by Arnette Lamb
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?”
Color blossomed on her cheeks. “I regret I cannot.”
He took pleasure in her maidenlike response and knew he could grow accustomed to her shy reaction. “Another time, perhaps?”
“Duty calls me elsewhere.”
He noted her evasion but let it pass; she had not refused him outright. “Where are you off to?”
“To Eastward Fork, a village beyond the burn we visited yesterday.”
We. Her use of the collective eased his guilt and gave him hope that they could come to accord. She would confess her sin and recount the details of her liaison with Edward. Another need niggled at Drummond, for the more time he spent with her, the greater his interest about her grew. “What will you do in Eastward Fork?”
A pensive smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Then she looked him square in the eye. “I’m going to do something I should have done years ago. I’ll be home before Vespers.”
Her cryptic reply and strength of purpose further roused his curiosity, but he decided not to pry. Instead he responded in kind, for he intended to change his tactics. “Then we’ll both share surprises when you return.”
Later that afternoon, Drummond stood in the tiltyard and leaned against the quintain. A pleasant breeze cooled his skin, and the high, pillowy clouds blocked most of the August sun. A group of children ringed the yard, their parents looking on. The intermittent ringing of the blacksmith’s hammer punctuated the laughter and conversation. From the open window of the barracks came the hearty snores of toilworn huntsmen.
Sween Handle, the master of the hunt, had spent the afternoon watching Drummond instruct Alasdair in the use of sword and shield. Even without hearing Sween’s family name, Drummond would have recognized him as the butcher’s younger brother, for they favored each other, down to the streak of pure white in their thick brown hair. Drummond liked the man’s jovial and straightforward manner.
Earlier in the day, when Alasdair referred to another of Clare’s expansive tales about Drummond, and he expressed concern about being perceived as a legend, Sween had been objective in his reply.
“Only the young ones believe Lady Clare’s tales,” the huntsman had said. “’Tis the best way to get them to sleep—or so the married folks say.”
At first, Drummond had been surprised to learn that Sween was a bachelor, a landless adventurer, as Alasdair called him. Then he’d been suspicious and wondered if Sween could have an affection for Clare. That had surprised Drummond more, for he’d never been jealous of another man or possessive of any of his women.
After a hour in Sween’s company, Drummond learned that the huntsman’s affections lay with another.
Alasdair was now sauntering around the yard. Wearing a too large helmet and carrying a sword and shield, he faced off against an imaginary foe.
“He struts like the cock o’ the walk,” Drummond said.
Sween folded his arms over his chest. “True, and he’s stronger with his left hand, but quicker with his right.”
Drummond felt a burst of pride. “He’ll learn to wield a sword in either hand.”
“Were you schooled in that fashion?”
Childhood memories came rushing back. Drummond thought of the happy times—before England had declared war on Scotland. “Some say it’s a God given talent, but I doubt I was so blessed. With a bevy of sibling lads nipping at my heels, I had little choice but to fend them off from both sides,” he said.
Tipping his head toward Drummond, Sween put his hand over his mouth. “I’ve heard the Highlanders fight naked. Is it true?”
After seven years among the English, Drummond was all too familiar with the misconceptions about his people. Unlike the taunting prison guards, Sween was asking out of curiosity, so Drummond took no offense. “Not in my experience—unless a man’s caught in the wrong bed.”
Sween threw back his head and laughed. “An ignoble way to die.”
Drummond laughed, too. “Dying in itself is ignoble.”
With a hand as big as the quintain counterweight, the huntsman slapped Drummond on the back. “Amen, and bless old Edward for sparing you his wrath. I’ve never seen him show mercy to an enemy.”
Even though he’d heard that opinion before, Drummond sensed a familiarity in Sween’s tone. “You sound as if you knew the late king.”
Alasdair called out, “Watch me!” Jerking his elbow to and fro, he jabbed mercilessly at his phantom opponent and swore, “Take that, you scurvy toad.”
After praising the lad’s efforts, Drummond told him to keep his wrist steady and save his breath. Then he turned to his companion. “You were saying, Sween?”
Matter-of-factly, he said, “I fought with Edward the First in Wales, back in ’eighty-two.”
“Against Llewellyn? That was twenty-six years ago. You must have been a lad at the time.”
“I was ten and five. I left his service when he made war on the Scots. I’ve no taste for killing my mother’s kinsmen.”
“She’s a Highlander?”
“Nay, from the Lowlands, but a Scot all the same. We make no distinctions here in the Debatable Lands. She was a Douglas, with a temper to match her red hair.” Squinting, he stared into the sun. “She died the same year as Bertie lost his wife.”
Drummond had forgotten the wrenlike woman who had accompanied his wife to the Highlands years ago. And why not? With Clare in a room, few of the other female occupants received more than a passing notice. His brothers had stood agog at the first sight of her. His mistress had become exceedingly pliable.
Standing beside Drummond on the steps to the kirk years ago, Clare had looked like a virginal goddess. He thought of the way she had looked this morning and the conviction she hadn’t disguised. What was the purposeful errand she had been so driven to complete?
Images of last night intruded. He remembered the feel of her hands in his hair and her tongue sliding into his mouth. His loins grew heavy, and he again glanced toward the castle gates. Where was she?
As if reading his thoughts, Sween said, “She’ll be back before nightfall.”
“Does she never stay away?”
“Nay.”
The helmet jostling on his head, Alasdair attacked the quintain. Drummond jumped out of the way just in time to avoid a blow from the short and deliberately dull blade. “Watch yourself, lad,” Drummond warned. “Or I’ll take that sword away.”
Snickers sounded from the crowd. Alasdair flushed with embarrassment, then whirled and whacked away at the wind.
Drummond turned back to Sween. “Clare never calls on her overlord, Red Douglas?”
“She did once and came back with two of his wards. Fostered the lassies for three years.” His eyes glowed with fondness and he shook his head. “She grieved for a fortnight when they returned home.”
Then why didn’t she want a daughter of her own? Most likely she didn’t want another of Drummond’s children. He’d disavow her of that notion. “How long ago was that?”
“A year or so. Alasdair pouted, too—missed having so many females fawning over him.”
With his left arm, Alasdair held up the shield, and with his right, he brandished the sword. Lunging, he stirred up the dust and the crowd urged him on. A lassie of about six, her hair a mass of red ringlets, left the group and came to stand in front of Sween.
He smiled down at her. “Where did you get the tart, Curly?”
She wiped crumbs from her mouth. “From Mistress Glory,” came the lispy reply.
Rumor had it that Glory was the village seamstress and midwife. She was also in love with Sween.
He winked at Drummond. “How fares the lady?”
The clouds moved away from the sun. Closing one eye, the girl peered up at Sween. “She’s pot throwing mad, Uncle Sween.”
“Did she mention me?”
The child’s nod was almost imperceptible. “She says if you do not take her to collect simples, she’ll rip off your ears and use ’em for fish bait.”
Sween put his hands on either side of his head. “You tell her I’ll do as I may. And she’s welco
me to try to steal my ears, but she’ll have to catch me first.”
Laughing, the lass dashed off.
“Warring is safer than women,” Sween said.
Rumors of Sween and Glory abounded. Prideful, they called her. Stubborn as the church, they said of him. Drummond had yet to meet the infamous Glory, but suspected she was a match for Sween. “You could marry the lass,” he said.
Sween kicked at a pebble. “That life’s not for me.”
Drummond caught a note of sadness in the reply, but before he could address it, the bannerman raced toward them.
Face flushed and gasping for breath, the fellow said, “My lady’s coming, and she’s got Elton Singer with her.”
Sween’s mouth fell open. “The devil you say.”
“By my oath, I saw ’em, Sween. The watchman let me look through the spyglass.”
Drummond had met dozens of new people today; Sween had told him stories about many of the other residents, but no one had mentioned the name of this newcomer. “Who is Elton Singer?”
The bannerman spat on the well-packed earth.
Sween said, “He’s a boil on the butt of man and not worth the seed it took to sprout him.”
“He’s rotten to the core,” the bannerman put in.
Drummond grew alarmed. “What’s he doing with Clare?”
“More’s the question,” Sween murmured, “what’s she doing with him?”
Johanna flipped the reins, and the horse trotted up the incline leading to the main gate. Although his clothes were freshly washed, her passenger smelled of last year’s ale. “If you whine one more time, Elton Singer, I’ll treble your punishment.”
The worthless cur jerked his hands, which were bound at the wrists and tied to the cart seat. “But, my lady, I’ll lose the use o’ me hands.”
“As well you should.”
The gateman rushed forward and took control of the horse. Drummond helped her from the cart, his blue eyes anxious with concern. “What’s happened?”
A surge of giddiness took her breath away, for she could grow accustomed to his attention. “Justice.” She motioned for Sween to come forward. “Take Mr. Singer into the barracks.”
The huntsman’s face grew blank with disbelief. “Him? But why? He cannot even nock an arrow.”
