Border Lord (9 page)

He stiffened and dragged his mouth from hers. Into the silence of the night burst the labored rasp of his breathing. Or was it hers? She opened her eyes, only to see him slide from her line of vision. Weakness drenched her bones. The night wind chilled her skin.

With a muffled curse, he snatched up the hat and jammed it on his head. In a strained voice, thick with the burr of Scotland, he said, "That's a fair bit of socializing."

"From you, too."

He turned to go.

The garden door swung open. He stood in the shadow of the wall, the hat pulled low over his brow, his gloved hand curled around the aged wooden portal. She felt compelled to utter some meaningful, poignant phrase that he would carry with him, that would imprint on his heart the memory of a woman who'd never forget him.

With heartbreaking honesty she realized that outside the rhetoric of diplomacy she had no talent for the romantic. The knowledge saddened her. "Will I see you again?" she asked.

Without turning back, he said, "You haven't seen me the first time, yet."

"How will I know you? 'Tis so dark I don't know what you look like."

"You'll know me. You know my terms: No questions about the feud. Have you the courage and the time to meet them?"

Suddenly time became a commodity she possessed in abundance. Information was what she lacked. Gleaning it was her forte. Again she reached out to him. "Oh, but I do have the time. I'm thinking of wintering here."

He lifted his head. The murky moonlight wreathed his hat in a silvery patina. "Saint Ninian help us, then."

In a swirl of inky shadows, he moved through the gate. His resigned prayer hung in her mind and mingled with the sweet remembrance of his embrace.

Her arm fell to her side. A cold canine nose nudged her palm. "Well, you certainly took a liking to him."

Verbatim sat back on her haunches and extended a paw.

As Miriam made her way back to her chamber, she couldn't dispel the image of the dark, intriguing stranger. As she undressed in the privacy of her room, she could still feel his eyes on her, still remembered the gentle touch of his hands, relived again and again the soft insistence of his lips. Even as she slipped beneath covers, she felt the comfort of his embrace. And as she closed her eyes, the echo of his hearty laughter and the memory of his bold seduction made a mockery of her attempts at sleep.

Gleaning information from the Border Lord would be difficult, for he would try to seduce her in return. Wintering in the Borders suddenly represented a challenge she welcomed. Smiling, Miriam drifted at last to sleep.

Cursing, Duncan stomped into the stables. Horses nickered and poked their heads out of the stalls. Even the greeting of his favorite mount failed to deter him on his quest for sanctuary.

He passed the tack room, rife with the aroma of old leather and new manure. He stopped at the base of a darkened stairway.

As a child he'd walked this route countless times, some days with pride swelling his chest and a Roman treasure in his hands. Other days he'd come with tears in his eyes and welts on his legs.

He'd come for reassurance on the night Malcolm was born. He'd come for solace on the day Roxanne had died. Tonight he came because Miriam disturbed his soul.

He grasped the wooden railing and bounded up the narrow steps two at a time. A bar of light streamed beneath the door. With the slightest effort, Duncan pushed it open.

Angus MacDodd sat at a desk, a bone-handled knife and whetstone in his hands. The spacious room served as both his private quarters and armory. Crossbows and pikes filled one long wall; shields bearing the Kerr sun and breastplates bearing the signature dents and scrapes of battle lined the other. Interspersed with the hoard of Kildalton's defense were the ancient treasures unearthed by an inquisitive lad. Pitted Roman lances, helmets shorn of their brushy plumes, and a tub of broken pottery served as a fitting foil for the devices of modern warfare.

Angus put the tools aside and helped Duncan with his cape, "I take it she's more interesting than a gouty minor lord with an empty purse and a mind to match." He folded the garment and laid it in a trunk.

Duncan swept off his hat and raked the scarf from his head. "Interesting?" He handed the clothing to Angus, who added them to the box. "She has a mind and a purpose to match Marcus Brutus."

Angus grimaced, "I was hoping for the gentle disposition of a Claudius."

Duncan peeled off his gloves, tossed them in with the rest of his disguise. He slammed the trunk. "She could devour him with a 'how do you do.'"

Angus went back to the chair, the light shimmering in his red hair and beard, which were generously salted with gray. Even so, Duncan was reminded of another redhead.

He must have scowled, for Angus said, "I take it she wasn't afraid of the Border Lord."

"Afraid?" Duncan began to pace the room that had been a haven for as long as he could remember. "I woefully underestimated her, Angus."

A smile and a knowing glint in merry brown eyes transformed a battle-hardened soldier into a trusted friend. "She's just a woman, lad."

Visions soared in Duncan's mind. "Aye," he growled. "So was Boadicea, but she ran the Romans out of London. Our little diplomat has a tricky enough tongue and ample charms to send a man chasing after his own tail. I doona wonder now why she's never married. 'Tis as plain as the battered nose on the face of an Irishman."

Angus put his foot on an empty chair and sent it sliding toward Duncan. "You should be happy she's not got marriage on her mind. Sit down."

Duncan pulled the chair between his legs and sat with his arms resting over the back. The position eased the lingering ache in his groin. "It's what she does have on her mind that worries me. She's also cunning enough to make a man regret he'd ever set eyes on her."

"You don't mean she found you out?"

"Nay. She's just wily."

"A challenge, then? An available challenge?"

The understatement made Duncan smile.

"Good," Angus declared. "You need that. You spend too much of your life in the role of guardian. You deserve a comely diversion now and then. Nothing like a redhead to put a skip in a man's step."

Anger subsided, leaving in its wake a determination that brought both excitement and caution to Duncan's soul. "Oh, aye. I need a comely diversion like I need another English neighbor."

"She's still a Scot, and a MacDonald to boot. Is she from Skye?"

Duncan wrung his hands. "I was too busy kissing her to ask."

"So, the Border Lord has become a cavalier? Here." Angus pitched Duncan a towel. "You've lampblack smeared on your forehead."

"Have I?" A genuine smile lightened Duncan's spirits. As he wiped the soot from his face, he related most of the details of the interlude, omitting her intimate touch and the pleasurable, erotic journey he'd made of it. The parting kiss was another matter altogether. Given time, he'd understand the tender feelings she inspired, but he'd do his soul-searching in private.

"What will the Border Lord do next?" asked Angus.

"I don't know." Duncan held up his hand. "I'm a weary, confused man with too much on his plate and no taste for the meal."

"Then have a drink."

Angus filled a tankard and passed it to Duncan. The yeasty ale flowed over his tongue and mingled with the taste of Miriam MacDonald. Heat rushed through him, and he gulped down the contents of the mug, trying to wash away the flavor of a woman he couldn't have.

After downing his own ale, Angus said, "So, the bumbling earl has his work cut out for him, eh? What will
he
do next?"

"Curse himself for donning those ridiculous spectacles."

"You look rather fetching in the disguise. Everyone says so. The people of Kildalton haven't felt closer to their laird or more entertained since your grandfather captured the Armstrong heiress and held her for ransom. He was a fine laird, much like you."

Pride warmed Duncan. "You're forgetting that my grand-father's attempt at blackmail went for naught when his captive grew big with his child."

Angus tucked his thumbs into the wide leather belt that separated a barrel-thick chest and massive arms from trunklike legs. "I was a lad at the time, but my Da said the old earl bragged about what a fine breeder she was." Fondness softened a voice perfectly suited to barking orders and upbraiding laggardly soldiers. "Then your grandsire doubled the ransom. Lord, he was a braw one, the old earl was."

"He'd never pack up his wits, don spectacles, and give a woman the upper hand."

"Don't take it to heart, laddie." Angus leaned forward, his callused index finger extended. "'Tis only a temporary setback. She surprised you, nothing more. You'll retaliate. You always do. But can you swear that you don't enjoy the masquerade?"

"At this moment, I'm sorry I locked myself into the role of bumbling earl. Malcolm's getting out of hand. Mrs. Elliott bursts into laughter every time my name is mentioned. Oh, she covers it by pretending to sneeze, but it's embarrassing all the same. The only person who doesna seem entertained by it all is Lady Miriam."

"You want to bed her."

Passion rose again in Duncan. "Who wouldn't? Have you seen her?"

"Aye, she's a bonnie one, and smart, you say?"

"Miriam MacDonald could have talked Caesar out of Rome."

Placing his palms on his cheeks, Angus stroked his thick beard into a point at his chin. "You've a task ahead of you, my lord, what with Sinclair's men pouring across the Border like Crusaders into the Holy Land."

Everyday problems crashed in on Duncan. Guarding the safety of his people was a constant task, but a more immediate concern blazed in his mind. "I've got to get rid of Miriam MacDonald," he said. "Before Sinclair does his worst."

Angus reached out and clutched Duncan's hand. "Do you truly believe he'll try to take away your son?"

"Oh, aye," said Duncan, fury rising like bile. "He'd resurrect Malcolm's mother if he thought he could turn a profit by it. The presence of our bonnie diplomat may just inspire him to new depths of deviltry. I'm afraid that like all the other emissaries of the queen, Miriam will believe the bastard." Duncan's stomach sank, for he didn't like the notion that Miriam MacDonald might be unfair.

Angus slapped his hand over his heart. "Baron Sin will never take Malcolm."

Duncan sighed. "What if Miriam sees it differently?"

"I learned a few things about her today that might help our cause," said Angus.

Hope chased away Duncan's misgivings. "Tell me."

Angus refilled their mugs. "According to Lady Alexis, they've never set eyes on Sinclair. They don't know the particulars about the strife between you two. Nor do they know of the relationship."

Relief mingled with satisfaction. Duncan had suspected she knew little about the problems here. "Lady Alexis told you all that?"

"Give an old man some credit, lad." He leaned back in the chair, his eyes glittering with manly pride. "She's tall, you know, and carries herself with dignity, same as her father did." Angus made the sign of the cross. "God rest his pure Stewart soul. I merely asked her if it bothered her to stand so close to a fellow of Sinclair's stature."

"By God, you baited her well. He's a giant." Duncan slapped his thigh. "What did she say?"

Chuckling, Angus said, "She looked down that pretty nose at me and said a well-bred and intelligent woman didn't judge a man by his size or his lack of it. Why, if I hadn't been fishing for information about Sinclair, I'd've thought she was referring to me. Stump that I am."

"Sounds as if she was flirting with you." Duncan pictured the stately Alexis beside the good-hearted man who'd been too busy caring for a lonely, mistreated lad to find himself a wife.

Angus's smile faded, replaced by an expression of understanding that Duncan had seen often in his life. "Nay, lad. I'd not expect Alexis Southward to flirt with me."

"Why not?"

"Let's just say I'd question her motives. She's a Stewart princess, no matter what side of the blanket she was born on. I won't go lusting after her, either."

Duncan couldn't let lust cloud his reason or influence his decisions, for the welfare of his people and the future of his son hung in the balance. "Good advice, Angus."

"Lady Miriam got your blood up. I see it in your eyes and…" His sly gaze dropped lower. "Elsewhere."

Duncan ground his teeth and focused on a Roman helmet he'd spent weeks restoring. "I'm a widower, not a monk."

"Forget the ache in your lady crackers and guard your heart, lad, for if what my brother said about Miriam MacDonald is true, she hasn't the capacity for affection— not the kind you're seeking."

Disappointment weighted Duncan's spirits. "What else did the good tinker allow?"

"He swears, according to the trustworthy chambermaid in the household of the mayor of London, that the MacDonald lass is a cold fish and wouldn't know humor or passion if they ambushed her in the road."

Duncan remembered the feel of her mouth moving beneath his, and the pleasurable sensations of her satiny tongue gliding between his lips. Renewed lust rocketed to his groin. In retrospect, he could recall the precise moment when she yielded to passion and became its eager student. He hadn't known then that the experience was a new one for her. Now he sorely ached to initiate her fully in the joys of physical love. But the risk was too great. She mustn't find out he was the Border Lord. She mustn't stop him from defending his crofters and his own son.

"Have you nothing to say?" asked Angus.

"Aye." Duncan downed the remainder of his ale and slammed the tankard on the table. Getting to his feet, he said, "If the tinker said she was a stranger to passion and humor, he was right on only one count."

"You can't possibly intend to winter here," said Alexis.

"Keep your voice down," Miriam whispered, not breaking stride in her journey down the main stairway of the castle.

In the entryway, a housemaid sloshed a rag mop into a pail, then twirled the handle between her flattened palms. A servant boy carrying a brimming ash bucket paused to talk to the girl. Miriam went on her way.

Alexis hurried after her, her calf slippers making soft rustling noises on the stone flags. "You can't, Miriam. The queen will be furious."

"She's furious now." The aroma of freshly baked bread drew Miriam toward an arched corridor. Her stomach growled. "This way. I'm famished."

Alexis clutched her forearm. "Say you're jesting."

"I never jest, and you know it." Except once last night, but she'd erred royally in all other aspects of the evening. She'd learned nothing and experienced everything.

"There's something you're not telling me," said Alexis. "Don't ask me to guess, 'tis too early in the morning."

"Then I won't."

"Oh, drat you," she grumbled. "Unless…" She snapped her fingers. "It's about that man you saw in the garden, isn't it? Who is he?"

Miriam took great pleasure in saying, "He's a pig farmer who tried to seduce me."

Alexis tilted back her head and gave Miriam a stern glance that reeked of motherly disapproval. The expression also made her look exactly like the state portrait of her father. "You let a swineherd kiss you?"

Miriam thought of the dark stranger. Conflicting images tweaked her mind. One moment he soothed and comforted with gentle words and coaxing hands, the next he seduced and bullied with bold threats and vulgar ultimatums. She knew that her queries about the earl had caused the change in the Border Lord's mood and methods, she just didn't know why. Unless they were in collusion. But his parting kiss had nothing to do with territorial disputes and everything to do with cheap seduction.

"You must tell me," said Alexis.

Confused, Miriam whispered, "Later, Lexie," and walked into the lesser hall.

To Miriam's delight, the elusive housekeeper stood at a trestle table, her arm pumping as she sawed a loaf of brown bread into thick slices. She wore a sturdy woolen frock beneath a crisp, linen apron, shiny from starch and wear.

"Good morning, Mrs. Elliott," said Miriam, taking a seat at the long bench by the table.

A smile puffed out the older woman's cheeks. Blinking, she said, "You remembered my name, Lady Miriam. Thank you."

People were surprised by the small gesture that came effortlessly to Miriam. "You're welcome. Is that bread I smell?"

Mrs. Elliott sent a maid to the pantry for plates. "Aye. What will you have to drink, my lady?"

"Honeyed milk, if you please."

Alexis slid onto the bench and said, "I'll have watered wine." When the housekeeper offered her a slice of bread, Alexis shook her head, a pained look on her face. "Thank you, no. I couldn't eat a thing so early in the morning."

Miriam slathered the bread with butter and candied pippins. Although she intended to compliment the food regardless of the quality, the rich flavors made her sigh with pleasure.

Alexis, usually grumpy before noon, groaned, "Oh, please."

Mrs. Elliott said, "Can I get you anything else, my lady?"

Miriam hoped to glean information on the mysterious pig farmer who called himself the Border Lord, if, that is, Mrs. Elliott would cooperate. To that end Miriam made a great show of considering her answer. "A thick slice of fresh roasted pork would be grand."

The housekeeper's smile faded and her hands worried a stack of crumbs. She seemed wary, or was she just uncomfortable with visitors? The earl said he didn't often entertain. "I'm sorry, my lady. We haven't any fresh pork today," she said, "but there's salted ham and oat pudding."

Silently rejoicing, Miriam said, "The ham will be fine." When the meat was served, she exclaimed, "What a beautiful ham. You must have a fine pig farmer in Kildalton. Send him my compliments."

Mrs. Elliott's brows made a chevron in the center on her forehead. "It comes from the butcher. I'll tell him."

Honey ran over the edge of the bread. Miriam caught it with her finger. "The butcher raises his own stock. How enterprising." She popped her finger into her mouth.

"He don't raise it, I'm sure," said Mrs. Elliott. "I'll fetch you more milk."

Sensing her chance was slipping away, Miriam said, "Alexis, do you remember that eccentric French count who raised pigs in his keeping room?"

Alexis paused, the tankard an inch from her lips. She rolled her gaze to Miriam, searched her face, then took a drink. "I believe you said his castle smelled wretched."

Turning slightly, Miriam winked. To Mrs. Elliott, she said, "Imagine that, will you? Squealing piglets underfoot."

The woman's wariness turned to stiff-necked disapproval, deepening the dimple in her chin into a cavern. "You won't find swine in this castle."

"Not the cloven-hoofed variety," Alexis murmured into the tankard.

Ignoring her, Miriam said, "Of course not. I believe I met one of your pig farmers."

"You did?" the housekeeper said.

"Aye. He said his name was Ian, but he also called himself the Border Lord."

Mrs. Elliott scooped up her apron and sneezed into it with the gusto of a tavern keeper. Turning her back, her shoulders shook with the force of the sneezes. Slipping one hand free, she waved it at Miriam, curtsied, and rushed out of the room.

"You should be ashamed," said Alexis, staring at the empty doorway.

"I must know more about him. The Border Lord knows both the earl and the baron. He could be useful."

Alexis shook her head." 'Tis a crime for a mind to work so deviously at this hour of the morning."

After so many years, the familiar barb didn't prick at all. "'Tis not, so long as I succeed."

Miriam finished the ham and was describing to Alexis the tartan of the Border Lord when Alexis said, "Shush!" and picked up her tankard.

Mrs. Elliott returned, her eyes still watering and her nose as red as a China poppy. "Forgive me, my lady. 'Tis the time of year." She began separating the comb from a crock of honey.

Grasping the tried and true tactic of aggression, Miriam said, "Before you left you were telling me about the pig farmer who goes by the name of the Border Lord."

The sieve slipped into the crock. The cook sniffed and held her apron at the ready. "I don't generally deal with the farmers. We have markets here, so everyone can trade freely." Her voice sounded strained.

"But you know where he is."

"Aye," she choked out, and again hid her face in the apron. Through the cloth she said, "There's a swineherd in Sweeper's Heath." Then she dashed from the room once more.

Miriam's spirits soared. She would find the Border Lord, and in the light of day. "I take it," said Alexis in weary resolution, "that we're going on an excursion to the quaint little village of Sweeper's Heath."

Miriam was already mapping out a strategy for dealing with the mysterious Border Lord when she said, "Aye, but first we must visit the weaver."

"Why did I bother to ask?" said Alexis, with a royal wave of her hand. "We always visit the weaver before we see the swineherd."

Puzzled, Miriam said, "We've never been to a swineherd."

Alexis got to her feet, mumbling, "I had such hopes for you. You were such a bright child."

Duncan yanked up the full black periwig and slammed it on his head. He had intended to spend the day with Malcolm, for according to Mrs. Elliott, the lad was taking his role of indulged brat much too seriously. But thanks to that meddling, I-never-forget-anything redhead, Duncan had to forgo his fatherly duties and chase her down before she made the grievous mistake of looking for a swineherd who didn't exist.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Perverse, too. He'd dreamed up the story to mock Miriam and her lack of a sense of humor. The plan had backfired, and a moment's satisfaction last night had become a joke on Duncan. He wanted a different sort of satisfaction from her, one that prohibited clever repartee and involved tussling naked and nibbling on the delicacies of the flesh.

A knock sounded at the door.

"Enter at your own risk," Duncan grumbled.

Angus strolled inside, his thick hair still bearing the imprint of the visored helmet he now held in his hand. "What is it, my lord?"

Duncan stifled his anger and frustration; he had only himself to blame. But Blessed Scotland, he hated being one step behind in a game of his own creation. "Do you remember when I told you what occurred in the garden with Lady Miriam?"

"Aye, my lord. I remember every detail." His lips twitched in the effort to hide a smile. "First you stomped into my quarters with a hard-on to rival an oak branch and your lady crackers aching. Then you confessed that you told her you were the Border Lord and a pig farmer. Oh, and you quaffed two pints of ale in the doing."

"How is it," Duncan said, trying to keep his voice calm and his anger in check, "that the duke of Cromarty, who rules all of the Highlands, manages to earn the loyalty and respect of his clansmen?"

Undaunted, Angus replied, "I wouldn't know, my lord."

In spite of himself and the dire situation he faced, Duncan chuckled. "'Twould seem our merry diplomat cornered Mrs. Elliott this morning and grilled her on the whereabouts of a certain swineherd."

Angus spat a Scottish curse and rapped the helmet against his thigh. Over the rattling of forged steel, he said, "What will you do?"

"I'll wring her pretty neck!"

"I'm sure you have a better plan."

"Tactic, Angus, that's the operative word." Duncan snatched up his clan badge and secured his tartan over his shoulder. "Everything to do with that wily witch involves tactics. She's too bloody smart for her own good—or mine."

"Aye, sir. I'm sure she is. But if appearance means aught, you'll dazzle her with your kilt. The wig adds a nice touch."

"You needn't placate me." Duncan walked to the standing mirror and donned his bonnet at a jaunty angle that all but obscured the right side of his face.

"Nay, my lord. I wouldn't think of it."

Studying his reflection, decked out in Kerr regalia, Duncan thought of the differences between him and his forebears. "I doona ken why I'm worried. She's probably halfway to Sweeper's Heath by now anyway."