by Arnette Lamb
She hid her opinion behind a bland smile. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”
“Aye.” He plucked at the tassels on his sporran. “Tonight I’ve a craving for roast suckling pig, baked quinces, potatoes with parsley and butter, crusty bread, and a trifle big enough to”—he slid her a measuring glance—“to fill a washtub.”
Wanting desperately to be away from him and his despotic ways, she replaced the quill, folded the paper, and got to her feet. “Will nine o’clock be soon enough?”
He looked at the lantern clock. It was just after six. “You can’t manage it that fast, can you?”
With all the melodrama she could summon, she sighed and held out her arm. “Certainly I can.” When he didn’t immediately rise, she said, “I was thinking about a raisin and fig sauce for the pork.” And a good dose of Elanna’s come-to-me juice.
He licked his lips, but stayed where he was.
“Or,” she drawled, pointing at the food tray, “I could warm up that rabbit.”
Eyes narrowed, he said, “Blackmail is a poor way to start our business arrangement.”
Despair weighted her shoulders. She couldn’t woo him if all they did was bicker, even the strongest love potion couldn’t turn enmity to affection. But if Malcolm didn’t show his support for her by presenting her to the staff, she’d have an uphill battle gaining authority over the servants. Her arm ached, but she refused to drop it or lose the battle of wills they waged. “I only have myself to ransom. Now will you introduce me to the staff?”
His steady gaze held her immobile. “I’ve work to do here. The household ledgers need balancing. Even the grain stores haven’t been inventoried since Mrs. Elliott left in February.”
Another concession, but she could use the additional duties to her advantage. “I’ll do your ciphering. I’m very good with numbers.” Seeing his skeptical frown, she said, “And I’m honest. You can trust me.”
He cleared his throat and pushed to his feet. As his hand closed over hers, Alpin had the distinct impression that Malcolm didn’t trust her at all.
Chapter 4
Malcolm’s mouth watered as he gazed at the feast before him, the exact foods he’d requested. “Did Lady Alpin prepare this?”
“Aye, my lord. She and the African.” Dora shook her head and ran her finger along the edge of Malcolm’s desk. “Who’d’ve thought a real lady’d roll up her sleeves and sweat over a cooking fire?”
Real lady. The changes in Alpin still baffled him, but not enough to make him forget the past or alter his plans for her future. He had plenty of time, though, and other priorities, namely the Highland Jacobites and their obsession with putting James Stewart on the throne. Pray Saladin returned with communiqués that reflected a new moderation or at least the status quo on the part of the northern clan chiefs. “Where is Lady Alpin?”
Dora rubbed at a stain on her new apron. “Counting the stores in the pantry and waiting for her bathwater to heat.” Whispering, the girl added, “She bathes every night and said so in front of the whole staff. The maids, you know—not the bootboy or any of the lads.”
He speared a slice of roasted pork. Steam, fragrant with figs and raisins, filled his nose. An image of Alpin, naked in the wooden tub, filled his mind. Expectation of both lightened his mood. “She’ll soon have you taking to a tub of an evening.”
As he expected, Dora huffed up like a gentry matron who’d been pinched on the fanny. “I’d sooner be tied to my papa’s plow and dragged to Edinburgh wearing nothing but my shift.”
“’Twas only a jest, lass.”
“Oh.” Blushing, she went back to worrying the stain. “My lord …? Is it true that Lady Alpin lived here once, when you were a lad?”
The savory meat almost melted in his mouth. “Aye. She ran away from her uncle’s house.”
“The bootboy said Mr. Lindsay said that old Angus MacDodd swore she greased your saddle and put thistles ’tween your sheets.”
He’d forgotten many of Alpin’s harmless pranks. For years he’d lived with the repercussions of her one unconscionable sin. He swallowed hard and felt the bark of a tree at his back and across his chest the ropes that secured him to the trunk. Alpin had stood over him that day, a storm of anger in her eyes, a jar of buzzing hornets in her hand.
“Take back what you said about my dress,” she had demanded, shaking the jar.
“Never,” he’d spat and kicked dust onto the hem of the only dress he’d ever seen her wear. “You look worse than a pukey lass: You look like your uncle’s lapdog all dressed up in satin and bows.”
Tears had filled her eyes. “I hate you, Malcolm Kerr.”
“My name is Caesar,” he had announced.
Then she had lifted the hem of the toga he wore, twisted the lid from the jar, and tossed it under his costume.
The tickle of insect legs on his private parts turned to stabbing, biting, excruciating pain. When the swelling started, he thought it would never stop, and by nightfall his balls were as big as the blacksmith’s fists.
The midwife had said he would never sire a child. His stepmother had vehemently disagreed. Her staunch belief had proved fruitless, for none of Malcolm’s women had ever conceived. Only his parents, Saladin, and Alexander knew the awful truth. If it became public knowledge—Nay. He stopped the thought, couldn’t bear the disappointment his people would feel.
“Was she the meanest child in Christendom?” Dora asked.
Unable to gloss over Alpin’s past, he said, “Aye. She was a fair hellion.”
“Never know it now, my lord. Right businesslike she is and don’t take no sauce from any of the staff.” Dora chuckled. “She sent prissy Emily away a while ago. Caught her in the barracks playing kiss-the-freckle with Rabby Armstrong.”
With one less maid, the barracks wouldn’t get cleaned. The soldiers would complain. Malcolm would have to discipline Alpin. She’d get angry and storm off to her uncle’s, a place she’d run away from years ago. Precisely where Malcolm wanted her. Yet the prospect of having Alpin under his roof and his thumb—hell, under him in bed—held a certain appeal.
Using only the edge of his fork, he cut another bite of meat, his thoughts fixed on the confrontation.
The next afternoon he found Alpin in the barracks, bending over a cot and stripping off the sheet. Half a dozen soldiers, as cocky as swains on Laird’s Day, lounged nearby, their gazes, some hungry, some curious, fixed on her.
Was she flirting with his men? Anger ripped through him. So the wicked child had become the coy woman. But as he leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb to listen and watch, he realized she was telling his men about the time he’d fallen off his stilts and tumbled into the well.
Wearing a worn blue dress, without panniers and voluminous petticoats, she looked more like an industrious parson’s daughter than the businesslike housekeeper Dora had described. What struck Malcolm most forcefully was the ease with which she commanded attention and the unholy joy she derived from telling the tale.
Plumping the straw-filled leather mattress, she said, “After he rescued Malcolm, Lord Duncan asked him if he was troll hunting or practicing his part in the May Day parade. Malcolm stiffened his spine and said he was merely thirsty all over.”
“Our laird can bandy words with the best of them,” Rabby Armstrong boasted. “I expect Lady Miriam had a thing to say about our laird nearly drowning.”
The men laughed. Two of them moved to help her. She waved them away.
“She did indeed. Volumes as I recall.” Alpin stared out the window. “Then she taught us both to swim.”
Malcolm remembered. Once the lessons were over and the adults gone, Alpin had insisted on swimming in nature’s garb. She’d been tiny and rail-thin, with a chest as flat as oatcakes and nipples like pink buttons. She’d given him his first full-blown hard-on. Then she’d laughed and warned him that he might catch a fish with his fat worm.
Did she swim naked on the tropical island? No, she’d been too busy stan
ding by and watching poor Charles drink himself to death. Had her unhappy childhood hardened her to the suffering of others? Probably so, for she hadn’t shown a glimmer of sadness over the loss of her generous guardian. The thought disappointed Malcolm. She put on a show of kindness, but inside she was heartless. Charles had welcomed her when no one in the Borders would risk taking in a stubborn, wicked child. He had provided for her and even arranged for Malcolm to carry on in his place. He would care for her all right—in his own way.
“He didn’t go near the well for a long time after that,” Alpin was saying.
Malcolm stepped into the room. “As I remember the incident, you pushed me into the well and threw my stilts down the privy shaft.”
She looked up, a surprised smile curling her lips. “Come now, my lord. Admit that I had no choice, not when you swore to beat me with them.”
“You made certain the occasion never arose.”
“A lass needs leverage, and if I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you intend to blame me for every ill that befell you in childhood.”
Not all, he thought. Only the one that had left the deepest scars, the one that robbed him of the chance to have a family of his own to love. “Let’s just say I was a healthier lad when you stayed at Sinclair Manor.”
“Don’t deny our friendship,” she scoffed. “That’s why you always wanted to play bride-and-groom with me.”
One of the soldiers said, “The laird never plays that game. He won’t be tricked into marriage. Not until he’s sowed his wild oats with willing women.”
Alpin flipped her long braid over her shoulder. “Who said I was willing?”
Another round of laughter filled the room. Malcolm felt humiliated, for he had tried in his silly, childish way to befriend her with affection. He tipped his head toward the door. “I’m sure Alexander has something for you swains to do.”
Rabby Armstrong got to his feet. “But, my lord …”
In a softly threatening tone, Malcolm said, “Such as keeping watch for Saladin and sounding the horn when he arrives.”
“Aye, sir.” They mumbled good-byes and filed out the door.
Alpin moved to the next cot. “You shouldn’t have sent them away. They’re assigned to the night watch and need their rest.”
Her imperious tone caught him off guard. “You were disturbing them more than I.”
“Jealous, my lord?”
“Nay. I’m angry. You shouldn’t have dismissed Emily,” he shot back.
“Dora told you what happened?”
Malcolm shrugged. “I would’ve found out anyway. Now explain yourself, if you please. Emily’s worked here for two years.”
Blithely she said, “She behaved badly with Rabby.”
“Ha! Alpin MacKay accusing someone else of bad behavior.” The irony made him laugh. “Kiss-the-freckle is a harmless game.”
Holding the wadded-up sheet to her breast, she turned. “Not if you have freckles where Emily does.”
Chagrined, Malcolm said. “And where is that?”
She sent him a withering glare. “Use your manly imagination.”
He was, but his fantasy centered on the woman before him and the shapely body hidden beneath the serviceable dress. “Above or below the waist?”
“That depends on where your brains are.”
He sputtered, trying to remember the last time he’d been outwitted by a woman. Seeing her sly smile, he suspected she took pride in putting men in their place. Odd, for at seven and twenty she should be desperate for a husband.
She sighed and wiped her brow. “I didn’t dismiss Emily permanently. I only sent her away for the afternoon. She’s caring for Mrs. Kimberley’s children so the woman can come and bake for us today. Henceforth Emily will work in the castle proper.” When he didn’t comment, she added, “With your approval of course.”
So blunt she was and almost fearless. In some aspects she hadn’t changed. “Of course. Did you speak so frankly to Charles?”
She flung the sheet across the room, missing the pile. Lips pursed, she said, “I seldom found the time to speak to him at all.”
Her vehemence didn’t surprise Malcolm. The implication in her voice did, for when it came to Alpin, Charles had surely been a paragon of charity. “I suppose you’ll tell me you worked harder there than here?”
She whirled. “I worked as hard as anyone. I had no …” She clamped her lips together.
“You had no what?”
“Nothing.”
“I can’t believe Alpin MacKay is afraid to speak her mind.”
She toyed with her bracelet. “I’m not afraid.”
“Then finish what you were going to say.”
“It’s unimportant.”
He found himself softening toward her. “We’re friends, remember?”
She sighed. “I worked hard because I had no choice.”
Believing her tale of woe could lead to an understanding between them and perhaps something more. Seeing her now, shimmering with dignity, he felt a grudging respect and a sudden craving to know just what the “something more” might be.
He immediately shied away from the thought of sharing intimacies with Alpin MacKay. “I hope you’ll show me the same loyalty. You can start by educating me on the operation of a sugar plantation.”
She smiled a little too brightly. “You can be sure I’ll be loyal, my lord. I’ll care for your property as if it were my own.”
And he was a Welshman with a name as long as winter. Rising, he picked up the wayward linen and tossed it with the others. The laundry smelled of sweaty men and long hours of labor in the tiltyard. She’d soil her dress if she carried the dirty linens. Bothered that he even cared and still miffed that she’d pranced into his home and charmed his soldiers and his staff, Malcolm suspected she was up to no good. “Someone worked hard at Paradise, and it showed in the plantation’s profits.”
She mumbled what sounded like “You should know,” then snatched up the last dirty sheet and walked to the pile. “Speaking of work … If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to finish here so I can ride later today. Have you a request for dinner?”
He put his boot on the sheets. “Tell me why the mention of Paradise Plantation makes you so angry that you throw things. Did you hate it there?”
The stormy violet of her eyes reminded him of the sky just before sunrise. “I’m not angry. And no, I didn’t actually hate it there.” She dropped to her knees and slid her hands under the pile. When he didn’t move his foot, she stared at the hem of his kilt. “I’m just busy and eager for a ride on that dappled gray. You’re getting manure on these sheets.”
He’d come here to exercise his right as lord and master of his domain. Alpin might have a quick wit, but she’d still do as he said. From his vantage point he could see the deep indentation of her cleavage. His plan to make her life miserable took a different turn. He became aware of his own nakedness beneath his tartan. His skin prickled with sensual awareness. “You still haven’t told me the real reason you don’t want Emily cleaning the barracks.”
Alpin sat back on her heels, tried patience smoothing out her features. “It’s for her own good. She could get into … trouble. She also sets a bad example for the other maids. If she gets away with improper behavior, they’ll think they can too.”
Improper behavior turned to a lurid picture in Malcolm’s mind, with Alpin as the object of his desire. “There’s nothing wrong with courting,” he said, unable to squelch the odd yearning for that elusive “something more.”
“Oh, yes, there is. Fathers send their daughters here to work, and it’s up to you, as laird, to see to their welfare, both physical and moral. The same principle applies to the lord who fosters his kinsman’s son.”
She had a point, but he’d be damned if he’d let her enjoy it. He also realized he wasn’t quite ready for the conversation to end. “You were here with the men.”
She chuckled. “I’m hardly a temptation.”
Was she fish
ing for compliments? What the devil, he’d offer her one. “Then you spent too much time on that tropical island, Alpin. Any of those men would have traded his best mount for the chance to play kiss-the-freckle with you.”
A smile curling her lips, she murmured, “I assure you, my lord, that will never happen.”
“Lost all your freckles, have you?”
“Malcolm Kerr!” She slapped his calf. “How dare you be so vulgar.”
Ignoring her maidenly outrage, he went on. “I seem to remember you had a cluster of them here.” He touched his hipbone. “And here.” He touched a spot at the top of his thigh. “And we mustn’t forget the ones on your back.”
“You had them, too, don’t forget.”
“Where?”
“Stop right now. That’s enough. We were talking about Rabby and Emily.”
“Leave the lad to me. I’ll speak with him.”
“I’m sure you will. Lot of good it’ll do.”
“Are you mocking me?”
“No. I just don’t think you’ll succeed in controlling Rabby’s love life. That would be the pot calling the kettle black.”
Gossips in Whitley Bay had filled her head with tales of Malcolm’s casual flirtations. He courted the gentry maidens so no one would guess the real reason he dodged marriage; he couldn’t, in good conscience, marry a lass and sentence her to a life barren of children.
“What’s this?” she asked. “Malcolm the great rogue at a loss for words?”
“Have I tried to seduce you?”
“Of course not,” she said softly. “You wouldn’t try so farfetched a thing.”
“I might.”
“Well, don’t. We wouldn’t suit, not as lovers.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know. Can we get back to the problem of Emily and Rabby?”
Malcolm intended to show Alpin MacKay how wrong she was to challenge him. “Would you care to make a wager on whether or not I can control Rabby’s amorous adventures?”
Tipping her head back, she studied him closely. But when her tongue peeked out and made a slow trek over her lips, leaving a slick sheen, he lost the ability to govern his lustful thoughts. He could make a picnic of her mouth and a feast of her other delights. Wait! his conscience screamed. That’s Alpin MacKay you’re fantasizing over.
