Chieftain by Arnette Lamb Page B

especially appealing quality. Drummond was drawn to it, and he wanted to reply in kind, but he couldn’t quite let himself.
    She hesitated another heartbeat, her expression open, and for the moment, trusting. Then she turned back to their son, and her eyes softened with motherly love.
    The breeze turned cool on Drummond’s cheek. Like a window thrown open briefly, the opportunity to befriend her had passed. Perhaps it was just as well, but he couldn’t help feeling as if something precious had slipped from his grasp.
    “What shall we feed Longfellow?” she said into the silence.
    Drummond moved to stand behind her. “The grass in the outer bailey should satisfy him for a week or so.”
    Her laughter rang hollow and insincere. “That’s far enough, Alasdair,” she called out.
    Only the lad’s neck and head were visible. He bobbed up and down, the movement carrying him deeper into the stream. She called to him again and began rubbing her hands together. “Alasdair!”
    “Come in and get me.” He waved his arms. “I’m drowned, Mother. I’m as drowned as a rat.”
    “I’m not coming in after you.”
    The lad giggled. “I’m never coming out,” he singsonged. “I’m never coming out.”
    Her mouth twitched with laughter. “Then you’d better grow fins and call yourself Alasdair MacTrout.”
    He floated onto his back and beat the surface with his hands. “You’d better rescue me.”
    “No.” She glanced at Drummond. “Not today.”
    “Do you swim?” he asked.
    Keeping a close watch on her son, she pulled her hair free and started to replait it. “Well enough to keep afloat and indulge my son.”
    Drummond let the sarcastic remark pass; the lure of her golden mane proved too tempting. He pushed her hands away. “Let me do that.” When she tensed, he added, “While you tell me why you made up stories about me.”
    A sigh lifted her shoulders. “In the beginning they were for Alasdair, to lull him to sleep … and to feel pride in himself and you. You weren’t here, and he was always asking questions about you. ’Tis natural for a son to be curious about his father.”
    Her thoughtfulness gave Drummond pause, and he had another reason to regret that she had been unfaithful to him; her exile from the Highlands had deprived Alasdair of the company of his kin. “You could have simply told him the truth.”
    “He’s too young to understand the strife between England and Scotland. I meant to tell him when he was older, but at the time he needed someone to look up to.”
    “A flesh and blood man cannot live up to those tales, Clare.”
    She chuckled. “I think you’ll find that slaying dragons is easier than being a good parent.”
    “A good parent. The term seems peculiar. In my experience, women bear sons, fathers and uncles raise them. But guardians never accept responsibility for a disappointing charge.”
    “Yet you are quick to say that I have coddled, spoiled, and indulged Alasdair.”
    “You have.”
    “And you have two ways of looking at the issue, both of which conveniently support your position.”
    “Which is?”
    “Whatever you do is correct, or ’tis not your fault. By omission or absence, you contributed to his growth or lack of it.”
    A valid argument, he was forced to admit. But not to her of course. He finished braiding her hair. “What reason did you give Alasdair for my absence?”
    “I simply told him you had gone to heaven to be with God.”
    “Rather than telling him I was imprisoned for treason against the English.”
    “Yes. As I said before, he’s too young to understand politics. It was better that he thought you had gone to heaven.”
    Only Clare Macqueen would liken prison to paradise. “If you thought I was dead, why did you not find another husband?”
    A butterfly landed on her head. She spoke quietly. “I was a dreadful wife, even you said as much. Why would I wed again?”
    “Perhaps ’tis because you knew I lived.”
    She turned so quickly she