The Maclean Groom (9 page)

Rory burst into a small clearing and reined Fraoch to a halt. Still mounted, Joanna waited near the cliff's edge, giving her lathered horse a rest. She glanced about with frightened eyes when she heard him, then started to urge the chestnut onward.

In that instant a lone wolf, separated somehow from its pack, sprang from behind a jumble of rocks. Fangs bared and snarling, it leaped at Bebind's neck.

The frightened mare reared and plunged, striking out with her hooves and neighing frantically. Joanna tumbled to the ground and landed on her back with a bone-jarring thud. As Bebind raced through the trees, she struggled to her feet.

The wolf recovered in mid-air and immediately turned its lethal attention to the small figure backing slowly toward the edge of the cliff. The injured animal, a large male, had been sliced across the shoulder by the sharp tines of a stag and left behind by the pack when it couldn't keep up. Half-starved and desperate, the wolf lowered its head, bared its fangs, and crept forward in a menacing crouch.

“Don't move!” Rory shouted as he urged Fraoch forward.

Broadsword in hand, he jumped from the saddle and landed between Joanna and the wolf. The next moment, the huge beast charged.

Rory met it with the full force of his strength, plunging his blade to the hilt in its thick chest. The wolf dropped to the ground with an agonized yelp.

Rory pivoted to find Joanna teetering on the brink of the cliff, her eyes huge with terror, her face white beneath the splotches of soot. Dropping his bloody sword, he grabbed for her just as the loose rock gave way beneath her feet.

She threw her arms around Rory's neck and clung to him, gasping with fright in his ear. Her eyelids screwed shut in her frantic struggle for safety, she held on with every ounce of her strength.

It felt so damn wonderful, Rory smiled.

Beneath the oversized garments, her small, firm breasts pressed against his chest. The supple curves of waist and thigh enthralled him. All thoughts of retribution for her past misdeeds scattered like shot from an exploding hackbut. The need to end this absurd masquerade throbbed inside him.

He stepped back from the precipice and turned with her still in his arms. “'Tis all right. You're safe now,” he said soothingly.

The sound of MacLean's voice, calm and reassuring, penetrated Joanna's panic. She opened her eyes and tipped her head back to meet his gaze. “You…you saved my life,” she whispered.

Stunned by the clash of emotions warring inside her, she
lifted her face to his. She yearned to brush her lips across his firm, generous mouth, parted slightly now in a warm smile. His face, so bold and cleanly cut, hovered only inches above her.

A spear of longing went through her, and suddenly Joanna admitted to herself what those strange feelings inside really meant. She wanted to trace the hard planes and angles of his features with her fingertips, to bracket his stern, unyielding jaw in her palms.

Godsakes, she wanted him to kiss her!

She actually wanted to kiss the Sea Dragon
.

Impossible.

But true.

MacLean held her so tightly, she could feel the tautened muscles of his arms. Only the bunched material of her overlarge shirt and the thick folds of tartan wool draped across her chest kept her small bosom and girlish figure a secret.

She gazed into his eyes and recognized the heartfelt concern for her. Shame at tricking him so completely burned inside her. She'd never expected this. Not only did he believe her a lad, but he sincerely wanted to help her
—Joey—
grow into a fine young man.

If she told MacLean that she'd deliberately hoodwinked him, he'd never forgive her. He'd be thoroughly disgusted by her behavior—but not so disgusted that he'd refuse to wed an heiress and acquire her wealth and estates. She'd be forced to marry a man who couldn't bear the sight of his wife. And the Glencoe Macdonalds, who were depending upon her to wed their war commander's son, would never give her the respect and allegiance she so longed to earn as their chieftain.

MacLean slowly lowered Joanna to her feet. His hands skimmed up her sides and bracketed her shoulders. “It's time we—”

The sound of horses crashing through the underbrush interrupted whatever he'd planned to say, and Fearchar and Tam rode into the clearing.

“You've found the laddie!” Fearchar called. His gap
toothed grin lit up his scarred, bearded mien, the black eye patch dark against his long blond hair with its two narrow sidebraids.

“And not a moment too soon,” MacLean replied, as he released Joanna and turned to greet them.

Fearchar dismounted along with Tam and dropped to one knee to examine the wolf's carcass. Both men looked over at Joanna, the shocked realization that she'd been seconds from death written on their faces. The sincere concern in their gazes touched Joanna's heart. For whatever reason, the unqualified devotion they felt for their chief had been transferred, in some small part, to his impudent gillie.

MacLean retrieved his sword, wiped the blade on the dead wolf's thick pelt, and jammed it back in his scabbard.

Watching his methodical movements in dazed silence, Joanna told herself she must be mistaken. How could the MacLeans feel anything but hatred for a Macdonald? And how could she feel anything but contempt for their chief? Clan MacLean had been her clan's ancient enemy since time immemorial. And The MacLean was the hellish Avenger who'd hunted down her fugitive grandfather and dragged him back to Edinburgh in chains.

“You'll have to ride with me, Joey,” MacLean said. “Bebind is probably halfway back to the castle by now.” He mounted his great black stallion and reached an arm down for her.

Joanna allowed the warlord to pull her up behind him. Belatedly, she realized she'd offered no excuse for riding off alone. “Bebind was startled by a rabbit,” she called to him over his shoulder. “She bolted into the trees, and all I could do was hang on.”

“Is that right?” he replied.

Before she had a chance to catch her breath and embroider the fabrication, Fraoch took off at a gallop. Then 'twas all she could do to wrap her arms around MacLean's waist, grab hold of his wide leather belt, and hang on for dear life.

T
hat evening, Joanna sat cross-legged on the chest at the foot of her bed, polishing MacLean's dirk. She'd taken off the clumsy, scuffed brogues Jock had loaned her and wiggled her toes in her patched and faded stockings.

When the laird came into the bedchamber, she looked up in surprise. “I thought you were playing chess with Fearchar, milord,” she said and started to return the blade to its sheath. “Is there something I can fetch you?”

“Nothing, lad,” he replied. “Stay where you are and finish your work.”

Rory walked over to a side table and set down his tankard of ale. Removing his sword belt and tossing the weapon on the bed, he dropped into a carved armchair nearby. His chin propped on his fist, he studied Joanna thoughtfully beneath lowered lids.

Today he'd come damn close to losing her. By God, he wouldn't allow his audacious bride to take such a foolish risk again.

Maybe putting her on a leash wouldn't be such a bad idea…

On their return to the castle, he'd intended to tell Joanna that he'd discovered her identity the moment he could get her alone. He knew she'd be shocked and possibly frightened, and he'd reassure the plucky lass that he wasn't going to punish her for her ridiculous charade. He was certain she'd done it out of loyalty to her clan.

No doubt it'd been some asinine Macdonald man-at-arms who'd convinced her to try the ruse in the first place, then left his mistress in the lurch when he'd ridden off to Stalcaire to pledge his loyalty to the king.

Rory wanted to give her a chance to prepare for their coming nuptials. He knew a bridal gown was an important thing to a lassie. In the letter he'd written, he'd asked his mother to bring an especially bonny one for Joanna. As well as some finely made undergarments and a night robe trimmed with fur.

The thought of removing a lacy chemise from his bride's slender white shoulders brought the deep ache of carnal desire.

God above, he wanted her.

The feel of her supple body brushing against his as he taught her to use the small bow had been sublime torture. If it weren't for the fact that their wedding would take place in only a few days, he'd be sorely tempted to take her that very night.

But on his return to Kinlochleven, Rory had been met by a self-appointed committee of the castle staff, headed by Father Graham. The men had insisted on speaking to him at once, and in private. So he'd dismissed Joanna, led the anxious group into the library, and listened to their pleas.

Seumas, Davie, Jock, and Jacob, along with the supposedly pious cleric, did their best to convince him that Joey shouldn't be trained as his gillie. They cited the lad's youth, his past record of irresponsibility, his puny size, and his penchant for playing nasty pranks.

Rory had given the castle's steward, chamberlain, blacksmith, and stable master every opportunity to tell him the real reason Joey shouldn't be his personal servant. He'd listened politely to their suggestions for Arthur's temporary replacement; then refuted every choice with a reason why the other lads wouldn't do.

The Macdonalds clearly intended to deceive him, and the more they contrived to spin their false web, the angrier he'd
become. Their damnfool plotting had endangered their mistress's life that day.

Let them play the farce out to the end, he decided, if that was their wish. He'd teach them to respect and fear their new laird's authority, whether they chose to give him their heartfelt devotion or not.

After the evening meal, Rory had sent Joanna upstairs with chores to be done in his bedchamber. Her loyal servants had watched her go with gloomy faces, but not one tried to stop her or to confess the truth.

Every so often now, Joanna peeked at Rory from under her lashes, and he wondered what she was thinking. No doubt she prided herself on how clever she'd been in fooling the King's Avenger.

Disgruntled at the thought, he sipped the porter, watching her covertly over the rim of the pewter tankard. He propped his feet on the edge of the low chest she sat on, and she inched away as though he were some kind of monster.

Hell almighty, what was it about him she found so damn repugnant?

“Joey,” he said, and she jumped at the sound of his voice.

“Aye, lord.”

She was so flustered by his nearness she didn't even realize she'd answered in English. He chose to ignore it.

“You said Lady Joanna had many suitors. What kind of a man do you think she would like to marry?”

“Milord?” she asked, this time in Gaelic though she was clearly shocked at his question.

“Every young maid, even a simple one, must think about her wedding day and try to picture the bridegroom standing at her side.”

Joanna bent over the dirk, polishing the sharp eighteen-inch blade as though her life depended on it. He frowned, suddenly worried she might slice off one of those dainty wee fingers.

“I'm sure I wouldn't know,” she mumbled. But her frenzied movements slowed, and he quietly exhaled.

“Well, if
you
were the Maid of Glencoe, what kind of husband would you choose?”

Joanna's russet brows drew together as she rubbed the cloth furiously over the weapon once again. “The Maid of Glencoe
has
no choice. She'll marry whoever is chosen for her—either by the king or by her clan commander, Ewen Macdonald.”

Rory leaned forward, ready to snatch the dirk from her hands, if necessary. “Use your imagination, lad,” he urged in a soft, soothing manner. “Pretend the heiress does have a choice. Whom would she choose?”

To his relief, Joanna laid the dangerous weapon aside. Palms resting on her bent knees, she stared up at the ceiling and pursed her lips in concentration. “I can't imagine that, milord,” she declared at last, “me being an orphan laddie and all.”

Rory rose and moved to a tall court cupboard that stood against one wall. Opening its double doors, he withdrew a square gold casket from a shelf, then walked over and handed it to her.

“What is this?” she asked, her luminous eyes alight with curiosity.

“A wedding present,” he said. “I brought it for my bride. Go on, lad. Open the box and tell me if you think she'll approve.”

Joanna slowly lifted the lid, and her mouth opened in a silent
oh
of amazement.

Resting on the gold satin lining lay a necklace once intended for a Spanish infanta, recovered from the booty on-board a pirate ship. In the soft light thrown by the candles overhead, sapphires twinkled amid the piece's fine gold filigree, reflecting the brilliant hue of Joanna's violet-blue eyes. 'Twas truly a necklace fit for a queen.

“Well,” he prodded when she offered no comment, “do you think Lady Joanna will like it?”

Joanna closed the case and set it beside the dirk. She shrugged her shoulders with casual indifference. “If your intent is to buy her affection with expensive jewelry, mi
lord, you're destined to fail. The maid cares little for baubles.”

He picked up the casket and gazed down at the royal insignia embossed on the top. But he watched her carefully from the corner of his eye. “Does she now?” he murmured. “Why, do you suppose?”

“'Tis possible she thinks other things are more important.”

“Such as?”

“Such as gallantry.”

Rory laid his rejected bridal gift beside the tankard on the table. “Explain what you mean, lad.”

“'Tis obvious, sire, from the tapestry on the wall, which Lady Joanna brought with her from Cumberland. I've been told her mother's women made it especially for milady's dowry.”

For the first time, Rory studied the colorful hanging with a critical eye. The tapestry portrayed a knight dressed in immaculate armor, not a dent or a ding anywhere on it. His unmarred face, as comely as any lassie's, shone with the idealism of the very young. If he or his armor had ever seen a battle, it'd been from far in the rear. This magnificent flower of chivalry looked up at a finely attired lady who stood on a balcony and held a glowing candle to light his way in the dark.

“Do you mean that Lady Joanna hopes to wed a Sassenach knight?” he demanded.

“Whether the knight's English or Scots isn't the point,” she replied testily. She jumped up from the chest and joined him in front of the tapestry. With an exasperated sigh, she waved her hand in an eloquent gesture. “Look at the entire scene and try to feel the emotions they're feeling. The valiant knight has brought his fair lady a bouquet and a ballad he's written especially for her.”

Rory looked closer. The green, untried fledging held a bunch of posies in one elegant hand and a rolled parchment tied with ribbon in the other. “And what exactly are they
feeling?” he growled, unaccountably disturbed by the look of enchantment on Joanna's dirty face.

“He's pledging his undying devotion,” she said softly, her gaze fastened on the knight. “He's come to rescue the lady from a despicable, unwanted suitor forced upon her by a wicked stepfather.”

Rory looked down at Joanna with dawning realization.
Knights and ladies fair
. Maude had told him that as a child Joanna's only solace had been romantic tales and daydreams. His bride-to-be dreamed of a knight in shining armor who'd rescue her from her unwanted groom—namely, the despicable and repulsive Laird Rory MacLean.

He gazed once more at the tapestry. Hell, he wouldn't even need to draw his sword to best a mincing gallant like that. He could break the puppy in two with his bare hands.

“Can you compose a ballad to a lady's beauty, grace, and wit?” the lass beside him inquired with an expectant smile. “You could sing a tribute to Lady Joanna's virtues to the accompaniment of your lute.”

“I don't play the lute,” he stated, his words curt.

She compressed her mouth in mute disappointment, then suggested buoyantly, “What about the vielle or the guitar?”

“I don't play any musical instruments,” he answered with a scowl.

Taken aback, she stared at him as though he'd just grown a third eye. “Well, surely you've written poetry in praise of a lady's melodious voice or lovely hair.”

He felt a muscle jump in his cheek as he spoke through clenched teeth. “Wrong again.”

Realizing a bit late that she'd been sailing straight into a gale, the intrepid lass trimmed her sails, came about, and deserted the ridiculous pair in the tapestry for the safety of the far side of the room.

Joanna walked back to the carved oak chest, picked up MacLean's dirk and returned the blade to its sheath. Conscious of his thunderous expression, she carefully placed his weapon on the nearby table. “Was there anything else
you needed this evening, laird?” she asked respectfully.

Before he could respond, Abby hurried through the open doorway, carrying two buckets of water. She set them down, pulled the empty wooden tub from its spot behind a screen, and placed it in front of the fireplace.

“What are you doing?” MacLean asked the servant with an impatient frown.

Abby stared at him in astonishment as she dipped a quick curtsy. “Before you left on the hunt, milord, you ordered a bath prepared for this evening.”

“Very well,” he replied in a distracted manner, his irascible gaze locked on Joanna.

While Abby went for more buckets of water, Joanna busied herself with the soap and cloths used for bathing. A tingling excitement began to rise inside her as she worked.

This was it!

This time she wouldn't throw away her golden opportunity like some chicken-hearted ninny.

MacLean's sharp words rang out in the quiet room, slicing through her happy contemplation. “Does Lady Joanna expect to be courted with flowers and music and poetry by her future husband?”

He stood in front of the tapestry, glaring at the knight again. The scowl on his face could have turned the finest wine in the castle into vinegar instantly.

“If she does,” Joanna called over her shoulder, “the maid's likely to be disappointed, isn't she, milord?”

She whistled softly to herself as she laid out a clean tunic for sleeping and a fresh pair of short hose for the next day. This time she'd discover if the Sea Dragon really had a tail or if the story was mere foolish blather.

His low voice rumbled like storm clouds over the loch. “Why do you say that, Joey?”

Joanna could scarcely believe his question. MacLean hadn't gone near Idoine since the first day he'd arrived. Since his notion of paying court to a lady seemed to center around training horses, he must have been waiting for his bride-to-be to wander into the stables.

“Because you haven't so much as kissed her little pinkie,” Joanna replied with a chuckle.

“I'll kiss a lot more than her little finger, when the time's right,” he said gruffly.

Humming under her breath, Joanna dumped a pitcher of cold water into the steaming bath and swished it around with her hand. The thought of seeing MacLean's big, muscular body stark naked had her heart pumping and her insides shaking.

But she wasn't going to run out of the room this time.

Not even if she felt nauseated and woozy.

Not even if she keeled over in a dead faint at the sight of his scaly green tail.

Abby entered again with two more pails of water, one hot and one cold. “Lady Beatrix says Joey's needed in the solar, laird,” she announced as she emptied them into the tub.

“I'm needed right here,” Joanna said before MacLean could dismiss her. She sent Abby a quelling look, warning her silently not to contradict.

The serving girl cast a furtive glance at the mighty warrior before answering her mistress. “Lady Beatrix is going to be terribly upset if you don't come with me, Joey,” she insisted. “She needs you right away for something very important.”

“I'd like Joey to stay,” MacLean stated. “Since Arthur's not here, the laddie can help with my bath.”