Chieftain (6 page)

She tossed the lad’s hose over her shoulder and began folding his shirt. “I didn’t know what to think when I saw you so far down the road.”

“And if I had exercised my right as his father and taken him anywhere I chose?”

Matter-of-factly, she said, “After an hour or so, you would have begged me to take him back.” When Drummond sent her a look of disbelief, she added, “He’s never been away from home before.”

That probably explained his stubborn nature. “Never?”

“Not without me.”

“You’ve coddled him.”

Clutching the clothing to her breast, she sat on a boulder and watched the lad frolic in the waist deep water. He flapped his arms and turned in a circle. “Perhaps so, but I had no instructions in the rearing of children. I was taught—”

“To obey your husband.”

She sent him a sideways glance. “Yes, and other gentler duties.”

“Like riding a horse without benefit of saddle and bridle?”

“No. I wasn’t taught that at the abbey.”

“I forbid you to do it again.”

To his surprise she rubbed her hip and gave him a crooked grin. “You needn’t spare a worry over that, my lord. I expect I’ll suffer the consequences for days.”

Congeniality had always come natural to Clare, but when flavored with sincerity, it became an especially appealing quality. Drummond was drawn to it, and he wanted to reply in kind, but he couldn’t quite let himself.

She hesitated another heartbeat, her expression open, and for the moment, trusting. Then she turned back to their son, and her eyes softened with motherly love.

The breeze turned cool on Drummond’s cheek. Like a window thrown open briefly, the opportunity to befriend her had passed. Perhaps it was just as well, but he couldn’t help feeling as if something precious had slipped from his grasp.

“What shall we feed Longfellow?” she said into the silence.

Drummond moved to stand behind her. “The grass in the outer bailey should satisfy him for a week or so.”

Her laughter rang hollow and insincere. “That’s far enough, Alasdair,” she called out.

Only the lad’s neck and head were visible. He bobbed up and down, the movement carrying him deeper into the stream. She called to him again and began rubbing her hands together. “Alasdair!”

“Come in and get me.” He waved his arms. “I’m drowned, Mother. I’m as drowned as a rat.”

“I’m not coming in after you.”

The lad giggled. “I’m never coming out,” he singsonged. “I’m never coming out.”

Her mouth twitched with laughter. “Then you’d better grow fins and call yourself Alasdair MacTrout.”

He floated onto his back and beat the surface with his hands. “You’d better rescue me.”

“No.” She glanced at Drummond. “Not today.”

“Do you swim?” he asked.

Keeping a close watch on her son, she pulled her hair free and started to replait it. “Well enough to keep afloat and indulge my son.”

Drummond let the sarcastic remark pass; the lure of her golden mane proved too tempting. He pushed her hands away. “Let me do that.” When she tensed, he added, “While you tell me why you made up stories about me.”

A sigh lifted her shoulders. “In the beginning they were for Alasdair, to lull him to sleep … and to feel pride in himself and you. You weren’t here, and he was always asking questions about you. ’Tis natural for a son to be curious about his father.”

Her thoughtfulness gave Drummond pause, and he had another reason to regret that she had been unfaithful to him; her exile from the Highlands had deprived Alasdair of the company of his kin. “You could have simply told him the truth.”

“He’s too young to understand the strife between England and Scotland. I meant to tell him when he was older, but at the time he needed someone to look up to.”

“A flesh and blood man cannot live up to those tales, Clare.”

She chuckled. “I think you’ll find that slaying dragons is easier than being a good parent.”

“A good parent. The term seems peculiar. In my experience, women bear sons, fathers and uncles raise them. But guardians never accept responsibility for a disappointing charge.”

“Yet you are quick to say that I have coddled, spoiled, and indulged Alasdair.”

“You have.”

“And you have two ways of looking at the issue, both of which conveniently support your position.”

“Which is?”

“Whatever you do is correct, or ’tis not your fault. By omission or absence, you contributed to his growth or lack of it.”

A valid argument, he was forced to admit. But not to her of course. He finished braiding her hair. “What reason did you give Alasdair for my absence?”

“I simply told him you had gone to heaven to be with God.”

“Rather than telling him I was imprisoned for treason against the English.”

“Yes. As I said before, he’s too young to understand politics. It was better that he thought you had gone to heaven.”

Only Clare Macqueen would liken prison to paradise. “If you thought I was dead, why did you not find another husband?”

A butterfly landed on her head. She spoke quietly. “I was a dreadful wife, even you said as much. Why would I wed again?”

“Perhaps ’tis because you knew I lived.”

She turned so quickly she almost tumbled from the rock. The butterfly flitted away. “I knew nothing about you.”

Again he glimpsed her sincerity, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Alasdair easing into the center of the stream.

“I’ll get Alasdair out of the water.” He turned to Longfellow and said, “The king’s a pox ridden maggot.”

As expected, Longfellow threw up his trunk and trumpeted loud enough to make ears ring. Alasdair squealed and made a hasty retreat from the water. His mother pulled off her mantle and held it out for him. Arms pinned to his sides, his knees knocking, his little penis shriveled to a nub, he let her wrap him in the faded red wool.

“That’ll teach you to mind me,” she said, rubbing him dry.

His eyes looked inordinately large and wary, and the sun had turned his nose and cheeks bright red. “Longfellow gave me a fright.”

“He was obeying your father’s strange command.”

Alasdair’s fear melted, and he gave Drummond a gamin grin. “Longfellow behaves better than me, does he not?”

So direct and honest a question smacked of his mother’s influence. This time, Drummond jumped at the chance to reply. “Aye, but he’s much older and reaps no pleasure in taunting his betters.”

Alasdair glanced up at his mother. “If I had a little brother I’d be his betters, would I not?”

She spent a long moment studying the lad. She looked young enough to be his sister and innocent enough to be a bride. “You would have to look out for a sibling and share your treasures.”

Alasdair cast an inquisitive gaze to Drummond. “Father, would I truly have to share my toys?”

“Not if you had a sister.”

The lad beamed. “Then I’d like a sister. Will you get me one?”

“Aye,” Drummond said.

“Nay,” said his wife.

Her quick refusal made Drummond rethink his strategy. He needed no plan to bed his wife; she had no choice in the matter. Why then was she so determined to deny him? He suspected she was hiding something, and he knew just the way to learn her secrets.

She might naysay the sister, but she’d have no more control over the sex of the children Drummond intended to get on her than she would have over his intentions. He’d bed her, and she’d welcome him with open arms. He knew Clare better than she knew herself.

The perfectly cooked fish tasted like vellum in Johanna’s mouth, but she’d eat every last morsel before she’d reveal her discomfort. The ale was fresh and the goblets kept ever-brimming by a diligent Evelyn, who circled the table like a hungry hawk at twilight. The maid seemed fascinated by Drummond Macqueen, as did most everyone at the table.

Determination pushed Johanna to act as if her world were a dream come true, rather than an unfolding nightmare. She must keep her composure and pretend that life was proceeding as it should.

Seated to the right of Drummond and across from Alasdair and Brother Julian, she listened intently to the conversation that centered around politics but occasionally strayed to local events.

Garbed in a plain robe woven from the wool of black sheep, the bearded cleric couldn’t say often or effusively enough that in returning Drummond to his family, God had answered his prayers. He’d spent so much time talking he didn’t notice that Alasdair had eaten most of the fish from their trencher.

Bertie, who sat to her right, had been silent throughout the meal, but with encouraging smiles and an occasional wink, he lent her his support and his understanding.

She no longer worried that Drummond might take Alasdair away; now she agonized over what Drummond expected of her. The closer bedtime came, the more troubled she grew.

Drummond appeared comfortable at the head of the table, looked as if he’d been born to command more than the attention of the small group in attendance. He confirmed what Clare had said: Had the king of England not interfered with his destiny, Drummond would have ruled all of the Highlands.

The fanciful notion spurred Johanna’s own fantasy, and she took a moment to ponder how differently this day might have unfolded. She could have been his faithful wife, who had pined in his absence; he could have been her devoted husband, who had been unjustly imprisoned. Their reunion would have been a cause for celebration, rife with loving glances, tightly held hands, and even a stolen kiss or two.

Drummond would be wearing a fine surcoat that she had stitched and embellished with fancy embroidery. She’d hold the office of his personal barber and trim his shoulder length hair. He would give her a winsome smile, and she would live to do as he bade her. Side by side they would rule their kingdom, spreading love and peace to all who abided here.

Was this uncomfortable evening the start of her penance for the sin of coveting her sister’s life? Regrets turned to melancholy, and Johanna staved off a wave of self-pity. She would take each day as it came. The nights, however, struck fear in her heart. He would expect intimacy; why else had he promised Alasdair a sibling? The irony of the situation struck Johanna as oddly funny, for her education as a woman was progressing backwardly; she knew how to raise children, but was ignorant in the begetting of them.

She must stall as long as possible, and when that failed she would simply brazen her way out.

“What if the angels want you back, Father?”

Alasdair’s latest question drew her attention.

“I’ll simply tell them I’m needed here,” Drummond answered.

Around a bite of carrot, Alasdair said, “Aye, you have to get me a sister.”

Johanna grew stock still. She could feel Drummond watching her, waiting for her reaction. Bertie shifted on the bench, causing it to rock. Evelyn let out a lovestruck sigh. Brother Julian pasted on a benevolent smile.

“Aren’t you?” Alasdair wheedled, looking from her to Drummond. “You promised me a sister.”

Praying her hand didn’t shake, Johanna reached for her goblet. “Alasdair, ’tis not suitable conversation for the table.”

Drummond winked at his son, then sent her a knowing grin. “Your mother is correct. She and I will discuss the matter privately.”

A contented Alasdair picked at his trencher. “Father, who’s guarding the gates of heaven?”

Hoping to make Drummond as uncomfortable as she was at the moment, Johanna grinned. “Who indeed, Drummond?”

He ran a finger along the high neckline of his shirt, gave her a disgruntled glance, then cleared his throat. She wondered if he would go along with the excuse she’d given for his absence, or would he explain to his son that he’d been imprisoned for the last seven years? Had Johanna not been so troubled about her own situation, she might have pitied him.

Looking like a disarmed warrior who’d fallen to his enemy, he groped for an answer. At length, he said, “Are you worried that devils might get in?”

A vigorous nod pitched Alasdair’s hair into his eyes. “Brother Julian says the devils are everywhere. They make mischief—even in young lads.”

Relieved laughter rumbled in Drummond’s chest. “Like yourself?”

“Well…” Alasdair raked his hair off his forehead and gave Johanna his sweetest smile. “I’m not evil, only headstrong and sometimes troublesome.”

His father asked, “How does one punish a headstrong and troublesome lad?”

As crestfallen as the day his first puppy had died, Alasdair stared at his meal. “He doesn’t get any custard.”

Drummond’s handsome features softened, and in the dim candlelight he appeared younger than his years. Seeing him thusly, Johanna couldn’t resist asking, “Did your father make you forgo custards when you were wicked?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “In his own fashion. Who is your overlord?”

She wondered at the change in topic, but didn’t dare question him. “James Douglas the Red. His lands lie to the north in Dumfries proper.”

“He has a reputation for yielding to the English. How many soldiers do we furnish him?”

She expected him to find fault with her, he had ample reason to condemn his wife. But she had not anticipated his antagonism toward a fellow lord. Defense of her neighbor came easily. “I send him no men-at-arms. Thanks to his leadership, we are at peace.”

Brother Julian put down his napkin. “It has not always been so, my lord.”

“There was bloody war everyday,” declared Alasdair. “Women cried and children went hungry. Foolish men got their heads stuck on pikes. Why did you not come and help them?”

Johanna’s stomach roiled. “Alasdair, please. Not at the table.”

“What think you of this Douglas?” Drummond asked Alasdair.

The boy waved a carrot to punctuate his words. “He’s a goodly man. He has a passel of daughters and a very fine dirk, with rubies in the handle and a dragon on the blade.”

Sliding a quick glance at Johanna, Drummond said, “You did not give the lad my dirk?”

He was referring to the weapons that Clare had carefully packed away and asked Johanna to keep. She had intended to give them to Alasdair one day. Now she would yield them to Drummond. “Of course not. He’s too young yet.”

Tapping his knife on the table, Drummond seemed to consider his next words. “Have you spoken to this Douglas about fostering Alasdair?”

“Nay. He will not be fostered out.”

“Precisely. I’ll teach him what he needs to know.”

She abhorred violence, had every intention of sparing her son the trials of battle and the hatred the Highland Scots felt for the English. “We’ll discuss it later, my lord.”

Alasdair interrupted with, “Give me a sword, Mother, for I want to rule the people.”

Johanna said, “And you will, but a great lord must do more than wield a sword.”

Drummond’s lips curled in an indulgent smile. He turned to Alasdair. “What must a great lord know?”

“He must know how to make alliances and settle disputes.”

All rapt attention, Drummond put down his knife. “How will you make alliances?”

“That’s easy.” Alasdair put his wrist to his forehead. With too much drama, he said, “I’ll flatter the ladies until they swoon at my feet. A well brought up man never tells a lady she stinks, even if she smells like the privy.” More seriously, he added, “A gentleman must have his principles.”

Humor brightened Drummond’s eyes. “A most admirable practice. How will you settle disputes?”

Alasdair blinked, as if confused. “Just the way Mother does.”

“Tell me.”

He squirmed on the bench and collected his thoughts. “I’ll be fair, and if the Anderson lads again scatter MacHale’s herd of sheep, I’ll command them to gather up the beasts. Then they must rethatch his roof.”

Drummond turned to Johanna. His earlier scrutiny of her paled. The absence of malice or prejudice gave his new examination a probing quality. Clare had sworn that he was a fine judge of character and a leader of men. Johanna hoped he had maintained those qualities, that he’d kept his high moral standards even through years of capture. But how could she know for sure?

His blue eyes shone with sincerity, and she could not turn away. Admiring him came easy, for few men were blessed with so many appealing features. His brows flared gently and his strong jaw framed a mouth softened by sensuality. She thought his lips were made for the shaping of tender words and suspected a horde of women had vied for his attention. Was it possible, she wondered, that a man so physically alluring could also be good to his core? And how, her woman’s heart queried, could she ever learn the answer when circumstances dictated that she avoid the very intimacy that would allow her the means to find out?

Drummond speared a leek with his knife and held it out to her. “Here. You’ve hardly eaten.”

His cajoling tone lured her. Forcing a smile, she took the offered food. “Thank you, my lord. The onions are particularly sweet this year.”

He stared at the blade as if he’d just noticed what food it held. “How nice that in my absence you’ve acquired a taste for leeks.”

Clare had hated leeks. The moment of congeniality fled. Once again, conversing on even the most mundane topics proved a chore, for Johanna felt as if she were walking barefoot through a field of thistles. “You must be mistaken, my lord. I do love leeks.”

She hoped to see his eyes cloud with confusion; they narrowed with challenge. “Seldom have I been mistaken where you are concerned.”

Disappointment threatened. She fought it back and gathered her gumption. “This, then, ’twould seem to be one of those times.”

He leaned closer. “You said you hated leeks, refused to eat them.”

To keep him off guard, she gave him a honey-sweet smile. “You’re correct, of course. I’d forgotten our brief time together.” Using her knife, she raked all of the onions to his end of the trencher. “Satisfied?”

He stopped, his hand between his plate and his mouth. A different sort of intensity glimmered in his eyes, and his gaze fell to her breasts. “Hardly.”

“Why are you talking about leeks?” said Alasdair.

Drummond continued to stare at her. “Why indeed.”

Unaware of the tension between them, Alasdair plunged onward. “Mother, are these different from the leeks you had at Papa’s home?”

Drummond said, “As I recall, your mother found little in the Highlands to like.”

“Oh, nay. You have it wrong, Father. She always says Macqueen Castle was a glorious place. You won all of the jousting tournaments and led the hunt. You always laid the kill at her feet.”

Still watching her, Drummond said, “Did you say that, Clare?”

This time the burr in his voice sounded more pronounced when he said the name Clare. By comparison, Johanna thought her own name bland. But she had never heard it said by a Scotsman. Nor would she ever. That fact confirmed her earlier suspicions about losing her own identity. With so many possibilities to consider, how could she maintain it?

“Did you?” Drummond prompted.

She welcomed the distraction. “I told him he would be proud of his father’s heritage.”

“I see. Even though you had no taste for Scotland or her people?”

Johanna grew weary of the charade. “I’ve changed, Drummond. How often must I remind you of that?” When he continued to stare, she searched for the name of a dish with origins in the Highlands. “As proof, I’ll ask the cook to prepare a haggis.”

He propped his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his palm. Leaning close, he said, “You know very well that I loathe the taste of haggis.”

He’d bathed since their return from the burn, and he now smelled pleasantly of the minty soap she herself had made. That so absurd a thing as his smell would rule her thoughts brought a new fear. She rebelled against it. “Perhaps you will learn to like the dish, just as I have learned to like leeks.”

“I hate haggis, too,” said Alasdair. “If you make me eat it, I’ll vomit on the floor.”

Seeking a respite from her husband’s probing gaze, Johanna looked at Alasdair. He wanted so much to be like his father. She couldn’t fault him for that, but she could stop him from acting peevishly about it. “Then you’ll clean it up.”

His skinny neck stiffened. “Evelyn will clean it up.”

Bertie leaned forward. “A true and gallant knight never vomits in the presence of a lady.”

Like a thirsty sponge, her son absorbed the new bit of wisdom. “If I promise not to retch, will you promise to give me a sister?”

Aghast, Johanna slapped her palm on the table. “Alasdair! Mind your manners.”

“What think you of Fairhope Tower, my lord?” asked Bertie.

Drummond seemed to accept the change in topic, for he shrugged. “’Tis fair enough, but I wonder why we own so few cattle.”

Johanna jumped to her own defense. “We haven’t the fields to support livestock.”

“What of that bottomland near the loch?”

So, he
had
been investigating her estate—the one subject that came easily. “I grow grain there and flax.”

“And with no small success,” Brother Julian put in. “Each spring a merchant comes all the way from Glasgow to buy my lady’s white linen cloth. ’Tis highly prized.”

Drummond emptied his goblet. “Cattle would prove more profitable.”

Johanna waited for Evelyn to pour him more ale. “But it will not support the families who earn their winter livelihood by making flax into cloth.”

“We could do both. Why not halve the land and import a small herd of Spanish beef? Grow your flax if you must, but raise cattle, too.”

How dare he try to alter her well thought out plans? He cared nothing for the people here, their welfare and their self-respect. He should take his modern ideas and foist them off on his beloved Highland kin.