The Maclean Groom (8 page)

And in any event, he dared not risk her realizing he'd discovered her secret, lest she try something foolish in an attempt to escape before the wedding.

He set his jaw and fought back the surge of raw lust that coursed through him. “Anything else I should know?” he asked with appropriate misgiving.

She sat up straighter in the saddle, clearly enjoying his discomfiture. “Apart from the fact that she'd rather marry another man? Not really. But the most unfortunate fact for Lady Joanna is that one of her other suitors has lots and lots of gold.”

“That's important to her, then, I take it?”

Joanna nodded tellingly. “Don't you wish you were extremely wealthy, milord?”

“I am,” he said.

She cocked her head to one side and frowned. “You are?”

“I am.”

“Well, you can't possibly be wealthier than all her other suitors, laird,” she declared. “Are you certain you wish to marry a lady who's heart has been given to another.”

“I do.”

“Why, for God's sake?”

He smiled at her incredulous expression. “Because the king commands it.”

Joanna urged her chestnut forward, irritated beyond belief by his smug, self-righteous reply. The black stallion immediately kept pace with Bebind.

She studied MacLean covertly. Sometimes it was hard to remember he was the lecherous, evil Sea Dragon, especially when she gazed into his thick-lashed green eyes.

The three eagle feathers on his bonnet, pinned with the clan badge, fluttered and dipped in the breeze. He'd pulled his golden hair back and tied it with a leather thong, and the sharp edge of his profile could have cut glass. Beneath the hem of his plaid, his massive thighs tautened as he guided his bad-tempered stallion effortlessly.

Though she knew he'd spent years on the sea, capturing
pirate galleons for King James, MacLean rode like a centaur, part man and part horse.

“We appear to have lost the rest of the hunting party,” she pointed out with a nonchalant smile.

“There's no need to worry, Joey,” he assured her. “After they've brought down the deer, we'll meet the others by the mill at the edge of the loch and have some midday refreshments.”

She gazed at him in surprise. “How do you know your men will wait for us at Rannoch Mill, laird?”

“I told them to.”

With a confident smile, he reached over and slapped Bebind's flank. Both horses broke into a gallop and tore across the hills.

R
annoch Mill sat on the confluence of the River Leven and Loch Leven beneath the shadow of Garbh Bheinn's rocky peak. From the grassy bank, one could see Kinlochleven's imposing walls above the rugged cliffs that plummeted down to the cold waters of the loch.

Joanna looked around with a sigh of pleasure as she nibbled on a pastry. This was surely one of the loveliest places in Scotland. The pristine reflection of puffy clouds in the lapis lazuli sky, snowcapped mountaintops, and verdant forests shimmered in the turquoise water.

The pastoral scene reminded her of the tapestry hanging in her bedchamber. Only the knight and his lady were missing from this colorful tableau, but her vivid imagination could easily conjure them out of the crisp spring air.

A handsome, stalwart, courageous knight attired in shining armor would ride up on his mighty steed, dismount in a graceful leap, and stride to where she sat alone amid the primroses…In his hand, he'd carry a bouquet of wildflowers that grew along the riverbank. He'd drop to one knee and pledge his undying devotion…Shyly, she'd take the violets and bluebells and softly demur, but his courtly manner would overcome her maidenly resistance…He'd come to rescue her from—

“Och, what a shot!

“Blood and bones! The one-eyed devil never misses!”

The raucous sound of the soldiers' cheers disrupted
Joanna's daydream. The MacLean men-at-arms had fastened a painted deerskin to the trunk of an ancient oak and now vied with one another, showing off their skill with bow and arrow. Time and again, Fearchar had bested any man who stood up against him.

After Joanna had served The MacLean, he'd insisted that she sit beside him on the wool plaid spread on the grass, in case there was anything else he needed fetched from his horse. So far, his wants had been few and simple: a slice of mutton pie and a flask of ale from his saddlebags. Then, setting his green bonnet aside, he'd stretched out his long length, folded his hands on his flat belly, and closed his eyes for a midday nap.

Arthur Hay had an easy job serving such a self-sufficient master. Even when Joanna had spilled the porter on the blanket and dropped a piece of the golden-brown pastry on the ground, MacLean hadn't lost his temper.

God's truth, 'twas no wonder she'd felt nervous. He'd watched her with a lazy smile curving his generous mouth and spoke to her in a low, easy tone. As soon as MacLean drifted off, she'd turned her back to keep him out of her sight—and out of her wayward thoughts.

The resonance of his deep voice did peculiar things to her insides. She told herself that any maid would react to the presence of a licentious satyr with queer, unfamiliar feelings. Especially a satyr who practiced the art of black magic. Hadn't her tutors warned her that the Prince of Darkness spoke with honeyed words? Sweet, sugar-coated syllables thick with the enticement of unsurpassed pleasures and unimaginable delights.

“What say you, laird?” Tam called out. “Will you give us a demonstration of your skill?”

She turned to find MacLean had wakened and lay watching her beneath lowered lids. Completely relaxed, he leaned back on his elbows, his legs crossed at the ankles. “Not this morning,” he answered. “Let Joey show us what he can do.”

Joanna met his genial gaze and tried to hide the fact that
her stomach had just tied itself into knots. “I don't know how to shoot a bow and arrow,” she admitted. “No one ever taught me.”

“Then 'tis time you learned, lad,” MacLean said.

“Truly?” She scrambled to her feet and looked at the men, who nodded their encouragement. “Would someone show me?”

MacLean rose lazily from the plaid. “I'll teach you myself.”

“Will you, milord? Oh, I would love to learn!”

But when Joanna measured Tam's long yew bow against her own limited height, she wanted to wail in frustration. She'd never have the strength to draw it back.

“There's a bow rolled up in the blanket behind Fraoch's saddle,” MacLean told her. “Go fetch it, lad, and you'll have your first lesson in archery.”

Certain the warlord's weapon would be far too big, Joanna did as he ordered with a sinking heart. If she couldn't draw the string and bend the bow, she'd feel like a first-rate fool. To her surprise, though, inside the tartan wool she discovered a shorter bow of lemonwood made especially for a youth, along with a leather armguard and a small archer's glove.

Thrilled, she whirled around to find the men gazing at her with wide smiles. Their golden-haired chief had already taken his place before the target and waited for her with an amused air.

Rory watched Joanna hurry to him, bow, armguard, and glove in one hand and Tam's quiver of arrows in the other. He met her eager eyes and knew his assumption had been correct. Not only would she willingly play the role of his gillie rather than admit her true identity, she was enjoying it.

“Did you bring these for me, sire?” she asked artlessly.

“I did, lad. I thought we'd have time at midday for you to practice.”

Laying the quiver on the grass, he showed her how to fasten her glove and string the bow. Then he drew her in
front of him and demonstrated the correct way to grip the bow and nock the arrow. With his arms around her, he guided her hands, helping her draw the string and aim for the makeshift target.

“Loose the arrow smoothly,” he said. “Just let the bowstring slip off your fingers.”

Following MacLean's guidance, Joanna loosed one arrow after another. He bent his head and spoke patiently, teaching her how to concentrate on the target, not just with her eyes, but with her mind as well.

“Try to burn a hole in the target's center,” he said softly, “and let no other thought intrude.”

He explained how to predict the trajectory the arrow would take on its flight and how to hold her position until the arrow struck its mark.

Only when MacLean helped her aim did she hit the target with consistent accuracy. But Joanna didn't mind: the thrill of learning to use the weapon blotted out every other consideration. The men rewarded her efforts with heartening cheers. When she struck the center of the painted deerskin, they shouted vociferously, just as though she were one of them.

Her tutors in Cumberland would have toppled over, dead of shock, had they seen her. Those narrow-minded pedagogues had berated her interest in anything except deportment, languages, and religion. Though they'd tried their best to squelch her fascination with the Celtic legends and the tales of chivalry during King Arthur's time, Joanna had held fast to her dreams.

Now she was practicing archery like Robin Hood!

She wanted to flap her wings and cry
cock-a-doodle-doo
like a rooster bragging in the hen yard.

Rory could feel Joanna's slender body quivering with excitement. She bit her lower lip in concentration, so engrossed in the lesson she seemed unaware that he held her lightly against him.

His own body responded with rampant awareness of her femininity as the soft curve of her bottom, hidden beneath
her faded plaid, came into contact with his thigh. The heat of carnal desire spread through his groin. He savored the feel of her, vibrant and sweet; and the knowledge that she was his forever sent his spirits soaring.

His
.

His to keep.

His to enjoy and to pleasure through the bright summer days.

His to hold and caress during the long winter nights.

His for all the years that lay ahead.

An unfamiliar joy filled Rory as he looked down at his indomitable wife-to-be. He'd never known any lass like her.

Joanna's resilience and pluck were remarkable—there seemed to be nothing she wouldn't dare. Her lively nature promised a frank, open playfulness he'd never before met in a female.

The noble ladies of his acquaintance flirted and simpered with fervid intensity, their one goal, marriage to a suitable partner. Born a landless bastard, he'd been spared their guileful lures.

And while the earthy women he'd bedded had encouraged his attentions with lusty vigor, they'd never exhibited the kind of buoyant expectation shining on Joanna's innocent face.

His cheek brushed against the wool of her stocking cap, his mouth mere inches from her soft pink lips, and a tingle of sweet anticipation danced down Rory's spine. Lust clutched and pulled at his loins, bringing with it an ache so deep inside he had to stifle a groan.

With a silent oath, he counted the days before his family arrived and he could put an end to this ridiculous farce and take Joanna to his bed where she belonged.

 

When it was time to resume the hunt Joanna couldn't hide her disappointment, so MacLean promised to practice archery with her the very next day.

Holy hosanna! Who would have thought being the Sea Dragon's gillie could be so blessed wonderful?

“When will you teach me to use a sword, laird?” she asked, barely able to keep from skipping across the grass.

He laughed softly as he walked beside her toward the horses. “When you're strong enough to lift my claymore.”

They came to a halt beside her chestnut mare, and Joanna caught MacLean's sleeve before he could move to Fraoch's side. “What about using a dirk?” she pleaded. “Will you teach me how to fight with a dirk?”

He shook his head in disapproval, but his eyes glittered with merriment. “'Tis a bloodthirsty lad you are, Joey.”

She squeezed his forearm insistently. “But will you teach me?”

“Perhaps.”

Having to be satisfied with the noncommittal reply, Joanna placed her foot in the stirrup and started to mount. Bebind chose that moment to play one of her skittish games.

“Here, I'll toss you up,” MacLean said unexpectedly. Without waiting for her response, he lifted her off the ground. Somehow, in his attempt to be helpful, his hand slipped beneath her plaid.

Shocked by the feel of his big palm curving over her bottom, Joanna bolted into the saddle. Too stunned to speak, she clasped Bebind's reins in her taut fingers and looked about the grassy embankment.

None of the men appeared to have noticed what happened. Or if they saw, paid no heed. They were all busy checking their girths and halters as they prepared to leave.

Even MacLean appeared completely unruffled by the accident. After all, Joey was only a lowly gillie-in-training, scarcely worth a second thought. And such trifling mistakes happened at times, with no need to apologize.

A flush scorched Joanna's cheeks. Godsakes, she could still feel his callused fingers sliding up the back of her bare thigh. If she hadn't tied the tails of her long shirt between her legs that morning, the ruse would have been over in an instant.

MacLean calmly met her gaze, unaware that her heart
was slamming against her rib cage like a battering ram against a castle gate. “When I think you're ready, Joey, I'll teach you how to use a dirk,” he said, misinterpreting her stricken expression.

She lowered her lashes and stared down at her trembling hands, knowing she had to escape. If she stayed at Kinlochleven, 'twould be only a matter of time before he discovered her secret. And a small, insidious voice inside prayed that he'd do just that.

Her throat constricted with embarrassment, Joanna choked out a reply. “As you wish, laird.”

The men were scarcely in their saddles when the deerhounds bolted for the woods, howling ecstatically. With a hue and cry, everyone galloped after them.

In the ensuing commotion, Joanna seized her chance. She kicked Bebind's flanks and the spirited mare leaped forward, delighted to be in the race at last.

Peeling away from the MacLeans in an oblique line, Joanna guided the chestnut into the nearby pines. She climbed upward, away from the loch, urging Bebind deeper and deeper into the forest. Riding at a bruising pace, she crouched in the saddle to avoid the low-hanging branches of spruce and fir.

A family of black grouse exploded from the bracken in front of her, beating their glossy wings angrily at the disturbance. The high-strung mare shied, and Joanna soothed her with an urgent whisper.

As the sound of the hunt grew fainter, she slowed her blowing horse to a walk. She was determined to put as much distance as possible between her and the chief of Clan MacLean before stopping to rest.

Her tasseled cap had been partially dislodged during the wild ride, and she anchored the striped wool further down on her head, then gave Bebind an encouraging pat. Following a half-forgotten trail along the river's precipitous edge, she continued her steep ascent into the mountains.

Only the noisy
chup chup
of crossbills and the rustle of leaves in the soft wind disturbed the silence. She'd finally
eluded the clever MacLean. But for some reason, the exultation she ought to be feeling eluded her as well.

 

Rory cursed under his breath. He'd been so aroused by that one fleeting touch, he'd been slow to climb into the saddle. Then the sound of the men's shouts and the dogs' maddened barking had startled his fretful stallion. By the time he'd calmed the rearing, pawing Fraoch, Joanna had disappeared.

While most of his men chased after the deerhounds, Rory had shouted to Fearchar and Tam to follow him and flew after Joanna. The two were behind him now as he tracked the path of broken branches and crushed leaves.

She was riding at a fast pace, too fast for the dangerous terrain. At this elevation the river flowed through a rocky gorge, its banks falling in steep cliffs. Should she become rattled and make the wrong turn, Joanna and her mare would soar into space. And if she somehow evaded her pursuers, darkness would overtake her before she could reach any kind of habitation.

Though the brown bears that once roamed these mountains had disappeared long ago, the forest still harbored wild boars, wolves, and lynx. And the weather remained unpredictable in the spring. A storm could blow in with gale force, toppling tall trees in its path.