by Arnette Lamb
Miriam grew defensive, thinking about the atrocity the Glenlyon Campbells had visited on her parents and the misery she’d suffered as a result. “What of crimes that go unpunished? The law isn’t always fair, and the courts are not always just. You of all people should understand that—considering your association with Avery Chilton-Wall.”
“Thanks to you, the point is moot here in the Borders. The Highlands doona fare so well. Revenge and the passing of hatred from father to son are weakening the clan system. Ultimately they’ll destroy it.”
She understood and agreed with the principle behind his philosophy, but her particular case was different. Wasn’t it?
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
Oddly she wanted to explain why it was so important to her that the Glenlyon Campbells pay for their crimes against the Glencoe MacDonalds. Odder still, the old argument sounded shallow. Confused, she chose another benign topic. “I was thinking about how much I like the wine.”
He looked away, but not before she saw disappointment cloud his eyes. “I’m delighted it meets with your approval,” he said, pained sarcasm in his voice.
Now was not the time to examine the reasons behind his withdrawal or to apologize for keeping her problems to herself. So she sent her mind darting through the maze of his predicament and saw a possible solution. “I have an idea.”
He poured more wine. “I’m listening. I love ideas—especially yours.”
“Could you build a new residence on Malcolm’s property in Northumberland—on Roxanne’s dowry land? Nothing elaborate, but an estate large enough to support a modest household and a small garrison of soldiers.”
His piercing gaze searched her face. “Aye, but what good would that do?”
“The baron complained to Her Majesty that you deprived him of Malcolm’s company. If your son had his own place, one in close proximity to the baron’s land, then Malcolm could go there from time to time—say on rent days. Sinclair could visit. He’d have no cause for complaint on that score.”
Duncan’s shoulders drooped. “Nay, but I would complain. What if the baron moves in and brings his household with him? That’s the same as Malcolm living at Sinclair Manor.”
“No, it’s not. Not if the new estate is small.”
Duncan grinned and snapped his lingers. “Of course. You’re brilliant, Miriam. I’ll design the doorways this high.” He held out his flattened palm to a height that would hardly reach the waist of the towering baron. “I’ll even build it near the road and offer to keep a fresh team of horses for the mail coach.”
Although caught up in his exuberance, she forced herself to say, “Please understand, Duncan, that I’m not promising it will sway the queen. But I think she will see your good intentions behind the gesture. You’d also be practicing what you just preached about allowing Malcolm to develop his own relationship with the baron.”
“I stand by my beliefs.” He slapped his hand over his clan badge. “I do think your plan will work. But, please understand, Miriam, I love my son, and I intend to be a father to him.”
A father. By modern standards the term was at best ambiguous. Most men never set foot in a nursery, and when their sons were old enough, they were fostered or shipped off to school. Not until they were adults and eligible for membership in the fashionable clubs did sons gain a passing knowledge of their sires. “I’ll do my very best to help you maintain that right.”
He sighed in relief, and passed a hand over his forehead. “Thank you. You may forget I said I’d consider marrying the baron’s niece. My conscience won’t allow me to use the girl.”
Miriam, too, felt relief; a man as kind as Duncan Kerr deserved to choose his own wife. A voice inside her said take me, Duncan, take me. But it was just her broken heart pleading for comfort. “I think that’s a wise choice.”
He almost beamed. “As soon as we’ve eaten, I think we should tell Malcolm that his estates are about to double.”
“You mean we’ll tell Saint Francis of Assisi. That’s who he’s chosen today.”
Chuckling, Duncan said, “Aye, and he wrote a very nice essay on the good friar. It seems he’s extended his position as caretaker of Hattie, who has taken up residence under his bed. He’s now lord high protector of the animal kingdom.”
“I’ll tell Alpin when I see her.” Miriam waved a hand over the empty plates. “What are we having tonight?”
He winced. “The cook planned the menu prior to the arrival of Hattie. We’re having braised wild hare and carrots.”
Miriam smiled. “Do the carrots have the tops on?”
Playfully, he wagged his finger at her. “Malcolm told me about Hattie’s diet, and you, Miriam MacDonald, have a delightful, if dark, sense of humor.”
Happiness coiled inside her, and she basked in the glow of their friendship. During the course of the meal they talked of everything from French wine to Roman architecture. Duncan complained that the baron made a practice of tearing down portions of Hadrian’s Wall whenever the stone fences on his land needed mending.
Later she and Duncan visited Malcolm. Dressed in a plain gray robe, he knelt on the bed. Saladin sat cross-legged facing him. The scribe expounded on the spiritual rewards and humanitarian benefits of the Muslim way of life. Malcolm, in his role of devoted friar, lectured on the humanitarian rewards and spiritual benefits of perfect poverty.
Upon hearing of the proposed castle, Malcolm merely shrugged and said a new house was fine with him, so long as it had a very large stable … “to shelter God’s creatures. Be sure to build a dungeon in it, Papa … for Alpin.”
For the next week, Miriam often found herself in the company of the earl of Kildalton. Every morning, under the charming pretense of walking Verbatim, he meandered across the snow-covered yard to remind the soldiers to keep a lookout for a messenger from the queen. He smiled and chatted in the friendliest of ways, but Miriam knew that beneath the cordial exterior he agonized over the possibility of losing his son. Without giving him false hope, she did her best to ease his torment.
Most afternoons they spent before a roaring fire in the keeping room. She learned he had a ravenous sweet tooth, and he insisted she share the many confections the kitchen staff prepared. Miriam needed little coaxing, for along with her delicate condition came an insatiable appetite.
Once he’d settled on a design for Malcolm’s second home and sent for a surveyor, Duncan turned his attention to playing chess or cards with Miriam or sharing a book from his library. Day by day, Malcolm grew better but declined to leave his room. Saladin stayed with him.
Night after night, Miriam curled up in her lonely bed, and when treasured memories of her lost love robbed her of sleep, she sought solace in one-sided conversations with the child. As strange as it seemed, she often felt the Border Lord’s comfort, and sometimes in the dark of night, she actually sensed her lover’s presence in the room.
I’ll be in your heart, love, and in every breath you take.
By all rights she should be desperate, mired as she was in the worst of life’s circumstances. To the contrary, she felt at peace. She had a friend in Duncan Kerr. Motherhood loomed ahead. She’d find a decent husband; London was rife with possibilities. Everything would work out.
On Sunday, Duncan insisted she accompany him to church. When she politely declined, he folded his arms over his chest and tapped his booted foot.
“Why won’t you go? Are you a Muslim, too?”
Flabbergasted at his absurdity, she blurted, “I don’t like the cold—especially the snow.”
“Neither do I,” he said. “But ’tis quite lovely out, and I have a sleigh.”
“A sleigh? How progressive of you. Imagine that, a troika in England.”
“Scotland,” he corrected.
“I take back what I said about progress. You’re no free thinker.”
“Nothing’s free, Miriam.” He jiggled his eyebrows. “But we could negotiate. I’ve learned a trick or two from you.”
His bravado made her chuckle. “Be my guest, Duncan. What have you to offer?”
“I have the aforementioned sleigh, pulled by a trio of hairy-legged horses from the dales of Clyde. I had the farrier outfit the beasts with bells and blinders. Mrs. Elliott has stuffed a basket with enough food and drink to make a Frenchman forsake his homeland. The stableman put warmed bricks in the floor of our fine conveyance, and it’s piled mountain-high with furs and tartans.”
The invitation in his eyes tempted her more than his words. “An admirable presentation, Duncan. But I had my fill of sleigh rides in Russia.”
“Scotland,” he said indignantly, “is hardly Russia. I’ll show you a family of badgers. We’ll tiptoe to a special clearing and watch the deer feed. Come on, Miriam. Say aye. No one else will ride in it with me. ’Tis no fun to frolic alone in a sleigh big enough for a butcher’s family. We’ll even take Verbatim. She needs the exercise.”
His charming speech robbed Miriam of objections. Besides, she had always wanted to conquer her fear of winter. Who better to face it with than her new friend, Duncan Kerr?
True to his word, Duncan had seen to her every comfort She sat buried to her chin in an enormous pile of furs. The heated bricks warmed her feet; the good man beside her warmed her heart. The peaceful, pristine morning came alive with the jingling of sleigh bells and the whoosh of runners over the frozen road. Verbatim loped alongside the team until a scent caught her interest. Nose down, tail up, the sleuthhound dashed after her quarry, kicking up snow and leaving a distinctive trail in the winter carpet that blanketed the land.
When the towers of Kildalton faded from view and the world turned white from horizon to horizon, Miriam grew apprehensive. Duncan must have sensed her fear, for he pointed out dozens of landmarks and explained in detail the route and distance they traveled. Then under the guise of playing Malcolm’s favorite guessing game, he quizzed her on finding her way home. The simple drill occupied her mind, and with ease she answered every question correctly. But the reassurance and praise of the man soothed her fears more than her perfect recall of the knowledge he imparted.
After the church service, he offered sleigh rides to the children of Kildalton. They held back, their eyes huge with fear of the modern contraption and the giant horses.
Sensing his disappointment, Miriam addressed the crowd of youngsters. “Children in Russia aren’t afraid of sleighs. Sometimes they drag them into the house and use them for beds.”
Mary Elizabeth, the girl Verbatim had rescued, held up her arms and declared, “I’m as brave as any Russian lass. Take me first.”
With great melodrama, Duncan pointed his toe, swept off his chieftain’s bonnet, and bowed deeply. “’Twould be my absolute pleasure, Mistress Mary.”
The girl giggled. He swung her in the air and deposited her atop the mountain of furs. The older lads mimicked his courtly manners and assisted the other lassies into the sleigh, then whooped and whistled and clamored into the conveyance. They spent the day traversing the countryside and singing country songs. Mary Elizabeth presented Verbatim with, a collar of dried rowan berries strung on a stout cord. Miriam received a fragrant garland of evergreen. Duncan was presented a crown of dried heather and proclaimed the High King of Winter.
Just as the sun began to slip below the horizon, Miriam and Duncan returned to Kildalton. The bronze glow of twilight lent a peaceful air to their homecoming. The mellow atmosphere was shattered when Miriam spied a herald pacing the castle yard, his royal blue jerkin emblazoned with the queen’s coat of arms.
A weight settled about her shoulders. Her work would begin now. She must sharpen her knives of logic and carve out a compromise. She could reach Duncan. She could manipulate the baron. Whittling away at the divine right of a Stewart required a careful balance of tact and aggression.
She reached for Duncan. “The herald’s name is Evan Givins.”
The flush of cold faded from Duncan’s face. He exhaled, his breath clouding the icy air. “You know him? You’ve … met him before?”
Turning toward him, she leaned forward so he could see her face. “I’ve worked with him, Duncan. He’s a good man and trustworthy. Please remember, he’s only a messenger. I’m certain if it were up to him, he’d rather be sitting by the fire in the Cock and Bottle Tavern, quaffing a pint of stout.”
Fists clutching the reins, Duncan twisted his wrists to slow the team. The sleigh skidded to a halt. Verbatim dashed up the stairs to greet the newcomer.
“I cannot say I’m sorry he’s here,” said Duncan. “’Tis better done quickly, you ken?”
Was he ready to be rid of her? No, her heart cried. What will we do? Her mind demanded. We’ll do what’s expected of us. “Aye, I ken,” she said. “Try not to worry.”
His piercing gaze searched hers. “If you think I won’t, Miriam MacDonald, then you’ve a wee bit to learn about me.
She had about a million things to learn about him. Pity she wouldn’t get the chance. Her search for a husband must take precedence over friendship. If only he would marry her. She squelched the thought. A man of his noble stature would demand too great a dowry. “Trust me,” she whispered.
On shaky legs, Duncan stepped from the sleigh. Trust her. He wanted to. Christ, he wanted to. Miriam MacDonald tempted him. Her confidence lured him. The woman herself captured his heart.
He grasped her around the waist and lowered her to the ground. Half his mind focused on the child she carried; the other half on the child upstairs. He escorted her up the main steps and stood transfixed by fear as she accepted the leather pouch. Duncan fought the urge to rip it out of her hands. Instead, he said, “I’ll be waiting in my study.”
He watched her enter the castle and disappear up the stairs, the sleuthhound at her side. After asking Mrs. Elliott to see to the comfort of the herald, Duncan made his way to his study, poured himself a brandy, and sat before the fire.
He’d known the queen’s messenger was coming. He’d agonized over the herald’s arrival. But out of consideration for Miriam, he’d hidden his concern. She hadn’t suspected that his generosity in offering to walk the sleuthhound had been a guise. Every morning, the dog at his side, he’d gone to Alexander Lindsay and reminded the soldier to keep a sharp lookout for the herald.
Duncan searched his soul for regrets, for mistakes in his actions toward Sinclair, but even given the chance to relive the last ten years, he could think of nothing he would have changed. Within the bounds of his own good conscience, he’d acted reasonably. He’d never taken a life. In the same circumstances, his father would have cut a bloody swath through the villages of Sinclair and left with the baron’s head on a pike. For a decade, Duncan had fought the demons of his upbringing and stretched his patience to the breaking point. Not once had he forsaken his principles. True, he’d resurrected the legend of the Border Lord to reclaim his property. Yes, he’d frightened English tenants. But never had he considered raising the quarrel to bloodshed.
For hours, he wrestled with the events of his past and brooded over his uncertain future with the woman upstairs. He wanted to tell her the truth, that he’d seduced her as the Border Lord and tricked her as Duncan Kerr. He wanted to confess that in either role he loved her to distraction, would love her always, even if the queen took away his son. But if he told Miriam now, she might react in anger. He couldn’t jeopardize Malcolm’s future. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.
Weary, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
A mist swirled around him, concealing him and his hiding place. “Come out, Duncan.” He heard his father yell. “You’ll learn to wield a broadsword, and you’ll learn now, laddie. Or I swear by Saint Columba, I’ll blister your buttocks. You’ll not walk for a fortnight.”
The tramp of booted feet came closer. “Come here, Duncan,” growled the voice of Kenneth Kerr. “Or you’ll never see your son again.”
“Duncan?”
The sound of her voice jarred him awake. A dream. It had only been a nightmare
. Kenneth Kerr was dead. He couldn’t touch Malcolm.
“Duncan?”
Miriam stood over him, a worried frown scoring her forehead, exhaustion dulling the luster in her eyes. Behind her, the windows glared like blackened doors. He wanted to reach out for her, to comfort and be comforted in return. Not yet.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Four o’clock in the morning.”
Shaking off sleep, he stretched and got to his feet. “Are you all right? Have you been up all this time?”
“I’m fine. I had work to do.” She studied her hands. “I don’t require as much sleep as other people.”
He thought about the child she carried. “You should rest.”
“I’m leaving for Baron Sinclair’s as soon as it’s light.”
Duncan couldn’t bring himself to ask what the queen had said, not when Miriam hadn’t had any sleep, not when the coward inside him snatched his courage, not when he wanted to hold her, love her until she cried out his name and agreed to become his wife.
But she wouldn’t call out the name he wanted to hear. She’d call out for her lover, Ian. “Miriam…”
“Sit down, Duncan.”
Her businesslike mien and the ominous tone of her voice rattled his fears to life and sapped his strength. He plopped down in the chair. “What did the queen write to you?”
She began to pace. “I don’t often make friends of the … of the people I’m sent to … to negotiate with. You ken?”
Her hesitation tied his gut into knots. Love for her was tearing him to pieces. Where in hell did she get so much strength? “Aye, lassie. I ken.”
“As your friend, I will do my best to sway the queen. But as a servant of the crown I can go only so far.”
