by Arnette Lamb
Her heart catapulted into her throat. Did he suspect her for an imposter? No, he couldn’t; under order of the old king, Clare had not told Drummond she had a twin sister. Edward I had been explicit in his wish that no one know of Johanna’s existence, and Sister Margaret had agreed. The irony of the ruse was a balm to Johanna, for she had called him a pretender. “That’s hardly surprising, given your seven-year absence, for I was only fifteen at the start of it.”
“You’ve matured handsomely. And you are different.”
Uncurling her fingers, she let the nuts drop into the bowl. Dampness from her palm had turned the shells noticeably darker than the others. “I’ve changed more than you know.”
An understatement, Drummond thought, as his gaze again strayed to her slender waist and generous breasts. A true bounty of wifely assets, especially to a husband who’d been denied those charms for seven years. “Then I await the opportunity to explore the new Clare.”
Her brown eyes flashed fire. “You’d fare better exploring a hedgehog, my lord.”
By all the sacred relics, she had changed. “What has happened to my malleable bride?”
“Of necessity, she has thrived in your absence.”
She’d been naive and convent bred. Now she trembled with indignation. Drummond relished the challenge of peeling off her armor of self-control and gaining revenge for her sins against him. Most men accepted the role of cuckold, especially if a Plantagenet was the one swiving their wife. Not Drummond Macqueen.
With four brothers and twice that many uncles, he’d had little in his youth to call his own, save a drafty room in a Highland stronghold, his weapons of war, and a finely bred horse. Then, in an effort to forestall England’s conquest of Scotland, he’d taken the virgin Clare to wife.
The voice of reason intruded and reminded him that she’d borne him a healthy son, for no one would doubt the boy’s parentage. She would, by God’s grace, give him others.
A noise interrupted his thoughts. The fat gray pigeon again lighted on the sill, cooed, and snatched up the nut. In a flutter of wings, the bird flew off. Drummond was reminded of the noisy crows that inhabited the Tower.
Dark memories intruded: the constant baitings by English guards; an animal, they’d called him, and a wild creature. Early in his incarceration, he’d begun to believe them. They had flaunted their women before him and once brought him a diseased whore.
“She should be to an animal’s liking,” they had said.
The young and virile Drummond had turned his back on the unfortunate woman. The guards had never brought him another female. At least not a human, and they had never stopped calling him an animal.
He glanced down at his wife and found her studying him. He grew uneasy at her steady, self-assured gaze, felt as if his tongue were tied in knots. Others parts of him, however, reacted in typical, if unwanted, fashion. He pictured his fingers sliding through her silky golden hair. He remembered making love to her and nipping her shoulder at the spot where she bore the mysterious brand. Her compliance in their marriage bed had been any man’s dream. A return to those days seemed appealing in the extreme.
His sudden desire for her made him cross. “Then you will surely thrive under my husbandly guidance.”
“I do not need a husband.”
“Oh, but you do,” he spat. “And a lord and master as well.”
As confident as a queen at court, she did not waver. “I believe you are Drummond Macqueen, but I cannot imagine what you want with me. The housemaid, Evelyn, will show you to your chamber.”
Drummond felt like a troublesome guest, easily dismissed. “What will you do?”
“The same as I always do. I’ll manage my estate.” She turned to go.
He grabbed her arm and spun her around. “Fairhope Tower is our estate. I’ll accompany you.”
Chapter 2
Only through sheer strength of will did Johanna keep her composure as he led her down the curved stairway. With a stone wall on her left and a new husband on her right, she felt trapped. She needed time alone, time to think, time to plan. But how could she manage a spare moment if Drummond insisted on following her like a cat after a milkmaid? He couldn’t possibly come into her life to stay. Could he?
The answer made her stomach grow tight; as her husband he could do as he pleased—with her, with Fairhope Tower, and with Alasdair.
“This keep looks new,” he said, staring at the red stone walls.
Pride in her home eased her worried heart. “’Twas finished about five years ago.”
“The stone is an odd color.”
“’Tis from the quarry near Dumfries. Sweetheart Abbey gets its name from the color of the stone.”
He paused at the second level and peered through the open door into the kitchen. Evelyn sat at a table cleaning a still-wiggling trout and humming a popular lay. At the walk-through hearth, which separated the kitchen from the main hall, the spit boy cranked the handle that turned a haunch of venison over the fire. Bundles of drying herbs hung from the ceiling. Leather and wooden barrels lined the curved walls—all in readiness for the successful return of the huntsmen.
Evelyn looked up and glanced curiously from Johanna to Drummond. “Alasdair and Bertie made a fine catch, my lady,” she said.
“I can see they did. Have the cook prepare it with leeks and butter sauce. I’ll see if the market has fresh berries for a tart.”
The maid seemed absorbed in Drummond’s tartan. “Shall I set another place at table tonight?” she asked coyly.
Before Johanna could reply, Drummond said, “Aye, at the head.”
Evelyn sucked in her breath and her hands flew to her cheeks. “My lord! You’re supposed to be dead and buried.” The fish plopped onto the earthen floor. The spit boy dashed to retrieve it. The lovestruck lad cast a crestfallen gaze toward Johanna.
“I’m very much alive,” Drummond said to everyone in the room. “And I’m fair content to be home.”
As calmly as she could, Johanna said, “Contain yourself, Evelyn, and tell Amauri I said to fetch his lordship’s luggage.”
Taking her arm, Drummond led her back to the circular stairs. “How long have you lived here?”
Although she expected to cause discord, she couldn’t avoid the subject of his incarceration. She couldn’t help lying, either. “When I had recovered from Alasdair’s birth, I came here straightaway and hired a builder.”
“You? You accomplished all of this without counsel?”
Taking control of the situation came as natural to Johanna as bathing. But just now she must pretend to be the Clare he remembered, and Johanna’s twin would have offered an explanation for bold behavior. “After your arrest, my circumstances changed.”
“Who designed the keep?”
Should she hesitate, as Clare would have? Yes. Drummond must believe that time and events had brought about the differences in his wife, but she would have to go slowly to convince him. “Simon de Canterbury.”
Drummond nodded his approval. “He has a good reputation in London. Why did you name it Fairhope?”
At that moment, Johanna felt capable in the role of his wife, for Clare had spoken at length of her brief time as his bride. “Because we discussed it on our wedding night.”
He lifted one brow and gave her a cocky grin. “’Twas the extent of intelligent conversation between us, if memory of the occasion serves.”
As the object of his heated gaze, she grew flustered. “Not so, my lord. We discussed the white heather the maid put in our bed for good luck. We also discussed the children you would give me.”
He chuckled. “’Twas the making of the children that dominated our speech and our actions. Once you grew comfortable with the act, we never left the bed.”
The act? Embarrassment and confusion plagued her, for Clare’s version of the night had differed greatly. She had spoken in romantic terms, told of them worshiping each other and exploring every facet of love. In a dreamy remembrance, she had used words
like cherish and adore. Drummond’s offhanded account tarnished the second happiest event of Clare’s short life. Only Alasdair’s birth had ranked higher.
Why couldn’t Drummond, Johanna thought with sadness, allow himself one loving memory of the past? It was a poor tribute to a woman who had gone to her grave with his name on her lips.
Incensed at his callousness, she hurried down the stairs and through the common room to the main entryway of the keep, where she snatched up her basket and her mantle. “I thought you wanted to accompany me to the village.”
“Oh, I did and still do.” He took the wrap and dropped it over her shoulders. “But your talk of making children distracted me.”
So frustrated at him she thought she might scream, Johanna counted to five, then took a deep breath. “I shan’t distract you again, my lord.”
His gaze moved to her breasts. “I’m sure,” he said, meaning the opposite.
Her first impulse was to challenge him, but Johanna thought better of it; she intended to keep a distance between them.
Hooking her basket in the crook of her elbow, she preceded him out the door. “What would you like to see first?”
You, naked and writhing beneath me, Drummond wanted to say. Instead, he stifled his base urges. Before he took Clare fully to wife again, she would reveal the details of her adulterous affair with the man who was now the king. Then she would beg her husband’s forgiveness. But by all the saints, she was more enticing today, and she belonged to him.
On that gratifying thought, Drummond pulled the door closed behind him and surveyed his surroundings.
Built in the modern concentric design, Fairhope Tower stood on a high mound. At the base of the hill, instead of a moat, a hay-strewn lane ringed the keep. Beyond the now empty thoroughfare and butting up against the thick retaining wall was an assortment of timber post-and-beam houses, still so new they did not sag. Tradesmens’ huts and merchants’ stalls interspersed the residences. The soldiers’ barracks comprised the largest building. It was flanked by a prosperous smithy on one side and the stables on the other.
Outside the ten-foot-thick circular wall, rye and millet prospered in the bailey, even though herds of fat sheep and cattle grazed there. Close by, the elephant, Longfellow, with Drummond’s crusty companion on his back, stood amid a crowd of curious town dwellers and farmers. Farther out still, another wall, thicker than the first and crenelated for defense, circled the whole of the estate.
Impressed, Drummond looked down at his wife and again wondered how she had accomplished so much, for the keep was as fine as any in the Borders and far richer than he had expected. The Clare he remembered couldn’t cipher or plan well enough to manage even the smallest of households. This defensible and flourishing community stood as further testimony that she had changed or had received the guidance of an expert.
Clare, his faithless wife and the mother of his son.
A weight seemed to press in on Drummond at the thought of the lad, his only surviving son. He found himself softening toward the woman beside him.
She had always been lovely, her skin smooth and unblemished, and given to maidenly blushes, her hair thick and shimmering like precious gold. Yet now, her lovely brown eyes surveyed him with caution, and even had she tried, she could not conceal the intelligence there. When and from whom had she acquired it?
His gaze dropped to her lips, and he thought them fuller than he remembered and more prone to an appealing smile than a missish pout. She seemed dignified, self-assured, and passionate. That aspect of her brought a halt to his admiration. She had lain with the man who was now the ruler of the land. What if Edward II intended to keep her for his mistress?
She shifted the basket from one arm to the other. “Must you stare? You make me feel like a sow at market.”
Drummond couldn’t help but laugh. “Any man who likens you to a pig deserves to languish in a sty, and I’d be lying if I said other than you are a pleasure to look upon. ’Twas always so.”
She started down the steep steps. “Thank you for that, my lord. Have you questions about the keep?”
He had dozens, and he had also years to obtain the answers. “What was here before?”
“A thriving crop of bracken, with heather and gorse for color and peat bogs for aroma.”
He chuckled at her lighthearted reply and received a smile. The wordless exchange was oddly satisfying and completely unexpected. “How much land do we hold?”
She glided gracefully down the steps, a gentle breeze lifting her coif and revealing a coil of wheat-colored braids at the nape of her neck. And she smelled of heather, his favorite fragrance.
“I own the land and control the water within one day’s ride in all directions, according to the writ the old king granted to me.”
Me. Her stressed use of the singular verified her new independent nature. He’d break her of that bad habit, too. “How much of it do we farm?”
“I lease it to the tenants. In exchange I reap first fruit of their labor.”
If she wanted a contest of wills over pronouns, he’d gladly oblige. “What do we do with the profits?”
“With last year’s tallage, I built four new houses, from which I now collect rents.” She stopped halfway down the hill and pointed to several of the buildings that he had admired moments before. “I also set aside enough money for liming of the fallow fields. ’Tis proven to enrich the soil.”
Her businesslike account of her stewardship of the land shocked him as much as his own desire for her. Exploring her charms would have to wait; for now he would delve into her mind. “I thought assuming responsibility made you sore at heart.”
Her lips tightened, drawing his attention to her finely angled jaw. He’d like to put his mouth there and taste the flowers of Scotland on her skin.
She stared at the gatehouse. “It once did, but thanks to you, circumstances forced me to overcome my weaknesses.”
She was condemning him for defending his culture and his land against Edward I and leaving her to fend for herself. “Had you not bedded a prince, the Macqueens would have taken you in. You could have lived in safety in the bosom of my clan.”
A shrug rippled her mantle. “I’m happy here.” Picking up the hem of her dress, she hurried down the remainder of the steps.
In the interest of harmony, Drummond dropped the subject of what she should have done. Although he had spent years anguishing over the state of affairs of Clan Macqueen, he had eventually given up hope of returning to the Highlands. A lifetime of loyalty pulled at him, and like dried leaves tossed on hot coals, his yearning for Scotland burst into a fiery need. If she would but admit her infidelity, he would gift her with this demesne, take Alasdair and head north. His family would welcome him. They would also name Alasdair the son of a whore, for they all knew she had given herself to an Englishman.
For years Drummond had hated her for that. “Who helped you?” he snapped.
At his angry tone, she drew back and glared at him. “A league of Roman engineers rose from the dead and bade me let them build this keep,” she snapped back. “I sat upon a tufted silk throne and nibbled pomegranates and figs while they struck up the castle of my dreams.”
A moment after his mind began working again, Drummond choked with laughter. How queer, he thought that she had become so entertaining and distracting.
She crossed the well-tended lane. “I learned many skills at the abbey.”
Did she regret the preposterous outburst? Why? Suddenly he felt driven to know more about her. He thought of the stories she’d told of her childhood. “You learned from Sister Margaret?”
“Some knowledge came from her.”
She obviously didn’t want to discuss it, which was peculiar, because her childhood had been a favorite subject “Then was it one of your friends there? Meridene or the other lass. What was her name? Juliana?”
Seemingly uncertain of their destination, she scanned the row of dwellings against the wall. In a quiet voice, she said,
“’Twas Johanna.”
He sensed a change in her mood, a return to the wariness he’d seen before. “Aye, I remember her now. You always swore that Johanna could outfit and manage an army on crusade.”
In answer, she whispered “she could,” and headed for the butcher’s shop. “The archers will return soon. I’m certain you’d like to meet with the huntsman. He’ll come here first—if they were successful.”
Idle chatter had once been her favorite pastime. Now she seemed worried. Determined to learn the source of her distress, he caught up with her. “Now why would I enjoy the company of those fellows?” She glanced up, and he saw tears in her eyes. “Why are you crying?”
“I’m not crying.” She made a lie of the statement by brushing tears from her cheeks. “’Tis only the harsh light from the sun.”
“And I’m a Venetian moneylender. Tell me why the mention of your friend at the abbey upsets you?”
“Leave off, Drummond. I simply miss the people there.”
“Then invite them to visit.” Unable to resist taunting a reaction out of her, he added, “You have my permission.”
Her eyes blazed indignation and her complexion flushed the same color as her faded red surcoat. “Perhaps I shall.”
If he were clever and careful, he could find out from the townsfolk if any man visited her regularly. “Then we are in accord. And after we see the butcher, you can introduce me to everyone else in the village.”
“Introduce you? You told none but Amauri that you are my … husband?”
He resisted the urge to touch her and vanquish her hesitance. “I saved the pleasure for you.”
She opened her mouth to snap out a retort but changed her mind. Her momentary control disappointed Drummond, for he liked this new, fiery Clare.
“Of course,” she said, as if complying with a mundane request. Then she ducked beneath the flycatcher and disappeared into the butcher’s shop.
Drummond fumed. She should make a production of his homecoming. She should present him to the people with all of the respect due the lord of the keep. She should be grateful that her husband had taken her back.
