Chieftain Read Free

birth to him, Johanna 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 affection. She had, in sum, spoiled him.
    What if this stranger tried to take Alasdair? That possibility brought her to the point of panic. Comfort came with the knowledge that Alasdair was absent from the castle. 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.
    Eager to do just that, she pulled off her soiled coif and picked up the hem of her work dress. Then she hurried across the yard and raced up the steep steps to the hill fort. As she made her way to the upstairs 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 refused she would have her guards subdue him. Then she would send word for the sheriff and insist he earn his retaining fee by sending back the pretender and his elephant from 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 relation. His 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 fire screen 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. This man appeared interested and inquisitive. And breathtakingly handsome.
    Without doubt, he was a Macqueen.
    Terrified, she could not yet step into the room and announce her presence, but continued to watch him unnoticed. Rather than trunk hose and jerkin, he wore trews of soft leather and a full-sleeved shirt of loosely woven 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 an emblem she couldn’t make out, but suspected was a wolf rampant, the symbol of Clan Macqueen. The device was repeated on the palm-size brooch that secured his distinctive 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, neither would she allow his breach of etiquette to go unchecked. “I pray the same is true of your manners, sir, for you haven’t the right to address me with so much familiarity.”
    He stood upright and strolled toward her. With an outwardly casual air, he studied her from head to toe; yet his blue eyes were intense in their inspection. “I haven’t the right, Clare? You seem to have forgotten just how many rights I hold where you are concerned.”
    She felt invaded and clenched her fists to keep from slapping him. “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 preferred to save your embraces for other men.”
    A pigeon landed on the sill of the open window. Seeking a diversion from the compelling man and his just