Border Lord (36 page)

Hell and damnation! She'd maneuvered him into a corner. He hadn't expected direct questions on exact topics. Why couldn't she be as predictable as other women? The answer lifted his spirits. "I used lampblack." He touched his side whiskers. "Here." He touched his eyebrows. "And here."

She stared at the arm of his chair. "How clever of you."

He allowed himself one stupid question. "Are you angry?"

"Angry? Of course not." She stood up and made a production of straightening her skirts. "That would suggest I believe you."

Weary of the charade and fearful of losing her, he rushed to her side and pulled her into his arms. "If my words wilna convince you, Miriam. This will."

The instant his lips touched hers, he saw the folly in his plan. He should have wooed her slowly and built upon the friendship they'd begun. Instead he'd come on like a lusty buck eager for his first doe. But recriminations receded, became lost in the feel of her mouth opening beneath his and the gentle way she leaned into his chest. His Miriam, a prize beyond value, a woman to cherish.

Cherish her, he did. He kissed her with finesse, knowing that when he twirled his tongue with hers, she always sighed, then took the lead. Caught up in the kiss and anticipating the forgiveness he knew would follow, Duncan gloried in the embrace, pressing her closer.

Her soft sigh urged him on and confirmed what he knew in his heart—she loved him. An instant later she became the aggressor, wrapping her arms around him and slanting her lips across his to achieve a greater intimacy. Eager too, he caressed her breasts until he grew frustrated with the barriers between them. He reached into her bodice, and rather than the soft swelling mound he expected, he encountered fabric.

Confused, he pulled back and opened his eyes. Nestled between her breasts lay the black scarf of the Border Lord.

She stiffened, and her eyes fluttered open. The dreamy passion faded, replaced by a cold hard stare. In a soft, determined whisper, she said, "You don't kiss the same as the Border Lord. And he's taller than you."

"I had the cobbler build up my bootheels."

She whirled, yanked open the door and ran out, slamming it in his face.

"Miriam!" he bellowed. "Come back here!"

He found her at the base of the stairs, her fingers clutching the handrail, her charming smile bestowed on Malcolm, who wore a green bonnet with a pheasant feather.

She curtsied deeply. "Thank you, Robin of the Hood."

Malcolm kissed her hand. "I swear by my trusty bow, I'll not rest until the food thief is caught and… and hanged from the castle wall."

"I feel ever so safe, Robin."

"Papa." The boy brandished a quiver and short bow. "Maid Miriam said you wanted to join my band of merry men. We'll find out who's raiding the pantry."

She started up the stairs, her hair swaying, the skirt rustling. Over her shoulder, she said, "Of course, he wants to join your band. Wouldn't he make a fine Little John?"

"Will you, Papa?"

"Aye, as soon as I've finished my conversation with Maid Miriam."

At the landing, she stopped. "Oh, but I wouldn't think of taking up any more of your time."

Frustrated, and uncertain of his next move, Duncan matched her civility. "Until supper, then."

She didn't answer, but Malcolm grumbled, "If we have any."

That night Miriam locked her door, stayed in her room, and requested a dinner tray. When Mrs. Elliott brought it, she smiled apologetically. "The cook roasted a duckling with carrots and turnips, but it's nowhere to be found. So I brought you cheese and scones, and cabbage pudding. There's a full pitcher of milk."

The housekeeper had helped Duncan carry out his charade. That night in the tunnel, she'd pretended to speak to him. "Thank you," said Miriam. "This will be fine. I take it the thief hasn't been found."

Mrs. Elliott surveyed the room. Seeing Miriam's silk dress draped over the foot of the bed, she picked up the gown and hung it in the wardrobe. "Nay, and the oddest thing happened today. The stableman found pastry crumbs in the cage with that toothless badger you brought from Sinclair Manor."

Staring at the bow tied at the back of the housekeeper's apron, Miriam wondered if the woman had seen her in the arms of the Border Lord that time in the tunnel? Had she heard their cries of passion? The possibility embarrassed Miriam, but she couldn't blame Mrs. Elliott for being loyal to her master. "The earl did tell the stableman to look after Alpin's animals."

"Aye, but the man ain't one to be feeding pastries to a badger." She closed the wardrobe doors, but they swung open again. "More like he'd eat the pies himself." Grunting, she closed the doors again.

"You're wasting your time," Miriam said. "The latch is broken."

"Oh, aye," she said, suddenly nervous. She turned toward Miriam but stared at the carpet. "Do you suppose the Moorish lad could have… ?"

The implication was clear, and like a mother hen protecting her chick, Miriam leaped from the bed. "Saladin is his name, and his religion forbids him to eat meat."

The housekeeper looked up, her brown eyes narrow with indignation. "Pardon me, my lady," she said without a smidgen of remorse. "I know the lad's eating habits. I'm the one who sends the potboy after quinces and nuts and instructs the cook to prepare his soup without meat. I only wondered if Saladin had a devotion for the crippled creatures. He does take special care of your hound."

Abashed but still distrustful of the woman, Miriam softened her tone. "Thank you for seeing after his diet. Others, even in his own native land, have not been so kind toward Saladin. I assure you, he is no thief. His religion forbids that, too."

Mrs. Elliott glanced about the room and Miriam noticed tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry, my lady, for… for…"

"For tricking me?"

Brackets of misery framed her mouth. "Aye."

Harboring a grudge against a servant was unfair. "I forgive you, Mrs. Elliott, but don't ask me to forgive your master. Good night."

"Good night, my lady."

The housekeeper left. Miriam locked herself in and sat down to eat. Expecting Duncan to knock on the door at any moment and demand entry so he could practice his wily ways, she jumped at every pop of the fire and rehearsed a dozen rebukes. She had just finished off the milk when the knock came.

But it wasn't Duncan with wooing on his mind. It was Saladin with Verbatim on a leash. Calling herself a fool for feeling disappointment, she said good night to Saladin and locked the door after him.

She brushed her hair, brushed Verbatim, then picked up a book of sonnets. The romantic verses depressed her even more than the duplicity of her lover. Disgusted with herself and the muddle she'd made of her perfectly decent and respectable life, she blew out the candle, drew the curtains around the bed, and tried to sleep.

Like scenes from a tragic novel, every encounter with Duncan Keir stood out vividly in her mind. She saw him as the bumbling earl, feigning innocence, deploring violence, and befriending her all the while. She saw herself as the dutiful diplomat, believing him, trusting him, while trying to make a peace. He'd lulled her into naiveté, and when her defenses were down, he'd come to her in the night and stolen her heart. Falling in love was her mistake. She didn't blame him for taking what she so freely gave. What she couldn't reckon was the theft of her pride.

She saw him laughing at her behind the spectacles, and tried to picture herself as he must surely see her: a woman too long on the shelf, with only a perfect memory and a collection of diplomatic successes to her name. She could supply favorable references from the crowned heads of Europe, but they wouldn't buy the respect or earn the honesty of the man she had foolishly come to love.

Oh, what an oddity he must think her. Thank goodness, Alexis hadn't been here to see Miriam's humiliation. Feeling miserable, she surrendered to the tears and cried herself to sleep.

Duncan stood in the drafty tunnel and shivered with cold. He cupped his hands to his mouth and blew on his fingers to warm them. A dozen times today, he'd raced up the stairs, determined to beat down her door and demand her forgiveness. A dozen more times, he'd dragged himself upstairs and dawdled at her door, his mind awhirl with spineless entreaties. Should he play the Border Lord and force her? Should he become the bumbling earl and beg? Which man was he?

He didn't know anymore.

He'd spent so much time portraying the kind of man he thought he should be that he'd lost track of himself. Only one thing was certain: he loved Miriam MacDonald with his heart and soul. And by God, he would keep her.

He'd left orders with Mrs. Elliott that he was unavailable to everyone, even the queen herself. He intended to stay in this room with Miriam until she forgave him.

Now determined, he slid open the panel, held her clothes aside, and stepped through the wardrobe. A cold, canine nose touched his hand. He jumped and whacked his elbow on the wardrobe door. Stifling a curse, he patted the dog until his heartbeat had slowed and the pain receded. Then he tiptoed to the bed, stripped off his clothes, and climbed in beside her.

She stirred, but didn't wake. Taking advantage of her movement, he tunneled an arm beneath her and pulled her against his chest. She cuddled against him, and he breathed in the smell of her perfume, letting her freshness intoxicate his senses as easily as the woman besotted his mind.

In repose, she felt fragile and yielding, a world away from the resilient, determined diplomat. Which man did she want? She'd given herself to the Border Lord, but she'd befriended the gentle earl? Companion or lover, which role should he play?

Miriam came awake and stiffened beside Duncan. His arms circled her in a hold she couldn't break.

"What are you doing here?"

Against her hair, he said, "I wilna justify so stupid a question, lass. You know exactly why I'm here."

"I will not forgive you."

"Aye, I trow you will."

"Don't think you can woo me with your deceitful Scottish words. I've heard enough to last a lifetime."

"That, sweetheart, is precisely the reason I'm here. To discuss the rest of your life."

She clutched his upper arms and gasped. "Sweet heaven, you're naked!"

He chuckled at her outrage. The rush of her breath against his neck and the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest reminded him vividly of their past embraces. "You've seen me naked before—a number of times as I recall."

"That's a lie. You only slither into my life in the dark of night."

"Your perfect memory has deserted you, love. You looked under my tartan once when I was scuffling with Malcolm. Doona deny it."

"'Twas an accident, and not at all like…"

He stroked her arm. Her skin felt satin smooth beneath his roughened palms. "Like what?"

"Like the other times," she blurted. "And get out of my bed this instant or I'll order Verbatim to chew off your head."

Patience, he told himself. "She won't hurt me. You told her I was a friend, remember? She knows who I am."

At length, she said, "You cur!"

"Aye, Keir, the name of the man you love."

Her fingernails started a slow rake down his arm. Wincing, he grasped her wrists, rolled her onto her back, then settled atop her. "Well have none of that."

"We'll have nothing else, either." She moved against him, trying to break his hold. "Get off me!"

Passion spiraled through him and flooded his loins with need. He tried to stifle a groan, but failed. Instinctively, his hips rocked against her.

"Oh, Lord, you're—you're…"

"Very excited by you."

"I don't want you excited. I don't want you at all. You're a liar."

Duncan suppressed his physical needs. "I did lie, Miriam, but I believed I had no choice. I thought you were like the others the queen had sent, but when I realized I couldn't buy your favor with money, I…" The words died on his lips.

"You seduced me."

Frustrated at his inadequacy to explain himself, Duncan blurted, "I didna intend to actually seduce you."

"Ha! You've tripped yourself up. I knew you didn't really want me."

Softly, he said, "I wanted you enough to put my life and my son's future in your hands. I love you. Please forgive me."

The honesty in his voice warmed Miriam like brandy on a cold night. Weakness and love assailed her, but she was too heartsore to believe him. "Easy words for you to say, Duncan. Or are you Ian tonight?"

He jerked away from her. The mattress shifted as he moved to the edge of the bed. She'd become so accustomed to their visits in the dark that she could almost see his every movement.

His breath came out in an impatient huff. "I don't know who I am, and that's the sad truth of it."

The tangible pull of his frustration reached out to her. "What do you mean?"

He pulled back the bedcurtain and lit the candle on the nightstand. A soft yellow glow illuminated his golden hair and exposed his inner struggle. Shoulders slumped, he looked troubled to his soul, and nothing like the dark lover she had lain with so often.

She bit her lip to keep from saying the words he wanted to hear. Now was the time to listen.

"I thought," he began in a rough whisper, "that by reviving the Border Lord I could gain justice for my people without living up to the reputation of my father."

So noble a sentiment absolved him, didn't it? She wasn't sure; there was too much unsaid between them. "What of the bumbling earl who makes the finest lures in Scotland?"