by Arnette Lamb
Speaking to the back of the chair facing Miriam, the housekeeper said, “I thought you and Lady Miriam would care for a pitcher of cider, my lord.”
“The earl’s gone fishing, Mrs. Elliott.”
The housekeeper’s gaze grew frantic, darting everywhere. “But he can’t be gone. The baron’s coming—” She dropped the tray. The loud crack of crockery smashing on the floor muffled the sound of her retreating footsteps.
Wrapped in a heavy tartan, Duncan leaned against the trunk of a beech and looked up. One golden leaf clung stubbornly to the tree. A stiff, chilly breeze rattled through the bare limbs, plucked up the lone leaf and carried it a few feet before dropping it in the slow moving water of the North Tyne.
Kildalton and the Cheviot Hills lay behind him, two hours’ ride to the north; to the south lay Hadrian’s Wall and Sinclair land. For centuries the property in between had been English, but now it belonged to Malcolm. By bequeathing the land to her son, Roxanne had effectively moved the English border south and deeded half of Northumberland to the heir of a Scottish earl.
Duncan chuckled, picturing the dead Scottish kings and Kenneth Kerr laughing down at him and jabbing each other in the ribs, for a shy English girl had accomplished what all their war machines and fancied-up ambassadors couldn’t.
Ambassadors. He thought of Miriam. Hatred and joy ripped at his gut. He picked up a rock and threw it into the river. Water splashed the wig and spectacles which lay on a blanket near his feet. He despised Miriam, he loved her. He had expected the English crown to take back this land; he’d never considered it his. Were it not for the people and the hardships they endured at the hands of Sinclair, Duncan would’ve turned his back on this patch of soil years ago. He hadn’t expected the queen to send a thief in the guise of a red-haired Highland lassie. He hadn’t even considered that she’d trade him miles of peat moorland in exchange for a brown-eyed laddie who loved all things Scottish, except his name.
A rotten bargain. A father’s nightmare.
His mind whirled with alternatives. He could take Malcolm and flee to France as many Scots before him had. No. Thanks to Miriam, he couldn’t go there; since the signing of the Treaty of Utrecht, the French had become allies of the English. Was there no end to her influence?
He could go to Italy or Spain. He could go to London and personally petition the queen. He could follow his father’s example and kill his English neighbor.
Faced with so many unacceptable options, Duncan let his mood deteriorate from melancholy to miserable. A decisive laird would take control of the situation. His father would have thrown Miriam in the dungeon and used her as a bargaining tool. Duncan would find another way to deal with her. Only one hard and fast decision shone in the gloom his life had become: the Border Lord would disappear.
He took a small, perverse pleasure in denying Miriam her lover. But when he thought of Miriam MacDonald, ambivalence plagued him. How could he have fallen in love with the one woman who could destroy him? How could she, of all people, have found his Achilles heel? Had the massacre at Glencoe left her so heartless that she could devastate other families and not suffer a pinch of remorse?
To think he’d pitied her. Praised her. Foolish, foolish man.
The sound and vibrations of hoofbeats drew Duncan from his black mood. He got to his feet and looked toward the Cheviot Hills. Snow clouds obscured the peaks. Icy wind buffeted him. A lone rider ran before the storm.
Minutes later, a soldier wearing a Kerr plaid jumped from his lathered mount. Breathless, he said, “Come quick, my lord. Baron Sinclair’s at Kildalton.”
Chapter 15
Letter to Alexis in hand, Miriam went in search of the acting captain of the guard. She located him across the yard near the smithy, where he was deep in conversation with a very agitated Mrs. Elliott. Arms akimbo, her face tight with strain, the housekeeper argued vehemently, but the pounding of hammer on anvil prevented Miriam from hearing what the woman said.
From the wide black stripe in his red tartan, Miriam recognized the soldier as a Lindsay, one of the clans that swore allegiance to the Kerr family. She had often seen Alexander Lindsay in the old tilt yard overseeing archery practice.
Now he looked down at Mrs. Elliott who spoke emphatically and pointed to the clansmen manning the walls. With unmistakable finality, Mr. Lindsay shook his head no. The housekeeper threw up her arms and stormed off.
Miriam took her place. After haggling with the stubborn Mr. Lindsay for twenty minutes, Miriam finally persuaded him, on threat of imprisonment, to dispatch a rider to intercept Alexis and deliver Miriam’s revised letter to the queen requesting more time. Meanwhile, Alexis would find a barrister to review the claim exempting Malcolm from the Act of Union.
As she crossed the castle yard, Miriam noticed an unusual amount of activity. From the inner bailey, a flock of sheep poured through the portcullis. Behind the bleating animals came the sheepdog, yapping incessantly and the shepherd, waving his staff. The battlements and access stairs were thick with soldiers. Like a string of ants moving crumbs, they carried crossbows and pikes. Women crowded around the well, filling earthenware pots and leather bags.
When Malcolm and Saladin emerged from the smithy, each carrying an armload of crossbow quarrels, Miriam grew alarmed. “Are we under attack?” she asked.
Malcolm, dressed in a toga and a crown of gold-tinged rowan leaves, hefted his cargo, almost spilling the arrows. “There’s riders coming from Sinclair. We must to arms!”
Saladin rolled his eyes. “Malcolm, it’s only a carriage and two outriders. Even Mrs. Elliott thinks all this preparation is silly.”
“I’m Caesar today,” he corrected. “Look! It’s the baron’s own carriage. What if he brings Alpin?” His face contorted in fear. “I’m taking cover.” Quarrels rattling in his arms, he dashed toward the steps leading up the wall, nearly tripping on his toga.
As stoic as ever, Saladin said, “Salaam, my lady.”
Perplexed at the situation, Miriam returned his greeting, but focused her attention on the scurrying soldiers and noisy livestock filling the yard. “You’d think an army was coming. The baron wouldn’t dare attack Kildalton.”
The scribe jerked his head toward the wall. “These stupid infidels think he will.”
Although the baron had seemed amenable to peace, Miriam had learned long ago not to take success for granted until the treaty was signed by both parties. “With only two outriders? That’s preposterous.”
Saladin shrugged. “Even so, I’d better do as Mr. Lindsay said and take these to the guards.”
Miriam watched him go, his yellow tunic and red boots easily visible in a sea of tartan-clad soldiers. His jewel-hilted scimitar slapped against his thigh, drawing admiring glances from the men who’d seen him wield the dangerous blade and curious stares from those who hadn’t.
A cool wind sailed through the yard, making her shiver. She looked up and saw a bank of snow clouds in the northern sky. Fear crawled up her spine. Winter loomed too close. She thought of her lover and the warmth of his arms, the heated passion he kindled into flame. She remembered his prophetic words about how she ran from her fears. The earl, too, had encouraged her and offered comfort. How lucky she was to have two such caring men in her life. Only now the earl hated her.
She went to fetch her cloak. She returned just as a team of four white horses pulling Baron Sinclair’s high-wheeled, gilt-trimmed carriage rolled into the yard.
Again, she wondered how he afforded so costly an equipage. Considering the poor state of his household, his coin would be better spent on dowries for his eligible female relations and careers for the males. She’d seen worse spendthrifts, although none of those men and women had had so many responsibilities and dependents as the baron. With the queen’s help, his financial burden would be considerably lighter.
Pulling her cloak snug about her and putting on a smile, she joined Mrs. Elliott who stood ready to greet their unexpected and seemingly unwelcome guest. Saladin an
d a very quiet Malcolm waited nearby.
She scrutinized the outriders, trying to match these men with the brigands the earl had described. The one on the left was a stick of man with a tooth missing in front. The other man was indeed average in all things, but did his ragged velvet cap hide a balding pate? Had those men spent time in Newgate? Why hadn’t she seen them at Sinclair’s?
She leaned close to Saladin and whispered, “Watch me. When I nod, you go find Mary Elizabeth’s mother.”
He whispered back, “I know where she is.”
“Good. Bring her close enough to look at those two men on horseback. Ask her if she’s seen them before. Keep her calm.”
Miriam returned to her place beside Mrs. Elliott. Saladin stared straight ahead, his eyes sharply scouring the riders.
At the driver’s hearty “whoa,” Miriam put on a smile. In fancy but mended livery, the driver jumped from the seat and hurried to open the door. No sooner had he pulled down the steps than Aubrey Townsend, Baron Sinclair began to emerge. The endeavor took the better part of a minute and drew the attention of everyone in the castle yard, for when he unfolded himself from the conveyance, he stood an impressive six feet ten inches tall.
Fearful children squealed and dashed for the safety of their mothers’ skirts; the soldiers hitched up their kilts and exchanged nervous glances. Malcolm gulped and moved closer to Saladin.
Mrs. Elliott winked and softly said, “Don’t fret, O Great Caesar. He’s naught but a selfish man with two centurions. You have legions at your command.”
Hope flickered in his eyes, but dimmed when the baron strolled toward them.
Miriam carefully regarded the guest, who reminded her of a hawker she’d once seen at Fenchurch Fair. On stilts, the man had towered above the throng.
Dressed in a waistcoat and knee breeches of parrot green brocade, the baron cut a fashionable, if emaciated figure. He wore white stockings with padding at the calves, white satin shoes with gold buckles, and a plumed hat over a powdered bag wig. Every detail of his appearance, from the high crown of the hat to the scroll-like heels of his shoes, had been carefully planned to accentuate his extraordinary height.
The short of it was, he enjoyed being tall.
With fingers as long as dinner knives, he rearranged his lace-ruffled cuffs and scanned the yard. When he spotted Malcolm and Saladin, he jerked his neck like an inquisitive rooster.
“Have I interrupted a costume ball?” he said, eyeing their unusual clothing, his gaze lingering on Saladin’s blade.
Malcolm didn’t move so much as an eyelash. Saladin spread his legs and folded his arms over his chest. Like Miriam, the lad had seen too much of the world and too many of its oddities to fall prey to the baron’s intimidation. He glanced at Miriam. She nodded.
Expecting no reply from either boy, Sinclair pulled his thin lips into a smile.
Saladin walked casually away.
Not bothering to acknowledge Mrs. Elliott, the baron looked down from his great height and said, “You look radiant, my dear Miriam, even in this rustic setting.”
During her stay at his home, Miriam had listened to hundreds of barbed insults on everything from the changing weather to the dances at court. Whatever the baron couldn’t control, he criticized.
Disappointed that he had brought his poor manners with him, she glanced pointedly at the towers of Kildalton. “Rustic, my lord? ’Tis an odd word for so noble a structure, as I was just telling Mrs. Elliott. And I believe we agreed that you would address me as Lady Miriam.”
His knees locked, but his smile remained. “You had me agreeing to any number of things, now that I think of it.” He glanced at the battlements and milling soldiers, and smirked as if pleased that his presence warranted such preparations. “Where is Duncan? Manning a pot of boiling oil?”
Considering the earl’s mood when he departed, Miriam felt relief at his absence. The baron’s snide remark irritated her, but as a guest in the earl’s household, she couldn’t challenge another guest.
She deferred to Mrs. Elliott, who curtsied and said, “He’s gone fishing, my lord. May I give him a message?”
The baron relaxed, his legs settling into a noticeable bow and his arms dangling at his sides. “Fishing? How creative of Duncan. A pity I’ve missed him. But I actually came to see Lady Miriam, and my dear grandson, Malcolm, of course. How are you, boy?”
Malcolm gasped. “I am Caesar. I don’t have to answer you and I can order you out of my castle if I choose.”
The baron winked at Miriam. “Choose not, O Great Caesar. I am your servant.” Then he turned toward the carriage and snapped his fingers. “Alpin … come out, girl,” he crooned, as if she were a shy animal he was trying to snare.
Malcolm began tying knots in his toga sash.
When the girl appeared in the door of the carriage, Miriam blinked in surprise. The six-year-old Alpin might pull pranks and terrorize her many siblings, but dressed as she was in a frilly concoction of pink satin decorated with red rosettes, she looked the perfect angel. Her mane of auburn curls had been ironed and braided into thick coils and wound tightly over her ears.
“Come, come, girl,” coaxed the baron, motioning with his hand. “Show Malcolm what you have for him.”
Yanking her panniered skirt to the side, she tromped down the steps, her slight weight barely tipping the well-sprung carriage. An angry storm roiled in her unusual violet eyes, and the set of her square jaw revealed a tightly contained fury.
Malcolm laughed at her. “Look at you all dressed in skirts.”
With a flick of her wrist, she folded the steps away. “This is what I think of you, monkey-faced Malcolm.” She leaned into the carriage, the steel cage of her miniature farthingale hiking up in back to reveal tiny buttocks and slender legs clad in patched leather breeches that were frayed at the knees.
“Spirited child,” murmured the baron. “Takes after her mother, my dearly departed second cousin. A great loss to me, but one I’ve learned to bear. I, of course, saw to the expense of the poor woman’s funeral and took in her child.”
Alpin whirled, her delicate fingers clutching the handle of a large wicker basket. “My mother was your third cousin,” she grumbled, marching toward them. “You never even set your beady eyes on her. You had her buried in a moth-ridden horse blanket.”
The baron chuckled. “The child has a bizarre sense of humor.”
“Huh,” huffed the girl. “I didn’t want to come here today. Kildalton castle stinks like a sewer.”
As she came closer, Malcolm whimpered.
The baron reached down to clasp Alpin’s shoulder, which only reached his knees. She jerked away and craned her neck to sneer at him. “Get your grimy hands off me, Baron Sin.”
God, the little child had spunk, thought Miriam.
“Smile, Alpin, and give Malcolm the gift.”
Her mouth widened in a grin so false it made Miriam wince.
Malcolm took a deep breath and said, “You—you lo-look very pretty today, Alpin.”
She set the basket down. “You’re a sniveling cur, Malcolm. I hate you.”
He swallowed loudly. “Then why’d you bring me a present? Is it poison?”
“’Twasn’t my idea. There.”
As fearful as his father had been at his first meeting with Verbatim, Malcolm stretched out an arm and lifted one side of the basket. A fat brown hare, its ears laid back, blinked and wiggled its whiskered nose.
Malcolm sighed with delight and said, “Thank you. I’ve never had a rabbit for a pet.”
“Her name’s Hattie.” Alpin picked up the animal and cuddled it to her breast. “She likes dried berries and fresh berries, and … and carrots with the tops on. Lots of carrots. Every day.” Alpin bit her lip, squeezed her eyes shut, and buried her face in the rabbit’s soft fur.
Miriam’s heart ached for the lively, brave girl who had no real family to care about her. She glanced up at the baron, who was busy surveying the row of merchants’ huts that com
promised the commerce of Kildalton.
Miriam saw Saladin near the smithy, Betsy Lindsay at his side. The woman took one look at the outriders and slapped her hand over her mouth. Saladin moved in front of her, blocking her view. The feather in his turban jiggled as he spoke. Betsy nodded, then allowed him to lead her away.
Miriam had to struggle to keep her temper in check. The baron had lied when she questioned him about the two men. He would regret it.
Knowing she now had hard evidence against him, Miriam turned her attention to the meanest child she’d ever met.
“She only has three legs,” Alpin went on. “But she can hop as fast as anything. Here. Take her.” She held out her hands.
Malcolm took the rabbit. “Thank you. But isn’t she yours?”
Alpin stared at his toga. “I don’t want her anymore.”
“Alpin loves to share with the other children,” said the baron.
“Oh.” Malcolm stroked the hare’s ears. The furry creature wiggled in his arms. He sought a better hold. “What happened to her leg?”
Dusting her hands and trying desperately not to cry, Alpin said, “She lost it in a trap, but she’s all healed now.”
“How did you find her?”
“The Night Angel brought her to me. He watches out for little girls and animals. He swears Hattie’s not really a cripple, no matter what anybody says.”
“Always patching up some wounded beast,” said the baron. “The stable’s full of them—birds with broken wings, a blind lamb, a toothless badger. She even has a litter of fox kits.”
Alpin pretended to spit on the ground. “That’s because you and that fat magistrate ran their mother to death.”
“If it were up to Alpin, hunts would be outlawed,” the baron commented dryly. “We’d all spend our leisure spinning yarns about the Border Lord.”
“He’s the Night Angel,” Alpin spat.
“Mind your manners, child,” said the baron.
To Malcolm, Alpin said, “Don’t forget to scratch her—there—under her chin. If you want to, I mean. She kind of likes it. She’s yours now. You can scratch her anywhere you want or not at all.” She sniffled a little and wiped her nose on her fancy sleeve.
