Rory’s family stared at him, scarcely able to believe their ears.
“You heard me,” he grated through clenched teeth. “I want to learn to dance.”
Lachlan gave a long, low whistle of amazement. “After twenty-eight years of ignoring such flummery, you finally decide you want to dance with the ladies?”
“Not with the ladies, you ass,” Rory said. “With my bride. Most bridegrooms dance with their bride on their wedding day. Is that a hanging offense?”
“You big lummox,” Keir said with a chuckle. “You couldn’t dance your way out of a prison cell if your life depended upon it.”
Tucking his chin, Rory flexed his shoulders and glared at his younger brother. “I don’t have great talent for tiptoeing across a dance floor, I admit. But if every imbecile in the court can learn the steps of a simple pavane, why can’t I?”
“Why can’t he, indeed!” his uncle admonished. “I’ve never seen any man match Rory’s swordplay. He’s light enough on his feet when it comes to skewering an opponent with dirk and broadsword.”
Keir grinned wryly, a devilish gleam in his eyes. “Ah, but put my big brother around the fair demoiselles and his tongue and feet both stop working. Rory’s never chosen a partner for the evening in his life. He’s always waited till one picked him.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Rory gritted.
“Not your dancing, you thickheaded loon.” Keir waved his goblet at Rory, amusement softening his rugged features. “You’ve been here for over a week, man. I’d have thought by now you’d have seduced the maid.”
“Seduction’s a trifle difficult,” Rory said stiffly, “when the lassie’s pretending to be a boy.”
Lachlan and Keir looked at each other and burst into laughter.
“That’s enough,” Duncan rebuked mildly, though a smile skipped over his lips. “Let’s not forget there’s a lady present.”
“A wise decision,” Lady Emma concurred. Her eyes twinkled with merriment as she gazed at her eldest son. “And I think it’s wonderful, my dear, that you want to dance at your wedding.”
“I agree,” said Lachlan. “Keir and I will be happy to teach you the steps of the pavane. Is there anything else we can do to help?”
“There is,” Rory said, his words clipped and abrupt. He’d known this wasn’t going to be easy, but he’d be damned if he’d scuttle his plans just to avoid his brothers’ gibes. “I want you to compose a ballad in honor of Lady Joanna. It’s to be sung at the wedding feast. Can you do it?”
“Of course,” Lachlan replied with a shrug. “Do you intend to serenade your new wife or should I?”
Rory glowered at Lachlan. “You know I can’t sing a damn note. And I sure as hell don’t want you standing in the middle of the hall, looking like some fabled Adonis and warbling an ardent refrain to my impressionable bride. Joanna’s not to know you had anything to do with it.”
“Have Fergus MacQuisten sing the ditty,” Keir proposed. “We’ll swear the old bard to secrecy. He can announce at the wedding feast that Rory composed the ballad especially for Joanna and taught it to him. No one will know any different.”
Rory smiled at the brilliant suggestion. Twisted and gnarled with age, the seventy-year-old Fergus had a voice sweeter than birdsong in springtime. Joanna would be listening to the troubadour’s lilting tenor, but she’d be looking at Rory.
“There’s something else, isn’t there?” Lachlan asked with canny intuition.
Setting his wine goblet on the table, Rory set his jaw and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “If either of you so much as snicker,” he cautioned his brothers, “I’ll knock the pair of you boneheads down and stomp on you.”
Keir and Lachlan’s eyes danced with hilarity, and their mouths twitched in barely suppressed grins. Till that moment, they’d never known their oldest brother to give a bloody damn about capturing any female’s attention. Here was their chance to roast him on the spit.
“They won’t laugh,” Lady Emma quickly interjected. She frowned in admonition to her two younger sons, then turned to Rory with an encouraging smile. “What is it you wish them to do?”
“I want Lachlan to write a sonnet to my bride,” he said with a defensive lift of his chin. “Something praising her beauty and charm. The kind of folderol that lassies like to hear.”
“But wouldn’t it be better to express your feelings in your own words, dear?” Lady Emma asked.
Lachlan put his arm around their mother’s shoulders and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “Not unless you want to hear him compare his bonny bride’s charms to the finer qualities of a siege engine.”
Slapping her second son’s hand playfully, she made a disapproving moue, but she didn’t contradict his assertion.
“Will you have Fergus recite the poem at the banquet?” Duncan asked him.
“I’ll memorize the lines myself,” he said in a strangled voice, “and I’ll recite them when the time is right.”
Just as he’d expected, his brothers’ mirth erupted into loud guffaws.
Lady Emma clasped her hands joyfully, her eyes shining. “Why, Rory, I think the lass has stolen your heart!”
He jerked his thumb toward his chest. “My heart’s right here where it’s always been,” he stated. “But Joanna’s young and filled with starry-eyed dreams, like many a lassie before her.”
His mother stiffened, and he immediately regretted his careless words. He’d rather bite off his tongue than hurt her. But the truth remained: at the tender age of fifteen, she’d run away with his father in spite of her parents’ objections, and her bastard son had paid dearly for her impulsive behavior.
“I have no regrets, Rory,” she said, her gaze somber. “I only wish for once you’d allow your emotions to rule that hard head of yours. That you’d surrender your heart to that darling lass.”
Rory scowled at her. “Don’t be foolish, Mother. I’m marrying the maid because the king commanded it, and because I want estates to leave my future heirs. This alliance gives me a chance to build something permanent for my MacLean kinsmen and myself.”
Coming to stand directly in front of him, she reached up and touched his cheek. “When I eloped with your father,” she said, “I willingly gave up my family and my inheritance for the man I loved.”
Rory met her entreating eyes. With a reluctant smile, he caught her hand and kissed the slender fingertips. Still beautiful at forty-four, she hadn’t a single strand of gray in her lustrous brown hair, in spite of the fact that she’d out-lived three stalwart husbands.
“Only a rosy-cheeked lassie with her head in the clouds would mistake the throb of physical attraction for a fancy called love,” he told her gently.
“’Tis true, I loved your father beyond reason,” she admitted, her voice filled with sweet reminiscence. “Someday, Rory, you’ll love a woman so deeply you’ll forget everything but the need to be with her. And then you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.” The absence of a matrimonial settlement had meant that her firstborn son was left illegitimate and homeless when his father died on the battlefield at the age of eighteen.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he denied. “No one could have a more wonderful mother.”
She smiled pensively. “And what should I have Joanna do when I return to my chamber?”
Clasping her shoulders, Rory bent his head and brushed his lips across her forehead. “Anything you wish, Mother. Just keep her occupied and out of trouble while Lachlan and Keir teach me the rudiments of the pavane. I don’t want her alone with Ewen Macdonald or that damnfool idiot son of his.”
Joanna sat on the velvet pillows stacked in the deep window embrasure of Lady Emma’s bedchamber. She’d brought along paper, pen, and ink, and waited impatiently for MacLean’s mother to appear, her mind concerned with the preparations for supper.
“Here I am at last, child,” Lady Emma said, as she entered with a rustle of rose satin. She sank down on a small cushioned settle and beamed at Joanna. “Isn’t it exciting? There’s nothing like a wedding! All the delicious sweetmeats and the frivolity and the guests dressed in their most colorful velvets and satins.”
Joanna could hear the clank and clash of swords coming from the ground below, as men strove to exhibit their prowess before the admiring ladies. There’d be games of archery later that afternoon with long bow and crossbow. A papingo shoot was planned, with the best archers trying to knock the brilliant bird from the top of a high pole.
“Seems to be a lot of work for a few minutes of churching,” Joanna said with acerbity. “Do you have a letter you wish to dictate, milady?”
The vivacious widow nodded, her gaze flitting to the small writing desk balanced across Joanna’s knees. “I do. And I see you came prepared. But there’s no great hurry. We can get to my correspondence in good time.”
“I’ve many tasks to complete before the evening meal,” Joanna informed her gravely. “In fact, I’m needed in the kitchen right now.”
Lady Emma fluttered her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Mercy, don’t fret about that, child. My son said you were to attend me for the rest of the afternoon and run any errands I needed. Some other lad can take over the chores in the scullery.”
Joanna bit her lip to keep from uttering a protest. No one but the chatelaine of the castle could make the myriad decisions necessary that day.
With the fragrance of lavender drifting about her, Lady Emma rose from the bench and moved to the chamber’s great bed. Its linen hangings had been tied back and the quilted comforter piled high with feminine clothing. She lifted a magnificent emerald gown and held it up for Joanna to admire.
“My faith, isn’t it lovely?” she asked. “As mother of the groom, I’m expected to dress in my finest raiment. I don’t want to disappoint my son. He’s never been married before. What do you think?”
Joanna peered at the exquisite damask silk. “I think ’tis the finest gown I’ve ever seen,” she answered abruptly. “MacLean won’t be disappointed. Do you wish to dictate that letter to me now, milady?”
“I believe I’ll wear my gold-trimmed headdress,” Lady Emma mused. She laid the gown on the bed and smoothed her fingers along the fur trim. “Though perhaps the one with the pearls would be more appropriate.”
Joanna rolled her eyes in exasperation. The entire family was demented. What difference did it make which finery the lady chose to wear on Sunday morning? There wasn’t going to be a wedding without a bride.
“I think the gold one would be best,” Joanna said, tapping the nib of her pen restlessly on the leather-covered desk.
Lady Emma returned to the settle. “Why don’t we start?” she suggested with a smile.
With head bowed over the paper and her pen poised above the vellum, Joanna waited. “I’m ready when you are, milady.”
“My dear Lady Joanna,” the widow began in a dreamy tone.
Joanna’s head flew up in surprise.
Oblivious to her lackey’s astonishment, Lady Emma continued blithely. “By the time you read this, you’ll be my daughter—”
“She can’t read.”
At last Joanna had the flighty woman’s complete attention. The holly-green gaze flew to meet hers. “She can’t?”
“She’s had no schooling. She’s simple.”
MacLean’s mother pressed her hand to her breast, sympathy written across her lovely features. “Ah, poor soul.” Overcome with disappointment, she lowered her head and traced her fingertips over the embroidered edge of her girdle.
Joanna waited for Emma MacNeil to declare that her son shouldn’t marry the poor witless soul. Once again, she’d misjudged MacLean’s family.
The widow looked up and smiled reassuringly. “But I’m certain my son will be very gentle with the unfortunate lass.”
“I doubt that,” Joanna stated baldly. “MacLean said he planned to put a leash on her.”
Lady Emma stood up, then sat back down, her eyes widened in shock. “Surely not!”
“He said he’d feed her carrots and apples, till she was eating out of his hand and jumping through hoops.”
Lady Emma covered her eyes with a handkerchief, her words smothered and far away. “My son said that?”
For a moment, Joanna suspected the widow of laughing at her own son’s unqualified callousness, then pushed the unlikely thought aside and continued in righteous indignation. “He did. He said he’d teach Lady Joanna how to see to his comforts, and that she’d eventually produce a fine batch of weans. God’s truth, he talked as if she were a piece of furniture he’d purchased at the fair.”
Wadding the lace-edged square of linen in her hands, Lady Emma gazed out the window behind Joanna. Her lovely eyes sparkled with tears, but her voice was calm and sober when she spoke. “What…what else did he say?”
Somewhat mollified, Joanna leaned back against the pillows. The widow appeared sincerely moved by the unfortunate heiress’s plight at the hands of her ruthless, diabolical son. That was more compassion than MacLean had ever shown for the tragic Maid of Glencoe. “He defended his harsh attitude by reciting an odious proverb.”
“Hmm,” Lady Emma said thoughtfully as she dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “Let me guess. ‘My own goods, my own wife…’”
Joanna nodded. “That’s the one.”
“I see what you mean, child. But my son also believes in the old Gaelic proverb, ‘Say but little and say it well.’ Rory’s not given to flowery speeches, but you mustn’t assume he hasn’t deep feelings. Quite the contrary.”
Joanna could barely keep from snorting. “What do you mean, milady?”
“Rory’s always been short of words,” the widow replied as she tucked her handkerchief into the small purse that hung from her girdle. “But that doesn’t mean he has no affection for others. Beneath that brusque exterior is a man yearning to be loved. You mustn’t believe the terrible lies spread by his enemies, child. Time and again, he’s demonstrated his willingness to risk his own life to defend others, but there are many people envious of his courage and unswerving loyalty to the king.”
Joanna gazed at the woman in speculation. “Is MacLean like his father?”
Lady Emma didn’t seem perturbed to have a mere lackey ask such a personal question. “Oh, indeed,” she replied, “and I loved Niall passionately.”
Joanna brushed the quill’s plume under her chin, her mind racing. Since the lady seemed so willing to share her intimate feelings, Joanna might as well ask the one question she was longing to have answered.
“When you…ah…when you spent your first night with Niall MacLean, were there any…er…surprises?”
The corners of Lady Emma’s eyes crinkled just like her son’s when she smiled so widely. “What do you mean by surprises, child?”
“Oh, anything at all. Anything you weren’t particularly…expecting?”
“I was very young and very naïve, so I suppose I was a trifle surprised that night. What maiden isn’t when she loses her virginity?”
Joanna probed gently. “But nothing repulsed you?”
Lady Emma tipped her head to one side, regarding her with a quizzical look. “Nothing at all.”
“That’s a relief,” Joanna murmured under her breath as she stared down at the sheet of vellum.
“What did you say, child?”
Joanna looked up to meet the lady’s kindhearted gaze. “I said I’m relieved that you think the heiress will have no unhappy surprises on her wedding night. MacLean told me that when a man beds his wife, he treats her just like he treats his horse.”
Lady Emma rested her forehead in her palm and shook her head in resignation. “He probably didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” she said. “But why was he discussing such a private matter with a wee laddie like you?”
“MacLean caught me peeking at Tam and Mary in the stables,” Joanna admitted. “He picked me up by my collar and shook me till my teeth rattled, then lectured me on my behavior. One thing led to another and I asked him if he’d bedded any lassies. Next thing I knew, he was talking about slipping a bridle on Lady Joanna.”
Lady Emma slapped her hands against her cheeks and bolted from the settle. She hurried across the room to a washstand, poured out a pitcher of water and proceeded to bathe her face. Her shoulders shook as she bent over the basin, splashing water like a wild woman.
Joanna set the lap desk aside and walked across the room. “I didn’t mean to upset you, milady,” she apologized, stricken at the effect her thoughtlessness had caused. After all, the insensitive, hard-hearted brute was her son.
Lady Emma buried her face in a linen towel. “You didn’t upset me, child,” she gasped, her words muffled. “I’m just so happy my son is being wed in two days, that I started to cry. Did you ever burst into tears from sheer happiness?”
Joanna shook her head in incomprehension. “I guess I’ve never been that happy.”
Joanna had assumed that with Arthur Hay’s return to Kinlochleven, her duties as MacLean’s gillie would be completed, and she’d be free to oversee the castle’s staff. But Lady Emma kept Joanna with her until it was time for the evening meal. Fortunately Maude undertook the supervision of the kitchen servants, and the vast array of food was prepared without Ethel threatening to slip a knife between the royal chef’s ribs or sneaking into the buttery to guzzle a flagon of ale.
While the guests feasted on venison and suckling pig, musicians played in the gallery at the far end of the great hall. A group of mummers performed a farce that made everyone roar with laughter, and nimble acrobats demonstrated their astonishing abilities to leap and tumble across the rush-covered stone floor.
Every time Joanna came near MacLean, he was discussing plans for the improvement of Kinlochleven’s fortifications.
“The size of the castle provides ample facilities for storing provisions that would last a year,” he told the king, who was seated beside him. “Once the modifications are completed, we could hold out against an attacking force ten times our number.”
When she poured his wine, MacLean paused to look up and give her a brotherly smile. James Stewart smiled too, his brown eyes warm and friendly.
Considering that she appeared as bedraggled as ever, His Majesty’s kindness to a mere kitchen varlet seemed astounding. She had to admit James IV of Scotland was much nicer than she’d ever imagined.
Ewen Macdonald caught Joanna’s eye as she scurried around the great hall carrying an enormous tray of dirty trenchers. At forty-one, the Glencoe Macdonalds’ war leader commanded the respect of his clansmen. Though not as tall and powerful as MacLean or his brothers, he’d proven his courage and strength in battle. Streaks of silver glinted in his walnut-brown hair and well-trimmed beard. He had the same dark eyes as his son, but his gaze glittered with a cunning intelligence.
“Meet me in the stables,” he said in an undertone when she casually made her way to where he sat. “I want to speak with you alone.”
“I’ll sneak out as soon as possible,” she whispered. She glanced cautiously at the dark-haired lad beside him.
Ewen shook his head, warning her silently not to speak to his son. Andrew’s taut features betrayed his smoldering anger. He’d always taken it for granted that they’d be married one day, and Kinlochleven and all its lands and revenues would be his. ’Twas no wonder his father feared that, in his hurt pride, he’d reveal her secret and the game would be lost.
Godfrey Macdonald glanced up as Joanna took his empty trencher, a sneer curling his lips. He made no attempt to hide his disgust at her filthy male apparel.
“Hello, Godfrey,” she said quietly.
Younger than Ewen by three years, he showed none of his brother’s innate leadership or his nephew’s bonny looks. Deep pock marks that even a scraggly beard couldn’t conceal riddled his bloated face. A distended blue vein pulsed on his protuberant nose, and his breath reeked of alcohol.
“Go away,” he responded in a hiss, “before someone becomes suspicious.” Tipping his head back, he drained his tankard in one long, greedy gulp.
In the crush of people, it should have been easy to slip out of the donjon unnoticed. But whenever Joanna tried to leave, either Fearchar or one of MacLean’s brothers lingered nearby. Several times she almost walked into one of them. Standing eyeball to mammoth chest, she felt like she’d fallen asleep and awakened in a land of giants.
When supper was over, the menservants dismantled the trestle tables and pushed the benches to the side of the chamber. Rushes were swept from the stone floor for the dancing, and many of the lairds and ladies swayed and dipped in a stately branle around the chamber.
To Joanna’s disappointment, MacLean didn’t leave his chair on the dais beside the king. She wanted to see the fearsome warlord executing a courtly révérance to Lady Beatrix or Lady Idoine. From the sulky pout on her cousin’s face, Idoine felt the same way.
But MacLean didn’t even glance at the dancers. God’s truth, the confounded man hadn’t the tiniest spark of romance in his black soul.
Late in the evening, Joanna still could find no opportunity to meet the Macdonalds’ clan commander. She’d hoped to creep out to the stables once everyone sought his bed, but MacLean and his two brothers joined Davie and Seumas in their nightly game of cards at the kitchen’s large table.
The Sea Dragon had made a habit of spending half the night gambling with the men who stood guard over Joanna while she slept. Apparently the vice ran in his family, for Lachlan and Keir showed no more sign of retiring at a decent hour than he did. Exhausted, she fell asleep in front of the hearth to the drone of their quiet masculine voices as they made their bets over the tarots.
“Here’s a crown that says you’re bluffing, Davie,” MacLean softly challenged. “And I warn you, I can see through a Macdonald’s blatherskite like the wings of a moth circling a flame.”
The last thing Joanna heard was the warrior’s deep chuckle and the chink of a coin being thrown atop the pile of shillings on the table.
She smiled sleepily. The rich timbre of his baritone was just about the nicest sound a lass could hear as she drifted into slumber.
It wasn’t until the next morning that Joanna finally had a chance to slip away unnoticed. She handed a note to Jock as she brushed by him in the stables, whispering that it was for Ewen, then hastened to the chapel.
Inside, everything glistened from Abby and Sarah’s energetic cleaning. The warm oak of the pews glowed from being polished. The gold candlesticks on the altar gleamed. Sparkling white and freshly pressed, the altar cloths lay draped across the Communion railing in readiness for the next morning’s ceremony. In the vestibule, huge bouquets of roses, lilies, and apple blossoms stood in buckets of water, waiting to be placed in the tall vases on the main and side altars.
Their perfume drifted about her, reminding Joanna of the floral-scented soap she’d been forced to abandon with MacLean’s arrival. A hurried bath in the buttery using Ethel’s hard, yellow cakes couldn’t compare with lingering in a warm tub before the fire.
Joanna looked carefully around to be sure no one lurked in the shadows, then hurried up the aisle to the row of blue votive lights burning in front of the Virgin’s altar. With another quick glance to be certain she was alone, she bent forward and blew out the flames. Crossing herself, she made a hasty genuflection and sent a prayer heavenward that she’d be forgiven for such a grievous sin.
A soft tread sounded behind her, and Joanna’s heart leaped like a frightened roe bounding for freedom. If MacLean had caught her, she’d be led to the stake and set afire like a torch.