The Maclean Groom (6 page)

From the charts on the table, she surmised that MacLean planned to make improvements in his new home, not merely drain it of its resources for his own aggrandizement. And his leadership of men was unquestionable. Though stern and short of words, he conducted himself with decorum. To her knowledge, not a chambermaid—or a dairy
maid, either—had spent a night in his bed, though more than a few willing lassies had succumbed to the blandishments of his hearty men-at-arms.

And Maude felt certain that Joanna's ruse would soon be discovered. The shrewd, sardonic green eyes watching her now convinced her of that. Lady Joanna and Laird MacLean would spend the rest of their lives bound to each other. It made no sense for the lass's future husband to think less of her than he already did, simply because she was a Macdonald.

“Och, the Nevilles never accepted her—Joanna being half-Scot and all,” Maude said at last. “They criticized her accent and her uninhibited ways. Even the servants were needlessly cruel. I once overheard an uppity chambermaid call my sweet lassie a mongrel behind her back. I boxed the nasty chit's ears good for her, I did.”

Intrigued, Rory sank down in the chair across from the ruddy-cheeked woman. “The Nevilles allowed this kind of treatment of their only granddaughter?”

“Joanna's grandparents were seldom at Allonby,” Maude explained. “The marquess remained in London until his failing health caused him to retire to the country. He died a few weeks later, and his wife returned to court, only to follow him very shortly to the grave.” She waved her hand in contemptuous dismissal. “Not much loss there. Neither one of 'em was worth a ha'pence, if you ask me.”

Rory steepled his fingers, his elbows resting on the chair arms, and searched her perceptive gaze. The day the king of Scotland had commanded Rory to marry Joanna, he'd explained that George Neville, Marquess of Allonby, had been a trusted courtier in Henry Tudor's court, and the marchioness a lady-in-waiting to the English queen.

Rory motioned for Maude to go on.

“Lady Anne loved her daughter dearly,” she assured him, “but her ladyship was an invalid for the remaining years of her life. So the poor dear lassie grew up alone and pretty much forgotten.”

“No one saw to the future heiress's training in deport
ment or the running of a household?” he asked in surprise.

“My faith. Joanna had tutors, right enough. Mean, pinch-faced men who'd rap her wee knuckles for the least mistake in her recitations.”

“And did she make mistakes often?” he asked quietly, though his jaw tightened at the thought of anyone purposefully inflicting pain on the spirited lassie.

“Often enough to reduce her to tears at the sight of them,” Maude replied, her eyes flashing with scorn. “Scholars. Hah! There was no pleasing any of those self-righteous hypocrites. 'Twas no wonder she'd sneak out to the stables, saddle her pony, and ride for hours through the countryside all by herself. The only solace she had was her daydreams and the stories I'd tell her in the evening just before she fell asleep. Mostly, she lived in a world of her own creation, filled with knights and their ladies fair and evil dragons needing to be vanquished.”

“I see.”

But he didn't see at all.
Knights. Dragons. Ladies fair
. None of it made much sense. And Rory was, above all, a sensible man.

Maude glanced over at the sheets of parchment spread across the library table. “Are you planning to make changes, laird?” she asked with the inherent aplomb of a trusted retainer.

Drumming his fingers on the arms of his chair, Rory nodded absently. He'd imagined the Maid of Glencoe as a pampered Sassenach noblewoman, given everything her heart desired. The possibility that she'd been mistreated because of her Scottish blood hadn't occurred to him. His lack of awareness pricked his conscience—he wasn't generally that obtuse. He'd let the fact that she was a Macdonald overshadow everything else.

“Was her maltreatment the reason Lady Joanna decided to return to Scotland when her mother died?” he questioned.

Maude smiled reminiscently. “Bless us, milady didn't
make that decision. 'Twas made for Joanna by her Uncle and Aunt Blithfield.”

That surprised him. Usually relatives were anxious to hang on to an orphaned lass born with a silver spoon in her mouth.

“They sent the heiress back to Scotland?”

“Not exactly.” Her gaze on the colorful basket in her lap, Maude smoothed her fingers over the balls of brilliant yarn. Her smile spread into an irrepressible grin.

“Tell me what happened.”

“Well, now,” she said, “shortly after Lady Anne died, Lord Philip and Lady Clarissa came to take Joanna back to London with them. Clarissa was Lady Anne's younger sister. As far as the Blithfields were concerned, Allonby Castle was the farthest outpost of civilization, and they couldn't wait to shake its dust from their fancy shoes. But before they could pack Joanna up and hustle her off to their manor in Surrey, an army of Scotsmen appeared at the gate. Their leader demanded they turn the heiress over to him or he'd storm the fortress and slay every living soul. Rather than risk losing their own lives, those two cowardly Sassenachs agreed to hand her over, with not so much as a sword being drawn or a hackbut discharged.”

Rory scowled, scarcely able to believe the tale. “Her own relatives relinquished Joanna without a fight?”

“Humph,” Maude said, as she made a distasteful face. “You must remember, laird, the English aren't known for their honor. Nor their courage, either.”

That much he knew to be true. “Was she held for ransom?”

Maude chuckled and shook her head. “The Scots' leader was none other than the lassie's grandpa, old Somerled Macdonald. The Blithfields had never seen him, and when he identified himself as the Red Wolf of Glencoe, the two imbeciles still didn't realize who he was. They simply had the portcullis raised and shoved the wee lassie outside.”

“No one in the castle tried to stop them?”

“Oh, the officer of the guard tried to reason with the
Blithfields. Captain Pechell told the lass he and every last one of his men were willing to give their lives defending her. But when Joanna heard that the armed force outside the walls was too large to repel, she insisted on sacrificing herself to save the others.”

Rory leaned forward in astonishment. “Didn't she know who the Scots leader was?”

Maude shook her head. “Not till she stepped outside the gate. No one had bothered to tell her 'twas the Red Wolf. Then Somerled opened his arms and called her by name, and Joanna ran to him. He said he'd come to take her home to Scotland.”

“Why hadn't he told the Blithfields who he was in the first place, instead of threatening the castle?”

“Because Somerled knew they'd never give her up unless they feared for their own lives. 'Tis a fortune she's worth, as you very well know, milord. The last thing they wanted was to let the golden goose slip through their fingers. But their terror of the Scots was greater than their greed.”

Maude's emphasis on the maid's fortune made Rory realize exactly how the loyal nursemaid viewed him. In her eyes, he was just another avaricious person who coveted the girl for the wealth and lands she represented.

Dammit, he had tried to throw the proposed alliance back in the king's teeth, but he wasn't going to admit that to Maude now. She'd never believe him, anyway.

“If what you say is true,” he stated skeptically, “Lady Joanna showed uncommon valor.”

Maude lifted her brows at the inference she'd been lying. “Faith, 'tis true, right enough. The lass has more pluck than most men. But then, she
is
a Macdonald.”

His eyes thoughtful, the laird rose to his feet. “That's all for now. You may go.”

She dipped a curtsy and left The MacLean to his quiet contemplation, with the hope that her words would soften his wrath when he discovered just who his impetuous bride-to-be really was.

R
ory paced the sloping embankment, counting his steps aloud as he went. Just as he'd expected, Joanna came hurrying over.

“What are you doing, laird?” she asked with a quizzical smile. Her violet-blue eyes were wide with concern, her long lashes, ruby-tinged in the sunlight, fluttered becomingly in her agitation.

He barely spared her a glance. “Measuring.”

She had to skip to keep up with his long strides. “Measuring what?”

He stopped, his hands propped on his hips, and looked at her with a show of impatience. In spite of the soot on her cheeks and chin, the sight of her upturned face filled him with pleasure. God, she was bonny. Small-boned, bright-eyed, and enticing as the perfume that drifted from her pillows.

And she belonged to him.

All five feet of her.

He wanted to snatch off that tawdry knit cap and release the coppery hair hidden beneath. To take her in his arms and taste the soft lips and discover if they were really as sweet as they looked. But Rory wasn't about to enter marriage as the duped bridegroom. He'd no intention of playing court jester to Clan Macdonald.

First, he'd establish firm control over the wily Sassenach heiress and her equally deceitful kinsmen. Then he'd teach
Joanna just how easily a MacLean tamed a recalcitrant wench too clever for her own good—carrots and apples be damned.

“We're going to start the renovations on the barbican,” he told her and promptly turned away.

She caught hold of his sleeve. “Aren't you planning to wait till you've wed Lady Joanna?”

He looked down at the tapered fingers clutching the saffron material of his shirt.

That's it, lass, touch me
.

As no lowly stable boy would dare touch his laird
.

And before I'm through, you'll have forgotten who you're even supposed to be
.

She snatched her hand away as though she'd read his thoughts. “You…you really should wait,” she added lamely. “At least till after the wedding.”

“I see no need to wait, Joey,” he replied in an absent tone. “I might as well get the masons and wrights started on the work while the weather's still fine.”

The consternation in her eyes was laughable. Hooking her thumbs in her belt, Joanna squinted up at him. Her delicately arched brows drew together in displeasure. “And you're determined to go ahead with your plans for the new fortifications without discussing them with Lady Joanna?”

Rory strode briskly along the edge of the barbican once more. “What good would it do?” he tossed over his shoulder. “The Maid of Glencoe appears too ignorant to comprehend the need to have towers stand astride the curtain walls or the emplacement of artillery in the gatehouse.”

He stopped, and Joanna, who'd been half-running to keep up, almost plowed into him. “She is simpleminded, isn't she?” he inquired gruffly.

“Oh, very!” Joanna exclaimed with an adorable smile, then sobered, trying her best to look properly downcast at the heiress's misfortune. “'Tis sad to be born that way, but such things happen now and again, I've been told.”

“I've been told you can read and write.”

The abrupt change of subject caught her unprepared.
“Who said that?” she demanded. She raised her chin in cautious deliberation, uncertain if she should deny it.

“I'm not sure,” he lied. He looked up at the tower above them as though calculating its height. “Perhaps Father Graham mentioned you'd received some scholastic training. Is that true?”

From the corner of his eye, Rory could practically see her devious little mind whirling, trying to decide if she should tell the truth or fabricate another tale of folderol.

Come on, my wee lass, step right into the trap
.

She wavered for the space of a moment, and he commenced walking once again. Just as he'd hoped, the opportunity to portray the fractious stable lad as the complete opposite of the half-wit heiress proved too enticing. She nodded. “'Tis true. Why do you ask, laird?”

“I think your talents may be wasted in the stable. You're a clever laddie. Come with me to the library. I've a letter I'd like you to write.”

“Oh, Seumas usually writes all the letters,” she said, following at Rory's heels as they crossed the lower bailey.

Curious eyes watched their progress, each Macdonald halting in his chores to make certain his mistress wasn't in trouble.

Flashing a brief smile and nodding reassuringly, Rory swept Joanna along in his wake. He didn't want a crowd of bystanders listening outside the library door.

“The steward has enough to do keeping the estate accounts, tallying sacks of seed, overseeing the planting of oats and barley, and preparing shipments of wool and hides,” he said. “I'm not going to burden him further with my personal correspondence.”

“Father Thomas can read and write, too,” she offered with helpful enthusiasm. “He knows English and Greek, as well as Latin.”

“The letters I send can be written in plain, everyday Gaelic,” he replied. “And the priest is busy at the moment. I've asked him to remain in the chapel for the next few days. Did you know that someone keeps blowing out the
candles lit for the wedding couple in front of the Virgin's altar?”

“That's terrible!” she said in a scandalized voice. She tugged the ridiculous knit cap further down over her ears and made a moue of distaste. “Who'd dare do a sacrilegious thing like that?”

“Some wicked varlet who isn't afraid of burning in hell for all eternity.”

She halted, staring at him with a stricken expression. “Do you think the sin is mortal, then?”

“I can't imagine anything more serious than interfering with another man's prayers. Can you?”

She gulped, big-eyed and apprehensive. Her reply came out in a whisper. “I never thought of it that way.”

“When I catch the culprit,” Rory said, lowering his voice to a threatening growl, “he'll wish he were in Hades instead of my dungeon.”

Joanna's heart started to work its way up into her throat. “Why?” she squeaked. “What will you do to her
—him?
”

“Hot pincers. Thumbscrews. The rack.”

She wrung her hands. “You'd torture a man because he blew out a holy candle?”

One hand caressing the hilt of his dagger, MacLean leaned over her and grinned malevolently. “That's what happens to heretics.”

She staggered backward a step, nearly speechless. A cold chill whistled down her back. “
Heretics?
”

“Don't dally, lad.” He caught her elbow and hustled her along beside him. “We've lots to do.”

Joanna accompanied The MacLean into her grandfather's library.
Her
library now, though the tall man dragging her like a felon insisted it belonged to him.

He sank down in a caned armchair behind the table piled with charts and pointed to a sheaf of vellum, a quill pen, and a small bottle of ink. “Let's see how well you can write,” he said in a dubious tone. Obviously, he had no confidence in the schooling of a scruffy orphan.

Well, she'd show him.

Her tutors at Allonby Castle had insisted on a grandiose script befitting a monk given the task of copying the Holy Book for future generations.

Joanna took a large atlas from a nearby shelf to use as a writing desk, positioned herself cross-legged on a cushioned bench in the window embrasure, and waited with exaggerated politeness.

“Dear Lady Emma…” he began.

“Who's she?”

Godsakes, did he plan to dictate a letter to his ladylove? And him a promised bridegroom! Evidently sea dragons never learned of chivalry and honor and self-sacrifice. They were too busy taking carnal lessons from the water nymphs.

MacLean glowered at her. “What difference does it make who the lady is? Go on, write it down.”

Biting her lip to keep back the scathing retort burning the tip of her tongue, Joanna wrote the salutation:
Dear Lady Emma
.

Satisfied with her belated compliance, he leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and stretched out his long legs. “Dear Lady Emma,” he continued, “my plans have changed. I'd like you to bring the rest of the family here to Kinloch—”

“Slow down!” Joanna called, scribbling furiously. “You're going much too fast.”

He stopped and waited for her to catch up.

Her quill poised above the parchment, she glanced over at him. “How large is Lady Emma's family?”

“Never question your laird and chief about his personal affairs, Joey,” he admonished.

She stiffened at the imperious remark. “I haven't had a laird since the mighty Somerled Macdonald died.”

“Well, you have one now.”

Joanna glared at the obnoxious, thick-skulled, condescending libertine. The day a MacLean became
her
laird and chief was the day she grew wings and flew about the chapel, trilling alleluias and plucking on a harp.

Seemingly unaware of her indignation, the Sea Dragon
rose and strode lazily across the carpet to stand beside her. Folding his arms across his broad chest, he looked down from his great height at the vellum sheet. Sunlight from the window gilded his hair, forming a halo around his head. Lucifer in all his glory couldn't have been more alluring.

Humph
. He could use all the sorcery within his power. She'd no intention of succumbing to the bronzed warlord's physical charms. Why, at that very moment, his scaly green tail was probably twitching with self-approval beneath that green and black plaid.

Green
.

She hated green.

It was the color of toads and frogs and slimy moss.

Joanna shifted uncomfortably beneath his steady gaze. If the obvious display of beauty, size and strength was meant to intimidate, it succeeded. She could feel the back of her neck start to prickle, and her scalp grew tight beneath her striped cap.

“Are you ready to continue?” he inquired, his tone brusque.

She moistened her lips and swallowed. “I am now.”

“The wedding will take place at Kinlochleven,” he dictated, “not at Castle Stalcaire as we'd planned. Invite whomever you wish to accompany you here, including His Majesty and the entire court. King James sets great store in this alliance, and he should be present to witness the nuptials as he'd intended.”

She made a strangled sound.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“Umhm. That's a lot of people.”

He lifted one golden brow sardonically. “Not for a wedding.”

“Tell that to Ethel,” she muttered.

“Who?”

“The cook.”

A smile flickered over his lips as he indicated for her to continue writing. “I'll be waiting for your arrival,” he concluded. “Your son.”

Joanna stared up at him in befuddlement.

“Go on,” he said with an impatient flick of his finger. “Write it down.”

Drops of ink splashed on the parchment from the shaky nib, and Joanna hastily blotted them with her fingertips. “Lady Emma is your mother?”

“What other woman would I invite to my wedding?”

“I-I had no notion,” she replied. “I thought…perhaps…a sweetheart.”

“Joey, Joey, Joey,” he scolded with a slow, disbelieving shake of his head. “Would a bridegroom invite one of his light-o'-loves to his nuptials? Where did you get such a bizarre idea?”

“I haven't been out in the world much,” she admitted grudgingly as she hunkered over the atlas. She could feel a blush creep up her cheeks. “I'm not sure what a man forced to wed against his wishes would do.”

“What makes you think I'm marrying against my wishes?” he demanded, his tone incredulous.

“You said so.”

“I never said any such thing.”

Dismayed at his pathetic memory, she tipped her head back and gazed into his bedazzling green eyes. Eyes the color of mountain forests. Dark and deep and mysterious as a Druid's spell.

Inexplicably, the fresh scent of pine trees washed by the rain seemed to linger about him. She might hate green, but she loved the smell of juniper and spruce. Something shivered and bubbled inside her. Something as warm as mulled wine and as sweet as treacle.

“When we were talking in the stable,” she insisted with a gulp, “you said I was lucky that I'd never have my bride chosen for me.”

“Ah, well, I think you misunderstood me, lad. I'm very pleased to be marrying Lady Joanna.”

“You are?”

He flicked the tassel of her stocking cap with one finger and smiled disarmingly. “I am.”

Joanna squirmed on the bench, strangely affected by this show of playfulness in the fearsome warrior. “Even if she's a simpleton who wanders away and can't be found for days—weeks, really?”

Rory left the window seat and dropped back down in his chair. Propping an elbow on its arm, he rested his chin on his fist and studied Joanna. There was no mistaking the bewilderment on her expressive face. Her youth and inexperience shone like starlight in those mesmerizing blue eyes. A thousand candle flames couldn't equal their glow.

She was so damn easy to mislead, he should feel guilty.

What he felt was pure delight.

“Once I'm married to the lass,” he said softly, “I'll put a leash on her.”

“You'll do
what?
” Joanna leaped up from the bench, the letter and book falling to the floor at her feet. She held the quill in one hand and the vial of ink in the other, clutching them like lifelines in a stormy sea.

“Oh, I'll tether her on a long chain,” he assured her. “She won't be confined to one room, only the castle grounds.”

“How could you be so cruel?”

“I can't have my wife wandering off,” he replied reasonably as he brushed a speck of lint from his sleeve. “How will she ever see to my comforts and produce a batch of weans if she's forever tromping through the woodlands in a daze?”