by Arnette Lamb
Oh, what an oddity he must think her. Thank goodness, Alexis hadn’t been here to see Miriam’s humiliation. Feeling miserable, she surrendered to the tears and cried herself to sleep.
Duncan stood in the drafty tunnel and shivered with cold. He cupped his hands to his mouth and blew on his fingers to warm them. A dozen times today, he’d raced up the stairs, determined to beat down her door and demand her forgiveness. A dozen more times, he’d dragged himself upstairs and dawdled at her door, his mind awhirl with spineless entreaties. Should he play the Border Lord and force her? Should he become the bumbling earl and beg? Which man was he? He didn’t know anymore.
He’d spent so much time portraying the kind of man he thought he should be that he’d lost track of himself. Only one thing was certain: he loved Miriam MacDonald with his heart and soul. And by God, he would keep her.
He’d left orders with Mrs. Elliott that he was unavailable to everyone, even the queen herself. He intended to stay in this room with Miriam until she forgave him.
Now determined, he slid open the panel, held her clothes aside, and stepped through the wardrobe. A cold, canine nose touched his hand. He jumped and whacked his elbow on the wardrobe door. Stifling a curse, he patted the dog until his heartbeat had slowed and the pain receded. Then he tiptoed to the bed, stripped off his clothes, and climbed in beside her.
She stirred, but didn’t wake. Taking advantage of her movement, he tunneled an arm beneath her and pulled her against his chest. She cuddled against him, and he breathed in the smell of her perfume, letting her freshness intoxicate his senses as easily as the woman besotted his mind.
In repose, she felt fragile and yielding, a world away from the resilient, determined diplomat. Which man did she want? She’d given herself to the Border Lord, but she’d befriended the gentle earl? Companion or lover, which role should he play?
Miriam came awake and stiffened beside Duncan. His arms circled her in a hold she couldn’t break.
“What are you doing here?”
Against her hair, he said, “I wilna justify so stupid a question, lass. You know exactly why I’m here.”
“I will not forgive you.”
“Aye, I trow you will.”
“Don’t think you can woo me with your deceitful Scottish words. I’ve heard enough to last a lifetime.”
“That, sweetheart, is precisely the reason I’m here. To discuss the rest of your life.”
She clutched his upper arms and gasped. “Sweet heaven, you’re naked!”
He chuckled at her outrage. The rush of her breath against his neck and the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest reminded him vividly of their past embraces. “You’ve seen me naked before—a number of times as I recall.”
“That’s a lie. You only slither into my life in the dark of night.”
“Your perfect memory has deserted you, love. You looked under my tartan once when I was scuffling with Malcolm. Doona deny it.”
“’Twas an accident, and not at all like…”
He stroked her arm. Her skin felt satin smooth beneath his roughened palms. “Like what?”
“Like the other times,” she blurted. “And get out of my bed this instant or I’ll order Verbatim to chew off your head.”
Patience, he told himself. “She won’t hurt me. You told her I was a friend, remember? She knows who I am.”
At length, she said, “You cur!”
“Aye, Kerr, the name of the man you love.”
Her fingernails started a slow rake down his arm. Wincing, he grasped her wrists, rolled her onto her back, then settled atop her. “We’ll have none of that.”
“We’ll have nothing else, either.” She moved against him, trying to break his hold. “Get off me!”
Passion spiraled through him and flooded his loins with need. He tried to stifle a groan, but failed. Instinctively, his hips rocked against her.
“Oh, Lord, you’re—you’re…”
“Very excited by you.”
“I don’t want you excited. I don’t want you at all. You’re a liar.”
Duncan suppressed his physical needs. “I did lie, Miriam, but I believed I had no choice. I thought you were like the others the queen had sent, but when I realized I couldn’t buy your favor with money, I…” The words died on his lips.
“You seduced me.”
Frustrated at his inadequacy to explain himself, Duncan blurted, “I didna intend to actually seduce you.”
“Ha! You’ve tripped yourself up. I knew you didn’t really want me.”
Softly, he said, “I wanted you enough to put my life and my son’s future in your hands. I love you. Please forgive me.”
The honesty in his voice warmed Miriam like brandy on a cold night. Weakness and love assailed her, but she was too heartsore to believe him. “Easy words for you to say, Duncan. Or are you Ian tonight?”
He jerked away from her. The mattress shifted as he moved to the edge of the bed. She’d become so accustomed to their visits in the dark that she could almost see his every movement.
His breath came out in an impatient huff. “I don’t know who I am, and that’s the sad truth of it.”
The tangible pull of his frustration reached out to her. “What do you mean?”
He pulled back the bedcurtain and lit the candle on the nightstand. A soft yellow glow illuminated his golden hair and exposed his inner struggle. Shoulders slumped, he looked troubled to his soul, and nothing like the dark lover she had lain with so often.
She bit her lip to keep from saying the words he wanted to hear. Now was the time to listen.
“I thought,” he began in a rough whisper, “that by reviving the Border Lord I could gain justice for my people without living up to the reputation of my father.”
So noble a sentiment absolved him, didn’t it? She wasn’t sure; there was too much unsaid between them. “What of the bumbling earl who makes the finest lures in Scotland?”
He slid her a sideways glance. Smiling crookedly, he said, “He got himself hooked by a red-haired Scotswoman who’s too smart for her own good.”
Laughter brought tears to her eyes. “I’m not certain if that’s a compliment.”
He leaned over her, his powerful shoulders blocking out the light, his hands bracketing her head. “Then be certain of this, Miriam MacDonald. I love you as I love Scotland. I’m a sorry wretch who doesn’t deserve you, and if you’ll but give me the chance, I’ll spend the rest of my life making you happy. Marry me.”
Joy curled in her belly and tightened her womb. “I’m pregnant.”
He flashed a broad smile. “I know. I’ve been watching you from a tunnel behind that wardrobe. I saw you crying the day I gave you the tartan.”
She remembered the pain, the loneliness. “You hurt me.”
“Aye. I’m sorry for that, too. ’Twas the poorest piece of work I’ve ever done.” He lay beside her and spread his hand over her stomach. “Will you forgive the miserable father of this remarkable babe?”
She’d start apologizing herself if he didn’t stop being so sweetly charming. “You have no idea if she’ll be remarkable or rotten. Stop dodging my questions.”
“She?”
Miriam couldn’t help but smile at his astonished tone. “You’re dodging again.”
With his lips a breath away from hers, he said, “Aye, ’tis a fault for sure.”
“Wait! No kissing yet. You have a lot of explaining to do.”
He fell back against the pillow. “All right.”
“Did you know how to wield a sword before I came here?”
“Aye. The Grand Reiver insisted I learn.”
She could imagine how cruel the lessons had been. “Do you fence?”
“I wilna tell you. But after the bairn comes, you can challenge me and find out.”
“You could learn between now and then.”
“I promise,” he whispered, “never to be out of your sight.”
Happiness purled inside her. “
Does Malcolm know you’re the Border Lord?”
“Nay.”
“What will he say about us?”
Duncan chuckled, his breath caressing her ear. “He’ll probably revive the archbishop of Canterbury, turn the chapel into Westminster Abbey, and insist on performing the ceremony himself.”
She shivered and snuggled closer. “Seriously.”
“He’ll be excited, Miriam. He needs you almost as much as I do.”
“Then let’s tell him now.”
He groaned. “I had other plans for the evening. Besides, he’s playing sentry in the kitchen.”
The thief. “I wonder who’s stealing the food.”
His arms grew taut. “Alpin is. She stowed away in the sleigh. I thought you knew.”
“How did you find out?”
“I almost knocked her down in the tunnel. She’s hiding in the tower room waiting for her Night Angel to rescue her.”
The candle sputtered, casting shadows on his face. “The Border Lord,” she said.
“Aye. Adrienne asked me to watch out for the lass. She’s so headstrong. Compared to her, you’re malleable, love.”
“Oh, really?”
He pulled her over him. “Aye, and don’t get huffy with me.
A lifetime of happiness loomed before her. “What will you do?”
Smiling, he said, “This…”
Then his mouth touched hers and she forgot bumbling earls and dark strangers and kissed Duncan Andrew Ian Armstrong Kerr, the man she loved.
Epilogue
A week later Duncan strolled into the keeping room and sat in his favorite chair. Miriam had insisted he return the Kerr throne to the dais where it had stood since the first earl of Kildalton swore fealty to the first Stewart king of Scotland.
The ancient wood felt warm and satiny to the touch. Duncan surveyed the empty room until his gaze fell on the portrait of his father. Love, hatred, and regret seared him.
“Banish that thought, my lord!”
Covered from neck to toe in a fur-lined robe of soft blue velvet, her glorious hair trailing to her waist, her face flushed from the cold, Miriam stood in the doorway. “Alexis and Angus are coming.”
Hatred and regret fled. Duncan patted the arm of his throne. “Good. Sit with me.”
She hesitated, then pulled a beribboned document from beneath the robe. “I sent Alexander to meet them. He brought me this.”
Duncan saw the royal seal. It was broken. Anne had exercised her divine right. Miriam already knew what the queen had decided. He looked deeply into Miriam’s eyes but could not read her thoughts. Struggling to keep the fear from his voice, he said, “Has she ordered me to give up Malcolm?”
Miriam glided toward him. “No. Should you change your mind about fostering your son, you’ll decide where he’s to go. Her Majesty has also ordered the baron to make restitution for all the farms he’s burned and the lives he’s taken.”
Weak with relief, Duncan slumped against the high back of the family throne. Through misty eyes he watched her ascend the dais, the lovely woman who had stolen his heart, the brilliant diplomat who had secured his future. “Thank you,” he whispered, and pulled her onto his lap.
She gazed up at him, her gray eyes glittering with love. “I’ve brought you something else.”
I’m a happy, lucky fellow, he thought, knowing he would bask for the rest of his days in the glow of her love. “What?”
Slipping the queen’s official writ beneath the sash of his tartan, Miriam clapped her hands. “Sir Francis…” she called out.
Malcolm, in the guise of Sir Francis Drake, complete with ruff, padded doublet, and a painted-on mustache and pointy beard, shuffled into the room carrying one end of a long, covered box. Alpin, wearing a new jerkin and leather trews, carried the other end. They struggled with the cumbersome package, then set it on the floor. Something in the box moved.
Duncan bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud. Glancing down at the love of his life, he anticipated mischief. The twinkle in her eyes confirmed it. “What have you brought me?”
She rolled her head toward Malcolm and nodded. With a flourish, the boy whipped the drape off the box.
“Peacocks, my lord,” Miriam said. “I remember how much you wanted them.”
Once he had cursed her dratted memory. Now it would be the keeper of all their yesterdays and the harbinger of all their tomorrows.
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 1993 by Arnette Lamb
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email [email protected]
First Diversion Books edition May 2014
ISBN: 978-1-62681-290-1
To Heather Lee Elizabeth and her new parents, Candy and Marvin Purdue
Acknowledgments
Very special thanks to my literary helpmates, Joyce Bell, Susan Wiggs, and Barbara Dawson Smith.
And to the agent to die for, Denise Marcil.
And to my wonderful editor, Caroline Tolley, for her insight and her intuition.
Prologue
Paradise Plantation
Saint George Parish, Barbados
February 1735
Lady Alpin MacKay itched to yank off her mourning veil and fan her heated cheeks. And she would, once her visitor stopped eulogizing her late guardian, Charles, and started reading the will.
“A sober man and a defender of the true faith,” the lawyer, Othell Codrington, was saying.
Sober? thought Alpin. Poor Charles had drowned his sorrows in rum.
“A widower to envy …”
A man to pity. After his wife, Adrienne, passed away, Charles had spent a decade grieving himself to death. As an impressionable girl, Alpin had longed to find a man who would love her as deeply as Charles had loved his wife. But she also wanted a man who would not break under tragic circumstances. Years and the reality of island life had crushed her romantic dreams.
“A man shrewd in business, yet fair …”
A misconception. For ten years Alpin alone had managed every detail of the vast plantation, from the purchase of biscuit flour to the harvesting of the cane.
“… gone to a greater glory …”
And to the company of his beloved late wife. Thank God.
A soft breeze wafted across the veranda and filled the air with the sweet aroma of boiling sugar. Alpin sighed. Paradise Plantation would belong to her now—the spacious two-story house, six and one-half acres of manicured lawns, one thousand acres of fertile fields recently denuded of muscovado sugarcane; fifty-six English servants, eighty slaves, scores of thatched huts, a dozen narrow barrack houses, four water wells. The wicker chair on which she sat. The copper tub in which she bathed. The mosquito netting draped over her bed. The carriage, the cart, the chicken roasting on the spit. The precious mill with its twin chimneys spewing smoke into the tropical blue sky. Hers.
The promise of independence sent her spirits soaring. Life on the plantation would continue as it had. But not for the slaves. Five years ago she’d persuaded Charles to free them. The neighboring planters had been outraged. Under pressure, Charles had yielded to the conservative element. Now Alpin MacKay would stand fast in her beliefs.
A drop of perspiration made a slow, ticklish slide from her temple to her jaw, down her neck, and inside the collar of her black fustian dress. Ignoring her discomfort, she stared at the leather satchel perched on the solicitor’s lap. Would he never read the will?
When he paused to draw breath, s
he said, “You’re very kind, Mr. Codrington, to save me a trip to Bridgetown. And you must be highly skilled, for Charles said he would trust his affairs to none but you.”
The attorney sat straighter. Sweat streamed from beneath his powdered wig and soaked his lace-trimmed cravat, turning the gentlemanly concoction into a soggy knot of wilted ruffles. “That ever was the case, my dear. Charles made an impressive go of it here.” He cast a covetous gaze toward the mill. “Although none of us have ever seen the enterprise.”
Let this city lawyer and everyone else think Charles had managed Paradise and modernized the mill. Alpin needed no praise for her work, only peace of mind and security. Soon she would have both. She fought the urge to drum her fingers impatiently. “As you say, Charles was a gentleman among men and concerned about the welfare of those in his keeping.”
“I met him five years back—before he added that new contraption to the mill.” Codrington opened the satchel, which contained dozens of papers. He withdrew a beribboned document bearing a golden seal the size of a fig. “His generosity was a testament to his Christian convictions.” A benevolent smile curled the lawyer’s lips and revealed several missing teeth. “He’s left you a generous stipend.”
She needed no allowance. Profits from the sugar would more than support her. Dumbfounded, she repeated, “A stipend?”
Like a child reading a primer, he traced each line of the document with his forefinger. “There are the usual bequests to servants. A fellowship for his club. Ah, yes. Here it is. ‘One hundred pounds a year to my cousin, Lady Alpin MacKay.’”
Icy fingers of dread crept over her skin. Her throat grew tight. “And …”
“And passage home.”
Never! she silently raged. Charles had provided the funds for a visit to the Borders of Scotland and England, but only if she wanted to go. Which she didn’t. “How considerate of him.”
