin creased his classic features at the typically feminine question, and Lachlan shook his head. “Nothing quite so exciting. The king has appointed me as one of the Scottish escorts for his new English bride. I'm to go with his other ambassadors to London next month and accompany Margaret Tudor on her journey to Edinburgh in July. In honor of the occasion, His Majesty awarded me a new title. I am now the earl of Kinrath.”

“That's wonderful!” Joanna cried. “Congratulations!”

No one else spoke.

James IV of Scotland had married the eldest daughter of Henry VII of England by proxy two years before, when the lass was only twelve. Now about to turn fourteen, she was old enough to come to her new country, where she would rule as their queen.

Because of Joanna's part-English heritage, the rest of the family was too polite to say out loud what Lachlan must surely be thinking at the moment: visiting the treacherous Sassenach court would be worse than stepping on a nest of vipers.

Joanna's questioning gaze moved from one silent member of the family to another. She waited, bright head tipped in expectation, for them to respond to the tidings.

“Congratulations on your new title,” Rory said belatedly, and his surprised family echoed the sentiment.

At that moment, Fearchar and Maude entered the hall. Behind them came the servants carrying trays of dishes for
the midday meal. The couple had been married for three years, and though there'd been no children from the union, the two were happy and content at Kinlochleven. Maude cared for Jamie and Chrissy in the same loving way she'd always cared for Joanna. And Fearchar served as the head steward of all their vast estates.

As everyone found his place at the table, Joanna hastened to Rory's side, and he immediately put his arm around her waist and drew her close. He could read the perplexity on her lovely features.

“Why did everyone stare at Lachlan in horrified silence at his good news?” she asked in a subdued voice.

Rory bussed her on the nose, then murmured in her ear. “We're afraid of what the Sassenach lassies might do to him.”

Joanna half-smiled, uncertain whether he jested or spoke in earnest. “What might the English girls do to him?”

Rory slid his hand down to her firm little butt and gave his gullible wife a loving pinch. “'Tis said the bold-faced wenches like to slip their hands beneath a Scotsman's plaid to discover if he really has a tail.”

At her indignant expression, Rory burst into laughter. Ignoring the glances of his curious family, he lifted his spouse up for a long, thorough kiss. “I'll let you check again tonight,” he whispered. “Just to make certain one hasn't sprouted in the last twenty-four hours.”

“I intend to do just that,” she told him pertly. “God's truth, a poor Sassenach lassie can never be too careful when it comes to wicked, diabolical Scottish sea dragons.”

As he held her lithe figure securely against his large frame, Rory's happiness knew no bounds. “Darling of my heart,” he said tenderly, “I love you so.”

“I love you, too, milord husband,” she replied, wrinkling her freckled nose and bestowing her impudent smile on him. “Even if you never do grow a decent dragon's tail.”