by Arnette Lamb
“The messenger said she’s on her way down from Perth to join her husband at Sinclair’s. It’s to be a hunt and a ball.”
“Last week ’twas a frost fair.” Where Miriam was crowned queen, he thought sourly. “Perhaps the duchess will be so anxious to see the duke that she wilna stay long.”
“I’m sure the housemaids are praying for the onset of her wifely devotion, my lord. They’re tidying the large suite now.”
He bowed from the waist. “Then I’ll change clothes and prepare to dodge her verbal arrow.”
Mrs. Elliott sniffed and plucked at the lace on her apron. “Why is she so insistent that you marry again, my lord?”
“I suppose she canna stand to see a man happy.”
The housekeeper turned to go but stopped. “My lord…” Her voice dropped. “’Tisn’t fair to the lad Saladin, the way master Malcolm’s acting. The Moor can’t help the way he was taught to worship.”
Her sense of fairness pleased Duncan. “What did Malcolm do?”
“He makes fun of the lad, who doesn’t eat meat or take spirits. Malcolm also dances around the Moor when he’s praying.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Elliott. You’re a woman of justice. Tell Malcolm and Saladin they’re to stay the night with Angus, and report to me in the morning. Oh, and give the housemaids the honey I brought from Dearcag Moor.”
Standing taller, she grasped the door handle. “Aye, my lord. Honey or no, you’ll hear nary a quibble from anyone while the duchess is here. We need no bribes. We’re loyal to you.” Glancing over her shoulder, she stared at his black clothing. “If I may say so, you cut an especially braw figure tonight as the Border Lord.”
Flattered, Duncan watched her leave. As he exchanged the black raiments for his Kerr tartan, he tamped back disappointment. Tonight’s raid to retrieve his stolen cattle would have to wait. The duchess wouldn’t. Only one aspect of the evening pleased him; with the scribe Saladin out of the castle, Duncan could forego disguises.
By the time Duncan reached the dining hall, the duchess reigned at the head of the table. The panniered skirt of her white gown billowed around her, obscuring her chair and the table legs. Ropes of pearls hung in triple festoons from her bodice, which was cut barely an inch above her nipples. Current fashion, it seemed, was the duchess’s only saving grace.
The observation surprised Duncan, for he couldn’t remember ever noticing her feminine assets. Slowing his steps, he thought of Miriam’s fancy gowns in the wardrobe upstairs and wondered if the bodices had been fashioned to accentuate her feminine charms. How many men had seen her so daringly revealed?
Jealousy seared him. Why didn’t she dress that way for him?
Halfway across the room, he stopped, but like a hunter on the prowl, his male pride went in search of a victim.
“What’s wrong, Duncan?” The duchess put down her tankard. “You looked peaked.”
Her waspish voice reminded him that he had bigger problems than jealousy. He smiled and approached the table, his hand extended. “I’m fine, Your Grace. I simply canna remember seeing your charms displayed in so bonnie a gown.”
She snatched up her fan and tapped his knuckles. At forty years old, her graying hair hidden beneath a powdered wig, the duchess could still play the coquette. “Since when do you play the flatterer, Lord Duncan? You’ve never cared a farthing for fashion or flirting.”
The truth of her challenge gave him pause. But he had no time to examine the changes that were ripping his life apart. He drew back his hand. “Life on our side of the Border isna conducive to fancy frocks and courtly manners. ’Tis all we can do to put food in our bellies and hold on to what little our forebears left us.”
Curiosity glittered in her eyes. “Something’s different about you, my lord.”
Had someone disclosed his dual identity? No. It was only her dreaded verbal haggling. He took the seat at the other end of the table. “I canna imagine what you mean, unless I need a barbering.”
“Not that. You seem so … so determined and comfortable with yourself.”
Trying not to smile, Duncan laid his napkin in his lap and lied. “Because I’m hungry and glad to see you?”
Her eyes rounded in surprise. Her fork clattered onto the pewter plate. “There. What you just said. That’s what I mean. You’re not usually so … cordial and gallant.”
He had been remote, he supposed, but visits from the nosey duchess and her kind were always a trial. Invariably they were journeying to or returning from the pomp and boredom of Anne’s court. Common decency made him offer her and other travelers hospitality; protocol forced him to endure her company.
Mentally arming himself for a battle of words, he poured himself a mug of beer. “I hadna noticed, Your Grace, but come to think of it, we havna had so many visitors since Anne took the throne.”
“You were a child then.”
Astounded, he said, “Your Grace, I’m thirty-six years old. The queen took the throne eleven years ago. I was hardly a child.”
She stared at the fingers on her left hand, moving them in sequence as she tried to make the simple subtraction.
He reached for the pitcher. “More beer?”
She gave a guilty start, then sighed dramatically. “Ah, Duncan. Why must you shun my efforts to be your friend? I only want to help you and liven your life.”
“You’re kind to do so. ’Tis dreadfully boring in the Borders.”
“Oh?” She tapped her little finger with the tines of the fork. “Adrienne Birmingham disappeared.” She tapped her ring finger. “You turned out your mistress.” The fork touched her middle finger. “Miriam MacDonald has been staying with you. Hardly boring occurrences. Shall I go on?”
He couldn’t have felt more exposed had she watched him use the privy. For years he’d allowed her to meddle in his life because of her rank, and it was easier than arguing with her. He thought of Miriam and her mastery of conversation. He’d trade all the salt in Kildalton for a fraction of her expertise. What would she do in a similar situation? The answer inspired him.
“You’re prying again.” He picked up his fork and tapped his finger in imitation of her. “Adrienne Birmingham is old enough to go off on her own. I tired of my mistress. Miriam MacDonald is here on an official assignment.”
She toyed with her pearls. “You’re defending yourself, and rather aggressively. Why?”
An angry retort leapt to his lips, but he refused to utter it. He would keep his temper in check. But if he were to use Miriam’s methods, he had to use them all. “You’re too observant.”
“You’re so charmingly blase, my lord,” she chided. “I have only your best interests at heart.”
“Then you’ve succeeded, for your visit makes me extraordinarily happy.”
“That’s news. Perhaps you could make me extraordinarily happy by telling me you’ve found another wife.”
He had found a woman to love, he thought sadly, but if Miriam learned the truth about her lover, he didn’t stand a beggar’s chance at winning her. What a coil he’d gotten himself into. Saddened, he said, “When I do chose a wife, I wilna draw breath before informing you.”
A frown wrinkled her brow and puckered her painted lips.
“You have always been far too secretive about personal matters. But this boldness, Duncan. I don’t know what to make of it.”
As if it were in her jurisdiction to do so. Seizing the opportunity to lighten the conversation, he said, “You could make a feather of it and put it in your cap.”
The fan flew to her mouth, but didn’t muffle her laughter. “Your wit grows bolder, too. But what, I wonder, do you truly think of Lady Miriam?”
From the knowing look in her eye, Duncan suspected she could provide information about Miriam MacDonald. Expectation made his blood race, but he schooled his features into blandness. “She’s another of the queen’s minions here on a fruitless task. Besides, she isna here at all. She’s off to Baron Sinclair’s.”
Like a merchant try
ing to drive up the price of her wares, the duchess underplayed the situation. “She’s beautiful and brilliant, and she has no interest in marriage.”
A lie slipped easily from his lips. “Then we have one thing in common.”
Seriousness smoothed out her features. She leaned forward, exposing the crests of her nipples, which she’d rouged. “She’s never failed at a diplomatic task, Duncan. She struck a peace between France and England.”
She’d started a war in his heart. He wondered just how much the duchess would reveal about Miriam. “I doona ken why the queen rewarded so brilliant a negotiator with a sojourn in the Border,” he said and speared a leg of rabbit he didn’t want. “Sounds very much like punishment to me.”
Her expression turned cool. She sipped the beer. “Indeed it was. Lady Miriam was impudent. She angered the queen.”
Every exchange in the conversation seemed a piece on a chessboard. He must think ahead and play skillfully. But the exercise was exhausting. Miriam spent her life in such contests. He both envied and sympathized with her. “So? How did she manage that?”
The duchess shifted in her chair, her attention riveted on the bones on her plate. “I’m not at liberty to divulge that.”
Ha! The nosy biddy didn’t know. “If Lady Miriam’s so clever, surely she could sway the queen. Anne isna our most stalwart sovereign.” Duncan took a bite of the hare.
“Ah, Duncan. You are so thoroughly countrified.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. I do but try.”
Real interest sparkled in her eyes. “Lady Miriam has no resources, other than her friendship with Alexis Southward and her skill as a diplomat. If Lady Miriam fails to strike a peace between you and the baron, the queen will marry her off to the minister of Baltic affairs. He’s rather in his prime, the duke says. Which means he’s a dottering old lech.”
Duncan’s mouth went dry, the meat suddenly as tasteless as rowan bark. Had she been eager for a last fling with a younger man? If so, he’d given her a bonnie dose of passion. A more painful possibility occurred to Duncan. What if she’d been trying to weasel information from him? Then he laughed to himself, for in that area only, she’d gone away disappointed, for he’d spoken lovers’ phrases.
“Don’t you find her situation interesting, Duncan?”
“So much so, I shall give her my felicitations and a pair of warm mittens.”
Sputtering, the duchess groped in the folds of her gown for the napkin. “There’s other trouble between Miriam and the queen, an old matter neither will discuss. Aren’t you curious, Duncan?”
He washed down the hare with a long pull on the beer. “I doona see why I should be. The secrets of women are of no consequence to me. The queen could marry her off to the pope for all I care.” He laughed. “I’d probably offer a dowry for the wench. Since she’s without.”
“Wench?” she squealed. “Dowry? What’s gotten into you?”
Feeling used and vengeful, he made a show of wiping his mouth with his napkin. At length, he rested his elbows on the table. “While I sympathize with the plight of our lovely, dowerless diplomat, I’m fair weary of English interference in Border affairs.”
“Plight? You don’t know the half of it. Your life is a harvest fair compared to hers.”
Then she told him a story about Miriam that broke his heart.
Hours later as he lay awake in bed, Duncan thought about an orphaned lass who had survived a devastating childhood, overcome an adolescence filled with tragedy, and matured into a woman who could challenge a queen. And capture the heart of a Border Lord.
Blessed saints! During her diplomatic career, Miriam had had ample opportunities to lose her innocence. She’d just never faced consequences so dire.
The urge to possess her, to confirm her affection rose fiercely in him. His bed was cold, lonely. His life confused, unsatisfying. He wanted her back at Kildalton. He’d drag her back here by her hair. He wanted her under his protection. He’d teach her to dally with his affections. He wanted to obliterate her childhood tragedy. He’d chain her to his bed. He wanted to give her children of her own.
He wanted her for his wife.
The only man she wanted was a product of his imagination. She favored a bold adventurer who thrived on danger and conquest, not a country earl who struggled for peace and harmony.
As the aching in his heart grew, Duncan considered telling her the truth, but a part of him cried, “Hold on to her while you can.”
In the face of so fervent a plea, his gentle nature yielded to the darker, more insistent side of him. He would yield again tomorrow night, and the next, and the next. The duchess of Perth would depart on the morrow. At nightfall Duncan would banish the country earl and don the disguise of the Border Lord. Then he’d ride into England and reclaim all the baron’s men had stolen of late. One glimpse of his dark form and the English would scurry for the safety of their houses and cloak themselves in prayer. He’d retrieve his stolen flax and salt, then return to Kildalton.
He would continue to practice swordsmanship with Angus. Miriam wanted a warrior. Duncan would oblige her.
He smiled and fluffed his pillow. He knew the way to win her heart: a love letter to arrange a tryst at midnight in the shadow of Hadrian’s Wall. The messenger would keep Duncan apprised of her plans. When she concluded her visit with Baron Sinclair, she’d be furious with Duncan Kerr. But she’d fall into the arms of the Border Lord.
She slapped him so hard he fell against the Roman wall. “You thoughtless barbarian,” she shouted loud enough to make the sleuthhound scurry for the safety of the bushes. “How dare you send a love note to me at Baron Sinclair’s?”
Shocked, his cheek smarting, Duncan didn’t know whether to kiss her or turn tail and run. Lord, she could get angry. Even the hood of her cloak quivered with a rage she didn’t try to control.
She stood on tiptoe. Starlight added to the fire in her eyes. “Have you nothing to say for yourself, Sir Border Lord?”
Her sweet breath fanned his face. Safe in his disguise, he feebly murmured, “I thought my note said it all.”
“A note the damned maids could’ve read, you dolt,” she hissed, all injured feminine pride. “How dare you compromise my position and threaten my authority? What if the maids had told the baron about your ridiculous note?”
The insult stung. He’d apologize for many things, but not for loving her. He grasped her shoulders. “The baron’s maids doona read. Forget them. You have kept me waiting on this spot for an hour. ’Tis bletherin cold out here.”
In the moonlight, her serene smile boded ill. “Too cold for you? That’s odd, since you spend your nights on that horse terrifying the poor citizens of Sinclair.”
Thanks to the duchess of Perth, Duncan knew that Miriam had come to Scotland ignorant of the facts of the feud. Now that she’d heard the baron’s side, the gentle Duncan was in for a battle. The Border Lord had to even the odds. “Did the poor citizens of Sinclair tell you I turn cattle into sheep and deflower virgins only at the full of the moon?”
“The English are more gullible than the Scots, for they fear you. Stop changing the subject. Where were you a sennight ago?”
I was listening to the duchess of Perth tell me how your parents died. I’m sorry, he wanted to say. Instead he prevaricated: “I shared a pint with my black cat. He’s my familiar.”
“Do tell. Someone raided a farm near Cooper’s Mill and almost made off with a herd of the baron’s spotted cattle. I suppose you’ll swear that neither you nor the earl had anything to do with it.”
He wanted to beg her to see the truth, but weakness and groveling wouldn’t work with Miriam. Reason and finesse would. “Spotted cattle, you say? A rare breed in these parts. The earl bought such a herd last fall. He even has the bletherin papers on the beasts. He talked of nothing else for months. His pride and joy, they were.”
“A convenient story since the earl’s a fellow Scot. Did he pay you to raid that farm?”
An owl sailed
over the wall, its talons clutching an English prey. It had ever been so. From mice to men, every creature in the Borders struggled for survival and dominance.
“Well?” she demanded.
He’d come here hoping to salve his pride and make her love him again, but she seemed eager to fight. To dominate, he thought ruefully. “The cattle belong to the earl. If you doona believe me, ask him. Or look in that record book of his. He’ll prove he owns the cattle and tell you the date the baron took them.”
“Rest assured,” she said, “I intend to deal with his lordship, but now we’re speaking of you, Ian. Or whatever your name is. You lead the raids on Sinclair land.”
She radiated determination, her shoulders squared, her chin held high, her luscious mouth softly pursed. But he knew about her now, and he had to get her mind on sweeter subjects. A wee truth and a fair dose of seduction seemed a good starting place. “I was christened John, but the Scots use Ian. ’Tis the name you called out when I made love to you.”
She stared at Hadrian’s Wall, melancholy in her eyes. At length she said, “You’re a rounder to remind me of past indiscretions.” With a shake of her shoulders, she pulled free of him.
“Indiscretions? Tell the truth, Miriam. You wanted me.”
“Since you’re in a mood for honesty, Ian, tell me what you know about a shipment of salt that disappeared from the baron’s barn on Tuesday last.”
“Where did the baron acquire salt?”
“I’m asking the questions. I’m also concerned about the twelve cartloads of flax that were stolen from the baron’s tenants in Wickham.”
He felt like a pot ready to boil over. “The earl, not the baron, owns the salt. He’s been selling it to the duke of Cromarty for a decade.”
“You’re very knowledgeable about his affairs. That’s odd, since you yourself named him a private person.”
He reached for her. “Drat your memory, and to hell with salt and flax.”
She knocked his hand away. In a low, insistent voice she said, “What of the flax?”
