Later that evening Rory entered his new bedchamber, nearly certain that his future bride was masquerading as a serving lad called Joey Macdonald. He’d watched the lad—lass, dammit—seated by the fireside playing backgammon with Seumas Gilbride, Kinlochleven’s steward, after supper. Each time the boy—girl—made a successful move on the board, he—she—would laugh out loud. The soft, husky laughter, filled with a naughty, irrepressible merriment, convinced him further of his suspicions.
He opened the low carved chest at the end of the four-poster. The scent of roses drifted up, enticing and evocative. Filled with costly and stylish robes, it brought to mind the image of a pampered Englishwoman whose world centered on her own shallow interests. This, then, was her chamber; these, her fine garments trimmed with fur. He lifted a lavender wool gown adorned with sable from the stack of folded clothing and held it out at arm’s length.
Its owner was a tiny thing. The top of her head would barely reach the middle of his chest. He pictured Joey—the height would be correct for a twelve-year-old boy, but could also be that of a diminutive seventeen-year-old female.
Returning the gown to the pile, he went to the table that held an assortment of feminine trifles. Pulling open a drawer, he fumbled through the things, picked up a silver brush, and brought it closer to the candle flame. A strand of silken hair clung to the bristles, glowing like hammered copper in the moving light.
Christ! Blue eyes and red hair!
He’d been so damned sure Lady Joanna would look like Idoine, sour-faced and frizzled, that he’d never even considered the possibility the maid he would marry might be bonny.
Cold fury swept through him as he stared with unseeing eyes at the tapestry on the far wall. He’d like to turn the lying wench over his knee, lift up that tattered plaid she wore, and whale on her backside till her howls of outrage shook the rafters. If he attempted to thrash her as she so richly deserved, the Macdonalds would never stand by and allow him to lay one blow on her little bare butt. They’d stumble all over themselves confessing her true identity.
Hell, even the priest was in on the sham.
Rory sank down on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes and stockings, stopped, and smiled grimly. The Macdonalds weren’t the only ones who could play this idiotic game of make-believe. They’d had a good laugh at his expense; now it was his turn.
He lay back on the mattress and stared up at the silk canopy. God, what a hellion, to try such a trick.
Meting out physical punishment would be letting her off much too easily. There’d be far more satisfaction in going along with the ruse till he’d evened the score.
He rose, crossed the room, and poured a glass of porter from the flagon on the side table. Twirling the ale, he stared into its dark brown depths. How much more gratifying to show Lady Joanna who really controlled Kinlochleven. He’d take the serving boy under his wing, and set all the Macdonalds wondering what they could do to protect their mistress from discovery and still not reveal her identity.
He smiled to himself in anticipation. His revenge would be slow and thorough, and all the sweeter for the waiting.
Rory sat up with a frown, uncertain how long he’d slept. He’d drifted off, fully clothed, on top of the coverlet and wakened with troubled thoughts.
Locked out of her bedchamber, what nighttime refuge had Joanna found that was completely safe? Not with any of the womenfolk; the sight of a lad going into the women’s chambers in the evening and not coming out until dawn would be noticed and remarked upon.
Not the stables, either. Too risky.
Nor the great hall with his men-at-arms.
So where the hell was she sleeping?
He left the room, candle in hand, and descended to the ground floor. The snores of his soldiers, lying on the rushes, mingled with their grunts and groans as they tossed about in their sleep. The faint sound of male voices caught his attention, and he moved down the long gallery.
Two Macdonalds looked up in surprise when Rory entered the kitchen. Seumas and Jock Kean, the stable master, sat at one of the rough wooden tables, playing cards by the light of a tallow dip. They rose to their feet at the sight of him, their faces puckered in consternation.
“M-milord,” Seumas said, his overwide smile splitting his whiskered cheeks, “is there something you’re needing?”
Jock’s eyes darted to the fireplace, and Rory followed his gaze. There before the hearthstones, cocooned in a swath of red and blue tartan, lay Joey, sound asleep.
“Nothing,” Rory said. “I was merely restless. Rather than disturb any of the servants, I thought I’d check the pantry myself for something to eat.” He looked at the tarots spread across the tabletop. “I enjoy a good game of cards. I’ll join you, if I may.” Without waiting for an invitation, he set his candle on the table and dropped to the bench across from Seumas.
“Certainly, laird, certainly,” Jock said, and the two sat back down.
Rory pulled a crown out of his sporran and tossed it on the pile of coins in the center. “You men keep late hours.”
“Ah, well,” Jock answered, shuffling the tarots with his knotted fingers, “like you, we couldn’t sleep, so we thought we’d bide the time with a bit o’ harmless gamblin’.”
They hadn’t played for long when Kinlochleven’s bailiff shambled into the kitchen. Rubbing his eyes, Davie came to a sudden halt at the unexpected sight of his new laird.
“You couldn’t sleep, either, I take it,” Rory said with a brief nod as he made his discard.
Abashed, the stoop-shouldered man adjusted the pleats of his belted plaid as though he’d dressed hastily in the dark. He peered at the fireplace from the corner of his eye; then, meeting his comrades’ worried gazes, slipped onto the bench next to Rory.
Across the table, Seumas stretched and yawned. “Well, I’m for bed,” he declared, picking up his winnings. “If you’ll excuse me, milord?”
He nearly bumped into Father Thomas on the way out. The chaplain’s dark brown eyes grew wide as he entered the room. “What in heaven’s name—” He stopped short, his gaze flying to Joey, then nodded politely. “Evening, laird.”
Rory smiled down at the king, queen, and knave in his hand. His few remaining doubts were completely wiped away by the changing of the guard. As Jock made his excuses along with Seumas and trundled off to bed, Davie and Father Thomas joined Rory at the table, ready to while away their shift.
What could look more innocent than two men sitting in the warmth of the kitchen over a friendly game of tarot, while a serving lad slept by the fire?
Laying his cards facedown, Rory stood, walked over to the wood box by the hearth, and picked up a log.
“Here, I’ll do that for you, laird,” Davie said, pushing himself up from the bench. He started to move toward the fireplace, favoring his lame leg.
“Sit down,” Rory told him. “I can stir the fire.”
He crouched over the sleeping figure and shifted the embers about with a poker, than added a log.
Illumined by the flickering light, Lady Joanna’s translucent skin glowed with vitality. The delicate features had been scrubbed clean of the dirt smudges, and a sprinkling of cinnamon dusted her pert nose. Her soft, pink mouth had parted slightly in her sleep, and her long lashes rested on her silken cheeks. The knit stocking cap had been replaced by a lad’s cotton nightcap, which had shifted in her nocturnal movements, revealing strands of lustrous red hair curving about her face.
Hell and damnation.
How could they think him so blind?
All the girl’s innocence and sweet femininity lay right before him. He rose and turned to find her two clansmen, now both on their feet, watching him with sickly apprehension.
“The laddie sleeps like the dead, doesn’t he?” Rory commented with a chuckle.
“He does, laird,” Father Thomas replied, unable to manage the faintest of smiles.
Dusting his hands, Rory walked back to the table, sat down, and picked up his tarots. “Now, if you men are ready, let’s get down to some serious card playing. And I warn you, I’m very hard to bluff.”
The other men’s eyes met, sharing a secret amusement. “Oh, we’ve no doubt you’re a canny one, laird,” Davie said, his protruding eyes lighting up like beacons. “But you’d have to get up fair early to outfox a Macdonald.”
Rory returned his grin. “I’m glad to hear that. I wouldn’t want to trounce you fellows too quickly—there’s no pleasure in an easy victory.”
“You told the men?” Rory asked Fearchar as he joined him in the library the next morning. Spread across the table lay the building plans of Kinlochleven, which he’d been studying. While the keep’s interior boasted luxuries more common to an English manor house than a Scottish castle, the outer fortifications needed repair and reinforcement. He intended to renovate the fortress as quickly as new plans could be drawn up and masons hired.
“They all know,” his cousin said, bracing his hands on his hips. The pale blue eye glistened with mirth, at odds with the somber black patch. “They could scarcely believe the truth at first, but I managed to convince them.”
“And they understand my orders? No one is to touch her.”
“I gave them your warnin’, forbye,” he replied. “If any man lays a finger on the lass, he’ll beg to die before we’re through with him.”
Satisfied, Rory rotated his shoulders and massaged the back of his neck. He left the table and strode across the carpet. Bracing one hand on the edge of the narrow window, he looked out at the kitchen garden and paused for a moment to enjoy the bucolic scene.
Lady Joanna Macdonald, in her lad’s clothing and carrying a large bundle of laundry, came into view. Making her way through the rows of peas and onions, she stopped for a moment to speak to the bairn Rory had threatened to kill the day he’d arrived. The child’s mother, smiling with delight at the spate of cooing and gurgling from her youngster, continued to pick green peas and drop them into her cupped apron.
At Rory’s sudden scowl, Fearchar spread his big, scarred hands across the building plans and braced his considerable weight on the table. “What’s really eating your insides?” he asked. “The fact that the lassie’s the granddaughter of Somerled Macdonald or the knowledge that she doesn’t care to wed you any more than you wish to marry her?”
Turning from the window, Rory braced his shoulders against the wall. “Maybe ’tis both,” he said, “maybe neither. Maybe ’tis just that I’d always planned to choose my own bride, not have one foisted on me by royal decree.”
“You haven’t tumbled arse over alepot for a bonny face and a braw smile when I wasn’t lookin’, have ye now? A fellow has to be sensible in spite of the urgings of his heart—or his loins.”
Rory chuckled at his cousin’s sly leer, but didn’t bother to answer. They both knew he was far too pragmatic to believe in romantic love. Whatever the circumstances, his choice of a bride wouldn’t be based on some fatuous myth perpetuated by bards and heartsick maidens.
“Dod, man,” Fearchar said, “if ’tis bothering you that much, ride back to Stalcaire and ask the king to reconsider.”
Rory folded his arms with a grimace of resignation. “’Twould be a waste of time. I tried my damndest to talk James out of this asinine scheme the day he first proposed it. Lady Joanna is the granddaughter of the late Marquess of Allonby, and the Nevilles have always been close to the English throne—so doubtless the maid inherited their fierce loyalty to Henry Tudor. But none of this swayed the king. When I told him flat out that a MacLean could never wed a Macdonald, he refused to listen. To hear James Stewart tell it, he’s the one making the sacrifice in allowing me to end my sailing days and take up the prosaic life of a landholder.”
“There’s a good many reasons for the king wanting these nuptials, as you damn well know,” Fearchar said. “By uniting you and Lady Joanna in holy wedlock, her title and property will be safely in MacLean hands, rather than in the grasp of her misbegotten clan’s pawky commander, Ewen Macdonald. And James isn’t worried about the lass’s loyalty, Sassenach or no—only her future husband’s. Her English heritage makes the proposed alliance all the more desirable. Through your marriage, the Scottish Crown will gain a toehold in Cumberland.”
“I’m fully aware of the political advantages to James IV and Scotland,” Rory said sharply. “But have you forgotten the lady’s grandfather murdered Gideon Cameron? I lost a brilliant mentor and ally due to nothing more than a cantankerous old man’s spite and greed.”
“If the lassie’s willing to forget the fact ’twas you who captured the Red Wolf and delivered him up for the hangin’,” Fearchar retorted, “you should be able to overlook the murder of your foster father. Lady Joanna had nothing to do with the plaguey affair.”
“She’s a Macdonald. That alone condemns her.”
His face puckered in a scowl, Fearchar came around the table. “’Tis high time you took a bride,” he said bluntly. “You’re not getting any younger. And a married man needs estates to leave his weans.”
Rory clenched his jaw to stifle an oath. He didn’t need to be reminded that he held no lands of his own. Since he’d been old enough to comprehend the full meaning of that unfortunate fact, he’d realized that as chief of Clan MacLean, he must one day wed an heiress, thereby providing a home for his dispossessed kinsmen, who’d otherwise end up as broken men, forced to sell their services as mercenaries in foreign lands.
In his years of faithful service on the sea, Rory had accumulated considerable wealth. And because of his loyalty to the king, he’d hoped to be awarded the estates that had once belonged to Somerled Macdonald. But that dream had been nothing more than an illusion. There was no gain without a price—and the greater the gain, the costlier the price.
“There are countless men who’d give their sword arm to be in your shoes,” Fearchar reminded him. “And the lass needs a strong man who can protect her property from those who’d seek to take advantage of an ignorant female. As her husband, you’ll be laird of thousands of acres, with tenants and livestock, granaries and mills, smithies and quarries. Not an opportunity to be tossed away lightly, my bucko.”
“Oh, ’tis perfect,” Rory agreed with a curl of his lip. “I get a bride who’s descended from a long line of Scottish traitors on one side and our ancient enemy on the other. Hell, I don’t know which is worse: the fact that she’s half Macdonald or half Sassenach.”
Fearchar clapped Rory soundly on the back. “God’s bones, man! ’Tisn’t the lass’s fault she was born half-English. Or that her grandda was the Red Wolf of Glencoe.”
Rory chuckled in spite of himself. “I have to admit, she is fair bonny. And she smells damn nice.”
Fearchar’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “How the hell would you know? You’ve never been that close to her.”
“Her perfume lingered on the pillow,” Rory admitted with a grin. “The Maid of Glencoe may spring from a long line of traitors, but she smells like my mother’s rose garden.”
Not just the pillow, but the entire bed—mattress, coverlet, and curtains—carried the intoxicating fragrance of a blossom-filled bower. He’d wakened in the night with the image of a sweet, supple body lying beside him and a cockstand that’d give credit to a sailor after ten months at sea. That morning he’d gruffly ordered a servant to put fresh linens on the bed and air out the chamber.
Rory picked up a letter he’d written earlier. He dusted it with sand, folded it, and sealed the missive with his ring; then he placed it beside a package wrapped in paper and tied with string, along with several other letters.
“Send Arthur to me,” he told Fearchar. “I have an errand that will take my gillie to the Sea Dragon. On the way, he can deliver some letters to Stalcaire, along with a package containing one of Joanna’s gowns. Lady Emma can use it to take the measurements for the little bride’s wedding garments. Then Arthur can accompany her and my uncle back to Kinlochleven, along with Lachlan and Keir.”
“Your family’s coming here?”
At Fearchar’s look of surprise, Rory leaned against the table and grinned. “We’ll celebrate the wedding when they arrive. In the meantime, we’re going to show Clan Macdonald that the MacLeans have a few tricks of their own. If the entire castle can conspire to keep Lady Joanna’s identity a secret, we can convince them for a few days that we haven’t discovered the fact that the stable boy is my sweet, bonny bride-to-be.”
“You’re going to pay them back in kind for their trickery,” his cousin said with an approving nod.
“’Tis part of it,” Rory admitted. “But the most important reason will be to keep them off guard. As long as they’re certain we believe Joey Macdonald is a lad, there’ll be no attempt to sneak her away from Kinlochleven. I don’t want to wake up one morning and find she’s bolted. Until the wedding vows are said, I intend to keep my conniving bride-to-be right at my side.”
To Joanna’s disgust, the Sea Dragon showed no sign of dragging his tail out of her castle. He slept in her bed, ate her food, and issued orders like he was the bloody king of England.
And as if that weren’t bad enough, his men swarmed all over the fortress. Practicing swordplay in the bailey, marching up and down the battlements, stabling their ravenous animals in her barns, and nosing around the bakehouse with the boldness of greedy lads.
As Joanna made her way across the lower bailey, the Dragon’s giant henchman called out to her. Fearchar’s flaxen hair and full beard, along with the gold stud in his ear, the scars, black eye patch, and immense bulk, reminded her of a Viking. Maude had told her as a child of how the Norsemen had once been the scourge of the Scottish coast.
“The MacLean wants to talk to you at once, laddie,” Fearchar said with a ferocious scowl. “Best hotfoot it into the keep, if you know what’s good for you.”
Joanna nodded and turned back. Geese and ducks honked and scolded, flapping their wings in outrage as she raced through their midst. It was a whole lot easier running in a kilt than a dress, and Joanna sprinted for the upper bailey and the door of the keep. She reached the donjon’s open doorway, brushed past a startled Seumas, and skidded to a stop on the vestibule’s stone floor in front of the Dragon himself.
MacLean stood with his feet planted solidly apart, his hands resting on his narrow hips. An engraved gold bodkin fastened the edge of his belted black and green plaid to the shoulder of his flowing saffron shirt. His shiny black brogues sported gold buckles that matched the rosette points on his checkered stockings. Beautifully carved Celtic designs adorned the hilt of his eighteen-inch dirk.
Godsakes, if he didn’t look the portrait of a Highland laird, nobody did.
And the laird was scowling. Again.
Deciding he looked far too busy to be interrupted, Joanna quickly lowered her gaze and started to scoot around him.
“Don’t leave,” he said.
He’d spoken so softly, she looked up to see if he’d meant her.
He had.
With a wave of his hand, MacLean dismissed Seumas and turned his full attention on Joanna.
His stern, sea-weathered features had the mesmerizing appeal of a newly sharpened ax blade. A thrill of admiration, mixed with fear at the sight of a nearly invincible enemy, twanged through her. Bonny would never have described him—even if his name hadn’t been MacLean. The fierce warrior standing before her brought to mind phrases like awe-inspiring and frighteningly majestic.
“Do you wish to speak with me, milord?” she asked, sending a prayer of gratitude heavenward that her voice was several octaves lower than that of most females. During Joanna’s years at Allonby Castle in Cumberland, her Aunt Clarissa had told her more than once she had the voice of a whisky-soaked harridan.
His reply held the rumbling threat of far-off thunder. “I do.”
“He’s naught but a halflin,” Seumas blurted out. “If he’s doing something wrong, I’ll see to it that he’s properly instructed.”
MacLean looked over at the steward in surprise. Instead of leaving as he was supposed to, Joanna’s trusted retainer had hovered near the doorway, waiting to see what the fearsome man wanted with his mistress.
“If you please, laird,” Seumas continued stubbornly, “I’ll take the laddie with me and set him to work in the scullery.”
MacLean stared at the portly, dark-haired man as though unable to credit his ears that a lowly steward had dared to defy him. Beneath the Sea Dragon’s icy regard, Seumas clamped his mouth shut and backed two slow steps to the door. Then with a quick, worried glance at Joanna, he hurried away.
To go for help, she fervently prayed.
Once Seumas had disappeared, MacLean turned back to Joanna. He jerked his head toward the small library just off the vestibule that he’d confiscated for his private office. “In there, lad.”
Joanna swallowed painfully and tried to speak, but nothing came out. With no excuse to keep from being alone with him, she walked into the Dragon’s lair on shaky legs, halted in the center of the fine Hindustan rug she’d brought with her from Cumberland, and waited for impending doom to follow her in.
With her teeth clenched to keep them from chattering, she stared at the warlord with all the bravado she could muster. She’d barely passed the five-foot mark in height, and at seventeen, there was no hope of ever getting any taller. She hooked her thumbs in her belt, tipped her head back, and met his frosty gaze.
God above! His eyes were cold enough to freeze Loch Leven in the summertime. But no matter what he threatened to do, she wouldn’t reveal her true identity.
Like the king’s daughter in the Celtic tale of the sea dragon, who’d been chained to a rock to be devoured for her people, Joanna would never forsake her duty.
He could burn her with hot pokers.
He could hang her from the rafters by her thumbs.
He could throw her into the moat, bound hand and foot!
No matter what hellish torment his lurid mind dreamed up, she’d never tell him she was the maiden he sought to despoil with his lecherous, debauched, lascivious MacLean hands.
Never.
Rory looked down at the dirty-faced lassie, trying so hard to act brave. The sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheekbones could barely be discerned beneath the layer of soot. ’Twas all he could do to keep from smiling at her impudence.
“What’s your name, lad?” he growled.
“Joey Macdonald.”
“Who are your parents, Joey?”
Lady Joanna threw back her shoulders, and her dark blue eyes glistened with open defiance. “I don’t have any parents. Nor grandparents, neither.”
“You’re an orphan, then?”
“That’s what they usually call a child with no parents,” she answered cheekily.
In spite of the brazen demeanor, Rory sensed her pain at the questions. “Who were your parents, laddie?” he asked in a milder tone.
“My da died on the Field of the Moss at Stirling fighting the old king. Mama died two years ago.”
“So your father was a traitor.”
The lass fisted her hands. “My da was a hero,” she declared proudly. “He killed eight men with his claymore before being cut down by cannon fire from the hills above.”
If the man hadn’t died in the battle, he’d have been hanged with the rest of the rebels, but Rory didn’t bother to point that out to his bride-to-be.
Joanna must have lost her father when she was only eight or so. The tattered shirt, several sizes too big for her, hung on her small frame. The frayed red and blue plaid she wore could have served a full-grown man. Even her worn-out shoes were overlarge.
Her tenacious pride touched something inside Rory. A memory of his own childhood flashed before him. He’d been fostered in the home of a Stewart ally at the age of eight. In his loneliness, he’d felt the need to prove himself to the other lads by acting as impertinent as Joanna. Gideon Cameron’s patience must have been tested to the hilt.
“I’ve considered turning you over to Fearchar for training as a soldier.” He paused to watch Joanna swallow back her dismay, then continued with a smile. “However instructive my kinsman’s rigorous discipline might be, though, I’m not sure you’ve the makings of a warrior.”
At that moment, Jock Kean appeared in the open doorway. “You sent for me, laird?”
Rory nodded and motioned for the man to enter, then turned back to Joanna. “Besides your household duties, lad, I’m going to have you work in the stables under the direct supervision of the stable master. In the afternoons you’ll take orders from Jock, and your first duty today will be mucking out the stables.”
Jock stepped forward and tugged off his coarse wool cap, revealing his smooth, hairless pate. His lively gaze darted to Joanna in reassurance and then back to Rory. “I’ll take care of the laddie, then,” he said, his round face splitting into a jaunty smile. “I’ll see that he’s kept busy and stays out of trouble.”
Rory folded his arms and waited for the Sassenach heiress to confess her bloody secret.
Instead, Joanna edged closer to the cheerful, baldheaded gnome, then looked at Rory with huge blue eyes. “I’ll do just as Jock says, laird,” she promised. “I can handle the mucking—I know I can. And I’m real good with horses. You’ll see.”
He scowled at her. “What are you waiting for, then?” he snapped. “Get out to the stables and get busy.”
She bowed low from the waist. “Very well, milord,” she answered with a hint of mockery in her voice. “Thank you, milord.”
All Rory could see was the top of the moth-eaten stocking cap, but he could have sworn the cheeky imp was grinning.
Before she had a chance to straighten up, Maude Beaton, who’d been identified as the missing heiress’s former nursemaid, appeared in the doorway. She bobbed a curtsy the instant Rory glanced over. “Your pardon, milord,” she said meekly. “The lad is needed in the scullery.”
“Joey has work to do in the stables,” he replied with a frown. “And don’t interrupt me again, woman, when I’m speaking with someone. No matter what the cause.”
“I won’t, laird,” Maude promised. The tall, big-boned female looked at Joanna with solemn gray eyes, then turned and left, with Jock right behind her.
“You may go, lad,” Rory said.
“Thank you, milord,” she answered with a wide grin.
“Oh, and Joey,” Rory said as she moved toward the door, her returning confidence obvious in her boyish swagger.
Joanna paused to look back.
“If you ever again answer my questions with such impudence, I’ll discipline you myself. And if I do, you’ll wish I’d let Fearchar strip the hide off your puny little bones, yank your ribs out of your chest, and beat your head into your shoulders with them.”
The lass fled the chamber without a backward glance.
Rory grinned as he shook his head in grudging admiration. The confounded girl had spunk. The thought of bedding such a lively sprite sent an unexpected surge of lust flooding through his veins. Damn, if he wasn’t starting to look forward to his wedding day.
Almost a dozen of her kinsmen were waiting for Joanna outside the library, listening for her cry for help, ready to rush to her assistance.
“Are you all right?” Davie Ogilvy asked in a hushed voice as he shuffled out of the vestibule alongside her.
“Did he hurt you?” Jacob whispered, his big blacksmith’s hands fisted menacingly.
Safely wedged between her bailiff and the clan chaplain, Joanna strode down the south gallery that led to the chapel. “He didn’t lay a hand on me,” she said with a satisfied grin, “but I’d rather not have another private interview with the Sea Dragon for as long as I live.”
Father Thomas placed his hand on Joanna’s shoulder, and they came to a stop. “I’m afraid this farce is going to turn deadly,” he said in a low voice, his dark eyes somber.
“When we agreed to your plan, Lady Joanna,” Seumas added, stepping closer, “we thought the King’s Avenger would be gone the same day he arrived, riding for Mingarry Castle in search of you.”
“Don’t give up so soon,” she answered confidently. “All we have to do is fool The MacLean until Ewen arrives to rescue us.”
Seumas rubbed his whiskered jowls, his mouth compressed in a tight line. “You can’t keep up this deception much longer, milady,” he warned. “’Tis too dangerous.”
“I can,” she insisted. “I know I can. Why, MacLean wasn’t a foot away from me and hadn’t the least notion I was a girl. He’s as easy to fool as the rest of those idiots.”
Idoine squeezed closer to her mother. “If he does find out, he’ll probably hang you.”
“Let him,” Joanna replied with a toss of her head. “Just as long as he doesn’t marry me first.”
Some of her kinsmen chuckled at the bold remark, but most regarded their mistress soberly. At the moment, the choice between a hanging and a wedding seemed an all-too-distinct possibility.
Pressing her hand to her ruddy cheek, Maude looked at Father Thomas with worried eyes. “Perhaps we should try to sneak my wee lamb out of the castle.”
“That might be a very good idea,” he agreed with a nod.
Although every member of her household staff was loyal to Joanna, she hadn’t yet been fully accepted by the entire clan since her return to Kinlochleven two years ago with her grandfather. But she was their chieftain now, and she was determined to help them.
“My heart is in the Highlands and here I’ll stay,” she declared, clenching her hands with unflagging resolution. “Besides, if Joey Macdonald were to disappear now, The MacLean would guess who he really was, and then you’d all be in danger.” She touched Beatrix’s sleeve. “Have you received any word from Ewen?”
“Not yet,” her cousin admitted. “But I’m sure we’ll hear soon. He may have gone to Stalcaire Castle to speak with the king. Hopefully, my husband is with His Majesty as we speak, begging him to reconsider this tragic misalliance and to give permission for you to wed Andrew instead.”
“Then we’ll wait till Laird Ewen arrives,” Joanna said. She met Idoine’s worried gaze. “Don’t be afraid, cousin. I won’t let the Sea Dragon marry you. If it comes to that, I’ll admit who I am.”
At Idoine’s halfhearted nod of agreement, Joanna tugged the knitted cap further down over her ears, making sure not a wisp of telltale red hair showed beneath its blue border. “Meanwhile, I’ll continue to play the role of a serving lad.”
Except for her recent encounter with the Sea Dragon, Joanna was actually enjoying herself. She’d much rather be free to roam the castle grounds than be relegated to the solarium, practicing her embroidery with Idoine.
“Be careful, my child,” Father Thomas said to Joanna. “Stay away from all the MacLeans, unless it can’t be avoided.”
Joanna wasn’t anxious to provoke the Sea Dragon’s wrath a second time. She didn’t want to get scorched by that fiery tongue of his—or frozen to death by that wintry glare. But like Jeanne d’Arc, her favorite heroine, she’d go to the stake before betraying her identity.
“I have to continue going about my duties, Father,” she said. “If a serving lad doesn’t look busy, someone will soon find him something to do. And if one of the MacLeans does come looking for Joey Macdonald, I’d better be mucking out the stables.”
“Ah, lambkin,” Maude said, “I’m afraid for ye.” She drew Joanna into her arms and held her against her ample breast, then kissed her forehead.
At the gentle solace, Joanna blinked back tears. How often her former nurse had comforted her like this when she was a frightened child.
For a quiet moment, neither spoke.
Neither said what was uppermost in her mind: the true perversion of the MacLeans.
For it was whispered among the Macdonalds that their ancient enemies, inveterate sea raiders, were also said to fornicate with mermaids who called to them from the rocky shore.
If Joanna’s stratagem didn’t succeed, she would soon be married to Evil Incarnate.
Joanna’s duties as serving boy included carrying wood into the castle’s keep and piling it on the many hearths. The evening following her prickly conversation with The MacLean, Fearchar found her in the kitchen, perched on a table and munching an apple, and ordered her to take another armful of firewood to the laird’s bedchamber. Resisting the urge to inform the bearded colossus that it was her bedchamber, not MacLean’s, she scrambled up from the bench to do his bidding.
Joanna hadn’t stepped foot inside her private quarters since the Dragon’s arrival, and the idea of visiting her own room dressed as a servant tickled her sense of the ridiculous.
The door was ajar, so she entered without knocking. In front of the fireplace stood the large wooden tub used for bathing. Arthur Hay, MacLean’s gillie, was pouring a bucket of hot water into the steaming receptacle.
Joanna halted just inside the threshold. Too late, she realized the reason for the extra logs.
The Sea Dragon was about to take a bath.
“Don’t stand there gawking,” Arthur called. “Put those logs in the wood box where they belong.”
MacLean absently glanced over from where he sat on the edge of her high feather mattress, removing his shoes and stockings. Paying her no more heed than the deerhound that had come in with her, he rose and started to unbuckle his belt.
Beneath the hem of his plaid, his hairy calves were well-shaped and sinewy. The sight of his naked feet seemed so shockingly intimate, she nearly stumbled.
Joanna stared down at the logs cradled in her arms, fighting the paralyzing bashfulness that threatened to give her away. Her mind whirled dizzily as she moved to the fireplace with awkward steps.
The soft shush-shush of clothing being removed could be heard from behind, and Joanna’s heart jumped to her throat. Godsakes! If she didn’t get out of there fast, it’d be too late.
“Add some more wood to the fire, lad,” MacLean told her.
“Very well, laird,” she mumbled, her head bent over her chore.
On her knees before the grate, it suddenly occurred to Joanna that she’d just been blessed with a singular stroke of good luck. She now had the chance to discover if the stories she’d heard as a child were true! All she need do was linger just long enough to get a peek at MacLean’s bare arse—not that she really believed he had a tail. Well, not totally and completely, anyway.
Her mouth went dry as she caught her lower lip between her teeth. What she planned to do was wicked. Shamefully so. When she whispered her sin to Father Thomas in confession, he’d give her a penance it’d take a year to complete. But the opportunity beckoned enticingly, too marvelous to pass up.
One by one, Joanna added the logs to the burning blaze, then slowly regained her feet. She stared down at the fire, red-orange and searing as the flames of hell.
“The water’s ready, sire,” Arthur told MacLean.
“And so am I,” Joanna whispered to the hearthstones. She straightened her spine like a pikeman and pivoted on her heel.
Her mouth dropped open at the sight of him.
St. Ninian protect her!
His skin bronzed from the sun, MacLean stood facing Joanna on the far side of the tub, a linen cloth draped loosely about his hipbones. His massive shoulders and arms bulged with muscles. Incredibly, he looked even larger disrobed and barefoot than he did fully dressed.
The heat of a flush rose up her neck and scalded her cheeks. Joanna couldn’t drag her gaze away from MacLean, and could barely catch her breath.
On the warrior’s right arm, a three-headed sea serpent had been dyed in greenish-blue ink. The elongated body wrapped itself completely around his bicep and tricep like a primordial, heathenish armband.
Crisp golden-brown hair covered his broad chest, where a holy medal hung between his nearly hidden nipples. The thick, triangular-shaped mat of hair tapered to a narrow line that led down his flat belly and under the scrap of white linen hiding his private parts. Beneath the lower edge of the toweling, his thighs resembled tree trunks.
He’d been badly scarred in battle. The jagged pucker of an old wound that must have nearly cost him his life ran from his breastbone down to the bottom of his right rib cage.
An unfamiliar ache spread through Joanna, a peculiar ache that made her restless and tense with expectation—though she hadn’t any idea what she expected.
Golden-haired and golden-skinned, The MacLean was the most pagan creature she’d ever seen—and the most beautiful.
When his hand dropped to his waist to remove the linen cloth, she bolted for the door. The gentle splash of water as he lowered himself into the tub sounded like the clarion call of doomsday, and Joanna went flying out of the chamber and down the stairs as fast as her clumsy, too-big shoes could take her. To her consternation, the deep, rich sound of masculine laughter accompanied her hasty descent.
That night, she dreamed of the Sea Dragon. She lay sleeping in her own bed again, when he drew the curtains back with both hands and stood over her, arms upraised, long fingers grasping the edges of the heavy brocade.
“Wake up, lass,” he called in silken seduction.
Dressed only in his belted plaid, he gazed at Joanna, his green eyes intense in the flickering candlelight with a raw, unexplainable hunger. The need she read there brought the tingling sensation of gooseflesh to her warm skin. She reached up and slipped her trembling hand beneath the tartan folds, her fingertips grazing the iron-hard sinews of his leg. He drew a quick, sharp breath at her touch, but didn’t pull away.
The bare male flesh of his thigh awoke some latent wantonness inside her. Her breathing grew rapid and harsh. Her heartbeat speeded to a gallop as her body grew taut and vibrant with a primitive, instinctual energy.
Without knowing the reason, Joanna rose to her knees and lifted her night chemise over her head. Her long red hair fell about her shoulders and spilled over her breasts.
The Sea Dragon pushed her cascading locks aside to reveal their rosy tips. His gaze drifted over her vulnerable form with such lingering thoroughness, she could feel her skin’s heated reaction, as though he scorched her with his smoky dragon’s breath.
Currents of warm, honeyed air floated around them, tugging her closer to his lean, muscular form. She’d been caught in some invisible snare, like a sacrificial virgin enchained by a Druid wizard’s magic. Beneath the compelling urgency of MacLean’s bold gaze, she bent her head and lowered her lashes in a timeless pose of feminine timidity.
“Come with me, Joanna,” he urged hoarsely.
“Where?” she whispered.
“Come swim with me in the loch, my wee nymph. I shall show you delights that only the mermaids know.”
Her fingers twined around the gold chain of his holy medal. “I mustn’t,” she softly demurred. “’Tisn’t allowed for a virtuous maiden to go off with a wild sea dragon.”
His smile was devastating. “Then we’ll bathe together right here, love. Surely, you’re not afraid of me in your own bedchamber?”
For the first time, she noticed the tub standing before the crackling fire.
His presence seemed to overpower her, to sweep away every vestige of maidenly decorum. “I’m not afraid,” she declared with a harlot’s abandon.
He turned and moved toward the steaming water. Releasing his belt, he removed his plaid and bent over the tub.
She stared in shock at his naked body. The broad expanse of his shoulder blades was superbly muscled. The lean, hard flesh of his torso showed every rib. She followed the curve of his spine down to his lower back, and her skin tightened with alarm and excitation.
God’s truth, ’twas just as she’d dreaded.
A long, shiny green dragon’s tail—the exact color of his eyes—swayed back and forth above his tight buttocks…
Joanna bolted awake with a shiver of horrified titillation. It had been nothing more than a dream, she assured her pounding heart. Merely the childish conjuring of her sleep-drugged imagination.
Appalled at her undeniable reaction to MacLean’s dream image, she pressed a fist to her mouth and stared at the kitchen beams above her. Beneath her cotton garment, a damp warmth pooled at the juncture of her thighs. She arched her back as a long, shuddery ache rippled through her.
Some deep, inner part of Joanna wanted him to find her. To take her to their marriage bed and teach her the delights that only mermaids knew.
Joanna buried her face in her hands and groaned as the vision of a buck-naked MacLean floated before her closed lids.
By all the souls in Purgatory, she’d never be able to meet his astute, green-eyed gaze again!