by Arnette Lamb
Alexis coughed. “Down wind, I hope.”
Miriam frowned. “Why do you eat it if it makes you ill?”
“Because…” He snatched at an absurdity. “It was what the cook served me. Kippers would have been ever so tasty, but I haven’t been fishing lately.”
She stared at the badger pelt on his sporran. “Oh. I thought that was where you were going today.”
The beast beneath his tartan roared to life. Knowing he had to find out what she was up to, Duncan dropped the tartan in the box and picked up a different one. “Tell me about this plaid.”
Glancing from the cloth to his spectacles, she said, “’Tis the Murrays of Atholl.”
And very much like the cape the Border Lord wore, now that he considered it. So that’s what she’d been investigating. A waste of time, Duncan decided. “I always thought the Murray plaid dull and drab.”
“You do? I rather like it,” she said in a dreamy whisper.
Drawing his bottom lip between his teeth, Duncan said, “This tartan reminds me of another I’ve seen. Last year when I went to the fishing tournament at Loch Ness. I saw a fellow wearing—No. I must have been mistaken.”
Interest sparkled in her eyes. “What’s the fellow’s family name?”
“She knows them all,” said Alexis.
With the aid of the glasses, he could see perfectly the sweep of Miriam’s eyelashes and their golden tips. She still wanted to know the Border Lord’s family name. He’d evaded the question before. He’d evade it now. He just wished he could see all of her thoughts so well. “I believe I’ve forgotten the name of that clan. But I have so much on my mind. Being out of my flippity-flops just puts me in a dither.”
Miriam leaned closer. “Does the family live around here?”
“I can’t remember but can almost picture the cloth.”
“Of course you can. Could they live in a place like Armstrong Moor or Sweeper’s Heath?”
Hallelujah! She’d walked into his trap. He snapped his fingers. “Sweeper’s Heath. What a coincidence that you should mention it. I’m going there this morning.”
“Why?”
He grasped an absurdity. “Pig’s hair.”
Her hands fumbled with the twine, turning it into a mass of knots. “Pig’s hair?”
“Aye.” He made to consult his list, but watched her from the corner of his eye. “’Tis a very important element in the flippity-flop, but only when plucked from behind the left ear of a nursing sow. Well, the blue seal fur is equally important, of course. But I haven’t any of that. The weaver, though, assured me that he has some dyed wool that I can substitute for the seal fur. Do you think the fish will know the difference?”
Alexis said, “The wool might give them wind.”
Duncan coughed to keep from laughing. “I’m sure I couldn’t say if the fish…”
Miriam shot Alexis a withering glare, then threaded her arm through his. “I’d love to come along on your outing. May I?”
Her guileless smile didn’t fool Duncan. Neither did the coy gesture of pressing her breast against his elbow. Sweat popped out on his skin. The spectacles began a slow slide down his nose. He righted them and turned to Alexis. “Will you join us? We could make an excursion of it. Maybe we could stop and view one of my favorite fishing holes.”
Her eyes crinkled with suppressed laughter. “Thank you, no. I promised to give the twins a fencing lesson.”
“Fencing?” Duncan raised his voice. “With a real sword?”
“A foil, my lord.” She smiled, held up one arm and made to lunge with the other. “You know. Long and slender, very sharp, and very deadly.”
Like Miriam MacDonald’s tongue, thought Duncan. Feigning fright, he stepped back, pulling her with him. “Please, my lady,” he whined. “Practice if you will, but I beg you, do it in the old tilt yard or the walled garden. If you bloody up the keeping rooms, Mrs. Elliott will fuss and take to her bed. Supper will be late. She does go on about rowdiness.”
“Lexie doesn’t mean it, Lord Duncan,” said Miriam. “’Tis another of her silly jests. We haven’t drawn blood for years. Tell him so, Lexie.”
The bastard daughter of the late and last Stewart king sheathed the imaginary weapon. “Forgive me, my lord,” she said, heading for the front door. “I’m never at my best in the morning. You two go along and enjoy your excursion to meet the lord of the pigs. Just beware of Baron Sin.”
The door closed. Miriam fell still at his side. “Will we be safe in Sweeper’s Heath?”
“Of course,” Duncan said expansively. “I’ll bring along a guard.”
“But you didn’t when we visited Hadrian’s Wall. Why not?”
“Please, Lady Miriam.” He patted her hand. “That burly soldier lectured me for hours for being so careless. Don’t you too remind me of my folly.”
“You mean Angus MacDodd.”
“Aye. I haven’t your gift for recall.”
She flushed with pride. “When shall we leave?”
Duncan considered how much time Angus would need to prepare the swineherd. “An hour from now. Meet me in the walled garden. You’ll need to change your clothes.”
“What’s wrong with my dress?”
Everything, he thought. The neckline, the cinched waist, the enchanting color that turned her eyes to storm-cloud blue. “’Tis too fine for tramping through pig muck.”
“Very well. I’ll find something suitable.”
He felt jubilant. She’d played right into his hands.
Chapter 6
Forty-five minutes later, Miriam stood between two of the giant urns in the walled garden. At her feet sat Malcolm, dressed in a too large tunic, his bare legs and face painted in Celtic symbols. As Llewelyn he wore gloves with the fingers snipped off, and in a white-knuckled grip he held a Welsh longbow like a pike. His eyes, as big and bright as summer daisies, followed the activity going on near the fountain.
The slice of steel sliding against steel and the huffing breath of exertion filled the air. Alexis, in leather breeches, jackboots, and a padded leather vest, fended off a fierce attack by Saladin, who was similarly dressed, and crowned by his pale blue turban.
The walls of the garden played host to a score of curious onlookers. Even some of the earl’s soldiers had come to watch the unusual participants in a fascinating display of swordsmanship.
Studying the men, Miriam counted five Kerr tartans, three Armstrongs, two Elliotts, and a lone flashy MacMillan, but not the muted black and green plaid of the Border Lord. Frustration made her edgy. She’d molded her hands to his face, and could feel the shape of his features, picture the bow of his lips, but in the light of day she wouldn’t know him from Louis XIV.
To search for him among the castlefolk was fruitless, for if he spoke the truth he lived on a pig farm. Still, she couldn’t help herself; the man and the mystery about him intrigued her.
The crowd gasped. Alexis had pinned Saladin against the wall, the rebated tip of her foil pressing his leather vest. A pained grin exposed the space between his front teeth. Miriam could almost hear the hissing of his breath.
“Yield, stripling,” said Alexis, leaning close.
Saladin clamped his lips shut.
Admiration shone in the eyes of the spectators.
Grimacing, Saladin shoved Alexis back. Startled cheers erupted. The contest was hot again.
Salvador, who stood with Verbatim near the garden door, yelled, “Brother mine! Show her the kind of stripling you are.”
“Aye, show her!” shouted Malcolm, losing his grip on the bow, which was half again as tall as he.
With everyone’s attention focused on the contest, Miriam eased behind the urns. If she found the door open, she could see how the Border Lord had gotten into the earl’s room.
She stepped back until her hand touched the hidden door in the castle. She found the place where wood met stone. Cool air seeped through the opening.
Keeping her eyes fixed on the back of Malcolm’s head,
she made a wish on her lucky star and wedged her fingernails into the narrow space. Her nails bowed. One snapped to the quick. She ignored the stinging pain and tugged gently.
The door moved on silent hinges. Hooray! She had fifteen minutes to explore. Jubilant, she slipped inside. Into an inky blackness. She tottered like an overspun top, and had to spread her feet to keep her balance. Over the pounding of her heart, she heard the muffled cheers of the crowd.
Curiosity and the need for haste pushed her onward. If she could learn the layout of the tunnel, she could follow the Border Lord on his next visit.
Flattening her palms against the cold, scratchy surface of the wall, she felt her way along the corridor. Her hand touched a sharp piece of metal. A nail? Then her fingers closed over a key. Not stopping to question her good fortune, she put the key in her pocket. As blind as a Frenchman to English reason, she continued her exploration.
Time and again, she squeezed her eyes closed, but when she opened them, the world remained a mass of black pitch. When she’d traveled about twenty small steps, the wall played out. In an alcove, she found a door. Locked. She tried the key, but the door didn’t open. She moved onward, following the downward slant of the passage. She found another door, then another. Each locked as tight as a spinster’s hope chest and impervious to the key.
Damn. How could she discover what the Border Lord had been doing here if she couldn’t find an exit to the tunnel?
Bracing one hand on the wall, she stepped to the left and reached out for the opposite wall. Just when she found it, just when she stood spread-eagled and in a place where she didn’t belong, light flooded the corridor.
She froze, her eyes fixed on a door some thirty paces ahead and the man who held it open.
The earl of Kildalton.
Blast him for being early.
He stood in the tunnel, the grouse feather in his Highland bonnet touching the ceiling, his head turned toward the light. In profile he didn’t seem so bookish or awkward. A serious expression added intelligence and strength to his features.
He pulled the door to close it.
Quick as a spooked squirrel, she dashed into one of the alcoves and melted against a door she’d explored just moments before. The corridor went dark again.
Not daring to breathe, she listened with eerie expectation, as he started toward her. Each footfall brought him closer. The sound of her own heartbeat thrummed in her ear and settled in the tips of her injured finger.
He passed her, a smooth black shadow against an even blacker backdrop. His footsteps were sure, his stride smooth, as if he’d walked this corridor a hundred times.
“Where’s the bletherin’ key?” he cursed.
Light and the noise of the crowd poured into the passageway.
Hopelessness pressed in on her. If he returned and searched, he’d find her. He’d know she’d been snooping. She couldn’t go back the way she’d come. She knew not what lay ahead. But she had to find out. One exit awaited her. She had to take it.
Before she could change her mind, Miriam hurried down the corridor to the place where the earl had emerged. Once there she took a deep breath and plunged again into the unknown.
Relief drenched her, for she found herself in the corridor outside the lesser hall. She slipped the key in the lock, but it didn’t work.
Stifling the urge to run, she strolled to the main staircase and out the front door. As she walked the path that led her back to the garden door, she hummed a lively tune.
She was still humming the refrain hours later when the earl helped her from his carriage and brought her face to face with the swineherd named Ian. The song died on her lips.
Stoop-shouldered and shorter than Miriam, the man doffed a cap to reveal a pate as slick and shiny as polished ivory.
“How do you do, Ian?” she said, straining to keep from stammering.
“Fair as the heather in God’s sweet July, my lady,” he replied, with a toothless grin.
He must be the father of the Border Lord. Disappointed, she busied herself with smiling and examining his farm. It consisted of a round straw and wattle house with a thatched roof that almost met the ground. A wellhouse and tiny dovecote stood nearby. Both were dwarfed by a new barn and pigsty. The swine appeared as great brown lumps in a fenced and noxious quagmire.
The earl touched her shoulder. “Are you ill, my lady?”
His solicitous tone and worried frown brought her to her senses. “Absolutely not, my lord. I’m having a bracing good time.”
He sniffed the tainted air. “Bracing is hardly the word.”
“What an idiot I was to bring you here. Mrs. Elliott tells me I never think of aught but my fish. Do you forgive me?”
His honesty warmed her. “I’m fine, truly.”
Raising his eyebrows, he said, “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? You look distressed.”
She wanted to ease his concern. “Please don’t give it another thought. I love the country.”
Touching a finger to his cheek, he said, “You didn’t have haggis for breakfast, did you?”
Breakfast seemed eons ago. “Nay, my lord. I had the ham, and thank you for your concern.”
“Haggis has a way of staying with you, you ken?”
Embarrassment threatened her control. “Speaking of which, I’d best be sure Verbatim isn’t chasing a pig. Excuse me, won’t you?” She moved out of his reach.
“Is it this wee beastie yer lookin’ for?” said the swineherd, pointing at the earl’s heel.
More regal than a queen on parade, the traitorous Verbatim sat, soulful eyes fixed on Duncan Kerr.
“Will you feast your eyes on this?” he said, patting her head. “I do believe I’ve made a new friend. Just yesterday I thought she’d gobble me up for scraps.”
He had a fine, capable hand. Verbatim squirmed with delight under his ministrations. Miriam wondered how his hand would feel against her skin. The wayward thought shocked her. “She must realize you mean no harm, my lord.” She clapped her hands. Verbatim jumped up and bolted to Miriam’s side.
“Come for a tuft o’ hair from my Quickenin’ Sally, have ye, my lord?” the farmer said.
“That I have, Ian. Can’t make a flippity-flop without it.”
A cackle emerged from the swineherd. “Ye named it well, my lord. Flip ’em on the bank and flop ’em into the fire. Um hum.” He rubbed his belly. “Ain’t no finer eatin’ outside the taste of roasted pig, ye ken.”
“I certainly do, Ian. As a matter of fact, just this morning my guest was expressing to Mrs. Elliott her fondness for fresh pork.”
“Were ye now? Got me a barren sow ready to put to the stick anytime. How’d that suit yer palate, my lady?”
Miriam sifted through his words and sorted out their meaning. “I can’t think of anything I’d like better. Does your son help you stick the pigs?”
“Son?” He looked in confusion to the earl.
The earl swallowed noisily. “Uh, Ian doesn’t have a son. His wife ran off years ago with the driver of a peat wagon. He’s been alone ever since.”
Shocked and dismayed, Miriam wondered where the elusive Border Lord was. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sure the rest of your family has been a comfort to you. Your nieces and nephews—the other pig farmers.”
“Ain’t no other pigmen in Kildalton, ’ceptin’ myself.”
So the dark stranger had lied. She felt gullible, used and tricked like an inexperienced maiden.
“Your color’s coming back, my lady,” said the earl. “Must be the country air.”
“Would ye be earin’ fer a drink of water, my lady?”
Seizing the chance to speak alone with the swineherd, she said to the earl, “Will you be so kind, my lord? I’m fair parched.”
He hesitated, watching her. Oddly enough, he seemed reluctant. Could the earl be taking seriously his role of escort? Was he protective of her?
“Wait right here.” He minced off toward the well, where their guard water
ed the horses at a trough.
Once he was out of earshot, she said, “Ian, I suppose you know everyone around here.”
“Aye, I ain’t never been more ’n a pig’s walk away from Sweeper’s Heath.”
The familiar role of diplomat settled about her like a cloak of confidence. “I suppose, then, that you’d know a fellow who calls himself the Border Lord.”
He slid a glance at the earl, who fumbled with the well bucket. “No,” she said. “Not Lord Duncan for heaven’s sake. The Border Lord.”
“You mean the one the womenfolks tells the tales about? The man who sets their hearts aflutterin’ and has ’em pinin’ at their doors on Hogmanay?”
Miriam’s own heart skipped a beat. She shouldn’t have been surprised that so bold a cavalier had a reputation. “I seem to recall that the person who mentioned him said he had a certain … manly appeal.”
Squeezing one eye shut, he whispered, “Did they tell of ’is caped tartan and a hat with pitch black feathers?”
Excitement raced through her. “Yes, I believe so.”
“An’ did he come to ’em in the night with the burr of Scotland on his lips?”
The memory of the musical cadence and deep pitch of his voice echoed in Miriam’s mind. She clasped her hands to steady them. “Yes, that could be said of him.”
“An’ he called himself the Border Lord? Yer certain o’ that?”
“Quite certain. Er, my source was quite certain, that is. Have you seen him?”
“Seen him?” He smacked his lips. “Can’t nobody see the Border Lord.”
The creaking of the windlass sliced through the country stillness. “Oh, really. Why not?”
An expectant gleam twinkled in the old man’s eyes. “’Cause the poor man was killed by the English more ’n a hundred years ago.”
Logic rejected the words. Miriam leaned against the hitching post. A denial leaped to her lips. “Then we’re speaking of someone else. This man’s given name is Ian.”
The swineherd picked a piece of straw from his battered cap. “Did he say he was a shepherd from Barley Bum?”
