“Blowing out candles isn’t going to save you, Joanna.”
She whirled and gasped in relief when she recognized Ewen’s solid frame outlined in the rosy light streaming through the stained glass window behind him.
“Thank God, ’tis you,” she croaked hoarsely.
“I got your note,” he said as he strode up the side aisle. “We’d best speak quickly.” He caught her elbow and drew her into a small alcove, out of view.
“Have you come to take me to Mingarry?” she asked, hoping he wouldn’t detect the disheartenment in her voice. She should be thrilled to escape the Sea Dragon’s clutches, yet the very thought of leaving Kinlochleven seemed to carve a hole in her chest where her heart should be.
’Twas her beloved castle she’d pine for, Joanna reassured herself, and most definitely not the ferocious Highland chief who intended to wed her on the morrow.
Ewen’s dark brows met in a scowl as he released her arm. “Not right away. Your disappearance now would only cause alarm. They’d be searching the countryside, certain who you were, before we were halfway to Ballachulish.”
A tremor shivered through her, and Joanna clasped her hands to keep them from shaking. “But what should I do?” she asked breathlessly. “MacLean plans to wed Lady Joanna in the morning.”
“Just keep up with your excellent stratagem,” Ewen said. He offered her a brief, sour smile as his gaze traveled down the tattered shirt and worn plaid to the short hose sagging about her ankles. “When we announce that Idoine is truly my daughter, just as she claimed from the start, he’ll be the laughingstock of the Scottish court. MacLean can’t marry a bride he can’t find. There’ll be nothing left for the King’s Avenger but to go back to Stalcaire empty-handed.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “And I’ll be free to become Lady Joanna again.”
Ewen stroked his short, pointed beard with calm assurance. “All we need do then is wait for the dispensation to arrive from Rome. Once it comes, you can marry Andrew. And that will be the end of James Stewart’s plans to bring the Glencoe Macdonalds under his iron fist.”
Joanna’s heart plummeted at his words. “How soon do you think permission will come?”
“It could be a matter of months.”
Ewen watched her through narrowed eyes, and Joanna turned away from his hard, discerning gaze.
He grasped her arm and pulled her around to face him. “It’s what your kinsmen expect of you,” he insisted curtly. “The entire Macdonald clan is depending on you to meet your obligation as their chieftain and marry the man chosen for you. You’re not some tavern wench or poor crofter’s daughter, Joanna. Whom you marry is of the utmost importance to your kinsmen. We can’t allow Kinlochleven to fall into the hands of our foes.”
“I understand,” she said, lowering her lids to conceal her unhappiness. She’d never been fully accepted by her English relatives in Cumberland. Aunt and Uncle Blithfield had often scolded Lady Anne for her daughter’s wild Highland ways, and her Neville grandparents had tried to curb her tempestuous Scottish nature. Joanna wanted desperately to be needed and loved by her clansmen, but her heart rebelled at the sacrifice she was being asked to make for their sakes.
Ewen’s terse words bristled with an unmistakable warning. “Don’t do anything to give yourself away, Joanna.”
She rubbed her hands over her upper arms to ward off the shivers that plagued her, then raised her eyes to meet his cold stare.
“Now that the king is here, I’m frightened,” she confessed. “Should my identity be discovered, I could be hanged for a traitor.”
He caught her wrist and squeezed the bones in his unrelenting grasp. His sharp reply came like a headsman’s ax, slicing through the peaceful stillness of the chapel. “Nothing will happen to you, lass, if you keep up the deception. But no Macdonald will ever forgive you if you betray yourself—purposely or otherwise.”
Making no attempt to break free of his painful hold, Joanna bowed her head. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. “I know.”
“Never forget,” Ewen said, somewhat mollified by her easy capitulation, “MacLean captured Somerled and turned him over to his executioners. He hounded that old man unmercifully, till he ran the Red Wolf to the ground like a common felon. No Macdonald should ever feel anything but contempt for the King’s Avenger.” He paused, then added harshly, “Unless you believe your grandfather was guilty of the charges against him.”
“Grandpapa was innocent!” Joanna exclaimed. “He’d never have killed anyone without just cause. I’m certain of it.”
Convinced of her sincerity, Ewen patted her hand. “Place your loyalty to your clan above all else, Joanna, as your father and grandfather would have wished you to do. Once you’re married to Andrew, I’ll give the two of you free rein here at Kinlochleven.”
Joanna knew what her cousin’s promise implied. More concerned with his falcons and horses, Andrew would take little interest in the mundane duties of the laird of the castle. His frivolous attachment to heavy gold chains, velvet jackets, and fur-lined gauntlets would far exceed the attention he’d give to the deer parks, fishponds, rabbit warrens, and dovecotes on their estates. Though she’d have to take care that her self-indulgent husband didn’t drain their coffers dry, she’d be free to make the day-to-day decisions over their far-flung holdings. As her clan’s war leader, all Ewen would ask in return was that Joanna’s men-at-arms remained loyal to the Macdonalds, if another rebellion should break out in the Hebrides and spread to the mainland.
“I’d better go now,” Ewen said. “If any MacLean should see us talking like this, he might start to wonder.” Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode down the aisle.
Joanna moved to a niche at the side of the chapel, where a stained glass window depicted a slender maid dressed in silvery armor holding a banner adorned with the lilies of France. With trembling fingers, she lit a candle in front of the Maid of Orléans, just as she’d done every morning since she’d first been told, after the death of her grandfather, that she was to marry Ewen’s son. She looked up at Jeanne d’Arc’s brave, shining face and fought the despair that tugged at her aching heart.
Day after day, Joanna had prayed for a gallant champion to come and rescue her from her betrothal to Andrew. Instead of a valiant knight-errant, though, the Sea Dragon had appeared at the castle gate. An ogre who’d been responsible for her grandfather’s death.
Not really an ogre, she admitted. She’d seen what a strong and wise chief The MacLean could be in his dealings with her kinsmen. Forthright, just, slow to wrath, the bold Highland warrior had a natural ability to lead. Many of Joanna’s loyal retainers had grown to admire him, and the practical, outspoken Maude was slowly but surely being won over to his side. As Joanna’s husband and the laird of Kinlochleven, MacLean would protect their estates and increase their wealth.
His patience with the halflins in the castle—including the obstreperous Joey Macdonald—proved he’d never have killed the wee laddie as he’d threatened that first day. And the afternoon he’d patiently given a stripling lad a lesson in archery remained a delightful memory she couldn’t erase. That very same day, he’d saved her life.
One thing seemed certain: though Joanna believed in her grandfather’s innocence, she knew instinctively that MacLean must have been convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that Somerled was guilty of murdering Gideon Cameron in cold blood. Otherwise, he would never have hunted him down so remorselessly.
There wasn’t a shadow of a doubt, however, that someone in heaven had made a serious mistake when answering her prayers. For in sending this valiant Highland chief to rescue her from marriage to Andrew Macdonald, the saints had sent the one man she could never marry in his stead.
For if she married the chief of Clan MacLean, she’d earn the enmity of every member of her clan.
Joanna’s heart fluttered like a bird caught in a net at the thought of becoming MacLean’s wife. What would it be like to lie down beside the mighty warlord? To draw the bed curtains about them and be held in his muscular arms in the velvety stillness of the night? To feel his strength surround her as his determined lips sought hers in a possessive, all-conquering kiss?
A tiny shudder went through her, and she pressed her fingertips against her closed lids, trying to block out the enthralling image of that virile man lying beside her, their naked bodies touching intimately.
Holy heavens, she wouldn’t allow herself to think of it.
For marriage to the chief of Clan MacLean was a path she could never go down.
The sound of footsteps broke the chapel’s silence, and Joanna straightened, refusing to allow the tears to fall. Blinking furiously, she glanced over her shoulder to find Fearchar standing in the main aisle.
“Here you are, laddie,” he said. “The last I caught sight of you, you were heading for the stables.”
Brawny arms akimbo, he watched her with thoughtful regard. The black eye patch and ragged scar on his cheekbone, the gold stud in his ear, and the narrow braids that decorated his long blond hair no longer seemed so alarming, for she could read the concern in his one good eye.
Like the humble serving lad she portrayed, Joanna sniffed and wiped her nose on her dirty sleeve. “Were you looking for me, sir?”
“Is aught amiss, lad?”
She lifted a shoulder noncommittally. “I was cleaning and got a speck of dust in my eye, ’tis all.”
Fearchar joined Joanna and looked at the brilliant stained glass in open admiration. “Forbye,” he said, “’twas brave and braw the Maid of Orléans was. She reminds me of another wee lassie I know.”
“Does she?” Joanna asked in awe. She gazed up at the slim girl in chain mail, a helm at her feet and the light of undaunted courage glowing in her pale face. “I wish I knew someone like her.”
The robust, gentle-hearted man beside her glanced down at the burning candle, and his teeth flashed white in his bearded face. “Lady Emma would like you to wait upon her again today, Joey.”
“Please tell her I need to speak with The MacLean first,” she said. “Do you happen to know where he is?”
“’Tis up on the battlements he is, lad,” Fearchar replied. “I’ll accompany you there.”
Rory stood with Lachlan on the barbican, looking out over the valley below. He’d laid the plans for the castle’s improvements across the wide stone parapet and was pointing out the changes he intended to make.
“As you can see,” he told his brother, “Kinlochleven is impenetrable on the west, where the cliffs drop straight down to the loch. But the south-facing curtain wall, the barbican, and the main gate are all highly vulnerable. I plan to reinforce the existing stone curtain with buttresses, put gun loops along the walls, replace the aging portcullis with a much stronger one, and build a new gate. All the posterns will be reinforced and another well dug in the lower bailey. When the alterations are complete, we’ll be able to withstand anything thrown by catapult or cannon.”
Lachlan nodded his agreement and clapped his brother on the shoulder. “You may not be much of a dancer, Rory, but you’re a blasted wizard when it comes to fortifications.”
Rory met his teasing gaze with a crooked grin. “I’ve stormed enough castles to know every weakness imaginable. And now, thanks to you and Keir, I’ll be able to dance at my wedding banquet without stomping on my bride’s wee toes—or her fancy gown.”
The three brothers had spent most of the previous afternoon locked in the solar, while Fearchar guarded the door and Lady Emma kept Joanna occupied.
Lachlan had played a lute, calling out instructions like a persnickety French dancing master, and Keir took the part of the lassie. It’d been damn awkward for Rory, pointing his toe and mincing about like a popinjay, while Keir, who stood well over six foot in his stocking feet, curtsied and simpered and pretended to drag a train five yards long behind him. Rory’s brothers had guffawed hilariously every time he’d stepped on the imaginary swath of white satin.
Lachlan chuckled at the ridiculous picture they’d made. “Just remember, Rory, you don’t merely glide around the floor with a lady, holding her hand. You dance with her. Gaze into her eyes and will her to come closer than propriety allows. Let the damsel read your hunger for her in every move you make.”
Rory scowled. He might hunger for Joanna, but he wasn’t about to expose his feelings to the entire court.
“Don’t look so uncomfortable at the thought of showing your tender regard for the lassie,” Lachlan said cheerily. “’Tis only natural, given she’s such a peach.”
“You misread my intentions,” Rory informed his brother, who merely grinned and shook his auburn head, unimpressed and unconvinced. “Certainly, I feel admiration and respect for Joanna—and desire. Hell, who wouldn’t? But I’m far too sensible to make a fool of myself over a slip of a lass like some idiots do.”
Lachlan laughed. “Don’t try to tell me you haven’t fallen for the delectable wee maid, Rory. I know you better than that. Why else the dance lessons and the ballad and the sonnet? Which, by the way, are almost finished.”
Rory bristled at his sibling’s smug assumption. “Joanna believes in the myths of chivalry portrayed in the troubadours’ ballads, that’s why. And if she wants to be swept off her feet by a knight in shining armor, I’m more than willing to play the part—and reap the obvious rewards. But that doesn’t mean I’m in love with her. Wives are chosen for pragmatic reasons.” He flung up his hand in mounting irritation. “So you can wipe that smirk off your face, dammit.”
Lachlan shrugged concedingly, but his eyes never lost their sparkle of amusement.
“Joey wishes to speak with you, laird,” Fearchar called from behind them. The brothers turned to see him climbing the outside stairs with Joanna, who looked as ragged and unwashed as ever.
Lachlan stepped forward to greet his future good-sister with a warm smile. “Good morning, Joey,” he said, his voice filled with fraternal affection. “I hope we didn’t keep you awake with our card playing last night.”
“I slept through it all,” Joanna replied. She bestowed an answering smile on the debonair chief of Clan MacRath, but when she turned her bonny blue eyes on Rory, her expression grew solemn. “I’d like to speak with you in private, laird. ’Tis about something important.”
“Very well,” Rory said, glancing at his brother and cousin. “If you gentlemen will excuse us?”
Joanna watched the two men leave, then joined Rory at the battlement’s parapet. “I like your family,” she confided with guileless sincerity. “They’re very nice.”
“I’m glad you like them,” he replied as he rolled up the building plans. “My brothers think you’re a lad of parts, and Lady Emma couldn’t say enough kind things about you. It seems you kept her highly entertained with your frank observations yesterday.”
Joanna’s long lashes fluttered at his words, and she turned stiffly to face the scene before them. She clasped the edge of the stone wall and stared straight in front of her. “Did she tell you what we talked about?”
“She didn’t,” Rory answered truthfully.
His mother had refused to indulge his curiosity, telling him only, between bouts of bubbling laughter, that his lucky star must have risen in the night sky that year, because no man could ever be more fortunate on his wedding day than Rory would be on his.
At the crimson rising on Joanna’s cheeks, he had a hunch their conversation was all about him—and none too flattering at that.
Anxious to redirect the conversation, Joanna pointed to the ruins of an ancient island fortress in the loch. “Eilean Ceilteach is said to be the place where Fraoch slew the fiendish monster that guarded the magic fruit. My nursemaid told me the story when I was just a wee bairn.”
Rory smiled as he recalled the tale his mother had told him of the Celtic hero, who’d brought back the healing berries to his ailing lover, the exquisite Mai.
“But you must know the story already,” Joanna added happily, “since you named your stallion after the valiant warrior.”
“I didn’t,” he replied. “My mother had already named the mean-tempered brute when she presented him to me.”
Joanna wrinkled her impudent nose in disappointment, but made no comment. ’Twas clear she’d hoped Rory had been as enthralled with the legend as she.
Together, they looked out across a glen surrounded on three sides by mountains. Splendid woodlands of oak and birch wound like ribbons along the foothills. The great Mamore Forest stretched across the higher ranges to the north. Through the eastern gorge, with its bold granite crags overhanging steep slopes, the river cascaded down to the floor of the valley and the cold saltwater loch, teeming with fish and studded with islets. The Observantine monastery could be seen on one island, with its chapel dedicated to St. Findoca.
“’Tis very beautiful,” she said quietly.
He glanced down at her. Thick curving lashes hid the magnificent indigo eyes. The fine bones of her gamin face defied the application of soot from the hearth. In spite of the tattered clothes, her slim figure stood straight and proud, betraying her noble birth. He asked himself for the hundredth time how anyone could think she’d be able to fool him for the space of a day, let alone one full week.
Looking out at the vista once more, he spoke with suppressed intensity. “I’ve sailed the seas and visited countless foreign cities, and I’ve never seen a sight fairer than the one before my eyes this morning.”
“I would like to travel to faraway places,” Joanna said, a wistful note in her low contralto. “Especially France. I’d like to visit Paris and Orléans.” She canted her head and looked up at him. “Have you been there, laird?”
“I have.”
He patted her slender shoulder in his best brotherly fashion, though his fingers ached to follow the enticing curve of her nape beneath the ribbed edge of her stocking cap. He wanted to lift her stubborn chin with his fingertips and gaze into those thick-lashed, wondering eyes as he bent to kiss her.
He wanted Joanna to want him.
Tomorrow the detested cap would come off. And the decrepit shirt and frayed plaid. Until then he’d have to content himself with just having her near, and the sure knowledge that they would be married the next morning.
He’d laid his plans carefully, wanting her to be swept away. He wanted their wedding day to be as romantic as every starry-eyed lassie’s dream. As for their wedding night…His body hardened at the thought. Well, that promised to be a dream come true for the randy, hot-blooded bridegroom.
“With your spunk, Joey,” he continued conversationally, “you’d make a fine sailor.”
“Do you really think so?” she asked with a puckish grin.
“I do. Someday I’ll take you aboard the Sea Dragon. We can sail to the outer isles in the springtime, then spend the summer calling on ports from Le Havre to Cadiz.”
“Where is your ship now, milord?”
“She lies at anchor in Loch Linnhe, near Stalcaire.”
The longing for adventure glowed in Joanna’s eyes. “It must be wonderful to own a fleet of ships and be able to go anywhere you wish.”
His gaze fixed on her radiant face, he spoke in a low tone. “Many men would covet what I now possess. I intend to guard it wisely.”
Her arched russet brows drew together as she searched his eyes with a puzzled expression. “’Twould have to be a very strong foe to wrest your possessions from you.”
“No man will ever take what is mine,” he told her bluntly. “Not while I’m alive.” He tapped the rolled parchment lightly on the top of her cap and smiled indulgently. “Now, what was it you needed to talk about, lad?”
Her head bent, she scuffed the toe of her oversized shoe across the rough stones of the battlement. “’Tis about the wedding,” she replied in a smothered voice.
“What about the wedding?”
Too uneasy to meet his perceptive gaze, Joanna fidgeted with her belt buckle. “I was wondering what you planned to do tomorrow, if ’tis proven that Lady Idoine really isn’t Joanna Macdonald after all.”
Folding his muscular arms across his broad chest, he spoke with absolute conviction. “I’m not mistaken about Lady Joanna’s identity. And I’m going to marry her in the morning.”
Joanna planted her hands on her hips and glared at the pigheaded, stiff-necked man. “Godsakes, MacLean! How can any creature on God’s green earth be so obtuse? We’ve told you that Lady Joanna is missing. She’s wandering about somewhere in a daze!”
He met her obvious dismay with a dazzling smile that deepened the creases around the corners of his eyes and displayed his even white teeth. “Now that the king is at Kinlochleven, I expect the truth from everyone at the wedding.”
Joanna flung her hands wide in exasperation. “What if you’re mistaken? Won’t you feel foolish standing at the altar without a bride?”
“I’m counting on the Maid of Glencoe to be at the wedding,” he stated. He strode along the barbican, the wide pleats of his belted plaid swinging about his bare thighs. The breeze ruffled the three eagle feathers in his green bonnet and stirred the lace at his throat.
Joanna stayed right beside him, hoping to make the intractable man see reason.
“By now,” he continued, “the news of our marriage celebration has spread through the countryside. If Idoine isn’t the Maid of Glencoe, my future bride will have heard the reports. She’ll know about the preparations taking place at this moment—the banquet, the flowers in the chapel, the large number of guests, including the King of Scotland, who’ll be present at the ceremony.”
Joanna had to take two steps for every one of his, but she refused to be left behind. “Won’t it be rather…humiliating…to stand in front of the altar before all those guests, if she doesn’t appear?”
“’Tis my hope that very fact will motivate her to attend her own wedding.”
“And what if she doesn’t?” Joanna demanded, catching his sleeve and tugging persistently. “The maid is simpleminded, if you recall.”
He halted and with a smile of absolute confidence tapped the rolled parchment on her shoulder as though bestowing knighthood. “I appreciate your concern, Joey, but I’ve made alternate plans.”
“You have?” She gaped at him in shock. Disappointment threatened to choke her, and her contralto dropped to a hoarse croak. “You’ll marry someone else?”
Rory chuckled at the look of consternation on Joanna’s dirty face. He wanted to lift her up and twirl her around in a circle, informing her bluntly that she was the most outrageous little minx in Scotland. Then he’d lower her soft, supple form inch by sweet inch, till he could nuzzle the valley between the firm young breasts hidden beneath that overlarge shirt, and tell her she belonged to him. To him and no other.
“I hadn’t thought of choosing another bride,” he said, pretending to give the idea some consideration. “But I’d best honor the king’s wishes and marry Lady Joanna.”
“But how can you marry her, if she’s not at the wedding?”
“She’ll be there.”
Scowling, Joanna turned to go, and Rory clasped her shoulder to hold her in place beside him. “Everyone’s to be attired in his best garments for the ceremony.”
She glanced down at her shabby clothing. “This is my best,” she declared stubbornly. “’Tis the only plaid and shirt I own.”
For once, she was undoubtedly telling the truth.
“Then make certain you take a bath this evening,” he warned her. “Don’t appear at my wedding with a dirty face and grimy hands, laddie, or I’ll take it as a personal insult. Just because you have an aversion to bathing doesn’t mean you don’t have to clean up for the celebration like everyone else in the castle. Tomorrow’s going to be a very special day.”
The blue eyes flashed with ire. “I’m not sure I’m even coming to your stupid wedding,” she retorted.
“Everyone in Kinlochleven has been ordered to attend,” he said in a low, threatening voice. He bent closer for emphasis. “You be there, Joey, or I’ll skin the hide off your wee frame and nail it to the chapel door.”
Joanna shrugged his hand away and started toward the stairs. “All right, I’ll be there,” she grumbled. “All scrubbed and shiny. But you’re going to feel like a first-class jackass standing at the altar all by yourself.”
“You let me worry about that,” Rory called to her back with a grin.
After the guests had retired for the night, Joanna dragged a laundry tub into the buttery with Maude’s help. She washed her long hair with her companion’s assistance and wrapped it in a large linen towel that had been warmed before the kitchen fire. Then Maude left the small service room, locking the door from the outside and dropping the key into her pocket to make sure her young charge wouldn’t be disturbed.
Lolling back in the steaming water, Joanna enjoyed the luxury of an unhurried bath at last. She propped her heels against the smooth wooden staves and wiggled her toes in ecstasy. She’d had to forgo the perfumed soap she loved; she couldn’t risk anyone noticing at the wedding tomorrow that Joey Macdonald smelled like a bouquet of roses. But that small sacrifice didn’t spoil the pleasure of the moment.
Joanna released a long, drawn-out sigh as she gazed about at the bottles of wine and flagons of ale stored on the shelves along the wall.
The Sea Dragon had bathed earlier in the evening. She’d seen Abby hustling up and down the stairs to his bedchamber with buckets of hot water.
The image of MacLean stepping into his bath naked as the day he was born brought a warm, tingly feeling inside. Scooting down in the water, she rested her turbaned head against the back of the tub and closed her eyes, imagining what it would be like to touch him. She longed to smooth her hands over his bare male flesh, bury her fingertips in the thick mat of golden-brown hair on his chest, and learn the strength of his corded muscles. Would his solid, imposing frame feel as hard and unforgiving as it looked?
Like Cuchulainn in the old Celtic ballads, the mighty warlord seemed the epitome of courage and strength. Whether he had a sea dragon’s tail no longer seemed to matter, though the possibility that he’d cavorted with mermaids brought a sudden frown.
Joanna clicked her tongue and shook her head in censure. She could imagine the scandalous sight of him entwined with a voluptuous water nymph, his muscular limbs enclosing the willing, nubile form. The creature’s soft, lush breasts pressed against his hairy chest as he ran his questing hand over her smoothly rounded rump and pulled her even closer.
But mermaids didn’t have rumps, smoothly rounded or otherwise; they had tails like a fish.
Godsakes, MacLean wasn’t holding a water nymph in his arms.
He held Joanna—Joanna Macdonald without a stitch of clothing on.
Like a seductive sea maiden, she wrapped her arms around his naked body. His fingers tangled in her long red hair as he kissed her—a hot, scorching, passionate kiss that branded her as his mate. Forever.
An unfamiliar ache spread through Joanna, so intense, so compelling, she could feel her nipples tighten and her breasts grow full and taut. A pulsing sensation spread at the juncture of her thighs as the warm water lapped against her secret places. What would it be like if he were to touch her there?
Her eyes flew open, and she sat up straighter in the tub. A flush scalded her cheeks.
Good Lord! Her tutors at Allonby had warned her of the dangers of an idle mind.
Pursing her mouth resolutely, Joanna picked up the yellow soap on the stool nearby and briskly lathered a small cloth, scolding herself for her wanton thoughts.
Her kinsmen still regarded her with skepticism because of her English blood. If they suspected her enthrallment with the Sea Dragon, they’d renounce her as their chieftain. Black magic or not, she hadn’t proven immune to MacLean’s physical charms. Seeing him beside Andrew, Joanna had been forced to admit that she’d much rather wed the golden-haired chief than the callow sixteen-year-old lad, whose world centered solely around himself and his amusements. But more than anything, she yearned to be loved and accepted by her clansmen—even if it meant marrying Andrew.
MacLean was the hellhound who’d captured her grandfather.
She mustn’t ever forget that.
After Joanna’s mother had died, Somerled Macdonald had come to Cumberland to rescue his granddaughter from her restricted and circumscribed life with her aunt and uncle. He’d arrived before Allonby Castle’s gate with his men-at-arms, threatening to raze the fortress if they didn’t turn the Maid of Glencoe over to him at once.
Wakened from a sound sleep, Joanna had been frightened at first, not knowing which fierce Highland chieftain demanded her person. Aunt Clarissa begged her to save them all from certain death, while Uncle Philip assured Joanna she’d merely be held for ransom and not tortured and killed.
Joanna knew better. If the hostile Scots on the other side of the walls were MacLean clansmen, her ancient foes would inflict a great deal of pain and humiliation on her before they killed her.
The walk across the outer bailey had seemed to drain Joanna of whatever courage she possessed. With each step she invoked a different saint to save her, in a litany motivated by sheer cravenness.
The castle gate had opened slowly, creaking on its thick iron hinges, and Joanna walked beneath the raised portcullis, her heart pounding, but ready to face her enemies as a true Macdonald.
Standing several paces in front of the other Highlanders, the huge, gray-bearded chieftain stood waiting for her. The moment she appeared within the glow of their torches, he held out his gloved hand.
“Child,” he called softly in the Gaelic, “’tis really you.”
At the sound of his familiar, beloved voice, she stopped short and peered at him through the darkness. “Grandpapa?” she squeaked.
“’Tis me, lass,” he said with a broad smile. “I knew those blasted Sassenachs would never let you come with me unless I threatened to destroy the whole blessed castle first.” With a raucous burst of laughter, he opened his arms, and Joanna flew to him.
Somerled Macdonald, labeled the Red Wolf because of his implacable resistance against the Stewart kings, enclosed her in his welcoming embrace. Lifting her completely off the ground, he kissed her temple and cheek as he hugged her tight.
“’Tis time to be going home, darling of my heart,” he’d said, using his pet name for her. “Time to go home to the Highlands.”
Through the buttery door, the sound of male laughter in the kitchen brought Joanna back from her bittersweet memories.
Even on the eve of his wedding, MacLean was participating in the nightly game of tarots. She heard his deep chuckle as he won a pile of coins.
Well, let the notorious Sea Dragon laugh. Tomorrow he’d face the ultimate humiliation of standing alone at the altar like a pathetic and rejected buffoon.
Godsakes, she’d tried to warn him.
If the arrogant laird believed that Lady Joanna would appear at the church steps to save him from his self-inflicted mortification, he was sadly mistaken. No Macdonald could ever feel anything but contempt for a MacLean.
Joanna would squelch every trace of tender feeling for the King’s Avenger from her heart. Her duty lay with her clan. She could never marry the man responsible for Somerled’s death on the gallows.