Border Bride (21 page)

When he emerged from the springhouse he gave her a courtly bow. "Good work, Alpin. You're a Scotswoman at heart." To Alexander he said, "Go to the Rot and Ruin. Tell Jamie to tap a laird's keg of ale. We'll drink to our bounty and toast our bonny new lady and Saladin's recovery."

The crowd roared and moved en masse toward the tavern.

Malcolm held out his arm. "Shall we, Alpin?"

She shouldn't feel all bubbly inside. His eager expression shouldn't make her heart trip fast or cause her to make wishes that would never come true. But Alpin couldn't resist wanting him, couldn't pass up the chance for the intimacy he offered. At seven and twenty, she might not have another chance to discover the mysteries of physical love.

She hooked her arm in his. "Are you planning to get me drunk and make sport of me?"

He leaned so close his breath tickled her ear. "Oh, nay. Not that kind of sport. I want you alert when I take you to my bed tonight. I want you besotted only with me."

"I don't besot easily."

"We'll see about that."

The enticing and familiar smell of his sandalwood soap was enough to make her tipsy. His nearness set off other, more delicious sensations in her body. Her legs grew weak, a tightness coiled in her belly, and her breasts ached for the touch of his hands, the feel of his mouth.

Like a lovesick miss, she sighed with longing.

He kissed her cheek and whispered, "Remember that thought, love."

The urge to surrender chipped away at her will to resist loving him.

"And tell it to me later," he added, "in vivid detail."

That overconfident comment sparked her courage. She'd sooner grow fins than reveal herself so completely. "How much game did you bring home?"

He chuckled and tapped her on the nose. "You'll have to dissemble better than that to get my mind off making love to you."

"Love? I thought 'twas bed sport you wanted."

"Do
you
want bed sport?"

She told a half lie. "I don't precisely know what I want."

He nodded, sagelike, the picture of a Scottish chieftain. " 'Tis usually the case with virgins."

"Are you so sure I'm a virgin?"

"If not, you'd better tell me."

Miffed that he had grown to such an impressive and respected figure of a man, Alpin demanded, "What will you give me in return for my innocence?"

"Hum." He stared at her mouth. "I'll give you gentleness, every scrap of my attention, and a night of loving you'll never forget."

His promises thrilled her, and deep inside she feared that any attempt at resisting the charming Malcolm Kerr would end in a battle she was bound to lose. She felt like a shallow-rooted sapling swaying to the breeze of his desire.

Still, she couldn't let so cocky a remark go unanswered. "As Elanna would say, you one sassy man."

"Come morning, we'll see who's sassy."

Chapter Eleven

Saladin decided that if Elanna called him stubborn one more time he would dive for his scimitar and whack a chunk out of the bedpost. And if she didn't stop fidgeting, he'd tie her to the chair even if he was too weak to wiggle a finger.

In the half hour since Malcolm and Alpin had left, Elanna hadn't said a dozen words to him. He suspected the reason. He just didn't understand how their tryst ten days ago in the walled garden had begun with sweet kisses and ended in a bitter brawl.

"You saved my life, but you won't talk to me. Why not?"

Poised before the bookstand, she thumbed through the pages of his illuminated Koran. "Muslim plenty smart enough to know."

He found himself staring at her narrow waist and the graceful fall of her skirt. The soft cotton fabric, in vertical stripes of daffodil yellow and midnight blue, accentuated her unusual height and complemented her rich brown skin.

The matching head wrap concealed her hair and drew attention to her long neck.

His loins took fire, but to his dismay he was too besotted to govern his lustful urges and too weak to act on them. But as surely as the mountain came to Muhammad, Allah had sent this woman to him. Understanding her and winning her, however, must be the Prophet's way of humbling Saladin Cortez.

"Why did you save my life?"

She turned. Her lips thinned; tried patience glimmered in her eyes. "Dumb question."

Communicating with her was as difficult as explaining the teachings of Allah to a Christian zealot. Perhaps directness would work. "Then explain why you were as bold as a sultan's first wife the last time I saw you. Now you're distant. If you'll recall, you asked me to kiss you."

Her hands flew to her hips, and the square bodice of her gown stretched tight across her breasts. "This African princess cares more about dung flies than playing push-me, pull-you with some stubborn Muslim."

Sadly, Saladin realized he lacked the strength to draw his sword from its scabbard, even if she destroyed his remaining copy of the Koran. "Push-me, pull-you? That sounds interesting." He patted the mattress. "Come here and tell me what it means."

She wandered to the foot of the bed and stopped at the trunk that housed his winter clothes. "Same as what the missionaries call pro-cre-a-shun."

At least she was moving closer to him, major progress under the circumstances. "A manner of speaking, then."

"Manners?" Her chin went up, and her swanlike neck stiffened. "Not you. Dirt-eating Akwamus more polite than plant-worshiping Muslims."

He could envision her leading a tribe, with hordes of the beautiful Ashanti people paying homage to her. He wanted to again offer his own brand of tribute, but how could he when she refused to admit her part in that last disastrous meeting?

He held out his hand. "Come closer, princess."

She eyed the mattress. Yearning shone in her eyes.

Oh, Allah, he thought, what deed have I done to deserve so great a blessing as this woman? Whatever it was, Saladin intended to make the most of his good fortune.

He sought a cheerful subject. "Talk to me about your potions."

"Nothing to tell." She stared at his scimitar. "Just plenty good medicine."

He sought a way to warm her heart. "Thank you for saving me. I'm in your debt."

"No debt." Distant and defensive, she trailed her long, graceful fingers over the aged wood of the chest. "You already paid. So tell it farewell."

His stomach rumbled and his head throbbed. Although he'd never tasted alcohol, he now understood how Malcolm felt after a night of too much ale.

He sought a way to draw her out. "You think I got ill because I acted like a rutting beast?"

With the flippancy of a saucy concubine, she said, "How should Ashanti princess know what almost turned you to duppy dust?"

"Duppy dust?"

"What the jungle leaves of a man. Dried bones. Dust in a Muslim's coffin."

Mother earth constituted a Muslim's coffin, but he doubted that explaining the practices of his religion would aid his immediate cause. "In my culture some believe a man must enslave himself to the one who saves his life."

"Slave taking bad, very bad."

He cursed himself for broaching the one topic that would alienate her. Softly he said, "What about enslaving the heart?"

She headed for the door. "No time for that."

He had to make her stay. Using the cheapest of ploys, he coughed, then groaned.

She nearly flew to the bed. Propping him up as she had before, she put the glass to his lips. "Here. Drink slow, slow. Don't choke."

He swallowed, but barely tasted the orange-flavored water, his senses were fixed on the pillow softness of her breasts and the hint of cleavage the bodice revealed. She smelled of sweet herbs and earthy musk, an enticing combination.

When she took the glass away, he whispered, "I'm sorry I ruined your dress."

She opened her mouth, closed it. Then she sighed. "I sing you a sorry, sorry song about your book."

He could sing her a song, too, about a lonely man who'd overcome the needs of his heart and body to live in a foreign land with people he admired. She challenged his decision of long ago, and for days he had searched his soul, trying to understand his sudden discontent. "I don't know what got into me that day in the garden. I was possessed, as if I'd drunk a love potion. Have you bewitched me?"

"I ain't no witch!" She moved away so fast that his head plopped onto the pillow. The room began to spin. He gripped the edge of the mattress and closed his eyes. This time his groan was real.

He heard the soft rustle of her skirt; then he felt the heat of her skin, the rush of her breath. "You one stubborn blackamoor. When you sing better, better song, this Ashanti princess will tell you a secret."

Exhaustion threatened to draw him back into sleep. He opened his eyes. She was so close he could count her eyelashes. "Will I like your secret?"

She beamed. "Betcha that."

He ached to draw her down for a kiss, but his arms felt like deadweight on the mattress. "Tell me now. I might not wake up."

"You'll wake. Gods throw you back one time. Gods throw you back again."

The color of her lips reminded him of the berry juice. The memory made him smile. "Why?"

"Because you one stubborn Muslim."

As he drifted off to sleep, Saladin wondered if Ashanti men beat their women.

Amid a chorus of cheers and good-nights, Malcolm led Alpin from the tavern. After the close and friendly atmosphere, the brisk night air cooled her skin, and the silence rang in her ears. The quarter moon rode high in a blue-black sky riddled with stars.

She started toward the keep. He pulled her in the opposite direction. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"Wait and see." He guided her to the edge of the lane near the merchants' buildings.

The detour surprised her; she had assumed he'd be eager to consummate their handfast marriage. His carefree stroll through the castle yard seemed more important than making good on his lustful promises. He wanted exercise; she was eager for love. Aside from ending her curiosity about the physical aspects of marriage, their union would surely move her one step closer to gaining possession of Paradise Plantation.

She stubbed her toe and almost tripped. Malcolm steadied her. "Be careful. Watch where we're going."

Lanterns dotted the battlements, but little light reached the yard. In the darkness her other senses sharpened. As they passed the tanner's shop, the smell of leather filled her nose. The banked forge at the smithy gave off waves of dry, warm air.

Thinking he meant to check on his birds, she said, "Are you worried about the owlet?"

He stopped. "Nay. Should I be?"

During his absence she'd gone to the mews to find escape from troubling thoughts of him. She'd also relived fond memories of her youth. "No. I cared for the bird."

"I thought you would. You never could turn your back on a sick or wounded beast."

In the aftermath of so pleasant an evening, his congeniality was contagious. "No, I never could. Your little one's only need is for food, and the mother's wing is on the mend."

"I'll have to set them free soon."

Resignation dragged at her high spirits. Same as the wild birds, she would leave him, but she wouldn't let thoughts of the future spoil her wedding night. The observation did surprise her, for until this moment she had thought of her departure in terms of returning to Barbados rather than leaving Kildalton.