Border Lord (21 page)

Miriam had first met the elegant and verbose duchess in Edinburgh while living with the then Princess Anne. Once she had taken up the scepter and crown and moved to London, Anne was often attended by the duchess of Perth. When the duchess had arrived at Sinclair's last week, she and Miriam had sat in a solar, sipping precious lemonade and discussing Duncan Kerr's bachelorhood.

"She only stayed here the one night," Saladin offered. "But the next morning…" He cleared his throat and studied the soles of his boots.

Intrigued by his hesitance, Miriam said, "The next morning, the duchess did what?"

"Oh, not the duchess. She left. But the earl summoned us, and reprimanded his son for making fun of me because I'm a Muslim. He made Malcolm memorize a page from the Koran and write the Ten Commandments fifty times."

"I'm surprised," she said. "Are you?"

He nodded, giving her a full view of the top of his perfectly wound turban. "What surprised me was how much he knew about the Prophet Muhammad."

"May he live ten thousand years," she added.

"The earl?"

She laughed. "No. His flippity-flops."

"His flippity-flops?"

Feeling self-conscious, Miriam said, "I actually meant the Prophet Muhammad."

His mouth fell open. "You were jesting?"

Incredulous as it seemed, she had twice made a jest. Intentionally. Inordinately pleased, she said, "I suppose I was, but I meant no offense."

"But you never jest."

"Well I do now."

He smiled and jumped to his feet. "Wait'll I tell Salvador. He'll be sorry he missed it."

"Saladin," she called after him.

He skidded to a halt and turned. "Yes, my lady?"

"Bring me Salvador's transcription of my meetings with Baron Sinclair, and after your evening prayers, please join me here. I must dictate a letter to the queen."

His enthusiasm faded. He picked at the stitching on his tunic. "Is the feud settled? Are we to leave Scotland soon?"

Leaving Scotland was the last in a natural progression of events. Miriam always knew she would leave when her work here was done, but she hadn't counted on falling in love with a mysterious rake who claimed to be a ghost. She hadn't counted on loving Scotland so much, either.

Seeing Saladin so apprehensive about her decision gave Miriam pause. "Don't you want to? We'll go to Bath. You love the jelly shops and searching the ruins for old daggers."

Not looking up, he said, "There are ruins here. The earl offered to take Malcolm and me exploring at Hadrian's Wall."

Miriam had done some exploring of her own at the wall, and thinking about her erotic discoveries brought a lightness to her stomach. "You'll have time for your excursion before we leave. I promise."

That made him smile. "Thank you, my lady. Until after my evening prayers." He dashed through the door.

Moments later, her hair in a single braid, Miriam donned her fencing habit, chose her favorite foil, and went to the tilt yard in search of the earl of Kildalton.

She found him spread-eagled and face down in the dirt, his sword blade a broken stub, his shield rolling like a wheel toward the castle gates. The burly soldier Angus MacDodd was bending over him.

A dozen kilt-clad soldiers stood nearby, and closer to the wall, a group of castlefolk crowded around the tinker's wagon. Children tossed a leather ball in the yard. No one seemed interested that the laird had fallen; they all watched Miriam.

Suspicion made her alert. It seemed as if they were waiting. But for what?

A bold clansman stared pointedly at her legs, then winked. Miriam relaxed. They weren't staring for any secret reason or waiting for anything. They couldn't know she was about to take their laird to task. They were simply shocked by her leather breeches and vest.

Decked out in boots, tight-fitting hose, and a short leather jerkin over a mail shirt, the earl looked more like a real warrior than a niddering poltroon who favored brook trout to women, as the Border Lord had called him. Like a second skin, the hose molded his muscular thighs, cupped his taut buttocks, and outlined his manly sacs. With her newfound knowledge of male anatomy, she couldn't help comparing him to the generously endowed Border Lord. She found the earl wanting.

But she'd underestimated Duncan Kerr, given him the benefit of the doubt. She wouldn't do so again. Her greatest challenge lay in keeping her temper in check.

That's why she'd chosen to face him with a foil in her hand. The distraction of a contest would take the edge off her anger. It would also teach him a lesson about telling the truth and trusting.

"What's happened here?" she demanded.

Angus flipped up the visor on his helmet. Sweat dripped from his nose. He glanced at her, then patted the earl's back. "My lord, how are you?"

"Chipper as a spawning salmon," came the muffled reply.

"Are you hurt?" the soldier asked.

The earl groaned and struggled to a sitting position. "Only my pride, Angus. 'Twas a devil of a blow you dealt. Teach me that move next or at least a decent defense. Lord, this soldiering taxes a body."

"You're making excellent progress, my lord," said Angus.

With a gauntleted hand, the earl raised his visor. His spectacles tumbled to the ground. A mail coif covered his hair and framed his face, which was coated in dust and sweat. He squinted up at Miriam. "Who's that? Is it the new lad from Lanarkshire?"

Although innocently spoken, his mistake touched off a blaze in Miriam. She wanted to stomp her foot and smash his corrective glasses. She wanted to rail at him for being the uncooperative oaf he was. Her own integrity as a diplomat stopped her.

She slid the rebated tip of her foil under the nosepiece and offered him the spectacles. "No, my lord. 'Tis Miriam MacDonald."

"Oh, well! Pardon my ghastly manners." Fumbling to remove the gauntlets, he snatched the glasses, which were slightly bent and very dusty; then he blew the dirt from the lenses and made a clumsy job of working through the helmet and coif to fit the crooked frames on his nose. Blinking, he studied her from head to toe. "That's a striking costume, my lady. Most becoming."

He looked so unusual, a knight garbed for battle, yet wearing thick spectacles and spouting compliments, that she felt a twinge of pity for him. "You needn't resort to flattery, my lord," she said. "I find this attire quite comfortable, when I'm in the mood to fence."

Angus held out a hand and helped the earl to his feet. "If you'll excuse me, my lord—my lady. I'll have the blacksmith repair your sword." He clicked his heels and marched off.

Shaking his finger at her, the earl said, "I thought we'd agreed you would call me Duncan."

"That was before I visited your neighbor."

" 'Tis another of his crimes then."

His bitterness puzzled her. "Why do you say that?"

"I thought we were becoming friends, you and I."

The sentiment first pleased then angered her. "Friends don't lie to each other."

"Speaking of liars—how was the baron?"

If he was being snide, she could match him in that. "Your father-in-law is fine. He sends you his best."

"Ha! Sinclair's my former stepfather-in-law, and the only thing he can send me is that herd of spotted cattle he stole. I spent a fortune on the beasts."

His aggression surprised Miriam. The Border Lord had defended him in the matter of the cattle. The baron had known nothing about a herd of spotted cattle. Where were the beasts? Later she would ask to see the earl's receipt for the animals. Then she'd find the damned herd and discover who had stolen them in the first place. "You should have told me you married his stepdaughter."

"I thought you knew I married Roxanne. You know everything else about me."

At Sinclair's, the duchess of Perth had said the earl had changed, grown bold. She'd been eager to tell Miriam stories about Duncan's ruthless father. But Duncan himself remained a puzzle to Miriam. "Quite the contrary, my lord. I don't know you at all. Would you care to fence?"

"No, I wouldn't, Miriam," he said. "Bad eyes and all that. But I'll wager you'd like to best me at it."

So much for teaching him a lesson. Still she was taken aback because he'd read her intent. "Why do you think that?"

"Because." He whacked the gauntlets against his jerkin. Dust clouded around him. "I think you're angry with me, and I worry the people of Kildalton will suffer for it. After you make me suffer."

Miriam's thoughts scattered, emotion playing havoc with logic, duty squaring off against discretion. Beyond her personal war, she heard the soldiers speaking among themselves. From the outer bailey came the ringing of a sheep's bell and the high-pitched bleating
of
hungry lambs. Children squealed and laughed and boasted in the language of her youth.

Feeling exposed and confused, she said, "You
are
different. You seem more forceful and you've developed a burr in your speech. You've changed."

He started, stared at her legs. "You have, too." Then he laughed. "The duchess of Perth said the same about me. Angus swears 'tis the soldiering. Mrs. Elliott believes a bad ham is at the root of it. Malcolm says 'tis time and past."

To Miriam, he seemed at ease and surprisingly appealing in his knightly garb. For lack of anything else to say, she asked, "What do you think brought about the change in you?"

He tucked the gauntlets into his sword belt and held out his arm. "I think… we should discuss it over a barrel of beer. I'm fair parched. I also ache in unmentionable places. What say you, Miriam?"

The invitation, delivered with such charm and honesty, dissolved her confusion and reminded her of the first rule of successful negotiation: both parties thought their causes just and their actions necessary. It was up to her to find a workable medium. Her own objectivity was the key.

"What a splendid idea." She laid her hand on his mail-clad arm. The metal felt warm against her palm, the muscles beneath well formed. The soldiering had honed his strength.

As they started across the yard, he limped. "Have you hurt yourself?" she asked.

He looked down. His mouth turned up in a smile, and behind the lenses his eyes appeared dreamy, unfocused. "Too much exercise in the wee hours of the morning," he said.

The soldiers disbursed. The tinker expounded on his wares. Hands clasped, the children skipped in a ring, caroling a tune about the escapades of Mrs. MacKenzie's mischievous cat. Miriam seemed to coast through it all, her body reminding her of the extraordinary way
she'd
passed the night, her heart yearning for a repeat of her tryst with the Border Lord.

Once inside the castle, the earl said, "If you'll excuse me, I'll shed this heavy garb and ask Mrs. Elliott to serve us in my study."

The statement triggered Miriam's curiosity. "How did you know I'd welcome breakfast in my room this morning?"

"Oh, that." He waved his hand. "When Lady Alexis arrived with Salvador yesterday evening, she said you'd been detained. This morning when I went to remind the guards to look out for the peacock man, I was told you didn't get in until nearly dawn. I thought you'd be hungry." Glancing at the door, he shook his head. "I do hope he arrives soon with those birds."

"But I thought you never rose before noon?"

He squared his shoulders. The jerkin grew taut across his chest. "'Tis my new schedule. I was wide awake and vigorously exercising this morning. I prefer it in the morning, don't you?"

He seemed excited, and genuinely interested in her opinion. She hoped he would cooperate fully after all. "With me, it's when I have the time to exercise and if it's appropriate."

He made a slow inspection of her legs. "Yes, I can understand. Of course I'm equally agreeable to nighttime. That's very appropriate. Now that I'm in training, I must rise with the dawn. According to Angus, that's the first commandment of soldiering."

Charmed, she said, "What's the second?"

He chuckled, sweat streaming off his brow. "Ah. That's the pleasant one: chivalry toward the weaker sex."

Let him think she was weak; most men did. They all regretted it. "Do you follow all of the commandments?"

"A novice must, and to the letter!" He made an elaborate bow. The visor slammed shut. The gauntlets plopped to the floor. Scooping them up, he said, "I'd best get out of this contraption before I hurt myself or break the furniture."

In the interest of good relations, she touched the foil to her forehead. "I'll wait in your study."

"I won't be long." Duncan fumbled as he collected his gear, giving her time to head down the narrow hallway. Her bottom swayed deliriously in the snug-fitting leather breeches. Her slender legs carried her with fluid grace. In the wee hours, he'd cupped her naked buttocks in his hands, felt her thighs clutch his waist. From top to bottom, her skin felt as smooth as a baby's cheeks.

Baby. The word jolted him out of his lustful observation and sent him hobbling in the direction of the kitchen. The thought of siring another child, and with Miriam MacDonald, both excited and troubled him. He'd done well enough so far in his attempt to temper the earl's cowardly bumbling and become the gallant knight she favored. He'd wanted to broach with her the subject of conception, but how could he, when he wanted her to believe the Border Lord a ghost? She might even believe the fantasy, but not if she were carrying her lover's child.

Still, when they were belly to belly and giving each other the pleasure of a lifetime, he couldn't bring himself to withdraw from her. A selfish part of him wanted her to conceive. Then as the earl, he could do the noble thing and offer to wed her. But as his wife, she'd find out everything about him. She'd be angry and feel betrayed. She might side with the baron out of spite. Duncan would lose Malcolm.

If she refused his proposal, she'd have to marry someone else. Duncan's unborn child would belong to another man.

Either choice was unthinkable. Only one fact remained: he wanted her with the zest and fervor of a youngling lapping up his first taste of passion. He'd have her again tonight, too. He'd bring a bone to distract the sleuthhound, and enter her room through the wardrobe. Then he'd strip naked and crawl into bed beside her—