The next morning Joanna came slowly awake, not by the kitchen hearth, but in her big canopied bed. She had a vague memory of a large masculine body sleeping beside her during the night. The uncomfortable suspicion that she’d cuddled up to the warmth radiating from her bed companion’s muscular frame made her eyes pop open.
Holy hosanna, he’d been naked.
She was sure of it.
Her cheeks burning at the thought, Joanna brought the covers up to her chin and cautiously surveyed the chamber. There was no sign of her enraged bridegroom. Only the broken glass on the floor and the crossbow quarrel embedded in the door proved that the previous evening hadn’t been some horrible nightmare.
God above, he’d been angry.
She’d never really intended to shoot MacLean—just make him admit that he’d accused her mother of witchcraft. Well, bloody hell, he’d admitted it, all right. And without a single jot of remorse. Joanna sniffed self-righteously. ’Twas no more than could be expected from the fiend who’d captured an innocent man and carted him off to the gallows.
The muffled sound of hammers brought Joanna to her feet. She crossed to the window, opened the casement, and stared down in dismay at the scene in the lower bailey. A team of workmen was pounding on the old, rusted portcullis that protected the main gateway. From the tools and new iron grate lying on the ground nearby, ’twas clear they’d started the improvements that MacLean had talked about.
Skirting the shards of glass, Joanna threw on her clothes and raced down the stairs. She ignored the glances of her startled guests as she crossed the great hall, not pausing for a word of explanation.
Usually a new bride remained in seclusion the day after her wedding, too modest to face the knowing looks of others. This was one bride, however, who had nothing to feel immodest about.
Joanna left the keep and stalked toward her supposed-to-be husband, who was never going to be her real husband, no matter what he thought. His broad back to her, The MacLean stood watching the work in progress, as yet, unaware of her approach.
“Stop!” she called to the men, who glanced over their shoulders in surprise at their mistress. “Stop what you’re doing this instant. All of you.”
Her clansmen halted and turned their curious gazes first on her and then on MacLean, as though awaiting his orders.
“Go on,” he told them quietly. “Take it down.” He waited until they were once again at work, then turned to meet her furious gaze with an untroubled smile. “I see you’re finally awake, Lady MacLean. I should have known, from the way you used to sleep through our card playing, that the only thing that could disturb your rest would be the clanging of hammers on iron bars. You look lovely this morning, by the way.”
Joanna’s cheeks burned. Every man within hearing had to assume that the very reason she’d slept so late that morning stood beside her with a look of blissful contentment on his smug face.
“This work has to stop,” she declared with a scowl.
MacLean stepped closer and fingered a lock of her hair, which spilled loose over her shoulders. She hadn’t taken time to do more than run a brush through her tangled curls.
“Just because I’m a new bridegroom,” he said softly, “I can’t loaf the day away. We’ll have plenty of time this afternoon, lass, to enjoy a leisurely talk.”
The light flashing in his lecherous green eyes matched the sparkle of his emerald earring. He didn’t fool her for a moment: he planned to do a whole lot more than just talk. Good Lord, did the man think of nothing but debauchery?
While MacLean openly leered at his bride, the laborers, who were all Macdonald clansmen hired from the nearby villages, lifted the rust-covered iron grate down and laid it on the ground beside the new one.
Joanna propped her hands on her hips and glared at them. “Replace that old portcullis immediately.”
Not a man moved. They stood still and silent, their apprehensive gazes glued on the chief of Clan MacLean. At his curt nod, they started knocking the corroded hinges off the dilapidated wooden gate that guarded the drawbridge.
In a state of near panic, Joanna looked around the bustling castle grounds. Everywhere, workmen scurried about. A master mason stood with his apprentices, going over a set of plans. A crew of laborers had started to dig a new well, while other men were busily removing all the postern gates. Quarried stone had been brought in by the wagonload and stacked near the south curtain wall.
Joanna clapped a hand to her forehead. Good God, she’d never be able to pay for all these improvements. Most of her tenants paid their rents with produce from their farms and fields. Cattle, hogs, and poultry populated her byres and yards. Baskets of grain and vegetables filled her overflowing storehouses. But at the moment, there were mighty few sillers in her coffers.
Joanna clutched MacLean’s forearm. “What do you think you’re doing to my castle?” she demanded. “I never gave permission for these repairs.”
His determination was evident in the cast of his square jaw; yet his unruffled tone held a hint of amusement. “I’m doing what should have been done years ago. The outer walls need to be reinforced, and the old gates must be replaced.” He pried her stiff fingers from his sleeve and lifted them to his lips for a brief salute. “And Kinlochleven Castle is mine, Lady MacLean,” he added. “I determine what will and will not be done within its walls.” Releasing her hand, he turned and strode away.
Joanna followed on his heels. “Just wait one minute,” she said, indignation tightening her throat. When he continued to ignore her, she raised her voice. “I want to talk to you, MacLean. Now!”
Oblivious to her demands, he strolled into the armory, and Joanna stalked in behind him.
Inside the stone building, Fearchar was directing several MacLeans in the tallying of weapons and armor. Rory’s cousin turned and greeted the newly wedded couple with a wide smile. “Good morning, Lady MacLean,” he said.
Joanna nodded absently, her attention diverted by the chaos inside. Stacks of outdated breastplates and greaves covered the workbenches, along with mounds of helmets, their silver blackened by time. Lances, pikes, and Lochaber axes lay piled on the floor.
“These can be turned over to the smithy,” Fearchar told Rory, pointing to several ancient claymores. “Jacob and Lothar can use the steel to forge new broadswords.”
MacLean nodded his agreement, seemingly unaware of the outraged female beside him.
With a belligerent toss of her head, Joanna crossed her arms and glared at them. “I want these weapons put back where they belong,” she announced. “And I want all the old gates placed back on their hinges and the old portcullis rehung at once.”
Several MacLeans paused for a second to toss her a curious glance before resuming their tasks.
Fearchar gazed down at her from his great height, his pale blue eye alight with amusement. Then he motioned to the other MacLeans, who were watching their clan chief from the corners of their eyes in fascination. Without another word, everyone filed out of the armory. The last to leave, Fearchar quietly closed the solid door behind him.
Before she could say another word, MacLean caught Joanna round her waist and set her on a workbench. Shoving aside a stack of worn gauntlets, he placed a large hand on either side of her hips and leaned closer. “Now suppose you tell me exactly what’s bothering you this morning, wife.”
“Bothering me!” She swept her hand in an all-inclusive gesture. “You’ve removed every gate in the castle. Kinlochleven has been left open to any attacking force riding by.”
MacLean chuckled softly. He slid his hands up her blue velvet bodice, his thumbs lingering just below her breasts. “Attacking forces don’t usually ride by, Joanna. They remain to lay siege. And since all my enemies are inside the castle walls at the present moment, what difference does it make if the portals stand wide?”
Before she could answer, he brushed her tousled curls aside, bent his head, and nuzzled her earlobe. His breath felt warm and moist, and when he dipped his tongue into the hollow of her ear, the gesture seemed astonishingly intimate. A tingle of excitement caromed through her, and she stiffened her spine. She wouldn’t allow him to take liberties with her person the way he’d done the previous day. This time she was ready for any guileful assault he might attempt.
Joanna placed her hands on the man’s broad shoulders with the intention of pushing him away. In spite of her determination, he drew nearer with ridiculous ease.
“Most of my rents are tendered in livestock and produce,” she said angrily. “I don’t have the crowns to pay for these costly repairs.”
“I do,” MacLean murmured, leaning ever closer.
Joanna’s heart did a strange little kick. His breath fanned across her face, and the tangy scent of pine engulfed her. He brushed his lips across hers, then delved into her mouth with his tongue, stroking and caressing in blatant enticement. He tasted of wintergreen and snow-covered mountaintops.
Joanna tried vainly to control the ripple of excitement unfurling inside her. Breaking the kiss, she resolutely turned her face away.
“I shall never be able to repay you for such a great expense,” she warned him breathlessly. She squirmed and tried to edge away, only to bump against the heavy armor piled beside her.
“You won’t have to,” MacLean replied.
But Joanna knew he was wrong. She’d have to repay every blessed siller he spent on her castle, once their wedding vows were declared null and void. She tried to envision which household items she could sell to raise such an enormous sum. Her favorite Italian tapestries, brought all the way from Cumberland, would have to go. And the silver plate. And the gold candelabra. The dowry gifts, of course, would have to be returned to the rejected bridegroom and his family, so there’d be no help there, confound it.
While her mind whirled frantically, toting up what each piece might bring, the Sea Dragon buried his long fingers in the curls at the nape of her neck, holding Joanna captive in the most primitive manner imaginable. As he cupped the back of her head in his palm, his mouth trailed down the slope of her neck to her shoulder. The low, square décolletage of her gown provided ample opportunity for his questing lips, and when he nibbled on her bare skin, her mental calculations collapsed in a flurry of prickly sensations.
She gasped when his hands cupped her breasts. Joanna could feel the heat of his body through her layers of clothing. Lord, he’d felt so warm lying beside her while she slept that she’d dreamed of lying in front of a roaring fire, wrapped in his arms.
Rory inhaled the feminine scent of his bride, and a low, male growl of sexual intent rumbled deep in his throat. She’d burrowed against him in the night, and it had required all his willpower not to take her while she slept.
His decision to wait had nothing to do with chivalry, dammit. He was determined that Joanna would want him as much as he wanted her. And he was stubborn enough to hold out for her unconditional surrender.
“You smell nice,” he murmured as he eased the sleeves of her gown off her shoulders. A scattering of cinnamon dusted her ivory skin. He pressed a kiss just below the fragile shoulder bone, then explored the hollow of her clavicle with his tongue.
Joanna tipped her head back, and her coppery hair cascaded over his hands. “’Tis rosewater,” she said nervously. “I’m glad you like it. Some find its perfume too light and elusive. They prefer lavender or jasmine or even musk.”
“I like it,” he assured her. “I like everything about you, lass, from the top of your red head to your bonny wee toes.”
Rory edged Joanna’s velvet bodice down to reveal the smooth globes of her breasts. The need for her brought an ache so deep inside he nearly groaned. He bent his head and laved the rosy peaks, savoring the feel of the taut buds against his tongue and the exquisite silk of her breasts in his sword-hardened palms. His heart lurched toward his throat as her long, drawn-out sigh of pleasure foretold her inevitable surrender.
The pagan urge to claim his wife there on the rough wooden bench, amid the rusty breastplates and mailed gauntlets, throbbed within him. As he suckled her, the lust that pooled in his groin nearly drove all thoughts of waiting from his mind. When it came to sex, he’d never been a patient man.
’Twas different now. Hell, he was more aroused kissing Joanna than coupling with any other woman. But he refused to rush her into something she’d later regret.
Rory raised the hem of her blue gown, pushing it upward inch by precious inch, till he could edge her knees apart and stand between her creamy thighs. Beneath his plaid, his engorged male member pulsed with heat and a primitive urgency that wouldn’t be denied.
“God above, Joanna,” he whispered thickly.
His lungs compressed as he drank in the sight of the pale, silken skin above the gartered stockings. She was the very essence of femininity, sweet and fragile and so small he could cup her little butt in his hands. He eased Joanna back till she lay before him on the bench’s gouged planks.
“Remember when I touched you yesterday,” he murmured. “Remember how good it felt, darling lass. I will be just as careful, just as gentle now, I promise you.”
Rory bent again, this time to press his lips to her abdomen, kissing her through the thin chemise. He smoothed his fingers up her legs, then cupped the mound of springy curls at the juncture of her thighs.
With a ragged exhalation of air, Joanna threaded her fingers through Rory’s golden waves, unable to find the words to command him to stop. The memory of the intimacy they’d shared in the library pushed aside all thoughts of duty to her clan. As his callused fingertips sought her secret place, she tensed in heart-stopping anticipation. He parted her smooth folds, and she grew swollen and slick beneath his touch.
“Oh, dear God,” Joanna whispered as he caressed her.
She grasped the collar of his shirt with one hand and clutched the folds of tartan wool draped across his shoulder with the other, wanting the pleasure to go on and on. The sensual need within her spiraled deeper and ever more insistent. Tension and a nearly unbearable expectation swamped her, and she began to undulate beneath his caresses, wordlessly urging him onward.
She waited breathlessly for Rory to penetrate her with his finger, as he’d done before. Instead he withdrew his hand and straightened above her.
“Oh, dear God,” she said once more, but this time it came as a tortured moan.
Joanna sat up and threw her arms around Rory’s neck, clutching him tight. Her sensitive nipples pressed against the smooth cotton of his shirt and the thick, rough folds of his plaid. She wanted to arch her back and rub against him like a kitten in a blatant ploy to be petted. The ache of sexual frustration nearly made her sob, and she had to bite her lip to keep from whimpering in disappointment.
Rory bracketed Joanna’s passion-drugged face in his hands. She looked up at him, the desire smoldering in her violet-blue eyes, the confusion and need written across her features. There was only one thing he wanted more than to continue to stroke his wife’s trembling body until he brought her to fulfillment.
“Tell me you want me, Joanna,” he said hoarsely. He kissed her delicate cheekbone and the corner of her mouth, his nostrils flaring as he breathed in her intoxicating perfume. “Tell me you want me to take you as a man takes a woman.”
Her long lashes fluttered and fell to shadow her cheeks. She shook her head slowly and deliberately, as an involuntary shudder passed through her slender body.
“Please let me leave now,” she said, her voice barely audible.
Every fiber in his body rebelled at the thought of letting her go, but Rory stepped back and allowed Joanna to smooth her skirts down about her ankles. He watched in silence as she slipped from the workbench and hurried out the door. Then he braced his hands on the bench’s rough boards and took a deep, steadying draft of air. His head lowered, he closed his eyes and fought the compulsion to go after her. He wouldn’t take his wife against her will. He would wait until she admitted she wanted him.
But he’d be dammed if he’d court her with ballads and poems written by another man. Joanna would have to accept her husband exactly as he was, a plainspoken Highland chief.
“You’d best discover what’s happening in your private quarters,” Fearchar said quietly as he joined Rory on the barbican’s battlement later that morning. “On her way upstairs a few moments ago, Maude let slip a fascinating bit of information which will be the clack of the entire Scottish court by midday, if you don’t do something to thwart it.”
Rory turned from watching the master bricklayer measure the placements for the new gun loops and scowled at his cousin. From the hilarity lighting up the burly Highlander’s features, Rory knew he’d soon be the butt of everyone’s sly jests, if he didn’t forestall his wife’s latest stratagem—whatever the hell that was.
“What’s Joanna up to now?” he asked as he and Fearchar moved out of earshot.
“’Tis only that your docile wee bride has decided to rearrange some bedroom furniture,” his cousin answered cheerfully. “And put several dozen household items on the auction block to be sold to the highest bidder. The sale will start in the great hall after the midday meal and continue till sundown. With some of the wealthiest Scots in the kingdom present for the bidding, plus assorted members of the clergy, the lassie’s expectin’ to raise quite a sum.”
“Christ Almighty,” Rory muttered under his breath. Not waiting for further explanation, he hurried down the outside stairs of the barbican and across the bailey to the keep.
He arrived at the open doorway of his bedchamber to find Seumas and Davie, under their mistress’s supervision, removing the tapestry of the knight and his lady fair from the wall. Maude stood beside Joanna, clucking her tongue and shaking her head in disapproval.
“May I inquire what you’re doing?” Rory asked his wife pleasantly.
Joanna whirled at the sound of his voice. Guilt tinged her cheeks with a rosy glow. “Holy hosanna, you startled me,” she complained. “Don’t you have anything better to do than spy on us? I thought you were measuring the battlements.”
He lifted his brows at her blustering. She was clearly up to something. “I’m waiting for an explanation, Joanna. Why are you removing that tapestry from our bedchamber?”
“I’m going to sell it,” she declared with a stubborn tilt of her chin. “I brought this wall hanging with me from Cumberland, and I’m going to sell it.”
“Why?”
“Why?” she parroted, staring at him wide-eyed, as though he were daft. “Because I need the coins ’twill bring, that’s why. Why else would anyone sell anything?”
“And use the money to pay for the repairs, I suppose,” he said, making no attempt to hide his exasperation.
She lifted her shoulders in eloquent dismissal. “Of course.”
Rory leaned one shoulder against the doorframe and folded his arms across his chest. “Put the tapestry back where it was,” he told the two men, his imperious tone leaving no doubt that he expected their instant obedience. Seumas immediately clambered back up the ladder, while Davie unrolled the colorful hanging on the chamber floor.
Joanna strode toward her husband, her eyes sparking fire. “Why do you care if I sell it?” she asked. “You don’t even like that tapestry.”
“That’s not true,” Rory replied smoothly. “I happen to be very fond of it.”
She turned her head to stare at the knight dressed in his shiny silver armor, then met Rory’s gaze once again. “I don’t believe you. Why should you be fond of it?”
“The young fellow reminds me of myself,” Rory replied with a sideways grin.
Joanna snorted derisively. “He does not. You’re not anything like him.”
“Milady!” Maude exclaimed in reproach.
“Well, he isn’t,” Joanna gritted.
“You mean I’m far more handsome?” Rory inquired blandly. “Or far more chivalrous?”
“Neither,” Joanna said. “You’re neither.”
“Joanna,” Maude chided softly. “You’re forgetting your manners.”
Behind their mistress, Davie and Seumas were trying unsuccessfully to stifle their chortles as they replaced the wall hanging in its original position.
“Will that be all, milady?” Seumas inquired as he climbed down from the ladder.
Joanna gestured to the low oak chest, which held her furs and gowns. “You can move that as I directed earlier,” she said, her rebellious gaze locked with Rory’s.
“You’re not selling the chest, either,” Rory told her emphatically.
“I wasn’t planning to,” she replied with a brilliant smile. “’Tis merely being moved to another chamber.”
For the first time, Rory noticed the oak stand that belonged beside the bed was missing, as well as the feminine articles that had stood on the tall press cupboard against the far wall. He strode into the room, coming to a halt directly in front of his wife.
Joanna looked up at her large husband and swallowed nervously. She wondered frantically if the Sea Dragon had ever made some poor wretch walk the plank. She could imagine how it would feel, standing on the wrong end of a long, narrow board, with the frigid ocean waves crashing beneath and the implacable ship’s captain, sword in hand, standing behind.
Thankfully, MacLean’s words were calm and dispassionate when he spoke. “Your things, my dear wife, are remaining right here where they belong.”
Joanna opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it. His words were calm enough, but a muscle twitched in his cheek.
“Will that be all, then, milord?” Seumas asked warily, as he and Davie sidled toward the recently vacated doorway.
MacLean’s gaze flicked to meet theirs, then returned to Joanna. “That will be all. Close the door behind you.”
Maude didn’t need a special invitation to leave. She dipped a curtsy and beat a retreat behind the two menservants, who’d fled without another word.
“Traitors!” Joanna called after them. Ignoring the irate Highland chief standing in front of her, she turned and walked over to the carved chest at the foot of the bed. “Well, if they won’t move it, I will,” she said. She bent and grabbed one of its handles.
Just as Joanna gave a determined tug, MacLean placed his foot on top of the chest. At the sudden, unexpected weight, she fell backward, landing with a plop on a thick fur rug.
“Ouch!” she squawked, rubbing her sore behind. She glared up at her husband. “You did that on purpose!”
Rory knelt on one knee beside his obstinate wife. Hell and damnation, he had no reason to be surprised at her devious schemes. He’d gone into this preposterous marriage with his eyes wide open. No one but a stubborn little donkey would attempt to masquerade as a member of the opposite sex and expect to get away with it. And no bride of one day would believe she could move out of her husband’s bedchamber without encountering opposition—except his own vexatious little wife.
He caught Joanna’s chin in his hand and tilted her face upward to meet his gaze. She glowered at him, her slight figure stiff with outrage.
“If I decide to administer punishment,” he said softly, “you’ll feel more than a wee smack on your butt.”
Her eyes grew wide at the threat, but she wisely refrained from saying anything that would inflame him further.
“I’ve tried to be patient,” he continued, “but God knows, my patience is starting to wear thin. There’ll be no sale of our household goods this afternoon or any day hereafter. And by the time I return to our chamber this evening, Lady MacLean, I want every stick of furniture and every tapestry in its rightful place. I want to see your vials of perfume exactly where they belong on the cupboard. I want to find your silk ribbons and silver hairbrush on the table beside the bed.” He leaned over her, his words sharp and precise, so there’d be no mistaking his meaning. “And I want to find you in it.”
A large lump rose in her throat as Joanna watched the chief of Clan MacLean rise to his feet. For several long, heart-pounding moments he loomed over her like the angel of death. She wanted to contradict him, but the icy glitter in his eyes forestalled her. ’Twas best, sometimes, to listen to one’s commonsense. Sometimes ’twas better still to keep one’s intentions a secret, rather than make an outright declaration of war and throw it in the enemy’s teeth. Especially when that enemy stood six-foot-four in his stocking feet and had the strength of a young bull.
Joanna swallowed back the retort burning the tip of her tongue and wisely waited until her irate husband had left the room before saying another word.
“If he isn’t the most obnoxious, overbearing, highhanded human being I’ve ever laid eyes on,” she muttered, “I’ll stand in the middle of the lower bailey in the pouring rain and honk like a goose.”
She lifted the chest’s wooden lid, pulled out her clothing, and piled it on the bed. Then she took hold of one handle and dragged the heavy piece of furniture to the door. It’d take her a while, but she’d have her things moved to the empty bedchamber down the passageway before midday.
Rory returned to the battlements, where he found Tam MacLean marking the positions on the stones for the new gun emplacements.
“Wait until everyone’s seated at the midday meal,” he told the young man. “Then take Murdoch with you and move all my wife’s belongings back to our private chambers. Maude Beaton will show you where they’ve been placed. And see that this isn’t the clack of the servants’ quarters. They’ve better things to do than gossip about their mistress.”
Not daring to question his chief further, Tam gave a quick nod. “Very well, laird.”