The monstrous, diabolical, green-eyed avenger left Joanna dangling over his horse like a sack of barley while she screamed and howled bloody murder through the strip of linen covering her mouth. Finally, exhausted, she gave up and concentrated solely on breathing, as the jolting ride drove the breath from her lungs and the blood rushed to her head.
After what seemed like eternity but was probably only a few minutes, he stopped beside a frothing burn, where he could splash the blood from his face and hands. First, though, he cut the cord binding her wrists. Joanna jerked at the tight gag over her mouth and then fumbled in frustration with the knot behind her neck. With a harsh exhalation of air, MacLean pushed her hands away and sliced the fabric with his dirk.
She had tried vainly to speak to him and been ruthlessly ignored. Now that Joanna could harangue her odious husband, as he so well deserved, she refused to say a word. Not a syllable. Not so much as a peep.
MacLean took her icy silence in stride. He pulled a silver flask from his saddlebag. “Here,” he said mildly, “this will help.”
Joanna turned her back on him in uncompromising disdain. Suddenly dizzy and sick to her stomach, she leaned her arm against Fraoch’s saddle and rested her forehead on her scratchy wool sleeve. She ached in every muscle. Her throat felt parched, and a blinding headache pounded in her temples. “I just need some water,” she whispered hoarsely.
“Take a sip of this first, Joanna,” he said. “Then we’ll drink from the stream.” The quiet authority in his voice left no doubt that she’d either drink it willingly or have the liquid poured down her throat.
Without looking around, Joanna reached back, took the flask, tipped and swallowed. The fiery potation burned all the way to her stomach. “Achh!” she croaked. She whirled to face him, grimacing in distaste. “What is that putrid concoction?”
MacLean smiled unpleasantly. “Aqua vitae. The water of life.” He motioned toward the flask. “Now take a wee bit more. ’Twill fortify you for the ride ahead.”
Unwilling to have him force the scalding spirits down her, Joanna gingerly lifted the small metal vessel to her numb lips. Thankfully, her mouth and throat were numb as well. A warm, soothing glow spread through her belly, and she sighed gratefully.
MacLean took the flask and swallowed, once, twice, three times, draining it. Then they both crouched at the edge of the burn, drinking the cold snow melt in their cupped hands, after which he filled the flask with fresh water and returned it to his saddlebag. He withdrew a piece of mutton pie wrapped in a square of white linen, and they shared it in hostile silence.
Mounting, he reached down and, without so much as a “by-your-leave, milady,” lifted her up in front of him. Seated sideways, she clutched his arm to keep her balance as Fraoch bounded forward. But she didn’t complain. ’Twas better than being planked across the stallion’s withers on her stomach.
Joanna sat straight and stiff, making every effort not to touch her large husband. An impossible feat, of course, for he’d wrapped his sinewy arms loosely around her, holding the reins in one hand, the other resting lightly on her hip. Heavy silence bristled between them.
A chilly drizzle started about daybreak, a fitting end to the disastrous night. Rory pulled an extra plaid from the roll behind his saddle and threw it around his broad shoulders. Joanna refused to shelter beneath the black and green tartan, since that would require snuggling against him. Her brown wool habit soon became soaked, right through to her freezing skin, but she rode upright as a pikeman, her pride intact.
“Joanna,” Rory called softly. She’d been sleeping for the past few hours, cuddled like a newborn kitten against his chest. “Joanna, wake up—we’re here.”
She wiggled closer to him, her head buried beneath the plaid that hung around his shoulders. The feel of her lithe form, nestled delightfully between his thighs, brought a reluctant smile.
In spite of the cold rain and long hours in the saddle with little food, he’d learned ’twas damn hard to stay angry with your wife when every movement she made reminded you that her soft curves were fashioned especially for your hard, angular male body. Even the drenched nun’s habit couldn’t hide her tantalizing femininity.
“Joanna,” he repeated insistently.
She stirred, rubbing her eyes, then hurriedly sat up. “I…I must have dozed off for a few minutes,” she admitted with a dismayed glance at him.
Try a few hours, lass. “Look ahead,” he told her.
Through the steady rainfall, Archnacarry Manor rose up from the heathered hills. The keep was nestled in a glen, with the rocky peak of Sgoran Fhuarain looming in the background. As a youth, Rory had been brought to the tower house to be fostered by Gideon Cameron and his first wife.
“Where are we?” Joanna asked in a panicked tone. She clutched his forearm, her fingers twisting the damp material of his jacket sleeve. “Where are you taking me?”
“We need to find shelter from the rain,” he told her. “You can’t stay out in this wet another night.”
Joanna stared with misgiving at the gray stone building with its four flanking towers. The ground floor was a primitive square keep, but the upper part blossomed into a castellated skyline of gables, turrets, and dormers. “’Tisn’t a Macdonald keep,” she said suspiciously as they rode into the yard. “I don’t know these people.”
His arm about her waist, he pulled her tighter and bent his head. “You’re right,” he replied, his mouth close to the ear hidden beneath the wimple and veil. “’Tis in our neighbors’ territory we are, lass. A man with a Macdonald wife needs all the allies he can get, so behave yourself, Joanna, or you’ll be regretting it.”
The steward led them into the hall, where the owners, having been told of their unexpected and uninvited guests’ arrival, waited in front of a roaring fire to greet them.
A personable laird in his early thirties met Joanna’s worried eyes and smiled in welcome. Of average height, he possessed a lean, well-muscled frame and an air of polite introspection. His light brown hair curled over his collar, and his hazel eyes watched their approach with a scholar’s detached curiosity.
Beside him, a gorgeous creature with rose-gold hair and skin as pale as cream tilted her head inquiringly. Her eyes widened at the sight of the soggy brown habit, the dripping black veil, and the soaked, wrinkled wimple, then turned their gaze on the pitiful nun’s escort with mild censure. But not before Joanna had read the compassion for her shivering female visitor in the woman’s sky-blue eyes.
MacLean took Joanna’s elbow and led her up to the couple.
“Oh, dear lady, for God’s sake, please save me!” Joanna cried shrilly. She flung herself down on her knees before the startled woman and lifted her folded hands beseechingly. “I’m a traveling Poor Clare on a pilgrimage to St. Findoca’s shrine. I’ve been abducted by the wicked, salacious, perverted Sea Dragon, whose intentions can only be of the most vile.”
“Shame on you,” the beautiful woman scolded the Sea Dragon. She lifted Joanna up and gathered her in her arms, ignoring the fact that her caller was a sodden mess and had just created a string of puddles on her newly swept floor.
The lady smelled of lilacs and gingerbread. “How long have you been traveling in this weather, my dear?” she asked kindly.
“All night and all day,” Joanna complained, “and I’ve had scarcely a morsel to eat since last evening’s supper. That horrible brute forced me to drink raw spirits. He was hoping to get me drunk so he could have his way with a pure and penniless pilgrim.”
The woman patted Joanna’s cheek, a gentle smile on her lips. “Well, no one will force you to drink raw spirits while you’re under my roof. That much I can assure you.”
MacLean smiled down at Joanna, then addressed the surprised pair. “My companion likes to play dress-up,” he told them, his wicked, salacious, perverted eyes glittering with mirth. “Today she’s a postulant; tomorrow, who knows? Perhaps a gypsy, who’ll tell your fortune for a penny, or maybe a minstrel, who’ll sing and play the lute to your endless delight.”
“Oh, I’m not a postulant, dear lady,” Joanna told her with utmost sincerity. “I’ve already taken my vows. I took them two days ago.” She peeked at her husband from the safe haven she’d found, daring him to call her a liar, for that much had been the Gospel truth.
Rory folded his hands behind his back. “She’s said her vows, right enough,” he cheerfully agreed. “Only they weren’t the vows of poverty and chastity. Obedience, however, was certainly one of them, and I intend to hold her to it.” He grinned at them and continued. “Alex and Nina, I’d like you to meet my wife. Lady Joanna, may I present Laird Alexander and his good-sister, Lady Nina.”
Instead of throwing MacLean out on his dragon-tailed behind, as Joanna had hoped, Laird Alexander welcomed them with a smile of delight.
“You’ve arrived just in time for the evening meal,” the amiable laird said. “Nina can help Lady MacLean change into something dry, while I find Rory a shirt and plaid. We’ll join you ladies in the upper hall in, say, half an hour?”
Lady Nina guided Joanna toward the door, one arm solicitously around her waist.
“Oh, dearest lady,” Joanna said with a piteous sob, “you mustn’t believe a word that man says. We’re not really married. You mustn’t let that depraved fiend touch me again.”
The rich timbre of Rory’s laughter boomed in the cavernous chamber. “Christ,” he said to Laird Alex, “I should let her feel the stinging touch of my palm on her bum. Then maybe she wouldn’t always be spouting such bilge.”
Straightening indignantly, Joanna drew a sharp breath at his mocking words, but refused to look back at him. He was simply too churlish and vulgar.
Lady Nina gave her an affectionate squeeze. “Everything will seem better in the morning when you’re rested, Lady MacLean,” she said sweetly.
The steward showed Rory’s wife to their bedchamber immediately following supper. Not that Joanna realized it was their bedchamber, or they’d have heard her screaming like a crofter’s wife who’d been cheated by a tinker peddling shoddy wares.
Knowing how tired his bride was, Rory stayed up late into the night, talking with his two trusted friends. Only three years older, the present Cameron laird had befriended Rory the day he’d arrived to be fostered by Alex’s older brother. Gideon, a wise and good man, had taught Rory more than just skill with weapons.
Gideon’s first wife had died fourteen years ago, and the former laird married the lovely Nina MacVicker. Though much younger than her husband, Gideon’s second wife loved him even more than his first. His tragic and untimely death had lain like the stark gloom of Lent over Archnacarry Manor for the last two years.
’Twas good to hear the Camerons laugh. Alex and Nina listened to the account of Rory’s courtship and wedding and dissolved into gales of mirth. The tale of how he’d caught Joanna, dressed as a serving lad, peeking at Tam and the dairymaid in the stables had tears running down Nina’s cheeks. Even the story of the loaded crossbow aimed at the stunned, unsuspecting bridegroom appealed to their sense of humor.
Retelling it, Rory admitted to his host and hostess that had the incredible wedding night happened to Lachlan or Keir, rather than himself, he’d be roaring with laughter, too.
But on parting in the corridor, before the three friends made their way to their separate rooms, Nina held up her taper to illuminate their faces.
“You know,” she said quite soberly, “if I hear so much as a single female scream coming from your chamber, I’ll come in there—wedding vows or no.”
He grinned. “And if you hear a male voice calling for help?”
“’Tis a big, strapping laddie you are. milord.” she replied, her eyes warm with amusement. “You can consider yourself entirely on your own tonight.”
“The first thing I intend to do,” he said with a chuckle, “is check beneath the bed for a weapon. You do keep your loaded hackbuts under lock and key, I hope.”
“We do,” Nina said as she moved away. “Oh, and Rory,” she added softly, “congratulations.”
The next morning, Rory leaned against the bed’s high walnut headboard and waited patiently for Joanna to awaken. She’d been so exhausted last evening, she’d probably fallen asleep the minute she laid her head on the pillow.
She hadn’t wakened when he’d slipped under the covers sometime after midnight. It obviously hadn’t occurred to the peacefully sleeping lassie that her husband would be joining her, for she lay sprawled on her back in the middle of the mattress, arms and legs outflung. He’d scooted her over to one side, and she promptly rolled back next to him.
The feel of her small form nestled against his naked body had brought a swift, intense surge of lust. She stirred in her sleep, and the soft fold of her nightwear brushed across his rigid sex. The hard, insistent pulse of carnal desire spread like hot pitch through his abdomen and thighs. Rory had clenched his teeth and sworn silently in frustration. He turned his wife on her side, slipped one arm beneath her, and brought her softly rounded buttocks tight against his determined manhood. The full force of his need swept through him, and his big body shuddered like a ship foundering in a gale.
Only her obvious exhaustion at supper, when Joanna had nearly fallen asleep in her trencher, had kept Rory from removing the nightshift Nina had loaned her and waking his wife to the fervid caresses of his hands and mouth.
The unprecedented tenderness he felt for Joanna, in spite of everything she’d done to thwart and deceive him, had astonished and confounded him. He’d lain awake for hours, holding her in his arms and wondering how this impudent slip of a lass had succeeded in becoming such an important part of his life. He couldn’t imagine living without her.
The rain continued in a steady downpour. With the pale morning light coming faintly through the drawn curtains, Rory listened to the raindrops beat against the window and gazed at his wife. Joanna lay on her stomach. Her delicate profile, with its dusting of ginger, was outlined against the white pillowcase. The profusion of curls, bright as newly struck pennies, spilled over her shoulders in lustrous disarray. He reached out and lazily wound the long strands around his finger, savoring their silken texture.
The thick, curving lashes fluttered, and she slowly opened her eyes. “What are you doing in my bed?” she whispered.
She remained perfectly still, as though too horrified to move, and stared at his bare skin. The bedclothes lay across Rory’s belly, leaving everything above his waist in plain view. Her startled gaze eventually came to rest on the fire-breathing dragon wrapped around his right arm.
He grinned at her artless naïveté. “’Tis my bed, too, Lady MacLean.”
“Godsakes, you didn’t sleep here all night!” she gasped.
“Usually a man sleeps in his bed,” he replied, pausing meaningfully before adding, “among other things. But ’twasn’t easy getting any sleep, what with being jabbed first by your elbow and then by your knee. I did get a few hours of rest. Most of the night, however, I just lay awake and listened to you snore.”
“I don’t snore.”
“How would you know?”
Still on her stomach, Joanna cautiously raised herself up on her elbows and scowled at him. “Maude’s never complained.”
Rory leaned over and braced his hand on the other side of his wife, effectively trapping her in the crook of his arm. He bent to kiss her cheek, and she turned her head away. He buried his face in her disheveled hair and inhaled deeply.
“Who’s complaining?” he murmured.
“I am,” she said, her words muffled by the pillow. “You came to bed without your nightclothes again.”
He laughed softly as he nuzzled the curve of her shoulder. Her shift smelled of lavender and woman. Sweet, adorable woman.
God, he enjoyed being so close to her. And he hadn’t even undressed her yet.
“I didn’t bring a nightshirt along,” he said. “I left in such a hurry, I forgot to pack it.”
“Then you’re a barbarian,” she muttered crossly. “Only barbarians leave home without their nightshirts.”
“Ah, and I suppose ’tis your own nightshift, that you’re wearing, Lady MacLean.”
“Will you stop calling me that!”
“’Tis your name, lass.”
“Not for long,” she snapped. “You tricked me into saying those vows.”
Rory brushed her hair aside and pressed his mouth to the pink shell of her ear. “You were caught in your own deception, Joanna,” he said with a tender smile. “We’re well and truly married.”
He knew how confused she felt. Snared in a maze of conflicting emotions—emotions he couldn’t understand himself, let alone express to his unwilling bride—he struggled to make some sense of the past two weeks.
He didn’t believe in the romantic gibberish that lovers spouted to explain their silly infatuations and their clandestine affairs. The only thing he knew for certain was that he wanted Joanna in his bed, a willing and eager partner. Yet despite his overwhelming sexual desire for his wife, Rory couldn’t ignore her tender feelings. He wanted their life together to begin with mutual trust and sincere regard.
“Joanna,” he said quietly, “I’m sorry I called your mother and father those terrible names.”
She rolled over to face him, her eyes huge and filled with gratitude. “Thank you for that,” she said softly.
He dropped a chaste kiss on her brow, then pulled back to meet her eyes. A hint of tears brightened their violet-blue depths. “Say you’ll forgive me.”
Her bottom lip trembled. “I forgive you.”
He gently brushed his lips across her flickering eyelids, her darling nose, her satiny cheeks. “Thank you for that,” he whispered.
As he’d chased after Joanna and Andrew the previous night, Rory had had plenty of time to realize his second grievous error. Had he failed to catch up with Joanna before she reached Mingarry, her kinsmen could have declared the vows null and void on the grounds their marriage had never been consummated. He’d have immediately stormed their castle, but at a terrible loss of life on both sides. Not a harbinger of wedded bliss.
Rory knew, without being told, that Joanna didn’t fancy herself in love with Andrew. When he’d caught up with them, there’d been no indication the two cousins were a pair of infatuated young lovers fleeing from the harsh dictates of the king. Dressed as a stable boy, she’d had over a week to attempt an escape from Kinlochleven. She hadn’t bolted until someone told her of Rory’s caustic denigration of her parents.
He’d bet his best Ferrara blade that the loudmouthed someone was Ewen. The Macdonald war commander had played on Joanna’s loyalty to her clan and her love for her dead parents. Rory understood her feelings—but he wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.
He had no intention of allowing Joanna to leave their bed until he’d bound her to him in a knot that could never be unraveled. Not by her kinsmen. Not by an archbishop. Not even by the pope.