by Arnette Lamb
Emboldened, Johanna said, “Where do you think I acquired it?”
“I meant to say that I’m surprised you kept it.”
“Well, I did. I hoped one day to give it to Alasdair. I’m sorry to say it’s probably rusted, for I packed it away.”
“And forgot about it.”
“As I forgot about you.” She finished his thought, and her words hung like specters between them in the misty air.
To her surprise, he let go of her elbow and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Close to her ear, he said, “Did you, at Vespers, thank God for my return, and ask Him to keep me well?”
When Drummond turned on the charm, he could win over a nun. Basking in his affection, Johanna looked up at him. “I prayed that He would gift you with humility.”
Mirth glimmered in his eyes. “Then your prayers have been answered, for I’ll gladly submit to your tender mercies.”
“I believe, my lord, that you have confused the carnal and the spiritual.”
As sly as a hungry fox, he said, “At a given moment, they have been known to converge.”
He was speaking of their lovemaking and his habit of calling upon a saint at the moment of his greatest pleasure.
“’Tis impolite to whisper,” Alasdair grumbled, now standing before them at the base of the steps to the keep.
“’Tis rude to correct your parents,” Drummond said.
“I’m only curious. You would not tolerate an ignorant dolt for a son.”
Drummond choked in surprise. “Where did you hear that sally?”
Grinning, and looking very much like his sire, Alasdair glanced at Johanna.
“Aha!” Drummond said. “’Tis your mother’s influence. That being the case, lass. I insist that you tell Alasdair what we were whispering about.”
If he thought to embarrass her in front of Alasdair, he could think again; she’d had more practice than he. “Of course, I’ll tell him.” Looking Drummond square in the eye, she said to Alasdair, “Your father was just lamenting that he has only invoked St. Ninian once today.”
His mouth fell open, but he recovered quickly. With a look that promised retribution, he said, “You clever—”
She slapped a hand over his mouth to cut off the diatribe. “Careful what you say,” she warned. “Unlike his Scottish ancestors, your son has a long and forgiving memory.”
Shaking his head, he ushered her up the stairs and into the hall. Excusing herself, she went to the solar and fetched his sword from the chest where she’d stored it years ago.
Wrapped in an old woolen blanket, the heavy weapon had been spared the ravages of rust. The scars of battle, however, were plain to see, for the scabbard bore myriad pocks and scrapes. What she could see of the sword itself was unadorned, save the pommel, which featured an engraving of the rampant wolf of the Macqueens. The leather grippings on the handle had dried and stiffened with age, revealing the fine wood beneath.
Years before, out of curiosity, she had tried to pull the blade from its sheath, but the weapon would not budge. Now she hefted the heavy weapon and tried again. Pieces of the leather wrapping crumbled against her palm. She gritted her teeth and jerked with all her might, but the sword would not come free of the scabbard.
What if Drummond could not draw the sword? Would he be embarrassed in front of Alasdair? No, she did not think so, for Drummond seemed secure in his own masculinity. He would take the weapon to the blacksmith and seek the craftsman’s expertise.
Her course decided, Johanna lifted the blade to her shoulder and returned to the hall. She stopped on the threshold. Alasdair sat cross-legged atop the table and Drummond lounged on the bench. A fire blazed in the hearth. The shutters had been drawn and the lanterns lighted.
“You’ve never even drunk goose milk?” Alasdair was saying.
It was one of his favorite jokes, for it always garnered smiles and chuckles from his audience.
Eager to hear Drummond’s response, Johanna leaned the sword against the wall and approached the table. Drummond looked up, and the tender plea in his eyes was unmistakable. He took his customary seat at the head of the table and patted his knee.
“Sit here, lass,” he said. “Alasdair professes to know the secret of acquiring goose milk.”
Squirming with self-importance, the lad said, “Care you to listen again, Mother?”
She cared a little more for the chance to sit on Drummond’s knee. He drew her down. The muscles of his thigh rippled beneath her buttocks and his hand felt secure at her waist. To maintain her balance, she wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
“Now?” said Alasdair.
“Now,” answered Drummond.
All animation, the lad leaned forward. “To acquire the rare and precious milk of the goose, you must first acquire a pail and then chase a goose to ground.”
Drummond said, “How does one tell a goose from a gander?”
Alasdair’s face went blank. Then he rallied, pointing a finger in the air. “Only a skilled goose hunter can know for certain.”
Drummond nodded sagely. “One such as yourself.”
“As myself,” Alasdair chirped. “Well, once you’ve caught the goose, you hold her over the pail and say, ‘Give up your milk, goose. I do command thee.’ You must say it three times with no mistakes.”
“And then what happens?” Drummond asked.
Scooting close, Alasdair tweaked Drummond’s nose. “The goose pinches you, because everyone knows there’s no such thing as goose milk!” Holding his sides, he fell back onto the table and chortled with glee.
Drummond rolled his eyes and laughed so hard his shoulders shook.
“You’ll toss me to the floor,” Johanna complained.
Eyes twinkling, Drummond murmured, “Only when I’ve a mind to invoke St. Ninian.”
Johanna blushed to her toes. “A win to you, my lord.”
His pleasure filled gaze scoured her face. “Then for my boon, I’d have our rowdy lad sleep in the barracks tonight.”
As quick as a cat, Alasdair rolled onto all fours. “May I, Mother? May I please?” The drawn out plea, accompanied by soulful eyes and a pouting lower lip, robbed her of denial.
“Very well, but I forbid you to bring home bad habits from the huntsman.”
“Hooray!” As quickly as it had come, Alasdair’s exuberance fled. “Mother, can a man learn to snore?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Anticipating her next words, Drummond’s hand tightened on her waist. “But your father has perfected the skill. They say he’s the most resonant snorer in Christendom.”
Awe rounded out Alasdair’s features. “Are you, Father?”
Under his breath, Drummond said, “I’ll get you for that.” To Alasdair, he said, “Trouble yourself not over it now, Son. You’ve years to perfect the craft, and your mother has something to give you.”
“The item we discussed earlier?” she said.
“Aye, I saw you bring it in.”
She went to the door, fetched the weapon, and put it on the table. Alasdair’s earlier excitement paled.
Fidgeting, the lad drew close. “What is it?”
“’Tis my sword.”
Sucking in his breath and looking as if he were about to touch a holy relic, Alasdair reached out for the weapon.
“I haven’t the strength to free it from the scabbard,” Johanna said.
Drummond seemed distracted, probably reliving the many battles he’d fought. Smiling in support, she placed her hand on his shoulder.
He glanced up. “Then you’ve never seen the blade?”
“No, but I’m sure it’s very fine. I mean I remember it being fine.”
“I want to see it,” Alasdair said, transfixed.
Drummond emitted a half laugh and picked up the weapon. With one hand on the scabbard and the other on the frayed leather grip, his well-muscled arms bulged as he pulled. The tendons in his neck grew ropy from the strain. To Johanna’s surprise, metal scraped against metal as the double-edged
sword emerged from the sheath. But the blade itself was a ragged stump no longer than her forearm.
“What happened to it?” she said.
“It met the knee of Edward the First.”
Containing her shock, Johanna spoke softly for Alasdair’s benefit. “You wounded him in battle?”
“Nay.” He handed the sword to Alasdair, who cradled it as if it were a swaddled babe. “He broke it over his knee. ’Tis a custom of English kings, to blunt the swords of vanquished enemies.”
Drummond had been forced to surrender his sword. Johanna’s heart ached for him and the great blow his pride had suffered. “Well, I hope he had a healthy bruise to show for it.”
With his eyes, Drummond smiled at her. “We’ll see if the blacksmith can fashion a new blade,” he said.
Encouraged by his good spirits, Johanna said, “Had I known it would render Alasdair speechless, I would have given it to him years ago.”
“Now that I’ve yielded my sword for a second time, lass, have you trinket to replace it?”
As Drummond expected, she gasped in mortification and stepped back.
As prissy as a spinster, she lifted her chin. “I’ll just see how the meal’s coming along.”
He watched her go, wondering how he could find out her true identity. He had intentionally spouted insults about Clare, hoping this woman would grow angry enough to trip herself up. Instead, he’d hurt her feelings. Clare had been deeply sympathetic at the death of Drummond’s son. She had not cared that the lad was the child of his mistress. He must find a way to put that hurt to rights, but he could not, not until the lass opened her heart to him.
“Father, may I take this with me to the barracks tonight?”
“Nay, Alasdair.” When the lad’s face fell, Drummond added, “But you may take the scabbard.”
Satisfied, he went back to examining the sword.
Watching him, Drummond wondered if his son could provide information about her. But Drummond felt guilty at the thought of prying information from one so young. Still, he must have answers.
“Alasdair, where is your mother’s harp?”
“Harp?” He screwed up his face in confusion. “Heckley’s otter dog has more musical talent than Mother. That’s what she has of it.”
Drummond wasn’t surprised; the woman masquerading as Clare shared her appearance, but little else. “Did you know that your mother received a message from Sister Margaret today?”
The lad shrugged, engrossed in picking the crumbling leather wrappings from the handle of the weapon. “She sends me candles for my birthday.”
Drummond peered through the hearth into the kitchen. He could see the blue fabric of her skirt next to Evelyn’s plain gray smock. They conversed in normal tones, but he could not make out their words. Knowing the reverse was also true, he casually said, “Does anyone else write to your mother?”
Head down, Alasdair said, “Aunt Meridene. She sends me clothing that is embroidered with a very fine hand. She’s an expert with a needle, you know.”
“What of your aunt Johanna?”
Alasdair looked up and blinked in confusion. “She’s dead, and it makes Mother very sad to talk about her. She loved her well.”
Drummond struggled to hide his shock. No mention had been made of the woman’s death. Clare had not— He stopped the thought. The lass was not Clare. But one of her actions would lead him to the truth, of that he was certain. “So no one else writes to your mother.”
“The cloth merchant does.” Using both hands, Alasdair brandished the sword. “I told you he has an affection for her.”
A short-lived affection, Drummond thought. But as he stared at the broken blade of his sword, he forgot her correspondence. An ugly suspicion had entered his mind.
Clare could be an illegitimate daughter of Edward I. But Drummond would bet every drop of his Scottish blood that she did not know of the relation. His stomach soured at the alternative, for it meant that she had willingly lain with her half brother. No. Clare had not known. But if the old Edward was her father and the new king Edward her half brother, it all made sense.
Out of loyalty to his bastard daughter, Edward I had spared Drummond’s life and given this plot of land to Clare. Through her, it would pass to Alasdair.
Where was Clare, and who was the lass who’d captured Drummond’s heart? Surely another Plantagenet bastard, a cousin or a younger sister. A king’s daughter. But why would a father brand his own flesh and blood? And why would a prince admit to an affair with his own half sister? Because he hadn’t been told.
Although his mind swam with theories and possibilities, Drummond knew he was close to learning the truth.
When the table had been cleared and Alasdair delivered to the barracks, Drummond dismissed the maid. Then he took his woman’s hand and led her to the hearth, where he’d spread a blanket. “Bide here with me, lass.”
She came willingly, but this woman had boldness to spare. She also had a secret. “The floor, my lord?”
“I heard no complaints this afternoon. When I loved you on a desk.”
In a move of pure grace, she lowered herself to the pallet and kicked off her slippers. “Nor will you hear a protest now.”
He dropped down beside her, plucked an iron from the bucket of utensils and stoked the fire. The golden light accentuated her fair features and turned her hair to shimmering silk.
“Will you play your harp for me?”
Her gaze darted from the flames, to the mantel, to her hands. “I haven’t played in so many years, Drummond, I doubt I could strum the simplest lay.”
He had given the harp to Clare upon her arrival in the Highlands, and she played with the skill of the finest minstrels. “Have you the instrument still?”
“No. I’m sorry, for it meant much to me.”
Had Clare taken the harp with her? Where was Clare? The longer the answer eluded him, the more anxious he became. “What happened to the harp?”
She glanced up at him, her expression rife with regret. “I sold it to Glory.”
He noted that her eyes tilted up in the corners a tiny bit. Unlike Clare’s. On closer inspection, her nose was straighter and the bridge higher than Clare’s. She suffered his scrutiny with good grace, although she was clearly uncomfortable.
“I needed the money to hire Sween and to pay the glazier.”
He basked in the honest statement, for a lie would have been easily discovered upon Glory’s return. “I should like to hire the glazier back.”
“Will you commission a window for the chapel?”
“I should, I suppose, but I rather enjoy the battlement. I thought to glass in the crenels and add a roof.”
She removed her linen coif and let down her hair. “Do, and Alasdair will claim it for his own. He loves to patrol it at night.”
Her hair was of a wavier texture than Clare’s, and it varied with a dozen hues from sunny yellow to honey gold. He couldn’t resist training his rough palm over the thick braid. “I had more intimate pastimes in mind for the battlement, and Alasdair will do as he’s told.”
“You show great confidence, my lord. A mistake, I fear, where our son is concerned.”
Our son. She had no intention of baring her soul to him, not voluntarily, and the knowledge hurt. She must have good reason to keep her secrets. In her little finger, this woman possessed more character and strength of will than any noble he’d ever known. And why not? She was a king’s daughter. Her courage troubled Drummond, though, for he had hoped to hear the truth from her lips.
“What weighty thoughts occupy you? Surely you do not worry over Alasdair?”
“Nay. I asked Bertie to stay with him.” He gave her a lecherous smile. “We are alone.”
Her brows lifted. “What have you done with Evelyn?”
“Evelyn has done something with herself, and I’m certain you will disapprove.”
“Then it must involve John Handle’s eldest son.”
Drummond had to smile. “Doe
s anything in Fairhope escape your notice?”
“Your long hair has not. Shall I shear it before we go to Dumfries?”
“You can trim it now.”
“Oh, no. Alasdair fights like a badger every time I take the shears to him. I expect you to be a good example for him.”
“We leave on Saturday.”
“Why? The journey requires only three days’ travel.”
The fire popped and crackled; Drummond added another log. “Not on a plodding elephant.”
“Can you not leave him here with Morgan Fawr?”
Drummond chuckled remembering the last time he’d left Longfellow behind. “When I left the Tower of London without him, I had walked only as far as Billingsgate when he trumpeted loud enough to wake the French. As soon as he started battering the walls, they let him go.”
She laughed, too. “That must have been a sight, Longfellow barreling after you in Londontown. Some of the streets are narrower than he.”
He’d caught her in a blatant lie, for Clare had never been to London. This woman could easily have traveled to London—to visit her father.
If she knew her birthright. But the more Drummond studied her, the less convinced he was that she knew. He craved knowledge of this woman, her past, and the needs in her heart. “When were you there?”
“Never. But I know many who have. Red Douglas, Sheriff Hay, even Sween. They all tell a different tale.”
Relief flooded him, for he believed her. “Do you care to go?”
“No, Drummond. I am truly content here. But tell me, how do you manage to go a-hunting and leave Longfellow here?”
“He has a truly marvelous nose. His old handler swore that the beast could smell as far as an eagle could see. I believe ’tis true, but I hesitate to put it to the test.”
“We can forgo a luggage cart?”
“True, unless you’d like to ride atop him with me? A tent would shelter us from the elements and prying eyes.”
“Think you to … to …” Her face a picture of maidenly modesty, she turned up her hands. “To do that on an elephant?”