assume.”
To build the keep, she had sold all of her jewelry and Clare’s. When that had not been enough, she had indebted herself to the neighboring laird of Clan Douglas. During the construction she and Alasdair had lived in a crofter’s hut. She had repaid the debt, and to this day, worked as hard as anyone in her demesne. “You know nothing about me or the origins of Fairhope Tower.”
“You needn’t explain, Clare. ’Twould seem we have the same benefactor.” His expression grew hard, and he slammed down the tankard. “But I will not share you again.”
His possessiveness gave her pause, for Clare had spoken at length about her husband’s jealous nature. Perhaps it was one of many family flaws. Clare had loved Drummond more than life. She might still be alive were it not for his warring ways. The old heartbreak returned. “You have the poisoned brain of a madman.”
“An interesting observation,” he growled. “Especially from a faithless wife.”
Suddenly afraid and desperate to get rid of him, she said, “I’ll summon my guards.”
He waved her off. “Summon your new king, should it suit you. He bids you well, by the way. But I’m certain you often receive his greetings.”
She had seen Edward II only once. He’d been a prince back then. The truth came easily. “I haven’t had the honor of seeing His Majesty since I came to this land.”
It was the wrong thing to say. His eyes narrowed, accentuating the length of his lashes. “Come now. Our gracious new sovereign cannot say enough about the way in which you honor him. He was particularly verbal about his sojourn last year in Carlisle.”
In January of 1307, the old king had convened Parliament in the nearby city of Carlisle, but neither he nor his son had communicated with her. What game did this man play? At a loss for a convincing denial and weary of defending herself to a stranger, she again spoke the truth. “You have been misinformed. Ask anyone here.”
“I’ll not reap the truth from them. These people will be loyal to you.” He gave her a sugar-sweet smile. “But that will change. This land, the keep, and all in it belong to me.”
“Mother!” Alasdair’s voice boomed through the keep.
Johanna gasped. The stranger lifted his brows.
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.
Hair in disarray, blue 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!”
The stranger looked awestruck. “As the Lord lives,” he murmured, “that lad is my son.”
Johanna glanced at Bertie, the servant who had accompanied Clare to the Highlands years before. To Johanna’s great dismay, he doffed his cap and bowed. “Lord Drummond,” he stammered, and shot Johanna a worried frown. “We thought you dead.”
“So I’m told. You’re Bertie, if I recall.”
Johanna went weak with fear. The man was Drummond Macqueen. He had spent seven years resenting his wife’s infidelity while languishing in prison. Johanna’s demesne had prospered under her care, and Alasdair had grown to a good-natured, precocious boy of whom any father would be proud; Drummond had a right to claim both. Could she convince him that she was the wife he hated and whose body and spirit he knew intimately?
She must entice him into leaving. Either way, she’d do her acting without an audience. “Alasdair, go with Bertie.” She tipped her head toward the door.
As if he hadn’t heard, the boy approached Drummond Macqueen. His chin up, boyish pride shimmering like a bright mantle, Alasdair said, “Who are you?”
Drummond seemed fascinated by the lad. “I’m your father.”
Alasdair peeked behind the man. “Where are your wings, then?”
“My wings? Why would I have wings?”
Flapping his arms, Alasdair sighed
To build the keep, she had sold all of her jewelry and Clare’s. When that had not been enough, she had indebted herself to the neighboring laird of Clan Douglas. During the construction she and Alasdair had lived in a crofter’s hut. She had repaid the debt, and to this day, worked as hard as anyone in her demesne. “You know nothing about me or the origins of Fairhope Tower.”
“You needn’t explain, Clare. ’Twould seem we have the same benefactor.” His expression grew hard, and he slammed down the tankard. “But I will not share you again.”
His possessiveness gave her pause, for Clare had spoken at length about her husband’s jealous nature. Perhaps it was one of many family flaws. Clare had loved Drummond more than life. She might still be alive were it not for his warring ways. The old heartbreak returned. “You have the poisoned brain of a madman.”
“An interesting observation,” he growled. “Especially from a faithless wife.”
Suddenly afraid and desperate to get rid of him, she said, “I’ll summon my guards.”
He waved her off. “Summon your new king, should it suit you. He bids you well, by the way. But I’m certain you often receive his greetings.”
She had seen Edward II only once. He’d been a prince back then. The truth came easily. “I haven’t had the honor of seeing His Majesty since I came to this land.”
It was the wrong thing to say. His eyes narrowed, accentuating the length of his lashes. “Come now. Our gracious new sovereign cannot say enough about the way in which you honor him. He was particularly verbal about his sojourn last year in Carlisle.”
In January of 1307, the old king had convened Parliament in the nearby city of Carlisle, but neither he nor his son had communicated with her. What game did this man play? At a loss for a convincing denial and weary of defending herself to a stranger, she again spoke the truth. “You have been misinformed. Ask anyone here.”
“I’ll not reap the truth from them. These people will be loyal to you.” He gave her a sugar-sweet smile. “But that will change. This land, the keep, and all in it belong to me.”
“Mother!” Alasdair’s voice boomed through the keep.
Johanna gasped. The stranger lifted his brows.
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.
Hair in disarray, blue 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!”
The stranger looked awestruck. “As the Lord lives,” he murmured, “that lad is my son.”
Johanna glanced at Bertie, the servant who had accompanied Clare to the Highlands years before. To Johanna’s great dismay, he doffed his cap and bowed. “Lord Drummond,” he stammered, and shot Johanna a worried frown. “We thought you dead.”
“So I’m told. You’re Bertie, if I recall.”
Johanna went weak with fear. The man was Drummond Macqueen. He had spent seven years resenting his wife’s infidelity while languishing in prison. Johanna’s demesne had prospered under her care, and Alasdair had grown to a good-natured, precocious boy of whom any father would be proud; Drummond had a right to claim both. Could she convince him that she was the wife he hated and whose body and spirit he knew intimately?
She must entice him into leaving. Either way, she’d do her acting without an audience. “Alasdair, go with Bertie.” She tipped her head toward the door.
As if he hadn’t heard, the boy approached Drummond Macqueen. His chin up, boyish pride shimmering like a bright mantle, Alasdair said, “Who are you?”
Drummond seemed fascinated by the lad. “I’m your father.”
Alasdair peeked behind the man. “Where are your wings, then?”
“My wings? Why would I have wings?”
Flapping his arms, Alasdair sighed