Pride of the Clan (18 page)

Once Tannoch surrendered to oblivion, Garth rode ahead with the captives. A wagon commandeered in Tummel Bridge bore their chieftain the rest of the way to Stirling. They’d finally managed to stem the flow of blood, but the wound went deep.

“’Tis sheer willpower kept him alive till now,” Logan murmured. “But why he had to tempt fate, I’ll ne’er understand. We had them. They knew there was no escape.”

Rheade inhaled deeply. He didn’t understand either why Tannoch had deliberately thrown himself at a mortally wounded man. The wretch had given his last ounce of strength to strike out at the screeching
beannighe
rushing towards him. However, he didn’t have time to ponder Tannoch’s actions further. A bustle of activity at the door drew their attention. To his amazement Queen Joan was suddenly at Tannoch’s bedside, Erskine at her right hand.

He and Logan bowed.

“What tidings?” Queen Joan asked, laying a pale hand on Tannoch’s.

To Rheade’s further surprise, his brother opened his eyes. “Yer Majesty,” he croaked. “Forgive me. I canna get up.”

The queen patted his hand. “No, Tannoch Robertson, I should be bowing to you, and saluting your brothers for capturing my husband’s vile assassin. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. How did you know he was hiding at Loch Bhac?”

Tannoch attempted to wink at Rheade. “’Twas my brother had a vision,” he rasped.

Joan turned her attention to Rheade. “A vision, eh? My Black Knight mentioned something of the sort. I’d like to hear about it. Erskine will arrange an audience.”

My
Black Knight? Rheade bowed in acknowledgement, pondering again the relationship between the Queen and Stewart of Garth.

“Come to me once you’re recovered,” Her Majesty said to Tannoch.

“Aye,” he breathed, closing his eyes.

As she approached the door, the Queen turned back to Rheade. “There remains the matter of what to do with Lady Margaret Ogilvie. I’ve had her brought here.”

Rheade’s spirits lifted. Margaret was in Stirling.

The widowed queen fixed him in her steely gaze. “Walter Stewart planned to declare his grandson King. He confessed it under torture. If she’d wed Robert Stewart, Margaret might have been Queen.”

She flounced away in a flurry of silk skirts and slippered feet before he had a chance to protest Margaret’s innocence. How could she have known of the assassination? Unless Braden told her before she left Oban.

~~~

Rheade fervently hoped Margaret wasn’t in the cells of Stirling. The prospect filled him with dread. Graham and his son were no doubt being tortured there. No woman should be exposed to such horror.

Having been shooed out of the Infirmary by a monk who protested their presence wasn’t aiding Tannoch’s recovery, he and Logan took advantage of the bath set up in their chamber. He was delighted an excellent
raser
had been provided. Once clean shaven, they dressed in the fresh garments left out for them, and made their way to the Great Hall. Rheade hoped Margaret might appear there, since he had no way of knowing where she might be in the large castle.

If she didn’t, he’d go in search of her. He wouldn’t be sure she was safe until he held her body against his, tasted her sweetness, smelled her perfume.

Everyone stood to cheer and applaud when they entered.
 

“I suppose we’re heroes,” Logan quipped, saluting the crowd.

“Aye,” Rheade replied, unable to muster any joy in his heart. “But our capture of Graham may cost Tannoch his life.”

They were ushered to a table near the front of the Hall where they sat down on the wooden bench. “I’m starving,” Logan confessed.

“I’m hungry too,” Rheade admitted. “But I’ve no appetite.”

“Aye,” Logan agreed. “We’ve never gotten along with Tannoch, but the prospect of his death is lying like a lead ball in my gut.”

“Because he’s our brother,” Rheade rasped.

“And our chieftain,” Logan muttered. “Ye understand what his death will mean?”

Rheade definitely understood. The chieftaincy was something he’d never wanted. He’d been content to criticize Tannoch without having any of the responsibilities. He took a swig of spiced wine. As a whole roasted capon was placed before them by a smiling serving woman he decided to reveal the truth. “Tannoch has known about his doubtful parentage since he was twelve. He told me Da believed he was his son, but I think Tannoch doubts he is.”

Logan stared open mouthed. “If only there was some way to be certain.”

Given recent events, Rheade wondered if it mattered. He was about to tell the story of the brooch when he caught sight of the maidservant who’d served Margaret when they’d lodged at the castle before. She was carrying a tray of food. He eyed the tempting capon, but another hunger ate at him. “Later, brother,” he said, sliding off the bench. “Enjoy the food. I’m off to find my lady love.”

~~~

Margaret paced back and forth in what space there was in the tiny chamber, wishing she had the courage to venture down to the Hall. Hannah had advised against it and had gone off to fetch the nightly tray of food. But Margaret was certain Rheade would be in the Hall.

She ached to see him again, to be assured he was safe, to ask after Tannoch, and Logan.

A light tapping at the door startled her. She clenched her fists, annoyed the least thing set her on edge these days. Hannah never knocked. “Come,” she said, then wondered if she’d said it loudly enough.

She took a hesitant step towards the door, hoping against hope it would be Rheade who entered. When his smiling face appeared, she ran to him, her heart bursting with relief.

With one arm he gathered her to his side, while balancing a tray of food in the other hand. “Whoa, let me put this down.”

She clung to him as he set the tray on the bed, unwilling to leave go.

“’Tis a wee cupboard they’ve put ye in,” he teased. “I ne’er woulda found it without Hannah’s help.”

Her joy was so great she couldn’t speak or organise her thoughts. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. He gathered her into his arms and delved his tongue into her mouth. He tasted of spicy wine. His face was warm and soft. Nothing mattered except he was here, with her. When they broke apart she murmured the first thing that popped into her mind as she traced a finger over his chin. “Ye’ve shaved.”

He cupped her bottom and pressed her mons to his arousal. “Aye, and bathed. Do I smell sweet?”

She laughed, inhaling deeply. “Ye smell of Rheade Robertson. ’Tis a wonderful, heady scent that sends my senses whirling.”

“That’s the Castile soap,” he quipped.

“Nay,” she replied. “’Tis the pure smell of a man, plain and simple.” She fingered the sachet still pinned to his plaid. “Ye kept it.”

“Aye,” he rasped, nuzzling her neck and raining kisses the length of her throat. “’Twas my talisman.”

She longed to ask him about the capture of Robert Graham, and her cryptic message, but she was afraid. And there was much to fear—a message from a dead man had turned out to be true. “I doubt I smell as sweet,” she lamented. “Baths are only offered to important guests.”
 

“Ye smell like ye always do. Fresh and pure and all woman,” he said. “And seeing you safe and sound has brought back my appetite. I didna feel much like eating after leaving Tannoch.”

“Ye can share my supper,” she said, edging him the few steps to the bed. “And tell me of yer brother.”

They sat together on the mattress. He broke the heel of black bread in two and offered her a piece, but didn’t bite into his share. “His belly wound is serious. If it festers, he’s a dead man,” he said. “The monks have done what they can. A priest administered the Last Rites and is keeping vigil. It’s in God’s hands.”

It seemed to Margaret that Rheade and Tannoch had no love for each other. She wasn’t certain of his feelings about the possibility of his brother’s death. “’Twill be a great loss for the clan if Tannoch dies,” she whispered.

He stared at her. She was sure she’d said completely the wrong thing, but then he shook his head, took her hand and in one long breath told her of Fion’s revelations, his mother’s kidnapping and rape, his brother’s uncertain parentage, his father’s brooch, his fears about becoming chieftain if Tannoch died.

His words swirled in her head. She was powerless to heal the deep wounds inflicted on his heart. The bread had crumbled into her lap. She brushed the crumbs onto the floor and cupped his face in her hands. “Ye will make a fine chieftain, Rheade, and I will help ye. But Tannoch might not die.”

“Aye, he will,” he replied. “He doesna wish to live. He deliberately put himself in harm’s way during the capture.”

She clasped his hands tightly while he told her of the events at Loch Bhac. “Graham was hiding exactly where ye said he’d be,” he concluded.

She couldn’t meet his gaze. “’Twas Braden revealed it to me,” she said hoarsely.

He lay back on the bed and gathered her into his arms. “Margaret, I’m no a religious man, but I believe ye did have a vision of some sort. Sometimes the Almighty acts in mysterious ways. It seems it was His will Graham be captured, and ye were the vessel He used.”

They lay side by side for long minutes. Margaret deemed it better not to add the details Braden had conveyed about Corryvrechan being a portal to another time. She had no inkling what her brother had meant and Rheade seemed content with the explanation he’d arrived at.

She became aware he was rubbing one leg against the other and seemed uncomfortable. “What ails ye?”

He sat up and pulled his
léine
up to his thighs. His calves were covered in bright red welts. “If only yer dead brother had warned us about the swarms of gnats,” he quipped. “My ankles are worse.”

Her spirits rose. “I’ve a salve for that.”

BECOMING INTIMATE

The cooling salve Margaret lovingly smoothed on Rheade’s calves and ankles quickly calmed the raging itch. But the aroma and her gentle touch had a rousing effect on other parts of his body. “Smells wonderful,” he drawled lazily, gazing up at the rafters, feeling closer to heaven than he had in many a month. “What’s in it?”

“Spikenard,” she whispered. “’Tis the ointment Mary of Magdala used on our Lord. Sister Triduana is likely furious I helped myself to a jar of it. Ye wouldna believe how costly it is.”

“Triduana was one of the nuns at the Priory?” he asked.

“The gardener,” she replied. “She let me use it to ease the sting of the scratches after we’d pruned roses.”

“Ye worked in the garden?” he asked.

“Aye. I liked it. It kept me from going mad.”

He levered up on his elbows. “I didna want to leave ye there, but—”

She pushed him gently. “Hush now, lie back and let the salve do its work.”

She was blushing and must have noticed that the
léine
, shoved right up to his groin, had tented. “The salve has already worked its magic,” he rumbled, nodding to his arousal. “Or mayhap your touch has me as stiff as a rutting bull.”

He gave a mischievous smile, hoping he hadn’t gone too far. Her face was still red, and her eyes had widened, but she hadn’t withdrawn her hand from his leg. “Ye can move yer ministrations a wee bit further up if ye’d like,” he suggested.
 

She smiled coyly and fluttered her eyelashes. This time he was sure she was fully aware of the power of those long lashes. Life with this woman held the promise of sensual delights the like of which he’d never experienced before. Her fingers danced over his skin, then kneaded his thigh muscles, her eyes fixed on his groin. “Would ye like to peek?” he asked in a husky voice he didn’t recognise.

“Aye,” she breathed. “I would. I must confess to seeing my brothers naked on occasion when we were growing up, but I dinna recall anything as big as what ye seem to boast ‘neath yer
léine
.”

He hesitated. God had been generous with his male parts, and his cock had turned to granite. He feared she might be alarmed. But then he chuckled inwardly. Unless he’d misjudged the depth of this woman’s passion, his little Margaret might actually salivate when she set eyes on his shaft. He decided to risk it. He slowly pulled the
léine
to his waist, unveiling his swollen phallus.

At first he feared she might faint. She stopped breathing. Her eyes darkened. He silently cursed that his randiness had probably scarred this innocent for life. He was about to cover his arousal when she asked, “Can I touch ye?”

He held out his hand. She took hold of it, letting out a long slow breath as he guided her hand to his manhood. She curled her fingers around his length. “Yer a bonny man, Rheade. I canna get my fingers around ye.”

He’d an urge to leap to his feet and strut around the wee chamber crowing like a rooster, then plunge his needy shaft into her sheath. “’Tis for ye, Margaret, and much as I’d love to bed ye now, we’ll wait till we’re wed. Ye deserve it, my lovely lass.”

She pouted. “But who knows when we’ll wed?”

He wanted to reassure her it would be soon, but he remembered the bitterness in Queen Joan’s voice. Did the vengeful woman truly believe Margaret had plotted to be Queen?

He needed a boon from the monarch, and perhaps one way to get it was to prove he and Margaret had captured the Stewarts.

“I canna say yet. But we will wed, Margaret Ogilvie. I promise ye.”

The breath hitched in his throat when she smiled, leaned forward, swirled her tongue over the tip of his shaft and kissed him. “Ye taste salty,” she whispered.

“
Crivvens
, Margaret,” he exclaimed, digging his heels into the mattress as desire spiralled up his spine and fanned the flames in his balls, “ye do tempt a man.”

“Ye find me tempting?” she asked with an innocence that touched his heart. This beautiful and unique lass seemed to have no notion of her appeal for a man.

He moved her hand to cup his sac. “Ye are in my soul, Margaret,” he rasped.

An urge to growl seized him when she kissed him again, this time sucking his length into her mouth, fingering his balls with just the right touch. “I loved it when ye put yer mouth on me,” she said, taking a breath and licking her lips. “Do ye like it?”