Chieftain

by Arnette Lamb

  “My lady,” squealed Evelyn. “You’ve pulled up a basil.”

  “Oh, so I have. Here, you put it back.”

  He glanced at Evelyn. Her mouth was pinched with disdain. Their gazes met. Her expression grew intense, as if to say, Do something!

  “Bother it, Evelyn,” Clare said into the silent exchange. “It will not be the last time I mistake basil for thistle.”

  “You?” said Evelyn. “You know more about growing things than Glory, for all her misfitting ways.”

  Clare said, “For that flattery, you shall have an afternoon to yourself on Sunday next.”

  Her too cheery tone didn’t fool Drummond. Why would she make light of her gardening skills? She seemed uncomfortable with the changes in herself. Why? The answers could wait; he was more concerned with verifying Sween’s conviction that she was too ill to stand.

  “My lady, I’m thirsty and rather toilworn,” he said. “Will you fetch me a tankard of ale?”

  “Evelyn, fetch Lord Drum—”

  “Nay,” he interrupted. If she were truly ill and too proud to show it, he’d make certain she did as the midwife had instructed her. “Unless you are unable. Did Glory not tell you to stay abed?”

  The morning sun had cast a pink glow over her nose and cheeks, but she seemed indifferent to her appearance or the elements. She certainly had no inkling of how appealing and feminine she looked to him, or how confounding.

  “Glory has her opinions,” she said, flicking weeds out of the way. “I have mine. I suffered only a slight burn.”

  Evelyn huffed, then mockingly said, “My lady says she’s fine as crimson silk, my lord. That’s what she’d have of it.”

  He lifted his brows expectantly. “The ale, Clare?”

  She glowered at him, her brown eyes darkening with anger. “For Evelyn’s sake, I must decline.”

  The wind tossed her hair into her face. She lifted her right arm, but winced. Dropping the spade from her gloved left hand, she tucked the wayward strands behind her ear and left a smudge of dirt on her cheek.

  Defiance lifted her chin. “Fetching and carrying is maid’s work.”

  Determination rippled through him. “What happened to your hair?”

  Again, Evelyn huffed. “As I’m an honest girl, my lord, I refused to braid it for her or tie her coif. Mistress Glory was insistent that my lady stay abed today.”

  “Bite your tongue, Evelyn,” Clare snapped.

  Drummond opened Glory’s package and took out the vial.

  Through tightly clenched teeth, Clare said, “I will not drink that drug.”

  He stepped closer. “Aye, you will, and you’ll rest till Glory says otherwise.”

  She had to crane her neck to look up at him. “Be off, Drummond. Glory makes much of nothing. I fare well enough.”

  “You’ll fare better off your feet and inside.”

  As if he were a nuisance, she sighed and held out her gloved hand. “If it will make you happy. Give it to me.”

  He did, and she dropped it into her basket.

  He chuckled. “’Twill make me happy if you drink it now.”

  Her hair again blew across her face. She turned into the wind, but the movement was slow and cautious. “I’ll have it later with a slice of bread and cheese. Did I mention that cook is roasting a fat moorhen with chestnut pudding today?”

  No query about Alasdair. Patience gone, Drummond planted his feet. “Clare, you will drink it or have it forced down your throat.”

  Eyes cool with retribution, she retrieved the vial. With a flick of her thumb, she sent the wax sealing cap flying into a bed of leeks. Then she held out her arm, twisted her wrist and poured the brownish liquid over a patch of celery. Tossing the empty vial onto a pile of dried dung, she said, “You’ll pour nothing down my throat, Drummond Macqueen, least of all that mind dulling swill.”

  Dumbfounded, he watched her pick up the spade and go back to the weeds again.

  Evelyn mumbled something about the dire consequences of stubbornness.

  “Find a chore elsewhere, Evelyn,” he said.

  That got Clare’s attention. “You’ll hoe that row of spotted beans, girl, or go back to your family. Drummond,” she appealed, her mouth full and pouting and much too missish. “I’m perfectly capable of directing the staff. I have only a laggard’s work to do here, and you surely have more important tasks, such as granting Red Douglas an audience.”

  Under different circumstances he might have welcomed her subtle display of sensuality. Tucking the memory away, he looked at Evelyn and tipped his head toward the keep.

  The maid propped the hoe on her shoulder. “My lord, shall I warm the broth she refused?”

  “I’ll sup when everyone else does,” came his wife’s angry reply.

  Drummond nodded. The maid marched out of the garden.

  He held out his hand. “Come, Clare.”

  Perspiration dotted her brow, and her eyes looked dreamfilled. “I pray you, trouble yourself no more on my account, my lord. I do not wither as your bride did—as I did when I was your bride—as a bride would. Oh, bother it!”

  Her befuddled speech convinced him. Vowing to make her come inside, he bent from the waist and touched her elbow. “Get up.”

  She cried out and jerked away. When she teetered, he scooped her into his arms, being careful not to touch the injured side of her body.

  Her complexion looked ashen, and her eyes were dark with pain. “Clare?”

  She buried her head against his shoulder, but said nothing. Through the fabric of his tunic, he could feel her hot, pained breathing. Her right hand was fisted so tightly between them that her knuckles gleamed white.

  Her hair trailing over his arm and raking the plants, he navigated the winding path out of the garden and carried her up the steps to the keep. He kicked open the door to his chamber and put her on the bed.

  Blanketed and blinded by her hair, she tried to sit up.

  He put his hand on her hip. “Be still.”

  “You’re making too much of this,” she said in a weary voice.

  “Humor me.” He began gathering her hair, which smelled of basil and savory and felt like silk in his hands. Strips of soft white cloth circled her neck, and on the right side, the skin looked puffy and red. A bandage there? But Glory said she’d injured her shoulder.

  “It’s really nothing.”

  “Then why does everyone from the farrier’s apprentice to the goosegirl fear for your recovery?”

  She peered up at him through the curtain of her hair. “Because the goosegirl is Glory’s sister, and the apprentice worries overmuch.”

  When he’d managed to tame the mass of her hair, Drummond coiled it around his fingers. “What happened to you?”

  She stared at his neck. “I thought to have some warm milk last night. The mulling iron slipped from my hand. The mug shattered. I made a mess of the hearth.”

  As if he cared about the condition of the hearth. “Look at me and tell me what you’ve done to yourself.”

  Her gaze moved to his chin. “A minor burn.”

  He didn’t for a moment believe her. “Show me.”

  She shrank back and bit her lip to stifle the pain the movement caused. After a few deep breaths, she said, “Glory tended it, and she doesn’t take well to having her handiwork disturbed.”

  Undeterred, he tugged on her hair until she again lay back on the mattress. “I want to see what you’ve done.”

  She stared at the tapestry on the wall. “Then I’ll be certain to summon you when she changes the dressing. Truly, Drummond, I’ll mend.” She shook her left hand until the glove slipped off. Covering her mouth, she faked a yawn. “Perhaps I will rest awhile.”

  He didn’t believe that, either, but he had her on her back and out of the sun. “You didn’t ask about Alasdair.”

  In the blink of an eye she went from laconic to alert. “Oh, Drummond. Did he misunderstand the explanation of your imprisonment? You failed to reassure him?”
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  Drummond couldn’t help smiling. “I assured him. Longfellow ate him for breakfast.”

  A chagrined smile curved her lips, but her eyelids dropped. “And I’m a Venetian moneylender.”

  He’d made that facetious declaration on the day of his arrival at Fairhope. He had seen her cry at the mention of her friend Johanna. She’d denied shedding a tear because she missed the woman.

  He lifted a brow in recognition of her cleverness. “Rest.”

  She closed her eyes. “Where is Alasdair now?”

  “Strutting in the lane and bragging about his adventure.”

  “Bring him to me.”

  She sounded so queenly, he was compelled to say, “As your lord and master, shall I command thee to rest?”

  “No. As your wife and the mother of your heir, I shall be bound to refuse.”

  He sensed a new confidence in the way she said the words “your wife.” “Why?”

  Turning her head away from him, she murmured sleepily, “He needs a bath and his hair scrubbed.” She cuddled her cheek against the bed linen. “And lessons.”

  Drummond smiled at her kittenlike movement. “I’ll see to it.”

  She drifted off, her lips slightly parted, her arm still resting between her breasts. She hadn’t needed the sleeping potion.

  Moving a bench from beneath the windows, Drummond sat and watched her slumber. In repose, she looked like an angel, her hair a halo and her mouth curled in a saintly smile. But he knew the earthy passion her mouth could inspire.

  He remembered the first time he’d seen Clare, the blessed, as they called her. In physical appearance, she’d been perfectly chosen for a Scottish chieftain, for her fair hair and elegant features were easily mistaken for Highland nobility. Some of his clansmen doubted the old king’s sly assertion that she came from good Lancaster stock. Among themselves, his kinsmen compared her stately good looks to the Scotswomen of the royal House of Dunkeld. But that was only clan talk; all of the Dunkeld offspring were accounted for, save the mythical twin daughters of Alexander III, and even the expert spies of Edward I could not have located a progeny that existed only in fable.

  Drummond thought of the tales she’d invented about him, flattering tales, exciting tales, tales designed to foster legend. Then he thought of her great sin.

  Anguish seeped into his soul. Better that he’d lost his sword arm than suffer a faithless wife, especially one who’d lain with the son of the “Hammer of the Scots.”

  Some Highlanders compared Drummond’s marital misfortune to that of Llewlyn Fawr. But the great prince of Wales had wed Siubhan, a king’s daughter. Those same gossipers said the princess’s faithlessness stemmed from her father’s carousing and her own illegitimate birth.

  Nothing was known of Clare’s lineage, except the obvious: Her parents had been bonny well favored. Unknown misfortune had left her in the care of the Crown. Her family’s poverty had become the Macqueen’s providence, for she’d come bearing a dowry of peace between England and Scotland.

  Even after placing her hand in Drummond’s, old King Edward had said no more about her.

  And like a buck primed for the rut, the newly wedded Drummond had been more interested in mounting his doe than quizzing the king on her bloodlines. The humor was, Drummond had planted his seed and, through her, secured his own bloodline. Alasdair stood as indisputable proof of that.

  Look for trouble, and you’ll find it. Against his will he was beginning to admire her. To counter the weakness, he sought out her faults.

  As he watched her now, sleeping as peacefully as the angels she resembled, he wondered if she had confessed her sin and received absolution. Had Brother Julian been the one to carry her transgression to God?

  Drummond cringed inside at the thought of anyone in Fairhope knowing that she’d made him a cuckold. But surely they did not know, for these people loved and cherished her. From the moment Drummond and Alasdair had entered the gates this morning, they had been inundated with the news of her injury. Worry wreathed the faces of the villagers and huntsmen, and en masse they’d begged him to command her to have a care for herself and follow Glory’s advice. Only the approach of an eager and trumpeting Longfellow had swayed them from going directly to her.

  Bertie Stapledon’s reaction had been most puzzling, for he had stared accusingly at Drummond, as if to say her injury was his fault. Before Drummond could question the man’s motives, Alasdair had dashed off toward the kitchen garden in search of her. Sween ran the lad to ground and deposited him with Bertie.

  “It’s a man’s task you’ve ahead of you, my lord,” Sween had said, his soldierlike demeanor comical with exasperation.

  And so it had been, Drummond reflected, still watching her. But why? No one in Fairhope would think her slothful for time spent recuperating from what they called a perilous injury. According to Sween, since after matins she had listened to a steady stream of lectures and queries before escaping to the kitchen garden and declaring it off limits to all save Evelyn.

  Perhaps Clare’s stubbornness stemmed from concern for Alasdair. She probably expected the lad to fret insufferably over her when he heard about her injury. What would the lad do when he saw her?

  Drummond found out half an hour later, when Alasdair entered the room, a garland of flowers dangling from his wrist and a pewter mug in his hand.

  “Evelyn said you should make Mother drink this broth.”

  “Shush!” Drummond held up his hand.

  Looking as forlorn as the first spring lamb, the lad peered at his mother. Drummond’s heart went out to his son, and he patted his own thigh. Alasdair sat down.

  Taking the mug, Drummond set it beside him on the bench, then leaned close to his son. “She’s resting well, but you must be very quiet.”

  Alasdair nodded so vigorously, he teetered on Drummond’s knee. Steadying him, Drummond pictured the three of them through a stranger’s eyes. He saw a father and son sitting vigil at the bedside of the woman they both needed and loved. He saw a family enduring one of life’s misfortunes. Sadly, he wondered if he, an exiled Scot, were destined to always want a family of his own.

  “Father, I’m afraid.”

  Drummond hugged his son. The lad smelled of the forest, and he trembled with fear. “She’s on the mend,” Drummond whispered.

  “God won’t take her to the angels?”

  “Nay. She said so herself.”

  Leaning back, he dashed away tears. “You swear?”

  “As I’m a Macqueen.”

  Alasdair sagged, so great was his relief. “I wanted to give her this.”

  They had gathered the wildflowers during their return to Fairhope this morning. Drummond had helped him fashion the chaplet. “You may, when she awakens. But we must not disturb her now.”

  “What if she doesn’t wake up until tomorrow?” he asked, eyes wide with confusion.

  She was sleeping soundly, and Drummond intended to see that she continued to do so. “Then she will have enjoyed a good night’s rest.”

  The lad stared at her and sighed. “She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “Aye.”

  “Will my sister look like her?”

  Clare’s words echoed in Drummond’s ears. He’ll ask you dozens of questions. You’ll lose your patience and hurt his feelings.

  A good parent. Softly, Drummond said, “Of course she will. Bide quietly with me now, and later you can go with Morgan when he takes Longfellow to the burn.”

  The request proved an impossibility, and when Alasdair began to squirm, Drummond excused him.

  Alasdair cupped his hands around his mouth and moved close to Drummond’s ear. In a wet and loud whisper, he said, “I’ll come back after sword practice.”

  Wincing, Drummond waved the lad out the door. Then he touched her cheek to see if she’d fevered. Her skin was cool to the touch.

  Relieved and unable to resist the lure of her hair, he stroked the thick mane, delighting in the silky texture and smelling th
e odd aroma of kitchen herbs.

  The wall of disdain he’d erected between them began to crumble, as it had every time he kissed her or they shared a companionable moment. He imagined himself cradling her head and spooning a nourishing broth past her lips. He saw himself as the lovestruck husband blustering orders to the servants and demanding that Glory heal his wife or suffer the consequences. He pictured her on the mend and imagined himself lying beside her, holding her and murmuring words of comfort. In return for his devotion, she declared her love and said she would have no other but him.

  No other. Except a prince cum king.

  Drummond couldn’t want her now, not for more than obvious and base reasons. He understood his physical craving for her, Clare possessed beauty enough to ignite his desire. Baffling were the unexpected ways that she pleased him. He could not deny that he enjoyed her sharp wit and her ready sense of humor, neither could he spurn her forthright manner and her integrity.

  Bother her admirable traits, he grumbled to himself, and vowed he would not share her bed until he’d observed her with her old lover.

  In October, he would take her to Douglas’s castle in Dumfries and present her to the visiting Edward Plantagenet. If the new king had been telling the truth about his continued liaisons with Clare, Drummond would surely know. If she acted with decorum and proved to him that Edward II had lied, Drummond would consider forgiving her. If his suspicions proved valid, and she showed too much favor to her old lover, Drummond would suffer the moment. Then, when everyone else slept, he’d take Alasdair and make for the Highlands. Morgan and Longfellow would travel north at their own pace.

  If Edward the King followed, he risked striking the battle anew with Scotland. Drummond gambled that the newly crowned king would avoid the conflict, for he had neither the treasury to finance another siege of Scotland nor his father’s loyalty from the troops. The Highlanders, however, after learning of Drummond’s treatment at the hands of the English, would crave revenge.

  Anticipating the bloody battles that would result, Drummond shifted on the bench. The wooden legs squeaked loudly.

  Her eyes drifted open. She’d ever been slow to awaken.

  Her gaze focused on him. “It’s bad luck to watch a woman whilst she sleeps.”