by Arnette Lamb
“Mother.” He sprang from the bed and took up his sword, which he jabbed at an invisible opponent. “A sister would also be a good idea because she could marry an important lord and I”—he poked his chest with his thumb—“would have someone to spar with.”
This talk of a little sister had to stop. She’d managed to evade Drummond, and given the time, she knew she could convince him that a marriage in name only would perfectly suit their purposes. But each time he made her laugh or put a smile on Alasdair’s face, she found herself wanting him for a true husband. When he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, she couldn’t help wishing that they’d just met and he was beginning to love her.
She could eradicate the brand. She could make certain, on a given night, that Drummond drank too much ale. She could approach him, smiling, and reach for his hand. He’d wrap her in his arms, and she’d ask him why his kisses made her feel hollow inside. The thought made her shiver with excitement.
But sooner or later, he’d call her Clare and his mouth would pinch with distrust. Love would shrivel in her heart—until the next time, when he managed to forget what Clare had done.
“Did you hear me, Mother? A sister will make me a better leader of men.”
The price of loving Drummond Macqueen was too high for Johanna Benison to pay. The devil with husbands. “Who told you that?”
“Father did, and Sheriff Hay said ’twas so.”
She snatched up the chance to change the subject. “You must thank him for your new book.”
From his pouch he pulled out a narrow strip of leather decorated with feathers and wooden beads. “I made him this. It’s for tying game to his saddle.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you.”
“I thought it up myself. Except the feathers. Glory said they would sweeten a huntsman’s game. Is that true? Sween said Glory wouldn’t know sweet if it crawled in her bed.”
“I expect Sween’s opinion of Glory is tainted.”
“Aye,” he said solemnly. “Because she wet another man’s wick.”
“What did you say?”
He drew in a breath, but held it, his gaze blank with confusion. Then he focused on her. “No one will tell me the gist of it, but I shan’t need a lucky charm to make me a good hunter. Father will teach me.”
She let the crude remark pass, for if she belabored it, he’d wear out the phrase until she explained its meaning. Drummond could better define male vulgarities. He’d probably excel at that.
“When will you give the sheriff his gift?” she asked.
He puffed out his chest and slid a glance at the door. “At table.”
He was excited about being included tonight, and she wanted to be sure the evening went smoothly for him. “You could give it to him there. I’m certain the other men will admire the gift.”
He watched her closely, his intelligent mind sensing that she’d given him something to ponder. After a lengthy consideration, he hesitantly said, “Will they laugh at it?”
“Certainly not. I should think they’ll praise it. What will you say if they do?”
He examined the contraption, his shoulders slumped, his face a picture of regret. “I’ll want to give them one, but I cannot make more tonight.”
He’d always been a bright child. “And you will feel uncomfortable.”
“Yes. What would I do?”
“The sheriff will be here for a few days. You could give it to him tomorrow or the next day.”
“Whew!” He plopped down on the bed.
The bell rang; Evelyn would begin serving dinner in half an hour. Thinking she should check the preparations, Johanna rose.
“Wait!” Alasdair took his time returning the game cord to its pouch. “Does Red Douglas eat carrots?”
The innocuous question, coupled with his slow movements, piqued her curiosity. “You’re dawdling, Alasdair. Why?”
“Me?” He stared at the ceiling, the floor, and the hem of his jerkin.
His expression was so sheepishly innocent she almost laughed. “Yes, you, Alasdair Alexander Macqueen.”
Bottom lip protruding, he shrugged and tucked his chin to his shoulder. “I had many things to discuss with you. Now seems a good time.” He glanced at the door. He was certainly in no hurry to eat.
To test him, she said, “I hope Brother Julian doesn’t come to table early and start sampling the baked quinces.”
Alasdair ran to the door, leaned into the hallway and looked left and right. Johanna followed him. Spying her, he jumped back inside and blocked her way. Fumbling behind him, he closed the door. “You had better brush my hair again.”
“You little trickster. I just brushed your hair.”
He took her arm and dragged her back into the room. “Please?”
“What are you up to?”
“Nothing.” Guilt made his voice break. “I’m just … just preventing an embarrassing moment.” Grabbing the brush, he shoved it in her hand. “Red Douglas might think me a ruffian.”
She raked her thumb across the bristles. “I doubt he would think you anything but a trustworthy, honest lad, who never lies to his mother.”
Wincing, he stepped closer and bent his head. “Please?”
It seemed important to him that she relent. He’d tell her what was on his mind, but in his own good time, and she had patience aplenty.
She drew the brush through his hair, it crackled with life. She thought of his father’s overlong mane and reminded herself to take the shears to him.
He’d been motherless since birth. Drummond hadn’t known the special love a mother and son could share. His mother had missed hearing his childish garbling. She had been denied the wonder of his first steps. Who had brushed Drummond’s hair or nursed his ills and tended his soul?
“Why do grown people hate children?”
Alasdair’s question interrupted her thoughts. Why was it that even in a crowd the sound of her son’s voice could distract her? She didn’t know but accepted it for the special gift it was.
“Mother?”
He often seemed too wise for one so young; tonight he seemed particularly vulnerable. “All grown people do not hate children.”
“Oh, yes, they do. The tailor chases me and the other lads out of his shop.”
“That’s because young lads have sticky, dirty fingers that ruin his cloth.”
Alasdair stood and stuck out his arms. “My hands are clean.” An idea gripped him, and he raced to the basin. “But I should wash them again.”
In the order of dislikes, washing his hands ranked just below studying Latin and having his cheeks pinched by the cobbler’s wife. Now Johanna knew he was up to something. She folded her arms. “Say what’s on your mind, Alasdair Macqueen, or you’ll be facing a truly embarrassing moment —when I make your excuses to your father and Red Douglas.”
“You cannot!” He screwed up his face in concentration. “Red Douglas is sure to like me now that I have a father.”
He was troubled and captive to a young man’s hesitance. Feeling guilty, Johanna moved to reassure him. “It’s not that Douglas doesn’t like you. He simply has a different way of dealing with children.”
“I know.” Drying his hands on a towel, he declared in a booming voice, “Keep the lads in the nursery till they learn where the privy is. And once they can sit a horse, foster the cubs out.” He shivered with too much revulsion.
Was Alasdair suddenly worried that she might send him away? “You will not go to foster. I’ve told you that.”
Again, he glanced at the door. “What does Father say?”
An ugly suspicion banished her motherly concern. She’d bet her chance for redemption that Alasdair was waiting for Drummond. The father was again manipulating the son for his own purposes. If so, she’d make Drummond wish he’d gone home to the Highlands. “Why don’t you ask your father?”
Exasperated, he flapped his arms. “I would, but he’s not here yet.” At her sharp glance, he winced.
A knock sounded at the door
. Alasdair scrambled to answer. “Father!” He tipped his head back and propped his hands on his hips. “You’re late.”
“You’re impudent.” Drummond stepped inside. His hair was still wet and slicked straight back, and his face was freshly washed. He wore a new leather jerkin, dyed black, and gray trunk hose. Under his arm he carried a small casket, and in his hand he held a bouquet of white heather and night-blooming sallies. “My apologies,” he said, then handed Alasdair the casket and Johanna the flowers.
Alasdair squatted on the floor to examine his gift. Johanna smelled the posies, but her grip was so shaky she had to clutch the stems with both hands. How dare he stroll into the room looking as handsome as sin and bearing gifts? He wasn’t supposed to want her, and she couldn’t risk falling in love with him.
“The white heather’s for good luck,” he said.
She suspected the gift was a ploy, but she’d never expected to have a husband bring her flowers. She felt a powerful urge to simper, but vanquished the weakness. He wasn’t the first man to bring her flowers. She wouldn’t lose her head over a simple gift or an endearing grin.
The present for Alasdair confused her. Why had Drummond given it to him here and now when guests awaited?
She sneaked a peek at him and found him staring at her clothes.
“The green favors you well,” he said, his brow smooth with contentment and his lips curved in a smile.
It was her best dress, a feather light wool with wide bands of black satin ribbon at the hem and the sleeves. She had considered his opinion because she’d wanted him to admire her tonight. She’d also chastised herself for doing so silly a thing.
Flustered, she murmured a thank you.
“Look, Mother!” Alasdair stood and held out one of a set of table knives. The blade had been finely honed and the wooden handle looked as if it fitted smoothly in the hand. Johanna was grateful that Drummond thought of Alasdair, but she was also curious. “Beautiful, Drummond, and an interesting gift for a lad, are they not?”
He glanced up quickly. “You’ve forgotten that, too?”
Here was another occasion of which she had no knowledge, but Clare would have. Would she never learn to keep her mouth shut? “Please jostle my memory.”
“We must commemorate Alasdair’s sharing his first meal with a clan chief. ’Tis a Highland custom. Do you not recall the night the Mackenzie chieftain dined with us and my younger brother Randolph received his knives? You fussed beyond measure over them and the practice.”
Although she’d been caught in another error, Johanna took heart. He had recalled a pleasantry about a kind and loving soul who’d reaped a bitter harvest of life. Poor Clare.
“What’s wrong?” Drummond said. “You look sad.”
Would that she could tell him and cleanse her soul. Instead, she committed another sin. “I’m not.” Then she took refuge in her son. “What do you think, Alasdair?”
His blue eyes rounded with awe, and he rubbed the knife handle with the pad of his thumb. “It has a wolf carved on it. See?” He handed it to Johanna. “It’s the symbol of the Macqueens. Did you know that I’m a branch off the mighty Macqueen tree?”
Tears thickened her throat. A father in Alasdair’s life was the answer to an oft-made prayer. But she’d never imagined that his true father would fill the role, for his presence spelled doom for her. However, her own troubles could wait. Drummond had kept his promise to teach his son about Scotland. Alasdair was happy. She intended to rejoice with both of them.
She tested the blade. “It’s very sharp, and the workmanship is as fine as any I’ve seen. Your guests will be most impressed, Alasdair.”
His sweet face broke into a grin that would one day win him the heart and the troth of a woman. Pray God they found harmony.
“Oh, thank you, Father.” He lunged at Drummond, who swept him up and perched him on his hip. “Tell me everything about my knives.”
“If the overlord takes one with him,” Drummond said, “it means he accepts you as his kinsman and feels welcome at any table in your kingdom.”
“His kinsman.” Alasdair mulled it over. “Do I have to stop being a Macqueen?”
“Never. You’re a Macqueen, Son, until the day after forever. God has deemed it so.”
“God sent you back to me.”
“Aye, he did.” Drummond winked and tossed a screaming Alasdair into the air.
Seeing them together, so alike in physical appearance and so happy with each other, filled Johanna with pride. Alasdair had always been a confident lad, and with Drummond’s influence, he’d have an understanding of the Macqueens who’d come before him. Regardless of what happened between her and Drummond, Alasdair would have the father and the future he needed. Any sacrifice on her part seemed worthy by comparison.
“Mother?” Regret shone in Alasdair’s eyes. “I told Father he could help me escort you to table, but I couldn’t let him face an embarrassing moment by being late to table. That’s why I was dawdling, and why I didn’t tell you the whole truth. Do you forgive me?”
Love twisted inside her. “Yes, I do. It was a very small omission, and your motives were honorable.” She glanced at Drummond and added, “And your own.”
A self-effacing grin enhanced his masculine appeal. “Even a beef-witted troll has his admirable traits.”
None more than you, her heart cried.
Alasdair hooted. “Mother called you a troll. A troll. Father’s a troll.”
“Enough, Son,” Drummond said. “And remember, you mustn’t repeat everything she says. Unless I command you.”
Silly and cocksure and enormously happy, Alasdair poked his father in the chest. “I command you to tell us why you were late.”
Drummond put him down. “Since you insist, Lord Alasdair, the woodcarver worked as quickly as he could, but he only just finished.”
Alasdair nodded and glanced from his father to Johanna. Then he stared at her flowers, his face a picture of concentration. What deep thoughts had him in their grip, she wondered. She glanced inquiringly at Drummond, who shrugged, amused.
“You know, Mother,” Alasdair finally said. “Heckley says that if you give me a sister, I’ll trip her in the lane and throw mud in her face. But you mustn’t believe him.”
If Drummond was enjoying her discomfort he didn’t show it, for his expression was serene. Since he didn’t seem interested in the subject, she would ignore it as well.
“I give you my word of honor, Mother.”
She’d had years of experience as a parent, and steering a young mind was her forte. “When did you see the fletcher?”
With the tip of his new knife, Alasdair gently ruffled the tiny white blossoms of the heather in her bouquet “Today. Father’s going on the hunt tomorrow and he needed Heckley to make his arrows.”
Drummond said, “I told Alasdair he could go a-hunting when he’s older.”
“I have to practice with my bow—” Alasdair slapped his hand over his mouth and sent his father a pained expression.
If Drummond had ignored her wishes and told Alasdair he could join the hunt she’d put bitters in his beer and thistles in his bed.
He sensed her disapproval and had the gall to look surprised. “Alasdair,” he said, putting the lad down. ‘Tell your mother what else I said about the hunt.”
Alasdair began pacing the floor, his arms behind his back, the knife clutched in his hands. “Hunting is dangerous, Mother. I may be old enough, but my pony’s too slow, and she might get hurt. A good hunter always looks after his mount. Valkyrie is my trusted friend. I also have to practice.”
As cheerful as a rooster at dawn, Drummond said, “And tell your mother when you will practice.”
“After my Latin lessons.”
Drummond fairly beamed at her, and Johanna felt her stomach float. Fatherly pride was a new experience for him, and she was reminded of all the times Alasdair had enriched her life. She felt a kindred spirit in Drummond. Could their shared concern for Alasdair b
ecome the cornerstone on which to build a future as man and wife? She didn’t know.
“We’re a family now, aren’t we?” Alasdair said.
Johanna could feel Drummond watching her, willing her to look at him. She did and was immediately sorry, for she saw regret, as only a wronged man could express it. She’d seen the look often enough on Sween.
“Aren’t we a family?” Alasdair repeated.
“And hungry at that,” she said and started for the door.
Satisfied, Alasdair replaced the knife and hefted the wooden box.
“One thing more,” said Drummond. “If Douglas brings up a subject of which you have knowledge, you may join in the discussion. You do not have to wait for him to specifically address you.”
Alasdair hitched up his hose and swaggered out the door. In the droll speech of a Yorkshireman, he said, “I shall endeavah to be entataining.”
Red Douglas adhered to the custom that dictated silence during meals. Little was said until Johanna signaled for Evelyn to clean the table and serve dessert.
“My lord,” she said to Douglas. “How do Mary and Bridgit fare?” Johanna had fostered the girls for three years.
With little feeling, he said, “They would as soon return to you.”
Alasdair said, “I taught Bridgit how to catch a lizard.”
The overlord leaned back and stretched. “Catching a husband is better sport for an unpromised girl.”
“Have you found them husbands?” Johanna asked.
“Both, and to titled Englishmen. They’ll wed at Michaelmas.”
To good men, she hoped. “Give them my best.”
Douglas belched and rubbed his belly. “Nothing like talk of a wedding to inspire a man to wet his wick.”
Alasdair piped up. “Sween says Mistress Glory’s good at wetting a man’s wick.”
Johanna’s mouth dropped open. Douglas burst out laughing. Drummond was choking with laughter. Brother Julian blustered. Sheriff Hay chuckled. Thank God Bertie wasn’t here; he’d’ve howled just to spite her.
Brother Julian cleared his throat “Douglas, the bishop at Sweetheart Abbey says the king is sure to name you a baron.”
A suddenly serious Douglas glared at Drummond. “I’d keep a peace with the Plantagenets. If Edward the Second goes against the Highlanders, where will you stand, Macqueen?”