by Arnette Lamb
"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 blasé 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 the 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?
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.
Miriam didn't need a flawless memory to recall the earl's manly parts. The tightening, curling sensations that coiled in her belly reminded her in a more vivid way. Worse, she was beginning to feel attracted to the gentle earl, a man who bore no resemblance to the charging, gallant knight of her dreams.
The Border Lord.
The realization both frightened and exhausted her. Without objectivity she might fail. That she couldn't afford, because too much was at stake.
Fighting off untimely fantasies, she eased inside the door, lighted the candle, and began mapping the corridors. Using the tunnel door where she'd entered and the tapestry-draped door near the lesser hall as points of reference, she cited each exit from the musty tunnel. This morning she'd hidden in an alcove and quaked with fear as the earl passed her. Now she knew that she'd been standing by the door to the stair tower. The earl had entered the tunnel from his study. She resisted the urge to search his room for evidence of his involvement in the raids on Sinclair's land; she'd have time for that later.
She'd also have time to explore the stair tower that spiraled into graying darkness. Using the same deductive skill that allowed her to look at the weavers sticks and picture the plaid the pattern would weave, Miriam diagrammed the dark passages. When she had fixed in her mind a picture of the warrenlike tunnels, she stepped out into the garden and locked the door.
She found a hiding place in the shadows. She sat back against the wall, her knees drawn to her chest, the cloak pooling around her. She had yawned only twice when the Border Lord entered the garden.
Her heart clamored in her breast and a slow heat brought dampness to her skin. Years ago in a Russian forest, she'd sat in an iron-barred wagon and watched a snow leopard stalk a reindeer. Danger had consumed her then; it fascinated her now.
In unhurried, powerful strides, the Border Lord passed the fountain. His cape billowed, and he appeared a liquid shadow, moving past the urns and out of sight.
The crunching of his boots on the gravel stopped. Silence, save the soothing sound of rushing water, fell over the night. Miriam's pulse accelerated.
"Bletherin wench!" he spat and kicked or pounded on the door. "She locked the door."
Confidence shaved the edge off her anxiety. She decided to observe him for a while. Cupping her hands over her mouth, she breathed deeply, the metallic smell of the ancient key still on her hands, the anticipation of the man filling her senses.
What would he do?
He paced like a caged animal. He cursed her in the language of her youth. He called her a meddling harlot with the common sense of a Cornishman and the stubbornness of a Highlander. He swore to wring her neck and teach her a lesson about meddling in his affairs.
Let him try, she thought. She could handle him.
Suddenly he stopped and seemed to stare straight through her. Then he marched to a bench near the fountain and plopped down, his elbows braced on his knees, his palms supporting his ch
in. Like a mask, his hat brim cast a curving shadow over his eyes and the bridge of his nose.
"What to do," he mused. "What to do."
The despair in his voice called across the few feet that separated them. She longed for the sunlight or even the flame of the half-burned candle in her pocket. She couldn't risk detection, yet the unknown aspects of the dark stranger played havoc with her judgment. Why was he here? What shade of dark brown were his eyes?
Despite the dim light she could tell he'd been blessed with appealing, manly features. Soft, insistent lips that had kissed away her maidenly objections were now pulled in tight anger. Broad shoulders and the strong arms that had caressed and sheltered her, were now slumped, weighted by some heavy burden. A burden she craved to lift.
But unlike composing betrothals and divvying up shipping routes, eavesdropping on a man in such obvious misery suddenly seemed a dishonorable act.
"You've brewed yourself a bonnie kettle of fish," he said, the burr in his voice like a melancholy song. "If you canna get the wench from your mind, how in the name of Saint Columba, can you get her to see the truth? She isna different from the other silk-stockinged macaronis who footle into the Borders and swear they can strike a peace." He chuckled without humor. "Except that she doesna ease her lust on the chambermaids or fatten her purse on Kildalton's gold."
"Why?" he beseeched the moon. "Why did you send us a kinswoman who rescues lost lassies and devils my nights? I canna decide what to do—strangle her or love her to death. God a'mercy, auld heart. We want the lass."
Stunned, Miriam swallowed to ease the tightness in her throat. He spoke with pained ambivalence and longing. Her heart ached with the need to comfort him and to believe him.
Sighing, he slapped his thigh and smiled. "Bonny wrappings or no, she'll decide in the baron's favor. She canna help herself." Glancing over his shoulder, he stared up at her window. "Nor can I."
He shot to his feet and retraced his steps. Bracing his hands on his waist, he tilted back his head and growled a wicked taunt up at her window. A moment later he snatched up a handful of pebbles and tossed them.
