Chieftain (8 page)

I am not an animal.

As if he’d drunk too much ale the night before, Drummond felt weak, his stomach sour, his head spinning with regrets. Exhaustion added to his misery, for he’d sat on the floor in the entryway and stared at the torches until the flames had burned themselves out. Then he’d made his way here, to the solar.

He hadn’t tried to sleep, knew he couldn’t, not indoors. Every night since his release, he’d slept in the open. In Dunstable he’d purchased a fast horse and kept the stallion at the ready. He half expected the king’s men-at-arms to overtake him, bringing word that Edward II had rescinded the order of clemency.

Dwelling on the prospect that he might be returned to prison was merely a diversion, for Drummond knew what had caused his current distress: her accusation and the painful memories it spawned.

To deflect his thoughts, he again studied his surroundings. In the rosy light of dawn, the sparsely furnished solar appeared functional, and not what he had envisioned. No musical instruments graced the room, no trinkets and games. This was a working room.

The ledgers were neatly kept, the figures correctly totaled. Frugality had enabled Clare to earn a profit after her third year at Fairhope. Last fall she had commissioned a new chapel and still managed to post a handsome surplus, part of which she sent to her overlord. She hadn’t, as Drummond expected, squandered money on padded furniture and costly gowns. The quills were plain, the ink of common making; she’d even abandoned the looping style of fashioning her letters. The only extravagance in this room and throughout the tower was the glass.

The east facing windows served as a portal for the morning sun and offered a clear view of the main gate. Moments before, the huntsmen had returned, an impressive roe buck slung over the withers of the leader’s horse; braces of squirrels and partridges adorned the other mounts. A messenger had rushed into the castle, and even now, the servants were stirring, carrying water and clanging pots.

Would his wife arise soon? Would she come here?

Last night when he’d first kissed her, she had been yielding, as she had years before, but this time he’d noticed a curiosity and a willingness to participate and explore. That had surprised him more than his own loss of control. She had been the last woman he’d possessed prior to his capture, and in spite of what had occurred last night, or perhaps because of it, the thought of seeing her again awakened his morning lust.

He had been eager, but his actions had not been beastly, not in the way she meant. A man should desire his wife, and Drummond’s action had nothing to do with animalistic behavior. He’d never before been blinded by his desire for her; Clare had accepted her wifely duty, but she had never before encouraged him.

She thought and acted differently now. Her shallowness was gone, replaced by intelligence. Selfishness had matured to strength of character, and wifely obligations had ripened into feminine need. Why, then, had she rejected him?

Because he’d mauled her.

Nay. Never. He closed the ledger and pounded his fist on the wooden binding. He had not hurt her. He’d frightened her, but how? She knew well his passions, had suffered them in their marriage bed—except during the daylight hours or upon waking. She had always declined his lovemaking first thing in the morning. But Clare had never liked rising early.

And what of her refusal to bear him more children? That affront wounded him to his soul. She had enjoyed her pregnancy; her skin had glowed with impending motherhood, and she often cajoled him into fetching her tarts and cheeses in the middle of the night.

He didn’t seem to know her anymore. It was almost as if another woman had stepped into her body. That absurdity made him smile, but his humor was short-lived.

Had he changed as much to her? Probably, but she’d made him a cuckold and never expressed regret. She’d passed herself off as his widow and never bothered to confirm his death. She’d left him to rot in the Tower of London.

He picked up a yellowed parchment, the royal writ signed seven years ago by Edward I, granting her this property. The writ also prohibited her and Alasdair any congress with his kin. That order rankled, for it had served no great purpose. Drummond’s younger brother had not yielded to the old king, but had been waiting to face him in battle when Edward had died while bringing yet another army northward.

The damage done by Edward I’s writ involved a simple sadness, a family tragedy. He’d separated a man from his son and a lad from his culture.

Now Drummond must right the wrongs of a dead king without angering the living one. Teaching Alasdair about his heritage should prove easy, for the lad was still young enough to mold. Stepping back into the role of husband afforded a greater challenge, for Drummond’s wife wanted nothing to do with him. He must change that.

But sometime later, when she entered the room and halted just inside the doorway, Drummond could only stare.

She wore an underdress of crisp, white linen; the high, rounded neckline and the edges of the long sleeves were embellished with tiny embroidered leaves. The rust-colored bliaud turned her eyes a tawny brown and accented the golden hues in her hair, which she’d wound into a simple coil at the nape of her neck. She looked slender and youthful, and as distant as the moon.

“Good morrow,” he said, rising.

She crossed to the desk, her gaze scouring the papers he’d been examining. “What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t sleep, and—” Incensed that guilt would induce him to explain himself, he resumed his seat. “I like this room, Clare.”

She picked up the ledgers and the royal writ. “I hope you haven’t smudged the ink on my papers.”

He noticed that her hands shook, and he relaxed a little, for she was obviously as uncomfortable as he.
“Our papers.”

“You’re correct, of course.” She slipped the official document into the top ledger and returned the stack to the wall shelf. Then she headed for the door.

“Wait I want to talk with you.”

Halting, she placed a hand on the door frame. “How delightful.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.”

“Pray tell what does, husband mine?”

Husband mine? She made being married to him sound like a cross to bear. “Common courtesy would be a helpful start.”

“Common?” She turned to face him. “A quaint word, and precisely the way I feel, after…”

“After I tried to exercise my husbandly rights?”

She looked bewildered, her lips slightly parted, her eyebrows arched in confusion. “If you expect me to be grateful, you are mistaken. You promised to honor me in word, deed, and prayer. By your signed oath, you obligated all of Clan Macqueen to do the same.”

When had she begun reading Highland law? And had she always been so appealing in the light of morning? Disgruntled at his lovestruck observance, he stood his ground. “You also made promises in your trothplight. You agreed to obey me.”

Her confident smile portended disaster. “I do not recall receiving an order from you last night.”

Cleverness had never been among her attributes; as his bride she’d been better at pouting to get her way. “I do not recall your being so direct.”

Her dainty nostrils flared. “Then your memory is faulty on that point, too.”

“My memory is fine!”

Her chin went up, and the glare in her eyes promised retribution, but her voice was honey-sweet when she said, “You’re correct, of course.”

“Stop being so compliant.”

“Compliant,” she repeated, as if contemplating the meaning of the word. “Am I to take it that you no longer wish for an obedient wife?”

“Blast you for a quick-witted wench. But know this, dear wife, twisting my words will gain you nothing.”

“Then hurrah for me, because
nothing
is exactly what I want from you.” She snatched up her basket and started to walk away.

“Come back here.”

As indifferent as an Englishman on Hogmanay, she sent him a blank stare. “Yes, my lord. Have you a command for me?”

Peevishness overwhelmed him. “Aye. Sit down.”

She surveyed the room. “On what? You’ve taken the only seat.”

The room was devoid of benches or stools, save the one he occupied, and he’d be damned for a heretic before he’d admit his error. “Then stand. I want to talk to you.”

She waved her hand. “Talk away.”

Feeling like a tongue-tied fool, Drummond didn’t know where to begin, so he started with a truth. “You’re different, Clare. What has happened to change you so?”

“I haven’t the faintest notion of what you are referring to.”

He found himself grumbling, “Last night.”

“Last night.” She toyed with the words. “Would that be before or after you tried to rape me?”

“That’s absurd. A man cannot rape his wife.”

“He most certainly can—if she is unwilling.”

“You were willing, Clare. Why else would you fondle me and kiss me with your tongue.”

She knotted her fists. “I did not fondle you, Drummond Macqueen. And you enticed me to kiss you in that … that fashion.”

“Entice.
A most interesting word, and completely fitting.”

She stared at the empty coal bucket. “Perhaps in your twisted vocabulary.”

“Twisted?”

“Yes. You enticed me. I enticed you. The event proved a terrible disaster. And it confirmed what I have always known.”

“Which is?” he growled.

“That you prefer Scottish women over me.”

His manly pride screamed for retribution. “You once applauded my powers of seduction and praised my experience.”

“Me and half the women in the Highlands. Do you deny having mistresses?”

“You begrudge me a mistress, after all these years?”

Deadly serious, she pointed a finger at him. “You begrudged me.”

There it was, her admission of guilt. But somehow she’d managed to put the onus on him. He intended to give it back. “My taking a mistress is not the same thing as your taking a lover. A woman must be faithful.”

“And what must a husband be?”

“He must be a good provider and protector of his family.”

Cool disdain gave her a queenly air. “As in providing a keep, such as Fairhope Tower? As in protecting
my
son from those who would do him harm? As in planning for his future and assuring the well-being of all of the people in
my
care?”

Drummond felt cornered and wondered how he’d lost control of the conversation. But more, how had she become so bloody capable and so demanding? “We were discussing the manner in which you kissed me last night.”

She opened her mouth to voice an angry protest, but paused. Then she calmed herself, folded her hands and bowed her head. “You’re correct, my lord.”

Witnessing her exercise such self-control when he possessed so little made Drummond want to scream. “Will you cease saying that!”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Look, wench.” He rounded the desk and stood before her. “You enjoyed kissing me. Do not deny it.”

Without the slightest flinch, she declared, “From the bottom of my wench’s heart, I do deny it.”

As the Lord lived, she wanted to anger him. But why, for it only drove a wedge between them. He almost slapped his forehead; she wanted them at odds. “Lying is the second poorest of wifely practices.”

“Then I shall strive to practice harder, for I’ve had little practice at being a wife.”

He caught a whiff of heather. Like water on a fire, the pleasing fragrance doused his ire. He considered telling her why he’d lost control last night, but realized he didn’t trust her enough to completely bare his soul. He did owe her an explanation; she’d spoken the truth about the short time they’d lived together as man and wife. Flattery had always succeeded with Clare.

He took her hand and found her skin cold to the touch. “Seven years is a very long time to be deprived of your considerable charms, Clare.”

She blinked slowly. “Save your blandations, Drummond. You cannot condemn me for a faithless wife and in the same breath expect me to believe that you want me.”

To make his point, he leaned back and examined her from head to foot. “Any man would want you.”

She radiated confidence. “But you aren’t just any man, are you?”

“Nay. I am the husband who must forgive you.”

“Or else what?”

He hadn’t considered more than one alternative, hadn’t thought their quarrel would degenerate this far. Yet he couldn’t voice the option that would force her to do his bidding; threatening to take Alasdair from her was his last option and his inherent right. Besides, he wanted her willing and penitent.

She yanked back the sleeve of her bliaud. “Or else you’ll bruise me?”

A mark the size of his thumb colored her wrist. So that was the reason behind her anger. Although he felt guilty, he also felt driven to say, “That doesn’t hurt, and you know I did not do it on purpose.”

“Not all wounds are of the flesh, Drummond. Words can be as painful as blows. They linger, too.”

She’d also become a deep thinker, in his absence. In response, he lifted her wrist to his lips and kissed the mark. “I never meant to harm you. I’m sorry, Clare.”

In a quiet voice, thick with hesitance, she said, “Will you swear never to do it again?”

He had begun the conversation hoping to exact an apology from her, but that was before he realized how deeply she’d been affected by his loss of control and how much she resented wanting him. “Aye,” he said. “You have my word.”

She sighed with such profound relief, he grew puzzled anew. More so when she said, “Now that that’s settled, I’m sure you’ll want to bathe and change your clothes.”

“Do I smell?”

As if their quarrel had not occurred, she gave him a playful grin, then sniffed and pretended to cough. “Not if you intend to revel with the huntsmen. They’ve been in the woods for days. You should make good companions.”

He had other plans for the morning, but he doubted she would approve of him taking Alasdair to the blacksmith and commissioning the lad’s battle gear. He did need a bath, though.

“Will you perform the office of chatelaine and bathe me, Clare?”