by Arnette Lamb
“You’re no fool,” she whispered into a tartan cape that spawned fireside tales.
He turned his face away, cool damp air replacing the warmth of his breath. She felt his uncertainty. His silence spoke eloquently of the differences between them, and worse, it made her vividly aware of how foolish she’d been to fall in love with him—whoever the devil he claimed to be.
Was Duncan Kerr holding her in his arms, and with a mere touch, stirring her passions? Had he bamboozled her in the light of day and encouraged her to relive her wretched childhood, only to seduce her in the dark of night?
Surrender clouded her logic. The lonely, accomplished woman who stood at the head of the queen’s diplomatic table and watched the great men of England heap respect on her plate didn’t care that this man had tricked her, she craved a respite from a life of dull conversations with shallow people and tricky negotiations with sly ambassadors.
What if this smooth-talking Scotsman wasn’t the Lancelot of her dreams? Who gave a brass penny? Except for the signing and sealing, the peace here was made.
Yet the war in her heart raged on.
“What’s that?” He froze, then drew her deep into the alcove. “Shush.”
Ducking under his arm, Miriam peered down the corridor. The door to the earl’s study stood open. Mrs. Elliott stepped out, a lighted petticoat lamp hooked over her arm. “Aye, my lord,” she said. “I’ll fetch tomorrow’s herbs from the tower, then come back for the tray.”
She moved away, then stopped and looked back into the room. “Sir?” A moment later she smiled and curtsied. “Thank you, my lord. ’Twas no bother at all. I’ll tell the cook.”
Just as the housekeeper closed the door, the Border Lord pulled Miriam into the darkness of the alcove and shielded her body with his. “Be still,” he whispered urgently. “Make not a sound.”
Duncan Kerr wasn’t the Border Lord. The earl of Kildalton was sitting in his study complimenting the housekeeper. Now was Miriam’s chance to see her lover’s face.
Anticipation thrummed through her. She tried to lean back, but his big hand cupped her head and held her still. Mrs. Elliott walked toward them, the lantern transforming pitch blackness to watery gray. At the top of her vision, Miriam saw that he was hatless, the black scarf tied snugly at the nape of his neck.
She drew back to see better and her foot scraped the stone floor.
“Shush,” he whispered, clutching her.
Against her tightly clenched jaw, his heart thudded like a muffled drum. Peering around his shoulder, she saw the glow of the tiny lamp throw eerie shadows in the tunnel. Lacy spider webs draped the blackened ceiling. Rusting, empty sconces marched in a line down the gray stone wall and marked the housekeeper’s progress.
In a rustle of skirts and unawareness, Mrs. Elliott passed them by, her head down, her attention riveted to her footing.
Slowly, Miriam lifted herself on tiptoe. Her temple brushed his chin, then grazed the muscular plane of his jaw. When they were cheek to cheek, he squeezed her to him, the rush of his breath in her ear setting her skin afire, the swelling of his male flesh against her stomach pitching her thoughts into exotic realms.
Bending, he nuzzled her neck and her throat, before settling his mouth on hers. He feared discovery; she tasted his tension on his lips. But passion had him in its grip and drove him to achieve a level of intimacy that would launch them into familiar, carnal territory.
Wrapped in a cape of lost Scottish souls and drenched in a mind-shattering desire, Miriam clung to him.
The door to the tower opened and closed. Darkness descended again. She had lost her chance to see the Border Lord.
He pulled back slightly. “Where were we, lassie, before Mrs. Elliott interrupted us?”
His casual reference brought new questions. “You were about to tell me why you didn’t want her to see you.”
“Me? ’Twasn’t me I feared exposing, Miriam. ’Twas you.”
“Bosh. You know Mrs. Elliott?”
“Aye.”
He spoke with such reluctance, Miriam was inspired to say, “Then why not knock on the front door when you have goose feathers to deliver?”
“Because then I wouldn’t meet you in dark corridors.”
“Don’t be glib. Tell me the truth.”
Silence, save the soft, rhythmic sound of their breathing, was her answer. Then he released her, and she felt his gaze move away. His cape swished across her hand. He was fidgeting. Why? “Tell me, Ian. What does the Border Lord fear?”
“He fears himself, for he loves you to distraction,” he said, the burr thick in his voice. No dialect could mask his frustration. He didn’t want to love her. Or perhaps this was all an act. Perhaps he said I love you to all the women.
Sick yearning tore at her heart; prior to this dark, secretive stranger, no man had ever loved her. She’d grown accustomed to having him care for her, had clutched his adoration to her lonely heart. He’d brought her Lancelot dreams to life, but in doing so, he’d stolen her fantasy and left her with real agonizingly wonderful memories.
Her throat felt raw with apprehension. “What will you do about it?”
The door to the tower room opened. Light spilled into the tunnel. The housekeeper was returning.
He pulled Miriam to him and turned, moving to the opposite wall of the alcove. Now they stood in shadow again, out of the housekeeper’s line of vision.
His concern for her touched Miriam. One day soon she’d coax him into the light and see him clearly. She eased her arms around his trim waist and held him close. In response, he undulated his hips, showing her how much her touch affected him. He pulsed with vitality. She ached with empty wanting.
Miriam barely noted the housekeeper’s passing; she was too caught up in the man, in the mystery that surrounded him, and in the magic he made her feel.
Another door opened and closed, and like water through a sieve, the light slipped through the opening and vanished. The housekeeper was gone. Miriam relaxed.
The darkness transformed him from gallant protector to ardent lover. Past teasing and nibbling, his mouth moved on hers with gentle insistence, rousing the need she couldn’t deny and bathing her in sweet promise. Tomorrow night or the night after, she’d find out who he was, for eventually he’d come to trust her.
The cold cynicism of her rationale seemed at odds with the hot desire thrumming through her, and suddenly she didn’t want to be Miriam MacDonald, famed arbitrator and discreet servant of the crown. She wanted to be a woman, a woman who despised snowflakes and loved the man in front of her.
As eager as he, she raked off his scarf and threaded her fingers through his thick, wavy hair. Holding him just so, she twined her tongue with his, tasting, devouring, until they were both burning, gasping for air and desperate for the joining that would send their passion soaring.
Dragging his mouth from hers, he rested his forehead on her shoulder and hauled in breath after ragged breath. She took his weight, reveling in the knowledge that she could kindle so bold a blaze in so passionate a man.
Desire trilled a lively tune in her heart, and her soul sang with the melody of love. Putting her lips to his ear, she whispered, “I’ll die here and now if you don’t make love to me.”
He growled and lifted her skirts. “Then you’d best put those fingers to work on my buttons, love.”
Giddy with anticipation, she opened the placket of his breeches, and cupped her hands to receive him. He landed, warm and heavy, swollen and pulsing in her palms.
“Push the breeches over my hips, love, and tarry not.”
She dallied a moment, reacquainting herself with the velvety soft texture and insistent strength of him. He sought her secrets, too, stroking skin that was slick with want of him and teasing a tiny seed of flesh until it blossomed into full flower.
In agony, she put her hands to work, caressing him in the way he’d taught her, but before she’d established a rhythm, he grasped her buttocks and said, “Cease, Miriam.
I canna wait to have you.”
He drew back, slipping from her hands just as her feet left the ground. Instinctively she draped her arms over his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his waist. Like a cherished friend at homecoming, he nudged at her door, and she welcomed him, drawing him inside and embracing him fully. A purely masculine groan vibrated in his chest and harmonized with her sigh of feminine bliss.
He went still, giving her a moment to wonder if the earl could hear their cries and earthy moans; then he began the rocking, lifting, straining motion that snatched coherent thought and tossed her into the shining world of the sublime.
Moments later, as the rapture engulfed her, a hoarse cry rose in her throat, and his mouth was there to absorb the sound, then refine and return it twofold. Against her quivering belly, the muscles in his stomach contracted in jerky spasms, showing her the sweet satisfaction she’d given him. With his mouth still tightly fixed to hers, their breaths mingling, he dragged her hand from around his neck and placed her palm just below her navel. Then he covered it with his own.
Applying gentle pressure, he made her vividly aware of the physical aspect of their joining, of how deeply he possessed her and how completely she had captured him.
Tears sprang to her eyes at the tenderness of the gesture, and if God called her home tomorrow, she’d haggle with the devil himself to stay one more night in this man’s arms.
“Oh, Ian, I can’t bear to leave you. I love—”
“Hush, Miriam.” His hand tightened on her bottom, then moved up to her waist. “The earl might hear.”
She swallowed her declaration; there would be time tomorrow night to tell him of her love.
With a soft grunt of regret, he dragged himself from her and set her on her feet. “Everyone except the earl will be abed by now,” he said, smoothing her skirts, his hands lingering. “I’ll keep him occupied. You take the main stairs to your room.”
He spoke with such authority, she wondered if he hadn’t lived here at one time. Was he a cousin of the earl? A papal cousin? Being a bastard brother would explain the Border Lord’s resemblance to the seventh earl. Seeing him in the moonlight, she’d been reminded of the great portrait of Kenneth Kerr.
“Very well, Ian. But it doesn’t matter now—if the earl or anyone finds out about us. I’m not ashamed of what we shared. I’d gladly announce it to the world.”
He stiffened. “I doona ken what you mean.”
“I’ve written a treaty. I’m very good at my job, remember?”
His lips against her cheek, he said, “Aye, and you remember this, lassie. You’ve naught to run from anymore. Sleep tonight and every night, and dream sweet dreams of me.”
The finality in his voice frightened her. She clutched his cape. “What do you mean? Where will you be?”
His hand touched her breast. “In your heart, love, and in every breath you take.”
He was only waxing poetic, she realized. Yet she needed more. After so passionate a tryst, she felt romantic, too. “When will I see you again?”
In Scottish, he whispered, “Every day, lass. Until the day after forever.”
She leaned against the wall and heard him walk away. How could he love her, yet refuse to show her his face? Their future loomed like a bleak winter day.
A moment later he knocked on the door of the earl’s study. She peered into the corridor. He’d already crossed the threshold, but she caught sight of his hand whipping aside his cape. The door closed behind him with a definite click that echoed in the tunnel.
On unsteady feet she stepped from the alcove. The murmur of voices drew her.
“I do hope you’ve … those feathers, Ian,” said the earl. “The salmon are…”
Hearing only snatches of conversation, she tiptoed closer.
“I doona care for being used as a messenger, Duncan,” the Border Lord replied in his booming voice.
“Don’t fuss so. I pay you…”
When she reached the door, she knelt and peered through the keyhole. They sat before the fireplace in the wing chairs where she and the earl had played chess. She couldn’t see the Border Lord, for he’d taken the seat facing away from her. But she knew he was there, for the edge of his cape draped the arm of the chair.
Wearing his flamboyant black wig and thick spectacles, Duncan Kerr faced her. He was holding a familiar black scarf. He worked at a knot in the cloth, and when he freed it, clumps of red-dyed goose down cascaded to the floor. Staring at the opposite chair, he said, “Just what I needed, Ian.”
Miriam chuckled to herself, wondering how she’d ever been so foolish as to think Duncan Kerr was the Border Lord. They now sat face to face. She’d been preoccupied with many things—trying to achieve peace in the Borders, anticipating justice for Glenlyon Campbells, and falling in love with the man of her dreams.
Happiness infused her. He wasn’t deceiving her after all. She watched the earl examine the clump of bright red goose down. Then he looked up, and her breath caught, for he seemed to be staring right at her, a sad expression in his overlarge green eyes, his mouth pulled into a frown.
Suddenly uneasy, she blew a secret kiss toward the back of the chair where her lover sat and made her way to her room.
Later, when she lay in bed, she thought of her one remaining task—telling the earl of Kildalton he better prepare himself to surrender his son to Baron Sinclair.
The next morning she sat in the same chair her lover had occupied the previous night. The earl sat across from her, the fast draft of the treaty of Kildalton held up to his nose.
As he read, she absently rubbed her hands over the arms of the chair and counted her blessings. With Alexis and Salvador on their way to London, and the peace a foregone conclusion, Miriam could get on with her future. She took comfort in pleasant thoughts of the Border Lord, for in a moment the earl would read the final stipulation.
How would he react?
He tossed the parchment aside and drilled her with a look of such contempt, she shrank back in the chair. Behind the spectacles, his green eyes blazed hatred.
Good Lord, she hadn’t thought Duncan Kerr capable of so much anger.
“This is a bloody farce, Miriam. You expect me to give up my son to keep Sinclair happy?”
Prepared for opposition, she said, “You have no choice. By witnessing the codicil to your wife’s will, you indirectly agreed to her wishes. ’Tis not my doing, Duncan, but a point of law.”
He folded his arms over his chest and leaned back in the chair. “How long have you known about this point of law?”
His chilly tone and ice cold stare unnerved her. She looked away. “’Tis an old law and common knowledge. It dates back to the twelfth century and the duke of Exeter and Prince Hal of Monmouth.”
In a silky whisper, he said, “You misunderstand, Miriam. When precisely did you apply this law to me and Malcolm?”
A specific answer would enrage him even more. Unable to look at him, she said, “Does it matter?”
“I can see it doesn’t to you. You’ve probably known for weeks that you would take my son. You’ve accepted my hospitality, my—” He stopped and took a deep breath, as if trying to quell his anger.
“I did not make the law.”
“I did not give my agreement. For God’s sake, my wife was dying of complications from the birth. I merely signed the damned paper to ease her passing.”
She felt his pain, his frustration, but could do nothing to alleviate it. “I’m sorry, but legally, you acceded. I promise you, the courts will see it that way. English law is very specific in domestic matters. I believe the queen will enforce it. I’ve asked her not to, but I fear she won’t heed me in this.”
He smiled and shifted in the chair, propping his chin on his palm. “English law, you say?”
Spoken with sly emphasis, the question was meant as a challenge. “I know what you’re thinking, Duncan, that English law does not apply to a Scotsman. ’Tis not so. The Act of Union changed all that, regardless of
what the Highland clans think. Scotland and England adhere to the same legal system now.”
“Now is the key word. Malcolm was born on the last day of April in seventeen hundred and seven. In the event your ciphering skills fall short of your perfect memory, allow me to subtract it for you. My son is one day older than the Act of Union. Therefore, he is a Scottish citizen, and immune to the ancient English law which governs the fostering of noble heirs. He will stay with me.”
Taken aback by his deduction, Miriam sat silent. The earl of Kildalton had presented her with the kind of legal abstract that was her forte. Challenges to the law paraded through her mind, but none involved a Scottish child born before the Act of Union. Still, hope infused her. A clever barrister could argue the case and win.
“Have you nothing to say?”
She thought of her letter to the queen and considered how stubborn Anne could be. Hard evidence might sway the queen. “Have you proof?”
“Aye,” he growled, rising from the chair and snatching a book. “The family Bible. Unless you mistrust the clergyman who made the entry and baptized my son.”
Miriam believed him. “I wish you had told me sooner.”
“I would have if I’d known what villainy you’d planned for my son.” He handed her the Bible. “I wish I’d never laid eyes on you,” he said much too cordially. “I’m going fishing.”
Stung by his words, she watched him snatch up his creel and stroll toward the door, intentionally stepping on the document that she had spent weeks composing and Saladin had spent hours illuminating. She had done her best to be fair. Spitefully, she said, “A perfect decision under the circumstances, my lord. Enjoy yourself.”
Without a reply he walked out and slammed the door. Miriam stayed where she was, her mind sifting through centuries of precedents to English law, her fingers clutching the Kerr Bible. There had to be a way to challenge the queen’s obligation to send Malcolm away.
A possible solution came. Putting the book aside, she jumped from the chair and sought paper and quill from the earl’s desk. Just as she sealed the letter and tucked it in her pocket, the door opened and Mrs. Elliott walked inside, a tray in her hands.
