by Arnette Lamb
She pursed her lips to keep from smiling. “Oh. So sorry. You must be bereft.”
He twirled the bonnet while his eyes made a lazy inspection of Alpin’s riding costume. Uncertain whether he was judging her or her outfit, she grew defensive. At one time her wardrobe had consisted of breeches and tunics he’d outgrown. “Why are you staring at me?”
“Because the sight of you in leather breeches offers much consolation—to my bereavement. Especially from this vantage point.”
He was only teasing. She laughed and jumped to the ground. “You’re either a prime rogue or a creative jester.”
“Perhaps I’m both.”
“And perhaps I’m the queen o’ the May, instead of a homeless maiden.”
His smile faded. “Why do you always do that, Alpin?”
“Do what?”
“Speak bitterly about your life so that I’ll feel sorry for you.”
Pride made her reckless. “You’re mistaken. I don’t want your pity or anyone else’s.”
“Then what do you want?”
My home, her soul screamed.
“It’s only fair,” he said in a chiding tone, “that you tell me. I’ve never lied to you.”
Surprised by his frankness and stumped for an appropriate reply, she surveyed her surroundings. “I want that chest of Roman gold we always searched for.”
He grew dead serious, his piercing gaze pinning her where she stood. “I’ll find out, you know. You can’t hide your secret from me.”
The threat in his voice struck a warning bell. “What makes you think I’m hiding something?”
He winked. “I’m your best friend, remember? And I’ll be your first lover.”
She felt like an animal, caged by his virility and trapped by her own foolishness. “Somehow I have trouble thinking of myself as one of the objects of your lusty proclivities.”
Stepping forward, he held out his hand. “’Tis unfair to throw a man’s words in his face, and I don’t think of you in that way.”
“The way you think of Rosina?”
“I don’t think of her at all.”
“Don’t expect me to be flattered. You’re fickle.”
He took the stick from her hand and tossed it aside; then he grasped her wrists and pulled her close. “Nay, Alpin. I can be loyal to the right woman. Truth to tell, I’m intrigued by what I see and don’t see.”
He towered over her, but she was growing accustomed to staring at the clan badge that secured his plaid at the shoulder. “What don’t you see?”
A bland smile softened his masculinity. “You asked me if I intended to blame you for all the ill that befell me in childhood. I believe the opposite is true.”
She fought to keep the sarcasm from her voice. “What could I possibly blame you for?”
“Let’s just say I have the feeling you find fault with me because of my birthright.”
He was close to grasping her motive. Dangerously close. “You make me sound shallow and petty.”
Bending from the waist, he pushed against her, coming so near she could distinguish each of his eyelashes and feel the warm rush of his breath. “Then show me who you really are. Tell me why you sought my protection.”
Stretching the truth seemed appropriate, considering how fast her pulse was hammering and how much she wanted to throw her arms around his neck and make certain he truly forgot his Rosina. “You protect me? You’ve tried to seduce me at every turn.”
“Some things never change, such as your expertise at evasion.”
She had to get a distance between them. Knowing she’d start fidgeting if she didn’t move, she turned toward the wall. “You know why I came to you.”
“Because you had nowhere else to go? I don’t believe you. You could have gone to Sinclair Manor.”
The cruelty she’d suffered during those years came back in a flood. She whirled on him. “Ha! I hated my life there and ran away every chance I got.”
“But you could have at least stopped to visit. And had you, I think you would have stayed at Sinclair Manor.”
“I’d sooner go back to living in your tower room.”
He shook his head slowly, real disappointment clouding his eyes. “There. You’ve done it again. I’m sorry, Alpin, that you had to seek refuge in a windowless room. I’m sorry you had to steal food, but it wasn’t my fault.”
His valid observation gave her pause. She hadn’t expected honesty from Malcolm Kerr, but he was correct about her methods; she saw that now. “Thank you for telling me, and it wasn’t your fault I ran away from my uncle.” It was Malcolm’s doing, however, that she’d lost Paradise, but she’d live over a tavern and wait on tables before she’d confess that truth. The bleak option seemed ironic in the extreme, for if he did discern her methods, she might as well learn how to tap a keg.
Swallowing her pride, she held out her hand. “Forgive me?”
He took it and with his thumb traced the pads of her fingers. “Apology accepted. You might be interested to know that your uncle’s household has changed.”
“Certainly,” she quipped. “Now his poor relations live in the sty.”
“Wrong. Thanks to my stepmother’s negotiations, all of your cousins have married well and moved on. Your uncle is in Ireland. You could have a wing in the manor all to yourself.”
Suddenly suspicious of his glowing report, she said, “Do you want me to go there?”
His hand slipped up her arm. “Nay. I want you in my bed.”
She gasped, for at every turn her confusion grew. “I hardly know you anymore.” Yet he seemed to know her very well.
“Another expert evasion. Number two on the day, I believe.”
From somewhere behind her, she heard a lamb bleating for its mother. The cry echoed her own emotional turmoil. She might as well blurt out what he wanted to hear and get it over with. “I’d rather stay with you.”
He leaned close. She smelled sandalwood, the manly fragrance he’d preferred even as a lad. “Then you’ll admit I’m making progress?” he asked.
Even though she willed it away, an embarrassed flush warmed her cheeks. “I’ll admit you’re making bold.”
He assumed an adorable pout that years before had made the visiting noblewomen pinch his perky cheeks. Now it made her want to punch his nose. “When will I ever learn to behave?” he said.
Troubled by the easy way he distracted her, Alpin shrugged at his charming display. “Probably when time stops ravaging this wall.” She raked a handful of dust from between the stones. “The mortar is crumbling.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Giving her hand a squeeze, he said, “That’s evasion number three. I believe we were discussing what else you want, besides a home and honest work.”
If he thought to befuddle her with seduction, he would fail. Because she intended to control their courtship. “Have you a complaint?”
“Only one.” He touched the edge of her kerchief where it covered her ear. “I heard a rat rummaging in the tunnels.”
Did he suspect that she had eavesdropped on his conversation with Saladin? No. He was too arrogant to let it pass. He would have confronted her if he’d guessed. Although her excursion into intrigue had been a failure, she might again make use of the tunnels. “I’ll have Dora see if the stableman has a good mouser.”
“Fair enough. Rodents can be pesky devils—always poking their noses where they’re unwanted. Now, tell me what you want from me.”
Dissembling seemed her only option. “I want us to get to know each other, as we did before.”
“We knew each other when I was seven and you were six. We whiled away many an afternoon playing kiss-the-freckle.”
Her life had changed the day she met Malcolm Kerr. Twenty years later fate—or someone—had interfered once more. Until she again gained control of her future she would play her evasive game. “We shouldn’t have been so brazen.”
“You’re probably right.” He laughed and fell into step beside her. “�
�Twould seem our destinies are forever linked. From the moment you ran away from home, my life changed.”
Happy moments in their past gave her the will to thread her fingers through his. His skin felt work-worn and made her rethink her assumption that he led a privileged life. But she must be cautious in her understanding; she’d learned early in life the high price a gullible girl must pay.
Glancing up, she realized he’d been waiting for her to speak. “Do you remember the time I tried to build a house here?” she asked.
“Aye.” He pointed to a pile of smaller stones near the break in the wall. “You were certain you could make your fortune offering refreshment to travelers on this road.”
“That’s because you told me there was water in that old well.”
“I thought there was.”
“I spent an entire day down in that hole digging in dry dust.”
“I pulled you out and tended your bruised fingers.”
He had. She’d been exhausted and on the verge of tears. Then he’d appeared above her, a smile on his face, a quip on his tongue, and a rope in his hands.
“Lord, I was an industrious little beggar,” she mused.
“Beggar? Never. You always insisted on doing your share and earning your keep.”
“I’m smarter now.”
“I know. You’re more clever, too.”
“You won your share of contests.”
He laughed. “Not when the sport required throwing daggers or nocking arrows.”
“But you always bested me with a sword.”
“Only because I was stronger and bigger.”
“As you say, my lord. Some things never change.”
He grew thoughtful, his intense gaze following the flight of a hen harrier. “You asked why I doubt you. Here’s a case in point. I don’t expect you to address me so formally, unless you’re mocking me.”
He might call her clever, but he took the prize for being astute. “I was, and I’m sorry.”
“Then gain my forgiveness by addressing me in a fashion befitting our friendship.”
“Yes, Malcolm. Although I’m surprised you use your name. You always hated it. Remember the time you dressed as Caesar and I talked you into letting me tie you to a tree?”
He stopped. “That’s number four,” he growled.
Thinking his harshness stemmed from patience lost, she dropped his hand and played the role of cowering maiden. “You grant no quarter today?”
His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. “I could be persuaded to take a hostage.”
Realizing she had angered him, she sought to diffuse his rage. “I think you mean a prisoner.”
“Nay. A hostage has something with which to bargain.” His gaze moved to her breasts. “You’re well supplied with valuable assets.”
So much for placating his pride. “I should slap you.”
“You could, but then I’d grow more doubtful of your sincerity.”
She couldn’t alienate him. She only wanted to capture his heart while guarding her own. Once she’d taken possession of her home, Malcolm could do as he pleased. Turning her back, she walked to the old well. “Then you must tell me what I can do to convince you.”
He followed her and pulled off her kerchief. “You can begin by letting down your hair and reviving your role as pagan goddess.”
In the spring of her last year in Scotland, she and Malcolm had painted their skin and danced naked, enacting an ancient fertility ritual.
“I see you remember,” he added. “You’re blushing.”
“You were playing a Druid priest that day.” Seeing his eyes darken with desire, she added, “We performed the ritual in childish innocence.”
He grasped her waist and lifted her onto the rim of the well. “A rehearsal of sorts? You outdanced me.”
A determined glimmer in his eyes, he spread her leather-clad thighs and moved so close the warmth of his wool tartan heated her skin.
“I haven’t danced in years, and you’re stronger now,” she said.
“I’ll take special care to show you the proper steps, and I’ll stop often so you can catch your breath.”
Her pulse began to hammer. “You’re not talking about childish dancing, are you?”
Putting his cheek next to hers, he breathed softly in her ear. “Take the pins out of your hair and I’ll show you exactly what I’m talking about.”
Shivers rocked her and she clutched his shoulders for balance. “I’ll fall into the well.”
“I promise to catch you,” he whispered, his mouth perilously close to hers. “I always have.”
Beyond denial, she lifted her arms and began pulling the wooden pins from her hair. Hands shaking, she fumbled to complete the mundane task, which now seemed vital to her sanity. His mouth touched hers, his tongue darting forward to nudge her lips apart. She followed his lead, and by the time her hair fell free, her senses were spinning out of control. His exotic scent tantalized her nose while the heat from his body fed the flames of her desire.
He wrapped an arm around her, clutching her as if she were a precious keepsake, and although she felt his free hand unbuttoning her tunic, Alpin no longer questioned the right or wrong of his methods. He seemed her perfect mate, his heart pounding in unison with hers, his labored breathing an echo of her own. When his tongue lunged insistently against hers, she welcomed him, joined in the twirling, darting ceremony.
Just when she thought she might tumble backward into the well, Malcolm traced a line of kisses across her cheek and down her neck. He drew back, one hand splayed at the base of her spine, and again put his other hand to work freeing the tiny pearl buttons of her blouse. She looked up. The hen harrier still glided overhead. The afternoon sun turned a high bank of knobby clouds to a giant sheet of hammered gold.
Malcolm pulled her blouse from her breeches and stared at her exposed breasts. The breeze teased her heated skin.
A softness shrouded his strong features, and his lips were damp from their kisses. “You’ve been swimming naked as we used to. Your skin is brown where it shouldn’t be.”
“A gentleman wouldn’t mention it” was all that came to mind, for she was caught up in appreciating the way she affected him.
He lifted the old coin she wore on a chain. “Adrienne gave you this. Your heat lingers in the metal.”
Lips as sensuous as his should be outlawed, she thought, and words so beguiling should be proscribed. “Yes. It belonged to the Border Lord.”
He looked youthful in his skepticism, like the adventurous Malcolm of days gone by. “Nay,” he said. “’Twas my father’s. He gave her the coin.”
He’d been honest enough to point out one of her faults. Now she could be honest with him. “Your father is—or was—the Border Lord.”
She expected him to argue and prayed that he wouldn’t. They had reached a moment of accord, and although he was her enemy, she wanted this brief respite from their war.
“I wondered when you’d guess his identity. And that’s number five, Alpin. The last on the day, I trust.”
His provocative tone sapped her will to evade him further, made her eager to extend their truce. Returning his caresses seemed an inevitable move. She reached for the laces on his shirt.
“In a moment, sweet.” His eyes held a determined look, and his hand was insistently firm on hers. “I haven’t painted you yet. Wait right there.”
He stepped back, but held her until she found her balance on the edge of the well. Then he ran to his horse and lifted a wineskin from the pommel. Her feet dangling off the ground, she watched him walk toward her, his silk shirt billowing in the summer breeze, his colorful Kerr tartan lending power to an already formidable presence. How, she wondered, could any woman resist him?
Instinctively she drew the edges of her blouse together.
Twisting off the stopper, he said, “May I offer you drink for your thirst?”
From him, the ordinary question sounded devilishly indecent. She opened her mout
h and closed her eyes. When the tangy liquid flowed over her tongue, she thought he’d introduced her to some strange wine. But with the first swallow she tasted berries. And the truth.
She almost gagged on Elanna’s love potion.
He grasped her shoulder. “Drink slowly,” he said, “or you’ll choke.”
Sputtering, she wiped her mouth. “Where did you get that?”
A frown creased his high forehead. “From Saladin. He found it in the kitchen and offered me a share.”
Her stomach roiled and her tongue rebelled at the earthy aftertaste of the herb.
His eyes grew wide with concern. “What’s wrong?”
Nothing, her mind screamed, except that I’ve slipped a proverbial noose over my own neck! “Nothing’s wrong,” she said on a nervous sigh, “but I think we would be better off with water.”
He sniffed the juice. “Is it tainted?”
Before she could cry yes, he took a sip. Licking his lips, his eyes darting left and right, he said, “Berries. I rather like it.” Then he tilted his head back.
Just as he began squirting the drink into his mouth, she yelled, “No!”
He stopped. “No? Why don’t you want me to drink this?” Smiling, he added, “Don’t fret. I’ll save some for you.”
A viable reply eluded her. Over the clamoring of her heart, she accepted defeat. “You really like it that much?”
He handed it back to her. “Aye. Don’t you?”
Dread gripped her. “Of course,” she conceded, and pretended to swallow the dangerous drink.
Her heart sinking, she watched him take back the wineskin and finish off the contents. One small blessing rang in her mind: he had drunk only half of the stuff. A drop of blood red liquid seeped from the corner of his mouth, flowed to his chin, and halted an instant before trailing leisurely over his throat, down his neck, and to his shirt. As if in a daze, she saw the thirsty white silk absorb the garnet-hued liquid.
The leather bag hit the ground with a plop. She glanced up at him and froze, for his eyes held a dreamy quality.
To her astonishment he put his index finger in his mouth, then traced a Celtic cross on each of her breasts. At that moment she understood the true meaning of the word “erotic,” and with each symbol he sketched, her need increased. Watching him slip his finger into his mouth for added moisture brought a tightness to her belly and a weakness to her legs.
