by Arnette Lamb
Did the Border Lord play chess? She’d have to challenge him to a match. That way he’d have to show his face.
“I’ll just clean the table,” she said.
“I’ll get the chess set.” He went to the bookcase.
She picked up the large pitcher. It was almost empty. She’d had only a small portion. He’d probably be drunk soon. To be certain, she topped off his mug.
“I’ll wager you’ve played against some interesting fellows,” he said.
“A few.” Turning, she saw him standing before a wall of books, a chessboard under one arm, the other extended to a high shelf and a carved wooden box. Over his shoulder, he said, “I keep the set out of Malcolm’s way. My grandmother made it.”
Good, thought Miriam, he was already relaxing and making her task easier. His pose, though, struck her as odd. He looked as if he could scale the bookcase, much the same as the Border Lord had scaled the castle wall. The comparison surprised her. “Did she teach you to play?”
“Aye.” He stepped down and put the box on the board, then walked toward her with the dignity of the archbishop of Canterbury carrying the crown of England. “But don’t tell Malcolm we played. He’ll whine for days and days. The set is quite precious and too delicate for his eager hands.”
His easy familiarity warmed her. “I can keep a secret,” she said, thinking of her lover.
“Who knows that better than I?” He opened the box and put it on the table.
Nestled on a bed of worn white velvet lay a young boy’s treasures, cleverly fashioned into playing pieces. Sixteen smooth stones, eight dark, eight light, represented pawns. Mounted on tall squares of wood were the kings, a jagged dark shell for the black, a clump of snowy quartz for the white. On slightly shorter wooden dowels sat the queens; one a pearl, the other a garnet. The bishops were wishbones, one polished, the other painted black. Carved miniature horses, one caparisoned in white, the other in black, were the knights. Castles were arrowheads driven into pin cushions; one dark, one light.
The significance of the chessmen awed her. His grandmother had made it. Sentiment choked Miriam. “It’s wonderful.”
He grinned boyishly. “It’s not very fancy. I’m sure you’ve seen the finest sets of ivory and jasper and solid gold—in your travels.”
His childhood lay spread out before her, lovingly preserved. The orphan in her coveted the set. The diplomat told her to get back to business.
She scooped up the dark pebbles. “I’ll take black.”
Once she learned his strategy, she’d slow him down enough to distract him. She moved a pawn. “I understand you commerce in salt with the duke of Cromarty.”
He slid a white pebble forward. “Who told you that?”
“A friend.” She moved another pawn. “May I have a drink of your beer? It’s really quite good, but you know what they say about Scotsmen and beer.”
He handed her the mug. “Aye, we brew the best beer in the world. This friend is someone you trust? Someone you admire?”
Her feelings for the Border Lord were much more visceral. A lie seemed apropos. “Implicitly.”
He nudged another pawn into the fray. “I imagine trust is very important to you, isn’t it?”
Heartened by his conservative play and cordiality, she handed him the beer. “Why do you say that?”
He turned up a work-worn palm. “I assumed you travel much of the time. Common sense tells me the nature of your work lends itself more to passing acquaintances than building lasting friendships.”
So, the earl was a philosopher. She liked that aspect of him, but felt the need to defend herself. “I have Alexis, Saladin, and Salvador. We’re great friends, a family, if you will.”
Slyly, he said, “I imagine you’ve turned down a horde of marriage offers—foreign princes and the like.”
The sad truth of the matter sat like a stone in her stomach. To allay the uncomfortable feeling, she laughed and said, “I wouldn’t exactly call their propositions offers. They’re hardly fit for mixed company.”
“Then they were fools,” he declared. “For you’re far too intelligent to fall for such knavery.” He cleared his throat. “You’re very beautiful, too.”
The compliment, delivered with shy hesitance, started a glow in Miriam. “Thank you.”
Mirth twinkled in his eyes. “Highland women generally are. Not that you’re general in any way. I simply meant that your hair lends a certain fire to what I’m sure is a … an altogether sensible demeanor—” He bit his lip. “I’m botching it rather badly, aren’t I?”
Embarrassed for both of them, she held up her hand. “You were telling me about the salt.”
He swallowed, drawing her attention to the powerful muscles in his neck. Why hadn’t she noticed them before?
“The baron intercepted the last shipment.”
Like the crack of a whip, his accusation snapped her thoughts back to reality. “I’ll need to see any correspondence on the arrangement between you and His Grace of Cromarty and any other papers on the enterprise.”
“Certainly.” He took a long pull on the beer. “I’ll take you to the mine. You’re even dressed for it. Mining salt’s a nasty concern.”
“I’m sure it is. But thank you, no.” She moved a wish-bone. “It won’t be necessary.” The prospect of bouncing around in a carriage made her tender parts protest. “I’m rather tired today.”
“Oh?” he said, all concern, his hand poised over an arrowhead. “Did you pass a bad night? The watchman said you were out very late and alone.”
Miriam felt herself blush. “My night was rather pleasant, actually.” Her words were a monumental understatement.
“I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourself in Scotland. If you’ll tell me about your night, I’ll tell you about the sunny trout I caught last week. Without my peacocks, I had to resort to using a shapely beetle. I had to pounce on the creature, wrestle it to the ground and strip the wings from it—and all before I could bury my hook. I snagged three panty fish before exhausting my beetle. A bracing, unforgettable adventure, it was.”
Comparing her night of lovemaking with the Border Lord to the earl’s fishing expedition seemed absurdly funny. Her newly found sense of humor suddenly had its disadvantages.
“Couldn’t you sleep?” he asked.
“I’m fine. Truly. You needn’t trouble yourself on my account. I do have a few more questions to ask you.”
His cheerful expression dissolved into wariness. “Ask away.”
“Could you possibly be confusing the baron’s soldiers with someone else? Common marauders? Brigands? It’s your play.”
Studying the board, he frowned and murmured, “Rather difficult to think just now.”
Knowing precisely what he meant, she said, “You were speaking of the baron’s raiders.”
“You mean those two criminals who call themselves cowherds? More like cowards, if you ask me.”
“How do you know they’re criminals?”
He twitched his nose, jostling the spectacles. “Because they came to the Border reeking of Newgate.”
The possibility of hard evidence spurred her on. “Have you proof?”
“I had a signed affidavit from the warden.”
“Had?”
He made a tisking sound. “I foolishly gave it to Chilton-Wall.”
“What did he do with it?”
“What else? He lined his pockets.”
She laughed at the picture of the portly magistrate with papers jutting from the pockets of his velvet jacket.
“’Tisn’t funny,” he grumbled.
Ashamed, she said, “No, of course not. Forgive me.”
“I will if you’ll replace Chilton-Wall with an honest man.” So the earl wasn’t above doing a bit of bargaining; she liked that aspect of him, suddenly felt at ease. “I’ll ask the queen straightaway. Checkmate.”
In more ways than one, Duncan thought, his heart in his throat. “The queen? Are you leaving?”
&nb
sp; “No. Alexis is. She’s taking my report and my preliminary recommendations to London.”
But not before Duncan had a peek at them. “Have you penned it already?”
She glanced at the clock. “No, but I’ve plenty of time. I’ll dictate the report to Saladin after his evening prayers.”
He remembered the other lad, who’d limped into the castle yesterday. “I’m sorry about Salvador. I had Mrs. Elliott make him a poultice. That Alpin is a terror.”
Miriam sighed, her breasts swelling nicely and filling out the leather vest. “’Tis a shame about the girl.”
“You condone her wicked behavior? She’s a devil.”
“She’s just lonely. No one pays any attention to her.”
He sensed a deeper meaning in the statement. Latching onto it, Duncan said, “I’m sure you know more about families than I … being a MacDonald and all. ’Tis a mighty clan, the branch from Skye.”
She turned away and stared at the crackling fire. Her fingertips strummed a silent tattoo on her thigh. “I’m not from Skye. I usually don’t speak about myself.” Quietly she added, “Please don’t press me.”
Duncan felt like Pandora reaching for the lid on the box. Pray God he too found hope in the cache of Miriam’s past. Casually, he said, “Not Skye? Then from where do your people hail?”
Suddenly agitated, she rose from the chair and walked to the standing globe. Absently, she set it spinning. “My home is wherever the queen sends me,” she said much too casually.
The soft whooshing of the sphere on its axis intensified the silence. He could read her pain in the gentle slump of her shoulders, as if the weight were too heavy to bear, in her tightly clenched fists, as if she were armed for battle against an invisible foe.
He considered dropping the topic. But it was her complete withdrawal, her expertise at keeping the pain to herself that troubled him so. In the dark of night, she’d given freely of herself. In the light of day, he felt honor bound to do some giving of his own.
He got to his feet and moved to stand behind her. He reached around her and turned the globe until Scotland faced them. “We could play Malcolm’s guessing game,” he said for want of anything else. When she didn’t speak, he said, “Show me. Your home must be infinitely more peaceful than the Borders.”
His dare worked, for like an aged cloak, her courage began to unravel. She lifted a shaking hand and touched a fingernail to the most beautiful glen in the Highlands.
“Glencoe?” he whispered.
As if to obliterate the memory of the bloody massacre, she slapped her palm over the whole of the British Isles. “Yes. A rather gruesome day in Scottish history, no?”
Beneath her flippant tone lay a lifetime of suffering. Yet Miriam MacDonald’s tragedy only touched upon the inhumanity to the northern clans. During the seven ill years of King William’s reign, proud Highlanders had been reduced to begging. The English sat in their cozy cottages and blamed early frosts for the bad harvests. Scots were found dead with grass in their mouths. The English turned a blind eye.
But in February of 1692, English indifference soared to new heights of cruelty when Lord Advocate Stair, eager to bring the weakened clans to heel, demanded the Highland chieftains pledge allegiance to William. Miriam’s father hadn’t come forward quickly enough to suit the power-hungry Stair. In a devilishly vile move, he turned Scot against Scot by promising wealth to the Glenlyon Campbells if they’d butcher the Glencoe MacDonalds, a small clan least able to defend itself.
How, Duncan thought miserably, had she managed to survive? She’d hate him for asking now, but someday he would.
Hoping he was doing the right thing, he placed a hand on her shoulder. Vehemently, he said, “May the Glenlyon Campbells burn in hell ’til the day after forever for what they did to your family.”
“Yes, well … They certainly haven’t paid for it yet. Everyone has forgotten the Glencoe massacre.” Her voice wavered and she sucked in a breath of air.
“Not I.” Duncan gave up the fight, turned her around, and pulled her into his arms. Her cheek fit perfectly in the crook of his shoulder. He stroked her back, thinking that without his high-heeled boots, they were of a complimentary height. “I’m so dreadfully sorry for what was taken from you.”
Her quiet breathing, coming in the choppy cadence that spoke of soul-deep hurt, almost brought Duncan to his knees. He thought of the ways he comforted Malcolm when the lad grew melancholy. “What would your mother say about you being so sad, so secretive, Miriam?” he queried softly. “Please share that day with me.”
In a voice devoid of feeling, she said, “It was very cold in the glen that winter. Papa had taken me to the cottages in town. Six score Campbell soldiers were quartered there. Two of them gave me biscuits and taught me to play at dice. I was four years old. They thought I was older.
“They came when it was still dark. Nanny was with me.”
She grew taut as a bow string. Duncan rubbed the caps of her shoulders.
“I was hiding under the bed, but I saw them beat Nanny with a club. I didn’t know it at the time, but my mother was already dead. The door opened. Papa stood there, his nightcap on crooked, his sword in his hand. There was blood all over the front of his favorite robe. He killed those two soldiers, then called to me.
“I wiggled out. He picked me up and hugged me. I felt his sticky blood soaking my nightgown. He shook me. ‘Run, Poppin,’ he said. ‘Run and hide and remember.’
“I remember hiding in a peat bin, but I don’t know how I got there. They found me the next day. It was the soldier who’d given me a biscuit and told me I’d break a great laird’s heart someday. He must’ve thought I was hurt or dying—because of the bloodstains. I don’t know what he thought. But he put me in a cart with the bodies of my mother and father.”
Duncan’s heart clenched like a fist in his chest and his throat grew so tight he couldn’t have spoken, even if his life had depended on it. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed her to go on.
“The grave digger pried my hands from my mother’s hair,” she said, detached. “A church woman bathed and fed me. Sometime later—” She shook her head. Her shoulders quivered. “Days, maybe weeks, I’m not sure of how long. Anne sent Alexis to get me.”
Devastated by her story, Duncan suddenly knew a hatred that made his trouble with Baron Sinclair seem like a petty quarrel. Choked with emotion, he said, “Bless Saint Ninian, you’re a brave lass, Miriam MacDonald. Hell’s too good for the Glenlyon Campbells.”
Then a subtle change occurred in her bearing, and while he couldn’t precisely name it, he sensed she was fighting her demons. There it was—one, long, deep, steadying breath. “I’ve never told anyone.”
A very special kind of pride infused Duncan. “I know you haven’t. Thank you for choosing me.” He rocked her from side to side and touched his lips to her temple and lower. “Your mother would be proud of you, you know. Your father’s sitting on high boasting over the accomplishments of his lassie.”
Against his cheek, he felt her smile. Good Lord, he thought, no warrior possessed more strength than the slender woman in his arms. He wanted that strength, for himself, for Malcolm, for all the people of Kildalton, forever. He wanted children from her, a flame-haired son he would name Alastair, to honor her father and keep his memory alive.
At the prospect of loving her, his body came stirringly to life. Heat spiraled through him, settling in his loins. Sweat popped out on his brow. His spectacles began to fog. The spectacles. The bletherin spectacles!
Frustration seared him. He couldn’t make love to her now, not as the earl. Not after the story she’d told him. She might have given her virginity to him and poured out her soul, but she hadn’t lost her wits. He could fool her with disguises, but he couldn’t fool her in lovemaking. He wasn’t that much of an actor. Or a scoundrel.
When the lenses cleared, he pulled back and guided her to the chair. Ignoring the vacant look in her eyes, he offered her the mug. She drank, draw
ing his gaze to the slender column of her throat and the steady pulse of life beating there.
Feeling the utter buffoon, he searched for something to say—anything to put them on even ground. Nothing came to mind, so he watched her cradle the mug in her hands, watched her throat work. He swallowed, too, and looked up to find her studying him.
“What are you thinking?” He blurted the thought he couldn’t disregard.
The clock ticked away precious moments he craved to reclaim. She lowered the mug and wiped her mouth with her forefinger. “I’m thinking that I’m a very foolish woman who should keep her wretched stories to herself. My apologies.”
He wanted to kiss away her second thoughts and tell her the truth. He wanted to know how she managed to compose herself so completely. “I’m thinking you’ve been doing that too long,” he ventured.
She stared into the mug. “Doing what? Apologizing or feeling sorry for myself? Or lamenting the fact that the Glenlyons went scot-free? An interesting term, no?”
Her bitterness gave him pause. At length he said, “Maybe you should forget all of those things, Miriam. Holding a grudge is destructive to the soul.”
Like a curtain, her icy shield fell back into place. “Maybe we should change the subject.”
Before he could argue the point, she rose from her chair, her legs gracefully unfolding, the leather breeches creased in the most interesting of places. He watched her walk to the bookcase.
As if she were doing nothing more than searching for a text, she scanned the titles before her. “There is one more thing, Duncan.”
He hated that offhand tone, for it always boded ill. Answering in kind, he said, “Oh? What’s that?”
She tipped a leather-bound volume forward and examined the gilt edges of the pages. “’Tis the matter of the baron’s claim to Malcolm.”
Duncan’s blood turned to fire. He picked up the tankard and drank deeply, hoping to douse the flames. How dare she fall into his arms one moment and accept his comfort, then in the next moment, try to rip his life apart? He wasn’t sure which he hated more, himself for loving her, or life for treating her so cruelly. “Maybe we should change the subject again. Custody of my son is not open to discussion.”
