Border Lord (12 page)

"Of course. Why do you share fishing rights to the river Tyne?"

"Share?" He tried to control his anger, to keep a loose grip on the reins. His fingers knotted. The horses reared. "I don't do it by choice," he grumbled, trying to settle the team. "The river's on Kildalton land, but Sinclair pays no attention to boundaries or laws."

She reached out to steady the sleuthhound, who teetered on the opposite seat. "I see."

Duncan didn't relax until the towers of Kildalton Castle came into view. The moment they entered the castle yard, Angus broke away from a crowd of fanners and rushed to the carriage.

His relief at being home fled when Duncan saw the rage burning in Angus's eyes.

The soldier darted an uneasy glance at Miriam and said, "May I see you alone, my lord?"

Duncan dropped the reins and made to leap from the carriage. Angus stopped him with a hand on his knee. "I wouldn't distress you for all the heather in Scotland, my lord. I know how easily fashed you are."

Catching the warning, Duncan settled back into the seat. "Very well, then. What's happened? Why are all those farmers gathered in the yard?"

"The baron came. When you weren't here he went away peacefully enough. But on his way home his men raided the Lindsay farm and made off with the man's wool."

Betsy Lindsay broke away from the crowd and ran to the carriage. Tears and misery wreathed her face. "Oh, my lord. 'Tis my Mary Elizabeth," she wailed, clutching his tartan with hands that were scratched and bruised. "She's gone! When the raiders come, I put her in the springhouse and told her not to make a sound. The bastards must've taken her, 'cause she wasn't there."

Overcome by the conflicting urges to kill and comfort at once, Duncan acted on instinct. He stepped from the carriage, took Betsy's hands, and pulled her into his arms.

"My lord!" warned Angus under his breath, his eyes again darting to Miriam MacDonald.

Duncan whispered, "Doona fret, Betsy. We'll find the lassie. She's too spry to come to harm. Will you trust me?"

Her head bobbed beneath his chin. The angry crowd milled, the men brandishing pitchforks and shepherd's staffs. Feminine whispers blended with angry male threats.

Taking a deep breath, Duncan feigned indignation. "I say, this is an outrage of the meanest sort. This poor woman is beside herself. Do something!" he shouted to Angus. "Order those men off the wall and go after the brigands."

"But what about the little girl? Can't you do something?" Miriam's voice, hoarse with outrage, poured over Duncan.

Betsy drew back and gazed over Duncan's shoulder. "My husband says she's gone. But she does like to wander. Oh, Sweet Saint Ninian, she's only three years old."

The carriage squeaked and shifted. Miriam stepped down. "Do you have some article of her clothing, Mrs. Lindsay? Something that Mary Elizabeth has touched?"

Hope glimmered in Betsy's eyes, then faded. "Her shawl. She didna even have it on."

Duncan said, "She'll be cold, the poor lambkin."

"The sun is warm today. Please don't worry," said Miriam, pushing Duncan out of the way and wrapping her arm around Betsy's shaking shoulders. "You'll have your daughter back before nightfall." She snapped her fingers and the sleuthhound bounded from the carriage. "Do you see this dog, Mrs. Lindsay?"

"What's a dog got to do with my poor, lost bairn?"

"Well," said Miriam, as chipper as a lark in spring. "This dog happens to be the very animal that rescued the duke of Orleans from a band of gypsies. Haven't you heard about it? 'Twas a very daring act."

Besty's cheeks sagged in confusion. Before she could speak, Miriam said, "Verbatim tracked their caravan, and His Grace was happily reunited with his duchess. If you'll find Mary Elizabeth's shawl and let Verbatim smell it, you and I will get in that carriage and follow the hound. She'll lead us to your daughter."

Speechless, Duncan looked on as fresh tears poured down Betsy's cheeks. Agony roiled in his gut, for if he dared help, he'd wreck his disguise.

Betsy gazed at the dog. Verbatim held up a paw. "God bless you," Betsy said.

Miriam turned slowly toward Duncan. Disdain tightened the corners of her mouth. "Excuse us, my lord. Please tell Lady Alexis I've gone to fetch a stray child. No one else seems so inclined."

They walked to a box wagon, where Betsy found the tattered shawl. Miriam guided her back to the carriage. They climbed in, and without a backward glance, she flicked the reins and drove the team away.

"You'd best get inside, my lord," said Angus. "I'll go with them."

Duncan's feet stayed rooted to the dusty ground. "I canna shirk my duty. No matter the risk."

Angus gripped Duncan's arm. "Everyone knows 'tis not like you to sit back and let others do the work, my lord. But you have no choice. You dinna want the queen's wench to discover the truth."

Duncan scanned the faces of his people. He saw compassion in the pursing of Mrs. Elliott's mouth and acceptance in the shaking of the tinker's head. "If any harm comes to Miriam or Betsy or Mary Elizabeth, I'll have the hide of the man responsible."

"I'll gladly be the one to bring him to you," Angus swore and called for his horse. Then he raced after the rescue party.

Duncan dragged himself to his study. Helplessness ignited the fire of his fury. He yanked off the spectacles and threw them on the floor. They bounced on the rug and landed facing the fireplace, the flames turning the lenses to discs of light. He ripped off the bonnet and wig, and tossed them in a corner. Reaching for the decanter of brandy, he discarded the top and took a long swig. Then he began to pace the floor.

The pillar clock ticked off the passing minutes. Inactivity chipped away at his restraint. He'd make the baron pay dearly. Tonight the Border Lord would ride with a vengeance.

He stopped and caught his reflection in the cheval glass. His blond hair hung about his shoulders in a wild tangle. His shirt had come free and lay bunched and wrinkled beneath the sash of his tartan. He looked a fierce sight, a kilted Scotsman poised
to
defend his domain.

That thought brought a sorry laugh to his lips and a pain to his heart.
He
should be leading his men to the rescue. Not Miriam MacDonald.

He ticked off her faults on his fingers. She was far too distracting. She was too intelligent. She had no business snooping in his affairs. But how could he stop her?

Snooping.

Like a draught of fresh air, Duncan remembered the missing key to the tunnel door. Earlier today he'd found it open and an empty nail where the key should have been. According to Malcolm, Miriam had stood beside him in the garden watching the fencing duel, then suddenly she'd vanished.

A purpose beckoned. Here at last was something he could accomplish, and he'd never have a better opportunity away from her too observant eyes.

He traded the bottle of brandy for a lighted torch and a spare ring of keys. With a twist of his wrist, he turned the wall sconce and triggered the ancient mechanism that opened a secret door in the wall between the fireplace and the bookshelves. Holding the torch high, he wound his way through the warren of tunnels until he reached the outside door.

On his knees, he searched for the key. He didn't find it, but much to the delight of his bruised and battered pride, he discovered a more condemning piece of proof—a broken fingernail.

Feeling assuaged and eager for another bout with the flame-haired diplomat, he returned to his study and the brandy. Sometime later he heard a cheer from the soldiers on the curtain wall. Then Malcolm burst into the study.

"Come quick, Papa. You won't believe who's riding through the gate."

Although Duncan had his suspicions, he said, "Who?"

"You'll see." Malcolm grabbed Duncan's hand. "We'll watch from the tower."

He let himself be pulled out of the study and to the tower door. Grunting, Malcolm pushed it open. They started up the circular stairway, the boy's short legs pumping. "Hurry. We'll never make it," he said between gasps.

"Make it to what?"

Malcolm stopped and flapped his arms in exasperation. "To see what's happening outside."

"Very well." Duncan swept up his son and propped him on his hip, the same way he'd carried him as a babe. Eye to eye with Malcolm, Duncan said, "But hold on tight."

Malcolm grinned and thrust his arm upward. "Go very fast. Faster than Rob Roy when Sassenachs are chasing him."

After five hours of waiting for Miriam's safe return, Duncan nearly ran up the stairs, his bouncing son squealing with delight. At the top, Duncan kicked open the door and stepped into the cool night.

Distant cheers erupted. Shifting his son higher on his hip, Duncan leaned into a chest-high arrow slit. A score of people carrying torches had formed a double line outside the gate. From the castle yard, hundreds more poured through the human column, lighting torches as they went. In minutes, a flaming yellow gauntlet stretched from the mouth of the portcullis to the curtain wall. In the inner bailey, bleating sheep scattered and sheepdogs raced to herd them.

"Papa, isn't it wondrous?"

The crowd hushed. Anticipation hung like rain clouds in the air. From the darkness of the outer bailey came the jingle of harnesses. From the depths of Duncan's soul came a silent plea:
let them be unharmed
.

Angus rode into the light, his bay horse gleaming like polished mahogany, his smile as broad as Armstrong Moor.

"Look, Papa!"

Behind Angus pranced the sleuthhound, her head high, her tail a banner of high-strung dignity.

The people cheered again. As if to punctuate the excitement, the torches wavered.

"There's Lady Miriam, Papa!" Malcolm said in awe. "She's got Mary Elizabeth and her mother."

"Indeed," said Duncan as he focused on the open carriage and the woman holding the reins. Her unbound hair shone like a nimbus of fire, the yard-long tendrils licking the breeze.

Envy and misgivings descended on Duncan. Instead of waiting in safety like a brow-beaten goodwife, he should have led the rescue party. As laird, he had a duty to the citizens of Kildalton. As a man, he wanted to command the soldiers and instill pride in the horde of smiling people. But fate had denied him these things.

"What's wrong, Papa?" Malcolm's worried expression tore at Duncan's heart. "Are you angry?"

"Nay, son." The noise in the castle yard grew deafening. Duncan almost yelled, "I couldna be happier." Unless, he added to himself, the baron was within striking distance of his fists. Sinclair would rue the day he'd allowed his henchmen to endanger a child from Kildalton. "Mary Elizabeth looks very brave, don't you think?"

Malcolm screwed up his face. "She's just a bairn. Besides, lassies are mewling and troublesome, and they grow up to be tart-tongued wenches. They get scared and run away. They can't be brave." Puffing out his chest, he added, "Not like lads."

"Who told you that?"

"I thought it for myself."

"I think," Duncan said firmly, "you've been doing too much thinking for yourself lately. You've also been listening to the soldiers."

The boy's gaze darted guiltily from the carriage to the soldiers lining the wall.

"Lassies can be just as brave as lads," Duncan said.

The boy's chin puckered with stubbornness.

"Malcolm… ?"

"Llewelyn. I want down."

"I want down," Duncan mocked the whiny tone. "Now who's acting like a bairn?"

He stiffened. "I'm not a bairn."

"Then be reasonable. If I put you down, you wilna be able to see. Look there." Duncan pointed to the carriage. In complete command, Miriam drew back on the reins and slowed the team to a walk. Betsy Lindsay waved to the crowd. Between the women sat the toddler Mary Elizabeth, her eyes drooping with fatigue, her cheeks smudged with dirt. "Don't you think Lady Miriam was brave to go after Mary Elizabeth?"

Grudgingly, the boy said, "Yes, but Angus went with her. I wanted to go, but he said Baron Sin's reivers would love to get their filthy paws on me."

Parental responsibility weighted Duncan's shoulders. "Angus told you the right thing. But you're evading the subject. Lady Miriam didna run away, did she?"

"No. Saladin said they rode horses all the way from London." His face brightened. "Can we ride horses all the way to London someday?"

"Aye, and all the bonnie ladies at court will kiss your forehead and pinch your perky cheeks."

His hand flew to his face. "I won't let them. I won't show 'em my lady crackers, either," he said, as serious as a butcher on slaughtering day.

Duncan sighed. His son's disrespect and vulgar language had gone on long enough. "Son," he began ominously.

"Look," Malcolm squealed, leaning into the embrasure.

Over the boy's head, Duncan saw Miriam guide the horses beneath the portcullis and drive them to the stables. The castlefolk swarmed the carriage. The lathered horses reared. Angus stormed through the throng, shoving the spectators aside. He grasped the harness to hold the team steady, then waved the crowd back.

A cool breeze ruffled Duncan's hair, reminding him that he'd left the wig in his study. Suddenly he felt exposed.

Miriam stood and scanned the crowd. Malcolm stuck his arm through the arrow slit and yelled her name.

Duncan leaned back, out of her line of vision. He had to return to his study before she came looking for him. He pulled Malcolm back and set the boy on his feet. "Come along, son."

"No." Malcolm crossed his arms, his face a picture of defiance. "You can't make me."

Anger ripped through Duncan. He took the boy by the arm. "You seem to be forgetting one vital piece of information, my foul-mouthed friend."

"I ain't your friend. I'm your son."

"You'll bletherin well start acting like it." He turned Malcolm around and pointed him toward the stairs. "Walk!"

They retraced their steps. In the hall outside his study, Duncan yelled for Mrs. Elliott. When the housekeeper appeared, he said, "Should Lady Miriam ask to see me, tell her I'm at a crucial moment in the wrapping of my flippity-flops. I canna be disturbed."

A sly grin blossomed on her face. "Aye, my lord."

Duncan ushered Malcolm into the study, then indicated the chairs by the hearth. "Sit down, son."

"No. You tie your auld flippity-flops. I want to go out in the courtyard with everyone else."

"That's unfortunate. Sit."

"But…"

"Sit!"

Like a scolded pup retreating to the corner, Malcolm shuffled slowly across the room and wiggled into the farthest chair. Duncan took the other.

"Where is your essay on Llewelyn Fawr?" he said.

Malcolm began fanning his legs. "I dunno."

Duncan counted silently to ten. "You didna write it, did you?"

"No. I had to watch the duel," he said, as if the activity were a matter of life or death.

"You know the rules. You'll either write it before you go to bed or answer to your own name for a week."

Mouth open, the boy shot out of the chair. "A week! No. I won't do it. You can't make me."

His control hanging by a thread, Duncan yelled, "Sit down!"

Malcolm plopped into the chair, a sullen expression making him look very much like his mother. The resemblance cooled Duncan's anger. If he were to succeed at being both mother and father to Malcolm, he had to keep a level head. Didn't a motherless boy deserve a bit of indulgence? No, not at the expense of good character.

Calmly, Duncan said, "You seem to have forgotten who gives the orders around here. You've become disrespectful, rude, and vulgar. You've taken advantage of my disguise. Gainsay me again, son, and I'll forbid you your game of names altogether."

The boy swallowed loudly and lifted his head. Great tears pooled in his eyes. "I'm sorry, sir."

Duncan's heart constricted, and he almost ended the reprimand. But that would be doing Malcolm a disservice, for the lad must learn to respect others.

Duncan held up a finger. "No more mentioning your lady crackers in the presence of females."

With the back of his hand, Malcolm brushed aside his tears. "Nay, sir. Never again. I promise."

Duncan held up another finger. "No more sassing me— even when I'm in disguise."

Malcolm sniffed. "I won't, sir."

"No more snakes nailed to the door of the women's privy."

Mouth open, the boy said, "Who told you?"

"Never mind that. Your word, please."

Swallowing loudly, Malcolm said, "I promise."

"No more newts in my sporran."

A gamin smile brightened Malcolm's eyes and teased the corners of his mouth. "If I had a baby brother, I wouldn't have to play with newts."

Duncan's dream of marrying again and siring a large family had died long ago. But Malcolm needn't know that. "If you had a baby brother, you'd have to share all of your toys."

"I would, Papa." Eagerly he sketched a cross over his heart. "I'd give him every last boat and soldier."

Tenderness welled up in Duncan. "I'll do what I can, lad. Please fetch me my wig and spectacles. Lady Miriam wilna wait all night to see me."

Malcolm bounded from the chair and did as he was told. Duncan put on the wig, then held out his hand for the spectacles.

"May I put them on for you?" Malcolm asked.

"Be my guest, just doona be pinching my nose."

Using great care, the boy placed the spectacles on the bridge of Duncan's nose. Standing back and squinting to see if the glasses were straight, Malcolm said, "I know a secret about Lady Miriam."

With great interest, Duncan leaned forward. "What's that?"

Pride puffed out Malcolm's chest. "Saladin and Salvador swear she fences even better than Lady Alexis. She has leather pants, too. Can I have leather pants?"

Duncan pictured her long legs encased in flesh-tight doeskin. "We'll visit the tanner."

Malcolm's smile wilted. "You'll be busy with those foosty feathers and hooks. Or taking her somewhere. You always are."