by Arnette Lamb
Like a child getting her way, she beamed. “Betcha that.”
His fingers coiled around her fragile bones. He stepped back. “Find yourself another rutting beast, princess. I’m unavailable.”
She arched her eyebrows in query. “Same stupid principle?”
If ever a female deserved a man’s wrath, it was she. Were he a violent man, he’d go searching for a rod. He released her and put a safe distance between them. “Decency and honor are hardly stupid principles.”
With a sad smile she said, “You make mighty big mistake.”
“Then help me unmake it.”
She put her hands on her hips and swayed. “I’ll help you.”
He closed his eyes. “No.”
Her breath fanned his face and set off an explosion of desire. “You want to.” When her lips touched his, he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t deny the need that burned in his soul. He tore into the kiss. She tasted of sweet berries and bitter torment. Her tongue plunged past his lips, made a sweeping raid on his misgivings, then retreated. Knowing he must stop or cast his honor to the wind, he set her away from him.
“Oh,” she moaned, her mouth open and ripe, her eyes wide with desperation.
Conversation seemed prudent. He touched the cord at her waist “What’s this?”
She sighed so profoundly that her breasts jiggled. “You always ask. I always say it is Ashanti business.” She flung her arms around his neck and went for his mouth again.
Unable to resist, he reveled in the kiss until she touched him intimately. Jolted by a desire that made his senses spin and his head light he untangled her arms. “Then I’ll say good night”
She glared at him as if he were an inferior. “You want this Ashanti princess.”
“No, I don’t, not in the way you say it must be. However, I do want to know why you always wear this belt around your waist.”
She stared at his groin and smiled. “You want me, and mighty bad. Your body sings to me.”
He stretched the truth by a Highland mile. “My body doesn’t rule my mind.”
“I’ll tell you about this cord, but Muslim won’t like what he hears.”
All he could hear now was lust ringing in his ears. “Tell me anyway. I insist.”
“It’s a princess belt, and I wear it until I’m a queen.”
More tribal custom. Oh, Allah, how many of these primitive obstacles must a weak mortal climb? “How do you become a queen?”
She rolled her eyes. “Simple, simple. Ashanti queens give birth to Ashanti princesses.”
He understood; only by giving birth could she become a queen. He reached for her. “I’ll give you a princess.”
As always she came willingly into his arms. “Give me joy.”
Compared to the emotions her kiss evoked, joy was blandness.
Her hand found his groin. “You want me plenty, plenty bad.”
“Saying I am ready and capable of giving you a child is an understatement. Don’t you agree?”
“Tricky question, Muslim.” She caressed him in the intimate way he’d taught her weeks ago. “Child, yes. Princess, no. Only forever mate can make Ashanti princess a queen.”
In her twisted pagan way, she had said something he didn’t like, for the negative reaction registered in his mind. But his body was too far gone to listen. A voice in his soul cried out for him to grasp her meaning. When logic plowed through the morass of desire his mind had become, Saladin’s patience snapped. There would be no marriage between them.
Disgusted with his abundance of morals and her lack of them, he accepted the sad truth that she would never be his. Removing her hand, he pushed her toward the door. “Go, and take your primitive beliefs with you.”
Tears pooled in her eyes. “You hate me.”
“No, Elanna. I love you.”
“You cannot love me!”
He needed relief, but even ten thousand prayers would not get him through this night. Under the circumstances, religion and principles made poor bedfellows. To ease his torment, Saladin chose a path he knew he would regret.
Chapter 15
The dream began the same way.
Weary from a long afternoon in the cane fields, Alpin entered the water shed, a small building between the plantation house and the slave quarters. She stripped off her damp cotton dress and stepped into a tub of rainwater. Her heated skin cooled, and the clean smell of vanilla, her favorite fragrance, wafted around her. Sloe-eyed Sally, a sweet faced and sweeter natured child of six, pulled the pins from Alpin’s hair and let it cascade to the floor. Small nimble fingers danced on her scalp, tripped over her temples, and massaged the strain from her neck.
Just as the remnants of the day’s sweaty labor floated away, Alpin became aware of the eerie silence.
Her skin prickled with alarm, for the dream was going bad.
She tensed and called to the laundress. But it wasn’t Marguerite standing in the shadows. Dry-mouthed, Alpin watched a skeletal figure with empty eye sockets and a grotesque grin emerge from the gloom and shuffle toward her. The creature extended a hand. Blackened bony fingers curled around a bloody mass of pulsing tissue.
The heart of Paradise Plantation.
A silent scream stalled in Alpin’s throat. The voices of Marguerite and Sally rose in harmony, pleading for Alpin to deliver them from evil.
She leaped from the tub and ran for the door. She must save them all—Mango Joe, the fleet-footed messenger, Scabby, the best cane man on the island; smiling Bumpa Sam, who could call down the angels with the magical rhythm of his drum.
The people were hers to rescue. She had to reach the clearing where they gathered around an evening fire and sang songs about mother Africa.
The well-worn path cushioned her footfalls. Banana leaves and fan-tailed ferns slapped against her naked arms and legs. Deathly silence drove her onward.
Like a fist in her chest, a thumping noise brought her up short. She rejoiced. It was Bumpa Sam, bringing the plantation to life with his drum. She started to sway to the beat, but the cadence was all wrong.
“My lord! You must come.”
Alexander’s voice, urgent and thunderous.
No drums. No Paradise. A pounding on the door.
Shaking off sleep, she stared, stunned, at a bar of yellow light pouring beneath the door. She wasn’t in Barbados caring for the people who needed her. She was in Kildalton Castle, still stymied in her efforts to get home and deeply in love with the man beside her.
The rapping came again, pulling her fully into reality. No one had ever disturbed them in their chamber. She rolled to the center of the mattress and called to her bedmate. He murmured her name and reached for her, nestling her naked body next to his.
Alexander knocked again, this time loud enough to rattle the wall sconces on either side of the door.
“Malcolm!” she yelled, jostling his shoulder. “Wake up.”
Moonlight poured through the open windows and showered him in a silvery light. His eyes drifted open, and he smiled. “Hello, love. Have I tried to push you off the bed again?”
He had, but she’d leave it for now. “Something’s wrong. Alexander is banging on the door and calling for you.”
He blinked and slapped his cheeks.
“My lord! Come quick.”
“You stay here.” Malcolm gave her a smack of a kiss, bounded from the bed, and threw open the door.
Alexander stood there, a lantern in one hand, the other braced against the wall. The light threw his face into sharp relief and turned his frown of concern into a grimace of pain.
Although her husband appeared as a black shape framed in a rectangle of light, she saw him tense. “What’s happened?”
Alexander spoke quietly. Alpin deciphered only a few words: “trouble,” “Rot and Ruin.”
“Sweet Saint Ninian!” Malcolm swore and whirled back into the room. “Wait there. I’ll get dressed.”
Alarmed, Alpin wrapped herself in a blanket and scooted to the edg
e of the bed. “What is it?”
Malcolm thrust his arms into the sleeves of his shirt. “’Tis nothing for you to bother with. Go back to sleep.”
He was excluding her, a practice she abhorred. “If someone is hurt or ill, I should get Elanna.”
He pointed at her, his arm stiff, his hair in disarray. “Absolutely not.”
“Then I’ll come with you.”
“Don’t get testy, MacKay.”
Blast that family and Malcolm’s affinity for bringing them up. “Forget the MacKays. I’m just Alpin.”
“You’re just testy.”
She had been irritable, and why not? Time was running out. She had failed in her efforts to save Paradise Plantation. And she had fallen in love with Malcolm Kerr.
Heartbreak made her stomach float. She had no business loving this man.
Seeking a diversion, she demanded, “I want to help.”
“Nay.” He snatched up a tartan, wound it around his waist, and flipped the end of the cloth over his shoulder. After buckling on a leather belt, he gathered his boots and came to sit beside her on the bed. “You cannot help, Alpin, and considering how hard you worked to please me a few hours ago, you should be exhausted. Just go back to sleep.”
Alpin had grown accustomed to his frank references to the intimate aspects of their marriage. What she couldn’t accept was his unwillingness to share his troubles. “But I’m wide awake.”
With a grunt, he pulled on his boots. “Then I’ll sing you a lullaby when I get back.”
“Do not patronize me. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I hardly believe it myself. You stay here.”
He stomped from the room, not bothering to close the door. Side by side, he and Alexander tromped down the hall, the light fading in their wake.
During the last month she had seen her hopes grow dim and her heart turn traitor. He had purchased her home, stolen her well-planned future, and replaced it with a life she had no right to live.
In her role as his wife, she had watched him rule his earldom with a fair and firm hand. Some days he seemed as industrious as a second son scrambling to acquire his fortune: inspecting the ripening fields, distributing holdover grain to those in need. Other days he became the benevolent earl: rewarding a winning archer or fawning over a new babe.
He was available and affectionate to a fault. Preparations for the harvest occupied much of his time, and finding buyers for his herds of Spanish cattle consumed much more, but the nights he saved for her.
By candlelight he worshiped her in a way that made dry prose of the poets’ romantic tales. Where once he had named her hellion and tossed the events of the past in her face, he now called her clever and remembered their youthful times with understanding and a compassion that eased her troubled soul. He spoke often of their future and encouraged her to reconsider her indifference to clan MacKay.
“The MacKays couldn’t find you, Alpin,” he often said. “They wanted to care for you. Give them a chance to love you now.”
Even the memory of his tender concern couldn’t alleviate her restless spirit, for he had changed since her arrival. When the right opportunity presented itself, she would find out why.
She paced the room, stopping to comb her toes through the tangled fringe on the rugs. She occupied her hands with tidying the tables and sweeping the hearth. She folded their scattered clothing and put it away. She made the bed.
An hour passed. When the crooked rows of books on the shelves cried out to be straightened, she lined them up like soldiers on parade.
The clock chimed the hour of two, and he still hadn’t returned. Worried, she dressed and headed for the tavern.
On the battlements directly above the Rot and Ruin a cluster of torches gave evidence that the soldiers had abandoned their posts. A milling crowd blocked the front of the building. Curiosity ruled the onlookers. Emily was lifted onto the blacksmith’s shoulders so she could peer through a gap between the window frame and the top of the tavern’s drawn curtains. Alpin couldn’t hear the maid’s words, but knew she reported to the crowd. In response they murmured among themselves.
When she reached them, Alpin saw Alexander standing guard outside the door. She plowed through the throng. “What’s going on?”
Arms folded, he glared down at her. “Saladin demanded ale and took to gaming with the barkeep.”
The information spawned new grumblings. Saladin drinking alcohol? Alpin stifled a gasp of disbelief. She must take control of the situation. She held up her hands. “Go home, all of you. There’s nothing more to see.”
Someone yelled, “MacGinty had no business serving the Moorish lad. He took advantage of him.”
“We ain’t leavin’ till Saladin’s home safe,” another man called out.
“Aye,” yelled his supporters.
Fearful that their concern would make matters worse, Alpin clapped to get their attention. “I promise you I’ll see that Saladin gets back to the keep.”
A female voice yelled out, “Lady Alpin’ll straighten out the laird and the Moor right enough. To your beds, lads.”
Their concerns satisfied, the grumbling crowd dispersed.
She turned to the soldier posted at the door. “There’s more to it than that, Alexander. Tell me.”
He stared at the departing castle folk. “Saladin and the African miss had another row. He sought to drown his troubles in drink. He started rolling the dice and won enough ale to sot a lord. Then his luck went bad, and he lost his scimitar to MacGinty.”
Twenty years ago the sword had been Saladin’s most prized possession. Once he sobered he’d be devastated by the loss. “Spirits and manly pride,” she murmured, “make poor companions.” Then she wedged her way around Alexander and through the door.
At the bar she stopped in her tracks. The low-ceiling and rough-hewn beams intensified the closeness of the room. The scent of stale beer and woodsmoke perfumed the air. Scattered candles provided precious little light, but enough for her to see the jeweled scimitar atop a keg of ale near the bar.
The proprietor busied himself scrubbing tables. The other two occupants didn’t notice her.
In the far corner Saladin Cortez, usually the most devout of Muslims, lolled in a chair, his turban askew, a drunken grin on his face.
“Push-me, pull-you,” he said, slurring his words and causing the candle flame to waver. “Do you know what that is?” His face fell, and his pointed beard accentuated his woebegone appearance. “It’s poison, my friend, pure poison wrapped in ebony skin and sent here by Allah. I’ve failed the test of my faith.”
Seated across the table, his back to the door, Malcolm put down his tankard. “Hardly. I think you’re supposed to convert her. That’s what the Prophet intended.”
Awareness flashed in Saladin’s eyes, but quickly faded. “Then I’m a sorry excuse for a believer.” His elbow slid off the table.
Malcolm caught his arm and propped it up again.
Saladin grabbed Malcolm’s wrist. “What’s this?”
It was a scarf tied around Malcolm’s wrist. Alpin wanted to tie it around his neck. Helping Saladin get drunk was a poor role for a friend.
Saladin snorted. “Your woman’s afraid you’ll escape her bed, eh?”
“Actually”—Malcolm untied the scrap of silk and tucked it in his belt—“’tis to keep me there.”
Embarrassed to her teeth, Alpin stepped back and bumped into Alexander.
“Then it failed.” As his stupor grew, so did the melodrama. Closing one eye, Saladin steered his tankard toward Malcolm’s. “For you’re here with your old friend, sharing a bracing cup at last” His aim was off the mark. Ale sloshed onto the table and dribbled onto the plank floor.
“You’ll have an aching head tomorrow,” Malcolm said.
Saladin laughed without humor. “It’ll match the pain in my heart. Oh, why, my friend, did you meddle in Alpin’s life and bring those women here?”
Bewildered, Alpin rolled the statement o
ver in her mind. Malcolm had intentionally meddled in her life. Charles had termed Malcolm’s interference a solution to the problem of her welfare. But why did Saladin call it meddling?
“’Twas fate, Saladin.” Malcolm hiccuped. “Pure and simple.”
“My lord!” Alexander called out.
Malcolm swung his head her way. “What are you doing here?”
Alpin had had enough. She marched up to them. “I’m putting an end, pure and simple, to this celebration.”
Saladin attempted to shake his finger at her in reproof, but his aim was still poor and his eyes unfocused. “Naughty girl, Alpin,” he said to Alexander, who had moved to her side. “You should be ashamed of yourself for tying my friend to the bed.”
Alexander choked back a laugh and winked at her. “I think I should cart him home.”
“To a place of peace and happiness?” Saladin banged his fist. “I have no home.”
Who better than Alpin MacKay could understand his frustration? “Then we’ll find you a bed.”
“No,” he snapped. “I shall make a pilgrimage to Mecca.”
“First thing tomorrow,” piped Malcolm, a slight slur to his words. “We’ll all go.”
“No women in mosques,” Saladin declared. “There ought not be any women at all—anywhere. At least not if they smell like coconuts. My friend,” he said to Malcolm, “have you ever tasted coconut on a woman’s skin?”
Malcolm had the good manners to say, “Nay. But I’m sure ’tis a delight.”
Saladin groaned. “A delight. No, a disaster. Why did that Ashanti princess come to Scotland?”
“This Ashanti princess will wash the feet of her captors before she begs that stupid Muslim to come home.” Seated on a bench in the entryway of the castle, Elanna looked more like a queen than the reigning Caroline.
Alpin took five deep breaths and prayed for patience. Malcolm had gone to bed. She would deal with him in the morning, but now she had to make Elanna see reason.
Moving to stand before her friend, Alpin said, “Did it ever occur to you that Saladin’s religion is as important to him as your customs and traditions are to you?”
