by Arnette Lamb
“Ecky-beckie man!”
She referred to the freedmen turned poor white trash in Bridgetown. “Lord Malcolm is hardly a drunken beggar,” Alpin replied.
Using the knife, Elanna scratched an itch just beneath her turban. Glancing left and right, she whispered, “He did some kind of begging to get poor Master Charles to give him your Paradise.”
The old injustice rose like a sour tide in Alpin. Paradise Plantation rightfully belonged to her. Making a fist, she pounded the table. “I know. But if I share his bed, he’ll have to marry me. As his wife, I can lay a claim to Paradise.”
“Betcha that. But be plenty careful. You give him all the mangoes, he won’t want the tree.”
Naively, Alpin had anticipated a proper courtship, then an honorable marriage. She hadn’t expected him to be so devious. “He knows we have nowhere else to go. Oh, why did Charles give him our home in the first place?”
Pails rattled in the yard outside the kitchen door. “Shush,” said Elanna. “The servants here are loyal to this Scotsman, and they get to gossiping quicker than Master Charles could empty a bottle of rum.” A mischievous smile revealed Elanna’s pearly white teeth, of which she was inordinately proud. “As soon as you find a way to get in his study and peek at his papers, you’ll learn why the plantation fell to him.”
Alpin’s one small success gave her confidence. “I’ve already managed that. I agreed to take on the work of steward, too.”
“Don’t surprise me. You never could sit still for more than a minute.”
When Alpin rose, Elanna chuckled. “See?”
Alpin ignored the gibe; she’d heard it too many times over the years. “If you’ll watch over the evening meal, I’ll get started on the books now.”
Elanna grasped her wrist. “What about the other? How can you get him to say ‘I do, I do’?”
Alpin hadn’t a clue. Worse, part of her yearned to be his lover, to know firsthand the intimacies a man and woman could share. But she wouldn’t fall in love with him, not with the one who’d stolen her home and her life’s work and taken what little independence she had. “I don’t know. I’ll just have to be more conniving than he.”
“You already are. You outwitted every white man in Barbados. Besting a skirt-wearing Scotsman should be as easy as shinnying up a fig tree.”
The reminder of their home buoyed Alpin’s confidence. “’Tis a tartan kilt, Elanna, and very traditional in this part of the world. You’ll get in big trouble calling it a skirt.”
Pulling her generous lips into a pout, Elanna said, “They’ll stone me for that, too?”
Amused at her friend’s irreverence, Alpin shook her head. “They’ll shun you.”
“They will not. They’re too busy staring at me and murmuring dire threats about what’s to happen to me when that man they call Saladin returns.” She brandished the knife. “No Bacchra with a Turk’s name gonna put a scare in this Ashanti princess. I say, go ahead and burn my free papers before I’ll go back to saying ‘yes sir, no sir, get it quick right now, sir.’”
Elanna assumed Saladin was a white man; Alpin had never mentioned the Moor. She could explain, prepare her for the shock of meeting a man of her own race here in Scotland. But seeing the stubborn glint in Elanna’s eyes, Alpin decided her friend needed a small lesson in humility. “What will you do when he arrives?”
Elanna brushed her thumb over the edge of the blade. “Maybe carve out his liver and make some mighty fine pâté.”
Alpin strolled to the door. “Just don’t bloody up the floor. We’re one maid short.”
“Betcha that. Oh … what should I cook?”
Over her shoulder, Alpin said, “Lots of vegetables. Saladin doesn’t eat meat.”
The bench legs scraped against the stone flags. Turnips rolled off the table and thumped loudly onto the floor. “You know him from when you lived here before!”
Alpin grasped the handle and pulled open the door. “Yes. I used to hide his prayer rug and hammer nails with his scimitar.”
“Come back here!”
Elanna’s angry command ringing in her ears, Alpin strolled rapidly into the lesser hall and made her way to Malcolm’s study.
She had just finished comparing last night’s inventory of the pantry to the figures in the household ledger when the door banged open and Malcolm came in. Her pulse jumped at the sight of him, resplendent in Highland dress, his shoulder-length black hair mussed by the wind. As a lad he’d been compassionate and imaginative. He’d treated her kindly when others called her a poor relation and a wicked child.
Now he stiffened at the sight of her. Interest flickered in his eyes, then turned to chilly indifference. What had happened to the caring, sensitive boy? How could she trick this cold man into marrying her?
He began stripping off his gloves. “Ah, you’re still here.”
Seated in his oversized chair, she felt small, defenseless, and her hands shook. She set down the quill before she made an inky mess. Forcing a smile, she tapped the page. “You’ve too much grain in the inventory and not enough meat in the springhouse, which is too small.”
He stared at her breasts. “I never seem to have enough of the things I truly want. But I suspect that’s about to change.”
Perhaps they would both get what they wanted—a fair trade of sorts: Paradise Plantation for her, another female to conquer and perhaps an heir for him. But he had to marry her first.
“Those are strange words from a man who was born to wealth.”
“Money doesn’t provide everything.”
That was a common belief among the rich, a sad cliché from a man who’d never wanted for shelter on a rainy night. Those less fortunate could struggle to better themselves and he would never understand their ambition, let alone applaud their achievements. “Charles would have agreed with you, but he would have added that money can certainly tip the scales of fate.”
“Then I trust you’ll provide the needed balance for my scales?”
She’d wanted few things in her life, had received fewer. But the pain of her failed hopes and tarnished dreams would remain a private matter. Still, his cryptic statement deserved a like reply. “I’ll be an excellent provider, if you’ll trust my judgment.”
A noise in the hall drew his attention, giving her a splendid view of his noble profile. She was again reminded of the caped man she had called her Night Angel. “If time permits, we’ll add ‘earning trust’ to tonight’s agenda, won’t we, Alpin?” Before she could commit the folly of telling him what he could do with his agenda, he waved a hand toward the hall. “Now let me reintroduce you to Saladin Cortez.”
Her interest stayed fixed on Malcolm. A worry line marred his forehead, and tension tightened his jaw. Why? What was it about Saladin’s return that troubled him so?
The moment the Moor stepped into the room her curiosity fled. A hand’s length shorter than Malcolm and much trimmer in build, Saladin Cortez wore the same type of clothing she remembered, except for stylish differences. His cotton turban featured an impressive ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg; golden embroidery trimmed his brown tunic and knee pants. He still favored knee-high red boots, but he now wore an exotic pointed beard.
He blinked, his inscrutable gaze focusing on Alpin and revealing his surprise at seeing her here.
A courier’s satchel was draped over one of his shoulders, a belt housing his deadly scimitar the other. Although familiar, the weapon looked smaller than Alpin remembered. She glanced at Malcolm’s sporran and realized his chieftain’s pouch appeared smaller, too. Prior to her recent arrival, the last time she’d seen Malcolm and Saladin they’d been boys wearing the accoutrements of men. Now they were adults carrying the ancient symbols of their vastly different heritages.
“Welcome—” Saladin coughed and sent a questioning glance at Malcolm.
“Aye. She’s most welcome indeed,” Malcolm said with smooth authority. “Lady Alpin is now our housekeeper, among other things.”
Sal
adin eyed Malcolm with keen regard.
Malcolm eyed the satchel.
Alpin grew uneasy, felt like an outsider. She closed the book, stood, and began tidying the desk. “It’s been a very long time, Saladin,” she said, at a loss for anything else.
Malcolm ushered his friend into the room and held out his hand. Saladin sighed and, with what she thought was regret, yielded the leather pouch. “Ill tidings, my lord.”
Malcolm immediately delved into it.
The Moor faced her. Steepling his fingers, he touched his forehead and bowed. “It has been too long, my lady. May the blessings of the Prophet be upon you.”
She murmured her thanks, but her attention strayed to Malcolm, who now frowned as he examined a handful of letters. What kind of ill tidings had he received, she wondered, and from whom? Probably a woman, she decided, and bully for her, if so.
Hoping to put a dent in his armor of self-importance, she said, “Why, how now, Lord Malcolm! ‘What see you in those papers that you lose so much complexion?’”
He stiffened and glared at her, his dark brown eyes alive with accusation. “As I remember, you couldn’t read the simplest primer when you left here for Barbados. Now you recite Shakespeare and quote boldly from a tale of traitors. I wonder why you chose a passage from Henry the Fifth.”
She had thought it fitting, but to be truthful, she had wanted to show him that she’d bettered herself over the years. His reference to treason, however, completely baffled her.
To hide her vulnerability, she faked a sulk. “I was trying to impress you, but you’ve found me out. Whatever will I do now?”
His brusque demeanor softened to a cool regard that threatened retribution. “‘I suggest you pray that God of his mercy gives you patience to endure, and true repentance of all your dear offenses.’”
As a child he’d recited the classics with ease. As an adult he infused them with menace. She picked up the ledger and hugged it to her breast. “Endure what, my lord?”
He made a slow perusal of her face, then grinned. “What else? Our ever-expanding agenda.”
Feeling adrift in a sea of innuendo, she moved to the door. “Does your afternoon agenda include refreshments?”
“Aye. Beer for me and orange water for my Muslim friend. You’ll find the fruit in the root cellar.” Looking at Saladin, he added, “And please ask Elanna to serve us.”
Alpin crossed the threshold and heard Saladin ask, “Who is this Elanna?”
As Malcolm closed the door behind her, he said, “A surprise, my dear Saladin. A surprise.”
Alpin changed her mind about leaving her friend in the dark, saw the harm and disloyalty that could result. After fetching the oranges, she took Elanna aside and told her about Saladin.
The former slave girl looked the same as she had the day Alpin presented her with a certificate of freedom. Her innate poise turned to childish excitement. “He’s African?”
Dora stopped mashing summer berries and inched closer. Alpin drew Elanna into the privacy of the scullery. Barrels of salted meat and a batch of fresh basil scented the air.
“He’s half African,” Alpin said. “His father was a Moor, and his mother a Spanish noblewoman.”
Elanna stared, still awestruck. “How did he get here?”
“As children, he and his twin brother Salvador were scribes in the employ of Malcolm’s stepmother, Lady Miriam.”
Pinching her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger, Elanna said, “She is the diplomat.”
Alpin shifted the oranges from one hand to the other. “Yes.”
“Here, give me those before you drop them.” Elanna made a sack of her apron. Alpin put the fruit inside. “How old is Saladin?”
“He was twelve or thirteen when I left here for Barbados. That would make him thirty-two or -three now.”
“Is he handsome?”
“I’d say he looks impressive. Majestic, if you will.”
“Hum.” Elanna grew thoughtful. “Must be a poor Moorish man, since he doesn’t have a harem here.”
Amused, Alpin said, “How do you know if has women or not?”
Elanna shot her a look of superiority. “The maids here were quick to tell you about that girl Emily and her soldier. Betcha they couldn’t keep juicy gossip like that a secret if their freedom depended on it.”
“They didn’t tell you much about Saladin?”
“I didn’t ask.” She tapped her breastbone. “This African princess learns by watching and listening.”
Alpin chuckled. “When you’ve finished serving them, make the love potion. And be sure to tell me what you think of Saladin.”
Explanations were unnecessary. From the moment Elanna stepped into Malcolm’s study and spied Saladin, her face mirrored the gamut of reactions, beginning with shock and settling into avid interest. Especially so when Saladin put the tankard to his mouth. His coal black eyes stayed trained on Elanna, and the longer he looked, the more he drank. The tankard was empty when he put it down, but his eyes revealed a thirst no drink could quench.
“More?” asked Elanna, reaching for the pitcher.
In answer he surveyed her from head to toe, his gaze lingering on her neck and hands. “Oh, yes. I believe so.”
“You some thirsty man,” she said in a regal whisper while refilling his mug.
“And you’re an interesting surprise. How did you get here?”
With a coy look, she said, “On a very slow and smelly boat, Your Majesty.”
Humor flashed in his eyes. “I’m no king.”
She winked at Alpin. “But you’re majestic.”
“I am?” Saladin asked.
She nodded, giving evidence of what the older Paradise slave women called her sassy ways. “Betcha that.”
“Yes, well…” He cleared his throat. “You were born in Barbados?”
She set down the pitcher and squared her shoulders. Then, for only the second time since meeting her, Alpin heard her friend say, “I am Elanna, the last Ashanti princess of the Kumbassa people.”
Saladin’s arm froze, the newly filled tankard an inch from his mouth. “You’re African royalty? A slave?”
Pride gave proof to her noble lineage. “You see before you a freedwoman.” Her elegant facade crumbled when she playfully added, “Betcha that.”
He shook his head. “Curse me for a plaster saint, Elanna, but I doubt any of us ever truly gain our freedom.”
She turned to Malcolm. “He’s your slave?” she squeaked, her face pinched in disbelief.
Smiling benevolently, Malcolm chuckled. “A slave to philosophy and a servant of theology. That’s our Saladin.”
“That’s no answer,” she snapped. “Is he or is he not your property?”
“Not mine or any mortal man’s.”
She threw up her hands. “You sing a riddle song. I’m going back to the kitchen.”
Saladin caught up with her before she reached the door. “I’ll walk you there.”
She eyed him as a canary would a cat, until he smiled in invitation. A blush turned her dark skin mahogany red. “I suppose it’s all right.”
“Betcha that,” he quipped and, putting a hand at the small of her back, guided her out the door.
Feeling like an intruder, Alpin looked at Malcolm and was surprised to find him staring at her. Seated at his desk he didn’t seem so formidable, but his intense gaze held a menace of its own.
Perturbed, she crossed the distance and leaned close. “Why are you staring at me?”
“Was I staring?” He casually raked the opened letters into a pile and concealed them with a book. Then he propped his elbow on the desk and rested his chin in his palm. His black eyebrows rose in query. “What’s wrong with admiring the very attractive woman who’s agreed to share the pleasures of the flesh with me?”
She wanted to ball her fists, pound on the desk, and damn him for a rogue and a thief. Instead, she kept her voice light. “You needn’t hide your love letters.”
“You
’re not jealous?”
She wasn’t in the least, but to keep up the pretense of wanting him, she shelved her indifference and returned to more important matters. “What happened between us in the barracks—Well … please understand that I didn’t come here to vie for your affection.” Softly she implored, “Don’t you see that?”
His eyelids drifted shut, the lashes so thick and long they almost fanned his cheeks. “We’ll discuss why you came here at length … later. After our bath.”
Second thoughts plagued her. She needed time to devise a foolproof way of tricking him into marrying her. “What happened was very disturbing.”
“A mere fraction of how disturbing the rest will be.”
“This is all happening rather quickly, don’t you think?”
“You encouraged me, Alpin. Why back down now?”
She had encouraged him, and probably given him the mistaken impression that she was experienced in the art of seduction. Her easy success still baffled her. Could she now appeal to his sense of honor? “Because …”
He toyed with her bracelet. “Because?”
Exasperated, she blurted. “Because I’m a virgin.”
Hunger gleamed in his eyes. “An enticing element in our arrangement.”
He sounded as if he were bartering for a herd of sheep. He, a rich man with a vast kingdom, made richer by the acquisition of Paradise Plantation. Well, she refused to be an easy conquest. She’d fashion her own bargain, but first she needed more information. “Enticing? What do you mean?”
His fingers began a slow journey up her arm. “If what you say is true, then it might be a considerable enticement—in some circles.”
The only circles she could think about were the ones his fingers were drawing on her skin. How, she wondered, could she despise and desire him at once? “Why do you want me? You can have your choice of women.”
“Suffice it to say, you have always held a special and unforgettable place in my life.”
“A dishonorable place,” she grumbled, “is where you’d put me.”
“On the contrary. I intend to honor you from the delicate lobes of your ears to the dainty tips of your toes.”
A tingling started in the parts he mentioned and spread everywhere in between. “I’m neither dainty nor delicate. Save those niceties for your dear Rosina.”
