by Arnette Lamb
Cursing himself for losing his temper and forgetting how smart she was, Duncan struggled for control. The hood of her cloak framed her face in miniver. He ached to touch her. “I hadna thought to talk of business tonight, lassie. I saw a bonnie rainbow today. It reminded me of your beauty.”
A cloud passed over the moon, throwing her face in deep shadow. Her gaze didn’t waver. “I’ll verify the salt. Tell me about the flax.”
His confidence plummeted. “I’d rather hold your hand and take you for a stroll in the moonlight. I havna seen you in weeks. Doona play the diplomat tonight, Miriam.”
Her teeth closed over her bottom lip. He could sense her weakening. He searched for the right words. When he spoke, it was from the heart. “I meant what I said in the note. You rob me of sleep. I’ve missed you sorely. Be my love again.”
She faced him, her intrepid mettle a shield. “The flax.”
Resigned to failure, he said, “’Tis grown near Loch Lockerbie. The baron’s land hasna the water to support so thirsty a crop. He stole the flax from the earl. I got it back.”
“Tell me this, is your life worth a sack of salt or a cartload of flax?”
“Do you care so much for my life?”
Like a soldier in battle, she had wiped away all sentiment, every scrap of emotion. His respect for her trebled. But by the bones of Saint Ninian, she would lose this battle. She had her strengths. He bletherin well had his.
He folded his arms over his chest. “So you do care whether I live or die.”
“Of course I care. But I cannot respect a man who does not value his own life.”
Duncan took small encouragement from her words, but he hadn’t come here to discuss midnight raids. “You’ve forgotten your folklore, Miriam. Ghosts doona give a second thought to mortality.”
She sucked in her breath. “How dare you be so glib?”
“I’d rather be sweet and loving, but you wilna give me the chance. Let’s not quarrel.”
“Quarrel?” She raised her arm as if to slap him again. A second later, she decided against it. “I never quarrel. I spend too much of my life patching up the squabbles of prideful men and deceivers like you. Good night.” She spun around, her swirling cape casting a long shadow on the rocky ground.
Alarmed, he shouted, “Miriam!”
She stopped and snapped her fingers. The hound raced to her side. “Have you ever seen a pack of hungry mastiffs fell a deer?”
His stomach floated like a cork. “Aye, ’tis a gruesome sight, even to the stout at heart.”
“Come near me again and I’ll make certain you learn why even a starved mastiff fears a sleuthhound.”
Reason and finesse be damned! He ripped off his gloves and holding them in one hand, he grabbed her with the other. Exerting pressure, he spun her around.
Time slowed to a crawl. She turned, drawing a breath and parting her lips to utter the command. He jammed the gloves into the dog’s muzzle and covered Miriam’s mouth with his hand. She stiffened. Her chin came up. The hood fell back, exposing her glorious hair.
“Doona lecture me about dogs, Miriam. The Romans brought their beasties here. The Norsemen brought theirs.” He tipped his head toward the wall. “The Romans played a game. They tossed bread over the wall to coax the children near. When the hungry bairns had come close enough, the Romans loosed their ‘pets.’ Over the pitiful cries, the soldiers laughed and made wagers over how long ’twould take the children to die. Border folks learned to deal with dogs centuries ago.” His hand dropped to her shoulder. “I doona fear your Verbatim.”
“You’re trying to shock me.”
“Nay. I’m trying to befriend you. You doona ken the trouble here.”
“I know all I need to know.”
“To do what?”
“To be fair.”
Frustration dragged at his good intentions. “You canna be fair, Miriam, for there are no fair solutions. It’s been tried before.”
“Not,” she ground out, “by me.”
“Why are you different from the others?”
“Because I’m better than the others. I made the Treaty of Utrecht for crissakes! I’ve heard more convincing lies from the lowliest page at court than I’ve heard from the baron or the earl. The truth is the place to start.”
If assurance was the harbinger of victory, she would succeed. The possibility filled Duncan with ambivalence. “One of them speaks the truth.”
“You know which one, don’t you?” she mocked. “You’ve taken sides.”
Duncan grew desperate to make her see reason. “Aye, the side of peace.”
“I’ll win a peace here. Only a Scot can.”
Her simple declaration bounced off Duncan’s temper like raindrops off a mallard’s back. “Even a Scot canna always understand the Border. Heritage doesna make you a Scot, lass. ’Tis what’s in your heart that counts. You’ve met the earl and the baron. Which man do you believe?”
“Both of them, and neither of them.”
Disappointment seared him. “You speak, but say nothing. Will you act and do nothing?”
“If you knew anything about me, you wouldn’t ask that question.”
“Oh, I know about you, lass.” He did. He knew a story that even today brought tears of shame to any decent Scotsman. “I know that you shiver in your sleep and dream dreams that make you weep and whimper like a lost child. You never sleep the night through, for sunrise finds you pacing the floor. I think you spend your days running from your nights. Let me help you stop running.”
“Ha! Spoken by a man who is always on the run, a man who won’t reveal his true identity.” She turned away, her profile limned in silvery moonlight. “Where do you spend your nights?”
“When I’m lucky … with you.”
She stared at their horses grazing nearby. “’Twas only the one night.”
“A memorable one, aye?”
Her tongue slipped out to moisten her lips. “Aye.”
He took her in his arms, his mind spinning with thoughts of the bloodbath she’d witnessed as a child and how he could make her forget it. “’Twas heaven lying with you,” he whispered against her temple. “Feeling you beneath me, your hands clutching me, your soft sigh when I made you mine.”
“I belong to no one.”
True, he thought. A clan of favor-seeking Highlanders had seen to that “Because you wilna allow yourself to need anyone.”
“I cannot fail. There must be peace here.”
True. Because for her the consequences were too dire. “Peace is relative, you ken? A forest once covered this land. The Romans created a desert here and called it peace.”
She jerked away and threw her hands in the air. “You’re just like the earl.”
Duncan’s heart skipped a beat. Had she guessed? Calling her bluff, he said, “I doona ken why you’d make so ridiculous a comparison.”
“You’re like the baron, too. You see things in black and white, right and wrong. You’re all stubborn and deceitful. You think you can trick me because I’m a woman.”
Duncan burst out laughing. “Doona compare me to a stick of an Englishman who thinks the world owes him a living or a niddering poltroon who prefers brook trout to women.”
“At least the earl doesn’t bedevil poor folks into draping their mantels with leeks and pouring chicken blood in the corners of their homes as you do.”
He’d made the mistake of letting her goad him earlier, now he was wise to her methods. “I canna be responsible for people and their superstitions.”
“The baron tells a different tale. He says you frighten them apurpose. He says you’re a spirit from the pits of hell. His people swear you’re a devil who vanishes at will.”
“What do you think?”
“The answer to that will cost you.”
Good Lord, would he never stop underestimating her? She had changed the destiny of England. Duncan longed to change hers. “I doona want to bargain or argue with you. I want to love you.”
“Then believe this.” He slid his hands down her arms and threaded his fingers through hers. The warm softness of her skin, the frailty, of her bones made him think of how much he needed her and how desperate he was to keep her. “My life changed the day you came to Scotland.”
She looked down at their joined hands. “Yes, it did. You’re in grave danger now. I can have you arrested for thievery.”
“By the magistrate?” He laughed. “The coward’ll nae come after me. He couldna catch me.”
“You’re speaking of Avery Chilton-Wall?”
When she used that silky tone, he wanted to hide behind a shield. He wanted to hold her close and learn the secrets of her past. And he would. But not now. “Aye, Avery Chilton-Wall bribes easier than a Glenlyon Campbell. God rot their wretched souls.”
Her eyes grew wide, then narrowed with scorn. “Then I’ll replace him.”
Would she never broach the subject of her past? And the clan of Campbells that had ripped her childhood to shreds. He wanted to comfort her, but all she could talk about was warring men. “You haven’t the power to replace the magistrate.”
Silence.
Christ, she did have the power. Now more than ever, he had to secure her loyalty. Malcolm’s future and the safety of Kildalton depended on it. Logic had failed. Pray God seduction succeeded.
He grasped her waist and lifted her. “The greatest danger I face is losing my heart to you.”
She clutched his shoulders for balance. Now that they were on a level, he could see the wariness in her eyes. Softly, she said, “Heartaches are a part of life.”
For certain heartaches had been the lion’s share of her life. He’d change that, too, if he could. “Happiness should be a bigger part, Miriam.”
The night wind rustled her hair, sending silky tendrils across her face. “You know nothing about making a woman happy. Honesty is what I want.”
He couldn’t give her honesty but he could show her she was wrong. “I know that you like it when I kiss you here.” Tipping his head to the side, he touched his lips to the curve of her cheek. “And here,” he whispered into her ear, then sent his tongue exploring the delicate whorls.
Her fingers tightened on his shoulders, reminding him that she’d nipped him there at the instant he’d breached her maidenhead. A moment later, she had breathed a soft sigh against his skin and said his name. Later still, she had gasped, straining for breath until she cried out her pleasure, then lay against him, sated and so femininely soft, he’d taken her a second time, and a third.
Desire and need filled him, swelling his loins and bringing an ache to his belly. His legs began to tremble, and when his lips found hers willing and eager, he forgot that she might deny him and remembered that happiness had been a stranger in her life. Tonight he would make it her boon companion.
Clutching her tightly to his chest, he reveled in the feel of her tongue dancing with his, her hands moving to his neck and his jaw. Too many clothes separated them, but like the other obstacles in their path, Duncan intended to strip them away, one by one.
Duncan. She wouldn’t call out that name in passion. At the unwelcome consequence of his disguise, sadness enveloped him. He must find a way to make her want the man he truly was. But with desire ripping at his gut and the promise of soul-deep satisfaction so close at hand, he banished plans and schemes and set about seducing Miriam MacDonald.
He kissed her deeply, drawing her tongue into his mouth and suckling gently in imitation of the way her body received him. Her breathing grew ragged, her hands busy in their exploration of him. When she inadvertently sent his hat flying on the wind, Duncan had to act before she stripped him of the scarf and spied his fair hair.
He swung her into his arms and made haste for Hadrian’s Wall.
“Where are you taking me?”
Looking down at her, the moonlight wreathing her in a silvery glow, her lips damp from his kisses, Duncan thought himself the luckiest man in Scotland. “A familiar place. To paradise, my love.”
His words and the promise they contained sent a thrill through Miriam. Yet the irony in what he’d said made her smile.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
Feeling carefree and happy, she said, “Paradise in the Borders. Imagine that.”
He flashed her a grin that brightened the night. “’Tis no fair making me laugh just now. I could drop you in the dirt.”
She had made a jest. Glory be! Inspired, she said, “I told you I could make you laugh.”
A quizzical expression arched his dark eyebrows. His shoulders shook with laughter. “For a woman with no sense of humor, you’re doing a damned fine job of entertaining me.”
Languishing in his arms, the starry sky overhead, the beloved soil of Scotland beneath, warring men forgotten, Miriam felt at peace. At home. For the first time in her life.
Joy filled her, and over the crunching of his boots and the soft whistle of the wind, she heard her own heart hammer with anticipation of the pleasure to come. Reaching up, she laid her hand on his cheek. He turned and placed a kiss on her palm.
Shivers of desire tickled her scalp and vibrated in the soles of her dangling feet.
Then the shadow of the crumbling wall fell over them, trapping them in a net of darkness. He turned and leaned his shoulder into the barrier. Stone grated against stone. In a state of stupefied splendor, she felt the wall give way.
Cool air, perfumed with hay, wool, and a long dead fire rushed to meet them. Possibilities flitted through her mind: perhaps he was a ghost who appeared from nowhere and disappeared into nothing. He could be the ghost of some Kerr ancestor, for he often reminded her of the portrait of the dark and oddly handsome Kenneth Kerr.
Before she could explore his identity or her dark surroundings, the Border Lord put her on her feet and began stripping off her clothes. His seductive Scottish words, whispered against her lips, obliterated rationale and inspired her to divest him of scarf, cape, and shirt. But as she slipped off the scarf, she again found herself wondering who he really was. She opened her mouth to ask him, but his lips smothered the words.
She fumbled with the buttons on his breeches, her mind fixed on what lay beneath. Her petticoats whooshed to the floor at the same moment his manhood sprang free. Temptation lured her from her task of undressing him. She flattened her palms on his waist, then slid her fingers beneath the warm leather, moving down until her hands were filled with him.
In frustration, she said, “I wish I could see you.”
“You know me well enough, lassie.” He groaned and rocked his hips against her, showing her vividly how her touch affected him. “Ah, Miriam, you’ve magic in your hands.”
His soft, manly pouches had become rock hard, and his jutting maleness had grown bold in its size and insistence. Pride and confidence infused her. “Enough magic,” she said, “to cast a spell—even on a ghost?”
He chuckled and lifted her chemise so he could caress her bare bottom. “Aye, or bring out a worse goblin in me.”
Her womb became a tight coil of desire and her breasts ached for his touch. He hunched his shoulders and ran his hands over her back and buttocks. When he glided lower, spreading her and teasing her sensitized skin, she felt a familiar sheen of wetness.
Eager to expand her own exploration, she made a ring of her hands and slipped it over the crown of his manhood. She encountered a drop of moisture and realized that, although as different as night and day, their bodies reacted in much the same fashion.
“No more teasing, love,” he said, laying her down on a straw-filled mattress that crackled under her weight.
She heard him peel away his leather breeches, yank off his boots and toss them aside. The inky darkness robbed her of sight, but her other senses grew keenly aware of him, looming above her, radiating heat, and offering a passion she could not deny despite her misgivings about succumbing to a man who remaine
d a mystery to her, a man who would soon flit off into the night and vanish, perhaps forever, leaving only wistful memories.
Reaching out, she pulled him down, and when she opened her legs and bade him enter, he rasped, “Nay, lassie, I’ve a craving to love you in other ways first.”
Then he set about showing her the marvelously diverse ways a man could use his lips and tongue, fingers and teeth. He left a trail of wet kisses from her breasts to her navel, from her ankles to her inner thighs. But when he’d lifted her legs over his shoulders, parted the folds of her womanhood, Miriam gasped in surprise. As his lips closed over her aching flesh she wilted in surrender. The hungry laving of his tongue and the gentle nibbling of his teeth revived her. Suddenly paradise seemed a run-down shanty compared to the heaven that lay ahead.
He groaned, and the low vibration of his voice against her sensitized skin triggered the first in a succession of climaxes that rocked her to her soul. Just when she thought the pleasure had ended, he opened her wider and murmured, “More, Miriam. Give me more.” Then he stabbed fiercely with his tongue and suckled her until she gave him what he sought.
His quest fulfilled, he rose above her, driving deep, grinding deeper. Her languor vanished and she felt compelled to hear him gasp and groan and cry out his pleasure, too. Once, twice, she brought him to rapture, then forced him to stop. Then he reversed their positions and commanded her to ride him to glory. Sitting astride him, his manhood robust and buried to the hilt, she quaked again. He grasped her waist, lunged, and sought his own release.
Once their breathing had slowed, he lifted her and brought her to his side. Nestling against her, he said, “Sleep awhile with me, love. Hold me close and dream only of me.”
Hours later, limbs and senses still mired in euphoria, they donned their wrinkled clothes and emerged from Hadrian’s Wall.
Verbatim sat sphinxlike, a black plumed hat and pair of gloves resting on her paws. The waning moon cast long shadows on the earth. The Border Lord lifted Miriam into her saddle and rode alongside her to Kildalton. As the towers of the castle came into view, the horizon grew ripe with the promise of sunrise. With it, reality returned.
In a few hours she would face Duncan Kerr and give him the shock of his life.
