The Border Series

by Arnette Lamb

  “That the man I met in the garden is supposed to be a ghost.”

  “Truly? Do you think he is a ghost?”

  Miriam remembered his seductive words and hot kisses. She related the romantic tales of the Border Lord’s appearances. “According to one and all, the earl included, the man was hanged by the English a century ago.”

  Alexis tapped her teeth with a fingernail and gazed thoughtfully at Kenneth Kerr. “What do you make of it?”

  Again Miriam sifted through the possibilities, but the conclusion always remained the same. “I think someone has taken on the identity of this folk hero. Why would he visit Kildalton Castle at night unless his purpose were a nefarious one?”

  “What did the swineherd say?”

  “He said the Border Lord pops up whenever there’s trouble.”

  Alexis scoffed. “Then where was he when little Mary Elizabeth and her family needed him?”

  The inconsistency nagged at Miriam’s logical mind. “He obviously picks his battles. Or maybe he only rides at night because of his disguise.”

  “Do you think the earl knows who he is?”

  “Logic tells me yes.”

  “Well, then,” said Alexis as if she were ordering a meal, “you’ll just have to use that dangerously clever mind of yours and persuade him to tell you.”

  She wasn’t sure she could face the earl just yet. She needed time to banish the image of that thick penis sprouting from his muscular loins. “I may have better luck seeking out the Border Lord on my own. Now that I have the key to the tunnel door, I intend to lie in wait for him tonight.”

  “What makes you think he’ll come?”

  Herb dust clung to Miriam’s damp palms. She rubbed at it until her sore fingertip began to throb. “The swineherd said he always appears after a raid by the baron.”

  “You’re so clever, Miriam. But you must be careful.” Alexis looked again at the hound. “Verbatim won’t be any help to you. She’s fair toil-worn.”

  Miriam recalled the dog’s tireless searching and that instant of relief when the animal had barked, signaling she’d located her quarry. Betsy’s heartfelt declarations of gratitude and the cheers from the crowd still filled Miriam with joy.

  Alexis hugged her. “You looked like Boadicea in her chariot driving that carriage. I cried when I saw you come through the gates.”

  Fighting off a wave of melancholy, Miriam hugged her back. “It felt good to see that little girl in her mother’s arms again.”

  “Of course it did. You always do the right thing, Miriam. You always have.”

  The familiar praise warmed Miriam. “Let’s just hope the Border Lord makes an appearance tonight, since I seem to be riding a high wave of luck.”

  The sound of Malcolm’s laughter echoed down the hall.

  “Come,” Alexis whispered, pulling Miriam to the hearth. “This painting,” she said, louder, “is of Lord Duncan’s father. They’re very different don’t you think?”

  Just as Miriam was about to agree, Malcolm bounded into the room. A moment later the earl shuffled in, a large book under his arm, a curled white feather in his wig.

  Her gaze strayed to his kilt, now modestly concealing his manly parts. The first thought that popped into her mind was an inappropriate question: Didn’t he get cold in the winter?

  “I’m awfully sorry to have kept you waiting, Lady Miriam,” he said, setting the book on the mantel and warming himself by the fire. “I must admit, though, with my spectacles askew, I didn’t know who had come in the room. It could have been the queen herself. Malcolm told me ’twas you.”

  “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” She rose and joined him, her eyes straying to his magnificent badger sporran. She knew what lay behind it. “I should have knocked louder.”

  With a self-deprecating smile, he said, “I confess that we’re regular ruffians on occasion, Malcolm and me. Surely you’ve learned that we have no locked doors in this castle. ’Tis a part of Scottish hospitality, you know.”

  From the corner, she heard Malcolm and the twins cooing over Verbatim. “Your hospitality is exemplary, my lord.”

  “Mine?” He dropped his chin and busied his hands with adjusting the spectacles. “I simply told Mrs. Elliott to refuse you nothing.” He glanced at Alexis. “Good evening, my lady.”

  Glancing up from the book, she said, “My lord. How are the flippity-flops?”

  “So kind of you to ask.” Chuckling and rubbing his hands together, he said, “They’re ready for a fat salmon. However, I’m thinking I might just try one out in my favorite trout stream.”

  Miriam studied his strong hands. The healing blisters appeared as smooth pink circles on his broad palms. They were strong hands, made for wielding a sword instead of cleaning feathers, yet perfect for tickling a boy into giggles and stroking a woman’s flesh.

  “Have you supped, Lady Miriam?” he said. “You deserve a feast, you know, for your daring rescue of that poor child. Cook will have a bone for Verbatim, too.”

  Miriam’s stomach growled, but she had matters other than food on her mind. “I’m fine, truly. I’d hoped we could talk about the raid.”

  A frown marred his broad brow. “I brought my journal,” he said absently. “But that can wait. What kind of host would I be if I showed my appreciation by letting you go hungry?”

  “I think the damage to the shepherd and his family today is more important. Mary Elizabeth had a dreadful scare. Their entire harvest of wool was stolen.”

  “Then let’s strike a bargain—or is that your line?” Laughter sparkled in his eyes and rumbled in his throat. At her puzzled frown, he said, “Never mind me.” Then he tucked the ledger under his arm and took her hand. “We can adjourn to the lesser hall. I’ll have Mrs. Elliott prepare you a plate. While you eat, we can talk. Good night, Lady Alexis.” He glanced pointedly at Malcolm and the twins, and whispered, “Some details of the baron’s crimes aren’t fit for everyone’s ears. I intend to reveal everything to you.”

  Her hand felt snug in his, and unexpectedly, a sense of security infused her. “How thoughtful, my lord.”

  He shrugged and dropped his chin again, a shy gesture she was coming to associate with him.

  “Please,” he said, as clumsily charming as a bashful cavalier, “call me Duncan.”

  Suddenly the idea of being alone with him appealed to her. She smiled. “If you’ll call me Miriam.”

  He led her from the keeping room and once he’d settled her in the lesser hall, he excused himself. He returned a few moments later and put a covered tray before her. With a flourish, he plucked off the cloth. “Haggis and neeps ’n tatties,” he announced, steam rising from the food and fogging his spectacles, “and a tankard of fresh beer.”

  Miriam’s mouth watered, but she held out the napkin. “Here. So you can clean your glasses.”

  Flapping a wrist, he said, “’Twill evaporate by itself.”

  “Please, let me do it for you.”

  “Oh, no. Don’t trouble yourself. Eat.”

  Thinking he was probably self-conscious about his poor vision, she picked up the fork. He watched her take the first bite, an air of expectancy about him. The mashed potatoes and turnips, flavored with butter and honey, melted on her tongue. “Delicious.”

  He grinned and clapped his hands like a gleeful child would. “I believe in exposing myself to different foods, but who can resist good, unadorned Scottish fare?”

  “I’ve eaten snails with crowned heads of Europe, but this pleases me more.” Throughout the meal, her attention kept straying to him as he leaned over the journal, his face only inches from the page. His thick eyebrows had a manly arch that drew attention to the high bridge of his nose and the pleasing line of his temples and cheekbones.

  Again she wondered if his hair was truly black like his wig and Malcolm’s hair, or if it was the same golden brown as the hair that covered his legs? She shuddered, thinking about the other pelt of hair she’d seen. It had looked like silky sable,
lush and soft, a vivid contrast to the thick penis and ponderous sacks.

  “Are you cold? The drafts do chill a body.”

  Mortified, she almost choked on a mouthful of tatties.

  “I’ll just build up the fire.” He went to the hearth and bent over to add another log to the flames. The kilt rode dangerously high in back, revealing muscular thighs and straining tendons. Again her lower abdomen went taut, and her mind conjured images of his penis. In a flash of insight she knew how he could ease the tension within her. She saw naked legs entwined, felt heated flesh against flesh, anticipated touching his manly parts, having him touch her where she felt hollow and damp.

  Dizziness engulfed her.

  Abashed at the vivid pictures and her own preoccupation with them, she took a long drink of the beer and lectured herself on the importance of maintaining her objectivity.

  She heard the crunch of coals and the twang of the fire iron on the grate. The fire hissed, popped, and flared.

  “There.” He stood and strolled toward her, the sporran flapping against his—No. She exiled the thought and concentrated on the motions of his hands as he swiped palm against palm.

  “All done?” he asked, as chipper as a moorhen in a field of heather.

  The image of him naked returned. “Thank you, yes. ’Twas delicious.”

  He picked up the journal and helped her from her chair. “Let’s sit by fire, shall we?”

  Think about the raids, she told herself. Kidnapping. Thievery. Vandalism. Punishment for the clansmen who’d made her an orphan. “That would be lovely, Duncan. ’Tis a fine blaze you’ve built.”

  He shook his finger at her. “Miriam, you’ll strip me naked of my pride with such flattery.”

  Naked. She pivoted and almost ran to a chair by the hearth.

  He sat cross-legged in front of the fire. “The light’s better here,” he said and opened the book. “You’ll be able to see everything.”

  The firelight shimmered on his white silk shirt and turned the hair on his legs to gold.

  “Now,” he said, pulling a lead pencil from the binding and thumbing through the pages until he found the last entry. He drew a line across the page and wrote today’s date. “Please tell me about the raid—how much wool did the baron’s men steal, what damage they did, etcetera. I’ll put it all down here.”

  His casual acceptance of the crime baffled Miriam. “Aren’t you curious about what happened to Mary Elizabeth?”

  His shoulders drooped. “Please don’t think me crass, but I thought you’d want to get straight to the business of the baron’s crimes.”

  “You did?” With stunning clarity she saw herself through Duncan’s eyes. She wanted to cry, for he perceived her as cold, single-minded. Had others seen her that way? Suddenly it seemed vital to change his opinion of her.

  “Have I said something wrong?” His earnest expression made her feel worse.

  “No, Duncan. You said the truth, and I thank you for it.”

  A puzzled frown marred his brow. “I thank you for rescuing her.”

  Feeling so at ease with him, Miriam wanted to touch him. When his gaze dropped to the pencil in his hand, she stifled the urge. “Verbatim found the girl asleep in a haystack.”

  “Then she wasn’t truly in any danger? The baron’s men didn’t kidnap her?”

  “I don’t think so. When the robbers searched the spring-house, where her mother left her, Mary said she scrambled through a hole in the floor and ran away as fast as the wind.” Thinking of the brave tot’s tale, Miriam added, “She’s a precocious mite. It all seems a great adventure to her now.”

  Smiling, Duncan said, “Good. She gets that brawness from her father. Two pints at the alehouse and he can weave a tale of derring-do that makes Rob Roy MacGregor look like a petty highwayman.”

  “I’m surprised he doesn’t tell stories about the Border Lord,” she said. “Everyone else seems captivated by the man.”

  He surveyed her curiously. “Are you captivated by so romantic a legend?”

  Disquieted by his close scrutiny, she picked at her ragged fingernail. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “I suppose that’s just as well. A woman in your position can’t afford such fanciful notions.”

  There it was again, a delicately worded but honest appraisal. Instinctively, she knew he considered her lack of whimsy a shortcoming. Didn’t he understand that she had responsibilities? She couldn’t afford to fail here; her future and her heritage hung in the balance.

  Fighting off a wave of sadness for the jesting, charismatic woman she could never be, she said, “Just so, Duncan. But aren’t you curious to know if anyone saw the thieves, so they can be identified?”

  “They’re always the same.” He flipped back a couple of pages and angled the book to the light. “Ah, here ’tis. The leader is a stick of a man who’s missing a tooth in front. Some say he speaks like a Cheapside man. Another fellow is average in all things, except he’s bald, having a high forehead. They say he smells like a peat bog. A third man—”

  “Please,” she interrupted. “You needn’t go on with the descriptions since I didn’t see the men. How do you know they work for the baron?” The earl looked up at her, a quizzical expression on his face. “The toothless one runs the baron’s cattle. Or, I should say, mostly my cattle which he’s stolen over the years.”

  His blase attitude baffled her. From her vantage point she had a perfect view of his eyes, which appeared more hazel than green today. He’s very attractive. The observation shocked her, but after her earlier discovery, she shouldn’t have been surprised. The clumsy earl had some smooth parts. She was surprised by her attraction to such a coward. Or was he simply a peaceable man?

  “Is something wrong, Miriam? You’re all aflutter. I wouldn’t want to strip you of your dignity.”

  “No. Nothing at all.” She recalled the situation at the shepherd’s farm. “Twenty bags of wool were stolen, and the shearing shed destroyed. The bandits also made off with a hairbrush. Mrs. Lindsay was beside herself over the loss of it. It bears her clan badge, a swan rising from a coronet.”

  He switched back to the fresh page and began to write. “My, you do have a perfect memory.”

  “Four ewes and the shepherd’s best ram were taken. Two of Mr. Lindsay’s sheepdogs were killed.”

  “Oh, no.” He sighed, his shoulders drooping. “I’m sure the man is distraught. Perhaps there’s another litter on some other farm. I’ll see—I’ll have someone go and see. What else?”

  “Isn’t that enough?” Miriam said.

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  Weariness set in. She’d probably fall asleep in the corridor waiting for the Border Lord. “Nothing’s wrong, my lord.”

  “Well it must be if you’ve stopped calling me Duncan.” Sadly, he added, “I thought we were becoming friends.”

  Friends seemed a dangerous word tonight. “We are, Duncan.”

  “But you’d like me better if I were more forceful.” When she opened her mouth to object, he held up his hand. “Don’t deny it. I’ve been thinking about the kind of man I am, and I’ve decided to learn to use a sword.”

  He looked so pleased with himself, Miriam didn’t quite know what to say. “Just be careful that you don’t injure yourself. May I see the book? That way you won’t have to read it all.”

  He clutched it to his chest. Apologetically, he said, “It’s rather like baring my soul. But, then, I’ve nothing to hide from you. Still, I’d rather you didn’t.”

  At the unintended double meaning of his words, she wanted to flinch. Years of practicing emotional control kept her hand steady. “If you’re embarrassed, I won’t persist. If you’ll excuse me, I’m very tired.”

  “Oh, of course, how thoughtless of me.” He got to his feet and offered her a hand. “You completely denude me of my composure.”

  He pulled her from the chair and kissed her hand. “You smell of rosemary. How delightful.” Then he walked her to t
he main staircase. “Sleep well, Miriam. I hope you have pleasant dreams.”

  She murmured thanks and started up the stairs, her thoughts strangely torn between the polite man she was beginning to respect and the dark stranger who set her blood on fire.

  Would the Border Lord come tonight?

  Chapter 8

  Alone, Miriam slipped through the squat wooden door and stepped into the private garden. From beyond the wall she heard the faint laughter of soldiers manning their posts and the comforting shuffle of sheep and cattle bedding down for the night. The sky blazed with stars. A grinning face on the quarter moon mocked the feeble clouds that tried to obscure the view of a Scottish castle and a woman bent on stealth.

  Tucked into the pockets of her hooded cloak were a candle, flint and steel, and Saladin’s brass compass. If the Border Lord followed his routine and arrived just before midnight, she had an hour’s time to map out the corridors and lie in wait for him.

  The fountain burbled gently. The crunch of her footsteps on the pebbled ground sounded a warning, but there was no one to hear her passage into intrigue. Even if she were caught, she had little to fear, what better pardon for perfidy than the command of the queen of England?

  Verbal meddling came easily to Miriam. Physical stealthing both invigorated and frightened her. Keeping to the shadows, she made her way past the urns, to the castle wall and the entrance to the corridors.

  Although no bigger than a paring knife, the ancient key felt like a battle lance in her hand. She felt along the wooden door until she found the cool iron of the lock plate. For security, the door had no handle on the outside. On impulse, she slipped her little finger into the keyhole and pulled. On silent hinges, the door opened.

  Logic told her the earl had another key, but if so, why hadn’t he locked the door tonight? Because he was expecting a visitor who used back entrances to conceal his comings and goings and hid behind ghostly tales to glorify his escapades of revenge.

  Common sense told her the earl hadn’t locked the door because he couldn’t pull himself away from pig’s hair and owl feathers long enough to admit his caped mercenary. Shame descended on her. Perhaps he wasn’t the utter twit she had imagined. Less than an hour ago, he had revealed his plans to learn a soldier’s skills. An hour before that, he’d revealed himself completely.