Border Bride (12 page)

"First I've got trouble with Alpin, and now this treasonous rubbish." Malcolm pitched the letter across his study. Broken seal flapping, the paper landed at Saladin's feet. "I tell you, Saladin, if this political maneuvering doesn't stop, John Gordon of Aberdeenshire will find himself dangling from a rope at Tyburn, just as Christopher Layer did."

Saladin picked up the letter and put it on the desk with the other correspondence. "You should rejoice. Swift execution is one of the few admirable elements of Christian justice."

Accustomed to irreverence from his friend, Malcolm took no offence; he groaned. "I can kiss good-bye any hope of a peaceful harvest."

"The rope makers will prosper, and the women will delight. Seeing a man hang brings his comrades to life, no?"

"None of this is humorous, Saladin. King George won't tolerate a challenge to his reign."

"A true English barbarian," he said with glee.

"You should feel right at home."

Saladin sat up straight and pointed to the letters. "Have Gordon and the other clan chiefs committed themselves to usurping the Hanoverian?"

Malcolm slapped the letters so hard his palm stung. "You tell me what you think. You just spent a week with the scheming bastards."

"As much as it distresses me to say, I think you have reason to worry, my friend."

Malcolm braced himself for the worst. "Go on."

"The roebucks are ready for the rut. Your fellow Scots, Gordon and Lord Lovatt, don't seem interested in felling stags. At least not the ones with velvet on their antlers."

Fury tied Malcolm's stomach in knots. His soul begged for an end to the strife among the northern clans. "I knew it. Those stubborn Highland lairds may have cloaked their Jacobite villainy in urbane rhetoric, but the meaning of these letters is clear."

Saladin nodded. "I heard the earl of Aberdeenshire say he'd lost faith in his king across the water ever winning the crown himself."

"Aye. Gordon has given up on James Stewart and invited his warring son to come and take back the throne. Since the death of his mother earlier this year, the prince is reportedly lost and angry." Mystified by the idea of war, Malcolm shook his head. "Another Jacobite rebellion. A Catholic Stewart wearing the crown. Fool's dreams and unlawful acts."

"Don't worry so, Christian."

Malcolm walked to the window and observed the peaceful interplay of his people. If fighting began, his soldiers would be manning the battlements rather than helping the weaver rethatch his roof. Instead of handing out biscuits to the excited bairns of Kildalton, the women would be passing buckets to put out the fires of war.

"Your bonnie prince is just a stripling lad of fifteen years. He can't lead an army," Saladin insisted.

"Charles Stewart is not
my
prince. He's never set foot on Scottish soil. But make no mistake, at five and ten he's a scholar in the school of Mars. Sir Thomas Sheridan has tutored him well enough in that. The lad can't read nor speak ten words of Scottish. He's a soldier."

Saladin joined him and clasped a hand on his shoulder. Offhandedly he said, "It's a grand bluff. I doubt he's an accomplished warrior."

Only Malcolm could best Saladin in a contest of sword-play, and hordes of men had tried. "Then you're in for a surprise."

Saladin grinned, revealing the space between his front teeth. "Thank you and praise Allah, but I must decline." He strolled to the chair and plopped down. "One surprise a day is enough for my humble Muslim soul."

Malcolm eagerly grasped the digression from Scottish politics. "I assume you refer to the lovely Elanna."

Laughing without humor, Saladin stroked his beard and tapped his booted foot. " 'Refer' to her? 'Debauch' comes immediately to mind."

Malcolm eased his hip onto the edge of his desk and studied his oldest friend. Normally stoic and always at peace with himself, Saladin now fidgeted like a criminal in the witness box. "She threatens your vow of celibacy?"

Saladin stared into the cold hearth. "Not if you get rid of her before my evening prayers. Which brings me to the burning question." He faced Malcolm again. "Why aren't they at Sinclair Manor? You arranged for Alpin to live with her uncle, Baron Sinclair."

"
Lady
Alpin tricked me." He relayed the details of his first two meetings with her.

Saladin roared with laughter. "She hasn't changed."

The fallacy of that statement made Malcolm see red. "Oh, yes, she has. Now she says she's my property."

Saladin swung his legs over the arm
of
the chair. His red boots contrasted vividly with the deep brown leather. "Ah, English law," he lamented with great sarcasm. "It seems she knows the statutes well."

"Among other things." Like setting Malcolm's blood afire and sending his rational thoughts fleeing out the window. Relief would come, though. Once he had her in his bed, his obsession would end. As would her virginity. A shiver went through him at the prospect of teaching her the ways of love.

"I see." Saladin plucked a blade of grass from his boot. "Alexander said she could cook. That's something in her favor. She's also a beauty—for a white woman. Don't you think?"

Malcolm groaned and said, "She is that, right enough, my African friend. Have you ever seen eyes that color?"

"Not in twenty years, and I don't remember them being so pretty."

"Neither do I."

"Don't tell me you're tempted to seduce her." He jolted upright. "I expected you to marry her off to one of those pox-ridden Campbells you hate so much."

For the first time since Alpin had schemed her way into his home, Malcolm saw a way to put his plans back on course. "I might do both."

Saladin shook his finger in reproof. "Seduction first, my friend."

Infused with assurance, Malcolm kissed his fingertips and flung his hand in the air. "But of course."

Saladin rolled his eyes. "Truthfully, I can't picture Alpin welcoming your attentions. She never did before. What was it you used to say? Oh, I remember." He worked his lips like a netted trout. In a high voice he said, " 'Give me a kiss of peace, Alpin.'"

Disgruntled at the reminder of his foolish youth but unwilling to reveal his feelings, Malcolm shrugged. "She claims I'm her best friend."

"If you believe that, I'll sell you a map to find the Holy Grail."

"And I'll tell her to put pig fat in your oatcakes."

"A truce!" Saladin slapped his thigh. "And curse the luck you have with women. She did you grievous harm and deserves your vengeance, but I never expected her to fall in your arms."

"Must be the will of the gods."

"What does the lovely Rosina have to say about your new best friend?"

"Plenty, but I don't have to listen. I sent her back to Carvoran Manor."

"Prudent—under the circumstances. A wise man always controls his women."

Malcolm's decision to send Rosina away seemed clever in the extreme. "Or keeps a manageable number of them, but that isn't important. Now that you've returned, Rosina will soon be taking ship. Unfortunately these letters must get to Italy."

"Don't be surprised if John Gordon pays you a visit. He seemed especially eager for a reply."

"He's been eager for years, but never enough to come south."

Saladin winced. "He has reason now. He's also withdrawn his approval for the betrothal between his daughter and Argyle's son."

Jane Gordon was the most sought-after heiress in Scotland and, according to some, the richest marriage prize in the British Isles. But in Malcolm's case, Jane was forbidden, because an alliance between the earl of Kildalton and the mighty Gordon clan would unite the Borders and the Highlands, or roughly half of Scotland. The king had forbidden the match years ago. He would suspect trouble if the marriage was proposed again.

"Poor lass," Malcolm said. "Since the day she was christened, her father has been bartering her all over Scotland and France."

"I think he will approach you on the matter. He asked if you had found a bride. When I told him no, he asked about your parents. I told him they were abroad on the king's business. He was silent for some time."

"He was calculating."

"I believe so. He smiled and excused himself. Then he sought out Lord Lovatt, who was playing chess with the earl of Mar."

"Just the three of them together is a bad sign, even if it was hunting season."

"Lovatt lost interest in the chess match."

"I should inform Lady Miriam."

"She taught you well. You've managed to hold the Jacobites at bay since she left for Constantinople. Why bother her now?"

"Because she asked me to get involved in the first place. If this attempt to bring Bonnie Prince Charles into the fray succeeds and reflects badly on her, I'll feel responsible. Her male counterparts in the diplomatic corps are always looking for opportunities to discredit her."

In a deadly whisper, Saladin said, "Lord Duncan will deal with any man who tries to discredit her."

Malcolm had to agree. His father would fight a duel to the death in defense of Lady Miriam. With one look, his father could put the fear of God in King George himself. "True, but if my parents are to suffer the consequences of this dangerous business, and I have no doubt they will, they should at least know the details."

"How will you let them know?"

Malcolm picked up a blank sheet of paper. "A few paragraphs of urbane rhetoric."

Saladin chuckled. "Lady Miriam's first language."

Malcolm joined in the laughter. "Don't forget she interceded many times on our behalf."

"And saved our worthless hides from the strap."

"Enough about our wayward youth. Tell me more about Elanna. Is she truly an African princess?"

"Well, she's willful enough to be an Ashanti."

In light of his own problems with Alpin, Malcolm welcomed the company of another miserable man. "I'm beginning to think all women are willful."

"When you relegate them to the status of temporary bedroom ornaments, some are bound to protest."

From a silver dispenser, Malcolm took a pinch of sand and sprinkled it on his desk. "Pardon me if I question the advice of a man who bedded his first and only woman at the age of fifteen."

"You know my reasons."

"I have always respected your objection to mixing our races. But it no longer applies. Figuratively speaking, and without offense to the Prophet, the mountain has come to Muhammad."

Saladin slumped. "We're both in for trouble."

"Not I. I have no need for a permanent mate."

Saladin's mouth flattened to a white line. "False, my friend. You've a need, but you're too sanctimoniously noble to take a wife, knowing you can never…" He broke off and looked away.

"Give her a child?" Malcolm finished for him. He would never sire a son to wield a toy sword and wage mock battles. He'd never sire a daughter to string flowers and chase butterflies. Melancholy stole his breath, yet he knew the futility in dwelling on the impossible.

Alpin had crippled him.

She would pay. As soon as he put Rosina and the troublesome letters on a ship, he'd renew the conquest of Alpin MacKay.

"Enough about my virtues toward the fairer sex. Let's talk about yours. What will you do about our African princess—"

The bell clanged, signaling that someone had entered the tunnel behind the bookcases. Saladin sprang from the chair. "What the devil?"

"Shush." Malcolm put his index finger to his lips.

Only two keys existed. He rummaged through his desk until he found his. Mrs. Elliott kept the other key. That meant Alpin had it now. She had remembered the layout of the castle yard before Malcolm built the new barracks; she probably remembered the tunnels as well. She'd traveled them often enough as a lass.

He mouthed her name to Saladin.

Frowning, the Moor whispered, "Why? What does she want?"

Malcolm shrugged, then cupped a hand to his ear and pointed to himself and Saladin.

"She's eavesdropping?"

Embittered by her intrusion, yet curious as to what she hoped to gain, Malcolm nodded. Then he carefully considered his options. He had a grand opportunity to fill her head with false information.

Smiling, he whispered, "Let's oblige her, shall we?"

A grinning Saladin unfolded his hand, palm up, to Malcolm.

Moving close so she could hear his every word, he stood before the bookcase and spoke in a loud, clear voice. "Our Alpin has certainly grown into a beauty. Don't you agree, Saladin?"

Standing in an alcove in the dark, musty corridor, Alpin felt the compliment chase away her anxiety. She had come to pry. Instead she'd heard pretty compliments.

"True," she heard Saladin say. "Island life seems to have agreed with her."

"Aye, but she's better off here, where she belongs."

"What are her plans?"

"She hasn't shared them. I like to believe she's content keeping house for me."

When mangoes grow on fig trees, thought Alpin. As soon as she could get him to transfer ownership of Paradise to her, she'd be on the first packet home.

Saladin laughed. "I don't have to guess how you feel about having Alpin so close at hand."

"Having her
so
close at hand does indeed stir my imagination. I just hope she doesn't find out."

"Find out what?" Saladin asked.

Yes, what?

Malcolm said something in Scottish, a language Alpin had never learned.

"We both know you have special feelings for her," Saladin replied in English. "I wouldn't dream of telling her. But I'm sure she suspects."

"How do you know that?" Malcolm snapped.

Alpin stared into the inky darkness, confusion and curiosity running rampant in her mind.

"Because of the way you look at her."

"And how is that?" Although Malcolm spoke calmly, she couldn't miss the accusation in his voice.

"You look like a starving man awaiting the first dish in a ten-course meal," Saladin said. "Don't glower at me. I didn't write the menu."

"But you glory in my predicament."

"Guilty as charged. Tell me, friend. Does Lady Alpin return your lustful feelings?"