by Arnette Lamb
She'd sooner watch Torquemada interrogate a heretic. "I'll just put these back." She scooped up the pail and headed for the well, Verbatim on her heels.
She'd only gone a short distance when Miriam realized her mistake. Fairness and objectivity were the tools of her occupation. She'd been accused of much worse than being fanciful. Growing defensive in the face of so petty a charge wouldn't serve her at all. Ghosts didn't exist. The Border Lord was a real, flesh and blood man who made her feel very much a flesh and blood woman.
She'd find him. She had the key to the tunnel door, and she was a master at waiting and watching. If the swineherd spoke the truth and the baron sent his men to raid Kildalton land, the Border Lord would appear. She'd be waiting for him.
From the edge of her vision, she watched the earl and the swineherd walk toward the sty. Duncan Kerr towered over the older man, but so did she. Yet Lord Duncan cut a fine figure, dressed as he was in full Kerr regalia. The red and green kilt barely covered his knees and drew attention to his legs, which appeared surprisingly muscular for a man who spent his time attaching feathers to hooks. Without the green jacket, his waist seemed trim, his hips slender. The elaborate sporran and its finely tooled belt added to the illusion of male virility.
Her admiration, she decided with a smile, stemmed from his Scottish attire and her affinity for it. The queen's court teemed with Scotsmen. Even the pudgy, bowlegged Argyll looked resplendent in his hated Campbell plaid.
Lord Duncan draped his arm over the swineherd's shoulder in a casual affirmation of male camaraderie. The swineherd spoke. In response, the earl gasped and slapped a hand to his gaping mouth, effectively shattering the masculine image.
Confused by her conflicting images of him, she turned away. To his credit, he somehow maintained the respect of his people and his soldiers. What would his enemy say about him? Unanswered questions and inconsistencies nagged her. Once she met Baron Sinclair, she would better understand both men. Then she could steer them toward reconciliation and peace.
Verbatim barked, lunged a few feet away, then stopped and barked again. "All right, girl," said Miriam. "Go find a stick."
As powerful and loose-limbed as a tiger, the sleuthhound raced for the rowan trees. The band of clansmen grew silent and, as one, watched the dog canter across the yard and straight to a fallen branch. Barely breaking stride, her long ears flapping like bonnet ribbons, Verbatim snatched up her prize and dashed back to Miriam.
She'd find out who the stranger was and why he visited the earl. She'd spent her adult life prying vital information from men who were much more clever than the Border Lord. A pig farmer was he? Bosh. With each toss of the stick, Miriam thought of another insult. She'd singe his ears. In a game of verbal throw and fetch, he didn't stand a chance.
Duncan stood outside the pigsty, but his attention stayed focused on the queen's emissary. He'd angered her with the remark about having a tale of the Border Lord to pass on to her children. She'd clutched the cup so tightly her knuckles had turned white, drawing his attention to her bruised fingertips, one nail broken to the quick.
Under different circumstances, he would have played the cavalier and kissed and bandaged her injury. Then he would have catered to her every need and fulfilled a burning one of his own.
"We fooled her good, my lord," Ian said.
Duncan thought of her perfect memory and her skill at catching him off guard. "Doona be so sure, my friend. She isna like the others."
Ian sat astride the sow, his hand poised on the animal's ear. "Ye take me fer bein' old and blind? I can see she ain't like those money grubbin' ne'er-do-wells. She's got pride and dignity, and a fair set o' motherly necessities."
Duncan remembered the softness of her breasts and the way she'd leaned into his caress. "Aye, she does."
Concentrating on the task of grabbing a handful of hair, Ian said, "What'll ye do with her?"
A midnight fantasy played out in Duncan's mind. "Not what I'd like to do with her, I assure you."
Ian grunted, then leaped free of the squealing sow, a tuft of umber-colored hair in his hand. "She's easy on the eyes, fer sure. Here, my lord."
Duncan laughed, but without humor, and took the sow's hair. "I'm trying to forget the way she looks."
"But yer lady crackers keep remindin' ye, eh?"
Painfully so, thought Duncan. "You shouldna listen to Angus MacDodd, much less quote him."
"Yer pardon, my lord." Ian touched his forehead, but his smug expression belied the show of apology. "I been knowin' ye since the day the Grand Reiver strapped ye to his saddle and brought ye 'round for all to see. I say the MacDonald lass will go the same way as those gin-soaked lords the queen sent before 'er. Ye've done yer best to make peace with Baron Sin. Yer bonnie redhead can't do better. I'll wager my Sally's next litter on it."
Loyalty so freely given inspired Duncan. Yet in his heart he hoped Miriam could bring about a peace. He was weary of strife. "I'll hold you to that bet, Ian. But now I'd best get back to being the bumbling earl."
"'Tis a fair job yer doin' of it, my lord. You was born to bumble."
Duncan groaned and stuffed the pig's hair into his sporran. His fingers touched something scaly. It moved. Looking inside the pouch, he spied a fat newt. Malcolm's handiwork, no doubt.
Vowing to take the lad to task, Duncan gathered Miriam and the dog into the carriage and headed home. The soldiers rode ahead and behind.
Five minutes later, she said, "You have a special friendship with the swineherd."
As if facing a long climb up a craggy hill, Duncan gathered his strength and his stupidity. "He's a generous fellow. Always willing to pluck his best sow so I can have my fishing flies."
"What would you do if the baron raided his farm?"
Duncan affected a pout. "I'm no Lancelot," he whined. "I'd protest most vigorously, but I'm hardly the type to go bounding over the countryside, brandishing a sword in defense of the downtrodden."
"You could hire someone to fight your battles."
"I do. That burly fellow sends some of those men." He fluttered a hand at his clansmen. "They help clean up the debris."
She stared pointedly at his gloved hands. "Who buries the dead sheep and dogs?"
Sly, conniving creature. "Heavens, not I. I'm busy at my desk doing what any decent and law-abiding overlord would do. I write to the local magistrate."
"Who is he?"
"Avery Chilton-Wall. Do you know him?"
"He's originally from York." She stared at her injured finger. "A short man, rather portly. He has brown eyes, a long face with a rather bulbous, red nose. He takes snuff… frequently. He likes peas and biscuits and French brandy. His wife's name is Mirabelle."
"Then you know him well."
"Nay. I met him once about three years ago. He was in London for his daughter's coming out. The duchess of Richmond sponsored the girl. I attended a dinner given in her honor."
Drat her memory! If minds were arsenals, the woman beside him could make Guy Fawkes look like a schoolboy. "Chilton-Wall is a hunter, not a fisherman. So we seldom speak of anything but business."
Miriam shrugged and picked at her finger until it began to bleed. "Where is he?"
"Probably at Baron Sin's. They're thick as ditchbank thieves. They ride to the hounds together. Birds of a feather, and all that. The baron bankrupts himself to entertain the magistrate, who always sides in the baron's favor."
"You say you've written to him to voice your complaints. Do you keep a record of your correspondence?"
"Of course. I'm as meticulous about crimes as I am about the entries in my fishing journal. I hope someday to publish my collective works on the spawning cycle of the red-finned salmon."
"I'd like to see it."
He knew precisely what she meant, but couldn't help saying, "Certainly, but not until next week."
"Why not now?"
The carriage hit a rut. The bonnet flopped low over his brow, but Duncan made no move to right it. "Because the
baron's men are fishing the Tyne today. We mustn't take such a risk, even for red-finned salmon."
"I meant," she said, her voice laced with patience, "your journal."
"Oh, silly me. Be my guest. But you already are. I'd let you read my fishing entries, but I'm very protective of my research. You understand, of course."
"Of course. Why do you share fishing rights to the river Tyne?"
"Share?" He tried to control his anger, to keep a loose grip on the reins. His fingers knotted. The horses reared. "I don't do it by choice," he grumbled, trying to settle the team. "The river's on Kildalton land, but Sinclair pays no attention to boundaries or laws."
She reached out to steady the sleuthhound, who teetered on the opposite seat. "I see."
Duncan didn't relax until the towers of Kildalton Castle came into view. The moment they entered the castle yard, Angus broke away from a crowd of fanners and rushed to the carriage.
His relief at being home fled when Duncan saw the rage burning in Angus's eyes.
The soldier darted an uneasy glance at Miriam and said, "May I see you alone, my lord?"
Duncan dropped the reins and made to leap from the carriage. Angus stopped him with a hand on his knee. "I wouldn't distress you for all the heather in Scotland, my lord. I know how easily fashed you are."
Catching the warning, Duncan settled back into the seat. "Very well, then. What's happened? Why are all those farmers gathered in the yard?"
"The baron came. When you weren't here he went away peacefully enough. But on his way home his men raided the Lindsay farm and made off with the man's wool."
Betsy Lindsay broke away from the crowd and ran to the carriage. Tears and misery wreathed her face. "Oh, my lord. 'Tis my Mary Elizabeth," she wailed, clutching his tartan with hands that were scratched and bruised. "She's gone! When the raiders come, I put her in the springhouse and told her not to make a sound. The bastards must've taken her, 'cause she wasn't there."
Overcome by the conflicting urges to kill and comfort at once, Duncan acted on instinct. He stepped from the carriage, took Betsy's hands, and pulled her into his arms.
"My lord!" warned Angus under his breath, his eyes again darting to Miriam MacDonald.
Duncan whispered, "Doona fret, Betsy. We'll find the lassie. She's too spry to come to harm. Will you trust me?"
Her head bobbed beneath his chin. The angry crowd milled, the men brandishing pitchforks and shepherd's staffs. Feminine whispers blended with angry male threats.
Taking a deep breath, Duncan feigned indignation. "I say, this is an outrage of the meanest sort. This poor woman is beside herself. Do something!" he shouted to Angus. "Order those men off the wall and go after the brigands."
"But what about the little girl? Can't you do something?" Miriam's voice, hoarse with outrage, poured over Duncan.
Betsy drew back and gazed over Duncan's shoulder. "My husband says she's gone. But she does like to wander. Oh, Sweet Saint Ninian, she's only three years old."
The carriage squeaked and shifted. Miriam stepped down. "Do you have some article of her clothing, Mrs. Lindsay? Something that Mary Elizabeth has touched?"
Hope glimmered in Betsy's eyes, then faded. "Her shawl. She didna even have it on."
Duncan said, "She'll be cold, the poor lambkin."
"The sun is warm today. Please don't worry," said Miriam, pushing Duncan out of the way and wrapping her arm around Betsy's shaking shoulders. "You'll have your daughter back before nightfall." She snapped her fingers and the sleuthhound bounded from the carriage. "Do you see this dog, Mrs. Lindsay?"
"What's a dog got to do with my poor, lost bairn?"
"Well," said Miriam, as chipper as a lark in spring. "This dog happens to be the very animal that rescued the duke of Orleans from a band of gypsies. Haven't you heard about it? 'Twas a very daring act."
Besty's cheeks sagged in confusion. Before she could speak, Miriam said, "Verbatim tracked their caravan, and His Grace was happily reunited with his duchess. If you'll find Mary Elizabeth's shawl and let Verbatim smell it, you and I will get in that carriage and follow the hound. She'll lead us to your daughter."
Speechless, Duncan looked on as fresh tears poured down Betsy's cheeks. Agony roiled in his gut, for if he dared help, he'd wreck his disguise.
Betsy gazed at the dog. Verbatim held up a paw. "God bless you," Betsy said.
Miriam turned slowly toward Duncan. Disdain tightened the corners of her mouth. "Excuse us, my lord. Please tell Lady Alexis I've gone to fetch a stray child. No one else seems so inclined."
They walked to a box wagon, where Betsy found the tattered shawl. Miriam guided her back to the carriage. They climbed in, and without a backward glance, she flicked the reins and drove the team away.
"You'd best get inside, my lord," said Angus. "I'll go with them."
Duncan's feet stayed rooted to the dusty ground. "I canna shirk my duty. No matter the risk."
Angus gripped Duncan's arm. "Everyone knows 'tis not like you to sit back and let others do the work, my lord. But you have no choice. You dinna want the queen's wench to discover the truth."
Duncan scanned the faces of his people. He saw compassion in the pursing of Mrs. Elliott's mouth and acceptance in the shaking of the tinker's head. "If any harm comes to Miriam or Betsy or Mary Elizabeth, I'll have the hide of the man responsible."
"I'll gladly be the one to bring him to you," Angus swore and called for his horse. Then he raced after the rescue party.
Duncan dragged himself to his study. Helplessness ignited the fire of his fury. He yanked off the spectacles and threw them on the floor. They bounced on the rug and landed facing the fireplace, the flames turning the lenses to discs of light. He ripped off the bonnet and wig, and tossed them in a corner. Reaching for the decanter of brandy, he discarded the top and took a long swig. Then he began to pace the floor.
The pillar clock ticked off the passing minutes. Inactivity chipped away at his restraint. He'd make the baron pay dearly. Tonight the Border Lord would ride with a vengeance.
He stopped and caught his reflection in the cheval glass. His blond hair hung about his shoulders in a wild tangle. His shirt had come free and lay bunched and wrinkled beneath the sash of his tartan. He looked a fierce sight, a kilted Scotsman poised to defend his domain.
That thought brought a sorry laugh to his lips and a pain to his heart. He should be leading his men to the rescue. Not Miriam MacDonald.
He ticked off her faults on his fingers. She was far too distracting. She was too intelligent. She had no business snooping in his affairs. But how could he stop her?
Snooping.
Like a draught of fresh air, Duncan remembered the missing key to the tunnel door. Earlier today he'd found it open and an empty nail where the key should have been. According to Malcolm, Miriam had stood beside him in the garden watching the fencing duel, then suddenly she'd vanished.
A purpose beckoned. Here at last was something he could accomplish, and he'd never have a better opportunity away from her too observant eyes.
He traded the bottle of brandy for a lighted torch and a spare ring of keys. With a twist of his wrist, he turned the wall sconce and triggered the ancient mechanism that opened a secret door in the wall between the fireplace and the bookshelves. Holding the torch high, he wound his way through the warren of tunnels until he reached the outside door.
On his knees, he searched for the key. He didn't find it, but much to the delight of his bruised and battered pride, he discovered a more condemning piece of proof—a broken fingernail.
Feeling assuaged and eager for another bout with the flame-haired diplomat, he returned to his study and the brandy. Sometime later he heard a cheer from the soldiers on the curtain wall. Then Malcolm burst into the study.
"Come quick, Papa. You won't believe who's riding through the gate."
7
Although Duncan had his suspicions, he said, "Who?"
"You'll see." Malcolm grabbed Duncan's hand.
"We'll watch from the tower."
He let himself be pulled out of the study and to the tower door. Grunting, Malcolm pushed it open. They started up the circular stairway, the boy's short legs pumping. "Hurry. We'll never make it," he said between gasps.
"Make it to what?"
Malcolm stopped and flapped his arms in exasperation. "To see what's happening outside."
"Very well." Duncan swept up his son and propped him on his hip, the same way he'd carried him as a babe. Eye to eye with Malcolm, Duncan said, "But hold on tight."
Malcolm grinned and thrust his arm upward. "Go very fast. Faster than Rob Roy when Sassenachs are chasing him."
After five hours of waiting for Miriam's safe return, Duncan nearly ran up the stairs, his bouncing son squealing with delight. At the top, Duncan kicked open the door and stepped into the cool night.
Distant cheers erupted. Shifting his son higher on his hip, Duncan leaned into a chest-high arrow slit. A score of people carrying torches had formed a double line outside the gate. From the castle yard, hundreds more poured through the human column, lighting torches as they went. In minutes, a flaming yellow gauntlet stretched from the mouth of the portcullis to the curtain wall. In the inner bailey, bleating sheep scattered and sheepdogs raced to herd them.
"Papa, isn't it wondrous?"
The crowd hushed. Anticipation hung like rain clouds in the air. From the darkness of the outer bailey came the jingle of harnesses. From the depths of Duncan's soul came a silent plea: let them be unharmed.
Angus rode into the light, his bay horse gleaming like polished mahogany, his smile as broad as Armstrong Moor.
"Look, Papa!"
Behind Angus pranced the sleuthhound, her head high, her tail a banner of high-strung dignity.
The people cheered again. As if to punctuate the excitement, the torches wavered.
"There's Lady Miriam, Papa!" Malcolm said in awe. "She's got Mary Elizabeth and her mother."
