The Maclean Groom (7 page)

Joanna's small frame trembled with barely suppressed ire. “Well, she
won't
see to your comforts.”

“She won't?” He reached down, retrieved the atlas and ink-splattered parchment, and waited for her to be seated again.

“The maid's far too dull-witted.”

“I'll teach her how to serve me,” he replied with a complacent grin.

Her eyes shooting sparks, her jaw clenched, she fairly spit out the words. “She'll never learn.”

“She'll learn, lad, I promise you. With enough apples
and carrots, I'll teach the ninny to jump through hoops before I'm done.”

Devastated by his complete lack of sympathy for the tragic heiress, Joanna sank back down on the velvet seat. She'd have to warn Idoine to stay well out of sight till her father arrived. “You should see the lady's embroidery,” she said halfheartedly. “'Tis a mass of knots and tangles. And she lacks all the skills for running a household.”

He leaned over and set the large volume on her lap, then placed the sheet of vellum on top of it. “We'll all get along fine here at Kinlochleven, regardless of my wife's many drawbacks.”

Joanna gazed at the obtuse man, and her shoulders slumped in defeat. 'Twould do no good to argue with him. He was more stubborn than a donkey with a load of bricks on its back and a field of clover behind it. She looked down at the letter in front of her and sighed. “Are you sure you want to begin with ‘Dear Lady Emma'?”

MacLean looked at her in surprise. “That's her name.”

“But it sounds too…” She paused, searching for the right word.

“Too formal?”

She nodded. “What do you usually call your mother?”

“Mother.”

Joanna leaned forward and smiled encouragingly. “Then why don't we change the salutation to ‘Dear Mother'?”

He thought about it for a moment. “All right. Go ahead.”

She drew a line through the words and corrected them. “Actually,” she said, “I think it sounds better, ‘My dearest Mother.'”

He quirked an eyebrow as she scratched out the correction and rewrote it, but didn't protest.

Joanna chewed her lower lip, still not satisfied. Then above the word
dearest
she added
darling
. “There,” she said, pleased at last with her work, “that sounds much better.”

MacLean rose and walked over to stand beside her once
again. The salutation, crossed and recrossed and crossed out again, finally read: “
My dearest, darling, angel Mother
.”

“'Tis fortunate I'm signing the letter,” he said dryly. “Otherwise she'd never guess who'd sent it.”

“If I can make another suggestion,” Joanna said, “I thought it would be better to end it this way.” Without waiting for his assent, she scratched through the ending and wrote: “
Your loving, devoted, and dutiful son
.”

He took the letter and perused it without comment, and Joanna realized, too late, that her handwriting appeared much too ornate for a mere orphan lad. The script was embellished with elaborate curlicues and grand flourishes.

“Naturally, I'll have to copy it over,” she said, reaching out to take the sheet of parchment.

“No need,” he told her, a tiny smile playing about his lips. “My mother will enjoy it just the way it's written.”

His eyes gleamed with humor, and their sudden warmth took her breath away. How could she have thought his gaze frigid? Looking up at him now, she found it hard to believe he was only part human, a spawn of the sea monsters that roamed the ocean depths.

MacLean seemed different this morning, though she couldn't exactly say why. For one thing, he was standing much closer than he'd ever stood before. Godsakes, she could almost feel the heat of his large, well-muscled body. She scooted back on the bench before the scent of fresh pine could fog up her brain.

He took the ink and quill from her and set them on the desktop, then lifted the book from her lap and caught her hand.

Joanna flinched at his touch, expecting a sea dragon's skin to feel cold and scaly. She tried to squirm away, but he placed the atlas on the brocaded window seat and drew her up to stand in front of him.

His warm, firm clasp seemed to set off the clanging of bells that warned of a fire amid the haystacks. Her first reaction was to run to the well in the upper bailey and douse herself with a bucket of cold water.

MacLean turned her palms over and surveyed the signs of the toil she'd been doing since he'd arrived. Along with the blisters, fresh inkstains marred her fingers. “Jock's been working you too hard,” he said with a frown.

“He's not,” she denied. “I like working in the stables.”

“I've changed my mind about that, laddie,” he stated, ignoring the fact that she was trying desperately to escape his hold. “You'll make a better clerk than an ostler. From now on, I'll have you work here in the library with me.”

Joanna couldn't believe what was happening. In spite of her best efforts to break free, the laird held her fingers in his strong grasp and looked down at her with the strangest expression—a mixture of amusement and affection.

What the devil was he up to?

If she didn't know better, she'd think he actually liked her—well, Joey. The last thing she'd anticipated was the ferocious Sea Dragon developing a brotherly attachment for an impudent, dirty-faced orphan boy.

A firm step interrupted her useless struggle, and Joanna looked over to see Fearchar standing in the open doorway. She expected to be released at once, but the chief of Clan MacLean continued to hold her hand as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Godsakes, what would his second-in-command think? Lairds didn't show a personal interest in lowly serving lads.

But Fearchar gave no sign of surprise. He merely flashed his good-natured smile and waited.

“You can run along now, Joey,” MacLean said, finally releasing her. “But plan to spend the afternoon working with me.”

She turned on her heel the moment he freed her, darted around the tall, bearded titan, and raced out the door.

 

The next morning, Father Graham stood at the chapel door, his opened breviary in his hand. When he looked up to watch the hunting party mount, his face grew pale. Prayers abandoned, he hurried across the bustling lower bailey.

“Milord,” he exclaimed as he approached Rory, already seated on Fraoch, “you can't mean to take Joey with you!”

Rory continued to tug on his leather gauntlets, unperturbed by the cleric's outrage. He glanced at the slim youth astride a capricious chestnut mare and then back to Father Graham. “Why not?”

Joanna's eyes flashed a warning to her chaplain, who paid her no heed. “Because he's—he's too young to mingle with a group of rough soldiers. And he's never been hunting in his life.”

“'Twill do the laddie good to be in the company of grown men,” Rory said. “And with Arthur gone, I can use a bright lad to serve as my gillie.”

“But not Joey!” Father Graham implored. His dark eyes betrayed his alarm. “There are other boys in the castle who could serve you better, laird.”

Rory gathered the reins in his hand and shifted restlessly in the saddle. “Whom would you suggest?”

Father Graham looked wildly around the bailey, scanning the listening Macdonalds, till his gaze lit on two burly figures standing in front of the smithy. “Jacob's apprentice would be an excellent choice.”

“And who, then, would work alongside the farrier?” Rory inquired in a bored tone. “Joey's not nearly as robust as the man's own son.”

By now, several Macdonalds had left their work and come to stand near the small hunting party. The sandy-haired blacksmith reached up and grabbed the prancing chestnut's halter in his large, work-roughened hand, then looked over at Rory. “I'd be proud to lend you my son Lothar, milord, until your gillie returns. He's fifteen and stronger than most full-grown men.”

Lothar hurried to stand beside his thickset father. Whisking off his brown wool cap, he bowed his head and waited hopefully.

Rory looked at the strapping fellow, then back to Joanna's slight figure, seated on the restive chestnut. “And I'm to leave the wee laddie to take Lothar's place at the
forge?” He rubbed his chin, pretending to consider the idea.

Joanna patted Bebind's graceful neck in a soothing gesture as she tried to hide her own nervousness. If she could slip away from the men-at-arms in the woods, she could put miles between them before they realized she'd disappeared. “Let me ride out with the hunters,” she implored. “I'll come to no harm.”

Father Thomas hurried to stand beside her, the long, white cord that tied his robe swinging briskly with each stride. Anxious to stretch her legs in a gallop, the pretty mare sidestepped and tossed her head at the sudden movement.

Joanna bent down to address the priest in a low, urgent tone, praying he'd read the message in her eyes. “I want to go, Father.”

But her chaplain wasn't convinced. “'Tis too dangerous, my child. You might take a spill and break a bone.”

'Twas a lie, of course; Joanna was an expert horsewoman.

MacLean drew on his reins and turned his black stallion toward the raised portcullis. “You've coddled the halfling for too long, Father,” he said. “But if you think the laddie might fall off his horse, I'll stay right beside him. Don't worry, I'll make a man out of Joey yet.”

Without waiting for a reply, the laird led the hunting party through the gate and across the drawbridge. Then the horsemen urged their mounts to a canter in the direction of the heather-covered hills above the loch and the forest beyond. Four deerhounds gamboled beside the curvetting horses, barking ecstatically.

 

'Twas a glorious May morning, the sun seducing the spring flowers with its kiss. Wild daisies and clover bloomed on the hillsides. Overhead, the new leaves of the silver birch shivered in the gentle breeze.

Joanna could hardly contain her exhilaration. 'Twas wonderful to be out riding again. The opportunity to ac
company the MacLeans had come in answer to her prayers to Jeanne d'Arc, and she assured the Maid of Orléans that she wasn't going to waste it. She'd be patient and wait for her chance to lag behind. When the men galloped off into the trees, chasing after the hounds, she'd simply ride away in another direction.

Ballachulish was only a day's journey, and she knew the way. From there, she could hire an escort to Mingarry Castle. She wasn't afraid; this was her land and her people. She'd be safe enough as long as she didn't happen upon strangers, which would be very unlikely. Once she was at Mingarry, Ewen would protect her. Clan Macdonald's courageous war leader would fight to the death before letting the chief of the MacLeans capture her again.

The barking of the deerhounds shattered Joanna's happy reflections. With cries of elation, the men kicked their horses' flanks and the chase was on. But the diabolical chief of Clan MacLean ruined everything.

Blast the man for a perverse, blackhearted scoundrel.

True to his promise to Father Graham, he stayed right at her side, till the two of them were moving at a slow walk and his men had disappeared, whooping and hollering, into the forest.

“There's no need for you to miss the chase, laird,” she said, trying not to disclose her chagrin. “I won't fall off Bebind. She's spirited, but Father Thomas was being over-cautious. Ride on and catch up with your men. I'll be quite all right.”

He ignored her suggestion. “I was told that the chestnut is Lady Joanna's favorite mount, but you handle the little mare well. Almost as though you've ridden her before.”

“Oh, I'm certain she won't mind my choosing Bebind,” she asserted with all the aplomb she could muster. “Milady rarely rides out. She doesn't like the exertion.”

Rory watched Joanna with concealed admiration. She had a fine seat and controlled the lively animal with expertise.

His future bride pleased him immensely. He'd expected
a haughty, petulant Englishwoman, not this intrepid Scottish lass. Quick-witted and resourceful, Joanna displayed a winsome charm and an endearing, albeit irreverent, sense of humor.

“Tell me, Joey, does Lady Joanna look forward to the wedding with anticipation?” he inquired offhandedly.

His sprightly companion gazed up at the cloudless azure sky and pretended to ponder the question. Then she turned her head to look at him, and a smile played about her kissable lips. Her blue eyes danced with hilarity. “I don't believe she's one bit happier about her marriage than on the day you first met.”

He frowned in apparent disappointment. “I see.”

“Well, Lady Joanna wouldn't be quite so reluctant,” she offered bracingly, “if it weren't for the far better offers she's received.”

“Better offers?”

“Umhm. For her hand.” She lifted one gloved hand and waggled it tellingly.

“Ah hah,” he said, staring at her dainty fingers. “From better men than my own humble self, I gather.”

Her perfect smile revealed her delight at his frown of concern. “Oh, from warriors far more valiant, more chivalrous, and…” She paused and looked at him as though afraid she might hurt his feelings.

“Go on,” he insisted. “Say it.”

With a shrug of appology, she continued. “Far more handsome.”

Rory wanted to reach over and drag Joanna off her mount and set her in front of him, so he could cuddle her small, lithe body close to his and cover those naughty, lying lips with his own.

But as captain of the
Sea Dragon
, he'd learned to bring recalcitrant sailors in line with iron-fisted authority. Swift and sure punishment for a man's wrongdoing prevented mutinous behavior in the future. Rory had no intention of allowing his bride-to-be to think she could mock him and not pay the price.