by Arnette Lamb
“The other Scots’ll join in, just you wait and see,” Gordon wheedled. “Once they set eyes on our Bonnie Prince, they’ll rally to him.”
In other ways, Malcolm despised their stubbornness. “Why don’t they support him now, if they’re so determined to see a Stewart on the throne?”
“’Tis James. He thinks to reconcile the Scots and the Brits, person by person. That’ll take years, and when has an Englishman been reconciled by peaceable means?”
Ruefully, Malcolm said, “I believe George the First was the most recent converter of souls.” When Gordon frowned and looked away, Malcolm added, “William and Mary also claimed the crown in a bloodless revolution.”
“They claimed an English crown.”
Patience dwindling, Malcolm tapped his teeth together. “George claimed the Union of Crowns, same as Queen Anne.” He couldn’t help adding, “If you’ll recall, she was a Stewart.”
“An Anglican,” he spat.
As the absurdity of Gordon’s argument grew, Malcolm wondered if there would ever be peace in the Highlands. “Oh, so now ’tis a religious war you’ll fight?”
Gordon pounded his fist on his kilt-clad thigh. “’Tis a fight to preserve the royal house of Scotland.”
Malcolm almost retorted that, thanks to the largess of the pope, the Stewarts and their vast entourage of exiled Scots were quite well preserved in both their Italian villas. Instead, he calmly replied, “Uniting our clans through marriage is impossible, John, for I’m handfasted.”
“To the Italian piece?” Gordon clutched the chair arms. “What kind of agreement have you worked with the Stewarts?”
Ah, so he thought Rosina was some link into intrigue rather than a mere messenger to the exiled royal family. An interesting assumption and so typically Jacobite that Malcolm pursed his lips to keep from grinning.
Another irony gripped him. He had never imagined that his marriage to Alpin would have an advantageous effect on his life or a positive impact on Scottish politics. Paradoxically, she had always occupied a separate yet integral part of his life. Now her presence could save him from insulting the Highland clans by unconditionally refusing to unite the Kerrs with the Gordons.
“Well?” Gordon demanded, peevish in his skepticism.
“’Tis not Rosina but the Scottish lass you saw in the garden.”
“What’s the wench’s name?”
Malcolm sidestepped the question. “She’s related to my English neighbor, Baron Sinclair.”
“Aye. You said she was half Brit,” the Highlander said, as if the words were bitter.
“Aye. The same as me.”
Chagrined, Gordon sighed. “Who is she?”
With an end to the conversation in sight, Malcolm cast off his better judgment and viewed the situation objectively. On the positive side, if Gordon did know Alpin’s family it would be easier for him to locate them. Her reason for coming to Scotland glared in Malcolm’s mind: she had no place else to go. Last night she’d been tentative about locating the MacKays. She’d said she didn’t believe they cared about her. Her reaction seemed natural; all her life Alpin had been shuffled from one relative to the next.
No matter how much he wanted to keep her in his bed, Malcolm hadn’t the heart, or the right, to prevent her from exploring her Scottish heritage.
“Her name is Alpin MacKay.”
His gaze fixed on the edge of Malcolm’s desk, Gordon rubbed his forehead. At length, a cunning smile blossomed on his craggy features. “I thought I recognized her. Well done, Malcolm!”
When Malcolm and his Gordon guest hadn’t emerged from the study by midafternoon, curiosity got the best of Alpin. Who was the fellow, and why had Alexander been so closemouthed? Malcolm had mentioned salt, but why would so ordinary a commodity cause him such distress?
She thought he might be angry with her over the episode in the garden. Yes, that was it. He was using the man’s arrival to distance himself from his handfast wife. But Alpin shied away from that conclusion; if it was true, she risked losing the little ground she’d gained.
Desperate for answers, she went to the kitchen.
From Dora she learned that Malcolm had requested a tray of food shortly after twelve o’clock.
“Do you know who that man is?” she asked the maid.
Dora sloshed turnip greens in a pail of water. “All I know is he drinks enough beer to fill a moat. After the second pitcher, Lord Malcolm came himself and fetched the keg to the study.”
“When was that?”
“Over an hour ago.”
“Are they still arguing?”
“Nay, my lady, but his lordship looked fair toilworn.”
The question loomed larger. Was he upset with her because she’d been miffed and teased him, or was his guest the source of his unhappiness? Hoping it was the latter, Alpin made a pitcher of orange water and went to the one person who might tell her the significance of the visitor.
Lounging in bed, a wall of pillows at his back, a sharpening stone and his scimitar in his lap, Saladin looked like a sultan on his throne.
She poured him a glass of the drink. “Your color’s back. How are you feeling?”
“Better, thanks to a bounty of tender ministrations.”
Remembering Dora’s story of his argument with Elanna last night, Alpin decided to hasten the peace between them. “Elanna doesn’t understand your religion.”
He sent her a meaningful look that dripped skepticism.
“She’s terribly sorry she threw your prayer rug out the window. That’s why she went fishing today.”
He put down the stone and folded his arms across his chest. “Am I to assume that in her twisted African mind going fishing is some sort of atonement?”
Alpin smiled. “It’s actually punishment. In her culture an Ashanti princess never forages for food—not even for a tribal chief. She’d starve first.”
On a half laugh he said, “I don’t doubt that.”
“It’s really a tremendous concession on her part, Saladin.”
Staring at the ceiling, he stroked his beard. “Then for my part I will be dutifully humble as she picks out the bones and feeds me the tenderest morsels.”
“Oh, she’ll never do that.”
Seeing his raised brows and unconcealed confidence, Alpin had second thoughts about having broached the subject of Elanna’s fishing trip. Doubts turned to assurance when he said, “She will feed me and thank her pagan gods for the opportunity.”
Prudence dictated that Alpin concentrate on her own troubles. She told Saladin about the visitor. “Do you know who he is?”
Saladin eyed her cautiously. “Why do you care who comes to call?”
Alpin wasn’t sure of her motives, but intuition wouldn’t let the matter rest. “Because his arrival upset Malcolm.”
“And you are concerned about his lordship’s moods?”
“Of course I am. We’re handfasted.”
His brow furrowed, exposing the tip of a widow’s peak beneath his turban. “This arrangement pleases Malcolm?”
Alpin tamped back maidenly modesty. “He seems pleased so far. But it only happened last night.”
A sly smile gave Saladin a boyish look, one she remembered well. “Do you share his joy?”
She would babble the intimate details of her wedding night if she didn’t watch her tongue. “I’d be more pleased if I knew why the identity of his visitor remains such a secret.” Hearing peevishness in her own words, she rushed to say, “I don’t know whether to lay an extra plate at table and prepare a room or hide the maids from this man who remains a mystery.”
Saladin went back to honing the blade. “I’m certain your husband will let you know his desires in the matter.”
The swish of stone against steel sliced into the silence. Her wits dwindling, Alpin decided to take a direct approach. “Do you or do you not know why that man is here?”
He tilted the blade to better view the edge. “What makes you think I know all of Lord
Malcolm’s business?”
“Will you stop answering my questions with questions? I want an answer.”
“Then ask your husband.”
“You’d think that Gordon fellow was either a criminal on the run or a deviant plotting some dangerous scheme.”
Appearing as calm as the glassy waters in Harmony Bay, Saladin put aside the stone. “Do you think so?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t think of it at all.”
Alpin threw up her hands in disgust and walked to the door. “You’re as stubborn as Elanna says.”
“Elanna will change her tune.”
More curious than before, Alpin hoped the soldiers would tell her what she wanted to know. She went in search of Rabby Armstrong. Unfortunately he stood outside the barracks talking to that tight-lipped Alexander Lindsay.
She went to the smithy.
After exchanging small talk and congratulating Alpin on her handfast marriage to Malcolm, the blacksmith told her the stranger had a finely honed sword.
She stopped at the Rot and Ruin and peered through the windows. The barkeep was busy serving ale to a group of rowdy clansmen wearing the same plaid as the stranger.
At the stable she learned that the stranger rode a well-shod mount and that Lord Malcolm had found himself a bonny bride.
The weaver complimented both the stranger’s tartan, which she already knew was a Gordon plaid, and Malcolm’s good fortune in winning Alpin, which made her feel guilty for prying.
Crossing the lane, she headed back to the keep. Since she had to pass the tanner’s shop, she decided to stop. He supplied the first new information: judging from his chieftain’s pouch, the stranger was laird of clan Gordon, an important man. “And a foosty scunner,” added the tanner with a wink, “for keeping our laird from his bonny new bride.”
Flushed and feeling happier than she had since last night, Alpin almost floated up the front stairs. The doors flew open.
Malcolm’s grip was firm but gentle on her arm. “Where have you been?” he demanded, pulling her inside.
So much for wedded bliss. Her euphoria vanished. Smiling up at him, she jerked out of his grasp. “I’ve been in the barracks telling all of your men how melodiously you snore.”
He put his hand to his mouth to cover a laugh, but his shoulders shook and his eyes twinkled with mirth. “I suppose I deserved that.”
He was supposed to be shocked, not amused. “Oh, you deserve much more than that.”
“I swear”—he slapped his hand over his clan badge—“I’m eager for my comeuppance.”
Rising on tiptoe, she said, “Don’t be glib with me, and don’t dissemble.”
Leaning down so their noses almost touched, he replied, “As always, you started it.”
She smelled sandalwood and remembered the delicious taste of his skin. Appalled at herself and afraid he would discern her lustful thoughts, she grew defensive. “Dora said you were drinking with a man named Gordon.”
“Only a wee dram, my bonny bride. I want to be completely sober when you tie me to the bed.”
She gasped and realized she’d misjudged his mood. He wasn’t angry; he was elated. But about what? “I’m mortified that you’d take me seriously.”
“I’ll take you anywhere, Alpin, anytime.”
She had no intention of playing the wanton again. “Well, I’m not going upstairs with you now, so you can wipe that lecherous grin off your face.”
“I’d rather put a grin on yours.”
His charming ways robbed her of protest. “All right, I’ll grin.” She did.
“I’m sorry I tried to push you out of bed.” His brown eyes glowed with sincerity. “I assure you it wasn’t intentional.”
Warmed by his honesty but still curious as to the source of his high spirits, she said, “I accept your apology.”
“I hoped you would, for I thought to give you a wedding gift today.”
The only gift she wanted was the same thing she’d always wanted. A home. Her home. Paradise Plantation. And the chance to lift the bonds of slavery from the people who had trusted and depended on her for the last twenty years.
Straight-faced, she said, “I want the one thing I don’t have.”
He hitched up his belt. “I know you too well, Alpin. I’ve learned to decipher your evasions. I know why you came to Scotland.”
The bottom dropped out of her stomach. Oh, Lord. He’d found her out. “You do?”
As serious as a sorcerer on Allhallows Eve, he said, “Aye. I remembered what you said last night about Barbados. You must have felt exiled there.”
The old bitterness fired her temper. “I was exiled there.”
He cocked his head. His hair brushed his shoulder. “In a moment you’ll never again have to think about Paradise Plantation or your life there.”
Sweet Jesus, he’d sold her home to that rascally Gordon. She stood paralyzed, her heart thumping in great hollow strokes. Then she grasped his arm. “What have you done?”
“’Tis a surprise.” He took her arm and led her across the entryway. “Come with me.”
Chapter 14
Fear assailed Alpin. She felt trapped. The grip of his hand on her arm squeezed like a slave’s manacle. The quizzical expression in his eyes held her captive. Was the sale of Paradise the reason for the stranger’s presence?
Oh, God, no. Please, no.
With every step across the room, she felt her terror grow. As a defense her mind darted around the awful possibility that he had shattered her dreams, her hopes for the future that had sustained her for years.
Male laughter drifted from the corridor leading to the lesser hall. The men of the night watch were gaming, passing the time until sundown. Had Dora put out enough food for them?
Halfway across the foyer, Malcolm stopped. “Alpin, you’re trembling. What’s wrong?”
Nothing she cared to ponder, not if she intended to keep her fears at bay. If she could get away from him, she could think of a way to stop him. “I was just wondering if the soldiers had enough to eat.”
“I don’t believe you. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
She darted a glance at the closed door that led to the kitchen—and sanctuary. “I was concerned about your guest. I wouldn’t want him to think poorly of Kildalton hospitality. You do pay me handsomely … and just because we’re handfasted doesn’t mean I’ll become a layabout and shirk my duties.”
“Alpin …” he warned. “You’re babbling.”
Oh, God, he saw through her, but she could think of nothing else to say.
“Look at me.”
Reluctantly she did. Impatience tightened his mouth.
She gave him a quivery smile. “Yes?”
His knuckles grazed her cheek. Tenderly he said, “Talk to me, and please don’t equivocate.”
Why did he have to be so blessed nice? Because he had no idea how much she distrusted him and no inkling to how desperate she was to save the people of Paradise. “About what?”
“About what you’re thinking right now.”
A diversion flashed in her mind. Fluttering her hand, she laughed nervously. “I’m thinking about how much I hate surprises.”
He gave her a confident, arresting smile. “You’ll like this one. ’Tis a gift from your husband. Trust him to know what’s best for you.” Then he ushered her into his study.
The man named Gordon stood before one of the family portraits, his face pulled into a frown. Wrinkles distorted the square pattern of his tartan, and a bulging belly lapped over his low-slung belt. An elaborate chieftain’s sporran dangled at his knees, rather than at his groin, giving him an unkempt look.
She glanced at Malcolm, and although her heart tripped fast in anticipation, she had to admire his well-muscled yet lean frame and the neatness of his Scottish attire.
Appreciation turned to puzzlement. If Malcolm had truly discovered her reasons for coming to Scotland and had sold the plantatio
n, why would he wish to have an audience when he told her? To punish her. Aye, his kindness and consideration had been an elaborate act of cruelty.
He cleared his throat and moved his hand to the small of her back.
The visitor turned and stared at her, cataloging her from head to foot.
“Alpin,” said Malcolm, urging her farther into the room, “May I present John Gordon, my fellow Scotsman and laird of his clan. He’s also the earl of Aberdeenshire, although he shuns the title.”
Not taking his eyes off her, Gordon sneered. “’Tis a rank the English bestowed and not worth a Carlisle shilling.”
Having no relevant comment, she made a curtsy. “How do you do, my lord.”
In answer, he stepped closer and walked before her in a half circle, inspecting her as an overseer would a newly acquired slave. “Eyes from heaven,” he murmured.
Insulted to her soul, she lifted her chin. “Are you enjoying your stay, my lord?” When he gave her a blank stare, she added, “I mean, I hope your trip to Kildalton has been pleasurable.”
He looked up at Malcolm and nodded. “’Tis now. She’s a MacKay; there’s no disputing that. The hair’s true enough, but her eyes confirm it. She’s of Comyn’s line.”
Feeling left out, she stepped away from both men. “Of course my name is MacKay. But what does that have to do with the price of salt? What’s going on here, Malcolm?”
“John knows your father’s family,” he said, as if it were some great revelation.
An eerie feeling crept over her. She clasped her hands. “So?”
“’Tis my gift to you, the one thing you never had—a family.”
Hearing her own words only intensified the bleakness of her situation. What she had considered a clever evasion had come back to jeopardize all she held dear. She had a perfectly fine family in Barbados—dark-skinned women who’d given her rag dolls to make her smile, men who’d carved stately faces in coconuts and left them outside her door to ward off evil spirits. People who missed her, people who needed her.
Crushed by despair, she forced back tears. “You thought I wanted a family?”
