Chieftain (25 page)

“Very well, but I forbid you to bring home bad habits from the huntsman.”

“Hooray!” As quickly as it had come, Alasdair’s exuberance fled. “Mother, can a man learn to snore?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Anticipating her next words, Drummond’s hand tightened on her waist. “But your father has perfected the skill. They say he’s the most resonant snorer in Christendom.”

Awe rounded out Alasdair’s features. “Are you, Father?”

Under his breath, Drummond said, “I’ll get you for that.” To Alasdair, he said, “Trouble yourself not over it now, Son. You’ve years to perfect the craft, and your mother has something to give you.”

“The item we discussed earlier?” she said.

“Aye, I saw you bring it in.”

She went to the door, fetched the weapon, and put it on the table. Alasdair’s earlier excitement paled.

Fidgeting, the lad drew close. “What is it?”

“’Tis my sword.”

Sucking in his breath and looking as if he were about to touch a holy relic, Alasdair reached out for the weapon.

“I haven’t the strength to free it from the scabbard,” Johanna said.

Drummond seemed distracted, probably reliving the many battles he’d fought. Smiling in support, she placed her hand on his shoulder.

He glanced up. “Then you’ve never seen the blade?”

“No, but I’m sure it’s very fine. I mean I remember it being fine.”

“I want to see it,” Alasdair said, transfixed.

Drummond emitted a half laugh and picked up the weapon. With one hand on the scabbard and the other on the frayed leather grip, his well-muscled arms bulged as he pulled. The tendons in his neck grew ropy from the strain. To Johanna’s surprise, metal scraped against metal as the double-edged sword emerged from the sheath. But the blade itself was a ragged stump no longer than her forearm.

“What happened to it?” she said.

“It met the knee of Edward the First.”

Containing her shock, Johanna spoke softly for Alasdair’s benefit. “You wounded him in battle?”

“Nay.” He handed the sword to Alasdair, who cradled it as if it were a swaddled babe. “He broke it over his knee. ’Tis a custom of English kings, to blunt the swords of vanquished enemies.”

Drummond had been forced to surrender his sword. Johanna’s heart ached for him and the great blow his pride had suffered. “Well, I hope he had a healthy bruise to show for it.”

With his eyes, Drummond smiled at her. “We’ll see if the blacksmith can fashion a new blade,” he said.

Encouraged by his good spirits, Johanna said, “Had I known it would render Alasdair speechless, I would have given it to him years ago.”

“Now that I’ve yielded my sword for a second time, lass, have you trinket to replace it?”

As Drummond expected, she gasped in mortification and stepped back.

As prissy as a spinster, she lifted her chin. “I’ll just see how the meal’s coming along.”

He watched her go, wondering how he could find out her true identity. He had intentionally spouted insults about Clare, hoping this woman would grow angry enough to trip herself up. Instead, he’d hurt her feelings. Clare had been deeply sympathetic at the death of Drummond’s son. She had not cared that the lad was the child of his mistress. He must find a way to put that hurt to rights, but he could not, not until the lass opened her heart to him.

“Father, may I take this with me to the barracks tonight?”

“Nay, Alasdair.” When the lad’s face fell, Drummond added, “But you may take the scabbard.”

Satisfied, he went back to examining the sword.

Watching him, Drummond wondered if his son could provide information about her. But Drummond felt guilty at the thought of prying information from one so young. Still, he must have answers.

“Alasdair, where is your mother’s harp?”

“Harp?” He screwed up his face in confusion. “Heckley’s otter dog has more musical talent than Mother. That’s what she has of it.”

Drummond wasn’t surprised; the woman masquerading as Clare shared her appearance, but little else. “Did you know that your mother received a message from Sister Margaret today?”

The lad shrugged, engrossed in picking the crumbling leather wrappings from the handle of the weapon. “She sends me candles for my birthday.”

Drummond peered through the hearth into the kitchen. He could see the blue fabric of her skirt next to Evelyn’s plain gray smock. They conversed in normal tones, but he could not make out their words. Knowing the reverse was also true, he casually said, “Does anyone else write to your mother?”

Head down, Alasdair said, “Aunt Meridene. She sends me clothing that is embroidered with a very fine hand. She’s an expert with a needle, you know.”

“What of your aunt Johanna?”

Alasdair looked up and blinked in confusion. “She’s dead, and it makes Mother very sad to talk about her. She loved her well.”

Drummond struggled to hide his shock. No mention had been made of the woman’s death. Clare had not— He stopped the thought. The lass was not Clare. But one of her actions would lead him to the truth, of that he was certain. “So no one else writes to your mother.”

“The cloth merchant does.” Using both hands, Alasdair brandished the sword. “I told you he has an affection for her.”

A short-lived affection, Drummond thought. But as he stared at the broken blade of his sword, he forgot her correspondence. An ugly suspicion had entered his mind.

Clare could be an illegitimate daughter of Edward I. But Drummond would bet every drop of his Scottish blood that she did not know of the relation. His stomach soured at the alternative, for it meant that she had willingly lain with her half brother. No. Clare had not known. But if the old Edward was her father and the new king Edward her half brother, it all made sense.

Out of loyalty to his bastard daughter, Edward I had spared Drummond’s life and given this plot of land to Clare. Through her, it would pass to Alasdair.

Where was Clare, and who was the lass who’d captured Drummond’s heart? Surely another Plantagenet bastard, a cousin or a younger sister. A king’s daughter. But why would a father brand his own flesh and blood? And why would a prince admit to an affair with his own half sister? Because he hadn’t been told.

Although his mind swam with theories and possibilities, Drummond knew he was close to learning the truth.

When the table had been cleared and Alasdair delivered to the barracks, Drummond dismissed the maid. Then he took his woman’s hand and led her to the hearth, where he’d spread a blanket. “Bide here with me, lass.”

She came willingly, but this woman had boldness to spare. She also had a secret. “The floor, my lord?”

“I heard no complaints this afternoon. When I loved you on a desk.”

In a move of pure grace, she lowered herself to the pallet and kicked off her slippers. “Nor will you hear a protest now.”

He dropped down beside her, plucked an iron from the bucket of utensils and stoked the fire. The golden light accentuated her fair features and turned her hair to shimmering silk.

“Will you play your harp for me?”

Her gaze darted from the flames, to the mantel, to her hands. “I haven’t played in so many years, Drummond, I doubt I could strum the simplest lay.”

He had given the harp to Clare upon her arrival in the Highlands, and she played with the skill of the finest minstrels. “Have you the instrument still?”

“No. I’m sorry, for it meant much to me.”

Had Clare taken the harp with her? Where was Clare? The longer the answer eluded him, the more anxious he became. “What happened to the harp?”

She glanced up at him, her expression rife with regret. “I sold it to Glory.”

He noted that her eyes tilted up in the corners a tiny bit. Unlike Clare’s. On closer inspection, her nose was straighter and the bridge higher than Clare’s. She suffered his scrutiny with good grace, although she was clearly uncomfortable.

“I needed the money to hire Sween and to pay the glazier.”

He basked in the honest statement, for a lie would have been easily discovered upon Glory’s return. “I should like to hire the glazier back.”

“Will you commission a window for the chapel?”

“I should, I suppose, but I rather enjoy the battlement. I thought to glass in the crenels and add a roof.”

She removed her linen coif and let down her hair. “Do, and Alasdair will claim it for his own. He loves to patrol it at night.”

Her hair was of a wavier texture than Clare’s, and it varied with a dozen hues from sunny yellow to honey gold. He couldn’t resist training his rough palm over the thick braid. “I had more intimate pastimes in mind for the battlement, and Alasdair will do as he’s told.”

“You show great confidence, my lord. A mistake, I fear, where our son is concerned.”

Our
son. She had no intention of baring her soul to him, not voluntarily, and the knowledge hurt. She must have good reason to keep her secrets. In her little finger, this woman possessed more character and strength of will than any noble he’d ever known. And why not? She was a king’s daughter. Her courage troubled Drummond, though, for he had hoped to hear the truth from her lips.

“What weighty thoughts occupy you? Surely you do not worry over Alasdair?”

“Nay. I asked Bertie to stay with him.” He gave her a lecherous smile. “We are alone.”

Her brows lifted. “What have you done with Evelyn?”

“Evelyn has done something with herself, and I’m certain you will disapprove.”

“Then it must involve John Handle’s eldest son.”

Drummond had to smile. “Does anything in Fairhope escape your notice?”

“Your long hair has not. Shall I shear it before we go to Dumfries?”

“You can trim it now.”

“Oh, no. Alasdair fights like a badger every time I take the shears to him. I expect you to be a good example for him.”

“We leave on Saturday.”

“Why? The journey requires only three days’ travel.”

The fire popped and crackled; Drummond added another log. “Not on a plodding elephant.”

“Can you not leave him here with Morgan Fawr?”

Drummond chuckled remembering the last time he’d left Longfellow behind. “When I left the Tower of London without him, I had walked only as far as Billingsgate when he trumpeted loud enough to wake the French. As soon as he started battering the walls, they let him go.”

She laughed, too. “That must have been a sight, Longfellow barreling after you in Londontown. Some of the streets are narrower than he.”

He’d caught her in a blatant lie, for Clare had never been to London. This woman could easily have traveled to London—to visit her father.

If she knew her birthright. But the more Drummond studied her, the less convinced he was that she knew. He craved knowledge of this woman, her past, and the needs in her heart. “When were you there?”

“Never. But I know many who have. Red Douglas, Sheriff Hay, even Sween. They all tell a different tale.”

Relief flooded him, for he believed her. “Do you care to go?”

“No, Drummond. I am truly content here. But tell me, how do you manage to go a-hunting and leave Longfellow here?”

“He has a truly marvelous nose. His old handler swore that the beast could smell as far as an eagle could see. I believe ’tis true, but I hesitate to put it to the test.”

“We can forgo a luggage cart?”

“True, unless you’d like to ride atop him with me? A tent would shelter us from the elements and prying eyes.”

“Think you to … to …” Her face a picture of maidenly modesty, she turned up her hands. “To do
that
on an elephant?”

“Have you no taste for adventure, lass?”

“I doubt I could feel at ease, Drummond.”

“You mean, should I fondle your breasts.” He reached for her, his actions matching his words. In caressing her, he decided that she was better endowed than Clare. The last time he’d seen his wife, she’d been big with child and her breasts swollen accordingly.

So many differences existed, and he’d been too obsessed with naming her an adulteress to notice. He noticed now, and the bounty he explored and the beauty he treasured had a predictable reaction. But this woman had also captured his heart.

Leaning into his hand, she closed her eyes, and her mouth curled up in a smile of pure pleasure.

“Do I please you?”

She opened one eye. “Silly questions are disallowed.”

“If we are composing rules to this tryst I would disallow clothing.”

Her eyes drifted shut. “I shall not peek, my lord.”

The door was bolted. He could enjoy her at his leisure. So he set about doing just that. In slow movements, he peeled off her clothing, and then his own. Anticipation thrummed through him, settling heavily in his loins, but he battled his own desire and focused on hers. Kneeling before the hearth and facing her, he took her in his arms and gave her a slow, wet kiss. She grew eager and clutched his shoulders, tilting her head to the side to deepen the kiss. When her tongue sallied forth, he suckled it gently, and she moaned and swayed against him.

Pulling back, he waited until her eyes fluttered open. Her dreamy expression fattened his pride and lengthened another part of him. “Slowly, love. I had in mind to savor you for a while.”

“Savor me,” she murmured. “I like the sound of that.”

Only a hussy or a newly breached maiden would speak so artlessly. “You’ll like the rest more,” he teased, and laid into the kiss again.

When he thought he had her breathless and too weak to protest he drew back again. To his surprise, she took him in her hand and said, “How else do I savor you?”

Not Clare. Not by a bishop’s mile. “I’ll teach you, later.” He moved her hand aside.

She pouted prettily and tossed back her hair. Her breasts beckoned, and he gripped her waist and lifted her so he could suckle property and at length. The heather-sweet taste of her nipples whetted his appetite for a more precious delicacy, but he shelved the need for now and moved to feast on her other breast.

She shivered and moaned and wove her supple fingers into his hair, holding him there, an unnecessary but highly evocative gesture, for not even a clan war could distract him from loving this woman tonight. Her breasts felt pillow soft, a delightful contrast to the pebble-hard tips, and when he drew back enough to blow gently on her dampened skin, she gasped in both joy and shock.