by Arnette Lamb
“I thought you knew I married Roxanne. You know everything else about me.”
At Sinclair’s, the duchess of Perth had said the earl had changed, grown bold. She’d been eager to tell Miriam stories about Duncan’s ruthless father. But Duncan himself remained a puzzle to Miriam. “Quite the contrary, my lord. I don’t know you at all. Would you care to fence?”
“No, I wouldn’t, Miriam,” he said. “Bad eyes and all that. But I’ll wager you’d like to best me at it.”
So much for teaching him a lesson. Still she was taken aback because he’d read her intent. “Why do you think that?”
“Because.” He whacked the gauntlets against his jerkin. Dust clouded around him. “I think you’re angry with me, and I worry the people of Kildalton will suffer for it. After you make me suffer.”
Miriam’s thoughts scattered, emotion playing havoc with logic, duty squaring off against discretion. Beyond her personal war, she heard the soldiers speaking among themselves. From the outer bailey came the ringing of a sheep’s bell and the high-pitched bleating of hungry lambs. Children squealed and laughed and boasted in the language of her youth.
Feeling exposed and confused, she said, “You are different. You seem more forceful and you’ve developed a burr in your speech. You’ve changed.”
He started, stared at her legs. “You have, too.” Then he laughed. “The duchess of Perth said the same about me. Angus swears ’tis the soldiering. Mrs. Elliott believes a bad ham is at the root of it. Malcolm says ’tis time and past.”
To Miriam, he seemed at ease and surprisingly appealing in his knightly garb. For lack of anything else to say, she asked, “What do you think brought about the change in you?”
He tucked the gauntlets into his sword belt and held out his arm. “I think … we should discuss it over a barrel of beer. I’m fair parched. I also ache in unmentionable places. What say you, Miriam?”
The invitation, delivered with such charm and honesty, dissolved her confusion and reminded her of the first rule of successful negotiation: both parties thought their causes just and their actions necessary. It was up to her to find a workable medium. Her own objectivity was the key.
“What a splendid idea.” She laid her hand on his mail-clad arm. The metal felt warm against her palm, the muscles beneath well formed. The soldiering had honed his strength.
As they started across the yard, he limped. “Have you hurt yourself?” she asked.
He looked down. His mouth turned up in a smile, and behind the lenses his eyes appeared dreamy, unfocused. “Too much exercise in the wee hours of the morning,” he said.
The soldiers disbursed. The tinker expounded on his wares. Hands clasped, the children skipped in a ring, caroling a tune about the escapades of Mrs. MacKenzie’s mischievous cat. Miriam seemed to coast through it all, her body reminding her of the extraordinary way she’d passed the night, her heart yearning for a repeat of her tryst with the Border Lord.
Once inside the castle, the earl said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll shed this heavy garb and ask Mrs. Elliott to serve us in my study.”
The statement triggered Miriam’s curiosity. “How did you know I’d welcome breakfast in my room this morning?”
“Oh, that.” He waved his hand. “When Lady Alexis arrived with Salvador yesterday evening, she said you’d been detained. This morning when I went to remind the guards to look out for the peacock man, I was told you didn’t get in until nearly dawn. I thought you’d be hungry.” Glancing at the door, he shook his head. “I do hope he arrives soon with those birds.”
“But I thought you never rose before noon?”
He squared his shoulders. The jerkin grew taut across his chest. “’Tis my new schedule. I was wide awake and vigorously exercising this morning. I prefer it in the morning, don’t you?”
He seemed excited, and genuinely interested in her opinion. She hoped he would cooperate fully after all. “With me, it’s when I have the time to exercise and if it’s appropriate.”
He made a slow inspection of her legs. “Yes, I can understand. Of course I’m equally agreeable to nighttime. That’s very appropriate. Now that I’m in training, I must rise with the dawn. According to Angus, that’s the first commandment of soldiering.”
Charmed, she said, “What’s the second?”
He chuckled, sweat streaming off his brow. “Ah. That’s the pleasant one: chivalry toward the weaker sex.”
Let him think she was weak; most men did. They all regretted it. “Do you follow all of the commandments?”
“A novice must, and to the letter!” He made an elaborate bow. The visor slammed shut. The gauntlets plopped to the floor. Scooping them up, he said, “I’d best get out of this contraption before I hurt myself or break the furniture.”
In the interest of good relations, she touched the foil to her forehead. “I’ll wait in your study.”
“I won’t be long.” Duncan fumbled as he collected his gear, giving her time to head down the narrow hallway. Her bottom swayed deliciously in the snug-fitting leather breeches. Her slender legs carried her with fluid grace. In the wee hours, he’d cupped her naked buttocks in his hands, felt her thighs clutch his waist. From top to bottom, her skin felt as smooth as a baby’s cheeks.
Baby. The word jolted him out of his lustful observation and sent him hobbling in the direction of the kitchen. The thought of siring another child, and with Miriam MacDonald, both excited and troubled him. He’d done well enough so far in his attempt to temper the earl’s cowardly bumbling and become the gallant knight she favored. He’d wanted to broach with her the subject of conception, but how could he, when he wanted her to believe the Border Lord a ghost? She might even believe the fantasy, but not if she were carrying her lover’s child.
Still, when they were belly to belly and giving each other the pleasure of a lifetime, he couldn’t bring himself to withdraw from her. A selfish part of him wanted her to conceive. Then as the earl, he could do the noble thing and offer to wed her. But as his wife, she’d find out everything about him. She’d be angry and feel betrayed. She might side with the baron out of spite. Duncan would lose Malcolm.
If she refused his proposal, she’d have to marry someone else. Duncan’s unborn child would belong to another man.
Either choice was unthinkable. Only one fact remained: he wanted her with the zest and fervor of a youngling lapping up his first taste of passion. He’d have her again tonight, too. He’d bring a bone to distract the sleuthhound, and enter her room through the wardrobe. Then he’d strip naked and crawl into bed beside her—
“What can I get you, my lord?”
Mrs. Elliott’s voice put a halt to his daydreaming. He must face Miriam, the diplomat, and he’d need all his faculties. She’d already tried to goad him into a fencing match, which she unfortunately thought she would have won. Thanks to Kenneth Kerr, Duncan could duel with the best of swordsmen.
What would she try next?
After requesting a pitcher of beer be sent to his study, he went to his bedchamber, quickly bathed off the dirt and grime, and donned a modest white wig and a green suit. Looking in the mirror, he thanked his mother for the gift of hazel eyes. Today they appeared as green as summer clover.
Then he put on the spectacles and tromped to his study.
Miriam lounged in a chair by the hearth, one leg slung over the arm. When she saw him, she sat up, her knees as tightly closed as a devout spinster’s. Lord, he loved those knees, and her trim inner thighs and the secrets they concealed.
She waved a hand at the tray on the table before her. “Shall I pour?”
He took the chair facing her. “Please. My mouth is as dry as a smoked salmon’s.”
She laughed, the sound warm and enchanting. And new to Duncan. With delight, he watched her pour the foamy beer with the grace of an honorable Mayfair miss serving the matrons of nobility. Her fake smile troubled him. As the Border Lord, he’d seen her smile with genuine happiness, but now she pasted on h
er diplomat’s expression of pleasure. Thank God he knew the difference.
When she handed him a tankard, he said, “I’ll forgive you a small prevarication, if you’ll forgive me one.”
She stopped, the pitcher poised over her mug. “I don’t prevaricate.”
He clutched the cold tankard when he’d rather be clutching her. “But you did. You told me you didn’t have a sense of humor.”
Confusion brightened her eyes. “I never said that to you.”
Oh, Christ, she hadn’t. She had said it to the Border Lord. Buying time to cover the slip, Duncan took a long drink. “You said you never jest.”
Deep in concentration, she studied the Kerr emblem on the pewter mug. “Yes, you’re correct. I did say that.”
Her memory would be the death of him and the ruin of his people. “The point is, you have a bonnie laugh.”
“Thank you, but…” She shifted in the chair, her leather breeches sliding noisily against the leather upholstery. Smiling shyly, she dragged her thick braid over her shoulder. The gesture was so totally feminine, Duncan felt his body respond. The reaction surprised him, for after their hours of lovemaking, he hadn’t thought himself capable of more.
A moment later she put down the mug and leveled him a look devoid of emotion. “You will agree that humor has no place in this discussion. We must talk about you and the baron.”
Lack of sleep and the futility of the topic sapped his strength. He leaned back in the chair. “Yes.”
She leaned forward. “I’ve asked you before to trust me. I’ll ask it again. Please be honest.”
As the man who’d taken her virginity and ignited her desires, Duncan wanted to be honest with her. As the man who loved her and wanted to marry her, Duncan thought it his duty to tell her the truth. But as laird of clan Kerr and a man who risked the loss of his son, he would have to tread carefully.
“You won’t be prejudiced against me because I didn’t tell you I was related to the baron by marriage?” he asked.
Pain softened her eyes, and her lovely lips pursed with disappointment. Duncan was reminded of the hurt in Malcolm’s, eyes the first time he’d punished the boy.
“We’re starting anew, my lord,” she said with the dignity of a queen.
Duncan thought about her life as a diplomat, the slander she’d faced, the spoiled heads of state who probably treated her no better than a servant. He cringed to think she might group him with that selfish lot. He quaked at the thought of putting his fate and the future of all he held dear in her hands.
Pledging caution, he smiled tentatively and gave her a salute with his mug. “To a new beginning?”
She nodded and returned the salute. “What started the trouble between you and Sinclair?”
Duncan stared at the empty scabbard above the fireplace. “None of the other mediators cared.”
“I do. There’s more to peace than boundaries and legal writs. There are feelings—pride, revenge. There’s the past and those who set the troubles in motion. I’m here to stop it. Help me, Duncan.”
The years rolled back, exposing Duncan to the pain of his childhood. “Do you remember when we talked about my father?”
“Um hum.” Kindness twinkled in her eyes. “The Grand Reiver who favored farthingales to carriages and scorned a lad who liked to scour ruins. Tell me more about him.”
How could she, with a few words, make him feel like pouring out his heart to her? I’m better than the others, she’d said last night. He was beginning to think it was true. But could he truly trust her when her future was also at stake? He didn’t know.
He told her a common fact. “As if it were his right, my father raided Birmingham lands—they were called that until the baron arrived. In an attempt to expand his kingdom, Kenneth Kerr drove out English farmers, then uprooted Kildalton tenants and forced them to settle the vacated lands. He separated families and violated betrothals. The seventh earl was a merciless, uncaring man.”
“Not at all like you,” she said, a note of reassurance in her voice.
She could have stroked his cheek, so comforting were her words. “After my father’s death, I called on Birmingham and offered to return the land between here and Hadrian’s Wall and move the tenants back to Kildalton. He was a fair fellow and more interested in his family and his coal concern in Newcastle than he was his Border lands.”
With her fingernail, she drew a line through the condensation on her tankard. “He refused your offer?”
“Aye. He wanted peace, said let bygones be bygones. So we did. But I saved all my profits from those lands for Birmingham’s two daughters.”
“They would be Adrienne and Roxanne.”
“Aye.” Duncan had no intention of telling her that last summer he’d given the money to Charles as a dowry for Adrienne. The money had helped them start a new life in Barbados, the girl’s only letter had said.
“How long did the peace last?”
Fond memories turned sour. Duncan drank deeply of the beer, but even his favorite brew couldn’t wash away the bitterness. “Until a year after his death. Then Birmingham’s widow married Sinclair. The raids began, and the first of your predecessors appeared.”
Unaffected, she said, “Who was the mediator and what happened?”
Duncan had been so naive at the time. It had cost him dearly. “He was Avery Chilton-Wall.”
He expected surprise from her. She merely nodded. “What happened?”
“Sinclair offered him a bribe. I offered him a greater sum. He took both and bought the post of magistrate.”
“I’ll replace him with a fair man.”
Duncan studied her beautiful features, her luminous blue eyes, her sensuous lips, her glorious hair. What would it take to sway her? He didn’t know. “Can you truly? Have you the power?”
She held her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Last spring I came this close to having the constable of France removed. He thought it prudent to change his views on the placement of French troops.”
Fascinated, yet realistic, Duncan said, “You won’t change Baron Sinclair.”
Challenge glittered in her eyes. “I changed you. What happened next?”
“The baron brought in mercenaries—I described the leaders to you. Then the war began in earnest.”
“You told me earlier you never retaliated. Would you care to amend that statement?”
He wondered when she’d bring up the Border Lord. “Aye. I hire a fellow named Ian.”
Her eyes drifted out of focus. She was remembering last night. So was he, and fondly.
“He calls himself the Border Lord,” she said, still staring at nothing.
Duncan put his empty tankard on the table. “What does the baron say about him?”
Suddenly alert, she filled the mug. “Here. I shan’t tell you what he said. ’Twould only anger you, as your statement would him.”
He took the mug when he wanted to throw it across the room, throw her over a horse and disappear into his lair in Hadrian’s Wall.
“Drink up,” she said. “You told me you were as thirsty as a smoked salmon.”
Was she trying to get him drunk? Yes, he decided. The Border Lord had told her the earl couldn’t handle strong drink. Considering all the roles he’d played of late, a tipsy nobleman seemed easy.
“What did you do while Ian was retrieving your property?” she asked, giving him that trumped-up smile.
“I again went to Chilton-Wall for help. He said for a price he would intervene. So I started selling salt to the duke of Cromarty in order to pay off the magistrate.”
“Did the raids stop?”
“No, but the killing did—for a time.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “What started it again?”
“The baron had the bletherin gall to try to blackmail me. A Scot! ’Twas unthinkable.”
Interest smoothed out her features. What had he said that concerned her so? “Why are you looking at me like that?”
She took a drink,
then used a napkin to clean the moisture from the bottom and sides of the mug, and wipe a ring from the table. She took great care to fold the napkin. “’Twas nothing. Please go on.”
If her look meant nothing, then he was the Great Bruce come back to life. “Tell me.”
Her eyes met his and she studied him so closely he almost squirmed. “Very well,” she said reluctantly. “I think, for all your clipped English speech, you’re a Scotsman at heart, Duncan Kerr. Even though you try your best to hide it, you ken? You have changed—for the better.”
Her insight and quickness astounded him. Her smile and cordiality affected him in a more intimate and base way. If she only knew how much he was hiding, he’d be dungeon deep in the Tower of London. When he wanted to be eight inches deep in her.
Remembering the half-witted earl he was trying to reform, Duncan said, “I won’t be grouped with barbarians.”
She laughed again. “There’s no chance of that, I promise you. I haven’t seen a true barbarian since I visited the steppes of Russia. Tell me what happened next.”
Lulled by her cordiality, Duncan stared at the framed tapestry on a stand by the fireplace. He thought of the long hours of their lovemaking. Their closeness. The passionate Miriam clutching him, calling him a scoundrel for denying her the hasty release she craved. The surprised Miriam, proud of herself at making a jest. The sated Miriam, shy about discussing her pleasure and naively inquisitive about his.
“Duncan? You were telling me about the baron’s galling attempt to blackmail you. What happened after that?”
Taking a deep breath, he dredged up the biggest mistake of his life.
Chapter 12
With mixed feelings, Miriam watched him struggle to say the words that obviously pained him. She loved many aspects of her work. Prying into a person’s sorrow was not one of them. But for all his declarations of innocence, the shy, charming earl could still lie, and very convincingly; any man trying to maintain control of his kingdom would. It was up to her to sift through his words and find chips of information with which to bargain.
