Pride of the Clan

by Anna Markland

  Tannoch’s spine stiffened. He halted and turned around, his face an angry mask. She wondered again why he resented Rheade.

  Erskine looked back over his shoulder. “This man is yer brother?” he asked, indicating Rheade.

  “Aye,” Tannoch conceded. “Slipped me mind in the excitement to introduce him to ye. Rheade Donnachaidh Starkey Robertson.”

  Rheade bowed. “My Lord Erskine.”

  Brows arched, the nobleman studied him, likely amazed this handsome and polite Highlander was Tannoch’s brother.

  Rheade took Margaret’s hand. “May I present Lady Margaret Ogilvie.”

  At first she wasn’t sure what to do, but it came to her that in normal circumstances she would proffer her hand to any nobleman to whom she was introduced. She had done nothing to warrant treatment as anything less than a woman of good breeding and education. Gripping Rheade’s hand she held out the other to Erskine.

  He brushed his lips over her knuckles. “Lady Margaret. Welcome to Stirling.”

  Tannoch shifted his weight from foot to foot, gnawing on his bottom lip. “I’ll speak to ye later about Lady Margaret,” he muttered to Erskine, drawing him aside. “I’ve another brother, younger yet, but he’s in the Grampians.”

  Erskine arched a brow. “Hunting Graham?”

  Tannoch grinned. “Aye. Rheade and I will join him as soon as the Queen gives leave.”

  The prospect of Rheade riding off into the mountains and leaving her alone in this bleak place filled her with misgiving.

  Erskine disentangled his arm from Tannoch’s grasp. “Yer brother should be present at the audience. No doubt he helped track down the Stewarts. Her Majesty will want to hear every detail.”

  Tannoch glowered at Rheade, but seemed to accept that objecting to his brother’s inclusion would seem churlish. “Aye,” he muttered.

  “Firstly, however,” Erskine said, “chambers await and a well deserved bath is being prepared.”

  “Thank goodness,” Margaret whispered to Rheade. “For the Queen’s sake. The poor woman has suffered enough.”

  She breathed easier when Rheade chuckled.

  CLEANSING BATHS

  Rheade was less than pleased at having to share a chamber with his brother, especially when he discovered there was one bathtub. It wasn’t likely chambermaids would appear to empty the wooden tub and refill it, and he had no intention of putting as much as a toe in any water Tannoch had bathed in. He quickly stripped off his garments, piled them on the bed, and sank into the blessedly hot water. The heat seeped into his bones. Only his knees still felt chilly sticking up out of the water.

  Tannoch sprawled on the other side of the bed still wearing his boots and filthy plaid. “Ye’re too fussy about washing,” he scoffed.

  Before Fion’s startling revelations, Rheade would have ignored the remark, but a devilish impulse to test Tannoch urged him on. “Aye, ’tis a trait I inherited from my father.”

  His brother raised his head and glared. “Too true,” he replied, scratching his scalp vigorously, “Da was a fiend for cleanliness whereas I believe a good coating of muck helps keep a body warm.”

  Rheade shrugged. “That’s as may be, but there’s naught like a hot bath to invigorate a man.”

  He retrieved the cake of Castile from the bottom of the tub and made a big show of lathering it over his arms and chest, noisily inhaling the pleasant smell of the soap. He congratulated himself on recognizing the distinctive olive oil aroma, but there was something else mixed in that reminded him of Margaret. With her nose for scents, she would know what it was.

  The notion of sharing a tub with the tempting lass from Oban proved to be invigorating as well, but the water hid his arousal from his unsuspecting brother. She’d been assigned to the adjacent chamber. If he was quick—

  He quickly abandoned the idea. Tannoch would get suspicious if he rushed off.

  A worry gnawed at him that his chieftain intended to appear unwashed before the Queen. He chuckled. It was perhaps unlikely Her Majesty would knight a man who offended her nose, especially when he’d been given the opportunity to bathe. However, it wouldn’t speak highly of the clan.

  “What’s amusing?” Tannoch asked.

  Rheade decided to confront the problem head on. “Ye cannot meet the Queen stinking as ye do,” he told his brother bluntly. “Ye smell like a midden.”

  It was something he’d long wanted to say, and it felt good, despite the scowl he received in reply. He threw caution to the winds. “And yer beard. Da would be ashamed. Ye’re meeting a Queen and ye look like a barbarian.”

  Tannoch grunted, scratching under his chin, then abruptly grabbed Rheade’s plaid, stroking his finger over the gold pin.

  Nothing concerning the brooch had ever passed between them before, no question raised as to why the family heirloom had been given to the second son. Now wasn’t a good time to embark on such a discussion, so Rheade pressed on with his argument. “Queen Joan will be graceful and she’ll thank ye for capturing the assassins, but then ye’ll be quickly dismissed before the stench makes her swoon.”

  Tannoch rose from the bed, sloughing off his plaid. “Ye’ve made yer point,” he muttered gruffly, Rheade’s plaid and pin still in his meaty grasp. “Get thee out of the tub. And fetch yer raser.”

  Rheade stepped out and reached for the drying linen as the water cascaded from his body.

  Tannoch threw Rheade’s plaid onto the bed. A rare smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he removed his own clothing. “I see what ye mean about invigorating,” he quipped. “Or is it thoughts of Margaret Ogilvie have stiffened yon rod at yer groin?”

  Rheade tucked the cloth around his hips, shrugging off the insult. He took his raser from his satchel. He’d purchased it from a traveling caird years since, and the tinker had shown him how to keep it honed. He’d have to buy a new one after Tannoch was done with it. A dreadful thought occurred as he stared at the thin copper blade. If his brother asked him to shave his beard—

  Tannoch narrowed his eyes as he sank into the tub. Had he divined Rheade’s treacherous thoughts, or was it simply that he hated bathing? “Dinna think I take kindly to yer new-found impudence, little brother. I dinna give a care what Da thinks of me. I am chieftain now, and ne’er forget it. Now pass me yon raser.”

  Rheade willed his hand not to tremble as he handed the blade over, sickened by his fleeting contemplation of cutting his brother’s throat.

  Mayhap the kingslayers weren’t the only wicked men in the Highlands.

  Angry, he located fresh hose and a léine in his bag and stuffed in the one he’d torn to make bandages. One thing Glenna did do skilfully was ply a needle. She’d repair it for him. It was too costly to throw away. Time and effort had gone into dying it saffron, a color he was fond of.

  He shrugged into the clean ivory léine, adjusting his plaid over it to hide the creases, relieved the treasured brooch was still in place. It proved annoyingly difficult to get his still damp feet into his hose. He made sure the garters were good and tight, then pulled on his boots. He took a deep breath, pleased that the aroma of the soap still clung to his skin. At least one member of the Robertson family would smell clean for the Queen.

  He didn’t want to spend another moment watching Tannoch scrape away at his beard ensconced in scum-topped grey water. “I’ll be back shortly,” he muttered, raking his hair into some semblance of order with his fingers as he headed for the door.

  Tannoch watched him. “And my son will be chieftain after me, so dinna get any ideas along those lines,” he shouted, brandishing the soapy raser.

  After slamming the door, Rheade paused in the hallway. For the first time he pitied his older brother. It wasn’t surprising Tannoch disdained bathing. No amount of water would ever wash away the fear that seemed to consume him. But what was he afraid of?

  ~~~

  It had been wrenching for Margaret to leave her lady’s maid behind in Oban. Aunty Edythe had insisted the woman who’d served
her since she was a child was too old and the Master of Atholl would provide a hundred servants for her. In the meanwhile Edythe would gladly serve as lady’s maid.

  Luxuriating in the hot water, Margaret snorted at the absurdity of Edythe willingly serving anyone. It startled the young lass who’d been assigned to assist her. The girl teetered on the verge of tears as the soap slid from her grasp into the tub.

  “Sorry, Hannah,” Margaret said, retrieving the slippery cake and handing it back, “I was thinking how pleasant it is to have a maid again.”

  Hannah’s bright smile returned as she rubbed soap onto a washcloth and handed it to her. “Ye’ve been without one for a while?”

  Margaret accepted the cloth, inhaling the familiar scent of the Castile and something else. Violets, she’d wager. She’d never tried the combination. “Aye, since leaving Oban,” she confided, enjoying the fragrance of the lather on her skin.

  “Is it far? Oban?” the lass asked.

  Margaret thought of Ogilvie House, and her darling family. All gone. She wondered how her aunt and uncle fared on the return journey, though it pained her more she’d been denied the chance to bid farewell to Shaon and Joss.

  “Aye,” she replied wistfully. “As far away as the moon and the stars.”

  Hannah’s bright eyes looked like they might pop out of her head. “And ye’ve had no lady’s maid on such a long journey?”

  Margaret laughed out loud, and was relieved when Hannah smiled again. Chatting with this genuine young woman was refreshing.

  “I’ve been a lady’s maid only a short while,” Hannah admitted. “But I learn fast. If ye need a maid, I mean.”

  Margaret did require a maid, but her future was uncertain. “I probably willna be at Stirling for long,” she said. “But while I’m here, I’d be pleased to have ye as my maid. Can ye wash hair?”

  The girl beamed from ear to ear and produced a handful of rosemary sprigs from her apron pocket. “By rights ye need camomile for yer fair locks, but this’ll do.”

  She was carefully pouring water from a ewer over Margaret’s head when a door slammed nearby.

  “Someone’s nay verra happy,” Hannah said.

  Margaret was aware Rheade and Tannoch occupied the adjacent chamber and wondered who had stormed out with anger in his heart.

  Hannah chattered on about the excitement among the servants. The King’s assassins had been brought to the castle and cast into the cells. Margaret lent only half an ear, her thoughts on the Robertsons.

  Rheade and his brother seemed to be constantly at loggerheads. Tannoch was definitely different from his younger siblings. Mind you, her own brothers had distinct personalities, quirks of character. Yet they’d been fiercely loyal to each other, no matter that they often argued. Tannoch wasn’t a man to inspire loyalty. Claiming credit for capturing the Stewarts was proof of it. She’d done more to assist in their apprehension than he had.

  Rheade would make a fine chieftain. If ever a man was born to be a laird—

  He’d a noble bearing, and it was his honorable nobility that would prevent him usurping his brother’s position.

  “Ye seem lost in yer thoughts,” Hannah said.

  “Aye,” Margaret confessed. “Daydreams.”

  There was naught wrong with dreaming of being wed to a laird. She was confident she’d do a better job of managing Dunalastair than poor Glenna.

  “What happened to yer poor wee hands?” Hannah suddenly asked.

  The cuts were healing and Margaret had forgotten them. “An accident on the journey,” she lied.

  “I’d be afeared to travel. They say ’tis dangerous. What would cause ye to make the long trek from Oban?”

  Margaret’s dreams crumbled to dust. “I was to be wed,” she murmured. “But ’twasn’t meant to be.”

  THWARTED DESIRE

  Hannah enfolded her new mistress in a towel as she stepped out of the tub, then scrubbed her dry. Margaret’s skin soon glowed. Seemingly satisfied, the maid wrapped her in another linen and sat her in a chair by the hearth. She produced a bone comb from a pocket and drew it slowly through Margaret’s long hair. “’Tis fine,” she said. “Willna take long to dry by the fire.”

  Margaret sighed.

  Hannah turned her attention to the soiled léine Margaret had worn since being rescued from the cells of Dunalastair. “Ye canna wear this for the audience with Her Majesty,” she declared, her face wrinkled in dismay.

  “I’m not entirely sure I’m invited to meet with Queen Joan,” Margaret replied, feeling hotter by the minute wrapped in the luxurious linen.

  “What kind of a lady’s maid would I be if I let my mistress don this garment?” Hannah insisted, evidently determined to ignore Margaret’s remark. “I ken exactly where there are any number of clean léines. Back in a jiffy.” She cast the offending frock to the floor and was gone before Margaret could protest.

  Wearing the filthy léine again was an unpleasant prospect. Margaret’s skin tingled with the warmth of the bath, the hearty scrubbing, and the heat of the fire. The burning logs were hotter than the peat fires she was used to. Her eyelids drooped. It wasn’t surprising she was drowsy after the dramatic turn of events she’d endured and the long journey. She yawned, decided her hair was dry enough, unwound the towel that was beginning to feel clammy and climbed onto the high bed. She decided to leave open the heavy velvet draperies knotted loosely around each of the four posts. She needed air.

  How long before Hannah returned? Stirling was a big castle. Nothing to do but wait. She tugged down the bed-linens and slid between the chilly sheets. They smelled a wee bit musty, but were clean and crisp. She pounded the bolster, then curled up on her side, confident she’d soon be warm again.

  ~~~

  Rheade paced in the hallway outside his chamber in an effort to cool his temper. It was important he remain calm during the audience with the Queen. Margaret’s life might depend on it. He rehearsed over and over what he would say, if given the opportunity to speak, which wasn’t guaranteed. Tannoch would likely do his best to ensure his silence.

  Hands clasped behind his back, intent on putting one foot in front of the other, he came close to bumping into Lord Erskine. “My lord,” he muttered, backing up a step. “I apologise. I didna see ye.”

  Erskine chuckled. “Not to worry, laddie. ’Tis nay small thing to meet a queen, and I’m relieved she’s asked to see ye. She’s grieving and ’twill do her good to hear how yer brother captured the Stewarts. Is our hero ready? She expects ye within the half hour.”

  Rheade fumed inwardly. Hero indeed. “Aye, my lord. Tannoch is finishing his bath.”

  The slight easing of tension around Erskine’s mouth betrayed his relief. “Good. Good. Now what of the lassie? Yer brother said he wanted to speak to me about her.”

  Rheade juggled the yeahs and nays of having Margaret present at the audience. “She’s Lady Margaret Ogilvie. My betrothed.”

  It wasn’t exactly a lie, more of a half-truth that would become a reality if all went well.

  “Then she should attend the audience. I suppose yer chieftain wants to obtain Her Majesty’s blessing for yer union?”

  “Something of the sort,” Rheade replied, thankful when Erskine took his leave.

  He raised his hand to tap on Margaret’s door, intending to tell her the news, when a maidservant abruptly exited the chamber. She bobbed a curtsey before hurrying off down the corridor. He hesitated for several minutes. They’d had no opportunity for a private word, but if Margaret was still in her bath—

  He groaned as the pleasurable notion stirred interest in his bollocks. Where had that come from? He smiled when he remembered. Margaret had admitted hearing the word on her brother’s lips, but he doubted she understood what it meant.

  He tapped lightly on the door with his knuckle, opening it slowly when there was no response. He gazed around the chamber. A hearty fire blazed in the hearth, pine logs by the smell and sound of it. Evidently old-fashioned peat wasn’t g
ood enough for the noble residents of Stirling Castle. The bathtub still held water, but no Margaret. He recognised her clothing strewn in a heap on the floor. Where was she? It came to him she might be in the bed. Drapes made of heavy gold material were tied loosely around the posts, blocking his view. Had she fallen asleep? “Margaret,” he whispered hoarsely, closing the door.

  He stole closer to the bed. A nap would do her good, though they didn’t have a lot of time. There was no harm in checking she was safe. His lungs stopped working when he set eyes on her. She lay partly on her side, partly on her back. Her hair appeared to be still damp and seemed darker because of it. One rosy cheek was turned to the bolster. An arm was exposed, the linens tucked under it, baring her graceful neck and—

  Her breasts rose and fell as she breathed steadily. Crivvens! They were magnificent, and, if he tugged carefully at the sheet, pale areolas would be revealed, mayhap even nipples.

  The promise turned his shaft to granite.

  He reached out slowly, feeling like a starved urchin thieving a loaf from the baker’s shop. He snatched his hand back, a pulse beating in his ears when she stirred. The breath hitched in his throat when she turned onto her back, both arms resting beside her head, her breasts exposed to his view.

  The Queen would have to wait. He had to have this woman, had to make her his. Her tempting globes were made to fill his hands. He licked his lips and leaned forward, desperate to suckle the rigid nipples that were surprisingly dark for a blonde.

  She blinked open her eyes.

  He froze, his tongue inches away from his heart’s desire. Her blush deepened, but there was no censure in the blue depths staring at him. Had she looked into his heart?

  “Rheade,” she whispered, cupping his face with her hands.

  “Ye are beautiful,” he rasped, molding his hands to the sides of her breasts. “I want to kiss ye.”

  She gasped when he lowered his mouth to one nipple and swirled his tongue over it. “I thought ye meant on the lips,” she murmured throatily, “but that’s even better.”