Pride of the Clan

by Anna Markland

  WAITING

  As he and Margaret walked hand in hand to the Infirmary, Rheade was torn by conflicting emotions. After the audience with the Queen he wanted nothing more than to whisk his wife off to his chamber and seal their union, but he still had Graham’s cursed oath tucked in his plaid. Joan hadn’t mentioned it.

  Stirling Castle was packed to the rafters with folk who’d come from every corner of the Highlands to witness the execution. Many of them lingered. Rheade had been obliged to share his chamber not only with Logan but with his friends.

  It wasn’t a place a bridegroom might dawdle abed with his tempting bride, and the bed in Margaret’s cupboard was hardly big enough for her. When he made love to his wife for the first time he wanted it to be perfect. His thoughts wandered to the chamber he’d occupied at Dunalastair since he was a lad. Big bed, comfortable mattress, heavy drapery that turned it into a cozy cocoon. Aye, a man could satisfy all kinds of—

  “What are ye daydreaming about?” Margaret suddenly whispered.

  He bent his head to kiss the top of her silvery hair. “I’ll wager ye ken,” he replied, aware his face had reddened.

  She too blushed. “I do,” she murmured, squeezing his hand.

  Truth be told, Dunalastair was where he wanted to consummate his marriage to Margaret. It was home. The place he belonged. Stirling was too full of bitter memories.

  But would she understand his desire to wait? It would be at least a sennight before Tannoch would be allowed to travel home. He chuckled inwardly, wondering if his shaft was sufficiently patient. He’d hardened pleasantly at first thought of making love in his own bed. It came to him he’d never taken a woman there before. His wild oats had been sewn further afield, in many a cozy hayloft. Once even in a—

  A chill ran up his spine. He raked a hand through his hair. Thank God he’d never spilled inside a woman. He was confident he’d sired no bastards, though the same couldn’t be said of his laird. Indeed, his brother often taunted Glenna with insinuations that the blame for their failure to conceive lay at her door, usually when he’d two or three scruffy red-headed urchins in his lap. He’d never openly acknowledged them, but it was plain to see—

  The poignant memory was bittersweet. Those bairns knew how to bring out Tannoch’s rare smile.

  He marshalled his thoughts back to more pressing matters. Tannoch might not welcome the news of Margaret’s acquittal, but it was incumbent upon them to inform their chieftain. And he had to be told Queen Joan had learned of his deception regarding the Stewarts.

  Underlying everything was the question of Tannoch’s parentage, but Rheade admitted inwardly it no longer concerned him. Logan’s reminder they were sons of the same mother had made him reconsider. Tannoch might not be the best chieftain in the Highlands, but he was who he was. Their father had named him his successor.

  Then there was Glenna. A one armed chieftain would need a strong wife, yet Tannoch had sapped Glenna’s spirit. If Rheade were laird, he’d have a fine Mistress of Dunalastair in Margaret, but he would never challenge his brother for the position. They would do everything in their power to aid in the growth and prosperity of the castle and clan.

  ~~~

  Strangely, Margaret was relieved Rheade had insisted on heading for the Infirmary after the audience. She sensed her husband had lovemaking on his mind. His already warm palm had become sweaty and he’d slowed his gait. A rare blush reddened his face, and he seemed preoccupied.

  She burned with a desire to lie with him, to press her naked body to his, yet a peculiar dread lay in the pit of her belly that he might whisk her off to the cupboard. Losing her maidenhead in the wretched place held no appeal.

  Indeed, Stirling Castle was definitely not where she wanted to surrender her virginity. Once she left its grey walls behind, she never wanted to see or think on it again. The only good thing she’d found there was Hannah, and she resolved to speak to Rheade about taking the lass into her employ.

  She thought wistfully of her cozy chamber in Ogilvie House. But Oban was far away, and belonged to the past.

  At Blair Atholl they’d shared intimate moments. Rheade had roused feelings in her heart and sensations in her body she’d never known before. He’d proposed marriage. It was a beautiful castle, but the Stewarts cast a long shadow over it. The lacerations on her hands had healed, but faint scars remained to remind her of the dangers they’d faced there.

  She wondered where Rheade would choose. Her brothers had jested a man didn’t care what the surroundings were. She was aware they’d sown wild oats in risky places, though Braden liked to boast he would never take a woman in his own chamber in Ogilvie House, unless she was his bride. Poor Braden! Never to be filled with the joy of marrying someone he loved.

  She suddenly wanted to slap herself silly. The answer was clear. Dunalastair. It held mixed memories for her, but for Rheade—

  As they crossed the threshold into the Infirmary, she pulled him aside and stood on tiptoe. “I hope ye’ll not be upset wi’ me, husband,” she whispered in his ear, “but can we wait until Dunalastair to lie together, as man and wife?”

  He shook his head.

  She’d obviously mistaken his feelings. “‘Tisna that I dinna want—”

  His searing kiss stole away her breath. He kissed her deeply, passionately, crushing her body to his. His growl echoed in her belly then shivered up her thighs and into her womb. His hard maleness pressed to her mons as he cupped her bottom in his big hands.

  Logan’s cough broke them apart.

  “Ye are the perfect woman,” Rheade rasped in her ear. “I love ye more than life. Dunalastair it is.”

  HOME TRUTHS

  Rheade’s belly lurched when he realized Tannoch’s pallet was gone.

  “O’er here,” Logan beckoned.

  Relief flooded him. The pallet had been shoved up against a far wall and Tannoch lay propped upright with several bolsters. He was awake and color had returned to his face.

  Glenna fussed over the pillows.

  “Leave them be, woman,” Tannoch snarled. “Yer giving me a headache.”

  “Ye look better, brother,” Logan said with a smile, “but I see yer disposition hasna improved.”

  Tannoch brandished the bandaged stump. “Ye’d no be in a good frame o’ mind if ye’d had yer arm cut off,” he hissed. “A man needs two arms.”

  “I dinna care about yer arm,” Glenna said.

  Tannoch evidently forgot for a moment he had no right hand and raised the stump to push her away. “Shyte,” he exclaimed, wincing with pain. “I’ll ne’er get used to being cack-handed.”

  To his wife’s credit she persisted. “Nay, husband, there’s many a braw laddie uses only his left hand.”

  Tannoch eyed her suspiciously. “And how would ye ken it? ’Tis a curse from the devil.”

  Experience had taught Rheade the argument between them might go on interminably. Fault-finding sometimes seemed to be the only thing they had in common. But at least Glenna was trying. “Yer wife is doing her best to comfort ye, Tannoch and all ye can do is scowl at her.”

  “Aye,” his brother mumbled. “I suppose ye’ve come to tell me the details of yer meeting with Her Majesty. Since ye just ate yer flossy’s face off, I assume she’s acquitted.”

  Anger surged up Rheade’s throat. “Margaret is nay my flossy. She’s my wife, and I’ll thank ye to show her the respect she’s due.”

  “Yer wife?” Tannoch thundered, bringing on a fit of coughing.

  When his brother caught his breath, Rheade leaned over the pallet. “Aye. Wed with the blessing of Holy Mother church,” he said softly, hoping Tannoch understood he’d brook no opposition. “’Tis true we didna have the permission of our chieftain who lay at death’s door. However, I’m confident the self-same chieftain will give his blessing when we reconsecrate our nuptials at Dunalastair, especially considering my wife aided in the recovery of her stricken brother-by-marriage.”

  Tannoch narrowed his eyes and looked
to Glenna.

  “Aye,” his wife confirmed. “’Twas her miracle salve did wonders for ye. A body can hardly tell ye have a great scar across yer belly, and its wondrous aroma helped ye sleep.”

  Tannoch turned his watery eyes to Margaret. “I do recall something of the sort. I suppose I must thank ye, and welcome ye to the family.”

  Margaret gently placed her hand atop Tannoch’s left hand. “’Twas my honor to help my chieftain, and a greater one to be Rheade’s wife.”

  ~~~

  Margaret was obliged to sleep in her cupboard chamber for the next few days while Tannoch recovered. Strangely, she was becoming fond of the cozy space now her tenancy was soon to end. She and Rheade had agreed he shouldn’t intrude there, both admitting one thing might lead to another.

  Hannah was agog at the prospect of accompanying the family to Dunalastair to be Margaret’s lady’s maid. Her father had raised no objections, to everyone’s surprise and the lass made no secret of being happy to leave him behind.

  Joss’s uncanny knack with horses had gained the respect of the ostlers in Stirling Castle, and the Master of the Stables had pressed him to stay, but he’d been insistent he wanted to follow his Lady Margaret to Dunalastair.

  Rheade and Logan quickly absented themselves when Margaret and Glenna took turns caring for Tannoch’s bodily needs. He rallied quickly, his biggest complaint the frequent bathing and shaving he was obliged to undergo, though his protestations became more and more half-hearted.

  Margaret gladly left the care of his private body parts to Glenna, but the woman had no stomach for tending the stump and it fell to Margaret to remove the bindings, wash the wound and rebind the arm. It was healing well, but Tannoch insisted he still had feeling in the fingers of his missing right arm.

  It was evident the chieftain had once boasted a well-muscled body, but she suspected over indulgence in ale and whisky had resulted in the paunch at his belly and the flabbiness in the muscles of his upper arms. She attributed the blotches on his skin to a lifetime of unhealthy living. However, her gentle attempt to wipe away one particular tan-colored patch under his right armpit was interrupted by Glenna. “’Tis a waste of time,” she explained. “We call it his map of Loch Tay. He’s had it since birth.”

  Glenna blushed as Tannoch winked at her. It was a rare moment of intimacy between them and Margaret had a brief glimpse into their early life together. She privately thought it a good thing he hadn’t been born with the mark across his face.

  On the day the Infirmirian gave leave for him to get up, he refused the help of the women, insisting Logan act as his crutch. Hurt clouded Rheade’s eyes, and it confirmed her suspicions of Tannoch’s favoritism towards Logan. There was no point in mentioning it to either Logan or Rheade. The love between them was plain to see and she had no wish to harm their relationship.

  It was Tannoch who had to be confronted. It was her responsibility as Rheade’s wife to address what she perceived was a lack of respect, certainly before they arrived back at Dunalastair. Standards had to be established. If the laird sired no legitimate bairns, it was only right Rheade’s offspring inherit the chieftaincy.

  She’d not let Tannoch rob any son she might bear of that right.

  The morning of their departure she seized the opportunity when Glenna went off to see to last minute arrangements.

  Tannoch was sitting on the edge of his pallet, fully dressed for the first time since he’d been brought to the Infirmary. Margaret was rolling up the right sleeve of his léine and adjusting his plaid to conceal his lack of an arm. He hadn’t requested it, but she sensed he was appreciative in his own grunting way. Ironically he gave her the opening. “I see ye’re wearing Rheade’s brooch,” he mumbled.

  “Aye,” she replied. “I ken it was yer doing it was given to him.”

  He tried to hide his surprise, but a slight tic pulsed at his temple. “Told ye, did he?”

  Her throat tightened. Perhaps she should hold her peace. But she couldn’t. “He has told me everything concerning yer parents and what happened to yer Ma.”

  He glowered. “He’d no right to tell ye.”

  Margaret decided she’d had enough of his posturing. She was the daughter of a noble family, the wife of a hero who’d captured three kingslayers. Indeed she was something of a heroine. She’d endured terror for no good reason and she deserved this man’s respect. “He had every right. I’m his wife, whether ye like it or not. And if ye and Glenna never have any bairns, my son will be chieftain, not Logan’s.”

  His mouth fell open. He spluttered and huffed, but she carried on before he had a chance to speak. “I dinna ken why ye hate my husband, but I’ll not allow—”

  “Stop,” he shouted, shaking his head. “I dinna hate Rheade. ’Tis only…well, ’tis complicated.”

  Rheade appeared at the door. He looked at them both curiously and she feared he might have overheard.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  “Aye,” Tannoch replied gruffly. “Yer wife has got me dressed, poor helpless bairn that I am. Now, make yerself useful, brother, and help me stand. Time to be off home.”

  Rheade smiled as he hurried to Tannoch’s side. It warmed Margaret’s heart, but she wondered if he realized how much he craved his older brother’s love.

  A QUEEN'S GIFT

  There remained but one duty to perform. The Queen had sent word she wished to see the Robertsons before they departed Stirling.

  Margaret was relieved they were admitted quickly to the anteroom. Tannoch was nervous, and his discomfort didn’t improve his disposition. There was nowhere to sit in the hallway and he didn’t hide his annoyance his brothers had to hold him up.

  He made an effort to bend the knee before Queen Joan. She waved an impatient hand. A page brought a chair. “You’re excused, Tannoch Robertson. Sit. I am irritated with you, but glad to see you are recovering. I thank you in person for Graham’s capture and what you have suffered as a consequence.”

  Tannoch sat, muttering something unintelligible.

  Margaret glanced at Rheade, recalling what he’d confided—Tannoch had deliberately exposed his body to the blade.

  “My thanks again to all of you. However, Lady Margaret Robertson must provide the answer to another question.”

  Margaret’s belly lurched. Rheade tensed beside her. Was there yet another false accusation to be faced? She tried desperately to recall what had become of the gardening dirk. She’d thought never to need it, but if she had to escape the cells of Stirling—

  “Where did you get the ointment you used on your chieftain?”

  Coherent thoughts refused to form. “The spikenard?”

  Queen Joan motioned to someone in the shadows behind them. The Infirmirian shuffled to stand before the throne. Surely the monk didn’t want her persecuted for filching a jar of spikenard from a distant priory. How had he found out? “’Twas a gift from one of the sisters at Emanuel,” she lied.

  “This good monk tells me you lavished the expensive salve on your chieftain?”

  “Aye, ’tis all gone,” Margaret replied, unsure where the discussion was heading. The Infirmirian had tilted his long aquiline nose to the rafters as if none of the proceedings concerned him.

  The Queen glared at him. “And he has admitted it aided greatly in the healing, though he personally criticized its use.”

  Rheade took a step forward. “If—”

  Joan waved him off like a pesky gnat. “I was curious about this miraculous balm I had only ever heard of before in the tales of Mary of Magdala. The good brother then quickly produced a jar for me to sample.”

  Margaret’s knees threatened to buckle when the Queen crooked a finger and beckoned her closer. “I will share a confidence,” Joan whispered in her ear. “It allowed me the first good night’s sleep since my husband’s murder.”

  Margaret was aware her parents hadn’t held this queen in high regard. Her own feelings had run the gamut from pure hatred to intense fear. Now she und
erstood Joan was a grieving woman with heavy responsibilities who faced great dangers in a foreign land. She obeyed the Queen’s dismissive wave, returning to her place.

  “Our monk has also revealed Stirling Castle’s Still Room has several jars on its shelves.” She eyed the Infirmirian who suddenly seemed interested in the conversation. “I am concerned much of it will go to waste, therefore I have arranged for you to take three jars to Dunalastair.”

  The monk’s mouth fell open.

  “You will see it done, Brother Infirmirian.”

  “Majesty,” he mumbled, scurrying from the antechamber.

  “Bluidy ointment as our thanks,” Tannoch grunted between gritted teeth.

  The Queen glared at him then spread her arms wide. “Lastly, before I bid you farewell and safe journey, in recognition of the loyalty shown by the Robertsons to my family, I have transferred dominion over Blair Castle to your clan in perpetuity.”

  Glenna clasped her hands to her bosom.

  Tannoch’s face brightened considerably. He struggled to stand. “Thank ye, Your Majesty,” he said gruffly.

  They took their leave, Tannoch insisting he exit under his own power, but his grimace betrayed the toll the meeting had taken. Margaret worried how he would fare on horseback. But his elation over Blair Castle was evident.

  Rheade grabbed his wife. “Ye are a marvel, Margaret Robertson,” he exclaimed, hugging her to his body. “Ye can even charm a vengeful Queen.”

  HOMECOMING

  Rheade was certain the folk of Dunalastair were aware of his nuptials and of events that had transpired in Stirling. Members of the clan had travelled to witness Graham’s execution, and the oft-repeated tale of his capture at Loch Bhac had taken on legendary proportions.

  News had been relayed of Tannoch’s near-fatal injuries and recovery, and Rheade was confident Fion would have made more than adequate preparations for their arrival. However he was completely taken aback by the sight of hundreds of excited people crammed into the bailey obviously delighted to welcome them home.