by Arnette Lamb
“The weaver says no mortal could fashion such a cloth.”
“Well someone ‘fashioned’ it,” she said, an angry edge to her voice. “I’ll wager my best foil that I can find that cape right here in Kildalton Castle.”
A primitive warning rang in Duncan’s head. She knew.
Nay. She couldn’t. It was only her devious mind turning to speculation. She suspected, then.
Even that possibility turned his blood to ice.
Her voice drifted through the chilling fear that held him captive. “Let’s get on with the report, Saladin. After supper I intend to pay the earl a visit. Hand me that old key in the top drawer there. I may need it.”
“But he’s in his study winding flippity-flops.”
“Splendid.”
A drawer slid open, then shut. “Here,” said the scribe.
The information whirled in Duncan’s mind. She had the key to the tunnels. He must wipe away her every doubt. But how? What proof could he offer her? How could he convince her that he wasn’t the Border Lord? Especially if she had access to both his study and his private quarters?
Like the sun bursting over the horizon, the answer dawned.
Duncan Armstrong Kerr was the Border Lord. As she dressed for supper, Miriam cursed herself for not seeing the logic of it sooner. She’d been so intent on doing her job and bringing the Glenlyon Campbells to justice, she hadn’t looked for subterfuge from the earl. She hadn’t looked for passion either. Absurdly, her own arrogance amused her. Adjusting the bodice of her most revealing gown, she smiled. After years of settling complicated international disputes, she had thought the problems in the Borders simple, the players ordinary.
In retrospect, the earl of Kildalton was the least ordinary man she’d ever met. Behind his bumbling exterior lurked a cunning, deceitful man. The Border Lord. His overdone ineptness, his sniveling protestations of innocence—all of it had been a clever ploy to blind her to the truth.
But her eyes were open now, and by the time the fish course was served, she’d reveal him for the imposter he was. Still, when she pictured Duncan donning a disguise and wooing her in the moonlight, then laughing behind those spectacles in the light of day, she thought she might die of shame.
How could she have fallen for his deception? Because she’d been distracted, concerned about doing her job and helping the people of Kildalton. She’d continue to help the people; she had no other means of support. But when she was done, she’d gather her shattered heart and get on with her life’s work. Never again would she trust a man.
An hour later, she sat fuming in frustration at the table, for the earl had sent his apologies and ordered a tray sent to his study.
“You seem disappointed,” said Alexis, a curious gleam in her eyes.
Tamping back anger, Miriam toyed with her portion of clootie dumpling by scooting the raisins and currants to the sides of the bowl. “I had a few questions to ask him.”
Alexis stared at Malcolm. “There’s always tomorrow, unless you haven’t finished your correspondence.”
She referred to Miriam’s report to the queen, but spoke vaguely for the benefit of the earl’s son, who was too busy devouring his dessert to pay attention.
Miriam pushed the bowl aside. Her dispute with the earl was purely a personal matter now and wouldn’t change the outcome of the negotiations. “I’m quite finished with my correspondence.”
“Then I shall take both of the twins to London.”
“No,” said Saladin.
“Nay,” said Malcolm.
Saladin swallowed a mouthful of raisins and dried oranges and sent Miriam a beseeching look.
“Please let Saladin stay,” begged Malcolm.
A smile of friendship passed between the boys. “You might need me,” said Saladin. “Take Salvador. He wants to go to London.”
“Yes,” Malcolm said, puffing out his chest and revealing gravy stains on the embroidered table runner he wore as a surplice to emulate Thomas h Becket. “Salvador wants to go.”
May I stay, Lady Miriam?” said Saladin, his normally arrogant features pulled into an adjuring pout.
Before answering, she said to Salvador, “You’re certain you feel well enough to travel?”
Of course I am, his imperious look seemed to say. A lock of blue-black, stick-straight hair fell over his brow. With a toss of his head, he pitched the strand back into place. “I’m well enough to face any puny female who crosses swords with me.”
“We could all go,” piped Malcolm. “I’d ride my pony the whole way and not ever complain … even if the fancy court ladies pinch my perky cheeks.”
“Who told you the ladies would pinch your cheeks?” asked Miriam.
Squirming with pride, he said, “My papa. He said they’d call me a braw laddie—if I watch my language and mind my manners.”
“I’m certain they would,” said Alexis. “But would he allow you to go?”
The boy opened his mouth, but then slumped in defeat. “Nay. I guess I’d better not even ask. He’d be lonely here without me. I think Saladin and I should keep him company.”
Alexis sent Miriam a questioning glance. In answer, she shrugged, troubled again at the thought of separating father and son.
Remembering the earl’s statement about how unhappy Malcolm would be at Sinclair’s, Miriam felt a pang of pity for the boy. The wicked Alpin would make his life miserable, and the baron didn’t care enough about the girl to teach her to behave.
Miriam knew the childless Queen Anne would make the mistake of using the boy to try to bring peace between the men. Anne had made a diplomacy through fostering. Malcolm would suffer. In the wars of adults, she thought sadly, the casualties were always the children. But if the queen met Malcolm, she’d change her mind.
“I could ask your father’s permission for you to go,” she said. “I must speak with him tonight on another subject.”
“I want to stay here,” Malcolm said with conviction and went back to his dessert.
Alexis put down her fork. “I’ve asked Angus MacDodd to accompany us.”
Alexis had shown no interest in the soldier. Stunned, Miriam said, “I’m surprised.”
“’Tis only a precaution … should we encounter brigands or the like on the road.”
Although Alexis ducked her head, Miriam didn’t miss the flush creeping up her friend’s cheeks. “He’s a very pleasant fellow,” she said, hoping to find out what Alexis was up to.
“I’m certain he is. And in his absence, you might consider exercising with the earl—or teaching him to fence.”
Miriam almost laughed out loud at Alexis’s clever maneuvering. To hide her amusement, she rose from the table. “Perhaps I will. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go see his lordship.”
“Now?” squeaked Malcolm. “But you can’t. His study door is locked. He’s making flippity-flops. They take ever so long, you know. He won’t be done for hours.”
Hours! Miriam rejoiced. She had time to search his for the Border Lord’s disguise. Suppressing excitement, she said, “Then I’ll go to my room and rest for a while.” At Alexis’s surprised expression, Miriam added, “You should teach the boys that new card game we learned.”
“Of course,” said Alexis, complete understanding on her face. “We’ll be in the keeping room.”
Miriam left the table. The earl’s chamber was on the first floor, two doors down from his study.
In the hall, she met Mrs. Elliott, who carried a covered tray. The housekeeper curtsied. “Have you lost your way, my lady?”
“Oh, no.” Assuming a casual air, Miriam put her hands in her pockets. Her fingers touched the key to the tunnel door. “I was just going to compliment the cook on the clootie dumpling. ’Twas delicious.”
Mrs. Elliott’s mouth curled in a tentative smile. “I’m sorry, my lady. She’s left for the night, but I’ll be sure to tell her in the morning. She’ll be pleased you bothered.”
Miriam looked pointedly at the tray. “Fo
r the earl?”
“Aye. He’s in his study making flippity-flops for his fishing trip tomorrow.”
Miriam could not wait until tomorrow to conduct the search; the castle would be filled with servants then. Alexis wouldn’t be here to entertain the boys. Miriam smiled. “Then don’t let me keep you. I’m sure he’s famished.”
“Wander around if you like,” Mrs. Elliott said. “All the corridors eventually lead back to the hall. Except this one. It leads to the tunnel, but you probably aren’t interested in that.”
The housekeeper’s invitation was a stroke of good luck Miriam didn’t intend to question. “Thank you. I think I will look around. I love castles.”
Miriam started back toward the kitchen, but stopped when the housekeeper rounded the corner to the earl’s study. She hurried to the tapestry that concealed the tunnel entrance. Once in the cool corridor, she paused to let her eyes adjust to the darkness. Over the racing of her heart, she considered her options. She could wait here and listen for the housekeeper’s return or she could … try the door leading from the earl’s chamber to the tunnel! He hadn’t bothered to lock it that day she’d gone exploring.
Hoping such was his habit, she conjured an image of the passageways. Then she felt her way down the inky corridor. As she passed the first door on the left, she heard muffled voices. The earl and Mrs. Elliott. Fighting the urge to eavesdrop, Miriam moved on until she reached the alcove she sought. Bending, she peered through the keyhole to be sure the bedroom was empty. Guilt assailed her. She took a moment to reason out her covert actions. Had he been honest with her, she wouldn’t be forced to pry through his personal things. He’d left her no choice. As the Border Lord, he had taken her virginity and stolen her heart; the least he owed her was the truth about his identity.
She grasped the handle and pushed open the door. Inside, she stopped when she spied the great wooden throne. A master craftsman had carved it from an enormous oak. On the high back, the carpenter had chiseled the Kerr sun and the traditional thistles of Scotland. The arms of the piece featured rampant lions so real she expected them to roar.
A sense of wonder stole over her. To better see the chair, she took a lamp and turned up the flame. She thought of the painting in the keeping room. In the portrait, Kenneth Kerr dwarfed the chair, but that was impossible, for the seat was roomy enough for two adults. Obviously, the seventh earl had let his pride influence the artisan.
As she crossed the thick floral carpet, she couldn’t take her eyes off the chair. Although darkened with age and use, it still held a majestic quality. The empty dais in the keeping room seemed the perfect place for the throne chair. The earl, however, didn’t seem the type of man to rule from a throne.
She tried to picture him perched on the throne and holding forth to the people of Kildalton. But her mind conjured the image of a shadow-shrouded man clad in a dark cape and hat. The timely reminder spurred her to the wardrobe. Certain she’d find the cape there, she threw open the doors. One shelf held a dozen neatly folded Kerr tartans in varying stages of wear. Sachets of heather and pine needles had been placed among the clothing to ward off insects. The other shelves contained stockings and gloves, shirts and handkerchiefs, all monogrammed with the Kerr sun. Her pulse raced as she explored his personal articles and inhaled his now-familiar fragrance.
No cape. Not even a stitch of dark cloth.
Disappointed but not discouraged, she went to the pedestal bed, which was draped in forest green trappings and a mountainous velvet counterpane. She peered beneath the bed, but found only a pair of slippers, and a toy sailboat. Next she rummaged through a desk cluttered with papers and feathers, but found nothing to link the earl to the Border Lord.
In an iron-ribbed trunk she discovered an array of fancy breeches and waistcoats in manly shades of brown, black and biscuit. Why did he never wear them? They were stylish, with the wide lapels and roomy pockets with flaps favored by men at court.
Puzzled anew, she closed the trunk and sat on the lid. Frustration diluted her convictions. She had been so certain that the earl and the Border Lord were the same man. Now her conviction waned.
The mantel clock struck the hour of nine. Fearful of being caught, she surveyed the room one last time, turned down the lamp, then left the way she’d come. The instant she pulled the door closed and stood in the darkened tunnel, a deep voice said, “I doona think, lassie, that I care to find you sneaking out of the laird’s bedchamber.”
Chapter 14
Panic, and a pair of iron-strong hands held Miriam immobile. When she could draw breath, she said, “Let go of me.
His arms tightened around her. “Shush, lass.” He loosened his grip, but not enough for her to pull away. “’Twas not my intention to frighten you.”
His voice drifted down to her in the darkness. Keenly attuned to his every move and nuance, she thought that Duncan Kerr wasn’t so tall as this man. Usually his speech was refined, and not so resonant or compelling. Only occasionally did he speak Scottish.
Doubts chipped away at her earlier certainty that the man in front of her was Duncan Kerr. “What are you doing here?”
“It isna so important as what you’re doing here.”
She’d move to Russia before she’d tell him her true purpose. “What I’m doing here is my business and the queen’s. See it however you choose, but remember, I don’t answer to you.”
“I see,” he said, all threatening male. “You make love to me, but you wilna trust me with a confidence. It doesna speak well of my character. Or your morals.”
“My morals?” Shocked, she tried to twist out of his grip. “You seduced me. You said as far as I was concerned you were living out a prophecy, and that one touch of my lips drove you to madness.”
“You bonnie well liked my loving—over and over again. Have you forgotten the way you pushed me onto my back and explored my chest and private parts?”
The memory made her blood run hot. “Of course I remember what I did to you. I acted like a Cheapside doxy.”
A chuckle vibrated in his throat. “Nay, lass. A Cheapside doxy knows well how to ride a man to glory. ’Twas your first lesson.”
She groaned in embarrassment. “You’re a scoundrel.”
“You’re as dishonest as a pack of Plantagenets if you deny you wanted my loving. You still want it.”
Her pride told her to slap his face. Her heart told her to leap into his arms. History told her to take him seriously. “I don’t deny that you made me want you.”
“Made?” He stepped away, but one hand still rested on her shoulder. “As in last night? Or as in some plaything you’re done toying with?” His hand slid down to cover her breast. “What about now, Miriam?”
Trying to ignore the floating sensations and the yearning his touch aroused, she grasped his wrist. “You’re being unfair and intentionally crude to me. Why?”
“Because you havna exactly swept the stoop, ordered the servants away, and bade your man welcome, lassie.”
His possessive declaration touched off a thrill in Miriam. She’d always wanted a demonstrative mate, a man who would treasure her affections. Her Lancelot would allow her the freedom to dance with another, yet when the song ended, he’d appear at her side, impatient to reclaim her.
But she wasn’t at a fancy cotillion, savoring the luxuries of life. She stood in a dungeon-dark tunnel, earning her living and laying her heart on the line. If her suspicions were correct, this man could destroy her reputation, her self-respect, and her independence. “You haven’t told me what you’re doing here.”
“Well, Mistress Barrister. Since you insist so prettily, I’ve come to see the earl. ’Tis ironic, nay? Since you seem to be here for the same reason. Where is the niddering poltroon?”
A clever pretense, she thought, him asking about his own whereabouts. But not clever enough to allay her reservations and certainly not clever enough to distract her. She planted her feet and stiffened her spine. “Oh, yes. You don’t know where he is, d
o you?”
His hands tightened on her shoulders. “Nay, lass, not exactly. But I’ll find him. In case your perfect memory has failed you, you just left his bedchamber. Pray he’s not abed, but if he is…”
Had there been light, she would have watched his eyes for a sign of deception. Frustrated, she listened for nuances in his voice and heard jealousy. She leaned forward. “Next you’ll tell me you’ve brought him pig’s hair.”
He leaned closer. “Goose down—dyed a bloody crimson in a caldron, ’neath a full moon at midnight.”
Laughter bubbled up inside her. She drew a hand to her mouth. He couldn’t possibly be the earl of Kildalton. Could he? Oh God, she had to be sure. “Show it to me.”
Abandoning her breast, his fingers curled around her wrist, and drew her arm down. “’Tis too dark, lassie. But I could let you feel it. ’Tis in my breeches pocket. You canna have forgotten…” The breathless, seductive whisper played a vivid counterpoint to the bold journey he proposed.
Her fingers itched to touch him, to trigger the passion that waited just out of reach. Her heart pleaded with her to seek more from him than physical satisfaction.
“Go on, lass. Find it. You’ll get no protest from me.”
Pride and inexperience held her back. She blinked, straining to make out his features and put to rest the question of his identity. But all she could see was a jet black form against a blacker world. “You should have brought a light.”
“I did,” he said, his mouth so close, her lips went dry. “You.”
Like a strong wind at her back, need pushed her toward him. “But I want more from you than couplings in the dark,” she blurted. “I want to know who you are.”
“I’m the Lancelot of your dreams. I’m the man who makes your heart race and your loins melt. I’m the man who wants you right here, right now.”
His words tugged Miriam into a spell she sought to break. “No. You’re Duncan Kerr.”
“Duncan Kerr?” He laughed without humor. “Bloody hell!” Wrapping her in his arms, he said, “Curse me for a doiled glaikit.”
