Dropping to her knees in the loft’s clean hay, Joanna lifted the tiny kitten and nuzzled its black and white fur. “Hello, pretty one,” she cooed softly, delighting in the feel of its curious, whiskered nose against her cheek. “What shall we name you?”
Three days before the guests had arrived at Kinlochleven, the stable cat had given birth to a family of five. This was the first visit Joanna had managed to squeeze from her hectic schedule. Settling deeper into the hay, she crossed her legs beneath her gown and lifted the kittens, one by one, onto her lap. Tabby rubbed against Joanna’s knee, proudly showing off her children.
“Oh, I know,” she told the mother cat as she scratched her under the chin, “you’ve done a wonderful job. I’m so happy to see that mama and babies are all doing fine.”
“I trust you’ve finished moving your things back into our bedchamber by now,” MacLean said. At the sudden, unexpected sound of his deep voice, Tabby disappeared, abandoning her offspring to her mistress’s safekeeping.
Joanna looked up to find her husband standing at the edge of the loft. She’d been so engrossed in the five tiny kittens that she hadn’t heard him come up the ladder. She met his peremptory gaze with all the bravado she could muster in the face of his indisputable advantage in size and strength. The Highland chief might be taller than most men, and he might be even stronger, but she wasn’t going to let any MacLean intimidate a Macdonald.
“You may as well learn the truth now as later,” she told him. “I finished moving my personal possessions out of your chamber after you left this morning. I’m going to be sleeping in another room tonight and every night forthwith, until you leave my castle.”
MacLean smiled with that unflagging self-assurance she’d grown to know so well. “Joanna, lass,” he said, his voice tinged with amusement, “your predictability never ceases to amaze me. A good commander doesn’t signal his moves to his enemy before the battle.”
She’d been about to inform the imperious chief of Clan MacLean that she was going to sue for an annulment on the grounds that their two-day marriage hadn’t been consummated—and never would be. At his words, she snapped her mouth shut so fast, she bit the tip of her tongue.
“Ouch,” she cried, wincing in pain as she pressed her fingertips to her lips. She glared up at him as though it were his fault.
MacLean crouched down beside her. “Did you bite your tongue, sweetheart?” he asked sympathetically. “Let me see.” He cupped her chin in his long fingers and gently tilted her face upward.
Tears welling in her eyes, Joanna tried unsuccessfully to push his hand away. “Since you’re neither a barber-surgeon nor an apothecary, I don’t see how ’twould help.”
He bent his head and brushed his lips lightly across hers, and the tenderness of his touch made her skin prickle with goose bumps. “Show me, little wife,” he coaxed in his low, velvety baritone. “I’ll kiss it and make it better.”
“Humph,” she said with a derisive sniff. “If you want to make things better, you can stop interfering with my plans to entertain our guests. Everyone was looking forward to the auction until you ruined everything by canceling it.”
MacLean dropped down in the hay beside her with a chuckle. “’Tisn’t considered good manners to invite guests into your home and then try to lighten their purses by offering your plates and linens to the highest bidder.”
She gazed at him pensively. “I hadn’t thought about linens,” she confessed. “Thanks to you, we must now stage an elaborate masque, so people won’t be too disappointed. I’ve also asked Fergus MacQuisten to sing after this evening’s supper. Do you think you could write another romantic ballad, this time in honor of Beatrix? ’Twould please her greatly and make up for the canceled sale.”
MacLean stretched out his long legs and propped himself on one elbow. Even in his relaxed position, an aura of power radiated from the body lying so close beside her. Stories of his valor on the battlefield were legendary, and peering at him from the corner of her eye, Joanna had no doubt of their veracity.
A lazy smile played about his lips as he stroked one of the tumbling kittens, which had crawled out of Joanna’s lap and was playing with bits of hay. The black kitty wrapped its tiny paws around MacLean’s forefinger and nipped the callused tip, and Joanna was forcefully reminded of her own vulnerability. MacLean had snatched the loaded crossbow from her with no more effort than it’d take to discipline a wayward child or brush aside a naughty kitten.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to refuse your request,” he said.
Baffled, she tore her gaze from his large, capable hand to meet his eyes, gleaming with amusement. She’d completely lost her train of thought. “What…what request?”
“For me to compose another ballad. ’Twould be impossible. Lady Beatrix just doesn’t bring out the ardent lover in me. Fergus will have to offer music of his own composing tonight. What is the theme of your pageant, by the way? Maybe I can make up for my interference by assisting with that.”
“The Greek underworld,” Joanna replied brightly, ready to knock some of that excessive overconfidence he wore like a crown into the dust.
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “’Tis a strange choice for guests invited to celebrate a wedding.”
“I thought ’twas rather appropriate,” Joanna stated. “Persephone being carried off to the land of the dead and ravished by Hades.” She cuddled the kitten under her chin and sent MacLean an ingratiating smile. “You can be Hades.”
“The god of the underworld,” he said with a quick laugh. “Is that how you see me? And are you to be Persephone?”
At the soft rumble of masculine laughter, Joanna felt a tingling sensation that tightened her scalp and set her insides vibrating. She fought the sudden urge to jump to her feet and race to the ladder and safety. Shaking her head, she started to edge away—slowly, so he wouldn’t notice and reach out to stop her.
“Idoine will take the part of the goddess,” she replied. “I’m to be Pan.”
Rory fought the compelling urge to touch her, to bury his fingers in her thick coppery curls and kiss her until she gasped for breath and begged for his caresses. Instead he lay back against the pile of loose hay and tucked one hand behind his head. “Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” he asked.
With supreme effort, he kept his gaze from drifting over his wife’s slender waist and softly rounded curves, well aware that she was a hair’s breadth from bolting. “In any case,” he continued, “I prefer to be a spectator rather than a player in your little pageant. You can give the role of Persephone’s ravisher to Andrew. ’Twill do the youth good to exhibit a bit of wholesome lust.”
“Andrew’s too young and inexperienced for the part,” she replied. “If you won’t do it, I’ll ask Tam.”
“Tam has other duties to attend to this afternoon.” Rory smiled, softening his refusal. “Why not ask Fearchar? If any man can throw Idoine over his shoulder and carry her off, ’tis my giant cousin.”
Joanna considered the suggestion for a moment and then nodded. She released the spotted kitten to play with the others, while she studied Rory from under her lashes. “How did you know I was up here in the loft?” she asked. “Were you following me?”
“I saw you enter the stables from the battlements and decided to join you,” he told her, his tone amiable, his posture one of complete relaxation.
When he’d seen her slip into the building, he’d suspected that Joanna planned to take Behind for a solitary ride. He had no intention of allowing her to leave the castle without a MacLean escort.
From beneath lowered lids, he studied the fine-boned face, its faint sprinkling of nutmeg illuminated by the shaft of sunlight streaming through the stable’s high western window. Her thick lashes fluttered as she cautiously peeked at him. Doubt and wariness clouded her violet-blue eyes.
Rory tucked his other hand behind his head as well, telling her without words that she was free to leave, if she chose.
Joanna shifted restlessly. Finally, she turned toward him, her low voice filled with hesitation. “You’re not angry with me?”
“About what?”
His question caught her by surprise. He could all but see the windmills whirring. She didn’t want to remind him of last night’s confrontation or the part that her idiot cousin had played in loading the crossbow for her. Nor was it the moment for him to apologize for calling her parents vile names. The wounds were too fresh and too painful.
“About my sleeping in a separate chamber,” she replied with a lift of her chin.
“We’ll discuss that later this evening,” he said blandly. “Tell me more about your pageant. What will you wear as Pan?”
“A short toga,” she said, breaking into a shy smile. Her freckled nose wrinkled with a pixie’s irreverent humor. “And a wreath of ivy in my hair, which will be pinned up like a boy’s.”
Rory gave a mock shudder. “Not under that hideous stocking cap, I hope.”
She laughed, and the deep, husky sound of her contralto made his breath catch in his throat. “’Twasn’t as ugly as all that,” she protested with a giggle.
He grimaced as though in excruciating pain, encouraging her lighthearted laughter. “Hell, I should have burned the damn thing days ago.”
Her indigo eyes sparkling, she leaned over him with a teasing smile. “I would never have allowed you to destroy my favorite headdress, MacLean. Why, I’m thinking of having it trimmed with pearls to wear as a nightcap.”
The thought of seeing Joanna in bed garments, pearl-trimmed or otherwise, brought a vision of the evening to come, when he would lift the flowing nightdress from her bare shoulders and cover her pale, slender body with his own. Rory’s heart thundered and shook as a sharp, knife-edged longing sliced through him, bringing a hunger no man could deny.
“Kiss me, Joanna,” he said softly.
Her eyes widened at his unexpected request. “I think not,” she declared, as though he’d asked her to partake of poisoned wine.
“Ah, then, ’tis afraid of me you are.”
“I am not!”
“I’ll keep both hands clasped behind my head,” he promised, his tone mild and soothing. “They’ll stay right where they are now. You’ve nothing to fear.”
“’Tisn’t that I’m afraid,” she scoffed. Her cheeks grew rosy with indignation. “’Tis simply that I’ve so much to do this afternoon, what with guests scattered from one end of the castle to the other, and all of them looking for relief from their boredom. I don’t have time to kiss you or anyone else.”
“Just one kiss, lass,” he goaded, “to prove you’re not afraid of me. Then you can go.”
Joanna searched MacLean’s mocking gaze, reading the certainty that she’d scurry away like a frightened wee mouse if he made so much as a move toward her.
Holy hosanna, she wasn’t afraid of him.
She just didn’t trust him.
“Macdonalds aren’t cowards,” she muttered.
He shrugged complacently. “If you say so, lass.”
Joanna bent closer, glaring straight into his taunting green eyes. “I do.”
He said nothing more, but the smile curving the corners of his sensual mouth dared her to prove it.
Bracing one hand on his solid chest, she dipped her head and brushed her lips across his in a brisk, feather-soft movement. “There,” she stated with a jerk of her head as she straightened back up. “That proves I’m not afraid of you.”
“It does?” he asked incredulously. “Is that what you Macdonalds call a kiss? That insignificant little peck?”
She leaned forward, propping her forearm on his chest. “Not everyone kisses like you do,” she informed him righteously.
He raised his brows in bafflement. “Like I do?”
“You know what I mean…with your tongue.”
“Everyone does, but Macdonalds,” he replied with a jeering laugh. “Hell, I shouldn’t be surprised that you don’t know how to kiss properly. Your clansmen are known for their ineptitude, especially in the bedroom. ’Tis the gabble of the Scottish court.”
She gasped at his effrontery. “I’ve never heard such a rumor!”
“You’ve spent a good part of your life in Cumberland, lass,” he reminded her smugly. “Being part-English, you were shielded from what the rest of the world knows to be a fact. Sassenachs and Macdonalds have ice running through their veins.” Rory made a slight move, as though to rise. “We might as well go, Joanna, if that insipid wee buss is the best you can do.”
“Wait,” she insisted, pressing her hands against his chest. “’Tisn’t true! Macdonalds can kiss as well as anyone. Better, I’m certain.”
He grinned, the insufferable, conciliating look on his sharp features more eloquent than words. “If you say so, lass.”
“I don’t have to say so!” she exclaimed. “I’ll prove it.”
MacLean shrugged indifferently in halfhearted permission for her to try.
Joanna clasped his bronzed, sea-weathered face in her hands and pressed her lips to his in a kiss so passionate, so fervid, so intensely provocative his toes would curl up in his fancy buckled brogues.
He failed to respond.
She pressed harder, tracing the tip of her tongue across the tight seam of his closed lips. When MacLean remained maddeningly impassive, she tapped his chin with her fingertips, urging him to open for her.
He reluctantly obliged.
Joanna touched his tongue with hers, timidly at first, but the shiver of expectation that went through her at the feel of his moist warmth erased all hesitation. Her entire body responded to the smell and touch of him in a sudden, wild tremor of longing. Angling her face across MacLean’s, she smashed her open mouth against his and stroked his tongue with hers in mounting excitement.
The kiss went on and on, till her heart was hammering against her ribs and her pulse grew frantic. Finally Joanna started to pull away, then changed her mind. MacLean didn’t seem nearly as stimulated as she felt. She didn’t want to stop too soon. She had to make certain he never repeated such an idiotic rumor about the Macdonalds again. After this scorching kiss, Rory MacLean would never again accuse her of having ice in her veins.
“You could help by putting your arms around me,” she whispered against his lips.
“Like this?” he asked softly.
“Like that.”
Joanna resumed the kiss, delving into his mouth, as her fingers slid across the emerald earring and into his golden hair. Wondering frantically if he could feel her heart stammering and her body trembling in nervous agitation, she resolved to elicit some response from her dispassionate husband before breaking the kiss.
She slipped her arms around his neck and rubbed her breasts against his chest, for no other reason than it simply seemed like the best way to get his full and undivided co-operation. To her surprise, her breasts seemed to have grown fuller and heavier beneath her clothing. They shimmered with sensations as their peaks tightened and contracted.
The feel of Joanna’s sweet, luscious curves moving against his hard body proved Rory’s undoing. With a warning growl of male sexual intent, he pulled her slim form atop the full length of him, his hard-won control evaporating in the space of a moment. Cupping her buttocks, he rocked her slowly, lingeringly against his engorged sex, as he continued the searing kiss.
Panting, Joanna braced her hands on his shoulders and drew back, her innocent eyes enormous. “I-I should go,” she insisted breathlessly. But in spite of her words, she lowered her head and kissed him once again.
Desire tightened every fiber in Rory’s body. He rolled Joanna beneath him, careful to brace his weight on his forearms. He traced his open mouth along the curve of her jaw and down her neck, his heart leaping at the soft sound of her sigh. He kissed her silken breasts above the low, square neckline, then loosened the ties of her bodice and camisole and slid them downward. Heated blood raged through his veins as his gaze moved over her creamy perfection.
“My God, you’re exquisite,” he murmured. “I’m going to explore every delectable inch of you.”
Her fingers trembling, Joanna removed the bodkin that pinned the corner of Rory’s plaid to his shirt. She fumbled with the cords at his neck, then pulled the shirttails out from beneath his belt and slid her hands under the saffron material and across his bare chest. His muscles tightened and clenched at the feel of her graceful fingers skimming over his ravenous body.
“Take off your shirt,” she implored, her voice husky with sexual arousal.
Rory yanked the garment over his head and tossed it aside. He smothered a groan as she buried her fingertips in the thick wiry hair on his chest, grazing his taut nipples, then leaned forward to place gentle kisses on his fevered flesh.
“Ah, lass,” he murmured. Graphic images of what he intended to do with his innocent bride sent a spear of white-hot desire through his groin. The holy medal around his neck dangled between them as he bent his head and suckled her. She whimpered in pleasure, and he moved to lave the other rosy peak, breathing in deep, intoxicating drafts of her elusive scent.
His heart about to explode from the mind-numbing tension enforced on his body by his iron will, Rory drew the hem of her gown up to her gartered knees, then pressed one leg between her satiny thighs. She moved against him spontaneously, a low sob catching in her throat.
“Rory,” she gasped. The husky, breathless sound of his name and the near-surrender it implied sent a thrill coursing through him. Beneath the thick wool of his plaid, his swollen manhood pulsed with need for her. Only her.
“Yield to me, Joanna,” he whispered in her ear, tracing the delicate folds with his tongue. “I’ll make it so good for you, lass.”
Joanna squirmed and writhed beneath MacLean’s weight, searching for something she didn’t understand. An irresistible longing to press ever nearer made her open her legs wider and thrust up against him. She wanted him to caress her as he had before. She wanted to experience that convulsion of unbelievable pleasure. Clutching his massive shoulders, she looked up into his eyes, and the naked, undeniable hunger in his gaze lit a conflagration within her.
“Oh, Rory, I want…I need…”
A smile of unutterable tenderness curved his lips as he reached down to touch her—and stopped abruptly.
Joanna’s heart skidded to a painful halt. She made a muffled sound of disappointment deep in her throat, then was silent as he pressed one fingertip to her lips in warning.
Male voices drifted up from below. A party of hunters, who’d left early that morning, had returned and were stabling their mounts. The hunt must have been a success, for the men called to one another in high spirits. She recognized Fearchar’s deep, booming bass shouting a jest.
Before Joanna had time to react, MacLean deftly replaced her bodice and rearranged her gown. Pushing away from her, he reached for his shirt.
“You stay here,” he whispered as he pulled the garment over his head and refastened the plaid across his shoulder. “I’ll get the men out of the building and into the drill yard as quickly as possible. Once they’re gone, you can leave with no one the wiser.” His green eyes brilliant with an unmitigated joy, he removed a wisp of hay from her tangled curls. Then he smiled and gave her a slow, thorough kiss. “Come evening, we’ll take up where we left off, Lady MacLean. In the meantime, I’m looking forward to seeing a wee, red-haired Pan dance around the great hall in her toga.”
Stunned and speechless, Joanna watched MacLean disappear down the ladder. The men below seemed to pay no heed to his sudden appearance, and in a matter of minutes the stable grew quiet once again.
Her befuddled gaze drifted over the loft. In another pile of hay, Tabby calmly lay nursing her brood, unmoved by her mistress’s near-total capitulation to her fierce warrior husband.
Joanna clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle an agonized moan. God above, she’d almost coupled with him of her own free will.
The Sea Dragon.
Her clan’s mortal enemy.
The King’s Avenger, who’d been responsible for the death of her grandfather. Who’d labeled her father a devil and her mother a witch.
Dear Lord, what had she been thinking!
She dropped back into the hay and covered her eyes with her forearm. God’s truth, she hadn’t been thinking at all. Even now, her traitorous body ached for his touch.
It no longer mattered if she moved her things to a separate chamber or if she slept in the same bed with him. What just happened here in the loft proved that MacLean could take her wherever and whenever he chose, and she would be his willing partner.
Ewen had been right. She was no match for the diabolical and cunning Highland warlord. She had to leave Kinlochleven tonight, or there’d never be a chance for an annulment.
Joanna scampered down the ladder and out of the stable in search of Clan Macdonald’s commander. The scheme Ewen had proposed for her escape would have to put into effect tonight. She and Andrew could use the secret staircase and no one would be the wiser—until MacLean retired to his bedchamber that evening and, finding it empty, started a search for her.
The pageant of classical antiquity was received with thunderous approval by the Scottish court. King James and his courtiers joined in, playing the roles of Greek citizens in procession to the temple of Athena. Every bedsheet and tablecloth in the castle had been called into service to provide their costumes. Lachlan graciously agreed to be Zeus and Keir enacted the sky god’s brother, Poseidon, while Lady Emma portrayed a stunning Aphrodite and Lady Beatrix was Hera.
To everyone’s delight, Idoine made a convincing, if petulant, Persephone. And though Seumas, as Hades, couldn’t carry the plump goddess off without help—Fearchar having refused unequivocally even to try—Kinlochleven’s steward certainly looked the part in the pasteboard crown and scepter painted black.
The center of attention, however, was the wily Pan, who played a pipe and led the cavalcade through the keep, out to the upper bailey, and back to the great hall. Violet-blue eyes twinkling, the mischievous imp insisted on draping her husband with garlands of spring flowers for the role of Narcissus.
“’Tis your own fault,” she whispered, tucking a sprig of bluebells behind one of his ears, “for refusing to wear the toga I sent you.”
Rory watched the frolicsome mummery with growing anticipation, which he was unable to conceal from his two sharp-eyed brothers. Since no one except the bride and groom knew the truth about their wedding night, however, there was no more than the usual number of ribald jests among the men that evening. A new husband’s second night with his wife, after all, did call for some comment.
When at last the entertainment was over and he could make his excuses and go upstairs, Joanna was nowhere in sight. He wondered if she’d discovered that her things had been returned to their chamber.
Since their unplanned tryst in the stables that afternoon, Rory hadn’t been able to snatch a moment alone with her. She’d blushed delightfully every time she’d turned her head to find his gaze on her during supper, but she hadn’t added more than a few words to the conversation at the head table. Her shy reticence was unexpected, after she’d all but surrendered in his arms.
Rory smiled as he mounted the stairs, confident Joanna would be eagerly awaiting him in their large canopied bed. When he entered the room, the low chest sat in its usual place, and Joanna’s trifles were scattered across the press cupboard and bed table—but his chamber stood deserted. His jaw clenched at her intransigent Macdonald stubbornness.
He left the bedchamber and strode along the third-floor passageway, opening and slamming doors as he went. His temper soared with each empty room he found.
At the end of the hallway, he entered the chamber in which Tam and Murdoch had discovered Joanna’s possessions. The coverlet lay smooth and undisturbed on the bed—and there wasn’t a trace of his missing bride.
Rory strode to the window and jerked opened the casement to search the grounds below. The sound of activity caught his attention. Five Observantine friars, their hoods pulled up to ward off the chill, guided their horses across the lower bailey to the barbican. A single Poor Clare rode in their midst, her head bowed and her veil concealing her face from the torchlight. The guards at the open gate spoke congenially to the group and then waved the party through.
The monks hadn’t far to go; the Priory of St. Findoca lay close by. The chapel’s square bell tower could be seen rising above the moonlit loch from the window where Rory stood. Still, it seemed strange that they hadn’t waited until daylight.
As iron-shod hooves drummed on the planks of the drawbridge and faded into the night, a chilling comprehension explained the presence of the solitary nun. Dashing from the room, Rory hurried down the passageway to the top of the stairwell.
“Fearchar,” he bellowed, then returned to his own bedchamber.
After the pounding he’d given Andrew the previous night, Rory hadn’t even considered the possibility that the lad might be reckless enough to interfere a second time.
Given what he knew of the two young Macdonalds, he’d bet a chest of guineas that Joanna was the one who had engineered the entire scheme. She must have talked the downy-cheeked adolescent into helping her once again.
Hell and damnation. If Rory had immediately demanded his marital rights, instead of gallantly trying to coax Joanna into his bed, none of this would have happened. He sure as hell wasn’t going to let it happen again.
Fearchar came racing through the door. “What’s wrong?”
“Find Lachlan and Keir,” Rory gritted. “Tell them to meet me in the stables at once.”
Fearchar gave a quick nod. “Anything else?”
“I’m leaving you in charge of Kinlochleven,” Rory told him, as he buckled on his sword belt and jammed his broadsword into its sheath. “See that every MacLean is armed and at his post immediately. Be prepared for a possible attempt by Ewen Macdonald to take over the castle.”
“With the king in residence, that’d be high treason,” Fearchar said with a scowl.
Rory snorted in disgust. “I wouldn’t put any treachery past the Macdonalds.” He checked his eighteen-inch dirk and adjusted the small knife concealed below his armpit. “Once I and my brothers have left, alert His Majesty and let him know what’s happened.”
Fearchar’s gaze roved over the empty bedchamber. “Er…exactly what did happen?”
Rory grabbed his gloves and started for the door. “Unless I miss my guess,” he said with cold fury, “my wife has just eloped with her idiot cousin.”