by Arnette Lamb
Catching his gaze, she murmured, “Just watch that you don’t get tippered, my lord, lest you reveal your secrets.”
To the table in general, he said, “I’m a blank and waiting slate where my lady’s affection is concerned.”
The men guffawed. Curly’s hands flew to her cheeks, and her childish laughter rang through the room.
For a week, Drummond had often spoken flattering words to Johanna in public. Tonight she would repay the favor. “Shall I write you a story, my lord?”
He lowered his arm and dropped his wrist over her shoulder. “Only if I’m the knight in shining armor and you’re the damsel in distress.”
Happiness rippled through her, for tonight he’d carry through with that sentiment. He’d rescue her from the chains of innocence. Please, God, let her conceive. “You play the gallant well, my lord. Just remember that you ceased rescuing other women when we wed. My distress is your only concern.”
Bertie hooted. “My lord’s got a sally for that, do you see.”
In salute, Drummond tipped his mug toward Bertie. “My lady’s good humors are a pursuit I verily relish.”
Murmurs of approval rumbled around the table.
Basking in his attention, she touched her mug to his. “To my stalwart angel and silver-tongued devil.”
The others chortled.
Mirth softened his profile, and tiny lines of laughter fanned the corners of his eyes. Handsome didn’t begin to describe him. Lovesick couldn’t touch her feelings.
He gulped. She sipped. And wondered if the physical aspects of marriage inspired affection. Eager to find out, she leaned into him.
The ever efficient Meg took his tankard to the server and returned it, then flitted off to a group of huntsmen at a table near the door.
“You’ve something on your mind, Clare,” he said softly.
Staring into her mug, Johanna smiled.
“Hum. Methinks ’tis a woman’s secret.”
The din at the table grew, the others talked among themselves. The familylike atmosphere said much about the people of Fairhope. They deserved a man of Drummond’s stature and competence. Let the same be true for her. “Perhaps I plot a man’s downfall.”
“Shall I offer a sporting challenge or simply collapse at your feet now?” Lowering his voice, he added, “You look bonny.”
She wanted to squirm and fall swooning into his arms. “Thank you.”
“Like a princess.”
It was too much. “Then collapse later, my prince. When we are alone.”
He set the mug down and laid his palm over the rim. “You play with fire, Clare, but then you have a great mastery of it, do you not?”
Her confidence faltered, but his taunts would not dissuade her. Not tonight. “Passing so, but whatever expertise I lack or have forgotten, I trust you will provide.”
“You’ve forgotten much of our time in the Highlands.”
In a voice as sultry as Glory’s, Johanna said, “I yield, then, to your tutelage.” She looked up at him. “And your—” Promise smoldered in his eyes. The sentence melted on her tongue.
“Have you a thirst, Clare?”
“Of a sort.” She put the mug to her lips.
Meg held up a pitcher. Only the Welshman accepted.
“Me! Me!” Curly squealed.
“None for this mite,” said her father.
Meg pinched Curly’s cheek. “I’d sooner serve Elton Singer a pint after dark as give your poppet a taste of brew.” From her apron, she produced a honey treat and presented it to a beaming Curly.
“Does the mead revive you, Clare?”
Johanna gathered her composure. “Aye, and the company. What did you do today?”
“We cleared the deadwood from the forest near Anderson Hollow. Tomorrow we’ll build a charcoal oven. And you?”
“I sliced apples and plums until my fingers ached. John butchered a fat hog.”
“Have we mincemeat from last year?” he said, looking as eager as Alasdair when a custard was set out to cool.
“Yes. Shall I have cook make you a pie?”
“Two. I’m fair starved for the taste.”
And she was famished for him, but beneath the yearning lay understanding. He had been denied simple favors such as a pie made from the remains of a barrel of pork preserved with fruit. She could spend a lifetime providing him with the comforts he’d missed.
For the next hour, between conversations with the occupants of the alehouse, they traded meaningful phrases and poignant looks. When John Handle swung a sleeping Curly into his arms and made for the door, Bertie and the others followed him. Like a corpse awaiting burial, Morgan Fawr lay in a stupor on a nearby bench. He’d had four tankards of mead. Drummond had had three.
Anticipation set Johanna’s pulse to hammering, and her hands twitched with idleness. A graceful exit awaited. “Shall we?” she asked.
His expression turned thoughtful. “Nervous?”
“No. Why?”
“You’re strumming your fingers.”
Oh, dragons! She stilled her telltale hand and assembled her wits.
“Have you something to tell me?” he said.
He expected her to tell him why she had burned herself. He’d fare better waiting for the Second Coming. “Yes, Drummond, I do.”
His gaze sharpened; yet he stared straight ahead.
She put down the mug and took a deep breath. “I love you.”
Shock widened his eyes, and he grew still. “’Tis an odd time for you to tell me. Did you just think of it?”
Anger ripped through her. “Look at me, you wretched snake.”
Turning, he propped his elbow on the table and rested his chin on his open palm. His raven black hair fell over his forehead, and his blue eyes glittered with challenge. “Did you?”
An invisible shield stood between them. “No, I did not just think of it.”
“When, then?”
“The exact moment?”
“Aye, and do not spare the details.”
She must break through to the gentle, compassionate man beneath. He wanted her. She loved him. They could make a good life together. He would give her children. One day she would tell him the truth. He would come to love her, she would make it so.
“If I tell you will you leave off with the other?”
“The ‘other’ being my conviction that you put a hot iron to your skin rather than have me see the mark?”
One lie. “Yes. That erroneous belief.”
“Tell me when you began loving me.”
The words rolled off his tongue as if he were asking when she inventoried the linens. “The day you upheld my judgment of Elton Singer.”
“Why did that make you love me?”
Was he taunting her with the word? The troll. “You’ve never taken my side before. In the Highlands, we were both too young.”
“You speak of the time when I did not stand by you after my father banished you from table. I should have chosen my wife over my sire.”
According to Clare, he had agreed to the marriage in hopes of gaining a peace with England, the noblest of reasons. Even a monarch could not command a man’s heart. “You never chose me, Drummond. The king forced you to marry me.”
“And I did—willingly.”
He spoke truths so easily. She longed to repay his honesty in kind. Since she could not, she sought to lighten the mood. “You married me so you could have a chamber with a woman in it, rather than two smelly brothers.”
He tried not to smile, but failed. “You never said as much at the time.”
“As you say, we spent our private moments in endeavors other than talking.”
He squinted, as if looking into the memory and finding humor there. “Rabbits, we were.”
An interesting picture, she thought. Drawing on it, she said, “We verily wore off our fur.”
He burst out laughing. “Heavens, Clare, you do brighten the soul.”
It wasn’t his soul she was after, sh
e wanted his heart, and that was serious business. “Actually, I was too inexperienced to think of what your life was like before I arrived in Scotland, and I was too selfish to earn a place for myself among your clan.”
He gave her a meaningful look.
Had she erred? Please, God, no. “What are you thinking?”
“Where other people’s feelings are concerned, you are worldly now and considerate,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“And proud of it.”
The burr in his voice put a shiver in her breast. “Well, yes. I have responsibilities beyond stewardship of the land.” She also had a mission. “At all events, the word worldly holds particular appeal for me tonight.”
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 h
is 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.”
