by Arnette Lamb
“Your friend Meridene used to say that.”
“She’s a superstitious Scot.”
Delivered without rancor, the remark inspired a friendly reply. Striking up conversations, he was beginning to realize, came as easily to her as nurturing a garden. “We’re not all beholden to our fears.”
She looked fatigued but not muddled. “What are you beholden to, Drummond?”
Considering he’d been contemplating the possibility of another war between England and Scotland, Drummond steered his thoughts to her. “I’m beholden to getting you well, so your son will stop mewling like a lost kitten, as Sween would have of it.”
She smiled, but her eyes radiated little humor. “Now that he’s a nuisance, he’s my son. When he behaves, he’s a branch off the mighty tree of the Macqueens.”
Ready humor. Quick wit. Faithless wife. Damn her for remembering his every word and making him glad he’d said each one. Damn him for bringing her into this room; she looked too appealing in his bed. “Aye, and I wonder how you tolerate him once each month, when your menses send you to bed.”
Her mouth rounded in surprise; but then she relaxed. “I told you, I no longer suffer as I did.”
He had not listened, and now, shocked, he scanned her slender and very womanly form. “You’ve lost the ability to bear more children?”
She turned away, murmuring, “No. It’s just another blessing from Alasdair’s birth. I’m well-suited to motherhood.”
Again sleep claimed her.
When next Johanna awakened, the sun was low in the sky and Drummond sat on a bench beside her bed. He picked leaves from her hair. She squeezed her eyes shut so he would think she still slept.
Her shoulder throbbed mercilessly, as if the blacksmith were flaying it with a hot mace. She had expected to feel pain, but not this bone deep ache. On reflection her plan had been faulty from the start. The hall had been too dark. The iron had been too hot. The pain—just thinking about it brought a return of the agony, and she could not stifle a moan.
Something touched her lips.
“Drink,” came Drummond’s soft, commanding voice.
The moment a drop of Glory’s musky tasting brew touched Johanna’s tongue, she drew back. A tearing sensation ripped through her shoulder, and pain shot up the side of her neck. Blackness narrowed her vision and her head went light.
“Clare?”
Through a tunnel of pain, Johanna heard her sister’s name. She was alive, for no one in the hereafter would call her Clare. “No potions. Water.”
“You’re in pain.”
She forced her eyes open and saw beguiling blue eyes. The insistent set of his mouth promised a battle.
Again the vial touched her lips. “Drink it.”
She had seen what the drug could do, even to a grown man; last year it had turned John Handle into a babbling penitent. He’d confessed to every misdeed from stealing quinces as a lad to taking pleasure in seeing his wife naked. Johanna Benison had far more sinful secrets, and she intended to keep them.
She pressed her lips together and willed the pain away. When it receded enough, she said, “Water, please, Drummond. I’m fair parched.”
He hesitated, his gaze raking her face, looking for the truth. If she so much as flinched, he’d scour deeper, and heaven help her, she hadn’t the strength to hold on to her secrets for long. Reaching within herself, she found the will to return his probing gaze.
She saw a man who’d dropped his barriers, and beneath the bold and handsome exterior she spied a worried and wounded soul. She saw a man who’d lived for seven years in a cell with no one to call his name in friendship or seek his counsel in need. She saw a man beset by miseries too great for a single heart to bear. Could she convince him she would share the burden? If love were the means, she surely would succeed.
Her vision grew blurry with tears and she reached for him.
Her shoulder screamed in pain. He flinched, but whether from surprise at her outcry or in defense of her intrusion, she did not know. Like a cloud moving over the moon, the moment of discovery passed, and Johanna was left with a feeling of emptiness and a throbbing pain.
Aching, she watched him cap the vial and produce a pewter mug. Using her left arm, she levered herself up enough to drink. He held the mug to her lips but stared at the garden glove she’d discarded earlier. The metal felt as cool as his mood had become.
But he had the right to conceal his emotions from her, just as she had the option of pursuing him again, and she would. She intended to make a life with this man, and now she could begin the campaign for his affection. The telltale brand was gone. She was his wife and bound to appease his physical needs.
She had almost emptied the mug of broth before rational thought returned and she realized the consequences of taking so much liquid. In the next instant, she felt the need to relieve herself.
Lifting her chin, she let him know that she’d had enough. He reached across her and slipped a hand around her back, then eased her onto the mattress.
His face was inches away from hers. He smelled of woodsmoke and a night in the forest. “You’ve a gentleness about you, Drummond Macqueen.”
He pulled his arm free and took his time putting the tankard on the floor. “You’re injured.”
She took a risk, hoping he would warm to her again. “Some hurts are not so obvious, are they?”
Like slamming shutters before a storm, he covered his vulnerability. “Or so easily healed.”
Striving for congeniality, she said, “What is that I smell?”
“Basil and …” He brought a handful of her hair to his nose and sniffed. “Chervil. There’s a nest of it in your hair.”
She’d pretended ignorance in the garden when he noted her skill with plants. She had even uprooted a basil to prove it, but thanks to Evelyn’s tart mouth, Johanna’s attempt to emulate her sister had gone awry.
“How long did you think you could keep the truth from me?”
Johanna’s heart sank. He knew. Just when she’d found the courage to obliterate the last evidence of her true self. But she would gladly suffer the same pain again, if it meant she could tell him the truth and hear her own name spoken softly by this man who tried to conceal kindness and vulnerability behind a warrior’s veneer.
“Clare?”
Her fear eased at the sound of her sister’s name. Even as she relaxed, Johanna knew that one day she must tell him the truth. But not yet. She couldn’t take that chance until she’d captured his heart.
“How long did you intend to keep the truth from me?” he repeated.
Grappling for an answer that would appease him, she chose an equally general reply. “As long as I could.”
“Why?”
“It was a foolish accident.”
His guarded expression softened. “And you dislike acting foolish?”
“Immensely so.”
His gaze flicked to her shoulder. “What happened?”
“I was clumsy and careless with the new mulling iron.”
“You?” He mimicked Evelyn’s border drawl.
“I may be different, Drummond, but I haven’t lost my pride.”
A rueful grin gave him a rakish air. “Nay, you’ve trebled it and your stubbornness, too. Why else would you disregard the danger of putrefaction?”
Fatigue dragged at her, but they were conversing easily on a moderately safe topic. “You haven’t actually spoken with Glory, else you’d know she’s confident my wound will not fester.”
One side of his mouth tipped up. “I haven’t actually ever set eyes on the elusive Glory. As Sween would have of it,” he mocked the huntsman’s local speech. “The lass flits about like a new midge on a fresh pile of dung.”
“Then call up the trumpeters,” said a familiar and compelling voice from the door. “It seems His Majesty Sween Handle has admitted to thinking like the royal insect he is.”
Drummond turned toward the door. As Johanna expected, his eyes grew wide in surp
rise at his first glimpse of the unusual Glory Roade.
Chapter 13
As always, Johanna enjoyed seeing a stranger’s first look at Glory. In defiance of custom, the healer kept her wavy chestnut hair sheared shorter than that of most men. Unlike any man she was as lithe as a doe in an open meadow. It was often said that if Brother Julian tended the souls of Fairhope, the twenty-six-year-old Glory tended their bodies and tried their Christian patience.
Openly beholden to no one, the outspoken woman had smokey gray eyes and pale skin. Her upturned nose and high cheekbones were dusted with freckles. Today she wore forest green trunk hose and an ankle-length overdress slit up the sides and embroidered with overlapping rainbows. The nail on her right index finger was inordinately long. For poking it where she ought not, Sween liked to say. Draped over her arm was one of Johanna’s favorite bliauds, and slung over her shoulder was a leather pouch bulging with the tools of her trade.
Glory was independent, forthright, and deeply in love with Sween Handle.
She glanced at Johanna’s reclining form, nodded approvingly, then in graceful strides, marched up to Drummond. He sprang to his feet and studied her from head to slippers.
“Disapproving of me, are you?” Glory shrugged. “Take yourself off then, so the sight of a woman in trews doesn’t bruise your manly pride.”
Drummond folded his arms over his chest and shifted his weight to one leg. “’Twasn’t my pride, lass, but surprise that you would so casually order your betters about.”
Johanna winced, for the unsuspecting Drummond had fallen into Glory’s favorite verbal trap.
“Think you, you are better than me?” She bowed from the waist. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Glory Roade, a woman of wealth and taste.”
Some men were angered, others appalled at her boldness. To his credit, Drummond appeared intrigued. “I wish neither to eat you, nor to take your purse, Mistress Glory.”
Taken aback, the normally redoubtable Glory examined her one long fingernail. A moment later, she glanced up. “What do you want?”
Drummond burst out laughing. “Sween was right about you.”
Her lips thinned. “Sween has never once”—she held up the elongated fingernail—“in his meaningless life been correct.”
Wiping a tear of mirth from his eye, Drummond said, “I beg to differ. He said you were the only woman in Christendom for him, and ’twas his penance that God put you here.”
Like a spider on a newly trapped beetle, she pounced. “Pray tell me where on your chart lies Christendom? Is it located in the bloated bellies of hungry babes? In the blackened eyes of Maggie Singer?”
Turning, Drummond faced Johanna, a curious expression lifting his brows. She felt bound to say, “Continue at your own peril, my lord. She will defend all women against the evils of men, and she seldom loses.”
His features grew serene with confidence, and he addressed Glory again. “The hungry are soon fed and the guilty punished.”
She lifted her arms. “And praise be to your God for that?”
“God answers the prayers of man.”
“Man.” Glory nodded, but Johanna knew that her compliance portended greater insult. “What makes men better than women that God should speak directly to them? Speak you a different tongue, you and God?”
“’Twas meant in the broadest sense,” he grumbled. “You must concede that God favors man. He created him first.”
“And made a poor job of it, so he corrected his error.” She planted her hands on her hips. “You see before you his perfection: woman.”
“He gave man greater strength.”
“Indeed.” She grew contemplative, a posture that usually sent men running for the safety of a malleable female or a fair measure of spirits. “So you can wield your sword and slap each other’s backs in celebration of your blessed camaraderie?”
“God made man for a higher purpose.”
“Higher purpose, you say. Let us review your lofty callings.” Using her long nail, she tapped the index finger on her opposite hand. “You cannot give birth.” She tapped her middle finger. “You cannot survive the evening without four pints of ale.” In a wilting pose, she brought the back of her hand to her forehead. “You cannot abide a soiled nappy or the travail of the birthing chair.”
Angry, but disguising it well, Drummond said, “What can you abide, Mistress Glory?”
Her mission accomplished, Glory now soothed her wounded prey. “How gracious of you to inquire,” she purred. “I can abide a day without looking into the dung-ugly face of Sween Handle.”
Somewhat mollified, Drummond resumed his casual pose. “Do you speak this way to him?”
“I do not speak to Sween at all, if I can prevent it. His thinking is as skewed as the speech of your Welshman is garbled. A fall at birth, I should think. Will you oblige me by banishing him to Norway?”
“I will oblige you as you oblige me, Mistress Glory. My name is Drummond Macqueen, lord of this domain and protector of this injured woman, whom we seem to have carelessly forgotten.”
At his sensible and polite answer, her face went blank. The calmness only accentuated her earthy beauty. “A win to you, my lord,” she conceded amiably. “If you will excuse us, I’ll tend my lady.”
“After you challenged my manhood?” He laughed, but more at himself than her. “Nay, Glory. I’ll stay and offer what assistance a feeble man may.”
Glory’s mouth twitched with humor, revealing what Sween called the devil’s own dimples. “You succeeded in getting her to bed, my lord. Hardly feeble work in any man’s guild. With luck you may rejoin her in it in a fortnight.”
Outraged, Johanna yelled, “Glory!”
“Perhaps a sennight,” she revised, and sat on the edge of the bed. “At least her sensibilities are rallying.”
Either Drummond hadn’t heard or did not care, probably the latter, thought Johanna, for he stared at the small pouch he’d had in the garden.
“How fare you, my lady?” Glory asked. “You did not take the sleeping potion.”
Johanna swallowed. “Nor will I.”
“Mind-dulling swill, she called it,” Drummond said to Glory, and pitched the pouch onto the bed.
Glory shrugged and helped Johanna to sit up. Lying down had offered a respite from the pain, but now it returned with a vengeance. Drummond stepped forward to offer his assistance, but too late.
“I altered your dress.” Glory held up the garment. The right sleeve and the neckline of the bodice had been removed, the side now closed with laces. The dress design would easily facilitate tending the wound.
“How clever,” Johanna said, wishing she were wearing it now so she wouldn’t have to bare herself to the waist before Drummond. As her husband he’d have to abide a scarred wife. Better he see only the result.
“I’ll help.” He reached for the fastenings on Johanna’s surcoat.
“Really, my lord. Glory and I can manage.”
For reply, he gave her a bland stare.
Forced to move or challenge him, Glory scooted to the foot of the bed and began taking medicinals from her pouch and arranging the salves and bandages on the bed. Drummond took her place near Johanna.
Grinning, he said, “Tending the sick might be my higher calling. Think you I should trade my sword for a healer’s pouch?”
With his winsome ways, he had even disarmed the formidable Glory, who huffed halfheartedly in response. In spite of herself and the situation, Johanna smiled.
“You are on the mend,” he said.
Disarmed better suited her feelings at the moment, for when he chose, Drummond Macqueen could charm the whitewash from the walls. How much stronger could her love for him grow? Considering Clare’s romantic descriptions of the private moments they had shared as man and wife, Johanna both feared and longed for the intimacies to come.
“I’ll be very careful, Clare.” His hands were deft in their movements, probably from so much practice undressing his former mis
tresses, Johanna thought peevishly.
“You’re frowning,” he said, all attentiveness. “Is the pain suddenly worse?”
Which pain and from what source? She had a variety to choose from: jealousy over his penchant for mistresses, regret from the past, and doubt about the future. Better she address the simplest ache. “My shoulder is better now.”
Seemingly satisfied, he unfastened her surcoat, taking great care to avoid her injury. His fingers felt feather-light on the closure of her bliaud, and she couldn’t help wishing that his insistence and tenderness stemmed from affection for her rather than duty. Lord of this domain and protector of this injured woman.
Only on her fanciful days had Johanna wished for a man to help ease her burden of responsibility, fill her lonely moments, and give her a keep full of children. If she were lucky, Drummond would grant her one of the three, for she could not picture him as helpmate and comforter. Even at the risk of suffering greater heartache, she must try to build a life with him. But not until she’d recovered.
“Now, let us see what havoc you’ve wreaked.”
Alarmed again, Johanna grew desperate. Over his bowed head, she glared at Glory, who frowned in confusion. Johanna shot a pointed glance at him, then willed Glory to help her get him to leave the room.
Glory blinked in understanding. “My lord,” she said, still fishing through the contents of her pouch. “Before you remove that dressing, will you ask Evelyn to fetch hot water and cold?”
He had loosened Johanna’s underdress and reached for the placket to ease the garment off her shoulders. He paused and shot them a look that indicated he knew they were conspiring to get rid of him, but he went.
The moment he disappeared into the hallway, Johanna said, “Help me into that dress, Glory, and quickly.”
The midwife paused, a roll of clean cloth in her hand. “Why do you shy from him? He doesn’t seem the sort to go green at the sight of injury.”
“I have my reasons.”
“I believe he’s truly concerned. More than Sween would be should I lie injured.”
