The Maclean Groom (5 page)

Father Thomas placed his hand on Joanna's shoulder, and they came to a stop. “I'm afraid this farce is going to turn deadly,” he said in a low voice, his dark eyes somber.

“When we agreed to your plan, Lady Joanna,” Seumas added, stepping closer, “we thought the King's Avenger would be gone the same day he arrived, riding for Mingarry Castle in search of you.”

“Don't give up so soon,” she answered confidently. “All we have to do is fool The MacLean until Ewen arrives to rescue us.”

Seumas rubbed his whiskered jowls, his mouth compressed in a tight line. “You can't keep up this deception much longer, milady,” he warned. “'Tis too dangerous.”

“I can,” she insisted. “I know I can. Why, MacLean wasn't a foot away from me and hadn't the least notion I was a girl. He's as easy to fool as the rest of those idiots.”

Idoine squeezed closer to her mother. “If he does find out, he'll probably hang you.”

“Let him,” Joanna replied with a toss of her head. “Just as long as he doesn't marry me first.”

Some of her kinsmen chuckled at the bold remark, but most regarded their mistress soberly. At the moment, the choice between a hanging and a wedding seemed an all-too-distinct possibility.

Pressing her hand to her ruddy cheek, Maude looked at Father Thomas with worried eyes. “Perhaps we should try to sneak my wee lamb out of the castle.”

“That might be a very good idea,” he agreed with a nod.

Although every member of her household staff was loyal to Joanna, she hadn't yet been fully accepted by the entire clan since her return to Kinlochleven two years ago with her grandfather. But she was their chieftain now, and she was determined to help them.

“My heart is in the Highlands and here I'll stay,” she declared, clenching her hands with unflagging resolution. “Besides, if Joey Macdonald were to disappear now, The MacLean would guess who he really was, and then you'd all be in danger.” She touched Beatrix's sleeve. “Have you received any word from Ewen?”

“Not yet,” her cousin admitted. “But I'm sure we'll
hear soon. He may have gone to Stalcaire Castle to speak with the king. Hopefully, my husband is with His Majesty as we speak, begging him to reconsider this tragic misalliance and to give permission for you to wed Andrew instead.”

“Then we'll wait till Laird Ewen arrives,” Joanna said. She met Idoine's worried gaze. “Don't be afraid, cousin. I won't let the Sea Dragon marry you. If it comes to that, I'll admit who I am.”

At Idoine's halfhearted nod of agreement, Joanna tugged the knitted cap further down over her ears, making sure not a wisp of telltale red hair showed beneath its blue border. “Meanwhile, I'll continue to play the role of a serving lad.”

Except for her recent encounter with the Sea Dragon, Joanna was actually enjoying herself. She'd much rather be free to roam the castle grounds than be relegated to the solarium, practicing her embroidery with Idoine.

“Be careful, my child,” Father Thomas said to Joanna. “Stay away from all the MacLeans, unless it can't be avoided.”

Joanna wasn't anxious to provoke the Sea Dragon's wrath a second time. She didn't want to get scorched by that fiery tongue of his—or frozen to death by that wintry glare. But like Jeanne d'Arc, her favorite heroine, she'd go to the stake before betraying her identity.

“I have to continue going about my duties, Father,” she said. “If a serving lad doesn't look busy, someone will soon find him something to do. And if one of the MacLeans does come looking for Joey Macdonald, I'd better be mucking out the stables.”

“Ah, lambkin,” Maude said, “I'm afraid for ye.” She drew Joanna into her arms and held her against her ample breast, then kissed her forehead.

At the gentle solace, Joanna blinked back tears. How often her former nurse had comforted her like this when she was a frightened child.

For a quiet moment, neither spoke.

Neither said what was uppermost in her mind: the true perversion of the MacLeans.

For it was whispered among the Macdonalds that their ancient enemies, inveterate sea raiders, were also said to fornicate with mermaids who called to them from the rocky shore.

If Joanna's stratagem didn't succeed, she would soon be married to Evil Incarnate.

 

Joanna's duties as serving boy included carrying wood into the castle's keep and piling it on the many hearths. The evening following her prickly conversation with The MacLean, Fearchar found her in the kitchen, perched on a table and munching an apple, and ordered her to take another armful of firewood to the laird's bedchamber. Resisting the urge to inform the bearded colossus that it was
her
bedchamber, not MacLean's, she scrambled up from the bench to do his bidding.

Joanna hadn't stepped foot inside her private quarters since the Dragon's arrival, and the idea of visiting her own room dressed as a servant tickled her sense of the ridiculous.

The door was ajar, so she entered without knocking. In front of the fireplace stood the large wooden tub used for bathing. Arthur Hay, MacLean's gillie, was pouring a bucket of hot water into the steaming receptacle.

Joanna halted just inside the threshold. Too late, she realized the reason for the extra logs.

The Sea Dragon was about to take a bath.

“Don't stand there gawking,” Arthur called. “Put those logs in the wood box where they belong.”

MacLean absently glanced over from where he sat on the edge of her high feather mattress, removing his shoes and stockings. Paying her no more heed than the deerhound that had come in with her, he rose and started to unbuckle his belt.

Beneath the hem of his plaid, his hairy calves were well-
shaped and sinewy. The sight of his naked feet seemed so shockingly intimate, she nearly stumbled.

Joanna stared down at the logs cradled in her arms, fighting the paralyzing bashfulness that threatened to give her away. Her mind whirled dizzily as she moved to the fireplace with awkward steps.

The soft shush-shush of clothing being removed could be heard from behind, and Joanna's heart jumped to her throat. Godsakes! If she didn't get out of there fast, it'd be too late.

“Add some more wood to the fire, lad,” MacLean told her.

“Very well, laird,” she mumbled, her head bent over her chore.

On her knees before the grate, it suddenly occurred to Joanna that she'd just been blessed with a singular stroke of good luck. She now had the chance to discover if the stories she'd heard as a child were true! All she need do was linger just long enough to get a peek at MacLean's bare arse—not that she really
believed
he had a tail. Well, not totally and completely, anyway.

Her mouth went dry as she caught her lower lip between her teeth. What she planned to do was wicked. Shamefully so. When she whispered her sin to Father Thomas in confession, he'd give her a penance it'd take a year to complete. But the opportunity beckoned enticingly, too marvelous to pass up.

One by one, Joanna added the logs to the burning blaze, then slowly regained her feet. She stared down at the fire, red-orange and searing as the flames of hell.

“The water's ready, sire,” Arthur told MacLean.

“
And so am I
,” Joanna whispered to the hearthstones. She straightened her spine like a pikeman and pivoted on her heel.

Her mouth dropped open at the sight of him.

St. Ninian protect her!

His skin bronzed from the sun, MacLean stood facing Joanna on the far side of the tub, a linen cloth draped
loosely about his hipbones. His massive shoulders and arms bulged with muscles. Incredibly, he looked even larger disrobed and barefoot than he did fully dressed.

The heat of a flush rose up her neck and scalded her cheeks. Joanna couldn't drag her gaze away from MacLean, and could barely catch her breath.

On the warrior's right arm, a three-headed sea serpent had been dyed in greenish-blue ink. The elongated body wrapped itself completely around his bicep and tricep like a primordial, heathenish armband.

Crisp golden-brown hair covered his broad chest, where a holy medal hung between his nearly hidden nipples. The thick, triangular-shaped mat of hair tapered to a narrow line that led down his flat belly and under the scrap of white linen hiding his private parts. Beneath the lower edge of the toweling, his thighs resembled tree trunks.

He'd been badly scarred in battle. The jagged pucker of an old wound that must have nearly cost him his life ran from his breastbone down to the bottom of his right rib cage.

An unfamiliar ache spread through Joanna, a peculiar ache that made her restless and tense with expectation—though she hadn't any idea what she expected.

Golden-haired and golden-skinned, The MacLean was the most pagan creature she'd ever seen—and the most beautiful.

When his hand dropped to his waist to remove the linen cloth, she bolted for the door. The gentle splash of water as he lowered himself into the tub sounded like the clarion call of doomsday, and Joanna went flying out of the chamber and down the stairs as fast as her clumsy, too-big shoes could take her. To her consternation, the deep, rich sound of masculine laughter accompanied her hasty descent.

 

That night, she dreamed of the Sea Dragon. She lay sleeping in her own bed again, when he drew the curtains back with both hands and stood over her, arms upraised, long fingers grasping the edges of the heavy brocade.

“Wake up, lass,” he called in silken seduction.

Dressed only in his belted plaid, he gazed at Joanna, his green eyes intense in the flickering candlelight with a raw, unexplainable hunger. The need she read there brought the tingling sensation of gooseflesh to her warm skin. She reached up and slipped her trembling hand beneath the tartan folds, her fingertips grazing the iron-hard sinews of his leg. He drew a quick, sharp breath at her touch, but didn't pull away.

The bare male flesh of his thigh awoke some latent wantonness inside her. Her breathing grew rapid and harsh. Her heartbeat speeded to a gallop as her body grew taut and vibrant with a primitive, instinctual energy.

Without knowing the reason, Joanna rose to her knees and lifted her night chemise over her head. Her long red hair fell about her shoulders and spilled over her breasts.

The Sea Dragon pushed her cascading locks aside to reveal their rosy tips. His gaze drifted over her vulnerable form with such lingering thoroughness, she could feel her skin's heated reaction, as though he scorched her with his smoky dragon's breath.

Currents of warm, honeyed air floated around them, tugging her closer to his lean, muscular form. She'd been caught in some invisible snare, like a sacrificial virgin enchained by a Druid wizard's magic. Beneath the compelling urgency of MacLean's bold gaze, she bent her head and lowered her lashes in a timeless pose of feminine timidity.

“Come with me, Joanna,” he urged hoarsely.

“Where?” she whispered.

“Come swim with me in the loch, my wee nymph. I shall show you delights that only the mermaids know.”

Her fingers twined around the gold chain of his holy medal. “I mustn't,” she softly demurred. “'Tisn't allowed for a virtuous maiden to go off with a wild sea dragon.”

His smile was devastating. “Then we'll bathe together right here, love. Surely, you're not afraid of me in your own bedchamber?”

For the first time, she noticed the tub standing before the crackling fire.

His presence seemed to overpower her, to sweep away every vestige of maidenly decorum. “I'm not afraid,” she declared with a harlot's abandon.

He turned and moved toward the steaming water. Releasing his belt, he removed his plaid and bent over the tub.

She stared in shock at his naked body. The broad expanse of his shoulder blades was superbly muscled. The lean, hard flesh of his torso showed every rib. She followed the curve of his spine down to his lower back, and her skin tightened with alarm and excitation.

God's truth, 'twas just as she'd dreaded
.

A long, shiny green dragon's tail—the exact color of his eyes—swayed back and forth above his tight buttocks…

Joanna bolted awake with a shiver of horrified titillation. It had been nothing more than a dream, she assured her pounding heart. Merely the childish conjuring of her sleep-drugged imagination.

Appalled at her undeniable reaction to MacLean's dream image, she pressed a fist to her mouth and stared at the kitchen beams above her. Beneath her cotton garment, a damp warmth pooled at the juncture of her thighs. She arched her back as a long, shuddery ache rippled through her.

Some deep, inner part of Joanna wanted him to find her. To take her to their marriage bed and teach her the delights that only mermaids knew.

Joanna buried her face in her hands and groaned as the vision of a buck-naked MacLean floated before her closed lids.

By all the souls in Purgatory, she'd never be able to meet his astute, green-eyed gaze again!

T
he men sent to Mingarry Castle returned the next day to report that Ewen Macdonald wasn't there. Lady Joanna's cousin and clan commander had left before they arrived, apparently with the intention of riding to Stalcaire to request an audience with the king.

Rory received the news without comment. Ewen's appeal to James Stewart would be in vain. The political reasons behind the alliance uniting a MacLean and a Macdonald would prove to be uppermost in their sovereign's mind. Rory would soon wed the Maid of Glencoe, despite all pleas to the contrary.

The image of Joanna, standing wide-eyed and open-mouthed in his bedchamber, had been seared into his brain. Her innocent gaze had roamed over his near-naked frame, bringing a reaction so fierce and sudden, he'd been rendered all but speechless. 'Twas nigh unbelievable. Why had his body responded to that slip of a girl dressed in boy's garb? She'd gaped at him as if he were some rude barbarian. Dammit, the lass was as insignificant as a gnat and just as irritating.

Feeling restless and impatient, he decided to take Fraoch for a gallop. Remaining cooped up within the walls of a castle had lacerated Rory's nerves; he was used to the open sea. A moving deck beneath his feet, the sound of the wind whistling around the masts, and the soothing slap of the
waves against the prow easily eclipsed the raucous hurly-burly of Kinlochleven's lower bailey.

Intending to harness and saddle his mount himself, Rory didn't bother to call out as he entered the cool, dim stables. The gentle nickers of the horses welcomed him as he strode past the stalls, his steps muffled by the loose straw on the dirt floor.

He stopped short at the sight of Joanna, crouched on a bundle of hay and peeking through the slats of one crib into another, her chores forgotten.

From his superior height, Rory could see easily over the top of the farther stall. Tam MacLean, his plaid shoved up out of his way, had one of the comely dairymaids nearly buried beneath him in a mound of straw. The lass's skirts had been lifted to her hips, and her plump white thighs cradled Tam's naked flanks as the soldier pumped rhythmically. The buxom girl buried her fingers in Tam's yellow hair and pressed his mouth to her exposed bosom, all the while emitting breathy whimpers of encouragement.

Grinning, Rory reached down and grabbed Joanna by the collar. Her surprised yelp alerted the two lovers, who quickly disengaged and repaired their disheveled clothing. With one meaningful look, he sent Tam and the scarlet-faced dairymaid hustling out of the stable.

Rory set his future bride on her feet. “Don't you know better than to spy on the grown-ups?” Rory asked with a feigned scowl.

“I wasn't spying,” Joanna said defensively. “I heard Mary's sobs and thought that blackhearted devil was hurting her. I grabbed a pitchfork to stab him, but then she started moaning for him not to stop, so I waited to see what was going to happen next.”

From the shock in the lassie's enormous eyes, Rory realized she was telling the truth. Apparently no one had ever bothered to explain the facts of procreation to the virtuous little maid.

He tried not to laugh at the comical look of stupefaction
on her face. “And when did you finally realize he wasn't hurting her?”

Joanna lowered her head and hunched her shoulders at the question. “I got a fair idea of what they were doing soon enough,” she admitted to the toes of her scuffed boots, a blush of mortification spreading over her face. “Only they're supposed to wait till they're married.”

Rory smiled at the indignation in the husky voice. “That's true,” he replied, “but people don't always wait.”

Joanna's russet brows drew together as she tugged her knit cap further down over her ears. “I don't understand why not,” she stated bleakly. “I'd think you'd only do that if you
had
to.”

Rory sank down on the stack of hay, thoroughly enjoying her outspoken nature and obvious inquisitiveness. But he didn't want his bride to come to their marriage bed frightened. “You'll find that when your own body starts to awaken. Joey, the idea won't seem so repulsive. And if you're lucky, the bonny lass your eye lights upon may feel the same way.”

Joanna peeped up from under thick lashes for a moment, studying him with a thoughtful frown. “Is that what you intend to do to the Lady Joanna when you find her?” she asked suspiciously.

“After the wedding, I will,” Rory said, sharp carnal need spearing through him at the thought. “'Tis what a man does with his wife, laddie. There's no shame in it. Nor harm, either.”

She took an involuntary step back, bewilderment on her dirty face. “What if the wife doesn't want to?”

He kept his voice soft and reassuring. “Then it's the husband's responsibility to make her want to.”

Joanna stared at the golden-haired warrior seated on the bale of hay in front of her, frozen in sheer terror as the specter of torture rose up before her. The methods employed on common felons ranged from the boot to iron gauntlets. What would the notorious Sea Dragon inflict on a recalcitrant wife?

“By beating her?” she asked.

He smiled, and the crinkles around the corners of his eyes deepened. “There's no need to use a lash to get a lassie to do your bidding, Joey.”

Joanna drew a quick, steadying breath. She knew the magnificent, broad-shouldered creature before her was wicked, but did he possess sorcery, too? Perhaps the magical power of the sea dragons had descended, along with their scaly green tails, from father to son in an unbroken line. 'Twould account for the strange effect he had on her. Her words rasped in her dry throat. “How, then?”

MacLean gestured toward the chestnut mare in the next stall, watching them with curious eyes. “The same way Jock taught you to handle the horses by coaxing them with carrots and apples to eat out of your palm. Once they get used to the smell and feel of you, they come round.”

Her crushing disappointment at the bald, unromantic description of courtship tempered Joanna's relief.

Godsakes—carrots and apples?

Where were the ardent serenades sung beneath the lady's window, the poetry and flowers, the pledges of undying love?

The thought of MacLean doing to her what she'd witnessed between Tam and Mary wasn't at all the romantic rendezvous she'd envisioned for her wedding night. God's truth, such earthy sensuality left her breathless and trembling.

The sudden memory of the Sea Dragon's large, sinewy male body, naked except for the scrap of white linen, flooded her with embarrassment. Her heart did a funny little skip. Just imagining the touch of his lips on her bare breasts sent a tingling sensation curling through her inner parts. Even the sound of his deep baritone brought goose bumps to her skin. Though she'd ruled out torture as his preferred method of seduction, the use of magical powers couldn't be so easily dismissed. There were definite physical changes in her body whenever she was near him that couldn't be explained in any other way.

“Have you tamed many lassies with apples and carrots?” Joanna inquired, determined to squash the fluttery response in her belly.

MacLean gave a short, good-natured laugh, which she assumed was a modest affirmative.

She frowned at him skeptically. “Without once thrashing them?”

His emerald eyes sparkled with amusement. The thick golden hair framed his ax-sharp features, softened now by his devastating grin. “For a halflin, Joey, you've a mansized curiosity,” he said with a chuckle. “A wise man doesn't use a whip on his woman any more than he does on a fine horse.”

Now he'd thoroughly confused her. As a young girl, Joanna had dreamed of a knight in shining armor coming to Allonby Castle and carrying her away on his magnificent white charger. Instead, she'd been betrothed to a man who equated courtship to horse training. “You'd treat your wife like your livestock, then?”

“That's not what I meant, lad,” MacLean said patiently. “But a man's wife does belong to him, just as his land and his cattle. And he takes good care of what belongs to him, just as he protects it from rapacious neighbors' raiding parties.”

At Joanna's mystified silence, he continued in an amused tone, quoting an old Highland proverb. “‘My own goods, my own wife, and we will go home are the three finest sayings in Gaelic.'”

The fact that he considered both her and Kinlochleven Castle his property couldn't have been stated more boldly or clearly.

“Seumas told us you're planning to make changes in the castle's fortifications,” she said. “Don't you think you should discuss it with Lady Joanna first?”

Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands loosely in front of him. “Why would I?”

“Because she might not agree with your plans.”

“What would a woman know about fortifications?” he asked in a bewildered tone.

“You could explain it to her.”

He flashed her a lopsided smile as he shook his head. “And have her explain how she supervises the candlemaking to me? Or the bleaching of linen?”

Appalled at his intention to shut his wife out of the most important decisions affecting her own castle, Joanna tucked her thumbs in her belt and scowled at him. “You think because she's a maid she couldn't understand?”

He eyed her for a moment, then shrugged. “Lady Joanna's a bit slow,” he said, tapping a fingertip to his temple, “even for a female.”

She stared at him, indignation burning inside her. “What makes you say that?” she demanded.

“I was told so the first day I arrived. And Lady Joanna hasn't said three words to me in the time I've been here. The moment I come into view, she looks at me as though I've two heads and scurries away like a frightened wee mouse. So I assumed Lady Beatrix had spoken the truth, when she said the simpleminded heiress sometimes wanders about the glen, lost in a daze.”

“Oh,” Joanna replied. She bit her lip and looked down at the straw covering the floor. She'd forgotten that part of their plan.

“That is true, isn't it?” he questioned.

She looked up to find him watching her intently. “Why, of course,” she replied. “But I still think you should discuss your plans with her. She might understand more than you think.”

“Whether she'd understand or not isn't the point, lad,” he stated. “I wouldn't debate the emplacement of the castle's artillery with my wife any more than I'd discuss a battle strategy with her. Protecting a fortress from its enemies is a man's responsibility.”

Her low voice dropped another octave as she said tightly, “And a woman's responsibility is to see to her husband's
comfort, produce a batch of bairns, and keep her nose out of his bloody business.”

MacLean plucked a piece of hay from the stack he sat on and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. “For a wee laddie, you're taking this discussion very seriously.”

Joanna caught herself just in time. She plopped down beside him and shrugged indifferently. “I was only supposing. I'll never have to worry about castles or lands—or womenfolk, either, for that matter.”

He whacked her on the back, nearly dislodging her from the bundle of hay. “Consider yourself lucky,” he advised. “You'll be able to choose your own bride, instead of having one chosen for you.”

She looked up at him in surprise. “Don't you want to marry Lady Joanna?”

“Why would I?” he asked with a lift of his brows. He rose to his feet before she could ask another question. “You'd best be getting back to your chores now,” he said briskly.

As Joanna poured oats into the feed troughs, she watched MacLean saddle Fraoch and lead him out of the stables. She prayed that Ewen would arrive soon. For she could never allow poor Idoine to be shackled for life to an ignorant jackass, who had all the romantic sensitivity of a door.

 

Rory's conversation in the stables with his irrepressible bride-to-be heightened his curiosity. He wanted to learn more about her. Hell, he wanted to learn
everything
about her, starting with what she'd look like without her boy's disguise—or anything on at all, for that matter. He found himself thinking of their wedding night and the delights that lay in store. Since he couldn't question Joanna directly, he decided to send for Maude Beaton.

“I'm told you were Lady Joanna's nursemaid when she was small,” Rory said when the woman arrived. He stood in front of the fireplace in the library, one arm resting on the granite mantelpiece.

Maude sat down stiffly in the ladderback chair he'd indicated, a basket of colorful yarns she'd carried into the room resting in her lap. Attired in a fine wool gown, with a black headdress banded in velvet, she watched him with thoughtful gray eyes. Her costume and bearing bespoke a highly respected member of the household, and she showed no sign of fear in his presence, as did the other females.

“That I was, laird,” she replied. “Though as for nursing her through illnesses and such, there wasn't much call for that. Joanna came into this world screaming her lungs out, her wee arms flapping and her short legs kicking, and she hasn't been still a moment since. 'Twas her mama who was the sickly one. From the day Lady Anne learned her husband had been killed in battle, her broken heart never healed.”

“And that's when the Englishwoman returned to Cumberland with her daughter?”

Maude nodded and breathed a long, cheerless sigh. “I insisted on going with them. Couldn't stand the thought of being parted from my wee lamb, though it meant going to live among the Sassenachs. In the seven unhappy years we were there, I thanked God every day, for her sake, that I did.”

“Why unhappy?”

Maude looked at the powerful laird standing before her and wondered just how truthfully she should answer him. When Joanna had concocted her ridiculous scheme to pose as a lad, Maude had been certain the King's Avenger would be as cruel and savage as legend portrayed. But after the first day, he'd shown great patience and understanding with his kinsmen-to-be. Not one Macdonald had been molested during his brief time as their new laird.