by Arnette Lamb
Remembering her disastrous audience with the queen, Miriam upbraided herself again for not choosing her words more carefully. She'd expected gratitude from the queen for the success at Utrecht. An orphan without a dowry, Miriam had earned the queen's generosity. Instead, the angry sovereign had banished Miriam to the Border for another negotiating task.
"And should you fail," the queen had said, "you will forfeit any chance of bringing the Glenlyon Campbells to justice. Although why you're so determined to dredge up the crime, I cannot imagine."
Angry and exhausted, Miriam had replied, "Your parents weren't butchered."
"How dare you!" Seething, Anne threw down her scepter. "Strike a peace on the Border, Miriam, or you'll marry the minister of Baltic affairs."
Even now Miriam cringed at the thought of living in so cold a climate. She breathed deeply of the crisp fall air, ripe with the promise of winter. Perhaps she'd linger awhile in Scotland. The queen wouldn't be the wiser if Miriam dawdled in the Borders. She needed a respite from England's politics. A winter sojourn in Scotland seemed the perfect answer. Could she face the snow?
Aye. The alternative gave her courage. She'd toast her toes before a roaring peat fire, warm her belly with mulled wine, and dream of a hero who could slay dragons and discuss Socrates.
In a nearby vale, a roebuck with a magnificent rack of antlers stalked a flirtatious doe. Verbatim quivered with the need to give chase, but the dog was too well trained. The agile doe dashed away, kicking up fallen leaves in her wake. The prime buck threw back his head and trumpeted his frustration. The doe stopped and twitched her white rump patch. When the male resumed his pursuit, she darted away again.
Verbatim went back to her inspection of Scotland.
"I do so love a courtship, don't you?" said Alexis.
"Courtship? I'm here to settle what might be a war, not to arrange a betrothal."
Alexis rolled her eyes to the heavens and blew out her breath. "I was speaking of the rut going on over there. 'Twas a jest, Miriam."
"Oh."
Humor had always been lost on Miriam. She wanted to join in, to get caught up in the amusing subtilties that others found so entertaining. She could wade through a stream of rhetoric, but couldn't catch an innuendo. She recognized it for the fault it was, but had no idea how one learned how to be jolly.
They were joined by her escort, the leader of Her Majesty's Fifth Regiment of Horse. A gust of wind ruffled the white plume in his cap, and the fading sunlight lent an orange cast to the golden regalia on his uniform.
She nodded. "Captain Higginbotham. Won't you join us?"
He drew himself up in the saddle. Leather creaked. Clean-shaven and as neat as a parson on Sunday, he spent the noon hour polishing his boots and scabbard.
"Almost there, Lady Miriam. I'll send a man ahead to announce you," he said, staring at her breasts.
How common, she thought. How degrading. But she was accustomed to such base behavior. Smiling pleasantly, she said, "That's very thorough of you, Captain. I think, however, that just this once, we shall forego protocol and simply pop in."
When he opened his mouth to protest, she added, "I'll be sure to tell your uncle, Lord Drummond, of your unwavering competence in the field. I have been truly impressed. The czar's personal guard couldn't have done better."
He toyed with the cuff of his gauntlets, and tapped his teeth together. The annoying habits signaled his disapproval.
Alexis said, "You will, of course, want to lead us in, ma capitaine."
"Thank you, my lady." He nodded curtly, fell back, and ordered his men to advance. Amid the rattling of swords and the pounding of hooves, the soldiers began moving.
"Well?" prompted Alexis, eyeing the double column of soldiers as they passed.
Over the jingling of harnesses, Miriam said, "Well what?"
"Why are you being so secretive about this mission?"
Mission? thought Miriam. Predicament seemed a more fitting term. "Oh, Lexie. I'm not. I've told you everything I know about the trouble here. The queen said, in so many words, that I overstepped myself. She thinks I've become too world-wise for a mere woman. Sending me here without telling me what's going on was my punishment."
Alexis spat a curse that she'd learned at her father's knee. "How swiftly my royal cousin forgets that you gained your experience in service to her—mere woman or no."
"I know," said Miriam, thinking of the years she'd served the queen. Miriam's apprenticeship had begun when the then Princess Anne had taken in the orphaned Miriam. At the age of five she'd often ferried the sad message to Prince George that yet another of the queen's children had died. Remembered pity softened her next words. "She also said that since I knew her mind so well, she needn't waste a royal breath explaining the participants or the particulars of the problems here."
A whistle escaped Alexis's lips. "She was angry at you."
Miriam studied the horizon. "Indeed. The burr in her voice was as thick as the towels in a Turkish bath."
"'Tis a wonder you still have your head. 'Twould be a pity, though, to let all that glorious red hair go to waste."
The compliment brightened Miriam's black mood. But she still couldn't bring herself to tell Alexis what had truly angered the queen. "When she told me that I could either marry the Baltic minister or earn my keep in the usual way, I told her I would sooner join the harem of King Ahmed."
Alexis made the sign of the cross. "She knows how much you hate the cold."
"Aye, she does. I decided to fall back and regroup. I just didn't think I'd be doing it in the Borders."
"You'll make quick work of this dispute. How will you begin?"
Miriam hated being ignorant, but what she knew about the Scotsman wouldn't fill a thimble. "I'm not sure."
"I have every confidence in you, my dear. Now, tell me. What did Her Majesty say about the Englishman?"
"Little. His name is Aubrey Townsend, Baron Sinclair. He was the one who petitioned for assistance, accusing the Scotsman of kidnapping, thievery, etcetera. Oh, and she commanded me to visit the Scotsman first."
"That's odd, even if the Englishman did bring about a complaint. She's always careful not to show favoritism to her countrymen. Maybe she knows the Scot. Or—" Mischief sparkled in her eyes. "He could be a cousin of sorts."
"I wouldn't think so. He leads a clan of Lowlanders. I don't imagine they have any ties to the Stewarts—on either side of the blanket." Realizing the slight, Miriam rushed to say, "Oh, do forgive me, Lexie."
Alexis waved her hand in dismissal. "'Twas nothing. What's the fellow's name?"
"Duncan Armstrong Kerr, the earl of Kildalton."
"Sounds very Scottish… and promising. Has he a countess?"
"Not anymore. He's widowed, according to the innkeeper back in Bothly Green."
"Very promising indeed, my dear."
Miriam had to shield her eyes from the setting sun to see her friend's face. "For you, me, or the negotiations?"
Alexis wagged her finger. "You, of course." Then she gazed at the rolling hills and rocky terrain. "Perhaps Sir Lancelot waits o'er yonder hill. Him or the legendary Border Lord they spoke of in Bothly Green. Then you'd be preoccupied with matters of the heart. A legend could sweep you off your feet, beguile you with poetry, and cart you away to his bower of love."
At the edge of her vision, Miriam saw Verbatim perched on the hill in question, her long tail arched over her back, her nose in the air. The animal had scented something. She whined in fright.
"Wait here." Miriam kicked her horse into a canter and raced up the hill. At the summit, she gasped, and flooded her lungs with the biting odor of stale smoke.
In the glen below stood the charred timbers and hearthstone of what had been a crofter's hut. On the periphery of the blackened field she saw a freshly mounded grave. She slumped, wondering if the destruction had been the result of a carelessly banked fire or a consequence of the trouble she was here to settle.
If the latter was true,
she'd need more than diplomatic flummery to bring about a peace. She conjured a picture of Duncan Armstrong Kerr, and saw a gouty, stubborn Scotsman who would challenge her expertise and try to bully her into taking his side.
But the man she encountered an hour later challenged her in a different way.
Standing in the common room of Kildalton Castle, Miriam was reminded of Louis XIV's least gifted fool the day he had once again failed to amuse his sovereign.
Pity and confusion overwhelmed her.
Dressed in a waistcoat and knee breeches of forest green velvet, a crimped and powdered wig aslant on his head, and spectacles thicker than church glass perched on his nose, the man looked more like a disheveled jester than the lord of the keep.
"Have you brought the peacocks?" he said, hope dancing in green eyes that were distorted by the lenses.
"The peacocks," she repeated, stalling for enough time to form a reasonable reply.
Behind her, Alexis coughed to hide a giggle. Saladin and Salvador stood frozen, their mouths open, their eyes as large as the earl's.
To Lexie, she pointedly said, "You'll want to warm yourself by the fire. Take the twins with you."
Alexis nodded and led the boys to the far side of the room.
Turning back, Miriam said, "Where were we?"
"The peacocks. They haven't molted, have they?" he asked in the clipped speech of a scholar. "If so, I hope you brought the creatures anyway." He held up a contraption of orange-brown feathers attached to a hook. "Can't catch a fish with a pheasant. These are as useless as another coal in Newcastle."
For some reason, he laughed. His wig jiggled and shed a handful of gray powder on the rounded shoulders of his waistcoat. Then he took a faltering step toward her.
That's when she noticed his shoes; they were on the wrong feet.
Through a shroud of compassion for the poor fellow, she dredged up her kindest tone. "You've mistaken me for someone else, my lord." Executing a perfect curtsy, she said, "I haven't brought you peacocks."
Frowning, he poked the contraption into his pocket, but when he withdrew his hand, the hook clung to his finger. He shook his hand, but to no avail. Finally, he plucked the hook free. Grunting, he clapped it on his sleeve. "You're travelers. How splendid." He wiped his hand on his breeches, leaving a thin smear of blood on the green velvet. Shuffling toward her and extending his hand, he said, "Allow me to present myself and welcome you properly. I'm Duncan Kerr, eighth earl of Kildalton."
She took his hand and was surprised to find blisters on his palm. Her logical mind stumbled, then settled on the inconsistency. How had he gotten blisters? Plucking feathers? She didn't think so. Why would an absentminded, near-blind nobleman have the hands of a workman?
He released her, then tipped his wigged head to the side, as if waiting. Through a haze of possibilities, she fell back on manners. "Thank you, my lord. I'm Lady Miriam MacDonald."
"Ah, you're a Scot."
She tried, but couldn't pull her gaze from his. Intelligence and something else lurked in his eyes. Instinct told her that he had the upper hand. Necessity demanded she take control. He knew the problems here. She didn't. But she couldn't admit her ignorance.
"Father!" bellowed a childish voice behind her. She turned to see a gangly lad with pitch dark hair dash into the room and to the earl's side.
Over a tartan kilt, the boy wore a man's scabbard and sword buckled around his waist. The heavy weapon scraped the stone flags and the belt dragged at the plaid she recognized as the symbol of the Kerr clan.
"There's soldiers in the stable," he declared, his voice breaking. "English soldiers! We must to arms." He tried to draw the sword, but succeeded in disturbing the pleats of his kilt. The garment slipped beneath the swordbelt, revealing pale buttocks and skinny legs.
As the earl leaned over to right the garment, he whispered to the boy, who froze in rapt attention.
Like fingers drawn to the rough edge of a ragged thumbnail, Miriam's senses toyed with the idea that something was wrong here. How could this bumbling man command the clans of Kerr and Armstrong? He didn't look capable of kidnapping or any of the charges brought against him.
"Lady Miriam," he said, "this rowdy lad and defender of the true faith is my son Mai—"
"Father!" snapped the boy. "You're doing it again."
"So, I am." The earl fished in his pockets, retrieved a scrap of paper, and squinted at it. "Ah, yes. My son Rob Roy."
The now-beaming boy bowed from the waist. Miriam stood stupefied, for the earl couldn't even remember his son's name. Another oddity, she thought. Distracted, she managed to say, "A pleasure, Master Rob Roy, I'm sure."
The boy whispered to his father. Miriam's mind hopscotched through the conflicting bits of information, trying to draw a logical conclusion. According to the queen, the Englishman swore this Scotsman was a Border reiver who led an army of thieves.
Again Miriam cursed herself for losing her patience with Anne and gaining her wrath. If only Miriam had held her tongue, she'd know the peculiars of the trouble here. She'd sit down with Duncan Kerr and ask him direct questions. Then she'd do the same with his English neighbor. Then she'd make peace between them. As it was, she didn't even know what questions to ask. Now she'd have to sleuth out the truth.
Like discovering a path out of the wilderness, she found a starting place, a tangible. "Excuse me, my lord," she murmured, and headed for the castleyard to investigate.
2
Bursting at the seams of his self-imposed idiocy, Duncan watched her go. Through the lenses she appeared as a dark red blur. Over the rims of the spectacles she looked like a vision in crimson. He surveyed the tilt of her chin, the set of her shoulders, the sway of her hips, and the purpose in her stride. The impulsive exit of his charming guest spelled trouble.
Why was she going outside? And why hadn't she told him her reasons for coming to Kildalton? No flighty female, the Lady Miriam MacDonald and her diplomatic accomplishments were legend.
Oh, but her mission here was doomed. She'd secure no peace in the Border, for there was none to be had. Her fancy rhetoric would be wasted on a dispute that involved burned-out farms and freshly mounded graves. Duncan Kerr would deal with his English neighbor in his own way. But first, he had to convince her of his innocence in the Border feud. Then he'd send this delectable diplomat and her odd entourage packing.
Quickly, too, for the Border Lord had work to do.
A pity, he thought, that he couldn't have met her under different circumstances. He liked women with brains and experience, and if the rumors were true, she possessed the lion's share of both.
She also had skin with the luster of polished pearls and eyes as gray and intriguing as snow-laden clouds. Perfect poise and a cleavage that made his lips pucker seemed cruel wrappings on a package he couldn't afford to open. She must see him as a bumpkin with fishing lures on his mind and cowardice in his heart.
Over the chatter of his son and Lady Miriam's traveling companion, Duncan chose a plan of action that would turn Miriam MacDonald upside down. That decided, he pulled the bellcord to summon his housekeeper, then turned his attention to his only offspring.
The kilt-clad boy stood before the two lads in Lady Miriam's party. An interesting pair, they were: one dark as a Moor and thinly built, with the obsidian eyes and wooly black hair of his African ancestors. The other boy had the noble profile and olive complexion of a Spanish grandee. Yet there were similarities in the lads: identical widow's peaks in their foreheads and spaces between their front teeth.
Why would a diplomat travel with two lads? Duncan stepped forward to greet them.
Before he could accomplish that, Lady Miriam glided back into the room. Curiosity over the young men fled like trout before a pheasant lure.
She moved with the grace of a deer, and smiled with the assurance of a queen. What tidbit had she gleaned in his castleyard that gave her such confidence? His people were loyal; none would betray his disguise.
Assumi
ng the blank expression he'd practiced since the lookout had brought word of her imminent arrival, Duncan shuffled toward her. "Did you forget something? I could have had a servant fetch it."
A winsome smile illuminated her heart-shaped face. "I did indeed, Lord Duncan. I neglected to introduce you to my friends."
He could grow to hate that placating tone, unless, of course, she were lying naked in his bed and whispering endearments in his ear. He almost smiled at the prospect of making love to so fine a lady. But now was not the time for smiling or seducing. If he wasn't careful, he'd give himself away.
"They're twins, Father," declared his son, still tugging at his tartan, which was precariously close to landing in a heap on the floor. "And they're twelve years old."
Lady Miriam stepped between the boys and draped an arm over each of their shoulders, which were almost on a level with hers. "My lord, may I present Salvador and Saladin Cortez, the finest scribes in all of Europe and England. Gentlemen, this is Lord Duncan, the earl of Kildalton."
Each greeted him pleasantly, and why not? They'd learned their manners from the queen of protocol. Duncan shook their hands and noticed other peculiarities: ink stains and modesty.
Blinking like the fool he pretended to be, he said, "Scribes? Well, isn't that a fine occupation. I always have difficulty with numbering pages. Get them all ajumble every time. I suppose age truly has little bearing on some achievements, does it not, gentlemen?"
If expressions were words, Duncan faced disgust in two languages, both foreign. Saladin frowned, his mahogany-hued skin oddly light at the corners of his mouth. Puffing out his chest, Salvador shot Duncan a measuring glare and found him wanting.
Smiling innocuously, Duncan said, "You've met my son, Mai—"
"Rob Roy," Malcolm put in.
Duncan wanted to blister the boy. He could hate his name, refuse to answer to it, but not, by God, in front of the emissary of the queen. Vowing to have another talk with his stubborn son, Duncan breathed a sigh of relief when his housekeeper, Mrs. Elliott, bustled into the room.
