by Arnette Lamb
His answer came when she said, "I encourage Your Majesty to create the post of sheriff of Kildalton. Further, I recommend John Hume, a protégé to the marshal of the royal household, be dispatched immediately to fill that office."
Kildalton would have a sheriff. The fight went out of Duncan. He leaned against the stone wall, shaking his head in wonder at the genius of Miriam MacDonald.
By creating the post of sheriff and recommending the notoriously honest Scotsman, Hume, to fill it, she had raised shrewdness to new heights. God, he'd underestimated her.
With a new English magistrate to interpret the law and a Scotsman to enforce it, responsibility for the troubles would be taken out of the hands of Duncan and Sinclair and put where it belonged—in the lap of the government that made the law.
He wished he could see her face. Did her eyes glitter with pride and accomplishment, or was she so accustomed to being brilliant that she took it as everyday fare?
He'd take it—every day and every night for the rest of his life. Like survival, the need to secure her love and loyalty burned like a fire in Duncan.
The Border Lord would conveniently disappear, leaving the road to her heart open for Duncan. Just this afternoon, she'd wanted him to kiss her, had welcomed his embrace. He knew, felt in his bones, that as surely as the first snowfall was on its way, Miriam would soon welcome his attentions. It was up to him to make her forget the Border Lord and nurture her affection for the man he truly was. Excitement filled him.
"On the matter of Baron Sinclair's claim regarding the fostering of the earl's heir, Malcolm—" She stopped, leaving the statement hanging in the air and Duncan hanging on her words.
Not daring to breathe, he waited. The silence of the tunnel buzzed in his ears. He leaned into the wardrobe. Fragrant velvet caressed his cheek. Foreboding knotted his gut. The fate of his precious son rested in her hands, as did peace in the Borders. Even Duncan Keir dared not disobey the edict of the queen's representative.
"Saladin," she said, sounding distracted. "Do you know what color the earl's hair is?"
"No, my lady. Don't you think it's black, like Malcolm's?"
"Merciful heavens!" she shouted. "No. No. It can't be."
Saladin said, "You look like you just saw a ghost."
Fingers of fear clutched at Duncan.
"A ghost? Nonsense," she scoffed. "Why didn't I see it before?"
"See what, my lady?"
"That men are not always what they seem. That scheming knave."
"Who?"
Yes, who? Duncan thought, his legs trembling.
"No one, Saladin. No one at all. Tell me. Has Malcolm mentioned the Border Lord?"
Her abrupt change in topic brought gooseflesh to Duncan's skin. What was that business of knavery, and when would she get back to the custody issue?
"No, my lady," Saladin answered. "But everyone else talks about the Border Lord. Just yesterday, the bootboy swore that at the last full moon the Border Lord rescued his uncle's sheep from the baron. The tanner laughed, and told the boy to go on, because everyone knows the Border Lord busies himself deflowering English virgins at the full moon."
The room fell silent. Duncan cringed. She must be thinking she isn't special, since the Border Lord seduces so many women.
"So I heard. Does Malcolm never tell tales of bravery and the like?" she asked in that quick fashion reminiscent of a barrister.
"Malcolm always tells tales. Today he was pretending to be that Norman, Thomas of Bucket, who flogged the king of England. He even ruined a whip—thrashing a mounting block."
"You know very well 'twas Thomas a Becket, the archbishop of Canterbury."
"'Twas also a very fine whip. He wasted it."
She chuckled. "Everyone doesn't appreciate weaponry as you do, Saladin."
"A man who doesn't respect his sword dies a bloody death," he recited sagely. "Why did you ask about the Border Lord? Do you believe in ghosts?"
"Of course I don't. He's a flesh and blood man, though. Not a ghost."
"You've seen him?" Saladin squeaked. "Where? When? What kind of sword does he wield? Does he have a dirk? Is it jeweled? Does he hone it himself?"
She paused for so long a time, Duncan thought she might not answer. He shifted, searching for a gap between the closed doors of the wardrobe so he could see her. But the carpenter had fitted the closure well.
"I don't know anything about his weapons," she said.
"But I'm beginning to see just how much I know about him. Tell me, has anyone ever described him?"
"They say his hair is as black as soot," began Saladin with too much melodrama. "His eyes are as dark as a moonless night. His touch can steal a woman's will." In his normal voice, the scribe added, "But their will is weak. Allah, in his infinite wisdom, said women are vessels, here to serve man and obey his every command."
"Truly?" she challenged.
"Uh. Hum," he stammered. "I believe that—it's possible that—Allah never met a lady so great as you."
"I see. He also never met Elizabeth of England. Or Zenobia of Palmyra. Or Joan of Arc. But that neither diminishes their greatness, nor erases their gifts to mankind, does it?"
"No, my lady," he said, as contrite as Malcolm when caught in a lie. "Absolutely not. The people also swear," he rushed to say, "that the Border Lord wears a tartan cape woven from the lost souls of Scotland."
"Lost souls." She seemed to ponder the words. "Did they say what colors these souls have taken on? Are they woven in green and black, or black and brown? What pattern do they form?"
"The weaver says no mortal could fashion such a cloth."
"Well someone 'fashioned' it," she said, an angry edge to her voice. "I'll wager my best foil that I can find that cape right here in Kildalton Castle."
A primitive warning rang in Duncan's head. She knew.
Nay. She couldn't. It was only her devious mind turning to speculation. She suspected, then.
Even that possibility turned his blood to ice.
Her voice drifted through the chilling fear that held him captive. "Let's get on with the report, Saladin. After supper I intend to pay the earl a visit. Hand me that old key in the top drawer there. I may need it."
"But he's in his study winding flippity-flops."
"Splendid."
A drawer slid open, then shut. "Here," said the scribe.
The information whirled in Duncan's mind. She had the key to the tunnels. He must wipe away her every doubt. But how? What proof could he offer her? How could he convince her that he wasn't the Border Lord? Especially if she had access to both his study and his private quarters?
Like the sun bursting over the horizon, the answer dawned.
Duncan Armstrong Kerr was the Border Lord. As she dressed for supper, Miriam cursed herself for not seeing the logic of it sooner. She'd been so intent on doing her job and bringing the Glenlyon Campbells to justice, she hadn't looked for subterfuge from the earl. She hadn't looked for passion either. Absurdly, her own arrogance amused her. Adjusting the bodice of her most revealing gown, she smiled. After years of settling complicated international disputes, she had thought the problems in the Borders simple, the players ordinary.
In retrospect, the earl of Kildalton was the least ordinary man she'd ever met. Behind his bumbling exterior lurked a cunning, deceitful man. The Border Lord. His overdone ineptness, his sniveling protestations of innocence—all of it had been a clever ploy to blind her to the truth.
But her eyes were open now, and by the time the fish course was served, she'd reveal him for the imposter he was. Still, when she pictured Duncan donning a disguise and wooing her in the moonlight, then laughing behind those spectacles in the light of day, she thought she might die of shame.
How could she have fallen for his deception? Because she'd been distracted, concerned about doing her job and helping the people of Kildalton. She'd continue to help the people; she had no other means of support. But when she was done, she'd gather her shattered heart and
get on with her life's work. Never again would she trust a man.
An hour later, she sat fuming in frustration at the table, for the earl had sent his apologies and ordered a tray sent to his study.
"You seem disappointed," said Alexis, a curious gleam in her eyes.
Tamping back anger, Miriam toyed with her portion of clootie dumpling by scooting the raisins and currants to the sides of the bowl. "I had a few questions to ask him."
Alexis stared at Malcolm. "There's always tomorrow, unless you haven't finished your correspondence."
She referred to Miriam's report to the queen, but spoke vaguely for the benefit of the earl's son, who was too busy devouring his dessert to pay attention.
Miriam pushed the bowl aside. Her dispute with the earl was purely a personal matter now and wouldn't change the outcome of the negotiations. "I'm quite finished with my correspondence."
"Then I shall take both of the twins to London."
"No," said Saladin.
"Nay," said Malcolm.
Saladin swallowed a mouthful of raisins and dried oranges and sent Miriam a beseeching look.
"Please let Saladin stay," begged Malcolm.
A smile of friendship passed between the boys. "You might need me," said Saladin. "Take Salvador. He wants to go to London."
"Yes," Malcolm said, puffing out his chest and revealing gravy stains on the embroidered table runner he wore as a surplice to emulate Thomas a Becket. "Salvador wants to go."
"May I stay, Lady Miriam?" said Saladin, his normally arrogant features pulled into an adjuring pout.
Before answering, she said to Salvador, "You're certain you feel well enough to travel?"
Of course I am, his imperious look seemed to say. A lock of blue-black, stick-straight hair fell over his brow. With a toss of his head, he pitched the strand back into place. "I'm well enough to face any puny female who crosses swords with me."
"We could all go," piped Malcolm. "I'd ride my pony the whole way and not ever complain… even if the fancy court ladies pinch my perky cheeks."
"Who told you the ladies would pinch your cheeks?" asked Miriam.
Squirming with pride, he said, "My papa. He said they'd call me a braw laddie—if I watch my language and mind my manners."
"I'm certain they would," said Alexis. "But would he allow you to go?"
The boy opened his mouth, but then slumped in defeat. "Nay. I guess I'd better not even ask. He'd be lonely here without me. I think Saladin and I should keep him company."
Alexis sent Miriam a questioning glance. In answer, she shrugged, troubled again at the thought of separating father and son.
Remembering the earl's statement about how unhappy Malcolm would be at Sinclair's, Miriam felt a pang of pity for the boy. The wicked Alpin would make his life miserable, and the baron didn't care enough about the girl to teach her to behave.
Miriam knew the childless Queen Anne would make the mistake of using the boy to try to bring peace between the men. Anne had made a diplomacy through fostering. Malcolm would suffer. In the wars of adults, she thought sadly, the casualties were always the children. But if the queen met Malcolm, she'd change her mind.
"I could ask your father's permission for you to go," she said. "I must speak with him tonight on another subject."
"I want to stay here," Malcolm said with conviction and went back to his dessert.
Alexis put down her fork. "I've asked Angus MacDodd to accompany us."
Alexis had shown no interest in the soldier. Stunned, Miriam said, "I'm surprised."
"'Tis only a precaution… should we encounter brigands or the like on the road."
Although Alexis ducked her head, Miriam didn't miss the flush creeping up her friend's cheeks. "He's a very pleasant fellow," she said, hoping to find out what Alexis was up to.
"I'm certain he is. And in his absence, you might consider exercising with the earl—or teaching him to fence."
Miriam almost laughed out loud at Alexis's clever maneuvering. To hide her amusement, she rose from the table. "Perhaps I will. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go see his lordship."
"Now?" squeaked Malcolm. "But you can't. His study door is locked. He's making flippity-flops. They take ever so long, you know. He won't be done for hours."
Hours! Miriam rejoiced. She had time to search his room for the Border Lord's disguise. Suppressing excitement, she said, "Then I'll go to my room and rest for a while." At Alexis's surprised expression, Miriam added, "You should teach the boys that new card game we learned."
"Of course," said Alexis, complete understanding on her face. "We'll be in the keeping room."
Miriam left the table. The earl's chamber was on the first floor, two doors down from his study.
In the hall, she met Mrs. Elliott, who carried a covered tray. The housekeeper curtsied. "Have you lost your way, my lady?"
"Oh, no." Assuming a casual air, Miriam put her hands in her pockets. Her fingers touched the key to the tunnel door. "I was just going to compliment the cook on the clootie dumpling. 'Twas delicious."
Mrs. Elliott's mouth curled in a tentative smile. "I'm sorry, my lady. She's left for the night, but I'll be sure to tell her in the morning. She'll be pleased you bothered."
Miriam looked pointedly at the tray. "For the earl?"
"Aye. He's in his study making flippity-flops for his fishing trip tomorrow."
Miriam could not wait until tomorrow to conduct the search; the castle would be filled with servants then. Alexis wouldn't be here to entertain the boys. Miriam smiled. "Then don't let me keep you. I'm sure he's famished."
"Wander around if you like," Mrs. Elliott said. "All the corridors eventually lead back to the hall. Except this one. It leads to the tunnel, but you probably aren't interested in that."
The housekeeper's invitation was a stroke of good luck. Miriam didn't intend to question. "Thank you. I think I will look around. I love castles."
Miriam started back toward the kitchen, but stopped when the housekeeper rounded the corner to the earl's study. She hurried to the tapestry that concealed the tunnel entrance. Once in the cool corridor, she paused to let her eyes adjust to the darkness. Over the racing of her heart, she considered her options. She could wait here and listen for the housekeeper's return or she could… try the door leading from the earl's chamber to the tunnel! He hadn't bothered to lock it that day she'd gone exploring.
Hoping such was his habit, she conjured an image of the passageways. Then she felt her way down the inky corridor. As she passed the first door on the left, she heard muffled voices. The earl and Mrs. Elliott. Fighting the urge to eavesdrop, Miriam moved on until she reached the alcove she sought. Bending, she peered through the keyhole to be sure the bedroom was empty. Guilt assailed her. She took a moment to reason out her covert actions. Had he been honest with her, she wouldn't be forced to pry through his personal things. He'd left her no choice. As the Border Lord, he had taken her virginity and stolen her heart; the least he owed her was the truth about his identity.
She grasped the handle and pushed open the door. Inside, she stopped when she spied the great wooden throne. A master craftsman had carved it from an enormous oak. On the high back, the carpenter had chiseled the Kerr sun and the traditional thistles of Scotland. The arms of the piece featured rampant lions so real she expected them to roar.
A sense of wonder stole over her. To better see the chair, she took a lamp and turned up the flame. She thought of the painting in the keeping room. In the portrait, Kenneth Kerr dwarfed the chair, but that was impossible, for the seat was roomy enough for two adults. Obviously, the seventh earl had let his pride influence the artisan.
As she crossed the thick floral carpet, she couldn't take her eyes off the chair. Although darkened with age and use, it still held a majestic quality. The empty dais in the keeping room seemed the perfect place for the throne chair. The earl, however, didn't seem the type of man to rule from a throne.
She tried to picture him perched on the
throne and holding forth to the people of Kildalton. But her mind conjured the image of a shadow-shrouded man clad in a dark cape and hat. The timely reminder spurred her to the wardrobe. Certain she'd find the cape there, she threw open the doors. One shelf held a dozen neatly folded Kerr tartans in varying stages of wear. Sachets of heather and pine needles had been placed among the clothing to ward off insects. The other shelves contained stockings and gloves, shirts and handkerchiefs, all monogrammed with the Kerr sun. Her pulse raced as she explored his personal articles and inhaled his now-familiar fragrance.
No cape. Not even a stitch of dark cloth.
Disappointed but not discouraged, she went to the pedestal bed, which was draped in forest green trappings and a mountainous velvet counterpane. She peered beneath the bed, but found only a pair of slippers, and a toy sailboat. Next she rummaged through a desk cluttered with papers and feathers, but found nothing to link the earl to the Border Lord.
In an iron-ribbed trunk she discovered an array of fancy breeches and waistcoats in manly shades of brown, black and biscuit. Why did he never wear them? They were stylish, with the wide lapels and roomy pockets with flaps favored by men at court.
Puzzled anew, she closed the trunk and sat on the lid. Frustration diluted her convictions. She had been so certain that the earl and the Border Lord were the same man. Now her conviction waned.
The mantel clock struck the hour of nine. Fearful of being caught, she surveyed the room one last time, turned down the lamp, then left the way she'd come. The instant she pulled the door closed and stood in the darkened tunnel, a deep voice said, "I doona think, lassie, that I care to find you sneaking out of the laird's bedchamber."
14
Panic, and a pair of iron-strong hands held Miriam immobile. When she could draw breath, she said, "Let go of me."
