by Arnette Lamb
Drummond understood completely, for sometimes he didn’t know himself. “You are quite different to me as well, but we’ll never reacquaint ourselves if you keep me at a distance.”
She moved closer, but he knew it for the concession it was. “That’s better. The Clare I remember would never have brought a wife beater or any other criminal to justice. She would also have flown into my arms.”
She stared at his throat. “As you say, I am not that woman. I am someone else now.”
He would also add that she was complex, deceptively honorable, and exceedingly interesting. “Given the right circumstance, boldness in a woman can be an appealing trait.”
“I thought men were more concerned with the size of a woman’s fortune or the fairness of her form.”
“They are, and when she possesses an abundance of both, he looks for intelligence and other complimentary traits.”
She tipped her head to the side. “Why ever would he trouble himself?”
Drummond had expected her to demur and flatter him in return. He grew uncomfortable with her frankness, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d tell her how much she intrigued him. “Out of boredom, most likely.”
“Idle hands and all that?”
He could think of several ways to occupy his hands, and each of them involved the sensory pleasure of exploring her womanly charms. Especially when he considered that she was naked beneath her gown. In spite of the breeze he grew warm beneath his wool tartan. “A man could also be curious about how she came to be so bold.”
Their eyes met, hers dark and mysterious in the moonlight. “Had I not learned to stand up for myself, I would be a pauper and Alasdair a waif.”
His list of misconceptions about her grew, for he added industrious. “I wasn’t faulting your motives, Clare. Especially since the benefits are mine as well. Thanks to you, our estates prosper.”
“But Fairhope is a small demesne when compared to your Highland holdings. How could you give it more than a passing glance?”
Was she being coy? He didn’t expect that of this new Clare, and the last thing he wanted to discuss was the Highlands. He had other questions to ask and personal matters to broach. He chose the topic that had troubled him most of the day: her refusal to give him more children. “Fairhope will serve as dowry for our eldest daughter.”
Her eyes widened in alarm, and her fingers knotted. “What of Alasdair’s future?”
He glimpsed her protective nature again, and envied his son the luxury of maternal love. “He will inherit my mother’s dower lands.”
“In the Highlands,” she said, sounding as if Scotland were at the end of the earth.
“Aye.”
“I see.”
“So you mustn’t diminish Fairhope’s importance.”
Even in the pale light, he could see her blanch. “I was not. I simply assumed that your other property suffers from lack of your attention. What will be left for Alasdair then?”
“You sound eager to be rid of me. Are you?”
“Of course not.”
The insincerity in her hasty reply begged for a challenge. “You are my property. Do you wither from neglect?”
She laughed nervously. “It’s safe to say that I’ve lost the ability to wither. Surely you’ll concede that.”
For every retiring trait she’d lost, she’d gained a measure of character, an enchanting aspect to an already interesting woman. “I’ll concede only that you are not the same Clare I married, and as your husband, I have the right to explore the differences in you.”
“Ha!” She danced away. “What you’re saying is, you’ll get me with child again, then leave me to birth it and raise it on my own.”
He followed her, regretting that the battlement was round, for he could better trap her in a corner. “Even if I hadn’t been away warring against Edward the First, I would have been denied entrance to the birthing room. And mothers usually raise the lassies.”
“In this family, the mother raises all of the children.”
Taken aback, he could only gawk at her. When he regained his wits, he grew defensive. “Pardon me for putting the future of a kingdom over the welfare of one pregnant woman.”
“You should have negotiated with the English, rather than jump into war and jeopardize the safety of this pregnant woman. You put your wife’s safety in jeopardy.”
He grew incredulous at her self-indulgence. “Jump into war? With an army marching toward us, we had little choice. And I thought you carried a royal bastard.”
The fight went out of her. “You could have been killed on the spot and Macqueen Castle reduced to rubble.”
The events of that black day long ago hung like a bad memory in his mind. He had been certain that death would find him before dawn. He hadn’t considered Clare’s plight.
“Who am I to upbraid you for defending yourself?”
He had no reply to that, so he addressed another worrisome topic. “You should have asked me to go with you to Eastward Fork today.”
“It wasn’t necessary.”
“’Twas my place.”
“Actually, it’s Sheriff Hay’s responsibility.”
Would she never recognize that she had a husband who had sworn to protect her? “Your safety is mine.”
“I was in no danger. Singer was suffering the effects of too much ale. He had difficulty putting one foot before the other.”
If every woman was as capable as she, men would become as useless as ballocks on a barbican. “Was that before or after you hobbled him?”
Her chin came up. “Both.”
He wanted to rail at her, but she looked so proud, he decided that logic was the better approach. “He’s prone to violence, Clare. That was the reason you went after him.”
“Do you know, I didn’t really think of him or what he might do to me. I was concerned with Maggie’s safety.”
Unselfishness joined the list of her attributes. But he couldn’t help wonder if she would ever be as concerned about him or their sham of a marriage. “A woman’s safety often depends on the mood of her mate.”
Her expression reeked of disbelief. “A woman’s happiness depends on her husband’s good humor? That’s rubbish.”
“Then how do you account for telling me that you’d never known happiness before marrying me. You said you’d devote your life to pleasing me.”
She bowed her head and murmured, “I must have been besotted with you then.”
He gave her high marks for courage. “But you’re not now.”
“I do not know what to think about you. I’m in a quandary, too.”
Having his words tossed in his face made Drummond cross. She needed a strong, guiding hand, and he’d had seven years to contemplate what he wanted of her. He leaned closer to her and said, “You could end your uncertainty by being a good wife.”
She rose on tiptoe, and when their noses were a breath apart, she declared, “I’m as good a wife as you are a husband.”
She had him there. “Then perhaps we should both start over again.”
“How?” she scoffed.
“By doing what other husbands and wives do.”
“Which is?”
He almost laughed out loud at her naivety. “They become close.”
“And if one of them refuses to get close?”
“The other would surely demand an explanation—that, or look elsewhere for his closeness.”
Gone was the bold woman. In her place he saw a shy and tentative girl, her fingers toying with the edges of her wrap. “You mean he would take a mistress,” she said. “You’ve done that before and without provocation.”
And she had lain with the man who was now king of England. Lord, what a farce they’d made of marriage. Drummond couldn’t forgive her, not until she begged for forgiveness. But as matters stood between them now, he’d have more success in demanding she turn pigs into geese than insist that she bare her soul. If he were going to dictate policy to her, he had to go slowly.
He extended his arm and kept his voice even. “Now I merely want someone to hold my hand.”
She glanced toward the main gate, then threaded her fingers in his. Her skin felt cool, softer than he remembered, and her wrist fragile enough to break with a snap of his fingers. He thought of Elton Singer, the wife beater. Did Clare refuse to share Drummond’s bed because she’d seen firsthand the brutality of which a husband was capable?
Driven to know, he said, “Why do you sleep in Alasdair’s bed?”
“Because it’s too small for you.”
He tried to stifle his laughter, but heaven help him, he could not. When she tried to pull her hand away, he clasped it tightly. “I should have asked why you skirt your wifely obligations.”
“Obligations?” She yanked her hand free. “Is that what making love is to you, an obligation?”
Her chilly disapproval quelled his mirth. “It wouldn’t have to be, not if we reacquainted ourselves.”
“Please define reacquaint.”
With long walks in the woods and quiet, private evenings up here, he almost said. Then he caught himself. By the saints, he was contemplating the seduction of his own wife. Part of him objected, but the freedom of the vast night sky lulled him into complacency. Call him weak, but for too long loneliness had been his constant companion, and he wanted her company.
She snapped her fingers. “I have it. Let’s forget what happened before you were taken. Everyday we could share a story, something that occurred during our separation.”
What trick was she playing? Before he could ask, she said, “I could tell you which word Alasdair uttered first. I could describe his first steps. Or recount the time he put salt in the oat bin. I laughed beyond measure at that. So many of his doings were entertaining …”
He ceased listening. He didn’t want to hear. If he’d known about his son, the dark and lonely times in prison would have been unbearable. Instead he’d fantasized about Clare. He had pretended that she visited him often, bringing his favorite foods and warm new clothing that she herself had stitched. Although she looked like Clare, the woman he had conjured was not the faithless wife but the devoted helpmate. More’s the pity, he thought.
“Drummond, are you listening?”
He banished the fantasy and addressed the reality. “And what can I tell you, Clare?” he said through gritted teeth. “Shall I describe the lavish furnishings in an English cell? Perhaps you’d care to hear about the delicacies they served me or the minstrels they provided.”
“Oh, Drummond. I did not think of you as …” Her teeth closed over her bottom lip, and her eyes turned starry.
“As what?”
She embraced him and laid her head on his chest. “I did not think of you as simply a man deprived of his freedom.”
She had always rushed to tend the sick in his village; yet he didn’t want her sympathy, he wanted a confession, then a plea for forgiveness for the crime of adultery.
She felt warm and yielding, and his physical needs overrode his principles. He’d been without a woman for too long, and if she continued to caress his back, he’d have her on hers.
“They had no right to imprison you and tell us you were dead. Why did your family not send word to me?”
“After the first year, they told the Macqueens I’d been hanged and—” His voice broke; he could not face the horror. No matter what had occurred between them, he could not tell her the gory particulars of Edward I’s explanation of Drummond’s demise. “Hanged.”
“Those years must have been wretched for you.”
Bitterness burned inside him. She’d valued this piece of land in the Borders more than her wedding vows. Her heart beat strong and steady against his chest and comfort streamed from her in gentle waves. Give me your burden, her body seemed to say. Worry not, for I’m here to share your pain.
His knees trembled, and he no longer felt like the wronged husband; he became the ordinary man of whom she’d spoken. His arms engulfed her, and he rubbed his cheek against her hair. She smelled of home, and her tender touch brought to life one of a thousand lustful dreams.
In this one, he stood atop a well-fortified castle, freedom as far as his eye could see, a golden haired goddess at his side. She caressed him from temple to waist and lower, her soft lips and dancing fingers playing an erotic melody upon his skin. Then she grew eager and, moaning wantonly, guided his hands over her feminine form. When he expected the woman of his dreams to beg him to love her until dawn, the woman in his arms gave him a final pat and stepped back.
Desire blurred his vision and buzzed in his ears. When he could focus, he saw an expression of wonder on her face. Or was it confusion?
“I, ah …” She paused, staring at the exit door. “I must say good night, Lord Drummond.”
Her formality checked his base urges, for he instinctively knew that she was gripped by emotions she neither welcomed nor understood. As bizarre as it seemed, he felt as if he were still seized by his own fantasy. For she was Clare and yet she was not. He couldn’t let her go.
“And if I command you to stay?”
She pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders. “I would ask that you do not.”
A more honest appeal he’d never heard. “Do you take back your words of comfort?”
“No.” Her voice was thick with grief. “I would wrap them in tinsel thread and lay them at your feet.”
“Then you are tired.”
She stared at his knees. “I have never been less tired in my life.”
“You suffer from an illness?”
“I am exceedingly hale and hearty.”
Her eyes met his, and he felt an odd stirring in his chest, for he saw agony and soul deep fear. “You are beset with bad humors.”
“I could as like call up the merrymakers.”
Desire poured over him like hot honeyed wine, and he lifted his brows in invitation.
Backing away, she said, “Tomorrow is Wares Day, and I must up with the dawn. Good night, Lord Drummond.”
Moonglow pearled on the moisture in her eyes before she turned and disappeared through the dark doorway.
A moment later Alasdair stepped out, battle shield and sword in hand. “What’s wrong with Mother?”
A reply lodged in Drummond’s throat, and he stared at the gaping black portal, willing her to return to him, to finish what she had started, to tell him what was in her heart.
“She didn’t even see me. You won’t tell her I’m here, will you, Father? You said I must begin my soldiering, so I thought to patrol the battlement up here. To protect Mother and Bertie.”
Shaking his head, Drummond tried to cast off the image of her, her turmoil and her quiet dignity. Would she have yielded? He didn’t know for certain, but he’d wager all his sons to come that she’d wanted to, and it both thrilled and frightened her.
“Will you promise, Father?”
With a pledge to further test the boundaries of her self-control, Drummond devised a plan. His strategy set, he ruffled his son’s sleep mussed hair. “I’ll keep your secret, Alasdair, but you must do something for me.”
Chapter 7
“Mother, may I have a quince?”
Smothering under a blanket of regrets, Johanna leaped at the diversion. If she couldn’t stop thinking about how much Drummond had suffered, she might as well rush into his arms and tell him precisely why she hadn’t inquired after him.
“Curly and her little sister have quinces.” Walking backward and facing her, Alasdair pouted. “May I please have one?”
Thinking he was due a haircut soon, she reached out to scruff his head. “Will you promise to keep your appointment with Brother Julian?”
He dodged her admirably. “I gave you my word of honor. ’Tis a manly thing.”
In another few years he’d grow away from her. In manhood, he would make her proud. Later he would bring his children to visit. Engulfed in motherly love, she wanted to hug him, but he’d balk at so public a display. “
You’re to be there before Vespers.”
He nodded. “I’m hungry, Mother. I’m as starved as a mouse in Glory’s pantry.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“From Sween.” Looking back over his shoulder he steered himself to the clean edge of the lane. “But he says she can keep her sweets to herself.”
The latest episode in the ongoing war of the lovers promised to outdo the rift at Whitsunday last. Whitsunday. Drummond’s birthday. How many of those days had he spent alone and hungry in the Tower of London? The grief returned to weight her shoulders and prick her conscience. She should have inquired, for she knew the old king practiced brutality against his enemies. It followed that he would hardly account for their needs or address the concerns of their families. That still didn’t excuse her, she could have asked through a third party.
“Mother, what’s wrong?”
Everything. Alasdair had stopped to stare at her. His fretful expression mirrored a worried frown from Drummond. “Nothing’s amiss, dear, and yes, you may have a quince, but only one.”
“And one for Longfellow.” He spun around and darted down the cross path that would take him to the market.
Johanna dodged a herd of yearling sheep and continued on her way to the tanner to find a protective glove for the cook. Merchant stalls and larger businesses lined either side of the lane. As they displayed their wares, the craftsmen and the castle folk exchanged morning greetings. It was still too early in the day for visitors from the surrounding hamlets, but by noontime the bailey would be filled with carts and wagons and the thoroughfares clogged with customers.
The baker called out to her. “Have a scone, my lady. Lord Drummond said they was as good as his aunt Fiona’s. Ate an even dozen of ’em and said I should deliver up a batch to the keep every morning.”
The aroma of fresh baked bread teased her nose, but she doubted she could swallow even a crumb. She had succeeded in avoiding Drummond this morning, and knowing his whereabouts would allow her to keep it that way. Facing him would come later.
She smiled and hoped she didn’t sound like a woman who’d lost her wits over a man. “When was Lord Drummond here?”
