by Arnette Lamb
Fullness turned to pressure, and she fought to disguise her discomfort.
“God, but you’re slick and ready and as tight as our first time. Relax, lass, and I’ll try to go easy.”
“I cannot Drummond.”
“Then I’ll not argue. Draw up your knees and lift your hips.”
She did and in the next breath, her world went white with pain. On a groan, she clamped her lips shut and waited for the moment to pass. When it did, she was left with the fullness and stillness of him. His chest heaved like a bellows, and against her ear she heard the rasping of his breath.
“Drummond?”
“If you move one muscle, lass, you’ll unman me.”
“Then what shall I do?”
Through clenched teeth, he said, “What you always told me to do when we arrived at this pass—although I swear age has changed the feel of you.”
He rested within her, still vigorously full yet content to linger. And he had yet to notice that she’d been a virgin.
At a complete loss for words and actions, she held him and marveled at the beauty of two bodies twined in mutual passion and contentment. His love would follow, of that she was certain; he wanted her, and she was obviously pleasing him. Given time, he would forgive her and forget the past. Henceforth, they would share this bed and join forces to build a future. They’d share a hundred nights in the company of their friends, and later she would languish in his arms. They would reign over a kingdom of prosperity and love.
“You seem distracted,” he said.
She couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “I thought I was plying you with trinkets.”
“Move that wee trinket of yours now,” he murmured, “and I’ll take us both adventuring.”
With deep rhythmic strokes he took her through a whirlwind of sensual bliss that washed away her inhibitions and flooded her with erotic visions. When the storm built to a tempest, he drew her legs up and over his naked buttocks and sank so deeply into her that she felt him touch her soul. “Yield now, lass,” he rasped, “seek your paradise.”
Her mind a mass of swirling ecstasy, Johanna clutched his shoulders and gave herself up to the pounding exhilarating release.
Chapter 16
A virgin.
Drummond stared at the woman sleeping beside him and tried to deny the truth. He could not. He knew a maidenhead when he breached it, and until several hours ago, this angelically beautiful woman, who passed herself off as Clare Macqueen, had been innocent.
Innocent? A double-edged term. Did she think he would not notice? Yes, and she had plied him with sennight mead to assure her success. For a week, she had been relentless in her seduction: smiling suggestively when she’d come upon him while he labored to repair the postern gate; moving past him closely enough so that her breasts brushed his arm; or requesting his aid to inventory the stores, a task she performed with ease.
Tonight he had suspected another trick and had outsmarted her by asking Meg to weaken his drink with water. Now he knew why she had wanted him besotted with drink. She had thought he wouldn’t notice. A wildly naive and erroneous assumption. The gift of a woman’s innocence was a memorable event even to a rogue.
Who was she? A sister or a cousin to Clare? The resemblance was uncanny; even a husband estranged for seven years would easily mistake her for Clare. But his wife had sworn she had no family; on occasion she had even garnered sympathy for being orphaned at Scarborough Abbey.
Was Clare dead? The possibility saddened him, for the lass had been a pawn in a game of kings. Or had Edward the Second spoken true when he claimed an ongoing affair with her? Was Clare tucked away in some hunting lodge awaiting his divine pleasure? Had she abandoned Alasdair to this capable woman and taken up the life of royal mistress?
Did she cuckold Drummond still?
He should bellow and curse and upturn the furniture. He should toss this woman from his bed. That he did not was as surprising as finding a virgin beneath him had been.
He’d called her whore and worse. The woman beside him had not taken his condemnation to heart, because his words had not wounded her, this woman had not lain with young Edward Plantagenet, not eight years ago, not ever, and not with anyone else. Except Drummond Macqueen.
Had she and Clare cooked up this scheme? Had Edward played a part? Did they think Drummond fool enough to believe their ruse?
Answers to other questions blazed in his mind like signal fires on a dark night. He’d been wandering, lost in a forest of confusion, but enlightenment had found him.
He wanted to examine her at his leisure, learn the reason for every doubt, see the truth behind each of his suspicions. He must look for proof.
The brand.
She had burned herself, not to hide a mark, but to disguise the fact that she had never born the brand. Like vanquishing an irksome enemy, he put that question to rest.
Shifting, he angled his head so he could see her neck. She purred sweetly and nuzzled against him. A loving woman, living a lie.
Like a cool wind on fevered skin, understanding swept over him.
I am not your wife.
No. Before tonight she’d belonged to no man.
This stranger loves you, Drummond Macqueen.
His pride reeled, and he willed his anger to flow. She had conspired with Clare to trick him. When had the unholy pact begun? Surely years ago, for Alasdair called her mother, Bertie addressed her as Lady Friend.
Drummond named her beguiling imposter.
She did not remember the events of her marriage in the Highlands because she hadn’t been there.
Who was she?
I am not the woman you married.
Too agitated to stay abed, Drummond eased off the mattress and pulled on his hose, but his interest stayed fixed on her. His heartbeat quickened, for she looked like a woman well loved and content. Her glorious hair was prettily mussed, and her lips curved upward in a secret smile.
Secret.
He ground his teeth, and from the clothes chest, snatched up his tartan plaid. Drawing it around his shoulders, he slipped from the room and escaped to the battlement. But even in this favored spot, peace eluded him.
She had admitted the truth. On a dozen occasions she had told him she was not Clare.
I am not that woman. I am someone else now.
Who had she been? What life had she abandoned to become Clare Macqueen? And why? Upon his arrival, she had called him an imposter. She must have chuckled inside at her own cleverness. Even that revelation failed to stir his anger, for she loved to laugh.
She. What name did she speak in her heart? He must find out, but how? He couldn’t publicly denounce her for an imposter, the brand on her shoulder had been his only proof. No one here would take his word. They’d sooner name him idiot and chain him away in a dungeon.
He looked out over the village and the farms beyond. She had built this prosperous estate out of moorland and forest.
She. A woman who ciphered as well as a cleric. The woman whose penmanship was neat and efficient and unfamiliar. A woman who defended the weak. When her funds had been spent, she had borrowed money from Red Douglas. Not Clare, but the virgin Drummond had deflowered earlier tonight.
Never again would he call her Clare.
Who was she?
The question stabbed deeply.
Bertie knew of her deception. Did anyone else? No, not Alasdair and not even Brother Julian, Drummond wagered. She could not confess the sin of adultery; she had not committed it.
The door to the battlement swung open. “I grew lonely without you.”
In a flowing night rail, she seemed to float toward him. In the faint light she was the image of Clare Macqueen. Yet she was as different from the woman he’d married as rock was to soil. This woman possessed depth of character and a deep sense of loyalty to these people and this land. She was also a liar.
In spite of that, his heart soared, and a confrontation died on his lips. Eventually she would reveal herself. If he ga
ve himself away now, he’d never learn her secrets.
He pulled her into his arms, but not out of affection, he told himself. She could catch a chill. “We are truly one.”
So great was her relief that she sagged against him. “Aye, and a glorious feeling it is.”
Truly? She had lied from the beginning. He saw only folly in believing her now, and advantage was what he sought.
To verify what he already knew, he dreamed up an event to see if she would play along. “Do you remember the afternoon we made love in the loft of my uncle’s stables?”
“If you tell anyone else about that tryst I’ll…”
A skillful evasion, but she’d had much practice at avoiding direct questions. She also wielded cunning as well as a master archer aimed his bow. But Drummond was the master now, and he intended to enjoy the role. “You’ll do what?”
“I’ll tell Alasdair you intend to take him to Londontown.”
Reality intruded. At the heart of the complicated issue of why this woman pretended to be Clare Macqueen was Alasdair. The lad was innocent, and no matter what occurred between Drummond and this woman, Alasdair would always be his son. Their lives would go on.
If the lad thought he was going to Londontown, he’d hound Drummond mercilessly. “You wouldn’t dare tell him that.”
Her arms slid around his waist, and she tucked her head beneath his chin. Tendrils of silky, golden hair caught the wind and furled around him. Heather. It filled his senses with the sweet smell of home and hearth. But Scotland was denied to him, and the woman he’d come to love was a stranger, a clever imposter who’d made him forget the past.
“You could put me to the test,” she said against his neck.
Unwittingly he already had, and he could not remember winning a sweeter prize than her innocence. But to her mind, they were bantering words, not promises, for in spite of her other lies, she was too honorable to use Alasdair as a pawn.
“Very well,” Drummond conceded. “I’ll keep that lover’s mischief a secret.”
She grew still. “Was it as you remember?”
Of their own volition, his arms tightened around her. “Making love to you?”
In the slope of her shoulders and the shallowness of her breathing, she radiated vulnerability. “Yes.”
Women always asked that question, usually in pursuit of a compliment. Not this imposter, she wanted confirmation that her ruse had succeeded.
Suddenly he felt like the chieftain of a well-armed clan facing an enemy without weapons. The day was his. Having the advantage allowed him the luxury of telling the truth. “’Twas better than before.”
“Truly?” She came to life in his arms. “You were pleased?”
She had a way about her, an ability to draw him into conversations that both enlightened and entertained and begged to be recalled and repeated. She had a bonny sense of humor, too. Thinking of that, he said, “Crying out to God is fair testimony, lass. I enjoyed you well.”
“St. Ninian.”
“Pardon?”
She tipped her head back and looked up at him. Moonlight bathed her features, and her eyes twinkled with mischief. “You did not cry out to God, Drummond. I did. You invoked St. Ninian.”
Laughter churned inside him, but he would not allow himself to be cheered by her wit. He failed, and she laughed with him, swaying from side to side, playing the loving wife. Loving liar.
The sensual embrace was pure torture, for his randy body enjoyed a different humor, and even as his desire swelled anew, he fought the urge to take her again, here and now.
She was a deceiving conniver, and he’d given her his heart. Now he must guard her well. “’Tis natural for a Scot to cry out to St. Ninian. Surely you understand, for you are forthright yourself.”
“A timid woman alone often becomes a man’s prey. Now that you’ve come home, I feel safe, and definitely not alone.”
I’m different now.
Indeed; she was now a deflowered imposter.
How much had Clare told her about him? Some things, for she had abided by his wishes and named their home Fairhope. We verily wore off our fur. Clare would not have uttered that earthy remark. Neither would she make up tales of his heroism or take his side against the likes of Red Douglas.
“What makes you smile, Drummond?”
“How do you know if I am smiling?”
“Are you?”
She shouldn’t know him so well, not when he knew so little about her. He remembered wondering, after their first meeting, if someone else had inhabited Clare’s body. Now the observation seemed providential in the extreme. Now was also the time to learn how much she knew. “I was thinking about those gardens you wanted. Remember?”
“No,” she said thickly. “I do not recall the gardens.”
Of course she wouldn’t. Clare had wanted manicured lawns; this woman wanted prosperity and a future for Alasdair. Clare had feared water, this woman had taught the lad to swim. She had also taught Drummond to be a good parent.
If she were Clare’s relative, surely she held some affection for her. Where was Clare?
The unknown intricacies robbed him of ire. “My pardon, then.”
“I will not tease Alasdair in your name.”
“I know.”
She had duped the lad as well, but she had also raised him with kindness and taught him respect for others. She loved Alasdair as her own, and he knew no other mother. Drummond remembered the first time he’d taken Alasdair up on Longfellow. Without saddle or second thought, she had ridden after them. She’d been terrified that Drummond would take Alasdair from her. Weeks later, when he had threatened to do that very thing if she did not kiss him in front of Sheriff Hay and Red Douglas, she had played the smitten wife. Out of fear, not affection or desire.
Now she wanted him.
Forget her generosity and her mothering skills, his pride demanded. She was a deceiver. To his dismay, his body ignored character judgments and craved a different kind of gratitude. As if sensing his need, she cuddled closer.
The tether of abstention had been loosed. Why not enjoy her as often as he pleased? She took pleasure in the tender sport, and if hand movements were signals, she wanted him to love her again. If she conceived, he’d provide for the child. What to do with her would be decided later.
What to do with her now held particular appeal.
“Perhaps we made Alasdair happy tonight,” he ventured.
“By making him clean Longfellow’s harness?”
“Nay.” He smiled at her innocence. “He wants a wee sister.”
Her fingers clutched his back. “Do you think I could have conceived? We’ve only—”
Lain together once, he silently finished her thought. She’d almost given herself away. She would again. He could feel her fear, and he wondered how often she worried that he would see through her charade? Her effort seemed oddly gallant. The trick was to discern when she lied and when she told the truth. Direct questions seemed a good place to start. “Want you more children?”
“Oh, yes, a keepful.”
The truth spilled from her lips and his loins heard. By the saints, he’d been deprived for seven years, and she was as willing as a true wife. Only a fool would deny her.
Only a scoundrel would take her again tonight. Then she moved her hands to the tie of his hose and nestled her cheek against his chest. His loins turned to iron.
“Would you have me love you here?” he croaked, wishing he could trust her reasons, wishing he didn’t enjoy her company so much, wishing he could take back his heart.
“Hum.” After a moment’s contemplation, she said, “No, I’d not have you telling the tale that our firstborn was conceived on a battlement.”
“Firstborn?”
She rushed to say, “I meant our firstborn daughter. Of course.”
A slip of her tongue, but not the last. He would keep at her, and putting a distance between them now seemed a good place to begin. But he couldn’t think logically
with her breasts pressed against him and her fingers toying with the tie to his hose. “You must be sore.”
“Why? I’ve told you before, I’m hale and hearty.” Her hands moved lower to caress him intimately. “Motherhood suits me well, and you appear rather attentive to the idea. Yes?”
Desire blurred his vision, and he banished his conscience and lifted her for his kiss. “Aye, I want you, lass.”
She came willingly and melted against him in a surrender too sweet to deny. Even as her tongue swirled against his, he wondered which of them was truly yielding.
“Shall I carry you?” she teased.
“I am not besotted with drink.”
“Not anymore.”
Confidence made her coy. Drummond could disavow her of the belief that he’d been too tippered to notice the obvious. But she was smiling sweetly and his body craved this woman, whatever her name.
He swung her into his arms and returned to their bed, where he taught her new ways of making love. She proved to be an exceptionally bright student.
Sometime later, she lay on his chest, her knees hugging his waist and another part of her hugging him elsewhere.
“I could fall asleep like this,” she purred against his neck.
Replete to his bones, Drummond said, “When ‘like this’ loses appeal, lass, I’ll be too old to care.”
“I cannot imagine being too old to love you.”
Love? Not from her, a liar. The truth tainted his contentment but could not spoil the memory of the pleasure they had shared.
Still astride him, she sat up straight and winnowed her fingers through her hair, flipping it back over her shoulders. Her naked breasts looked deliciously pert, and her eyes glittered with satisfaction. “Shall I fetch you a sleeping gown?” she asked.
Holding her waist, he thrust upward. “I have one.”
Her hearty laughter left him completely naked.
“Oh,” she pouted, so openly disappointed at his withdrawal that he smiled.
A liar. Who made his heart sing and his soul soar. An imposter. Who’d built a life and a future here in the Borders and expected him to share it with her.