Chieftain (5 page)

It was true, and Johanna must have ready answers to all of Drummond’s questions. But first she must know more about him. “Do you think he loved Clare?”

Bertie stared at the ceiling. “He never told her so, although she asked often enough. They were young when they wed—he three and twenty, and Clare almost three and ten. He treated her well enough, but he never gave up his dallying women. One of them bore him two sons. Poor mites both died before they crawled, or so the gossip had of it.”

Johanna knew how she would feel if her husband took a mistress and gave the woman children. She’d feel betrayed, and she would doubt her own worth. Poor Clare. Such misery might lurk around the corner. Of necessity, she grew more determined to speed Drummond to the Highlands and into the bosom of his clan.

“I doubt he’ll stay,” she said.

“I doubt he’ll leave.”

Fear engulfed her. “Do not say that Bertie. He must go before he finds out I’m not Clare.”

“You’ve won over bigger trolls than him, and canonize me if the sheriff offers his congratulations of it. I say hell quaff a few when he hears the news.”

Ramsay Hay, the sheriff of Dumfries, had been her devoted champion until she had packed away the trappings of mourning. Then he had turned erstwhile suitor. Although she had been blunt and insistent when refusing his attentions, he had been equally persistent. She seldom worried about other men approaching her, for Ramsay kept most of them at bay. But could he chase off a husband?

She tapped the stack of letters on her desk. “I’ve written him a message. I wrote to Sister Margaret and Meridene, too.”

Tenderness wreathed Bertie’s weathered face. “The abbess’ll wear out a rosary praying for you. Mistress Meridene will picture it on one of her tapestries.”

Never had children been so fortunate as Clare and Johanna, and later Meridene, for Sister Margaret had cared for them as any mother would. She had been so protective and nurturing that Johanna sometimes thought the abbess had chosen wrongly in her vocation. “I asked her to visit”

“’Twould be grand if she did, and without haste, for Ramsay Hay will run his horse to ground getting here. Pity any who runs before his mission.”

Moved by a fierce protectiveness toward her home and her son, she walked to the window and scanned the outer bailey. “Ramsay’s first visit should prove interesting and diverting. When he arrives, I’ll tell Alasdair he can patrol with the watch.”

“He’ll pass up a custard for that.”

“If there’s trouble between Drummond and Ramsay, it won’t do for Alasdair to witness it.”

Bertie’s eyes twinkled with glee. “We should also bar swooning women and fretful babes from the table that night.”

Johanna only half listened, for she had spied the elephant at last. Her heart clamored in her breast, for the animal appeared as a small gray dot on the horizon.

Drummond was taking Alasdair for a ride. What if he took him for good?

She whirled and raced for the stable, fear rising like bile in her throat.

Perched on a padded saddle, his son before him, Drummond sat atop Longfellow’s broad back. A specially woven carpet with tassels and tinkling bells protected the elephant’s spine and further cushioned the passengers.

The slow pace and high vantage point afforded an unobstructed view of his holdings. Summer ripened fields turned the land into a sea of swaying grain. The loamy soil would support any number of crops, and he wondered why she did not vary the plantings. Peas and beans would thrive in the furrows. She could even graze cattle on this land.

On the western horizon lay Solway Firth. In the distance to the north, a sizeable loch looked like a giant platter of silver. Closer, and straight ahead, a rocky banked and tree lined burn wended through the countryside. Longfellow plodded toward the water.

A gentle old bull, he obeyed Drummond without hesitation, and only occasionally did his enormous feet stray from the hard packed wagon road.

“I want to stand up.” Alasdair drew his knees beneath him and moved into a crouch, preparing to stand.

Patience, Drummond had decided, was a rare gift when dealing with a seven-year-old lad. “So you’ve said, Son, at least a dozen times.”

His skinny ass in the air, Alasdair looked over his shoulder at Drummond. Freckles dotted his nose and cheeks, and a familiar defiance twinkled in his eyes. “Then say yes.”

Alasdair had been blessed with his mother’s mouth, which was now drawn tight in frustration. He’d also inherited her willfulness. Her
new
willfulness, Drummond amended, for she’d been quiet and tractable when he married her. “Sit down, Alasdair!”

“Listen, Father. I could be persuaded to serve as your squire, should you be persuaded to let me stand.”

“Nay.”

“But if I’m to steward this land someday, I should know all of the farms and the herds.” He flapped his arms, as if exasperated. “How can I, unless you let me stand up and see them?”

The lad could negotiate himself out of a sealed barrel. But could he wield a sword? Eyeing him cautiously, Drummond said, “I could be persuaded to forgo shining your bottom with a leather strap, should you be persuaded to sit down.”

Miraculously the lad did as he was told. Then he spoiled it by grumbling, “You’re afraid of what Mother will say.”

The statement was so unexpected that Drummond almost laughed. Had he, as a lad, spoken so disrespectfully to his father, he’d have been cuffed soundly, then given the dreaded task of cleaning chain mail. “You have the manners of a cornered badger.”

As precocious as a prince, Alasdair again moved into a crouch. “She will not yell at you, you have my word of honor on that. Mother seldom yells.”

Mother.
The sound of that word sparked another oddity. In the last hour Drummond had heard it said more than he would have in a week’s time at Macqueen Castle. The patriarchal clan system had specific places and duties for women, and indulging their sons was certainly not one of them.

“Next year, when I’m older, I’m also going to scale a castle wall.”

Drummond sent his son a threatening stare, then waited until he resumed his seat “Also?”

“Like you did when the evil Viking lord kidnapped Mother.”

Caught off guard, Drummond merely stared at the crown of his son’s head and the mop of wavy black hair that played host to an assortment of twigs. Alasdair was obviously referring to another tale his mother had told.

“You burned his sails so he couldn’t escape with her.”

A reply worked its way through Drummond’s confused mind. “Macqueen Castle lies three days’ ride from the sea, and it has no dock.”

“So?”

Drummond had wrongly responded with logic. He was quickly learning that nothing about the fables his wife had created had anything to do with logic.

“She gave you a piece of a kiss,” Alasdair said reverently.

“You mean a kiss of peace.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Heckley, the fletcher, says the best thing a girl can give a lad is a piece.”

At Alasdair’s age Drummond had understood adult innuendo; he’d also witnessed his father and his older kinsmen taking their manly pleasure of the wenches that were always about. Infidelity had been an accepted practice, and Drummond had given it little thought. Until his wife had lain with another man.

When his wounded pride stirred, Drummond tamped it back. “You should listen to me, not this Heckley fellow.”

Alasdair scrambled to face Drummond. “I could listen better standing up. Why won’t you let me?”

Longfellow picked up the pace; he was eager to reach the water, which had been the reason for the long ride. “Hold on.”

Disdaining the rope handles woven into the carpet, Alasdair kept his hands at his sides. “Mother says an adult should always answer a child’s—a young man’s—questions.”

“Your father says a child should always obey. Now take hold of that handle.”

He did. “Now may I stand up?”

“Absolutely and irrevocably, nay. Never. And if you ask me again I’ll punish you.”

The lad’s mouth fell open. “Me?”

Now that he’d made an impression, Drummond relaxed. “Aye, and severely.”

“How?” Alasdair leaned close, excitement dancing in his eyes. “Will you put me in a cage and let the women of the village poke me with their broom handles?”

“Where did you hear of such a ridiculous punishment?”

“Do you not remember? That’s the justice you meted out to the evil black knight who stole all of the children’s sweets.”

Oh, Lord, in fable Drummond had progressed from rescuing damsels to sparing children the pain of losing their tarts. Was there no end to his wife’s imagination? “Does your mother tell you stories about anyone else?”

He nodded. “She said an angel left me on her doorstep. There’s also a funny story about the sheriff. He drank too much ale and on his way home to Drumfries, he fell asleep on his horse. He awoke in Carlisle.”

“Do you like the sheriff?”

Alasdair smiled. “He taught me how to piss off of the curtain wall and not splatter my hose and boots.” Solemnly, he added, “’Tis manly business.”

Drummond felt a stab of jealousy toward a sheriff he’d never met and the time the man had spent with Alasdair. The future, however, belonged to Drummond. “Who else teaches you manly things?”

“Brother Julian and Sween, the huntsman. And Bertie takes me fishing.”

Drummond would come to know all of those men, and henceforth he would dictate Alasdair’s studies. “I saw Evelyn scaling the trout you caught today.”

His lip curled in distaste. “If she leaves the heads on, I’m not eating any.”

The lad was as strong willed as his mother. Drummond scratched his nose to hide a smile. “Why have you not learned to clean your own fish?”

He looked absolutely insulted, his mouth pursed, one eyebrow cocked. “A man provides the meal,” he said sagely. “The women prepare it.”

“Who told you that?”

“Sheriff Hay.”

Again, Drummond felt the sting of envy. “What if the women are ill or too busy with other things?”

“Mother is never ill, and everyone always hurries to do her bidding.”

Just as she would rush to do as Drummond commanded her.

“Look!” Alasdair pointed behind them. “’Tis her.”

Tightening his hold on the lad, Drummond twisted in the saddle. A single rider raced toward them, leaving a trail of dust in the road. Drummond commanded the elephant to halt, then waited.

She rode astride a lathered gelding, her fingers clutching the animal’s mane. She’d lost her coif and her combs, and her braid had begun to unravel. Moving abreast of Longfellow, she managed to stop the horse. Although her chest heaved from the breakneck ride, she calmly said, “Alasdair, come down from there.”

Alasdair turned around, his back again to Drummond. “Nay.”

Worry made her anxious, and the horse sensed her mood, sidestepping and tossing its tail. She seemed oblivious to her mount’s distress. “Put him down, Drummond.”

The command snapped the last thread of Drummond’s frayed patience. Being sassed by an ill-mannered child was one thing, taking orders from a woman was something else. “Nay. I promised him a ride to the burn.”

Having his position defended made Alasdair bold; he folded his arms across his chest and stared at Longfellow’s flapping ears. “We’re on manly business, Mother.”

Strands of golden hair whipped about her face, but she paid no attention. Her skirt rode high on her leg, exposing her knee, but she didn’t seem to care. Her anxious gaze flitted from her son to her husband. Beyond her distress, Drummond sensed fear. But of what? Did she think he couldn’t protect the lad?

“No harm will come to this insolent child,” he said. “At least no accident will befall him.”

“If you give him to me, you will not be troubled with his safety or his headstrong nature.”

“Headstrong?” Drummond laughed. “You have a gift for understatement.”

Through gritted teeth, she said, “And you have none at all. Give me my son.”

My son,
as in
my tenants, my keep,
and
my land.
The possessiveness of it fueled his anger. If she wanted a battle of wills he would gladly oblige her, for Drummond had no intention of losing. With a sturdy stick, he lightly tapped the elephant’s withers. Longfellow started forward again. “We’ll return before dark.”

“Wait!” The stiffness went out of her, and she gave Drummond the most insincere smile he’d ever seen. “Since neither of you will come down, it must be because you’re having fun.” She slid off the horse. There was no saddle. “So, I’m coming up.”

“Hurrah!” Alasdair patted a spot on the carpet in front of him. “Sit here, Mother. You can see all the way to Loch Linton.”

As Drummond watched her horse canter back toward the keep, he wondered where she’d learned to ride so well and so daringly. He also toyed with the notion of reprimanding her for it. But Alasdair was tugging on his shirt and demanding that they stop and help her up.

Resigned, Drummond halted the elephant, then released the rope ladder and watched her climb aboard. Longfellow swung his massive head toward her and sent his trunk to take a whiff. As Drummond expected, the beast returned to his favorite pastime: eating grass.

When she reached the top, Drummond grasped her waist and put her across his lap. She squirmed in a way that melted his anger and hardened his loins. He held her tighter.

“What are you doing?” she protested, clutching his arm.

Her hair caught the wind, and the loose strands felt like silk against Drummond’s face. The pleasing fragrance of heather wafted around him. He had to clear his throat to speak. “You’ll block Alasdair’s view, so I’m putting you between us.”

She surveyed the carpet. The handles were out of her reach. “What will I hold on to?”

Drummond returned the fake smile she’d given him moments before. “Me.”

“I’d rather sit there—between your legs.”

His smile turned genuine and his mind made a lusty picture of her words. “Be my guest. You can even bounce up and down if you like.”

She sent him a confused frown before moving off his lap and situating herself between his knees. He considered pulling her back and wedging her pretty bottom against his manliness, but decided against tormenting himself. Instead, he stared at her wind tossed hair and wondered what she would say if he offered to tidy it.

When Longfellow started down the road again, she said, “Where did you get the elephant?”

“He got it from the king,” said Alasdair. “Longfellow took a liking to Father, and when he left Londontown Longfellow missed him so much he butted down the gates. The king made Father come back and fetch Longfellow. Now he’s our elephant.”

Drummond leaned forward and softly said, “Why have you never taught him to respect the conversation of adults?”

Alasdair chirped, “But I know the answer. You told me before we even got on him.”

“I do not remember anyone addressing a question to you.” Lowering his voice, Drummond said, “’Tis rude and presumptuous to let him believe that he can interrupt at will.”

Her backbone stiffened. “He’s just a lad, and he loves you well.”

She spoke casually, as if it were natural for a son to love a father.

Alasdair murmured, “It’s very rude to whisper, even I know that.”

For the remainder of the short ride, Alasdair chatted constantly, but only once did he try to stand. “Get you down, Alasdair Macqueen,” his mother scolded. “Or you’ll be old and toothless before another dish of custard passes your lips.”

The threat worked until they reached the burn. Alasdair stood and scrambled down the ladder. Longfellow plunged his trunk into the water and began to drink. Drummond descended and helped Clare to the ground. Then he removed the saddle and carpet and put them beneath a rowan tree.

A moment later Longfellow siphoned water into his snout, arched it over his head, and doused his back with water.

“What’s he doing?” asked a wide-eyed Alasdair.

Longfellow was making so much noise, Drummond had to yell. “He’s giving himself a bath.”

“I want to go swimming,” Alasdair declared.

His mother examined her fingernails. “I could be persuaded to let you go swimming if you could be persuaded to study Latin for an extra hour.”

His eyes snapping with intelligence, Alasdair paced before her. “For how many days?”

So that was where Alasdair had learned his bargaining skills. An interesting aspect for a female, thought Drummond.

“For two days,” she said.

“Done.” Alasdair tore off his jerkin and shirt and pulled down his hose. Kicking off his boots, he left his clothes where they lay and walked into the stream. Above the waist his skin was brown; below, his thin legs and buttocks were as white as a goose’s belly.

His mother gathered his garments. “Stay close to the bank, Alasdair, and come out before you turn blue.”

Drummond couldn’t resist saying, “Shall we join him?”

She glanced at him. The wind stirred her hair, and the dappled sunlight made of it a nimbus of gold. “You may if you like, Drummond, but I prefer to watch today.”

He wondered what she’d do if he tossed her in. Probably bluster and curse him to hell. But now that Alasdair was out of earshot, Drummond had other matters to discuss. “You thought I was taking Alasdair for more than a short ride.”