Chieftain

by Arnette Lamb

  Shoulder to shoulder with my kinsmen, Drummond wanted to say, but his wife spoke first.

  “Lord Drummond says our new king has not the taste for Scotland that his father did. Edward the Second also doesn’t have the funds to finance a war against the clans.”

  Douglas sucked his teeth. “An English prison changed your mind, eh, Macqueen? We thought the old king had quartered you and nailed a piece of you on every city gate in England.”

  A feminine gasp sliced the air. Her complexion turned as white as snow on ice, and her jaw went stiff with shock. She was staring at Alasdair, who’d lost interest in his custard.

  Drummond glared at his guest. “A sorry subject to address at table, Douglas.”

  “Indeed,” she said, her color returning with a vengeance. “Lord Drummond has returned to us, and we praise God and his angels for the kindness.”

  “He was caught—”

  “What he did,” she interrupted, all righteous champion, “is his affair, Douglas. We shall leave it at that.”

  He shrugged. “Ramsay thinks the king’ll hand carry your pardon, signed and sealed by Parliament. You’ll be a free man and respected.”

  Stunned by her defense of him, Drummond wanted to hug her.

  “A pardon?” said Alasdair. “Who was in prison?”

  Douglas got to his feet. “Your father was, lad, and he looks none the worse for seven years in a London hellhole.”

  Alasdair balled his fists, and his face turned red with rage. “My father was not in prison. He was in heaven with the angels. Weren’t you, Father?”

  Douglas guffawed.

  Regret flooded Drummond. He should have told Alasdair, but he hadn’t known how. He glanced at his wife. Her expression said, Oh, God, why didn’t we tell him?

  Because we were too consumed with our own troubles, he silently replied.

  To Alasdair, Drummond said, “These are not proper subjects. We’ll discuss them later.”

  Douglas excused himself, but Alasdair didn’t notice that his overlord had hefted the knife, nodded his approval, and taken it with him. The lad had even abandoned his half-eaten custard. “May I retire?” He stared at the table.

  Everyone else stared at him.

  A fist squeezed Drummond’s chest. He hadn’t considered what effect his beliefs and actions would have on his son. He hadn’t considered that Alasdair didn’t know about greedy English kings who covet other men’s land. He hadn’t taught his son to love Scotland. But Clare had taught the lad to love Fairhope, where peace reigned. The lad must be told about victors and the vanquished, and Drummond prayed he could find the right words.

  He caught his wife’s gaze. “Enjoy your dessert.”

  At the word enjoy, she rolled her eyes, and he knew she’d enjoy nothing save an end to Alasdair’s misery. Drummond would do his best to oblige. He rose and rested his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Come with me, Alasdair.”

  The lad jerked away, but scrambled off the bench and stomped from the room with his father.

  Johanna watched them go, her heart breaking. Brother Julian mumbled his excuses and followed them out.

  “The lad’ll get over it,” said Ramsay.

  The heartless statement ignited a fire in Johanna. “You knew Drummond was alive. Why else would you expect the king to deliver his pardon?”

  He sat up straight, assuming his official posture. Candlelight winked on his golden chain of office, and his angular features appeared harsh. “He was under death sentence. The king could have hanged him at any time.”

  Oh, sweet Jesus, she thought, Drummond had carried that burden alone, for seven years. Had he awakened every day wondering if he’d live to see the sunset?

  “No one thought Edward the First would spare the chieftain.”

  Least of all Drummond, she thought. Enraged, she pushed the custard dish aside and leaned forward. “Ramsay, you’ve sat at this table a dozen times and heard Alasdair ask me if his father loved him. You could have saved me the grief his questions wrought.”

  “I thought you’d done your grieving.”

  “You hoped I had, but I never led you to believe that because my husband was dead I’d want you.”

  The insult stung, for he made a fist and pounded the table. “You never so much as mentioned him except in fable.”

  “What I carry in my heart is my affair.”

  “No longer, Clare,” he spat. “’Tis plain you love your husband.”

  Had she fallen in love with Drummond Macqueen? She felt many things where he was concerned, but she wasn’t sure if she loved him. She’d sooner ponder that question without an audience. “You had no right, Ramsay, to keep the truth from me.”

  His commanding air turned chilly. “I thought it best. What would you have done?”

  “I would have done as I saw fit.”

  “You’re unsuited to be a wife,” he grumbled. “You’re too independent.”

  She had not encouraged his affection. Rather she had considered him a trusted friend, and he had betrayed her. The painful shattering of an ideal was new to Johanna. Glory always said men and women couldn’t be true friends to each other. Sadly, she’d been correct.

  Resigned, Johanna said, “You’ve corrupted our friendship, Ramsay, and for that I am truly sorry.”

  “He will not find contentment here.”

  For the first time, Johanna felt the brunt of Ramsay’s oppressive will. No wonder little crime occurred in his domain. “Whether Lord Drummond prospers among us or returns to Scotland is not your concern.”

  “Ah.” He relaxed and toyed with the handle of his mug. “So your devoted husband told you nothing about the terms of his pardon. You’re strapped with him, Clare, for he’ll be put to the horn should he step foot in his beloved Highlands.”

  “Vengeance is unworthy of you.”

  “Clare?” he pleaded.

  Johanna’s mind whirled with denial. “Never address me by that name again. You tried to court me knowing my husband was alive. You would have made me an adulteress.”

  He cursed and stormed from the room, his golden chain clinking.

  She could erect a wall of politeness between her and the sheriff. Now she must insulate herself from a husband, for a husband she would have.

  Her search for him ended in the stables.

  “He and Alasdair took off on the stallion,” said Sween, who was sharing a pint with the farrier.

  “That explains why Longfellow is so restless. Did Drummond say where they were going?”

  “Nay, but he took a blanket and his flint and steel. I wouldn’t fret, my lady. The lad wanted to go. Macqueen’ll put things to rights with him. Alasdair never could hold his temper for long. It was rough news for him.”

  “You heard?” She desperately hoped Drummond could build a bridge across Alasdair’s shattered illusions.

  He moved his head from side to side. “Bloody Plantagenet devils.”

  “And the sheriff, too, Sween. He knew.” She blinked back tears. “All these years, he knew.”

  Sween took her hand. “You and Alasdair thought well of him. For that I am sorry.”

  With men like Sween in his life, Alasdair would soon forget the sheriff. She gave Sween a half grin. “Glory was correct, you know.”

  He huffed. “She’s as wrong as beaks on badgers.”

  Arguing the point offered a respite from the cruelties of the day. Johanna grasped it. “And you’re as stubborn as faith on sin. You do not deserve her.”

  “So she tells me. I’ll do as I may with the wench.”

  Johanna knew that for a truth. “I wish you peace, Sween Handle.”

  ‘To you, my lady. Your men’ll not return this night. Shall I walk you back to the keep?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  She had business better done alone. Her sister had sinned by lying with a man who was not her husband. Johanna would do the same. Pity she couldn’t tell Drummond the truth. Perhaps she could some day. But now was her chance to take an
irrevocable step toward becoming his wife and consigning herself to a life of new sins.

  Chapter 11

  They’d fashioned a shelter and built a fire in the heart of a stand of beeches. Woodsmoke scented the air. Stars filled the sky. Biting insects were content to buzz, and the fire was inclined to blaze. Droning and crackling, the night came alive with sound. Most compelling was the hushed breathing of a father who didn’t know where to begin and a son who didn’t know what to say.

  Drummond stared at the fire, and on the edge of his vision he saw Alasdair’s boots. Seated beside him on a log, Alasdair tapped his feet together, scuffing his heels in the dirt and displaying his indecision. Dust from the road coated the lad’s hose, as did an assortment of dried leaves and twigs.

  On the short journey, a silent Alasdair had ridden before Drummond on the stallion. Gamely, the lad had gripped the horse’s mane and used his legs to keep his balance. Once at the clearing, Drummond had ambled off to collect firewood. Alasdair had foraged in the opposite direction.

  Where to start? Instinctively Drummond shied from the cause of the trouble; best to begin with a cheery topic. What would lighten Alasdair’s heart and encourage him to talk? In his silence, he was like his mother. But Alasdair wasn’t exactly ignoring Drummond, for if wounded feelings were sounds, the lad verily shouted in pain. Where did an inexperienced father begin?

  With the toe of his boot, Drummond nudged a smoldering log. Plumes of sparks whooshed into the air, and an owl screeched in protest. Nothing in Drummond’s past had prepared him for the discussion to come. In the Macqueen family, lads weren’t allowed to suffer bruised spirits or confused emotions. Ill humors and melancholy were female conditions. Drummond saw the error in that conviction; if a lad or lass hurt, a parent should ease the pain. More than anything, he wanted to ease Alasdair’s.

  “Did you know that Douglas took your knife when he left the table?”

  In a small, sad voice, Alasdair said, “He laughed at me.”

  “He thought the knife fine.”

  Alasdair drew up his legs and rested his chin on his knees. “Before that he laughed. When I talked about Glory wetting a man’s wick.”

  So the lad wasn’t ready to brave the lion’s den of their problem either. Drummond took heart; given enough time, he’d find a way to set things right with Alasdair. “You should worry more over your mother’s reaction to what you said than Douglas’s. He was entertained. She was taken aback.”

  Alasdair glanced up, his gaze clear and direct, like that of his mother. “She wouldn’t talk to me. That’s how you know when she’s truly angry with you. You can jump up and down and howl like a wolf, and she pretends you aren’t even there.”

  “She’s a master of it.” Drummond felt the weight of his burden ease. “She ignored me for the last three days.”

  Alasdair contemplated the fire. “The longest she ever ignored me was one day. I broke wind in church on purpose. What did you do?”

  He had not uttered the word father, and Drummond missed it dreadfully. “I did a dreadful thing. ’Twas the night we tricked her into telling you a story. She had a right to take offense.”

  Picking up a twig, Alasdair began snapping it into pieces. “But she always tells me stories.”

  Unsure of how to proceed, Drummond chose honesty. “’Twasn’t about the story. ’Twas because we connived behind her back. She doesn’t like being tricked.”

  Alasdair swung his head toward Drummond. Hurt dulled the luster in the lad’s eyes. “Why did we do it then?”

  Dozens of answers came to mind, but they involved husbandly pride, intimate promises, and other adult complexities that Alasdair wouldn’t understand. “’Twas not we, but me who shoulders the blame.”

  “Why?”

  “Reasonable circumstances forced her to decline to read you a story. I gave her no choice in the matter.”

  “Bertie was already asleep?”

  “Aye. I was wrong to prey on her love for you.”

  “Did you tell her so?”

  “Nay, but I will.”

  “Good. She likes to talk about love.”

  “Does she? What does she say?”

  “She loves to see Sween smile at Glory, but he doesn’t often.” He pursed his lips. “She loves to hold little babies, and doesn’t even care if their nappies are soiled—”

  Something rustled the bushes. Alasdair started. “Do you think it’s her?”

  Drummond listened for a whinny of alarm from his horse, but heard none. He hadn’t expected her to follow, for she’d voiced no complaint when he and Alasdair left the table. Just in case of trouble, Drummond had told Sween where they were going.

  Hearing no alarming sounds, Drummond searched the shadows and saw that the stallion was content to nibble at the forest floor. “Would you like it if she came?”

  Alasdair shrugged and tossed the broken twigs into the fire. Then he eased closer to Drummond. “She knows I’m safe with you.”

  “Did she tell you that?”

  “Yes. She said you loved me well.”

  Would that all mothers were so thoughtful. “I do.”

  “Father, will you tell me what it means for a man to wet his wick?”

  Contentment vibrated through Drummond. “Aye, but I’m not sure I can make you understand. ’Tis a manly remark, one of the things men say among themselves, but never in the presence of a lady.”

  “Like bragging that you need two hands to hold your balls when you jump from the loft into the hay?”

  What a joy this lad was to a man who had given up hope of ever having a healthy son. Praise Clare for her guidance and care of him. Out of habit, Drummond remembered her great sin as he did every time he felt pleasure in something she had done. But this time his stomach didn’t tighten and he didn’t grind his teeth. Perhaps he could forget and forgive her. He wanted her with the intensity of a lad who’d found his first sweetheart. That too surprised him, for he hadn’t expected to desire Clare Macqueen. He’d still hear her confession, though.

  “Did you hear me, Father?”

  Drummond harkened back to the subject. “’Tis exactly like that. Only ladies are generally uninterested in speeches about a man’s private parts, one of which is often called his wick.”

  Alasdair gasped. “Mine’s bigger than a wick!”

  With the exception of his lips, which he’d inherited from his mother, Alasdair looked just like Drummond’s younger brothers. He fought to control his mirth. And lost. “’Tis not a statement of size.”

  Now adamant, Alasdair propped his hands on his thighs. “Willie Handle says his uncle Sween’s wick is so long he can piss over his shoulder with it.”

  Summoning brevity, Drummond said, “You mustn’t say that in front of your mother or any other female.”

  “Very well. Wetting my wick is the same as going swimming, isn’t it?”

  “Nay. ’Tis a crude reference to what men and women do in the privacy of their bedchamber. You’ll do these things with women when you are older.” Reflecting, he added, “Much older.”

  “What do older people do?”

  “They practice their marriage vows and celebrate their feelings for each other in a physical way.”

  Confusion wreathed Alasdair’s face.

  “If they are fortunate,” Drummond went on, “they make little sisters and brothers.”

  His interest piqued, Alasdair straddled the log and faced Drummond. “How?”

  Clare’s words came back to Drummond. He’ll ask you dozens of questions. You’ll lose patience with him. But patience wasn’t the problem, inexperience was, for Drummond felt like squirming. “A man uses his wick to give a woman his seed.”

  “But how does it get wet exactly?”

  Avoid nuances, Drummond told himself, and get to the bloody point so they could move on to more comfortable subjects. “God created women to complement men. Physically women are different, so they can accommodate a man’s ‘wick.’”

  Alasdair
blinked, waiting.

  Oh, Lord. Drummond felt lost at sea without rudder or sail. “Parts of a woman are very soft and wet.”

  Chewing his lip, the lad stared into space. “Curly Handle gave me a wet kiss once. I almost retched on her.”

  Drummond chuckled. “You will not vomit when you’re older and a woman kisses you. I vow this is true.”

  “Do you like kissing Mother?”

  He thought of her naked and dripping with heather scented water. God, he’d been hot for her, and she had wanted him, too. But other images of her rose in his mind: Clare the diplomat who tried to turn the subject from Drummond’s imprisonment; Clare the storyteller who’d inspired pride in a fatherless lad; Clare the mother who’d taught this lad to defend the father he hardly knew.

  “You’re thinking about kissing her, aren’t you?”

  Chagrined, Drummond cleared his throat. “Aye, and other things about her.”

  “Sheriff Hay drank too much ale and tried to kiss her. She slapped him and said if he ever did it again, she’d toss him out and bar the gates.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He groveled like a starved pup, because he has an affection for her.” Then sagely, he said, “The widow Macqueen is no easy mark.”

  She was also no longer a widow. “The sheriff can take his affection back to Dumfries.”

  “What about the cloth merchant from Glasgow?”

  Stunned, Drummond searched his son’s expression to see if he lied. “He also harbors an affection for her?”

  “Yes. She’s so pretty and—” He paused, scratching his head. “And she begs for a man to tame her wild spirit.”

  Drummond vowed to be the only man to accommodate her. He’d do more than bar the gate to any man who dared approach his wife in an unseemly way. After all, she was Lady Clare Macqueen.

  His irritation rose; by right and title, she was his. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Well, when we have visitors of lesser rank, like the cloth merchant, Sween and the watchmen always sleep in the hall. I sleep there, too.” He shook his finger in mock reproof. “To keep those rascally knaves away from her. She’s a prize, you know.”