by Arnette Lamb
Both girls had been surprised that the king knew of their existence and that he wanted Johanna’s identity kept a secret. They had asked Sister Margaret, a Scotswoman, to confirm the information, but the abbess had been too upset over Clare’s leaving to address the questions. Johanna had comforted the older woman until she slept. Still wide-awake, Johanna had gone to the larder to be sure there were enough provisions to feed their royal guests.
Strange voices had interrupted her inventory of the stores. What had come next still chilled her to her soul.
“You look far away.”
At the sound of Drummond’s voice, she jumped. He leaned close and whispered, “And perplexed.”
She was, but he’d never know why, for she did not herself understand the events of that long-ago night. Nor would she ponder them now.
Nibbling the berry tart, she considered all that Clare had told her about him and drew upon a solid fact. “I was merely wondering if you still have a sweet tooth.”
He didn’t believe her, his closed expression told her so. “And I,” he said obliquely, “wonder many things about you.”
Feeling badgered and on the brink of losing control, she rose. “That’s very interesting, my lord. But if you’ll excuse me, I’ll check to see if the huntsmen have returned. Bertie will show you to your chamber.”
She exited the room and raced down the stairs. When she reached the entryway she heard footsteps behind her.
“What did you mean by ‘my chamber’?”
“We will occupy separate chambers.”
“When badgers fly!”
“I have fulfilled my wifely duty. Alasdair stands as proof of that.”
“As will his brothers and sisters to come.”
Johanna froze. “You cannot possibly expect me to—”
“To what?” he said, suddenly standing so close behind her she could feel the warmth of his body. “Fulfill your wifely duty? You took to it well enough, Clare. Even in travail, you offered little complaint, or so I was told.”
Speechless, Johanna stared at the main doors. The lighted lamps mounted in sconces on the wall cast shadows on the portal: a man towering over a woman. The images appeared ordinary, a direct contrast to the unusual problems that raged between them. The taller shadow moved, closer, and as she watched, her heart hammering, she felt his hand snake around her waist. Then his lips touched her neck.
She gasped and twisted free, only to be pinned, facing him, her back against the heavy wooden portal. The ironwork braces pressed into her shoulder blades. His hands framed her face. He leaned against her, a bold challenge in his eyes.
“Cry peace with me, Clare,” he whispered, “and for the sake of our future, I will try to forgive you.”
Caught in the trap of his masculine power, she longed to bolt, but her legs wouldn’t obey. From somewhere inside her, the unfulfilled woman yearned for the contentment he offered, and while she knew next to nothing about Drummond Macqueen, she instinctively knew that on this matter he spoke the truth.
How could she beg forgiveness for a sin Clare had committed in the noblest of causes? Yet how could she not when her future and all she loved and had strived to achieve hung in the balance?
Oh, Lord, she had no answers, not when her life had been turned tapsal-teerie and his nearness made her insides churn with longing.
He leaned closer and tilted his head to the side. Then she felt his lips on her neck, his fingers moving the high neckline of her bliaud aside. She trembled beneath the velvet touch of his mouth, and her mind whirled with exotic visions. She swayed, and he hauled her full against him, his heated breath escaping in a rush.
The embrace was a maiden’s dream, being swept up by a man whose desire for her overrode his loathing. Being that woman seemed a treasure too precious to relinquish, no matter the risk.
“Ah, you do remember that I am the master of your passion.”
His acceptance of her as his wife fired Johanna’s courage. Of their own volition her fingers walked up his chest and plunged into his hair. Like a visitor seeking entry, her virginal dreams stood on the threshold of fulfillment. In an instant she could step completely into the role of Clare Macqueen, wife.
What, her soul cried out, would become of Johanna, then? As he continued to caress her, she knew that by yielding to him, her own identity would irretrievably slip away.
When his mouth moved to hers and he hummed a manly groan, she stopped thinking about who she was and who she was supposed to be. Images of the woman she would become and the man who would shape her future filled her thoughts.
The stories she had told Alasdair of his father might well come true. Drummond would become her gallant knight, slaying life’s dragons and pledging his love to her.
He stopped and drew back. His eyes glowed midnight blue and his lips shone with dampness from the kiss. “You taste sweet, like honey.”
She stared at the finely worked brooch securing the Macqueen plaid at his shoulder. “’Tis the dessert tarts. I make them with honey.”
“You once said such chores were the work of servants.”
Yes, Clare would have said that, but unlike Johanna, the amenable Clare had always stepped forward to accept the responsibility of visiting the sick and entertaining guests at the abbey. In her youth, Johanna had easily grown bored with the idle conversation of clerics, and she had no time for social calls. However in the past seven years she had come to enjoy both, for the villagers repaid her kindness with respect and loyalty.
At a loss for anything but the truth, she said, “I am not the naive girl you married.”
“Nay, you’re not. You’ve become a desirable woman.”
He kissed her again and held her tighter, his hands roaming her back and circling her waist. As if intrigued, he mapped the slope of her ribs and the flare of her hips, and when his tongue nudged her lips apart and raked a slippery path across her mouth, Johanna felt her judgment flee. Her fingers tightened in his hair and the strands felt thick against her palms. When his tongue thrust forward and invaded her mouth, she thought it the most heavenly intimacy imaginable. She tasted honey on his lips, and the sweet flavor made her want more.
Following his lead, she glided her tongue against his and awaited his next move. He jerked and drew back a little. She lifted heavy lids.
A confused frown marred his brow. “Who taught you to enjoy kissing in the French fashion?”
She’d received only two adult kisses in her life, both just now from Drummond Macqueen. A gamble seemed her only option. “You did.”
Disappointment chased the glow from his eyes. He did not speak, but she could see his denial and knew that Clare had not enjoyed what he called the French way of kissing. In her eagerness Johanna had erred. Common sense told her she would do so again, and probably often. Pray her future mistakes were minor ones.
Desperate for a return to their momentary accord, she gave him a smile. “It was you, for I know no Frenchmen, save the almoner at Sweetheart Abbey.”
He glared at her, the heat in his eyes both intimate and distanced by mistrust. She also saw weakness and distraction there. For the first time in her life, Johanna felt the power of a woman to stir a man and turn him from his anger. The desire that smoldered in his eyes was dampened by the questions unanswered. If she used her newfound power, seduced Drummond or allowed him to seduce her, could she retain her lands, her son, and hold on to her true identity?
He shrugged. “’Tis a small matter. I always did like kissing more than you—unless we were in our chambers with the door bolted and the lamps extinguished.”
An odd comment, for surely any woman would enjoy his amorous attentions. Evidently Clare had been choosy in her displays of affection. Pondering the why of her sister’s objection would only complicate Johanna’s already formidable task.
His hands circled her wrists and he pulled her hands free. “Perhaps we should retire.”
It was too soon. She needed time to explore her new powers and learn he
r alternatives. “Retire to where?”
He guided her hand to the waist of his leather trews, then lower. “You haven’t lost the ability to rouse my passions, Clare. In truth, you’re better at it now.”
Aghast at where her boldness had led, Johanna jerked her hand away. “I assure you,” she stammered. “’Twas not my intention to … to do any such thing. We hardly know each other.”
A knowing grin softened his features. “Coyness sits well upon you. ’Tis an appealing trait in a wife, so long as she leaves it outside my bedchamber.”
The last two words made her shiver.
“Do you quake from cold or from desire, Clare?”
She’d suffer a stoning before she’d confess the feelings he aroused. Ducking under his arm, she headed for the stairs. A nasty lie sprang from her lips. “Neither, my lord, and I will never beg your forgiveness or share your bed.”
As if he were taking a leisurely stroll, he moved toward her. “Aye, you will—at my command.” He grabbed her then and pulled her roughly into his embrace.
The kiss was a crude parody of the gentler ones they’d shared moments before, and she wondered if he hadn’t been suddenly possessed by a demon. His lips were everywhere at once; on her face, her neck, her breasts, and his hands followed in pursuit. She backed away, but he crushed her against the curved stone wall. The harsh sound of his breathing echoed in her ears.
Horrified by the change in him, she moved her head away and opened her mouth to scream. His lips crashed down on hers and his hands turned viselike on her arms. Against her belly, she felt his hardness.
Suddenly she knew what he intended to do with it. The word rape blared in her mind. “Stop!”
“I cannot, Clare.” He pulled at her clothing and wedged his knee between her legs. “It’s been too long, and you belong to me.”
When he lifted her skirt, she grew desperate. Pulling on his hair to get his attention, she yelled, “I do not. Save your breath and your pawings, for I have no wish to be mauled by an animal.”
He grew as still as a post. “What did you call me?”
Now that he seemed to have gained control of himself, Johanna’s fear turned to anger. “An animal.”
Perspiration glistened on his brow. “I’m no animal.”
The despair in his voice puzzled her, but she refused to dwell on it; she had to put a distance between them. Harsh words seemed her best weapon. “You tore at my clothing. You mauled me.”
He moved away and ran his hands through his hair. Pressing his palms to his temples, he murmured, “I am not an animal.”
Seizing the moment, she picked up her skirt and started up the stairs. At the landing, she looked back. Still clasping his head as if in pain, he dropped to his knees. Had she not been so afraid she might have felt concern for him.
As she continued her retreat, she heard him murmur something that sounded like a pledge, but she was too far away to discern the words.
Chapter 5
I am not an animal.
As if he’d drunk too much ale the night before, Drummond felt weak, his stomach sour, his head spinning with regrets. Exhaustion added to his misery, for he’d sat on the floor in the entryway and stared at the torches until the flames had burned themselves out. Then he’d made his way here, to the solar.
He hadn’t tried to sleep, knew he couldn’t, not indoors. Every night since his release, he’d slept in the open. In Dunstable he’d purchased a fast horse and kept the stallion at the ready. He half expected the king’s men-at-arms to overtake him, bringing word that Edward II had rescinded the order of clemency.
Dwelling on the prospect that he might be returned to prison was merely a diversion, for Drummond knew what had caused his current distress: her accusation and the painful memories it spawned.
To deflect his thoughts, he again studied his surroundings. In the rosy light of dawn, the sparsely furnished solar appeared functional, and not what he had envisioned. No musical instruments graced the room, no trinkets and games. This was a working room.
The ledgers were neatly kept, the figures correctly totaled. Frugality had enabled Clare to earn a profit after her third year at Fairhope. Last fall she had commissioned a new chapel and still managed to post a handsome surplus, part of which she sent to her overlord. She hadn’t, as Drummond expected, squandered money on padded furniture and costly gowns. The quills were plain, the ink of common making; she’d even abandoned the looping style of fashioning her letters. The only extravagance in this room and throughout the tower was the glass.
The east facing windows served as a portal for the morning sun and offered a clear view of the main gate. Moments before, the huntsmen had returned, an impressive roe buck slung over the withers of the leader’s horse; braces of squirrels and partridges adorned the other mounts. A messenger had rushed into the castle, and even now, the servants were stirring, carrying water and clanging pots.
Would his wife arise soon? Would she come here?
Last night when he’d first kissed her, she had been yielding, as she had years before, but this time he’d noticed a curiosity and a willingness to participate and explore. That had surprised him more than his own loss of control. She had been the last woman he’d possessed prior to his capture, and in spite of what had occurred last night, or perhaps because of it, the thought of seeing her again awakened his morning lust.
He had been eager, but his actions had not been beastly, not in the way she meant. A man should desire his wife, and Drummond’s action had nothing to do with animalistic behavior. He’d never before been blinded by his desire for her; Clare had accepted her wifely duty, but she had never before encouraged him.
She thought and acted differently now. Her shallowness was gone, replaced by intelligence. Selfishness had matured to strength of character, and wifely obligations had ripened into feminine need. Why, then, had she rejected him?
Because he’d mauled her.
Nay. Never. He closed the ledger and pounded his fist on the wooden binding. He had not hurt her. He’d frightened her, but how? She knew well his passions, had suffered them in their marriage bed—except during the daylight hours or upon waking. She had always declined his lovemaking first thing in the morning. But Clare had never liked rising early.
And what of her refusal to bear him more children? That affront wounded him to his soul. She had enjoyed her pregnancy; her skin had glowed with impending motherhood, and she often cajoled him into fetching her tarts and cheeses in the middle of the night.
He didn’t seem to know her anymore. It was almost as if another woman had stepped into her body. That absurdity made him smile, but his humor was short-lived.
Had he changed as much to her? Probably, but she’d made him a cuckold and never expressed regret. She’d passed herself off as his widow and never bothered to confirm his death. She’d left him to rot in the Tower of London.
He picked up a yellowed parchment, the royal writ signed seven years ago by Edward I, granting her this property. The writ also prohibited her and Alasdair any congress with his kin. That order rankled, for it had served no great purpose. Drummond’s younger brother had not yielded to the old king, but had been waiting to face him in battle when Edward had died while bringing yet another army northward.
The damage done by Edward I’s writ involved a simple sadness, a family tragedy. He’d separated a man from his son and a lad from his culture.
Now Drummond must right the wrongs of a dead king without angering the living one. Teaching Alasdair about his heritage should prove easy, for the lad was still young enough to mold. Stepping back into the role of husband afforded a greater challenge, for Drummond’s wife wanted nothing to do with him. He must change that.
But sometime later, when she entered the room and halted just inside the doorway, Drummond could only stare.
She wore an underdress of crisp, white linen; the high, rounded neckline and the edges of the long sleeves were embellished with tiny embroidered leaves. The rust-c
olored bliaud turned her eyes a tawny brown and accented the golden hues in her hair, which she’d wound into a simple coil at the nape of her neck. She looked slender and youthful, and as distant as the moon.
“Good morrow,” he said, rising.
She crossed to the desk, her gaze scouring the papers he’d been examining. “What are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t sleep, and—” Incensed that guilt would induce him to explain himself, he resumed his seat. “I like this room, Clare.”
She picked up the ledgers and the royal writ. “I hope you haven’t smudged the ink on my papers.”
He noticed that her hands shook, and he relaxed a little, for she was obviously as uncomfortable as he. “Our papers.”
“You’re correct, of course.” She slipped the official document into the top ledger and returned the stack to the wall shelf. Then she headed for the door.
“Wait I want to talk with you.”
Halting, she placed a hand on the door frame. “How delightful.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.”
“Pray tell what does, husband mine?”
Husband mine? She made being married to him sound like a cross to bear. “Common courtesy would be a helpful start.”
“Common?” She turned to face him. “A quaint word, and precisely the way I feel, after…”
“After I tried to exercise my husbandly rights?”