by Arnette Lamb
Suddenly uneasy, she blew a secret kiss toward the back of the chair where her lover sat and made her way to her room.
Later, when she lay in bed, she thought of her one remaining task—telling the earl of Kildalton he better prepare himself to surrender his son to Baron Sinclair.
The next morning she sat in the same chair her lover had occupied the previous night. The earl sat across from her, the first draft of the treaty of Kildalton held up to his nose.
As he read, she absently rubbed her hands over the arms of the chair and counted her blessings. With Alexis and Salvador on their way to London, and the peace a foregone conclusion, Miriam could get on with her future. She took comfort in pleasant thoughts of the Border Lord, for in a moment the earl would read the final stipulation.
How would he react?
He tossed the parchment aside and drilled her with a look of such contempt, she shrank back in the chair. Behind the spectacles, his green eyes blazed hatred.
Good Lord, she hadn't thought Duncan Kerr capable of so much anger.
"This is a bloody farce, Miriam. You expect me to give up my son to keep Sinclair happy?"
Prepared for opposition, she said, "You have no choice. By witnessing the codicil to your wife's will, you indirectly agreed to her wishes. 'Tis not my doing, Duncan, but a point of law."
He folded his arms over his chest and leaned back in the chair. "How long have you known about this point of law?"
His chilly tone and ice cold stare unnerved her. She looked away. " 'Tis an old law and common knowledge. It dates back to the twelfth century and the duke of Exeter and Prince Hal of Monmouth."
In a silky whisper, he said, "You misunderstand, Miriam. When precisely did you apply this law to me and Malcolm?"
A specific answer would enrage him even more. Unable to look at him, she said, "Does it matter?"
"I can see it doesn't to you. You've probably known for weeks that you would take my son. You've accepted my hospitality, my—" He stopped and took a deep breath, as if trying to quell his anger.
"I did not make the law."
"I did not give my agreement. For God's sake, my wife was dying of complications from the birth. I merely signed the damned paper to ease her passing."
She felt his pain, his frustration, but could do nothing to alleviate it. "I'm sorry, but legally, you acceded. I promise you, the courts will see it that way. English law is very specific in domestic matters. I believe the queen will enforce it. I've asked her not to, but I fear she won't heed me in this."
He smiled and shifted in the chair, propping his chin on his palm. "English law, you say?"
Spoken with sly emphasis, the question was meant as a challenge. "I know what you're thinking, Duncan, that English law does not apply to a Scotsman. 'Tis not so. The Act of Union changed all that, regardless of what the Highland clans think. Scotland and England adhere to the same legal system now."
"Now is the key word. Malcolm was born on the last day of April in seventeen hundred and seven. In the event your ciphering skills fall short of your perfect memory, allow me to subtract it for you. My son is one day older than the Act of Union. Therefore, he is a Scottish citizen, and immune to the ancient English law which governs the fostering of noble heirs. He will stay with me."
Taken aback by his deduction, Miriam sat silent. The earl of Kildalton had presented her with the kind of legal abstract that was her forte. Challenges to the law paraded through her mind, but none involved a Scottish child born before the Act of Union. Still, hope infused her. A clever barrister could argue the case and win.
"Have you nothing to say?"
She thought of her letter to the queen and considered how stubborn Anne could be. Hard evidence might sway the queen. "Have you proof?"
"Aye," he growled, rising from the chair and snatching a book. "The family Bible. Unless you mistrust the clergyman who made the entry and baptized my son."
Miriam believed him. "I wish you had told me sooner."
"I would have if I'd known what villainy you'd planned for my son." He handed her the Bible. "I wish I'd never laid eyes on you," he said much too cordially. "I'm going fishing."
Stung by his words, she watched him snatch up his creel and stroll toward the door, intentionally stepping on the document that she had spent weeks composing and Saladin had spent hours illuminating. She had done her best to be fair. Spitefully, she said, "A perfect decision under the circumstances, my lord. Enjoy yourself."
Without a reply he walked out and slammed the door. Miriam stayed where she was, her mind sifting through centuries of precedents to English law, her fingers clutching the Kerr Bible. There had to be a way to challenge the queen's obligation to send Malcolm away.
A possible solution came. Putting the book aside, she jumped from the chair and sought paper and quill from the earl's desk. Just as she sealed the letter and tucked it in her pocket, the door opened and Mrs. Elliott walked inside, a tray in her hands.
Speaking to the back of the chair facing Miriam, the housekeeper said, "I thought you and Lady Miriam would care for a pitcher of cider, my lord."
"The earl's gone fishing, Mrs. Elliott."
The housekeeper's gaze grew frantic, darting everywhere. "But he can't be gone. The baron's coming—" She dropped the tray. The loud crack of crockery smashing on the floor muffled the sound of her retreating footsteps.
Wrapped in a heavy tartan, Duncan leaned against the trunk of a beech and looked up. One golden leaf clung stubbornly to the tree. A stiff, chilly breeze rattled through the bare limbs, plucked up the lone leaf and carried it a few feet before dropping it in the slow moving water of the North Tyne.
Kildalton and the Cheviot Hills lay behind him, two hours' ride to the north; to the south lay Hadrian's Wall and Sinclair land. For centuries the property in between had been English, but now it belonged to Malcolm. By bequeathing the land to her son, Roxanne had effectively moved the English border south and deeded half of Northumberland to the heir of a Scottish earl.
Duncan chuckled, picturing the dead Scottish kings and Kenneth Kerr laughing down at him and jabbing each other in the ribs, for a shy English girl had accomplished what all their war machines and fancied-up ambassadors couldn't.
Ambassadors. He thought of Miriam. Hatred and joy ripped at his gut. He picked up a rock and threw it into the river. Water splashed the wig and spectacles which lay on a blanket near his feet. He despised Miriam, he loved her. He had expected the English crown to take back this land; he'd never considered it his. Were it not for the people and the hardships they endured at the hands of Sinclair, Duncan would've turned his back on this patch of soil years ago. He hadn't expected the queen to send a thief in the guise of a red-haired Highland lassie. He hadn't even considered that she'd trade him miles of peat moorland in exchange for a brown-eyed laddie who loved all things Scottish, except his name.
A rotten bargain. A father's nightmare.
His mind whirled with alternatives. He could take Malcolm and flee to France as many Scots before him had. No. Thanks to Miriam, he couldn't go there; since the signing of the Treaty of Utrecht, the French had become allies of the English. Was there no end to her influence?
He could go to Italy or Spain. He could go to London and personally petition the queen. He could follow his father's example and kill his English neighbor.
Faced with so many unacceptable options, Duncan let his mood deteriorate from melancholy to miserable. A decisive laird would take control of the situation. His father would have thrown Miriam in the dungeon and used her as a bargaining tool. Duncan would find another way to deal with her. Only one hard and fast decision shone in the gloom his life had become: the Border Lord would disappear.
He took a small, perverse pleasure in denying Miriam her lover. But when he thought of Miriam MacDonald, ambivalence plagued him. How could he have fallen in love with the one woman who could destroy him? How could she, of all people, have found his Achilles heel? Had the massacre at Glencoe l
eft her so heartless that she could devastate other families and not suffer a pinch of remorse?
To think he'd pitied her. Praised her. Foolish, foolish man.
The sound and vibrations of hoofbeats drew Duncan from his black mood. He got to his feet and looked toward the Cheviot Hills. Snow clouds obscured the peaks. Icy wind buffeted him. A lone rider ran before the storm.
Minutes later, a soldier wearing a Kerr plaid jumped from his lathered mount. Breathless, he said, "Come quick, my lord. Baron Sinclair's at Kildalton."
15
Letter to Alexis in hand, Miriam went in search of the acting captain of the guard. She located him across the yard near the smithy, where he was deep in conversation with a very agitated Mrs. Elliott. Arms akimbo, her face tight with strain, the housekeeper argued vehemently, but the pounding of hammer on anvil prevented Miriam from hearing what the woman said.
From the wide black stripe in his red tartan, Miriam recognized the soldier as a Lindsay, one of the clans that swore allegiance to the Kerr family. She had often seen Alexander Lindsay in the old tilt yard overseeing archery practice.
Now he looked down at Mrs. Elliott who spoke emphatically and pointed to the clansmen manning the walls. With unmistakable finality, Mr. Lindsay shook his head no. The housekeeper threw up her arms and stormed off.
Miriam took her place. After haggling with the stubborn Mr. Lindsay for twenty minutes, Miriam finally persuaded him, on threat of imprisonment, to dispatch a rider to intercept Alexis and deliver Miriam's revised letter to the queen requesting more time. Meanwhile, Alexis would find a barrister to review the claim exempting Malcolm from the Act of Union.
As she crossed the castle yard, Miriam noticed an unusual amount of activity. From the inner bailey, a flock of sheep poured through the portcullis. Behind the bleating animals came the sheepdog, yapping incessantly and the shepherd, waving his staff. The battlements and access stairs were thick with soldiers. Like a string of ants moving crumbs, they carried crossbows and pikes. Women crowded around the well, filling earthenware pots and leather bags.
When Malcolm and Saladin emerged from the smithy, each carrying an armload of crossbow quarrels, Miriam grew alarmed. "Are we under attack?" she asked.
Malcolm, dressed in a toga and a crown of gold-tinged rowan leaves, hefted his cargo, almost spilling the arrows. "There's riders coming from Sinclair. We must to arms!"
Saladin rolled his eyes. "Malcolm, it's only a carriage and two outriders. Even Mrs. Elliott thinks all this preparation is silly."
"I'm Caesar today," he corrected. "Look! It's the baron's own carriage. What if he brings Alpin?" His face contorted in fear. "I'm taking cover." Quarrels rattling in his arms, he dashed toward the steps leading up the wall, nearly tripping on his toga.
As stoic as ever, Saladin said, "Salaam, my lady."
Perplexed at the situation, Miriam returned his greeting, but focused her attention on the scurrying soldiers and noisy livestock filling the yard. "You'd think an army was coming. The baron wouldn't dare attack Kildalton."
The scribe jerked his head toward the wall. "These stupid infidels think he will."
Although the baron had seemed amenable to peace, Miriam had learned long ago not to take success for granted until the treaty was signed by both parties. "With only two outriders? That's preposterous."
Saladin shrugged. "Even so, I'd better do as Mr. Lindsay said and take these to the guards."
Miriam watched him go, his yellow tunic and red boots easily visible in a sea of tartan-clad soldiers. His jewel-hilted scimitar slapped against his thigh, drawing admiring glances from the men who'd seen him wield the dangerous blade and curious stares from those who hadn't.
A cool wind sailed through the yard, making her shiver. She looked up and saw a bank of snow clouds in the northern sky. Fear crawled up her spine. Winter loomed too close. She thought of her lover and the warmth of his arms, the heated passion he kindled into flame. She remembered his prophetic words about how she ran from her fears. The earl, too, had encouraged her and offered comfort. How lucky she was to have two such caring men in her life. Only now the earl hated her.
She went to fetch her cloak. She returned just as a team of four white horses pulling Baron Sinclair's high-wheeled, gilt-trimmed carriage rolled into the yard.
Again, she wondered how he afforded so costly an equipage. Considering the poor state of his household, his coin would be better spent on dowries for his eligible female relations and careers for the males. She'd seen worse spendthrifts, although none of those men and women had had so many responsibilities and dependents as the baron. With the queen's help, his financial burden would be considerably lighter.
Pulling her cloak snug about her and putting on a smile, she joined Mrs. Elliott who stood ready to greet their unexpected and seemingly unwelcome guest. Saladin and a very quiet Malcolm waited nearby.
She scrutinized the outriders, trying to match these men with the brigands the earl had described. The one on the left was a stick of man with a tooth missing in front. The other man was indeed average in all things, but did his ragged velvet cap hide a balding pate? Had those men spent time in Newgate? Why hadn't she seen them at Sinclair's?
She leaned close to Saladin and whispered, "Watch me. When I nod, you go find Mary Elizabeth's mother."
He whispered back, "I know where she is."
"Good. Bring her close enough to look at those two men on horseback. Ask her if she's seen them before. Keep her calm."
Miriam returned to her place beside Mrs. Elliott. Saladin stared straight ahead, his eyes sharply scouring the riders.
At the driver's hearty "whoa," Miriam put on a smile. In fancy but mended livery, the driver jumped from the seat and hurried to open the door. No sooner had he pulled down the steps than Aubrey Townsend, Baron Sinclair began to emerge. The endeavor took the better part of a minute and drew the attention of everyone in the castle yard, for when he unfolded himself from the conveyance, he stood an impressive six feet ten inches tall.
Fearful children squealed and dashed for the safety of their mothers' skirts; the soldiers hitched up their kilts and exchanged nervous glances. Malcolm gulped and moved closer to Saladin.
Mrs. Elliott winked and softly said, "Don't fret, O Great Caesar. He's naught but a selfish man with two centurions. You have legions at your command."
Hope flickered in his eyes, but dimmed when the baron strolled toward them.
Miriam carefully regarded the guest, who reminded her of a hawker she'd once seen at Fenchurch Fair. On stilts, the man had towered above the throng.
Dressed in a waistcoat and knee breeches of parrot green brocade, the baron cut a fashionable, if emaciated figure. He wore white stockings with padding at the calves, white satin shoes with gold buckles, and a plumed hat over a powdered bag wig. Every detail of his appearance, from the high crown of the hat to the scroll-like heels of his shoes, had been carefully planned to accentuate his extraordinary height.
The short of it was, he enjoyed being tall.
With fingers as long as dinner knives, he rearranged his lace-ruffled cuffs and scanned the yard. When he spotted Malcolm and Saladin, he jerked his neck like an inquisitive rooster.
"Have I interrupted a costume ball?" he said, eyeing their unusual clothing, his gaze lingering on Saladin's blade.
Malcolm didn't move so much as an eyelash. Saladin spread his legs and folded his arms over his chest. Like Miriam, the lad had seen too much of the world and too many of its oddities to fall prey to the baron's intimidation. He glanced at Miriam. She nodded.
Expecting no reply from either boy, Sinclair pulled his thin lips into a smile.
Saladin walked casually away.
Not bothering to acknowledge Mrs. Elliott, the baron looked down from his great height and said, "You look radiant, my dear Miriam, even in this rustic setting."
During her stay at his home, Miriam had listened to hundreds of barbed insults on everything from the changing weather to t
he dances at court. Whatever the baron couldn't control, he criticized.
Disappointed that he had brought his poor manners with him, she glanced pointedly at the towers of Kildalton. "Rustic, my lord? 'Tis an odd word for so noble a structure, as I was just telling Mrs. Elliott. And I believe we agreed that you would address me as Lady Miriam."
His knees locked, but his smile remained. "You had me agreeing to any number of things, now that I think of it." He glanced at the battlements and milling soldiers, and smirked as if pleased that his presence warranted such preparations. "Where is Duncan? Manning a pot of boiling oil?"
Considering the earl's mood when he departed, Miriam felt relief at his absence. The baron's snide remark irritated her, but as a guest in the earl's household, she couldn't challenge another guest.
She deferred to Mrs. Elliott, who curtsied and said, "He's gone fishing, my lord. May I give him a message?"
The baron relaxed, his legs settling into a noticeable bow and his arms dangling at his sides. "Fishing? How creative of Duncan. A pity I've missed him. But I actually came to see Lady Miriam, and my dear grandson, Malcolm, of course. How are you, boy?"
Malcolm gasped. "I am Caesar. I don't have to answer you and I can order you out of my castle if I choose."
The baron winked at Miriam. "Choose not, O Great Caesar. I am your servant." Then he turned toward the carriage and snapped his fingers. "Alpin… come out, girl," he crooned, as if she were a shy animal he was trying to snare.
Malcolm began tying knots in his toga sash.
When the girl appeared in the door of the carriage, Miriam blinked in surprise. The six-year-old Alpin might pull pranks and terrorize her many siblings, but dressed as she was in a frilly concoction of pink satin decorated with red rosettes, she looked the perfect angel. Her mane of auburn curls had been ironed and braided into thick coils and wound tightly over her ears.
"Come, come, girl," coaxed the baron, motioning with his hand. "Show Malcolm what you have for him."
