Seated beside Rory at the wedding breakfast, Joanna looked about in wonder at Kinlochleven’s great hall. Pink roses and white apple blossoms tied with green ribbons festooned the chamber, along with branches of rowan to ward off evil spirits and ensure the bridal couple’s good fortune in the years to come.
Golden candlesticks with beeswax tapers lit every table. Elegant china plates from the Orient, embossed silver goblets, cups, saucers, knives, and rare spoons fashioned by Flemish silversmiths adorned the sparkling white cloths. The hall’s herbed rushes had been swept up, and thick carpets from the Levant rolled out across the stone floor.
Great press cupboards sat against the high walls, their doors left open to display exquisitely embroidered linens, bolts of fine wool, taffeta, damask, and cloth of gold. Fine pelts of rabbit, miniver, otter, marten, fox, ermine, and sable spilled over from the low carved chests placed along the rear of the chamber beneath the gallery. Colorful Italian tapestries depicting scenes of ancient Rome hung in the hall’s arched recesses. The munificence of the dowry gifts given by the groom and his family to his bride surpassed anyone’s remembrance of weddings past.
Overwhelmed by the nearness of her husband, Joanna was barely aware of the others seated at the principal board on the canopied dais. On MacLean’s left, King James conversed pleasantly with earls Archibald Campbell of Argyll and Duncan Stewart of Appin. Beyond them, Lady Emma, Lachlan, and Keir carried on an animated conversation.
Ewen sat on Joanna’s immediate right, mute and stony-faced, while Lady Beatrix engaged Godfrey in a stilted conversation. A wrathful frown creasing his handsome visage, Andrew sat beside his sister in festering silence.
Although Andrew hadn’t spoken two words to Joanna that morning, he’d followed her every movement with his irate gaze. Attired in red and blue tartan, he made a dazzling display of Highland bravura. The ladies of the Scottish court openly admired his perfect features and gorgeous dark locks, but today he paid them no heed.
Father Thomas had wisely chosen to join the visiting religious at their table on one side of the hall. He rose to say grace, and for a few brief moments, a peaceful quiet reigned. Then the servants wound their way through capering children, carrying enormous trays of roast beef, lamb, salmon, trout, sturgeon and porpoise, and platters piled high with crab, crayfish, oyster and eels. Lackeys in the royal gold and blue livery attended the guests with ewers of water, silver basins, and towels.
Joanna turned to her husband. Though she’d been tricked into saying her wedding vows, she felt good manners demanded that she express her gratitude for the wondrous gifts and, most especially, the thoughtfulness of having his mother bring the exquisite bridal gown. “MacLean, I—”
“Rory,” he insisted as he slipped his arm about her waist. He leaned toward her and cupped her cheek in his large hand. His shimmering, sea-dragon’s gaze drifted over her face with a lingering thoroughness. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, then rested lightly on her chin. “Call me Rory,” he murmured, just before kissing her. His tongue followed the compressed seam of her lips, pushing boldly between, till it played an enticing game with her own.
Joanna’s eyes flew open as his tongue teased hers. She stiffened at the brazen behavior, though it shouldn’t have surprised her. He’d kissed her the same way in church. Twice. Unconcerned with the sanctity of their surroundings, he’d gathered her in his arms at the close of Mass and kissed her with more blatant eroticism than any lass had ever imagined when dreaming of her wedding day. And that just after taking Communion.
Joanna had never heard of such scandalous tongue-kisses, and wondered wildly if he’d learned the shameless trick from a mermaid.
She tried to pull away, just as she’d done before.
Just as before, he wouldn’t allow it.
His fingers tangled in the thick hair at the nape of her neck, holding her in place. “Meek and obedient in bed and at board,” he reminded her with a deep, throaty chuckle as he playfully nibbled at her bottom lip. “You can’t have forgotten the words you spoke such a short time ago, wife.”
“’Tis just that I’m not certain we’re supposed to be doing this,” she whispered.
He whispered in return. “Doing what?”
Joanna lowered her head, too embarrassed to look at him, nearly too embarrassed to respond. Her words were scarcely audible. “What we’re doing.”
“You mean kissing.”
Her lids flew up to meet his gaze. “Well, of course, we’re expected to kiss,” she answered with exasperation. “’Tis our wedding day. But not…”
The light in his green eyes fairly danced in amusement, as he bracketed her face in both hands. “Ah, that,” he said in a serious tone, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth told her he wanted to laugh. “Don’t worry, lass. ’Tis the way every groom kisses his bride.”
“It is?”
“It is.”
“No one told me to expect it,” she complained with a dubious frown, then looked at him accusingly. “You took me by complete surprise.”
“I’ll have lots of surprises for you today, Joanna,” he promised, as he idly wound a strand of her long hair round his forefinger.
She gazed at him in wonder. A tingle of excitement zig-zagged up and down her spine. A whole field of butterflies took flight inside her belly.
Could it be that he was warning her about his dragon’s tail?
“You…you will?”
“I will.” He covered her lips with his and delved into her mouth once again.
Surrendering to his unequivocal demand, Joanna slid her arms around his neck. Seeking further knowledge of this strange way of kissing, she timidly ran the tip of her tongue along the edge of his teeth, then cautiously entered the warm, alluring cavern of his mouth.
The effect upon him was instantaneous. With a strangled sound deep in his throat, he clasped her even nearer, till her soft breasts were smashed against his hard chest. For a startled moment she thought he was going to lift her out of her chair and onto his lap.
Shouts of encouragement at this unbridled license filled the hall. The MacLean soldiers rose to their feet and saluted the bridal couple’s passionate kiss with lifted tankards. Laughter and the excited chatter of the guests rose in a babble of voices.
At last, MacLean broke the kiss to nibble softly along her jaw.
Joanna breathed in the fresh scent of pine that mingled with the sweet perfume of her roses and gave a sigh of wonder. When they kissed, she seemed to forget everything but the feel of his lips on hers. “Mm. Thank you—”
“’Tis my pleasure, milady,” he said with a wry grin.
“—for the gifts,” she finished primly. She drew away and sat straight in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. “And for asking your mother to bring such a beautiful gown for me to wear at my wedding.”
He lifted a lock of her hair and threaded it loosely through his long fingers. “Since the sapphires I chose weren’t to your liking, I hoped my mother would succeed where I failed.”
“When did you write her?” Joanna asked in confusion. She lowered her lids and traced a pattern on the fine lace tablecloth with her fingertip. “How long have you known?”
“Would you believe from the start?”
She looked up to meet his gaze, and the laughter in his eyes made her shake her head doubtfully. “Should I believe that?”
He ran his thumb lightly over the bow of her upper lip. “Someday I may tell you, Joanna,” he said in a low, silky tone. The hand at her waist moved to the small of her back, gently stroking the line of her spine. “But not today. Today I’ll let you wonder.”
The heat of mortification crept up her neck. “Did you know the evening you ordered me to assist at your bath?”
“Most definitely,” he assured her.
Joanna recalled how he’d allowed her to remove everything but his belt and plaid, then inexplicably ordered her from the room.
Holy heavens.
He knew she’d been perfectly willing to see him naked!
MacLean tipped her chin upward and planted a kiss on the tip of her nose. “Enjoy the celebration,” he told her softly, “while I enjoy the pleasure of watching my wee bride blush.”
“I’m not blushing,” she denied. “’Tis overwarm in here, that’s all. And other people are watching, too.”
“Let them,” he said. “They’d be disappointed if the bridegroom didn’t kiss his bride.” He followed his words with another scorching kiss, accompanied by the raucous cheers of his men.
MacLean drew away at last when a servant approached to pour more claret in their half-empty goblets. Joanna straightened the crown of roses that wreathed her head and, in an attempt to rein in her galloping heart, tried to concentrate on the conversation taking place on the other side of her husband.
“MacLean and his brothers are brilliant seamen,” James IV was saying to Argyll. “We weren’t anxious for him to end his sailing days and become a prosaic landholder like the rest of us. His fleet of ships made it possible for our trade with the Continent to thrive. And we understood why he’d hesitate to give up his adventurous life, considering the wealth and fame he’d acquired. But our mind was quite set on this match.”
“The old hatreds are as outdated as the old ways,” Archibald Campbell replied glibly. “’Twould appear the invincible Sea Dragon no longer considers the idea of a MacLean marrying a Macdonald quite so distasteful.” He glanced over at the couple and, realizing that the bride sat listening, offered an apologetic smile.
The second earl of Argyll and chief of the Campbells held one of Scotland’s largest and most powerful clans in his unrelenting grip. Somewhere in his early fifties, he had the physique of a much younger man. And the wily, reddish-brown eyes of a fox. Those eyes assessed Joanna now with a detached, analytical thoroughness. If he disapproved of her masquerading as a lad, he gave no indication.
Joanna nodded coolly to the earl, then peeked at her husband from beneath her lashes. His jaw had tightened at Argyll’s thoughtless words, but he made no comment.
She remembered their conversation in the stables. MacLean had indicated that day that he didn’t want to marry the Maid of Glencoe. Later, he’d denied it. But perhaps by then he’d discovered her identity and didn’t want to admit the bald, distasteful truth to the unwanted heiress.
The knowledge that he’d never wished to marry her brought the ache of disillusionment. The thought that all of this lavish display might simply be for form’s sake came as a crushing blow to her pride.
She’d had no doubts, while living in Cumberland, that her personal worth had been based solely on the extent of her wealth. That the same remained true in the Highlands left a bitter taste on her tongue.
’Twas only her pride, though, not her heart that felt bruised.
After all, she hadn’t wanted to wed him, either. Why else would she have spent the last week dressed as a boy?
Her own feelings bewildered Joanna. She’d willingly kissed the Sea Dragon, even though he’d been responsible for her beloved grandfather’s death. God above knew, she shouldn’t feel anything but hatred for this brash, overconfident male, whose formidable will swept everyone and everything before it. And she’d gravely disappointed her clansmen. From their end of the table, Ewen and his family’s accusing glances reminded her that she’d failed in her most important responsibility as their new chieftain: to marry the man they’d chosen for her.
When MacLean’s family had crowded around the bridal couple after Mass, offering their congratulations along with the rest of the Scottish court, only her personal retainers and servants had joined them. Ewen, Godfrey, and Andrew remained apart with the Macdonald men-at-arms, watching in frigid silence. It didn’t seem to matter that the decision had been taken out of her hands.
If the Glencoe Macdonalds repudiated Joanna as their chieftain, there’d be a bloody battle as the two sides fought to gain control of Kinlochleven. She and the people of her castle would be caught like helpless pawns in the middle.
Course followed sumptuous course, each more elegant than the last; boars’ heads, venison, peacocks, swans, suckling pigs, cranes, plovers, and larks. There were great bowls of rice, almonds, figs, dates, raisins, oranges, and pomegranates. Spiced wine and beer appeared in flagons on every table, and the drink flowed freely.
The trestles had been arranged to leave a large open space in the center of the great hall. While the guests feasted, dancers in Highland garb performed to the accompaniment of three bagpipers, Tam MacLean included, playing old Scottish airs. Then the king’s striking, gray-eyed jongleur strummed a guitar and regaled them with tales of legendary Scots heroes.
During the morning’s festivities, MacLean used every opportunity to fondle his new wife. He touched her arm, her waist, her shoulders, her back, and seemed to have a fascination with her long red hair. Twice his large hand drifted across her buttocks. How it found its way under her velvet robe Joanna wasn’t quite certain.
The air left her lungs in a rush when she remembered the day he’d slipped his hand beneath her plaid, the long fingers gliding up the back of her bare thigh. ’Twas no accident, she realized now, though he’d pretended not to notice it had even happened.
A rising tide of physical awareness flooded her senses as his callused fingertips lightly caressed the bare skin between the base of her neck and her shoulder. His proprietary gaze repeatedly drifted to her breasts, where the low decolletage revealed the firm mounds rising and falling with each breath.
God’s truth, MacLean was her husband, however bold he might be. There was nothing she could do in public about the ogling and fondling, short of boxing his ears—which his tutors should have done when he was naught but a lad. What she intended to do in private was another matter. For though he left no doubt that he intended to take his pleasure with her that night, he’d find that the Maid of Glencoe had more than one trick up her sleeve.
She leaned toward him with a docile smile and spoke behind a cupped hand. “Apparently no one taught you, milord husband, that ’tis considered poor manners to stare down the neckline of your table partner’s gown.”
He had the indecency to laugh out loud. “You’re not merely my table partner,” he replied, his gaze continuing its indolent scrutiny. “’Tis my bed partner you are, Lady MacLean. Every man looks forward to the sugared dainties that follow the meal. I’m merely enjoying a glimpse of the sweet confections to come.”
Using the pretext of examining the rope of pearls his mother had given her, MacLean brushed the back of his fingers across her exposed bosom. With a start of surprise, Joanna felt her breasts swell and her nipples tighten in response.
A faint, knowing smile played across his lips. “Who would have thought such bounty lay hidden beneath that overlarge shirt?” he murmured, his words a low, throaty rasp in her ear. “And now ’tis all mine for the plundering.”
Belatedly, Joanna realized his intent.
Her husband was seducing her.
Right here in Kinlochleven’s great hall.
It didn’t seem to matter that the room was crowded with people. From the smoldering fire in his eyes, she wondered for a moment if he intended to throw her over his shoulder like a bundle of kindling and carry her up the stairs to their bedchamber.
Every part of Joanna seemed to come alive at the thought. She squirmed in her chair, warmth oozing through her like honey in the sunshine, and read the sure knowledge in his gaze.
She was his for the taking.
After the meal, the guisers performed a bawdy farce filled with innuendoes and sly allusions. The receptive audience roared with glee when the elderly husband greeted his toothsome young wife with a lascivious leer, then fell flat on his face as he lunged for her.
Next one of the king’s Italian minstrels favored them with a pastorale in which the heroine was a charming shepherdess. The guests, replete with food and drink, listened in quiet appreciation.
Finally an elderly bard holding a Celtic harp took the floor. He bowed low to the king and again to Joanna, then settled himself on a high, three-legged stool.
“I have the privilege on this very special occasion,” he announced, “to sing a ballad composed by the chief of Clan MacLean in honor of his lady wife.”
Suddenly tense, Rory watched Joanna from the corner of his eye. He clenched his hand on the tablecloth, while his other hand remained fixed and still about Joanna’s small waist.
Lachlan had refused to allow his older brother to hear the composition, saying there wouldn’t be time to make any changes. Whether Rory was satisfied or not, the music and words would have to suffice as written.
Joanna leaned forward, her attention focused on the gnarled figure, wondering, no doubt, why her husband had chosen such an ancient, white-bearded man to sing the love song to her. When Fergus MacQuisten’s magnificent full-throated tenor filled the hall, an awed hush descended over the company.
The words and music Lachlan had composed expressed an unrequited, nearly hopeless yearning of a lord for an exquisite yet unattainable lady. Like Venus shining in the night sky, she was the unreachable goal, the unattainable quest. The subtle yet unmistakably romantic praises for her beauty and intellect surpassed anything they’d ever heard.
Lofty and noble as the words were, an earthly hunger had been woven throughout. Plaintive and sweet, the song spoke to each listener’s secret longing, the grand passion hidden within each lonely heart.
As Fergus sang, Joanna turned within the compass of Rory’s arm and gazed up at him. He met her dreamy eyes, certain in the knowledge that she was seeing him in a whole new light.
Not as a rough, crude soldier, but a gallant champion.
A knight in shining armor.
Rory wasn’t quite sure how, but in some way, his brother had managed to capture the aching need he felt for this tiny slip of a lass and yet could never hope to put into words. How he would ever repay Lachlan, he couldn’t imagine. At this moment, nothing seemed enough.
As the last strains of the ballad faded away, Joanna leaned toward him. “’Twas beautiful, Rory,” she said on a sigh. She placed her fingers lightly on his cheek. “I’ve never heard anything so moving.”
For the first time that day, she initiated a kiss. A kiss of such tenderness, such tentative, wondering exploration, Rory’s heart nearly exploded. His entire body reacted to her shy, hesitant touch with a ravenous lust that pulsed through his veins and tightened every muscle.
Dammit, he couldn’t give in to his rampaging carnal desires now. ’Twas barely past midday, far too early to make a seemly exit, though he longed to sweep his wife into his arms and carry her upstairs, ignoring the shocked looks of the guests. He yearned to lay Joanna on their bed and slowly, lingeringly remove the satin gown and the fragile chemise beneath.
But even greater than the need to slake his lust, Rory wanted this day, this moment, to remain in Joanna’s memory forever as a magical dream come true.
Someday he’d tell her the truth—that the tenderly erotic love song had been written by his brother. And they’d laugh about it together, because by then they’d have a half-dozen weans, bonny daughters and sturdy sons, crawling over their bedcovers in the mornings, demanding attention.
But the nights…ah, the nights…they’d have all to themselves.
The stately strains of the pavane being played by the musicians in the gallery slowly impinged upon Rory’s consciousness. He reluctantly released Joanna and rose to his feet.
“I think ’tis time for our wedding dance, Lady MacLean,” he said with a nervous smile. He need only perform this one last feat, then he could sit back and enjoy the rest of the day.
Rory led Joanna down from the dais and to the center of the hall, where he managed a passable bow. Aware of the curious eyes fastened upon them, he intended to concentrate on the instructions Lachlan had called out as he’d practiced with Keir. If his movements appeared somewhat labored and stilted, so be it. Most of all, he was determined not to step on her long velvet train.
Joanna rose from her deep curtsy and took the hand Rory held out to her. Her face shone with pleasure in the dance, the indigo eyes with their thick russet lashes sparkling like starshine. The glorious mane of coppery hair drifted past her shoulders and fell to her waist in lustrous silken curls. Petite and fine-boned, she moved across the floor with an unconscious elegance.
He’d known she’d be attractive once she set aside the boy’s clothes and dressed befitting a lass, but even in his most vivid imaginings, he’d never dreamed how adorably feminine she’d be.
Joanna pointed her foot in a graceful, gliding movement, and Rory’s blood ran cold at the size of the white satin slipper. One misstep and he’d break every bone in that dainty wee foot.
He’d lost count long ago of how many foes he’d slain on the field. In one battle alone, he’d brought down fourteen men with his sword and dirk. Yet this slight lassie had him shaking in his shiny dress brogues. A fine sheen of sweat broke out on his brow. He only hoped she wouldn’t guess the effect she had on him.
“Our wedding feast was wonderful,” Joanna confided. “I’ve never seen some of the exotic dishes the king’s chef prepared.”
Every time his wife sank low in one of the many curtsies required in the pavane, Rory bent forward in a courtly révérance. He discovered to his incredible delight that he was afforded a sight of her bosom that would have turned an eighty-year-old archbishop into a rutting stag. The smooth, dewy globes of her breasts rose firm and high above the low neckline, so creamy white and delectable they made a man salivate with just one peek.
Rory smiled. Dancing with Joanna was proving far more pleasurable than he could have possibly envisioned. If she’d only dip just a bit lower, he’d be blessed with a glimpse of those sweet, rosy peaks.
“Thankfully,” he replied, “my mother took over the task of guarding you.”
“Guarding me!” she exclaimed. “From what? Going into the kitchen?”
She dipped again, and Rory ran his tongue across his lips like a man parched with thirst. He gave a quick nod, his gaze fastened on the mouthwatering display. “Why else?”
Joanna tilted her head, fixing him with a quizzical look before she came to a graceful halt and dropped into a final curtsy.
The high rafters rang with applause. Rory realized in surprise that the music had stopped and the dance had come to an end. He released a pent-up breath of satisfaction. His wee bride still had all ten toes, and not a footprint could be seen on the pristine white velvet of her train.
Keir and Lachlan waited at the edge of the dance floor, wide smiles creasing their faces. They met the couple as Rory led Joanna toward the dais.
Lachlan grabbed his older brother around the neck, pulled him close, and spoke in a low, amused tone. “When I said to show your hunger for your bride. I didn’t mean you were to strip the poor lass naked with your eyes on the dance floor, ye bloody fool.”
Rory frowned. He hadn’t realized his emotions were so blasted transparent.
“Why the hell not?” Keir asked with a chuckle. “She’s his now. He can do as he damn well pleases with her.”
Joanna had heard their exchange, and from the spark of indignation in her eye, was about to offer a scathing retort. Before she could say a word, Keir snatched his good-sister’s hand and tugged her out of Rory’s grasp.
“The next dance in the suite is a galliard,” Keir said as he deftly slipped the sleeveless robe off Joanna’s shoulders and handed it to her bridegroom. “I suggest you go have another glass of wine, Laird MacLean, while I gallop around the floor with your lady wife.”
Rory scowled down at his youngest brother’s big feet. “Just be sure you don’t step on her,” he warned.
In the afternoon, the guests were treated to a joust. To Joanna’s obvious delight, the MacLeans had unearthed armor and weapons—captured from Sassenach soldiers nearly a hundred years before—in the castle’s armory. They’d polished the steel helmets, breastplates, greaves, and gauntlets till the pieces gleamed like silver in the spring sunshine.
A pavilion had been erected in the grassy meadow outside the castle walls, where bright pennons snapped in the breeze. When Joanna and Rory took their places beside the king, Fearchar rode to the center of the field on his huge steed. Armed with shield and lance, he approached the three and tipped his weapon in salute.
“With my laird’s permission,” he said in his booming voice, “and if milady will allow, I will act as her champion.”
Rory signaled his approval, and Joanna tied a green satin ribbon to the end of Fearchar’s lance.
“For luck,” she told her knight-errant. Blue eyes shining, she clasped Rory’s arm in excitement and leaned closer to him. “How could you have planned all this without my knowing?”
“The MacLeans are rather good at keeping secrets,” he said with a crooked grin. “Especially from Macdonalds.”
She wrinkled her freckled nose and flashed him a puckish smile. “’Tis very clever you’ll be thinking yourself, milord husband. But the next time you try to surprise me, I won’t act so surprised. That will serve you.”
The men had blunted the weapons for safety. Even so, every time Fearchar unseated his opponent, a roar would go up from the enthusiastic crowd. As the toppled warrior hit the ground with a thud, Joanna would wince and cover her eyes.
Thick-necked and barrel-chested, Murdoch MacLean proved the blond titan’s biggest threat, just as expected. At the first pass, Fearchar shattered a lance on his kinsman’s shield without Murdoch even losing the stirrups. The second try proved more successful. The thud of iron-tipped lance against steel jacket resounded, and Murdoch flew from his horse to fall unconscious on the ground.
The prone man quickly regained his wits, though, and with a bow to his sovereign and the bridal couple, strode from the field.
“Thank God,” Joanna said with a grateful sigh. She slipped her hand into Rory’s and laced her fingers with his.
The simple move to seek his reassurance and strength stormed the keep of Rory’s well-guarded heart. His chest compressed, as though the thick-walled bastions protecting his vulnerable emotions crumpled inward beneath her gentle onslaught. Her slightest touch carried more power, more potential for his own destruction, than a claymore wielded by a foe.
“My men are all battle veterans,” he told her, his voice tight and strained with the need to maintain some small measure of distance. She was supposed to be swept away, not Rory. “This joust is no more than child’s play to them.”
Her eyes grew somber. “Still, I would feel terrible if one of them were seriously hurt, especially on my behalf.”
“Why, Lady MacLean,” he said, bringing her fingers to his lips, “I think you’re starting to like us.”
She lifted one shoulder noncommittally. “Some of you, perhaps.”
“Which of us?” he prodded.
“Tam and Arthur, and Fearchar, of course,” she said, idly measuring the length of her fingers against his own. “He even helped Maude gather lichens and brambles to make dyes for her yarn, so she can complete the tapestry she’s making.”
Rory recalled the hedonistic scene depicting a dragon-tailed sea raider sporting with a water nymph. “The one in the solar?”
“That one.”
He arched an eyebrow quizzically. “We wondered if it portrayed some little-known Greek myth.”
Joanna pursed her lips, as though to keep from laughing. Avoiding his eyes, she studied their clasped hands. “Not Greek,” she said after a moment, “nor Roman, either. The tapestry was inspired by an old Celtic legend.”
He smiled at her with open skepticism. “Not any I’ve ever heard of.”
“Oh, ’tis a legend known only to the Macdonalds,” she explained. When she met Rory’s gaze, her eyes sparkled with naughtiness, warning him there was more to the tapestry than she was willing to reveal.
Rory touched his finger to the tip of her nose. “Someday you’ll have to tell me this old Celtic legend.”
“I’ll tell you tonight, if you wish,” she offered brightly, then frowned as she realized she’d blundered into uncharted seas.
“That’s very sweet of you,” he said, drawing her close for his kiss. “But I think tonight we may be a wee bit too busy for storytelling.”
When the pageant was over, it was nearly time for supper. His curly brown hair ruffling in the late afternoon breeze, Tam piped Creag-an-Sgairbh, Stewart of Appin’s lively march, as the animated, prattling guests returned over the drawbridge and into the castle.
Fearchar and Maude strolled side by side. Though little was spoken between them, she carried the helm and gauntlets he’d worn during the tournament. Earlier, they’d danced a branle together, swaying to left and right with a catlike grace belied by their large, sturdy frames.
The sight of the couple ambling along brought a smile to Rory’s lips. Nothing would please him more than to have his huge cousin choose a wife from among the Macdonald kinsmen here at Kinlochleven. That Maude was Joanna’s beloved companion made it all the better. The bond between the four of them would bind them closer through the years.
As the courtiers and clansmen entered the donjon’s vestibule, Rory took advantage of the momentary confusion to draw his bride aside. “Come with me, Joanna,” he urged. “I’ve something to show you.”
His wife shook her head, her eyes suddenly wary. “I think we’d best return to the great hall with our guests.”
Before she could protest further, Rory guided Joanna into the still library, where he leaned back against the door and quietly turned the key.