by Arnette Lamb
A shudder went through Duncan. Like a blow from a cherished hand he realized the cruelty of his plan. Of all the ways to punish her, to hurt her, a blood-soaked tartan topped the list.
How could he have been so thoughtless?
He swiveled and planted both feet on the parcel.
“What’s wrong, Duncan? You said that package was for me. Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind, for I do so love surprises.”
Before he could stop her, she yanked the package loose. Too late, he saw her pull on the string. The oil cloth fell away, revealing the tartan cape of the Border Lord, caked in dried pig’s blood.
Her knees buckled, and she gripped the edge of his desk for support. “Sweet Saint Ninian,” she said, then pressed her lips together. The garment slipped from her hand and fell in a heap on the rug.
The cruelties he’d rehearsed died on his lips.
She swallowed hard, and her disbelieving gaze scoured his face. “You called me here to give me this?”
The reply burned like a fire in his throat.
“Is he … dead?”
The unspoken plea in her haunted eyes made Duncan feel like the lowest worm. But he’d gone too far to turn back now. “Aye. I’m sorry.” The sorriest wretch in Christendom. “’Twas an accident. A rogue bull charged him. A cowherd found his—found him.”
She choked back a sob, and her eyes drifted out of focus. What was she seeing? The answer brought him to his feet—the massacre of her parents. He crushed her to his chest and held on tight. “Don’t, Miriam,” he begged. “Please don’t think about Glencoe.”
“I wasn’t, really.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “I was thinking about Ian dying alone. No one should, you know. Someone ought to be there to honor the passing of a life.”
Talons of agony raked Duncan’s soul. “As you witnessed your father’s?”
She nodded and shivered, her breath fanning his neck. “I’m always cold, you know. That’s why I bought the cottage in Bath. The water’s warm there all year round.”
A little girl orphaned in a frozen Highland glen. A grown woman still shivering at the memory. A heartless bastard who’d carelessly brought her past to life. “Tell me about the cottage.”
When he’d held this very special woman in his arms and heard her tale of a Highland tragedy, Duncan had marveled at her strength of will. She gave him reason to marvel again when she sighed and stepped away from him, her chin held high, her dignity a shimmering mantle. “Thank you, Duncan Kerr, for asking. But if you’ll excuse me, I—I’ll just go to my room. I’d like to be alone with my—” A sad laugh escaped her. “I’d like to be alone.”
His arms quivered with the need to pull her back, to hold her and say the words that would take away her pain. But if he told her the truth now, all of it, what would she do? Was she capable of exacting a revenge as painful as the one he had heaped on her? Would spite drive her to send Malcolm to Baron Sinclair?
Duncan didn’t know. He’d made a mess of things. But he’d set them right, somehow. Someday he’d win her forgiveness and her love, but if he made one false move, she’d scurry out of his life faster than she’d come into it.
Hating himself, he watched her pick up the tartan and walk from the room. Then he took off his spectacles and dashed into the tunnel. Fast as he could, he raced down the corridor and up the circular stairway to the second floor. Seconds later, he moved the panel aside and pushed open the wardrobe door.
He had just recovered his breath when she entered her bedroom and locked the door.
Like an exotic bird shedding its glorious plumage, she cast off her inherent composure. Her eyes filled with tears; her shoulders slumped. Feet dragging, she made her way to the bed, where she collapsed, the cape clutched to her breast as if it were the lover she mourned.
His own heart breaking, his fists clenched to prevent him from ripping the wardrobe apart to get to her and console her, Duncan listened to her every sob, watched her every movement, and imprinted on his mind the memory of her grief.
When she quieted, he thought she’d cried herself to sleep. But just as he turned to go, she rolled onto her back and stared at the canopy.
“At first, I didn’t even know you were there,” she said.
Duncan went still. Had she discovered him?
She put the tartan aside and placed both hands on her stomach. “I hadn’t even considered that he might give me you.”
Her meaning hit Duncan like an ax handle in his gut. He flinched and stifled a groan. At one time he had hoped to impregnate her, had wanted to force her hand.
“I guess I should tell you now, sweet babe, you’ve a rather odd bird for a mother. I can make peace with France, but I can’t be bothered to notice that I’ve missed my menses. But you won’t be neglected, I promise. You’ll have Alexis, same as I did, and you’ll love her, too. I wonder what she’ll say? I know. She’ll give me advice on raising you in fourteen languages.”
Her bittersweet smile nearly broke Duncan’s heart. She’d just been told of the death of her lover, and instead of cursing him for leaving her pregnant, she found strength and comfort in impending motherhood.
His child.
“I wonder,” she said, drawing up her knees and putting her hands behind her head. “Do you think I should move to Bath and live in disgrace, little babe? Or should I find you a father?”
He bloody well has a father, Duncan wanted to yell.
“I’ll tell you about the Border Lord one day, when you’re older—” A sharp sob halted her. “That’s another thing you should know about me, sweet babe. I’m not at all skilled at catching men. I mean, I have been courted, but the men usually have political matters on their minds and not romance.”
That will change, Miriam. I promise you.
He carefully closed the panel and walked to his study. With every step, he thought of a way to woo her. By the time he was done courting Miriam MacDonald, he’d have her convinced she was the greatest catch since Elizabeth Tudor.
Chapter 17
Katharina the shrew had been a better catch than Miriam MacDonald. Yet it was up to her to find a Petruchio of her own.
As she sat in front of the hearth in her chamber and brushed her hair dry, Miriam thought of the odd twists and turns her life had taken and how they had affected her future.
While other young girls plied their needles and perfected their fan waving, Miriam had packed up her perfect memory and plied her diplomatic wares. Her only valuables stemmed from years of poorly rewarded service to a country she seldom saw and a queen she didn’t respect.
For dowry, Miriam could offer her husband a charming cottage in Bath. Rather than a bride’s chest of delicately embroidered linens, she possessed a serviceable traveling trunk overflowing with a mix-match of gratuities. Among her souvenirs were a silver chalice from the duke of Burgundy, a fur-lined cape of blue velvet from a Prussian prince, and a dozen miniature portraits of noblemen who probably wished they’d never set eyes on Miriam MacDonald.
When she wasn’t haggling for better trade routes or bargaining for peace, she negotiated marriage contracts. Beneath the ceremony and the business she convinced a groom to take a woman or sometimes a child to wife. Often the couple had never met.
How many brides had Miriam delivered to the altar? Twenty-six. How many had never considered they were entitled to anything above what their fathers had provided or beyond what their future husbands offered? Twenty-six.
Miriam always managed a bit more for the women: an annual visit home to Kent for the new duchess of Orleans; a stipend for an aging nun who had cared for the new countess of Vendee; a dovecote and greenhouse for the second wife of King Ahmed III.
What boon would she negotiate for herself? A name and legitimacy for the child of the Border Lord.
Melancholy sapped her strength. Her shoulders slumped and the silver-backed brush grew heavy in her hand. She raked her thumb over the boar bristles until her skin tingled. After loving a man of passi
on and having her heart ground to dust, she didn’t want to think about matrimony. Sorrow turned to anger. Why hadn’t he seen the charging bull? He should have taken more care of himself, for her sake and the sake of their child. How could he have been so thoughtless to leave her and their child? A child he’d never comfort, a life he wouldn’t share, a happiness he’d never know. Then again, he’d never promised her anything. Who’s to say he would have married her?
Yet when she searched her heart and scoured her memory for images of her dark lover, she saw an elusive man shrouded in mystery. Were it not for the babe in her womb, Miriam wondered if she might have imagined her Lancelot and the wild nights they had shared.
Tears threatened, prickling her eyes and tightening her throat. She took a deep breath. She must forget her grief and think of the future. She needed an understanding and reasonable man who didn’t mind damaged goods and was willing to look the other way if her lying-in cut their honeymoon short. Like a well provisioned raft in a sea of broken dreams, the quest for so princely a fellow offered sad hope for her future.
But first she had to finish her work in the Borders. So she put aside her private troubles, completed her toilet and donned a heavy wool gown, then joined the earl in the keeping room.
Duncan smiled shyly and indicated a table set for two near the fireplace. “I asked Mrs. Elliott to serve us here. ’Tis warmer—what with all the snow outside. I thought we might visit first.”
“How very thoughtful of you to remember that I hate the cold.”
He escorted her to a chair. “I call it a Lowlander’s perfection of Highland hospitality.”
Once seated, she watched him stroll across the room and return with a bottle of wine. Since learning battle skills, he carried himself with a casual, yet commanding grace, his well-muscled calves neatly encased in cabled stockings that were gartered just below his bare knees. A white silk shirt with billowing sleeves set off to perfection the masculine elegance of his Kerr plaid. Wrapped in the formal fashion normally reserved for a dress affair, the tartan was tightly belted at his waist, the end draped in a generous fold over his shoulder and secured there with a brooch bearing the blazing sun of his clan. A magnificent beaver sporran, ornamented with golden tassels and a jeweled clasp, dangled from a heavy chain and lay in manly splendor against his groin.
Womanly heat spiraled through her, and with newly acquired experience she thought of what lay beneath his chieftain’s pouch. The lustful reaction surprised and disgusted Miriam. No broken-hearted waif cruelly abandoned by an ill-fated lover, she responded to the earl of Kildalton with the zest of a fickle femme jilted by a passing swain. She was supposed to be grieving for the Border Lord, the man she had loved with all her heart.
The earl smiled and tucked a wayward strand of honey-colored hair behind his ear. Then he took his seat and removed his spectacles.
She stared, stunned, at the symmetry and bright green color of his eyes. The thick lenses hadn’t exaggerated the length of his lashes, for they almost touched his eyebrows. “You look very different without those.”
He rolled the wire stem between his thumb and forefinger, setting the glasses twirling like a whirligig. “I see differently without them, too.”
Softly spoken, the vague statement contained a wealth of intimacy. “Oh?”
“Aye.” He put the spectacles aside and pulled the cork from the bottle. Red wine sloshed loudly into her goblet. “From this distance I see that you just washed your hair. It shines like polished copper.” Filling his own goblet, he added, “Must be the light from the fire.”
If she hadn’t known better, she might have suspected he had seduction on his mind. But not the earl; he was simply making conversation and befriending her. “It could be Mrs. Elliott’s fine soap,” Miriam said.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, his nostrils gently flaring. “Ah, heather. ’Tis the smell of Scotland, and my second favorite fragrance.”
She held up her glass to toast him. “Second? Tell me your first choice.”
His eyes drifted open, and though his gaze didn’t stray from hers, he reached for his goblet. “Cheers.” Pewter clinked against pewter. “The mountain mist. ’Tis an unforgettable and altogether bracing experience for the senses.”
“What a coincidence. ’Tis my favorite fragrance, too.”
His eyebrows arched. He extended his hand. “Truly? Let me smell.”
She offered her arm, her palm up. His fingers closed over her wrist, which looked fragile and pale against his strong and work-worn hand. He leaned over and sniffed, then exhaled. Her hand trembled, her skin tingling from the rush of his warm breath. She stared at the crown of his head. His mane of golden hair shimmered like warm honey in the firelight. How could she have thought he was the Border Lord? Because she loved and missed Ian and was attracted to the earl’s fair features and gentle disposition.
Alarmed at her own breathlessness, she said the first thing that popped into her mind. “You’re not wearing a wig.”
He gave her hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it. “Oh that. At first I thought to gain your favor with fancy dress and refined speech, but—” He shrugged. “Then we became friends, and I learned that you don’t judge me for the clothing I wear or the way I speak my words. You’re more interested in the person I am and the truths I tell … and the ones I stretch a wee bit.”
His easy way with conversation warmed her more than the fire. “You look splendid in your tartan.” Feeling easy, too, she added, “I remember my father wearing his plaid. He always kept sweets just for me in his sporran.”
“Lucky you. Malcolm keeps newts in mine.”
She laughed. “Do you know that’s the first time I’ve spoken of my father in a cordial, normal way.” The observation pleased her to her soul.
“I do hope you’ll tell me more about him and you. Seems I’m always doing the talking.”
It wasn’t true, but the comment reminded her again of how much diplomacy Duncan Kerr had learned. She sought a safe, but friendly subject. “That’s not the same sporran I’ve seen Malcolm with.”
“Oh, no. My ancestors would rise from the dead and throw me off the family throne if I let him get his foosty hands on so prized a piece of Scottish finery.”
“But you’ll give it to him someday, and he’ll pass it on to his son.”
“Maybe.” He took a long drink of the wine. The corded muscles in his throat rippled as he swallowed.
Her own mouth grew dry. “You mustn’t take for gospel what the midwife said about Malcolm not being able to sire children. The eastern countries have made a science of health and medicine. There are fine physicians here, too. A doctor in Edinburgh will know better about such things.”
“Well,” he said with finality. “’Tis a bit early yet to worry over … such things.”
“But surely you have cause to worry. Heirs are vital to a man of your position.”
“May I speak frankly, Miriam?”
He might have asked if she liked the wine, so casual was his question. Naturally she said, “Please do.”
Pushing the dinner plate aside, he propped his elbows on the table. “I think too much importance is put on the getting of heirs and too little on the feelings and happiness of the people involved. Take virginity, for instance. If a man is so desperate for bairns of his own blood, why take to wife an unproven breeder?” He set down the goblet and traced the rim with the tip of his index finger. “No decent or intelligent man should refuse to take a woman to wife because she’d fulfilled one of the roles God created her for. ’Tis my belief that a prospective husband should rejoice in finding such a woman.”
How sweet and logical a man he was. She only hoped he wasn’t unique, for she needed a man who shared his progressive philosophy. “I’m sorry to tell you most men are advocates of bridal purity.”
“They’re also fiends for gambling and bear-baiting. But not Duncan Armstrong Kerr. True, I’d love a castleful of lads and lassies, but ’tis unfair
to expect a virgin to know if she can deliver them safely. ’Tis also dangerous for a woman to conceive too often.”
He was thinking of his dead wife. Miriam’s heart went out to him. “I’m sorry about Roxanne.”
Tenderness glowed warmly in his eyes. “Don’t be sad for the lass. She died doing the thing that made her life worthwhile. She wanted Malcolm more than … more than England wants Scotland. Or more than I want peace in the Border.”
Miriam could have reminded him that the Act of Union had settled the matter of Scotland’s sovereignty, but she wouldn’t risk losing their congeniality. “You’ll have peace here, Duncan. I promise you.”
“I’ll have my son, too. I trow you’ll find a way for me to keep him.”
Suddenly wary of his overconfidence in her limited abilities, Miriam took his hand. “Please don’t expect too much. The people who govern this land and advise our queen see children as faceless pieces of property. Twice last year, our queen used children as hostages to gain peace between bickering families.”
Lines of worry creased his forehead. “What families?”
She had no intention of compromising her integrity, even for a man she had come to admire. “The names aren’t important. Neither is their rank. Just remember that because of the queen’s chronic illnesses, she often acts rashly.”
“If you ask me, I think she takes that old Stewart belief in the divine right of kings too far—a poor legacy from so noble and mighty a clan. I swear to you, Miriam, the next time I marry, I’ll take an orphan to wife. I’ve had enough of troubles with in-laws to last three lifetimes.”
Pray she found a man who shared his belief on that matter, too. “What about family loyalty? Won’t you miss that?”
He stared into the fire. The reflection of the yellow flames danced in his green eyes and changed the color to blue. Changeable, she realized, had become her byword for Duncan Kerr.
“Children,” he said, “should be taught respect for their elders, but they shouldna be burdened or prejudiced by their parents’ opinions. Who knows? When Malcolm comes of age he may make a friend of Aubrey Townsend. Just because the baron and I have problems doesna mean that Malcolm will. I’m determined never to influence him in this. He’ll pick his own friends and make his own enemies.”
