by Arnette Lamb
Chapter 11
Miriam dawdled at her toilet, her thoughts ambling from the meeting ahead to the rendezvous past to nothing at all. Depending on the topic, she felt listless, invigorated, and challenged. Sometimes she shivered and felt her knees go weak; other times she ground her teeth and prayed for patience. Once she cried. Never did she regret.
After her arrival hours before, she had thrown open the drapes and stood at the window, watching the sun creep into the sky. Then she’d paced the floor until the maid had come to build up the fire and draw her bath.
Now, she dragged the brush through her still-damp hair and wondered how she’d get through the day, or how harshly she should deal with the earl, or how her body could speak so eloquently to a dark stranger who wouldn’t reveal his true identity. Or how he could know her so well.
You shiver in your sleep and dream dreams that make you weep and whimper like a lost child.
Someone scratched on the door. Miriam sighed, smiled, and said, “Come.”
A plump maid bustled into the room, a covered tray in her hands, a bundle of dried heather under her arm. “Morning, milady.” She dipped a neat curtsy and deposited the tray on the bedside table.
The smell of food triggered a raging hunger in Miriam. Her mouth watering, she put down the brush and went to investigate the food. Beneath the ironed napkin lay a feast of kippers, tatties, scones, and oat pudding. A frosty pewter goblet brimmed with icy cold milk.
As if today were Fat Tuesday, she devoured the crunchy fish and feather-light pastry. The maid stoked the fire and tossed in the heather. The burning plants filled the room with the sweet smell of summer.
The maid began fluffing the pillows. Miriam dove into the tatties and oat pudding.
“Would ye be earin’ for more kippers, milady? There’s fish aplenty, thanks to his lordship.”
An odd thought seeped into Miriam’s euphoria. She looked at the maid, who was frowning as she stripped the case from a pillow. “What’s your name?”
Flipping the pillowcase over her shoulder, the maid said, “My given name’s Faith, but they all calls me Saucy.”
Food momentarily forgotten, Miriam rose. “Well, I’d call you a mind reader, Saucy. I was famished.”
The maid reached for another pillow. “His lordship said ’twould be the case.”
Miriam grew exceedingly curious, for the earl couldn’t have an inkling as to her mood. She hadn’t seen him in weeks. Had the Border Lord crept into the castle and told the earl? Probably so.
“Oh?” challenged Miriam. “Is his lordship a mind reader, then?”
Saucy’s jaw grew slack and her gaze darted from the pillow to the rumpled counterpane, to the empty tankard. “Ah, would ye be earin’ for more milk, milady?”
Hiding a smile, Miriam said, “No. But I wonder … How did the earl know I’d take breakfast so early—and in my room?”
The maid opened her mouth, closed it, then leaned over the bed. “Will you look at these stains?” With a loud pop, she jerked the pillowcase from her shoulder and began rubbing vigorously at the sheet. “Looks like soot, it does.” She stood and headed for the door. “I’d best tell the laundry maid ’afore the stains set.”
What was the girl hiding? Obviously something about the earl. “Did you say the earl had been fishing?”
Her back to Miriam, her hand on the door, the maid stopped. “Oh aye, milady. Fishes all the time, he does. He just come back yesterday from Barley Burn. ’Afore that ’twas Loch Horseshoe. He’s a real fisherman, the laird is. Feasted himself on kippers just this morning, he did.”
The overdone explanation, delivered hastily and without sentiment, sounded like a lecture. Obviously the earl had told Saucy what to say. If he thought to elude a reckoning with Miriam by going fishing, he was in for a surprise.
“Where is his Lordship today, Saucy?”
A square of paper appeared beneath the door. Saucy snatched it up and eased toward Miriam. “Practicing at swords in the old tilt yard with Angus. Here.”
So, the earl had carried through on his promise to learn a soldier’s skills. He’d become a better leader and for that she was glad. But one truth did not an honest man make, especially when the man had lied to Miriam outright and by omission. He’d be sorry as sin that he’d underestimated Miriam MacDonald. “What name has Malcolm chosen?” she asked.
Saucy unfolded the paper. Frowning, she said, “Another Englishman. Thomas & Becket.”
So, even servants in Kildalton could read. The earl hadn’t lied about the school. But he still had much to answer for.
Miriam took the paper. “Thank you, Saucy. You may take the tray with my compliments to the cook, and send young Salvador to me. But don’t disturb Lady Alexis.”
“Nay, milady.” She picked up the tray and hurried to the door. “Mrs. Elliott’ll have my hide, should I wake her ladyship ’afore ten o’clock.”
Miriam fetched the brush from the vanity, then sat on a tapestry stool near the fireplace to, dry her hair. Her thighs, sore from the hours of lovemaking, protested; so she stretched out her legs and curled up her toes. She became aware of differences in other, distinctly feminine, parts of her body: her breasts felt heavy, the nipples still tingling from the touch of his lips, his ardent suckling, and the drag of stubble on his cheeks. He’d kissed her in more intimate places, too. At the remembrance, she felt hollow in the place where he’d loved her with his mouth, then filled her, time and again, with his manhood. Her womb contracted and she drew her legs together.
The Border Lord. Her lover.
You never sleep the night through, for sunrise finds you pacing the floor. I think you spend your nights running from your days.
Maybe, she thought, but once she’d solved the problems here her own troubles would be over. The queen would keep her word and Miriam’s quest for justice would come to an end. The Glenlyon Campbells would pay for their treachery of twenty years before.
Lassitude swept over her. She stared into the fire. Atop the smoldering peat sat the remains of the heather, the stems glowing bright red, the ashes floating upward on a stream of toasty air and disappearing into the blackened chimney.
Black. Her mind darted to the sooty stains on the bed. Twice she’d so soiled the sheets and her dresses. Each time she’d been with the Border Lord. He was clean, but the places he took her were dark and dusty. What could she expect? She was in a country castle, not some spit-and-polished palace. She giggled, for she didn’t know exactly where she’d been last night and doubted she could find his lair again. Or had he turned into a spirit and carried her through the wall?
A knock sounded at the door. Expecting Salvador, she was surprised to see Saladin, wearing a turban and tunic, stroll into the room.
Hands clasped, he bowed, touching his steepled fingers to the widow’s peak in his forehead. “May Allah’s blessings be upon you, my lady.”
The familiar greeting, delivered in sibilant tones, made Miriam smile. Saladin’s outer tranquility served as a perfect foil for his fiercely competitive nature. He’d been an enigma since the day she’d plucked him and his brother from an auction block in Constantinople. At seven years old, they had been as surly and as filthy as camel drivers. At twelve, they were confident youths, highly skilled in their abilities, thanks to Miriam, and secure in their futures, thanks to Alexis Southward.
Miriam returned the greeting and patted the rug beside her. “Come. Sit here and tell me where Salvador is.”
He sauntered toward her, knee-high red boots and saffron tunic contrasting vividly with the homey decor. He sat cross-legged facing her, an incredulous expression making him appear younger than his twelve years. “His ribs are hurting. Is it true that he let a girl—a mere child—tie him up and beat him with a stick?”
Miriam had forgotten the unfortunate episode with Baron Sinclair’s odious niece. “I’m afraid Alpin hurt him dreadfully. But I hardly think he ‘let’ her get the best of him. A meaner, more wicked child I’ve never seen.
”
“Alpin. That’s an odd name for an English girl.”
Miriam had thought so, too. “Kenneth mac Alpin was king of Scotland in the ninth century. To show his good will to the earl of Kildalton, the baron changed the girl’s name.”
With a shrug, indicating that old Scottish kings were unimportant, Saladin said, “One time she blacked Malcolm’s eye, he says.” Scoffing, he added, “Her father should beat her. Muslims control their women.”
With concealing black robes and pretty prisons they call harems, Miriam thought, remembering her struggle to open diplomatic channels between King Ahmed and Queen Anne. “Well, she hasn’t a father or a mother, Saladin. Only an uncle and a brood of cousins. I suppose a six-year-old girl gets lost in the shuffle.”
“Salvador says the baron has more children than a sultan.”
Thinking of the noise, the hustle and bustle, and the crush of people at Sinclair’s, Miriam felt relieved to be back at Kildalton. “They’re not all his children, per se. Many of them are poor relations with nowhere else to go.”
“Then he’s a kind man?”
“Not exactly kind,” she said, thinking of the baron’s misguided generosity. “Just accepting of life in general.”
Still sitting, Saladin took the fire iron and poked idly at the clumps of smoldering peat. “The earl’s been practicing swordplay with Angus Mac Dodd since you’ve been gone.”
“And fishing, I’m told.”
Stirring the fire and sending a whoosh of sparks up the chimney, Saladin grunted. “He cavils on like a camel driver.” In a poor imitation of the earl, the boy said, “My flippity-flop did the trick today. The salmon fair clamored after the hook.”
Knowing the boy would never speak so disrespectfully in public, she let the insult pass. “But has he learned to wield a sword?”
A wry grin exposed the space between Saladin’s teeth. “I pinned him to the wall on Tuesday.”
“I’m not surprised, but do you think ’twas proper?”
“He laughed, my lady,” said Saladin, as if it were the most ridiculous of reactions. “Then he minced off to quaff a pint with the soldiers.”
Curious, Miriam said, “Tell me what else happened while I was away.”
His report held few surprises for Miriam until he said, “The earl told Malcolm and me to stay with Angus MacDodd the night the duchess of Perth came. At first I thought we were both being punished for one of Malcolm’s silly pranks, but Angus showed us a chest full of dirks. That’s a Scottish dagger.”
Miriam had first met the elegant and verbose duchess in Edinburgh while living with the then Princess Anne. Once she had taken up the scepter and crown and moved to London, Anne was often attended by the duchess of Perth. When the duchess had arrived at Sinclair’s last week, she and Miriam had sat in a solar, sipping precious lemonade and discussing Duncan Kerr’s bachelorhood.
“She only stayed here the one night,” Saladin offered. “But the next morning…” He cleared his throat and studied the soles of his boots.
Intrigued by his hesitance, Miriam said, “The next morning, the duchess did what?”
“Oh, not the duchess. She left. But the earl summoned us, and reprimanded his son for making fun of me because I’m a Muslim. He made Malcolm memorize a page from the Koran and write the Ten Commandments fifty times.”
“I’m surprised,” she said. “Are you?”
He nodded, giving her a full view of the top of his perfectly wound turban. “What surprised me was how much he knew about the Prophet Muhammad.”
“May he live ten thousand years,” she added.
“The earl?”
She laughed. “No. His flippity-flops.”
“His flippity-flops?”
Feeling self-conscious, Miriam said, “I actually meant the Prophet Muhammad.”
His mouth fell open. “You were jesting?”
Incredulous as it seemed, she had twice made a jest intentionally. Inordinately pleased, she said, “I suppose I was, but I meant no offense.”
“But you never jest.”
“Well I do now.”
He smiled and jumped to his feet. “Wait’ll I tell Salvador. He’ll be sorry he missed it.”
“Saladin,” she called after him.
He skidded to a halt and turned. “Yes, my lady?”
“Bring me Salvador’s transcription of my meetings with Baron Sinclair, and after your evening prayers, please join me here. I must dictate a letter to the queen.”
His enthusiasm faded. He picked at the stitching on his tunic. “Is the feud settled? Are we to leave Scotland soon?”
Leaving Scotland was the last in a natural progression of events. Miriam always knew she would leave when her work here was done, but she hadn’t counted on falling in love with a mysterious rake who claimed to be a ghost. She hadn’t counted on loving Scotland so much, either.
Seeing Saladin so apprehensive about her decision gave Miriam pause. “Don’t you want to? We’ll go to Bath. You love the jelly shops and searching the ruins for old daggers.”
Not looking up, he said, “There are ruins here. The earl offered to take Malcolm and me exploring at Hadrian’s Wall.”
Miriam had done some exploring of her own at the wall, and thinking about her erotic discoveries brought a lightness to her stomach. “You’ll have time for your excursion before we leave. I promise.”
That made him smile. “Thank you, my lady. Until after my evening prayers.” He dashed through the door.
Moments later, her hair in a single braid, Miriam donned her fencing habit, chose her favorite foil, and went to the tilt yard in search of the earl of Kildalton.
She found him spread-eagled and face down in the dirt, his sword blade a broken stub, his shield rolling like a wheel toward the castle gates. The burly soldier Angus MacDodd was bending over him.
A dozen kilt-clad soldiers stood nearby, and closer to the wall, a group of castlefolk crowded around the tinker’s wagon. Children tossed a leather ball in the yard. No one seemed interested that the laird had fallen; they all watched Miriam.
Suspicion made her alert. It seemed as if they were waiting. But for what?
A bold clansman stared pointedly at her legs, then winked. Miriam relaxed. They weren’t staring for any secret reason or waiting for anything. They couldn’t know she was about to take their laird to task. They were simply shocked by her leather breeches and vest.
Decked out in boots, tight-fitting hose, and a short leather jerkin over a mail shirt, the earl looked more like a real warrior than a niddering poltroon who favored brook trout to women, as the Border Lord had called him. Like a second skin, the hose molded his muscular thighs, cupped his taut buttocks, and outlined his manly sacs. With her newfound knowledge of male anatomy, she couldn’t help comparing him to the generously endowed Border Lord. She found the earl wanting.
But she’d underestimated Duncan Kerr, given him the benefit of the doubt. She wouldn’t do so again. Her greatest challenge lay in keeping her temper in check.
That’s why she’d chosen to face him with a foil in her hand. The distraction of a contest would take the edge off her anger. It would also teach him a lesson about telling the truth and trusting.
“What’s happened here?” she demanded.
Angus flipped up the visor on his helmet. Sweat dripped from his nose. He glanced at her, then patted the earl’s back. “My lord, how are you?”
“Chipper as a spawning salmon,” came the muffled reply.
“Are you hurt?” the soldier asked.
The earl groaned and struggled to a sitting position. “Only my pride, Angus. ’Twas a devil of a blow you dealt. Teach me that move next or at least a decent defense. Lord, this soldiering taxes a body.”
“You’re making excellent progress, my lord,” said Angus.
With a gauntleted hand, the earl raised his visor. His spectacles tumbled to the ground. A mail coif covered his hair and framed his face, which was coated in dust and sweat.
He squinted up at Miriam. “Who’s that? Is it the new lad from Lanarkshire?”
Although innocently spoken, his mistake touched off a blaze in Miriam. She wanted to stomp her foot and smash his corrective glasses. She wanted to rail at him for being the uncooperative oaf he was. Her own integrity as a diplomat stopped her.
She slid the rebated tip of her foil under the nosepiece and offered him the spectacles. “No, my lord. ’Tis Miriam MacDonald.”
“Oh, well! Pardon my ghastly manners.” Fumbling to remove the gauntlets, he snatched the glasses, which were slightly bent and very dusty; then he blew the dirt from the lenses and made a clumsy job of working through the helmet and coif to fit the crooked frames on his nose. Blinking, he studied her from head to toe. “That’s a striking costume, my lady. Most becoming.”
He looked so unusual, a knight garbed for battle, yet wearing thick spectacles and spouting compliments, that she felt a twinge of pity for him. “You needn’t resort to flattery, my lord,” she said. “I find this attire quite comfortable, when I’m in the mood to fence.”
Angus held out a hand and helped the earl to his feet “If you’ll excuse me, my lord—my lady. I’ll have the blacksmith repair your sword.” He clicked his heels and marched off.
Shaking his finger at her, the earl said, “I thought we’d agreed you would call me Duncan.”
“That was before I visited your neighbor.”
“’Tis another of his crimes then.”
His bitterness puzzled her. “Why do you say that?”
“I thought we were becoming friends, you and I.”
The sentiment first pleased then angered her. “Friends don’t lie to each other.”
“Speaking of liars—how was the baron?”
If he was being snide, she could match him in that. “Your father-in-law is fine. He sends you his best.”
“Ha! Sinclair’s my former stepfather-in-law, and the only thing he can send me is that herd of spotted cattle he stole. I spent a fortune on the beasts.”
His aggression surprised Miriam. The Border Lord had defended him in the matter of the cattle. The baron had known nothing about a herd of spotted cattle. Where were the beasts? Later she would ask to see the earl’s receipt for the animals. Then she’d find the damned herd and discover who had stolen them in the first place. “You should have told me you married his stepdaughter.”
