by Arnette Lamb
"You mean you told her you helped Adrienne and her beau flee the baron?"
"Nay. Only the baron's threats to Adrienne. But Miriam knows too much about me as it is."
Angus went to the storage chest and returned with a towel. "Here. 'Tis best the maid doesn't see that soot on your face."
On a half-laugh, Duncan said, "She might mistake me for the Border Lord and accuse me of seducing her grandma-ma." He began wiping the remains of the disguise from his face and hands.
Angus whacked the gauntlets against his thigh. " 'Tis the cleverest of your tricks, my lord. A good thing, too, for the people are fair enchanted by the Border Lord's return. Gives them hope, you ken? They believe justice will prevail."
Duncan thought back to the time of his wife's death, the bloody raids that followed, the senseless destruction, and the havoc Baron Sin had wreaked on the people of Kildalton. Not since the bloody time of Kenneth Kerr had the Border seen such destruction. But the resurrection of the Border Lord had evened the odds and spared Duncan from being likened to his father. One day soon the Border Lord would settle the score. Unless Miriam's interference destroyed his plans.
"Well." He got to his feet. "I've a mountain of work to catch up on. Send out the word that I'll hear any disputes this afternoon in the keeping room. I've a hankering to dress as myself again. Lord, those wigs and spectacles are a bother."
Angus rushed to his side. "You can't give up the disguise, my lord. Lady Miriam left one of the twins behind."
"Which one?"
"Saladin, the Moorish lad. He's out in the tilt yard teaching Malcolm to wield a scimitar."
The joy of the moment faded as Duncan considered the responsibility he'd heaped on his son. "Stay with them, Angus. We can't expect Malcolm to watch his every word."
"You had a talk with him, didn't you?"
"Aye, he needed discipline, no thanks to you and the other soldiers."
Angus pulled a scrap of paper from his gauntlet and handed it to Duncan. "Let him be a lad, Duncan. Allow him the childhood the old laird denied you. He hasn't cursed once this morning, or mentioned his unmentionable parts."
As always, Duncan wondered if he was raising Malcolm properly. But a little indulgence wouldn't spoil the lad. Glancing at the paper he saw his son's familiar scrawl and his nom du jour. "Suleiman," Duncan said. "The magnificent?"
Angus roared. "Gloriously so. He began the day as King John, but when Saladin brought out his sword, Malcolm dashed inside and came back with a handful of these notes and one of his mother's lace shawls wrapped around his head for a turban."
The picture amused Duncan, but a serious ramification could result. "What if Miriam instructed Saladin to pry information from Malcolm?"
"Is she so devious as that?"
Duncan's first response was no, but he realized loving her colored his judgment. Loving her. The notion shocked him and spurred an argument with his conscience.
Did he love Miriam MacDonald?
He'd made love to her, that was all.
He'd taken her maidenhead.
She gave it willingly.
But why to the Border Lord, unless she fancied herself in love with him?
She wanted information that would gain her greater fame at court.
She'd asked no questions last night.
She called him her gallant knight.
She'd had too much beer with supper, and she was already drunk on praise from rescuing Mary Elizabeth.
She harbored a deep affection for him.
"Is she, my lord?"
The urgency in Angus's tone snatched Duncan's attention. With regret, he said, " 'Tis possible she could use the young scribe."
Angus jerked on his gauntlets. "Then she's no better than a camp whore if she'd use a child for her own gain."
The comparison troubled Duncan. Could Miriam be so cold and selfish? He wasn't sure. "Leave the woman to me. You befriend the lad. Turn on that MacDodd charm and teach him a few things about being a man."
"But that's stooping to her level!" Angus objected. "At the expense of the lad. Saladin's only twelve years old, Duncan. He's alone here now."
The informal address spoke volumes about Angus's mood. Throughout Duncan's childhood, he had basked in Angus's unconditional love. "He'll be a finer man for any time spent with you."
"Bah! You've been spending too much time with that silver-tongued diplomat. She has you believing any means justifies the end."
The jibe hit home. Duncan retreated. "Very well, Angus. Forget I brought it up."
Angus scratched his beard. "He's a bright boy, but if you asked my opinion, the Lady Alexis coddles him overmuch."
"Then while the good duchess and our wily diplomat are gone, he'll profit from your tutelage."
"What will you do?"
The challenge beckoned. Rubbing his hands together, Duncan added, "I intend to serve the people of Kildalton again—and not as a bumbling earl. 'Twill be your task to keep the lad Saladin occupied elsewhere."
Angus sighed, his mighty shoulders heaving. "Just this morning I heard him ask Malcolm where his mother was."
Shocked, Duncan gripped the arms of the chair. "How did Malcolm answer?"
Angus shook his head. "At the time he was still calling himself King John, so he said his mother was Eleanor of Aquitaine and she was buried at Fontevrault Abbey."
Once Miriam found out who'd given birth to Malcolm, she'd be madder than a wet cat. Out of revenge she might try to enforce the codicil to the marriage agreement he'd innocently signed eight years before. But Duncan was prepared to fight the devil and all the demons in hell to keep his son. "If she sides with Sinclair, we'll let her have a peek at the family Bible. For now, send a messenger with the tinker to Sinclair's. I want to know everything that goes on there. Oh, and get me Mrs. Elliott's key to the tunnel door. I've misplaced mine." A lie, for it wasn't missing at all. After they'd made love, Miriam had filched it again.
"I hope it works."
Feigning innocence, Duncan said, "The key?"
Angus raised his eyes to the ceiling and sighed.
Duncan chuckled. "I canna remember a time when you disappointed me, Angus."
The soldier turned and walked to the door, mumbling, "Would that I could return the compliment."
During the following fortnight Duncan settled disputes ranging from a minor quarrel between the swineherd and the butcher to a major feud between his Armstrong and Lindsay cousins over a broken betrothal.
Duncan thought of Miriam and wondered how large a dowry her father would offer. Sadly he realized he didn't know who her father was.
The messenger wore out a path and nearly winded his horse on the two-hour ride between Sinclair land and Kildalton. He related that Lady Miriam had ridden to the hounds with the baron. Lady Miriam had been crowned the Queen of the Frost Fair. Lady Miriam had danced three minuets and a twosome reel with the duke of Perth, who'd stopped on his way home from London. Lady Miriam had gone a-hawking with Avery Chilton-Wall. Lady Miriam had lost at chess to the baron.
Duncan thought of the many nights Miriam had spent under his roof and castigated himself for never testing her skill at chess.
Leaving Angus in charge of the castle defense, Duncan took a small force of clansmen and the local doctor, and visited every village in Kildalton. In preparation for winter, fuel shortages were alleviated, fences mended, roofs thatched.
Back at Kildalton Castle, he found himself in the garden at moonrise. The darkened window of Miriam's chamber reflected the bleakness in his heart.
He missed her.
Tormented by the bittersweet revelation, he trudged into the tunnel. He needed no light to find the secret passageway outside her chamber; he'd traveled these tunnels from the time he could walk. Sliding open the panel behind the wardrobe, he was seduced by the bracing fragrance that lingered in the gowns she'd left behind. His senses heightened by the absence of light, he stroked the garments, feeling the nubby texture of brocade, the furry nap of ve
lvet, the airy delicacy of watered silk.
Elegant gowns, costly gowns, gowns to charm a foreign king. But in her quest to snare a Border Lord, she garbed herself in modest frocks of serviceable wool. Then she'd laid siege to his heart.
Would Duncan Armstrong Kerr yield? Not with so formidable an ally as the Border Lord.
Thoughts of his dark persona demanded a bold new strategy. Patting himself on the back, Duncan returned to his chamber, donned the clothing of the Border Lord and planned his next seduction.
10
Duncan never got the chance to carry it out, for at dusk Mrs. Elliott came to his chamber to announce the unexpected arrival of the duchess of Perth.
"Tell me it isna true," he said, a lamp chimney in his hand, his fingers coated with lampblack.
The housekeeper twitched her button nose and stared at the black scarf draped over his shoulder. "As you wish, my lord. 'Tis not the duchess of Perth leading an entourage through the gate, but Eleanor of Aquitaine come to claim her firstborn son, who's now purging the buttery of infidels."
Duncan put down the cylinder of glass, wiped his hand, and grasped a moment's respite before his life erupted into chaos. "Should I discipline young Richard the Lionheart before or after I receive the good duchess?"
Her brown eyes crinkled with mirth. "'Tis not for me to say. But I will remind your lordship that when last she visited you said conversing with Her Grace was like bartering with a Turk over the very last horse."
Duncan winced at the memory. Lord, the duchess could meddle. "Why is she here?"
"The messenger said she's on her way down from Perth to join her husband at Sinclair's. It's to be a hunt and a ball."
"Last week 'twas a frost fair." Where Miriam was crowned queen, he thought sourly. "Perhaps the duchess will be so anxious to see the duke that she wilna stay long."
"I'm sure the housemaids are praying for the onset of her wifely devotion, my lord. They're tidying the large suite now."
He bowed from the waist. "Then I'll change clothes and prepare to dodge her verbal arrow."
Mrs. Elliott sniffed and plucked at the lace on her apron. "Why is she so insistent that you marry again, my lord?"
"I suppose she canna stand to see a man happy."
The housekeeper turned to go but stopped. "My lord…" Her voice dropped. " 'Tisn't fair to the lad Saladin, the way master Malcolm's acting. The Moor can't help the way he was taught to worship."
Her sense of fairness pleased Duncan. "What did Malcolm do?"
"He makes fun of the lad, who doesn't eat meat or take spirits. Malcolm also dances around the Moor when he's praying."
"Thank you, Mrs. Elliott. You're a woman of justice. Tell Malcolm and Saladin they're to stay the night with Angus, and report to me in the morning. Oh, and give the housemaids the honey I brought from Dearcag Moor."
Standing taller, she grasped the door handle. "Aye, my lord. Honey or no, you'll hear nary a quibble from anyone while the duchess is here. We need no bribes. We're loyal to you." Glancing over her shoulder, she stared at his black clothing. "If I may say so, you cut an especially braw figure tonight as the Border Lord."
Flattered, Duncan watched her leave. As he exchanged the black raiments for his Kerr tartan, he tamped back disappointment. Tonight's raid to retrieve his stolen cattle would have to wait. The duchess wouldn't. Only one aspect of the evening pleased him; with the scribe Saladin out of the castle, Duncan could forego disguises.
By the time Duncan reached the dining hall, the duchess reigned at the head of the table. The panniered skirt of her white gown billowed around her, obscuring her chair and the table legs. Ropes of pearls hung in triple festoons from her bodice, which was cut barely an inch above her nipples. Current fashion, it seemed, was the duchess's only saving grace.
The observation surprised Duncan, for he couldn't remember ever noticing her feminine assets. Slowing his steps, he thought of Miriam's fancy gowns in the wardrobe upstairs and wondered if the bodices had been fashioned to accentuate her feminine charms. How many men had seen her so daringly revealed?
Jealousy seared him. Why didn't she dress that way for him?
Halfway across the room, he stopped, but like a hunter on the prowl, his male pride went in search of a victim.
"What's wrong, Duncan?" The duchess put down her tankard. "You looked peaked."
Her waspish voice reminded him that he had bigger problems than jealousy. He smiled and approached the table, his hand extended. "I'm fine, Your Grace. I simply canna remember seeing your charms displayed in so bonnie a gown."
She snatched up her fan and tapped his knuckles. At forty years old, her graying hair hidden beneath a powdered wig, the duchess could still play the coquette. "Since when do you play the flatterer, Lord Duncan? You've never cared a farthing for fashion or flirting."
The truth of her challenge gave him pause. But he had no time to examine the changes that were ripping his life apart. He drew back his hand. "Life on our side of the Border isna conducive to fancy frocks and courtly manners. 'Tis all we can do to put food in our bellies and hold on to what little our forebears left us."
Curiosity glittered in her eyes. "Something's different about you, my lord."
Had someone disclosed his dual identity? No. It was only her dreaded verbal haggling. He took the seat at the other end of the table. "I canna imagine what you mean, unless I need a barbering."
"Not that. You seem so… so determined and comfortable with yourself."
Trying not to smile, Duncan laid his napkin in his lap and lied. "Because I'm hungry and glad to see you?"
Her eyes rounded in surprise. Her fork clattered onto the pewter plate. "There. What you just said. That's what I mean. You're not usually so… cordial and gallant."
He had been remote, he supposed, but visits from the nosey duchess and her kind were always a trial. Invariably they were journeying to or returning from the pomp and boredom of Anne's court. Common decency made him offer her and other travelers hospitality; protocol forced him to endure her company.
Mentally arming himself for a battle of words, he poured himself a mug of beer. "I hadna noticed, Your Grace, but come to think of it, we havna had so many visitors since Anne took the throne."
"You were a child then."
Astounded, he said, "Your Grace, I'm thirty-six years old. The queen took the throne eleven years ago. I was hardly a child."
She stared at the fingers on her left hand, moving them in sequence as she tried to make the simple subtraction.
He reached for the pitcher. "More beer?"
She gave a guilty start, then sighed dramatically. "Ah, Duncan. Why must you shun my efforts to be your friend? I only want to help you and liven your life."
"You're kind to do so. 'Tis dreadfully boring in the Borders."
"Oh?" She tapped her little finger with the tines of the fork. "Adrienne Birmingham disappeared." She tapped her ring finger. "You turned out your mistress." The fork touched her middle finger. "Miriam MacDonald has been staying with you. Hardly boring occurrences. Shall I go on?"
He couldn't have felt more exposed had she watched him use the privy. For years he'd allowed her to meddle in his life because of her rank, and it was easier than arguing with her. He thought of Miriam and her mastery of conversation. He'd trade all the salt in Kildalton for a fraction of her expertise. What would she do in a similar situation? The answer inspired him.
"You're prying again." He picked up his fork and tapped his finger in imitation of her. "Adrienne Birmingham is old enough to go off on her own. I tired of my mistress. Miriam MacDonald is here on an official assignment."
She toyed with her pearls. "You're defending yourself, and rather aggressively. Why?"
An angry retort leapt to his lips, but he refused to utter it. He would keep his temper in check. But if he were to use Miriam's methods, he had to use them all. "You're too observant."
"You're so charmingly blasé, my lord," she chided. "I have only your best intere
sts at heart."
"Then you've succeeded, for your visit makes me extraordinarily happy."
"That's news. Perhaps you could make me extraordinarily happy by telling me you've found another wife."
He had found a woman to love, he thought sadly, but if Miriam learned the truth about her lover, he didn't stand a beggar's chance at winning her. What a coil he'd gotten himself into. Saddened, he said, "When I do chose a wife, I wilna draw breath before informing you."
A frown wrinkled her brow and puckered her painted lips. "You have always been far too secretive about personal matters. But this boldness, Duncan. I don't know what to make of it."
As if it were in her jurisdiction to do so. Seizing the opportunity to lighten the conversation, he said, "You could make a feather of it and put it in your cap."
The fan flew to her mouth, but didn't muffle her laughter. "Your wit grows bolder, too. But what, I wonder, do you truly think of Lady Miriam?"
From the knowing look in her eye, Duncan suspected she could provide information about Miriam MacDonald. Expectation made his blood race, but he schooled his features into blandness. "She's another of the queen's minions here on a fruitless task. Besides, she isna here at all. She's off to Baron Sinclair's."
Like a merchant trying to drive up the price of her wares, the duchess underplayed the situation. "She's beautiful and brilliant, and she has no interest in marriage."
A lie slipped easily from his lips. "Then we have one thing in common."
Seriousness smoothed out her features. She leaned forward, exposing the crests of her nipples, which she'd rouged. "She's never failed at a diplomatic task, Duncan. She struck a peace between France and England."
She'd started a war in his heart. He wondered just how much the duchess would reveal about Miriam. "I doona ken why the queen rewarded so brilliant a negotiator with a sojourn in the Border," he said and speared a leg of rabbit he didn't want. "Sounds very much like punishment to me."
Her expression turned cool. She sipped the beer. "Indeed it was. Lady Miriam was impudent. She angered the queen."
