Chieftain (23 page)

He rubbed her veil between his thumb and forefinger, and his interest lingered there. “In many ways, we are strangers, Clare.”

Suddenly she felt drawn to him. He’d lowered the barrier. She rushed onward. “This stranger loves you, Drummond Macqueen.” Like sunshine, the truth made her glow inside. She put her hand on his thigh. “Shall I say it a dozen times? I love you. I love you. I love—”

“Enough,” he growled.

The muscles beneath her hand rippled, and she moved higher. “Take me to bed, Drummond, and I’ll show you.”

A grin spread across his face. He tipped his head toward the door. “After you.”

Why was he so deliberate? He should be slurring his words.

“Having second thoughts?”

“Of course not.” She scooted to the end of the bench and stood. Her vision wavered, and her head spun. A moment later, the effects of the mead diminished.

“Feeling light-headed?” he asked, working his way toward her.

“A bit.” She took heart, for Drummond had drunk fully three tankards to her one. “Are you?”

“I feel … pleasant,” he said.

Feeling magnanimous, she extended her hand to him. He took it and stood. Towering over her, he offered his arm. She laid her hand on his forearm and noted the warm and steely strength of him. Later she would notice all of him.

They bid farewell to Meg and the alewife and a dead-to-the-world Morgan Fawr, then they stepped into the cool night air. Johanna’s senses sharpened. The quarter moon glowed brighter than she remembered; the frogs croaked in a resonant harmony; and from the depths of the forest, came the distant howl of a wolf. Deep in her breast, Johanna felt the vibrations of the creature’s lonely lament, but solitude was not to be her fate this night.

Another sound, low and unfamiliar drifted to her ears. “What is that noise?” she asked.

They started up the steps to the keep. “’Tis Longfellow. He snores when he’s content.”

With absolute confidence, she said, “So do you.”

He scoffed. “Your memory has deserted you.”

She waited until they’d entered the keep. Turning, she stepped into his arms. “Then refresh my memory.”

His hands lingered at her waist, as if uncertainty ruled him again. Waning yellow lamplight glittered in his blue eyes, turning his irises a darker, richer hue. The shadow of his lashes fanned his cheekbones, softening the manly planes of his face.

She couldn’t resist cupping his jaw. A slight stubble tickled her palm, and the idea of lying naked with him tickled her in places that made her blush.

“What are you thinking?” he said.

“I was thinking that thanks to you, Alasdair will make a handsome man.”

Beneath her hand, the muscles in his cheek relaxed, then worked. “He’s a wizard at finding white heather.”

He reached for the garland and drew it off her head. The veil drifted to the floor.

“Are you a wizard, Drummond?”

He rolled his eyes. “If you’ve forgotten that part, I’ll divorce you where we stand.”

She’d won! Pound the drum and call out the merrymakers. He’d soon love her and make them one. “I seem to remember you liked looking at my hair.”

“Let it down.”

At the low, insistent command, she pulled the precious silver pins from the coil of her braids and let it tumble down her back.

He breathed deeply. “Heather everywhere.”

In places he’d never suspect, she thought wickedly and smiled. Then she took the garland from his hands and placed it on his head.

“Think you to ply me with trinkets, lass?”

She worked her hair free of the plait, then shook her head. Standing on tiptoes, she wound her arms about his neck. “Not trinkets,” she said, and pulled him down for a kiss. “Something much more earthy.”

Indecision lingered in his gaze, which was oddly sharp, as if the mead had had no effect on him. But that was impossible, for no one could drink three mugs and keep his wits. Then his lips brushed hers and she forgot doubts and strong drink and languished in the lazy sensuality that seemed so much a part of him. His mouth toyed with hers, nibbling, skimming gently until finding a fit that suited him.

Inhibitions freed, she kissed him with all the finesse he’d taught her. She felt his hands roam her back, and when her balance wavered, he pulled her into the wall of his chest. His mouth slashed across hers, and his tongue prodded in a slow rhythmic movement that begged for accompaniment. She willingly joined in, tasting the sweet flavor of honey and reveling in the joy of his embrace. Against her breast, his heart beat strong and steady and his arms engulfed her in a cocoon of steely warmth. He was man enough to give her children and a future; was she woman enough to please him and make him forget the past? Pray God and his angels yes, for she wanted a lifetime with this man, here in the nest she’d spent years building.

He pulled back and studied her. “Shall we retire?”

“I’ll help you up the stairs.”

Indignation gave him a kingly air. “Think you I will stumble?”

“I
know
you drank three tankards of mead. You must be tippered.”

“I’m sober enough to put a smile on your face come the morrow.”

But would he remember any of it? Not the miraculous purity of her body. She was certain of that. “But I’m already smiling now.”

“Aye, you are, and ’tis a bonny sight.”

“Shall I frown to spur you on, or will we remain here for everyone to see?” She waved her arm toward the stairs.

“Privacy is your desire?”

“And immediacy my method.”

Laughing, he swung her into his arms and carried her up the stairs to their chamber, his steps sure and his task seemingly effortless.

Light from a brace of scented candles cast wavering shadows on the walls, and the pleasing aroma of heather filled the room. The flame of a single taper illuminated the tapestries that curtained the bed. The bedchamber was modestly furnished, but fine enough to serve a chieftain and his lady.

She looked up at him and saw a man happy with himself and at peace with the world. She understood the feelings completely.

He drew his arm from beneath her knees and let her feet touch the floor, but his other arm held her snugly. She turned and laid her head on his shoulder, her fingers winnowing through his hair. His chest heaved and his arms engulfed her; then his mouth closed over her ear and his tongue did a devil’s dance with her lobe.

Her knees buckled, and desire raced through her veins, spreading excitement and awareness from the tip of her nose to the soles of her feet. When his hands cupped her breasts, she closed her eyes and set her fingers to exploring new parts of him. Just as his thumbs teased her nipples, she discovered the ropy muscles of his neck and the shieldlike shape of his chest. About the time he caressed her bottom and drew her to him, she clutched his lean waist. When he undulated against her, showing her vividly the extent of his arousal, she tunneled beneath his jerkin and spread her palms over the sensually swaying contours of his buttocks.

He groaned and reached for the clasp on her surcoat, his fingers clumsy at the task.

The effects of the mead.

Inspired, Johanna trailed her fingers up to his waist again, then around to the tie of his hose. She encountered him, thick and straining against the fabric.

His mouth moved back to hers. “Hold me.”

Her hand curled around him, and he winced before his features settled into a dreamy smile. Confidence soaring, she caressed him, acquainting herself with the bold length and rigid strength of him.

His breathing grew ragged and he jerked back. “A respite, love.”

Love. She sighed and waited as he unfastened her clothing and peeled it off her shoulders. He paid the scar little mind, seemingly more interested in the sight of her naked breasts, her navel, and her femininity below. When her garments pooled at her ankles, he carried her to the bed. The quilted thickness of his velvet jerkin felt soft against her skin, and when he lowered her to the mattress the linens felt crisp and clean at her back.

Looming above her, he gave her lips a quick smack, lowered his head, and took a nipple into his mouth.

Her back bowed and her hands flew to his head, holding him there, feeling his eagerness as he made a feast of her breasts. Her thoughts grew hazy and her vision blurred, turning the tapestry at the foot of the bed to blotches of green and brown and yellow. Warm, agile fingers trailed over her hip and slid with gentle purpose between her legs, spreading her, then fluttering like butterfly wings over places so sensitive she cried out for more.

“Shush. I forgot to throw the latch.”

Desire hummed in her ears. “I’ll do it.”

“You’ll as soon swim to France as leave this bed now.”

His will spoken, he moved to her other breast where he laved and suckled while his fingers prodded and fondled until her breathing grew labored and her hips rose and fell with the timing of his tender ministrations.

She couldn’t help thinking about the myriad nights she’d lain alone in this bed and dreamed of having a mate to lie here with her. A mate to ease life’s burdens and end her loneliness. A mate to give her children.

A familiar hollow feeling spread through her belly and she yearned to feel him naked against her. “Take off your clothes.”

“Not yet.” He twisted his wrist, wedging her open and sliding a long finger inside her. “Or you’ll have a rabbit buck at you.”

She moaned and curled her fingers in his hair.

“For certain I’ll be a buck at rut the first time,” he lamented.

First time. Her heart soared, for he already knew he would want her again. Then his thumb joined the fray and he caressed her as he had that day in the pantry. With the expertise she remembered, he tended her gently, allowing her passion to soar ever upward, ever increasing her need, until heaven burst inside her, only to give way to an even greater paradise. The sweet release swept her up and sustained her at the crest of mind-numbing pleasure.

Rising from a fog of ecstasy, she opened her eyes and saw him staring down at her, his eyes glowing with banked passion.

“’Tis time to bar the door, Drummond.”

With pointed insistence, he warned, “I’ll tie you to the bed, should you move.”

She stretched her arms over her head and squirmed against the clean linens. “Not even for the promise of eternal life.”

He grinned and levered himself off the bed. As he crossed the room he tore off his jerkin, and when he threw the latch, he pulled off his boots. Turning, he strolled toward her, garbed only in tight hose that drew her eye to his manliness and her thoughts to how he would please her. At the bedside, he stopped and peeled off the hose, revealing a boldness that made her heart flutter and her belly cramp.

“I ache for you,” she said.

“Aye, lass.” He touched himself. “I know the feeling well. Have you room there for me?”

At once he looked masterful and endearingly young. She moved over and held up her arms. He lowered his weight, matching breast to chest, thigh to thigh; then he slid his legs between hers and nudged ever so gently at her innocence.

All eagerness and accommodation, she eased his way and bid him welcome. All insistence and determination, he moved forward, sinking deeper and pulling her hips up to meet him.

Fullness turned to pressure, and she fought to disguise her discomfort.

“God, but you’re slick and ready and as tight as our first time. Relax, lass, and I’ll try to go easy.”

“I cannot Drummond.”

“Then I’ll not argue. Draw up your knees and lift your hips.”

She did and in the next breath, her world went white with pain. On a groan, she clamped her lips shut and waited for the moment to pass. When it did, she was left with the fullness and stillness of him. His chest heaved like a bellows, and against her ear she heard the rasping of his breath.

“Drummond?”

“If you move one muscle, lass, you’ll unman me.”

“Then what shall I do?”

Through clenched teeth, he said, “What you always told me to do when we arrived at this pass—although I swear age has changed the feel of you.”

He rested within her, still vigorously full yet content to linger. And he had yet to notice that she’d been a virgin.

At a complete loss for words and actions, she held him and marveled at the beauty of two bodies twined in mutual passion and contentment. His love would follow, of that she was certain; he wanted her, and she was obviously pleasing him. Given time, he would forgive her and forget the past. Henceforth, they would share this bed and join forces to build a future. They’d share a hundred nights in the company of their friends, and later she would languish in his arms. They would reign over a kingdom of prosperity and love.

“You seem distracted,” he said.

She couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “I thought I was plying you with trinkets.”

“Move that wee trinket of yours now,” he murmured, “and I’ll take us both adventuring.”

With deep rhythmic strokes he took her through a whirlwind of sensual bliss that washed away her inhibitions and flooded her with erotic visions. When the storm built to a tempest, he drew her legs up and over his naked buttocks and sank so deeply into her that she felt him touch her soul. “Yield now, lass,” he rasped, “seek your paradise.”

Her mind a mass of swirling ecstasy, Johanna clutched his shoulders and gave herself up to the pounding exhilarating release.

A virgin.

Drummond stared at the woman sleeping beside him and tried to deny the truth. He could not. He knew a maidenhead when he breached it, and until several hours ago, this angelically beautiful woman, who passed herself off as Clare Macqueen, had been innocent.

Innocent?
A double-edged term. Did she think he would not notice? Yes, and she had plied him with sennight mead to assure her success. For a week, she had been relentless in her seduction: smiling suggestively when she’d come upon him while he labored to repair the postern gate; moving past him closely enough so that her breasts brushed his arm; or requesting his aid to inventory the stores, a task she performed with ease.

Tonight he had suspected another trick and had outsmarted her by asking Meg to weaken his drink with water. Now he knew why she had wanted him besotted with drink. She had thought he wouldn’t notice. A wildly naive and erroneous assumption. The gift of a woman’s innocence was a memorable event even to a rogue.

Who was she? A sister or a cousin to Clare? The resemblance was uncanny; even a husband estranged for seven years would easily mistake her for Clare. But his wife had sworn she had no family; on occasion she had even garnered sympathy for being orphaned at Scarborough Abbey.

Was Clare dead? The possibility saddened him, for the lass had been a pawn in a game of kings. Or had Edward the Second spoken true when he claimed an ongoing affair with her? Was Clare tucked away in some hunting lodge awaiting his divine pleasure? Had she abandoned Alasdair to this capable woman and taken up the life of royal mistress?

Did she cuckold Drummond still?

He should bellow and curse and upturn the furniture. He should toss this woman from his bed. That he did not was as surprising as finding a virgin beneath him had been.

He’d called her whore and worse. The woman beside him had not taken his condemnation to heart, because his words had not wounded her, this woman had not lain with young Edward Plantagenet, not eight years ago, not ever, and not with anyone else. Except Drummond Macqueen.

Had she and Clare cooked up this scheme? Had Edward played a part? Did they think Drummond fool enough to believe their ruse?

Answers to other questions blazed in his mind like signal fires on a dark night. He’d been wandering, lost in a forest of confusion, but enlightenment had found him.

He wanted to examine her at his leisure, learn the reason for every doubt, see the truth behind each of his suspicions. He must look for proof.

The brand.

She had burned herself, not to hide a mark, but to disguise the fact that she had never born the brand. Like vanquishing an irksome enemy, he put that question to rest.

Shifting, he angled his head so he could see her neck. She purred sweetly and nuzzled against him. A loving woman, living a lie.

Like a cool wind on fevered skin, understanding swept over him.

I am not your wife.

No. Before tonight she’d belonged to no man.

This stranger loves you, Drummond Macqueen.

His pride reeled, and he willed his anger to flow. She had conspired with Clare to trick him. When had the unholy pact begun? Surely years ago, for Alasdair called her mother, Bertie addressed her as Lady Friend.

Drummond named her beguiling imposter.

She did not remember the events of her marriage in the Highlands because she hadn’t been there.

Who was she?

I am not the woman you married.

Too agitated to stay abed, Drummond eased off the mattress and pulled on his hose, but his interest stayed fixed on her. His heartbeat quickened, for she looked like a woman well loved and content. Her glorious hair was prettily mussed, and her lips curved upward in a secret smile.

Secret.

He ground his teeth, and from the clothes chest, snatched up his tartan plaid. Drawing it around his shoulders, he slipped from the room and escaped to the battlement. But even in this favored spot, peace eluded him.

She had admitted the truth. On a dozen occasions she had told him she was not Clare.

I am not that woman. I am someone else now.

Who
had
she been? What life had she abandoned to become Clare Macqueen? And why? Upon his arrival, she had called him an imposter. She must have chuckled inside at her own cleverness. Even that revelation failed to stir his anger, for she loved to laugh.

She. What name did she speak in her heart? He must find out, but how? He couldn’t publicly denounce her for an imposter, the brand on her shoulder had been his only proof. No one here would take his word. They’d sooner name him idiot and chain him away in a dungeon.

He looked out over the village and the farms beyond. She had built this prosperous estate out of moorland and forest.

She. A woman who ciphered as well as a cleric. The woman whose penmanship was neat and efficient and unfamiliar. A woman who defended the weak. When her funds had been spent, she had borrowed money from Red Douglas. Not Clare, but the virgin Drummond had deflowered earlier tonight.

Never again would he call her Clare.

Who was she?

The question stabbed deeply.

Bertie knew of her deception. Did anyone else? No, not Alasdair and not even Brother Julian, Drummond wagered. She could not confess the sin of adultery; she had not committed it.

The door to the battlement swung open. “I grew lonely without you.”

In a flowing night rail, she seemed to float toward him. In the faint light she was the image of Clare Macqueen. Yet she was as different from the woman he’d married as rock was to soil. This woman possessed depth of character and a deep sense of loyalty to these people and this land. She was also a liar.

In spite of that, his heart soared, and a confrontation died on his lips. Eventually she would reveal herself. If he gave himself away now, he’d never learn her secrets.

He pulled her into his arms, but not out of affection, he told himself. She could catch a chill. “We are truly one.”

So great was her relief that she sagged against him. “Aye, and a glorious feeling it is.”

Truly? She had lied from the beginning. He saw only folly in believing her now, and advantage was what he sought.

To verify what he already knew, he dreamed up an event to see if she would play along. “Do you remember the afternoon we made love in the loft of my uncle’s stables?”

“If you tell anyone else about that tryst I’ll…”

A skillful evasion, but she’d had much practice at avoiding direct questions. She also wielded cunning as well as a master archer aimed his bow. But Drummond was the master now, and he intended to enjoy the role. “You’ll do what?”

“I’ll tell Alasdair you intend to take him to Londontown.”

Reality intruded. At the heart of the complicated issue of why this woman pretended to be Clare Macqueen was Alasdair. The lad was innocent, and no matter what occurred between Drummond and this woman, Alasdair would always be his son. Their lives would go on.

If the lad thought he was going to Londontown, he’d hound Drummond mercilessly. “You wouldn’t dare tell him that.”

Her arms slid around his waist, and she tucked her head beneath his chin. Tendrils of silky, golden hair caught the wind and furled around him. Heather. It filled his senses with the sweet smell of home and hearth. But Scotland was denied to him, and the woman he’d come to love was a stranger, a clever imposter who’d made him forget the past.

“You could put me to the test,” she said against his neck.

Unwittingly he already had, and he could not remember winning a sweeter prize than her innocence. But to her mind, they were bantering words, not promises, for in spite of her other lies, she was too honorable to use Alasdair as a pawn.

“Very well,” Drummond conceded. “I’ll keep that lover’s mischief a secret.”

She grew still. “Was it as you remember?”

Of their own volition, his arms tightened around her. “Making love to you?”

In the slope of her shoulders and the shallowness of her breathing, she radiated vulnerability. “Yes.”

Women always asked that question, usually in pursuit of a compliment. Not this imposter, she wanted confirmation that her ruse had succeeded.

Suddenly he felt like the chieftain of a well-armed clan facing an enemy without weapons. The day was his. Having the advantage allowed him the luxury of telling the truth. “’Twas better than before.”

“Truly?” She came to life in his arms. “You were pleased?”

She had a way about her, an ability to draw him into conversations that both enlightened and entertained and begged to be recalled and repeated. She had a bonny sense of humor, too. Thinking of that, he said, “Crying out to God is fair testimony, lass. I enjoyed you well.”

“St. Ninian.”

“Pardon?”

She tipped her head back and looked up at him. Moonlight bathed her features, and her eyes twinkled with mischief. “You did not cry out to God, Drummond. I did. You invoked St. Ninian.”

Laughter churned inside him, but he would not allow himself to be cheered by her wit. He failed, and she laughed with him, swaying from side to side, playing the loving wife. Loving liar.

The sensual embrace was pure torture, for his randy body enjoyed a different humor, and even as his desire swelled anew, he fought the urge to take her again, here and now.

She was a deceiving conniver, and he’d given her his heart. Now he must guard her well. “’Tis natural for a Scot to cry out to St. Ninian. Surely you understand, for you are forthright yourself.”

“A timid woman alone often becomes a man’s prey. Now that you’ve come home, I feel safe, and definitely not alone.”

I’m different now.

Indeed; she was now a deflowered imposter.

How much had Clare told her about him? Some things, for she had abided by his wishes and named their home Fairhope.
We verily wore off our fur.
Clare would not have uttered that earthy remark. Neither would she make up tales of his heroism or take his side against the likes of Red Douglas.

“What makes you smile, Drummond?”

“How do you know if I am smiling?”

“Are you?”

She shouldn’t know him so well, not when he knew so little about her. He remembered wondering, after their first meeting, if someone else had inhabited Clare’s body. Now the observation seemed providential in the extreme. Now was also the time to learn how much she knew. “I was thinking about those gardens you wanted. Remember?”

“No,” she said thickly. “I do not recall the gardens.”

Of course she wouldn’t. Clare had wanted manicured lawns; this woman wanted prosperity and a future for Alasdair. Clare had feared water, this woman had taught the lad to swim. She had also taught Drummond to be a good parent.

If she were Clare’s relative, surely she held some affection for her. Where was Clare?

The unknown intricacies robbed him of ire. “My pardon, then.”

“I will not tease Alasdair in your name.”

“I know.”

She had duped the lad as well, but she had also raised him with kindness and taught him respect for others. She loved Alasdair as her own, and he knew no other mother. Drummond remembered the first time he’d taken Alasdair up on Longfellow. Without saddle or second thought, she had ridden after them. She’d been terrified that Drummond would take Alasdair from her. Weeks later, when he had threatened to do that very thing if she did not kiss him in front of Sheriff Hay and Red Douglas, she had played the smitten wife. Out of fear, not affection or desire.

Now she wanted him.

Forget her generosity and her mothering skills, his pride demanded. She was a deceiver. To his dismay, his body ignored character judgments and craved a different kind of gratitude. As if sensing his need, she cuddled closer.

The tether of abstention had been loosed. Why not enjoy her as often as he pleased? She took pleasure in the tender sport, and if hand movements were signals, she wanted him to love her again. If she conceived, he’d provide for the child. What to do with her would be decided later.

What to do with her now held particular appeal.

“Perhaps we made Alasdair happy tonight,” he ventured.

“By making him clean Longfellow’s harness?”

“Nay.” He smiled at her innocence. “He wants a wee sister.”

Her fingers clutched his back. “Do you think I could have conceived? We’ve only—”

Lain together once,
he silently finished her thought. She’d almost given herself away. She would again. He could feel her fear, and he wondered how often she worried that he would see through her charade? Her effort seemed oddly gallant. The trick was to discern when she lied and when she told the truth. Direct questions seemed a good place to start. “Want you more children?”

“Oh, yes, a keepful.”

The truth spilled from her lips and his loins heard. By the saints, he’d been deprived for seven years, and she was as willing as a true wife. Only a fool would deny her.

Only a scoundrel would take her again tonight. Then she moved her hands to the tie of his hose and nestled her cheek against his chest. His loins turned to iron.

“Would you have me love you here?” he croaked, wishing he could trust her reasons, wishing he didn’t enjoy her company so much, wishing he could take back his heart.

“Hum.” After a moment’s contemplation, she said, “No, I’d not have you telling the tale that our firstborn was conceived on a battlement.”

“Firstborn?”

She rushed to say, “I meant our firstborn daughter. Of course.”

A slip of her tongue, but not the last. He would keep at her, and putting a distance between them now seemed a good place to begin. But he couldn’t think logically with her breasts pressed against him and her fingers toying with the tie to his hose. “You must be sore.”

“Why? I’ve told you before, I’m hale and hearty.” Her hands moved lower to caress him intimately. “Motherhood suits me well, and you appear rather attentive to the idea. Yes?”

Desire blurred his vision, and he banished his conscience and lifted her for his kiss. “Aye, I want you, lass.”