Border Bride (44 page)

By the next evening the deathbed vigil had begun. Practical, dependable Johanna paced the room, swearing under her breath. Meridene held the child, plying him with a wooden rattle and humming a lullaby. Sister Margaret prayed.

Clare's complexion now glowed with the flush of fever, and her skin felt hot to the touch. In a voice drained of feeling, she called for her twin.

Johanna hurried to the bed and leaned close. Sister Margaret fought back tears at the sight of her daughters, both fair haired and as lovely as a summer day. Johanna had stayed at Clare's side through the night. Their whispers and occasional laughter brought back memories of their youth.

"Tell them, Johanna," Clare whispered.

"Later," she said, stroking her sister's brow.

"Tell us what?" Sister Margaret insisted.

When Johanna didn't speak, Clare said, "When I…" She swallowed, then took several shallow breaths. "When I'm gone, you're to say Johanna died. Mark my grave with her name."

Meridene gasped.

Sister Margaret crossed herself. "Nay."

Clare's fever-bright eyes pleaded. "You must agree, Sister Margaret. Let her take my son. Go to that land in Dumfries. She could raise Alasdair. Help him seek his destiny."

Quietly, Johanna said, "Who's to know 'tis me rather than Clare?"

"Anyone who has ever spent five minutes with the two of you," hissed Meridene. "You may favor each other in physical appearance, but in temperament you're as different as moonrise and sunset."

"Oh, please, Sister Margaret," Johanna implored. "Clare never told anyone in Scotland that she had a sister. Do not deny me the chance to have a life of my own."

A refusal perched on Sister Margaret's lips, but she paused, swayed by the plea in her daughter's voice. Johanna was as capable as any man in running an estate. She was fair in her judgments and honest in her ways. No one knew her in Dumfries; the land lay in the Borders between England and Scotland, miles from Castle Macqueen.

And she deserved a life of her own. One thing held Sister Margaret back. "What of the brand?"

Johanna's hand flew to her shoulder. Years before, Edward had branded both Clare and Johanna with a hot iron and declared them wards of the Crown. The symbol, a blunted sword no bigger than a thumb, signified the conquests of Edward I. The only trouble was, Clare's brand appeared right side up, Johanna's upside down.

"Clare's husband will be hanged," Johanna said. "Who's to see the mark?"

"True," said Sister Margaret. "But it could be dangerous. Should any who know Clare come to visit that place, you'll be found out."

A familiar confidence twinkled in Johanna's eyes. "The Stapledons will go with me. They know all of the Macqueens. Should any of those Highlanders defy the king and come to Dumfries, Bertie can alert me." She blotted her sister's brow. In her typical authoritative voice, she added, "I'll see that your son makes a fine man, Clare."

Clare closed her eyes and smiled. "You'll teach him to swear and skip mass."

Tears streamed down Johanna's cheeks. Her composure faltered. "I'll tell him an angel left him on my doorstep."

"At least you won't have to deal with his father," Clare whispered.

A candle sputtered, the tiny flame struggling for survival, much the same as Clare clung desperately to life. The stone walls seemed to close in on Sister Margaret; how could she, in the space of a day, send one of her daughters to God and the other to an uncertain future? Desperate to keep one, she said, "Johanna, there is much you do not know about Clare and Lord Drummond."

"She has told me all I need to know about the chieftain," said Johanna. "I'll raise Alasdair to believe his sire was a legend among men, although I know it for a lie."

"Oh, Johanna, you have it crosswise," said Clare, so near death she gasped for breath. "Drummond isn't bad. He hates only me. And with good cause."

Seven Years Later

Fairhope Tower

The door to the buttery slammed open. "A stranger's just come, my lady," said Amauri, the porter, as breathless as if he had run across the keep. "He claims he's your husband."

Johanna turned around so quickly that the wide cuff of her surcoat tipped over the crock of honey. Fighting back panic, she righted the jar before the contents spilled.

Were it not for the fear in the servant's eyes, she would have accused him of teasing her.

"He said nothing else?" she asked.

"Only that he was Drummond Macqueen was all."

Drummond Macqueen was dead, hanged years ago by King Edward I. Although she'd received no formal notice of Drummond's execution, she hadn't expected condolences from the Crown; Edward's ruthlessness toward his enemies was legendary. The arrival of this impostor did seem oddly timed, since the old king had only just been laid to rest himself.

Surely the man played some jest or hoped to profit by posing as her husband. He'd soon learn that the widow Macqueen was no easy mark.

"Show him to the hall, Amauri, and have Evelyn serve him the everyday ale."

"Aye, Lady Clare." He bowed and turned.

Johanna had answered to that name for so long it sounded natural. She did not regret losing her own identity; in taking Clare's name she kept her sister's memory alive.

The porter stopped. "What shall I do with his elephant?"

"His what?"

"His elephant." The servant put his hands on either side of his head and wagged his fingers. "Massive beast with huge ears, a snout as big as last year's Yule log, and beady eyes."

Johanna glowered at the porter. "I know what an elephant looks like. I've seen the drawings in Alasdair's books."

Embarrassment turned the servant's complexion pink. "Sorry, my lady. I meant no offense. Everyone knows you're as bright as the king's own chamberlain."

At any other time she would have scoffed at his praise, but considering the meeting ahead, she needed every scrap of confidence she could muster. "And you're a prince among porters, Amauri. Tell me, where is the creature now?"

"Chained to a post in the outer bailey and drawing a crowd."

Johanna imagined the excitement the beast would cause. She also wondered where the visitor had acquired the odd animal. She had heard of only one elephant in the land, and it was housed in the Royal Menagerie.

Alarm pricked her senses. The Royal Menagerie occupied a part of the Tower of London. Drummond had been taken there.

Trying to still her racing heart, she dismissed the porter. "Worry not about the beast unless it causes trouble." Then she carefully rolled down the sleeves of her bliaut and stepped into the afternoon sunshine.

In the castle yard the wheelwright haggled with the blacksmith over the price of nails; the potboy bartered with a comely goosegirl over a more exciting and earthy commodity. From the laundry shed came the fresh scent of lavender. An infant wailed. A small herd of sheep fled before a yapping dog.

The familiar sights and sounds soothed Johanna's jangled nerves and inspired rational thought. Once she had lived in fear of discovery, but after seven years she'd grown comfortable with the identity of her twin sister. Everyone, from the lordly sheriff of Dumfries to the poorest cabbage farmer, was loyal to her and protective of Alasdair.

At the thought of her son, she grew fearful again. Although she hadn't given birth to him, she considered herself his mother. She had paced the floor and comforted him when a budding tooth made him fretful. She had watched with joy in her heart and tears in her eyes when he'd taken his first wobbly steps. She had made mistakes. She had showered him with too much love and attention. She had, in sum, spoiled him.

What if this stranger tried to take Alasdair? That possibility brought her to the point of panic. After the midday meal, her son had gone fishing with Bertie Stapledon, but they always returned before dark. Instinct told her to get rid of this stranger before her son came home.

She hurried across the yard and raced up the steps to the castle proper. As she made her way to the hall, she laid out a plan for dealing with the man who awaited her. She would greet him kindly. She would listen to his preposterous story. She would name him a liar and order him off her land. If he protested she would have her guards subdue him. Then she would send word for the sheriff and insist he earn his retaining fee by sending the visitor and his elephant whence they'd come.

But the moment she saw the stranger, even from across the hall, she was forced to rethink her strategy.

In profile he bore so striking a resemblance to Alasdair that Johanna grew panicky all over again. His straight nose with its high bridge and gently flaring nostrils marked him as a Macqueen. The pitch-black hair reminded her of her son's unruly mane. A sensitive mouth and strong, square jaw confirmed the likeness. But more than his features, his intensity of concentration as he examined the needlework on the firescreen swayed her the most. Bending from the waist, he looked just as Alasdair had when he'd first seen a turtle draw into its shell.

Without doubt, the man before her was a Macqueen.

Terrified, she could not yet step into the room and announce her presence, but continued to observe him unnoticed. Rather than trunk hose and jerkin, he wore trews of soft leather and a full-sleeved shirt of nubby wool. His long legs were lean, his flanks trim; yet his shoulders were as broad as a blacksmith's. In his hand he held a Highland bonnet, ornamented with three tattered feathers and a shiny silver badge bearing a rampant wolf, the emblem of clan Macqueen. The device was repeated on the brooch that secured his tartan cape at his shoulder.

Over the years she had created fictional stories about Drummond, tales designed to inspire pride in a fatherless boy. To Alasdair, his sire was a heroic figure, pure of heart and strong of will. Would this man, surely a Macqueen cousin or uncle, refute or enlarge upon the legends?

"I see improvement in your needlework, Clare," he said, still studying the framed tapestry.

Startled, Johanna stepped back. Then she caught herself. She would not fear this man, nor would she allow such familiarity. "I pray the same is true of your manners, sir, for you haven't the right to call me by name."

He stood upright and strolled toward her. With a casual air, he studied her from head to toe. She felt invaded and clenched her fists to keep from slapping him.

" 'Right,' Clare? You seem to have forgotten just how many rights I hold where you are concerned."

"Who are you?"

He tisked and shook his head. "Shame, shame, my dear. Not that I expected you to welcome me with open arms. You saved your embraces for other men."

A pigeon landed on the sill of the open window. Seeking a diversion from the compelling man, Johanna shooed the bird away. Casually, she said, "I asked your name, sir."

One side of his mouth curled up in a smile. "I haven't change
that
much. You know precisely who I am, Clare. Why pretend otherwise?"

Resisting the urge to call him a knave, Johanna summoned her patience. "Because Drummond Macqueen is dead. The old king hanged him."

"Not so. Our recently departed sovereign chose to be merciful. His son proved benevolent and set me free." Anger glittered in his blue eyes. "But then, as I recall, you have intimate knowledge of our new king, do you not? Have you presented him with more bastards?"

He was referring to Clare's affair with the then Prince Ned. With dread Johanna realized that all the Macqueens probably knew. Thank God their lands were far away in the Highlands, for her heart wrenched, thinking Alasdair might be scorned for another's sin. Yet, how dare this brute be so rude as to bring up Clare's sin. She had no intention of addressing her sister's indiscretion. She sighed and lifted her chin. "Who are you, and what do you want?"

With no more vigor than a carpenter choosing wood, he said, "You have a brand here." He pulled his shirt aside and touched his shoulder. "'Tis why you wear modest gowns."

Seeing his strong hand and remembering the passion Clare had attributed to their lovemaking, Johanna fought back a surge of longing. No man would ever caress her so sweetly. The realization moved her to say, "Your knowledge of the mark proves nothing."

"Very well." He plopped down on a bench and toyed with his bonnet. "You suffer dreadful cramps during your menses, which are as regular as Sunday mass. Who else but a husband could know that?"

Appalled, Johanna felt herself blush. "You are not my husband."

Surprise lent elegance to his rugged good looks. He took a long pull on the mug of ale. "Have you annulled our marriage?"

She wanted to yell; instead she began to pace the rush-strewn floor. "How long, sir, will you continue this farce? I am not your wife."

He chuckled, but the sound held no humor. "You're not a very
good
wife."

"Enough of your rough talk!" She whirled and marched over to him. "I can see you are a Macqueen. Have you come here for money? If so, you've made a useless journey."

He craned his neck in an exaggerated examination of the room. "Amid all of this prosperity? You look to be a wealthy woman, Clare. The largesse of the Plantagenets?"

She had indebted herself to the laird of clan Douglas to build the keep, and during the construction she and Alasdair had lived in a crofter's hut. She had repaid the debt, and to this day she worked as hard as anyone in her demesne.

"You needn't explain. 'Twould seem we have the same benefactor." His expression grew hard, and he slammed down the tankard. "But I will not share you again."

"You have the poisoned brain of a madman." Suddenly afraid, she said, "I'll summon my guards."

"Summon your king, should it suit you. He bids you well, by the way."

"Mother!" Alasdair's voice boomed through the keep.

Johanna gasped. The stranger lifted his brows.

Then she heard the slap of boots on the stairs. Her heart hammered in tune with the footfalls. A moment later Alasdair burst into the room, a huffing Bertie Stapledon on his heels.

His hair in disarray, his eyes bright with wonder, her son skidded to a halt, scattering the rushes. "There's an elephant in the bailey, Mother." He lifted his arms. "An
elephant
!"