by Arnette Lamb
A familiar sadness pulled at him. He stared at his boots and noticed a worn spot in the rug. Three times he’d witnessed his father pacing this very floor when Lady Miriam had begun the travail of childbirth. He’d seen tears of both joy and relief in his father’s eyes when each of Malcolm’s half sisters had been delivered safely. Their hungry wails still echoed in Malcolm’s ears. Of late, he could certainly sympathize.
He strolled to the wall housing a succession of family portraits. The latest featured the entire family. The first pictured Malcolm, his father, and a very pregnant Lady Miriam.
The years had passed and Malcolm’s father never pressured him to find a wife. So he’d settled cynically into the role of bachelor earl. Lairds of Scotland’s finest clans, eager for an alliance with the Kerrs, paraded their marriageable daughters before him. He put on a show of playing the marriage game, but Malcolm couldn’t deceive the innocent girls who honestly wanted a husband to give them children. The sad and secret truth was that the ninth earl of Kildalton couldn’t provide the tenth.
But perhaps—He halted the thought. Now was not the time to embrace a futile dream. The northern clans bristled under the stern and unfair rule of George II and turned their attention toward Italy and the exiled James Stewart. “The king across the water,” they hailed him, and styled themselves Jacobites in his name. If the Hanoverian currently occupying the throne of the British Isles didn’t show more concern for the welfare of his Highland subjects, Scotland was in for trouble that could make the Battle of Flodden look like a petty squabble.
A Lowlander and laird of the Borders, Malcolm felt squeezed between the two factions. He couldn’t take sides. His birth mother had been English and had willed him her dower lands, a substantial portion of Northumberland. He couldn’t turn a blind eye to his English subjects. Neither could he turn his back on his Scottish kinsmen. So he performed the most neutral service he could: he kept Rosina, the Italian mistress, who spoke fluent Scottish and ferried messages between the Highland clans and their estranged monarch.
No one suspected Malcolm’s involvement. For decades his family had sold salt to the Highlands. Each time his friend Saladin took a load of the precious commodity north, he also passed letters to the Jacobites and accepted their replies, which Rosina then delivered to James Stewart either in Rome or at his summer estate in Albano.
When Saladin returned from this latest trip, Malcolm would carefully lift the seals, read the correspondence, make notes, and advise his stepmother accordingly. He would not be an unwitting partner to treason. He would interfere only if the clans began to speak of war. Still, if he were caught in the act, he would be hanged for a traitor and his estates forfeited to the Crown.
A knock sounded at the door. It was probably Alexander bringing word that either Saladin had been spotted by the lookout or Rosina had been returned to Carvoran Manor. Malcolm said, “Come in, but only if you’ve got a leg of mutton and a mountain of fresh haggis.”
Alpin breezed into the room. She’d changed into a full-skirted pink gown with lace trim at the rounded neckline and on the short puffy sleeves. The springtime color complemented the honey hue of her skin. She’d be a scandal in Edinburgh or London, for proper young ladies avoided the sun. But then, Alpin MacKay had never been one for convention.
Her gaze fell on the table. She smiled and, with mock severity, said, “Now, why would you be wanting more food, Malcolm? You’ve hardly touched what’s on your plate.”
His empty stomach growled again. “My stepmother’s sleuthhound wouldn’t touch this fare. But try it, if you’ve the courage.”
Her chin came up a notch. Malcolm applauded himself; she could never refuse a dare.
She tore off a piece of the hare, popped it into her mouth, and began to chew. Her eyes grew wide, and she almost gagged, reminding him of the time as children they’d hidden beneath a banquet table and sampled caviar.
She swallowed and wiped her hands on his napkin. “I take it your cook hates you.”
“She loves me like a son, but she’s gone to Constantinople.”
She looked down at the tray, but not before Malcolm saw her eyes light with interest. What was she thinking? That he might die of starvation? Probably so.
Picking up the bread, she tapped it on the pewter plate. It sounded like a hammer on an anvil. “I’m surprised Rosina doesn’t take better care of you.”
He almost said that Rosina’s talents lay abovestairs, but despite his distrust of Alpin, he couldn’t bring himself to embarrass her with so crude a remark. Besides, he honestly didn’t think she would understand sophisticated sexual banter. “Rosina has left us as well.”
She moved from the table to the bookcase and leaned close to read the titles on the leather-bound spines. “Then the subject of you leashing your lusty proclivities is moot—unless you have another mistress hiding somewhere.”
Malcolm choked with laughter, thinking that the wicked lass had become a clever woman. But just how clever? And how many affairs had she truly had? He searched for a lover’s mark, but found none. She didn’t carry herself with the same feminine assurance he’d seen in kept women.
“Did I say something wrong?” she asked.
“Nay. I’m more concerned with keeping my belly filled and preventing mutiny among my clansmen.”
“Mutiny?”
“Aye. The men are hungry for a decent meal. Tell me, can you manage a household, Alpin?”
She pulled out one of the books and opened it. With her fingernail she scraped a glob of old candle wax off the page. “I remember reading this story when I was hiding here years ago.” A wistful smile made her look even younger. “It’s about a goblin that snatches up children who refuse to go to bed.” Her expression turned grim. She snapped the book shut and returned it to the shelf. “I’m sorry I got wax on the page of your book.”
Malcolm pictured her at six years old, huddled in the windowless tower room of Kildalton Castle, a candle in one hand, a monster story in the other. Sympathy swamped him.
“Lord,” she said, “I was a fanciful child.”
She’d been cruel and spiteful to everyone who crossed her path—even those who tried to help her. “Fanciful?” he challenged. “You dumped soot in the flour bin.”
She frowned and scratched her temple with unfeigned surprise. “Did I? I don’t remember that.”
What she’d done as a child he intended to avenge. Her past misdeeds could be an effective weapon, but he mustn’t let them overshadow the recent crimes of a selfish woman who had no respect for human beings. “You haven’t answered me. Can you manage a household as large as Kildalton?”
Her eyes met his. “Yes. As soon as you present the servants to me.”
The reply reeked of honesty and confidence. He could help her by introducing her to the servants. He could threaten to dismiss any who dared to gainsay her. He could make her life easier, but he wouldn’t.
“Dora can show you where the stores are kept,” he said, “and acquaint you with the staff, such as it is … later.”
She continued to peruse the bookcase, but stopped when she noticed a bell hanging from a cord about a foot over her head. “What’s that?” she asked.
It was a contraption his father had devised years ago when he’d caught Malcolm snooping in the secret tunnel behind the bookcase. The bell was tied to a fishing line that was attached to the tunnel entrance, a door near the lesser hall, twenty-five feet away. Malcolm answered her with a lie, saying, “It’s a Mecca bell. When Saladin made his pilgrimage he brought it back for my father.”
She crossed the room and lifted herself up on the window seat. Her tiny slippered feet and delicate ankles dangled below layers of lace-trimmed petticoats. She folded her hands in her lap. “You used to tell stories about all of the things you’d do when you became the earl. Is it what you expected? Have you accomplished all you wanted to do?”
Surprised by her interest, Malcolm picked up the tankard and drank. Through the glass bottom
of the mug he could see his plate and the stringy rabbit. “Being at peace with my English neighbors enables me to put my energies into the commerce of Kildalton.” Dissatisfaction among the Highland clans complicated his life, but he didn’t feel comfortable telling Alpin about Scottish problems.
“You must involve yourself with the tenants,” she said. “I’ve never seen such prosperous farms in the Borders. I remember the people being poor—at least those between here and my uncle’s property in England.”
He felt a deep sense of pride in his accomplishments, yet he spoke offhandedly. “We’ve worked to breed better and stronger draft horses, fatter cattle, and we import Spanish steel for scythes and plowshares.”
Again she scratched her temple. “Spanish steel,” she murmured, her eyes distant. “It’s worth the extra price? It doesn’t rust and it keeps a sharp edge?”
Amused by her interest, he took a knife from his desk. Drawing the blade from the leather sheath, he handed it to her. “Be careful,” he said, stepping back. “You might cut yourself.”
She grasped the bone handle and tested the blade with her thumb. Her eyebrows rose in surprise, and she let out a soft whistle. “In Barbados, we use a big knife called a machete to harvest the cane.”
“We?”
Her brows fell. As haughty as a duchess, she said, “I mean the slaves do, of course.” She quickly sheathed the blade and pitched it to him.
He put up his hand and caught the knife, the leather casing slapping against his palm. She had a strong arm and an excellent aim. But then, Alpin had been deceptively robust as a child. Even now he doubted she weighed much more than six stone. But was she still deceptive and conniving? He intended to learn everything about her, from her plans for the future to the name of her exotic fragrance. “Tell me more about the sugarcane and your life in Barbados. Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t meet some dashing sea captain and marry there.”
Mischief, or perhaps anger, flashed in her eyes. Then she laughed and flattened her palms on the window seat. Bracing her arms, she tipped back her head and studied the stuccoed ceiling. “Most of the eligible Englishmen who came to the island were second or third sons without a farthing to their name. They gambled or speculated with what little they had. Few of them made a successful go at anything more than betting on a winning cock.”
Seeing her posed as she was, Malcolm had an unobstructed view of her slender neck. Suddenly he thought those second and third sons foolish. Still, she had professed to having affairs, in the plural. He couldn’t resist saying, “Did you ever wager on a cock?”
She stiffened. “Ladies do not attend cockfights.”
“If Alpin MacKay has grown into a proper lady, the Hanoverian king is fluent in Scottish.”
She laughed. “I truly am a lady.”
“I see.” Mature? Aye, she was that, but he doubted she acted like a lady. “You used to wear breeches and ride bareback.”
She grew serious, her eyes luminous, her lips softly parted. “I also used to live in the stables at Sinclair Manor, or have you forgotten that?”
Taken aback, he returned the knife to a drawer in his desk. “I thought you preferred your menagerie of wounded creatures to your cousins.”
“I traded one set of creatures for another. That’s why I ran away and came here.”
She’d made Malcolm’s life a living hell and had sown the seeds that would destroy his future. He buried the old hurt behind a halfhearted smile. “I caught you stealing food from our kitchen.”
She shivered and rolled her eyes. “I was so frightened I almost wet myself that night. You said they would hang me and use my ears for fish bait.”
“It was the only time I had the upper hand with you, as I recall.”
Blinking, she said, “Is that truly what you believe?”
Some of their childhood confrontations did seem humorous now, as he looked back on them, and he took a moment to wonder if he wasn’t planning to deal too harshly with her. “What do you believe?”
Then she leaned forward and, over the rustling of her petticoats, said, “I know that you held me down and kissed me, and you made me promise to give you a child.”
Like the waning sunlight outside the window, his objectivity faded. “Rest assured, that’s one promise you’ll never keep, Alpin.”
Her inquisitive gaze roamed his face, his neck, and his legs. A flush stole up her cheeks. “I never presumed that you expected me to … that we would … that …” Flustered, she toyed with the gold cord on the drapes.
Amused by her discomfiture, he blithely said, “What did you never presume?”
Palms up, she opened her mouth, then closed it. At last she said, “That we would consummate the promise. I’m here because, as usual, I have nowhere else to go, Malcolm. Charles knew that when he transferred the plantation to you.”
“How did you find that out? ’Twas supposed to be a private transaction between men.”
“But it concerned me. Charles assumed you would do the honorable thing and make me your ward. We could be friends. I’ve even agreed to become your housekeeper.” More forcefully she added, “I will not accept charity or be a burden to you.”
Damn. He hated feeling guilty. All contrition, he said, “How can I call you a burden if you earn your own way?”
She swallowed, her gaze darting from the globe to the desk to the tray of inedible food. “Very well. I suppose we should discuss my salary.”
Malcolm hadn’t considered compensating her. He had other plans where she was concerned. “Since you belong to me, as you so vividly put it, I’m responsible for clothing you and furnishing whatever essentials you need.”
She swung her feet. The gesture made her seem endearingly young. “The same as you do for Mrs. Elliott?”
Affronted by the analogy, he said, “I hardly provide Mrs. Elliott with silk gowns or a dressmaker to sew them.”
She plucked at the skirt. “It’s cotton, not silk. And Elanna will make my gowns and hers.”
The black woman. “I must say I’m disappointed that you perpetuate the institution of slavery. I had expected more humanity from you.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she knotted her fists so tightly her knuckles gleamed white. “I detest slavery, and anyone who says differently is a miserable liar. Elanna is a freedwoman.”
Malcolm had misinterpreted Charles’s vague reference to Alpin causing trouble over the slaves in Barbados. If she was to be believed, she and Charles had differed on the slavery issue. Malcolm realized he’d gotten their positions crosswise; Charles was the one who had favored slavery.
Well, Malcolm decided, at least Alpin had one redeeming quality. “Did you persuade Charles to free her?”
Again, her eyes met his. “Yes. In lieu of several years’ salary as his housekeeper. Elanna will earn her way.”
Knowing a slave could sell for as much as twelve hundred pounds, Malcolm figured Charles was either very foolish or very malleable. But neither rang true, for according to the records and the bank drafts the lawyer Codrington regularly sent to Malcolm, the plantation had made a handsome profit every year for the past decade. The last harvest proved particularly fruitful; Malcolm had used the proceeds to build a new bridge over the river Tyne. “Charles was a generous guardian.”
“I’m a very good housekeeper.” Her grin gave him a peek at her dimples. “I trust you’ll pay me accordingly.”
Malcolm felt he had little choice in the matter, and yet the idea of paying her, the woman who had made his life miserable, rankled. He was a Scotsman, though, and knew how to be thrifty. “I’ll pay you fifty pounds a year.”
“Two hundred,” she said, as serious as a tinker with only one skillet in his wagon. “Plus a suitable wardrobe.”
He took the few steps that separated them. Towering over her, he said, “One hundred.”
Seemingly unperturbed, she said, “One fifty and any essentials I may require. The wardrobe, of course. Sundays for my own and a free week each year beginni
ng on my birthday. And the stipend Charles left me.”
If she could haggle as successfully with the butcher, she might save Malcolm money. “You will pay your own maid.”
“Of course. I always have.”
“Done.” He extended his hand.
She took it, her long, slender fingers curling around his. He stared at her wrist, her elbow, and her arm, and noticed again the sun-washed color of her skin. He thought of her breasts and pictured them milky white, a stunning contrast to the rest of her. Stark white sheets would be a perfect foil for her chestnut hair and lavender eyes.
“What are you thinking, Malcolm? That you’ve made a poor bargain?”
He shook off the erotic images and cursed himself for having lustful thoughts of Alpin MacKay. “Nay,” he said. “I’m thinking that you have.”
Pulling her hand free, she hopped down from the window seat. “I never make poor bargains. Now tell me what you like to eat, when you like to eat it, and how many people I must feed.”
For the next hour Alpin wielded a quill as he rattled off an extensive list of delicacies even the king’s own steward would have been hard-pressed to provide. So transparent was Malcolm’s attempt at intimidation, she wondered if he didn’t suspect her motives or honestly dislike her. But she’d done no more than pull a few childish pranks when they were young. Surely he’d forgotten and forgiven those. He’d merely grown into an unhappy, beleaguered man who couldn’t even have fun at a carnival. He couldn’t know she planned to marry him and demand Paradise as her wedding gift. Once the papers were signed, she’d leave the Borders behind and take ship home.
“You’ll supervise the housemaids, make certain my bed is made each morning and my shirts and tartans cared for properly.”
He was, she decided, full of himself. Oh, he cut a fine figure, slouched comfortably in a wing chair, his chin resting in his palm. Still wearing the perfectly pleated kilt, he crossed his well-muscled legs and oozed enough charm to set a dozen simpering females to swooning. More than his aura of power, he exuded a lazy sensuality. His marvelous brown eyes danced with interest, and his straight nose and fine high cheekbones spoke of centuries of Scottish nobility.
