Border Lord (34 page)

"I cannot say I'm sorry he's here," said Duncan. "'Tis better done quickly, you ken?"

Was he ready to be rid of her? No, her heart cried. What will we do? Her mind demanded. We'll do what's expected of us. "Aye, I ken," she said. "Try not to worry."

His piercing gaze searched hers. "If you think I won't, Miriam MacDonald, then you've a wee bit to learn about me."

She had about a million things to learn about him. Pity she wouldn't get the chance. Her search for a husband must take precedence over friendship. If only he would marry her. She squelched the thought. A man of his noble stature would demand too great a dowry. "Trust me," she whispered.

On shaky legs, Duncan stepped from the sleigh. Trust her. He wanted to. Christ, he wanted to. Miriam MacDonald tempted him. Her confidence lured him. The woman herself captured his heart.

He grasped her around the waist and lowered her to the ground. Half his mind focused on the child she carried; the other half on the child upstairs. He escorted her up the main steps and stood transfixed by fear as she accepted the leather pouch. Duncan fought the urge to rip it out of her hands. Instead, he said, "I'll be waiting in my study."

He watched her enter the castle and disappear up the stairs, the sleuthhound at her side. After asking Mrs. Elliott to see to the comfort of the herald, Duncan made his way to his study, poured himself a brandy, and sat before the fire.

He'd known the queen's messenger was coming. He'd agonized over the herald's arrival. But out of consideration for Miriam, he'd hidden his concern. She hadn't suspected that his generosity in offering to walk the sleuthhound had been a guise. Every morning, the dog at his side, he'd gone to Alexander Lindsay and reminded the soldier to keep a sharp lookout for the herald.

Duncan searched his soul for regrets, for mistakes in his actions toward Sinclair, but even given the chance to relive the last ten years, he could think of nothing he would have changed. Within the bounds of his own good conscience, he'd acted reasonably. He'd never taken a life. In the same circumstances, his father would have cut a bloody swath through the villages of Sinclair and left with the baron's head on a pike. For a decade, Duncan had fought the demons of his upbringing and stretched his patience to the breaking point. Not once had he forsaken his principles. True, he'd resurrected the legend of the Border Lord to reclaim his property. Yes, he'd frightened English tenants. But never had he considered raising the quarrel to bloodshed.

For hours, he wrestled with the events of his past and brooded over his uncertain future with the woman upstairs. He wanted to tell her the truth, that he'd seduced her as the Border Lord and tricked her as Duncan Kerr. He wanted to confess that in either role he loved her to distraction, would love her always, even if the queen took away his son. But if he told Miriam now, she might react in anger. He couldn't jeopardize Malcolm's future. He couldn't bear the thought of losing her.

Weary, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

A mist swirled around him, concealing him and his hiding place. "Come out, Duncan." He heard his father yell.

"You'll learn to wield a broadsword, and you'll learn now, laddie. Or I swear by Saint Columba, I'll blister your buttocks. You'll not walk for a fortnight."

The tramp of booted feet came closer. "Come here, Duncan," growled the voice of Kenneth Kerr. "Or you'll never see your son again."

"Duncan?"

The sound of her voice jarred him awake. A dream. It had only been a nightmare. Kenneth Kerr was dead. He couldn't touch Malcolm.

"Duncan?"

Miriam stood over him, a worried frown scoring her forehead, exhaustion dulling the luster in her eyes. Behind her, the windows glared like blackened doors. He wanted to reach out for her, to comfort and be comforted in return. Not yet.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Four o'clock in the morning."

Shaking off sleep, he stretched and got to his feet. "Are you all right? Have you been up all this time?"

"I'm fine. I had work to do." She studied her hands. "I don't require as much sleep as other people."

He thought about the child she carried. "You should rest."

"I'm leaving for Baron Sinclair's as soon as it's light."

Duncan couldn't bring himself to ask what the queen had said, not when Miriam hadn't had any sleep, not when the coward inside him snatched his courage, not when he wanted to hold her, love her until she cried out his name and agreed to become his wife.

But she wouldn't call out the name he wanted to hear. She'd call out for her lover, Ian. "Miriam…"

"Sit down, Duncan."

Her businesslike mien and the ominous tone of her voice rattled his fears to life and sapped his strength. He plopped down in the chair. "What did the queen write to you?"

She began to pace. "I don't often make friends of the… of the people I'm sent to… to negotiate with. You ken?"

Her hesitation tied his gut into knots. Love for her was tearing him to pieces. Where in hell did she get so much strength? "Aye, lassie. I ken."

"As your friend, I will do my best to sway the queen. But as a servant of the crown I can go only so far."

Oh, God
. Anne had ruled against him. "Why did she decide to enforce the codicil to Roxanne's will and let the baron foster my son?"

Anguish flickered in her eyes. "Please don't ask."

A life of now-meaningless struggles lay behind him. He'd wasted his time fighting the demons of his blood. "She thinks I'm like my father."

In a pool of pale gray wool, Miriam knelt beside his chair. "I'll find a way to prove you're nothing like Kenneth Kerr."

Crestfallen, Duncan took her hand. Her skin was icy cold. Was her heart the same? He had to warm her. "I'm worried about you, Miriam. You're chilled. You're exhausted." He longed to say, you're pregnant with our child. But he couldn't. Not yet. So he did his best. "I'll go with you to Sinclair's."

"Thank you, but no."

"What will you do there?"

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Reluctantly, she said, "I'm really very good at negotiating, especially with hard evidence. That's what I'll look for."

"Evidence against the baron?"

"Yes. I'll also decline the marriage offer and attend the ball in your honor. You stay with Malcolm."

Did she always work so hard? Taking her other hand, he rubbed them both. He studied her closely, but she so expertly masked her feelings, he saw only her serene beauty, her strength of character. How could he hope to make a life with her if he couldn't see what she was thinking? He looked deeper into her eyes, behind the intelligence, past the intense concentration. "You might need me more."

"Thank you, but no." She sighed and closed her eyes. But in that brief instant he saw vulnerability and affection.

It gave him hope. He said, "Malcolm's a sturdy lad, and healing well."

Her lips curled in a practiced smile, but no humor reached her eyes. "Then he'll need your company all the more." Quietly she added, "Saladin and Mr. Givins must go with me."

Frustration made him clutch her hands tightly. "I canna sit back and make flippity-flops while you ruin my son's future."

She didn't wince, but a softening of her expression told him she understood. "An interesting predicament, since I'm accustomed to working alone and with great success."

She'd probably done too many things alone in her life. Duncan intended to change that and much more. "You'll be afraid in the snow. I'll send a guard with you."

She lifted her chin. "I would appreciate an escort."

He recalled the night long ago when she'd rescued the lost Mary Elizabeth and returned in triumph. The people of Kildalton had taken her to their hearts. In the alehouse, the patrons had amended the drinking songs in honor of her bravery. Mrs. Elliott had lectured him on the dangers of deceit. Angus had advised him to move cautiously with Miriam.

"None of my men can drive the sleigh."

"Duncan, I can drive it as well as I drive a carriage."

Thwarted, and angry because he felt her slipping away, he demanded, "Is there anything you don't do well?"

She gave him an enchanting smile. "'Twould take a lifetime to confess all of my shortcomings." She pulled her hands free and stood.

Duncan watched her go, her head held high, her shoulders squared, his child in her belly, his fate in her hands.

A torturous three days later, she returned.

Duncan stared, stupefied at what she'd brought with her.

Miriam's hands and fingers cramped from gripping the reins and controlling the huge horses. Beyond the physical discomfort of the journey, she felt torn by conflicting emotions. As she guided the sleigh through the gates of Kildalton, a bittersweet sense of homecoming lifted her spirits. But her heart ached for the sight of the Border Lord.

At their first meeting he'd sworn she could never bring the earl and the baron to accord, not while both men lived. She'd proved him wrong; yet he'd been the one to die.

Grief diluted her pride and her sense of accomplishment. Loneliness crept in. Following a ritual she'd devised of late to chase the doldrums away, she found strength in happy thoughts of the babe she carried. One day she might bring her child to the Borders.

The eerie silence in the castle yard snatched her attention. At one time she'd passed through these gates and received a hero's welcome for rescuing a little lost girl. Now, the people of Kildalton milled about in small groups and cast worried glances her way. Only the children waved. When the black-smith's son called out to Verbatim and made a move toward the hound, his father stopped him with a stern command.

Miriam eased back on the reins. The sleigh skidded to a halt, jostling the unusual cargo. The caged badger hissed a protest. Bleating in alarm, the lamb poked his head from beneath the furs and stared with sightless eyes. Alpin's creatures.

The double doors of the castle opened. Duncan emerged, his shoulder-length fair hair rustling in the crisp winter breeze, his eyes filled with eagerness and fastened on Miriam. Mrs. Elliott stood stoically behind him, her hands clasped.

He started down the steps, tension lending dignity to his noble bearing. Originally, he'd stumbled and appeared ill at ease with the world. Today he looked as if he owned it. Bully for him, she thought, for if the queen rejected Miriam's latest plea, he'd need all the confidence he could muster.

Alexander Lindsay helped Miriam from the sleigh. Saladin dismounted and came to her side.

His fists clenched, his intense gaze still riveted
to
her, Duncan said, "What happened?"

Exhaustion seeped into her bones, disappointment her soul. The diplomat who'd labored on his behalf now rebelled at his insensitivity. The foolish woman who'd let friendship influence her judgment suddenly cringed at his indifference. She'd only been gone three days, but evidently long enough to make him forget the closeness they'd shared. "Could we go inside, my lord?" she said. "I'm cold, and I'd like to sit on something that doesn't slip and slide beneath me."

His expression softened. "Of course you would, and I'm a sorry, selfish Scotsman." He took her hand and led her up the stairs. "I'm very glad to see you, Miriam."

"My lady…" said Saladin. "What shall we do with the animals?"

The earl turned and stared in confusion at the sleigh. Then his eyebrows shot up and his mouth parted. "What are you doing with Alpin's menagerie?"

Miriam wondered how he'd known about Alpin's creatures, but the question seemed both insignificant and inappropriate. Pulling off her gloves, she said, "She asked me to care for them. She's convinced God's Night Angel will spirit her away from Baron Sinclair."

"Her Night Angel… ?" Then as if he understood or was distracted, he nodded. "Alexander, take them to the stable and ask the farrier to look after them. And bring him the other horse, too." To Saladin, he said, "Make yourself at home, lad."

Inside the castle, he guided Miriam to his study, then knelt before the hearth and began stoking the coals. She stood beside him, rubbing her hands until her skin tingled, and wondering what she should say first. Staring down at him, she could see his anxiety in the stiff set of his shoulders, in the way he snatched up clods of peat and tossed them on the andiron. The muscles in his thighs bulged, stretching his leather breeches as tight as a second skin. She thought of another man, a dark stranger with powerful thighs and arms strong enough to pin her to a tunnel wall.

Melancholy tightened her chest. She banished thoughts of her dead lover; she had a lifetime to think about Ian. Today she must concentrate on Duncan Kerr. Experience cautioned her to speak formally. Affection for him counseled her otherwise. She chose a little of both. "The herald is on his way to London. I submitted new evidence to the queen. Within a fortnight we should know her mind. Alexis will bring her ruling. Angus and John Hume will accompany her."

He gripped a square of peat so tightly it crumbled. "So, I'm to endure another two weeks of torture."

She almost said, I'll be here with you, but then he murmured, "I doona think my life or my household will ever be normal again."

He was probably referring to her presence and anticipating her departure. Why shouldn't he? Since the day she had arrived, his time hadn't been his own. Against her better judgment, she said, "I'm very confident, my lord."

He looked up, relief glimmering in his eyes. "Why have you stopped calling me Duncan?"

Her mouth went desert dry, and she tried but failed to remember the gist of the conversation. "I assure you. 'Twas an oversight on my part. I must have gotten lost in the circumstances—"

"No rhetoric, Miriam." He dropped the fire iron and stood. "A simple answer, if you please. Why won't you call me Duncan?"

He seemed so forthright and determined, so different from the bumbling earl with feathery lures hooked on his coat and thick spectacles on his nose. But she'd changed, too, since their first meeting. "I thought you would prefer formality."

"What I would prefer," he said, taking her arm and leading her to a chair, "is to raise my son in peace, and to hear you call me Duncan again when you explain about this new evidence and tell me what I can expect from the queen."

She settled in the chair and felt the strain ease in her back. "I found proof that the baron has raided your land. Some of your spotted cattle were penned near his slaughterhouse. I confronted him. He claimed ignorance of the situation. He also set free the two men he promised to turn over to the magistrate. I've ordered him to return what's left of your herd. I'm sorry about the others."

Taking the facing chair, Duncan leaned forward, his arms rested on his knees. "They can be replaced. But what were you doing in a slaughterhouse?"

The loose lacings at the neck of his chamois shirt exposed his throat and offered a view of the curly golden hair that covered his chest. "I was following Verbatim. She actually found them."

"How?"

"'Twas the footstool in Sinclair's library. It was upholstered in a spotted hide."

Duncan's grin made her self-conscious, but she couldn't look away. "You remembered about my cattle," he said.

"Aye."

"Remind me of the beasts if I ever again complain about your memory." He patted her hand. "What else happened?"

Matching his congeniality, Miriam lounged in the chair and stretched her feet toward the fire. "I discovered his destruction of Hadrian's Wall and reported it to the queen."

"Thank you. 'Tis a significant and irreplaceable piece of English history."

Abashed because she hadn't considered the historic value of the wall, Miriam murmured, "'Tis also on Kildalton land."

He chuckled. "Oh, I see. Your reasoning doesna matter, so long as the wall is safe. But what makes you so confident the queen will change her mind?"

He needn't know about Miriam's bargain with the queen or how much she'd learned from him about the cruelty of prejudice and the destruction of carrying a grudge. Or did he? She studied his face, his open expression of honesty, and his handsomeness, marred only by worry over the future of his son.

"Please," he said softly, resting his chin in his palm. "Tell me."

She took a deep breath. "You made me see the unfairness in bringing to justice the people who murdered my parents."

Surprise smoothed out the creases on his forehead. "Me?"

The words formed easily. "Yes. For many years I've begged the queen to punish the Glenlyon Campbells for what they did to my family. She always refused. The last time, she grew so angry…" Embarrassment over her behavior that day stopped Miriam.

"She banished you to the Border," he said with a knowing glint in his eyes.

Miriam felt a burden lift, a burden she hadn't even realized she'd been carrying. "Yes. You're a victim of your father's crimes, same as the children of the Glenlyon Campbells will become scapegoats for their parents' villainy. Those men who took my parents' lives, they're old now. I like to think they've suffered all these years."

"You certainly have."

"No more. I've explained my feelings to Her Majesty. I think she'll see the parallel between your life and mine and agree that you're a good man, Duncan Kerr."

His eyes misted over. "I don't know what to say."

Warmed to her heart, Miriam smiled. "You needn't say anything—not yet, for I also told the queen what you said about letting Malcolm develop his own friendship with the baron. I expect she'll admire you for that. I also told her about Malcolm's new castle."

He nearly choked. "Castle? I can't afford another castle. I commissioned a modest manor house."

With the difficult part of the conversation behind her, Miriam sought to lighten his mood. "Oh, but I assured her you wouldn't hear of skimping on the place. I envisioned a moat, a brass-studded drawbridge, modern plumbing— even a fully equipped stable and spacious accommodations for the mail coach." At his pained expression, she added, "Did I mention the church with stained glass windows and padded velvet pews? Or the furnished parsonage with window boxes and a vegetable garden?"

His eyes narrowed and he wagged a finger at her. "You're joking, Miriam."

She was, but with the humor came the sad realization that she'd probably never see Malcolm's second home or ever learn if as an adult he made a friend of Baron Sinclair.

Sometime after midnight she awoke, and as she stared at the glowing coals in the fireplace, she again felt a presence nearby. Verbatim lay curled before the hearth. The wardrobe doors stood open, the drapes closed. Nothing was amiss. When the feeling persisted, Miriam called to the dog. "Search, girl," she said.