Pride of the Clan (12 page)

“Is it far? Oban?” the lass asked.

Margaret thought of Ogilvie House, and her darling family. All gone. She wondered how her aunt and uncle fared on the return journey, though it pained her more she’d been denied the chance to bid farewell to Shaon and Joss.

“Aye,” she replied wistfully. “As far away as the moon and the stars.”

Hannah’s bright eyes looked like they might pop out of her head. “And ye’ve had no lady’s maid on such a long journey?”

Margaret laughed out loud, and was relieved when Hannah smiled again. Chatting with this genuine young woman was refreshing.

“I’ve been a lady’s maid only a short while,” Hannah admitted. “But I learn fast. If ye need a maid, I mean.”

Margaret did require a maid, but her future was uncertain. “I probably willna be at Stirling for long,” she said. “But while I’m here, I’d be pleased to have ye as my maid. Can ye wash hair?”

The girl beamed from ear to ear and produced a handful of rosemary sprigs from her apron pocket. “By rights ye need camomile for yer fair locks, but this’ll do.”

She was carefully pouring water from a ewer over Margaret’s head when a door slammed nearby.

“Someone’s nay verra happy,” Hannah said.

Margaret was aware Rheade and Tannoch occupied the adjacent chamber and wondered who had stormed out with anger in his heart.

Hannah chattered on about the excitement among the servants. The King’s assassins had been brought to the castle and cast into the cells. Margaret lent only half an ear, her thoughts on the Robertsons.

Rheade and his brother seemed to be constantly at loggerheads. Tannoch was definitely different from his younger siblings. Mind you, her own brothers had distinct personalities, quirks of character. Yet they’d been fiercely loyal to each other, no matter that they often argued. Tannoch wasn’t a man to inspire loyalty. Claiming credit for capturing the Stewarts was proof of it. She’d done more to assist in their apprehension than he had.
 

Rheade would make a fine chieftain. If ever a man was born to be a laird—

He’d a noble bearing, and it was his honorable nobility that would prevent him usurping his brother’s position.

“Ye seem lost in yer thoughts,” Hannah said.

“Aye,” Margaret confessed. “Daydreams.”

There was naught wrong with dreaming of being wed to a laird. She was confident she’d do a better job of managing Dunalastair than poor Glenna.
 

“What happened to yer poor wee hands?” Hannah suddenly asked.

The cuts were healing and Margaret had forgotten them. “An accident on the journey,” she lied.

“I’d be afeared to travel. They say ’tis dangerous. What would cause ye to make the long trek from Oban?”

Margaret’s dreams crumbled to dust. “I was to be wed,” she murmured. “But ’twasn’t meant to be.”

THWARTED DESIRE

Hannah enfolded her new mistress in a towel as she stepped out of the tub, then scrubbed her dry. Margaret’s skin soon glowed. Seemingly satisfied, the maid wrapped her in another linen and sat her in a chair by the hearth. She produced a bone comb from a pocket and drew it slowly through Margaret’s long hair. “’Tis fine,” she said. “Willna take long to dry by the fire.”

Margaret sighed.

Hannah turned her attention to the soiled
léine
Margaret had worn since being rescued from the cells of Dunalastair. “Ye canna wear this for the audience with Her Majesty,” she declared, her face wrinkled in dismay.

“I’m not entirely sure I’m invited to meet with Queen Joan,” Margaret replied, feeling hotter by the minute wrapped in the luxurious linen.

“What kind of a lady’s maid would I be if I let my mistress don this garment?” Hannah insisted, evidently determined to ignore Margaret’s remark. “I ken exactly where there are any number of clean
léines
. Back in a jiffy.” She cast the offending frock to the floor and was gone before Margaret could protest.
 

Wearing the filthy
léine
again was an unpleasant prospect. Margaret’s skin tingled with the warmth of the bath, the hearty scrubbing, and the heat of the fire. The burning logs were hotter than the peat fires she was used to. Her eyelids drooped. It wasn’t surprising she was drowsy after the dramatic turn of events she’d endured and the long journey. She yawned, decided her hair was dry enough, unwound the towel that was beginning to feel clammy and climbed onto the high bed. She decided to leave open the heavy velvet draperies knotted loosely around each of the four posts. She needed air.

How long before Hannah returned? Stirling was a big castle. Nothing to do but wait. She tugged down the bed-linens and slid between the chilly sheets. They smelled a wee bit musty, but were clean and crisp. She pounded the bolster, then curled up on her side, confident she’d soon be warm again.

~~~

Rheade paced in the hallway outside his chamber in an effort to cool his temper. It was important he remain calm during the audience with the Queen. Margaret’s life might depend on it. He rehearsed over and over what he would say, if given the opportunity to speak, which wasn’t guaranteed. Tannoch would likely do his best to ensure his silence.

Hands clasped behind his back, intent on putting one foot in front of the other, he came close to bumping into Lord Erskine. “My lord,” he muttered, backing up a step. “I apologise. I didna see ye.”

Erskine chuckled. “Not to worry, laddie. ’Tis nay small thing to meet a queen, and I’m relieved she’s asked to see ye. She’s grieving and ’twill do her good to hear how yer brother captured the Stewarts. Is our hero ready? She expects ye within the half hour.”

Rheade fumed inwardly.
Hero indeed
. “Aye, my lord. Tannoch is finishing his bath.”

The slight easing of tension around Erskine’s mouth betrayed his relief. “Good. Good. Now what of the lassie? Yer brother said he wanted to speak to me about her.”

Rheade juggled the yeahs and nays of having Margaret present at the audience. “She’s Lady Margaret Ogilvie. My betrothed.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie, more of a half-truth that would become a reality if all went well.

“Then she should attend the audience. I suppose yer chieftain wants to obtain Her Majesty’s blessing for yer union?”

“Something of the sort,” Rheade replied, thankful when Erskine took his leave.

He raised his hand to tap on Margaret’s door, intending to tell her the news, when a maidservant abruptly exited the chamber. She bobbed a curtsey before hurrying off down the corridor. He hesitated for several minutes. They’d had no opportunity for a private word, but if Margaret was still in her bath—

He groaned as the pleasurable notion stirred interest in his
bollocks
. Where had that come from? He smiled when he remembered. Margaret had admitted hearing the word on her brother’s lips, but he doubted she understood what it meant.

He tapped lightly on the door with his knuckle, opening it slowly when there was no response. He gazed around the chamber. A hearty fire blazed in the hearth, pine logs by the smell and sound of it. Evidently old-fashioned peat wasn’t good enough for the noble residents of Stirling Castle. The bathtub still held water, but no Margaret. He recognised her clothing strewn in a heap on the floor. Where was she? It came to him she might be in the bed. Drapes made of heavy gold material were tied loosely around the posts, blocking his view. Had she fallen asleep? “Margaret,” he whispered hoarsely, closing the door.

He stole closer to the bed. A nap would do her good, though they didn’t have a lot of time. There was no harm in checking she was safe. His lungs stopped working when he set eyes on her. She lay partly on her side, partly on her back. Her hair appeared to be still damp and seemed darker because of it. One rosy cheek was turned to the bolster. An arm was exposed, the linens tucked under it, baring her graceful neck and—

Her breasts rose and fell as she breathed steadily.
Crivvens
! They were magnificent, and, if he tugged carefully at the sheet, pale areolas would be revealed, mayhap even nipples.

The promise turned his shaft to granite.

He reached out slowly, feeling like a starved urchin thieving a loaf from the baker’s shop. He snatched his hand back, a pulse beating in his ears when she stirred. The breath hitched in his throat when she turned onto her back, both arms resting beside her head, her breasts exposed to his view.

The Queen would have to wait. He had to have this woman, had to make her his. Her tempting globes were made to fill his hands. He licked his lips and leaned forward, desperate to suckle the rigid nipples that were surprisingly dark for a blonde.

She blinked open her eyes.

He froze, his tongue inches away from his heart’s desire. Her blush deepened, but there was no censure in the blue depths staring at him. Had she looked into his heart?

“Rheade,” she whispered, cupping his face with her hands.

“Ye are beautiful,” he rasped, molding his hands to the sides of her breasts. “I want to kiss ye.”

She gasped when he lowered his mouth to one nipple and swirled his tongue over it. “I thought ye meant on the lips,” she murmured throatily, “but that’s even better.”

It was enough to push him over the edge. He suckled like a man long denied nourishment as she whimpered and writhed, raking her fingernails along his scalp. He moved to lave the other nipple. She mewled like a kitten. “When ye do that I feel peculiar in other places,” she murmured shyly. “Private places.”

He kissed her on the mouth, consumed by a need to share breath with her, explore the warmth of her mouth, run his tongue along her teeth, taste her saliva. When they broke apart, he took her hand and held it to the swelling at his groin. “I’ve an inkling of what ye mean, Margaret.”

Her eyes widened. Elation flooded his veins. This amazing lass was experiencing what he was certain was her first sexual arousal—with him. But her lustful gaze turned to alarm when a door creaked open behind him. He hastily drew the sheets over her nudity and stepped back, glad of the bulky plaid.

“Hannah,” Margaret exclaimed, her face crimson.

Losh
! In the haze of lust, he’d forgotten the maidservant.

He turned to look at the lass who bustled into the chamber, arms laden with
léines
and plaids, her red face the only indication she deemed anything amiss. “I am Rheade Robertson,” he declared, hoping his voice didn’t echo the uproar in his balls.
 

“Och,” Hannah replied with an accusing look at Margaret, “why did ye nay tell me yer betrothed to this braw laddie who helped capture yon assassins? I had to learn of it from another maid.”

She shooed Rheade out as if he were a rooster who had no business in the henhouse. “Begone, me lord. Time enough for canoodling when ye’re wed. Her Majesty awaits. And dinna concern yerself. I’m the soul o’ discretion.”

He had to smile at the look of utter confusion and thwarted desire on Margaret’s flushed face as Hannah ushered him out.
 

News certainly traveled fast in Stirling, especially when it fell from the lips of an Earl.

AUDIENCE WITH A QUEEN

Waiting nervously outside the private apartment, Margaret fiddled with the folds of her borrowed plaid, fearing Queen Joan might think her a dwarf when she entered flanked by two burly highlanders. She was relieved the scowling Tannoch had bathed, but his clothing still gave off an unpleasant odor. At least he’d trimmed his beard, but the bits of linen stuck on his face where he’d nicked himself with the blade robbed him of any dignity.

Rheade stood erect, a proud Highlander. The stubble on his face made him look even more dashing.

She squeezed her legs together, remembering the wicked sensations that had coursed through her body when Rheade had kissed her nipples and she’d felt the same soft stubble on a part of her body no man had ever set eyes on. But these were not the kind of thoughts she should be entertaining while waiting to be interviewed by a Queen.

What to say if asked about Robert Stewart? It was unlikely there’d be an opportunity to speak. She was surprised she’d been invited. Had the notion of her betrothal to Rheade reached the Queen’s ears? From what she’d heard of Joan Beaufort, the woman was informed of everything, and if Hannah knew—

Tannoch would object.

She swallowed hard when the double doors swung inward abruptly, and relied heavily on the strength of Rheade’s hand as he led her in. She kept her eyes on the elaborate tiled floor and dropped into a full curtsey, desperately hoping she wouldn’t topple over once Rheade’s steadying hand was withdrawn. He and Tannoch both bent the knee beside her.

“Welcome to you, Tannoch Collier Starkey Robertson,” the Queen declared. “Chieftain of a proud and noble clan.”

She had observed the Scottish tradition of honoring Tannoch with his full name, but her manner of speech was decidedly English. Margaret was reminded the Queen was not a Scot.
 

Tannoch scurried forward to bestow a kiss on the hand Joan proffered, then backed up to stand in front of Margaret.

Bollocks
! The man seemed determined to block her from the Queen’s view, which was a relief in a way.

Rheade bristled, but acknowledged the Queen when she summoned him. “And welcome Rheade Donnachaidh Starkey Robertson.”

Once Rheade regained his place beside her, Margaret itched to look up. What would she see? A grieving widow? A vengeful queen? An Englishwoman who must feel isolated in a foreign court and desperately worried for her infant son?

She sensed Tannoch’s wrath when the Queen spoke her name and he was forced to move aside. Judging by the sudden pungent odor she was certain he broke wind out of spite. Determined not to wrinkle her nose, she raised her eyes and saw all she’d expected and more. The Queen had not escaped unscathed from the attack on her husband. Despite attempts to conceal the damage, the black eye and swollen nose were unmistakable. She gasped, her heart sinking. Had Robert been the one to slap the Queen?

“Your Majesty,” she murmured, surprised any sound emerged from her parched throat.

“You may rise, Lady Margaret.”