Border Lord (35 page)

The sleuthhound sprang to her feet and trotted to the wardrobe, where she whined and held up a paw.

"No, Verbatim. 'Tis not time for a walk. I told you to search the room."

As if confused, the dog cocked her head and whined again.

"Oh, go back to sleep," Miriam grumbled. Then she fluffed her pillow and followed her own advice.

A bar of winter sunlight fell over the carpeted floor when next she awakened. Out of habit, she glanced toward the door and smiled when she saw a familiar scrap of paper. Out of propriety, she stifled a laugh when she joined Saladin and Malcolm at the breakfast table.

Resplendent in a blue velvet suit with a length of lace tied at his neck and draping his shoulders, Malcolm had used ashes to sketch a mustache and pointed beard on his face. To complete his imitation of Charles I, he wore a parchment crown and pitched scraps of bread to a pack of terriers.

"Good morning, Your Majesty. I trust you've fully recovered." Miriam curtsied and sat at the bench across from Saladin.

Malcolm piped, "I still got my head too, for now."

"What delightful pets." Saladin snickered. Miriam stifled a laugh.

"They're supposed to be cavalier spaniels." He nodded regally, flipping the tip of the lace collar into his porridge and toppling his crown. The dogs snapped up the paper creation and, in a frenzy of snarling and yapping, tore it to shreds.

Saladin rolled his eyes and went back to his breakfast of oatcakes, honey, and dried quinces. Miriam poured herself a glass of milk.

Mrs. Elliott dashed into the room. The normally composed housekeeper threw up her hands. Over the barking terriers, she said, "Master Malcolm! Take those dogs back to the kennel where they belong."

He surprised Miriam by gathering the dogs.

The harried housekeeper raked a loose strand of hair off her forehead. "I hope you don't mind bannocks and honey, my lady. I had planned to serve ham, but it's disappeared from the pantry."

"The Roundheads filched it!" declared the departing Malcolm. "Find that scurvy Cromwell and you'll find your ham."

She blew out her breath. "His lordship is inquiring now. He sends his regrets."

Miriam didn't see him until supper, when he informed her that a leg of braised mutton had evidently walked off the cooling rack in the kitchen. To Saladin's delight, they dined on cheese, bread, and barley soup.

After the meal Miriam took Verbatim for her evening walk. They returned to find Mrs. Elliott standing in the foyer. Tied at her waist was a heavy ring of keys Miriam hadn't seen before. She remembered the key she'd taken.

"His lordship would like to see you now, my lady. He's in his chamber." She pointed down the hall. "'Tis just past his study."

Miriam knew well the location of his private chamber; she'd searched it to find evidence that he was the Border Lord. In retrospect, the idea seemed foolish.

"Thank you." On the matter of the key, she took a direct approach. "Oh, Mrs. Elliott, I have the key to the tunnel door. 'Tis in my room."

"So that's where it got off to," she said, seemingly unsurprised. "We haven't locked doors here since I was milkmaid. Imagine someone at Kildalton stealing food." She patted Verbatim and added, "Sorry, girl. No bone for you tonight."

"I'll just fetch the key, then," Miriam said.

Duncan sat in the throne chair and stared at the door. What was keeping Miriam? If she didn't come soon, he'd botch the whole thing. He tapped his feet. Like an old ragged tartan, his courage began to fray.

When the knock came, he jumped. Then he gathered his gumption and straightened his backbone. "Come in."

She glided into the room, the sleuthhound at her side. The icy night wind had pinkened her cheeks and mussed her fiery hair. Dressed in a gown of pale green, she looked as fresh and as innocent as a maiden in spring. But Miriam MacDonald was no maiden, he'd seen to that right enough. Instinctively, he sought some sign of the child she carried. Her breasts swelled gently above the round neckline of the gown, her stomach was still flat where the waistline of the dress dropped to a point in front.

"Is something amiss, Duncan?" She fluffed out her skirts and examined the fabric. "Have I spilled soup on my gown?" She lifted a mass of curls from her neck. "Have I leaves in my hair?"

"Nay," he mused. "I was thinking how much you've changed since you came to Kildalton."

Tilting her head to the side, she smiled. "More than you know, Duncan."

Oh, he knew all of her secrets, and the knowledge made him bold. "Sit down, Miriam. I have something to tell you."

Attuned to his serious tone, she sat in the straight-backed chair facing him. The sleuthhound lay at her feet. "I'm listening."

He opened his mouth, but the words wouldn't come.

"We're friends, remember?"

He almost chuckled at that. He'd lain naked with her. He'd taken her maidenhead. He'd kissed her from head to toe. He'd tricked her into believing him a buffoon. He'd put his future in her hands. Fine qualities always show through, Angus had taught him. In times of trouble, the cream of a man's soul rises to the top.

"You'll feel better when you tell me," she coaxed, a confident twinkle in her eyes.

Guilt sapped his courage. "I doona think
you 'II
feel better, Miriam."

She looked him straight in the eye. "Have you lied to me?"

"Aye."

"Have you betrayed our friendship?"

She seemed fearless. Why not? She'd spent years facing clever kings and wily diplomats. "I canna say for certain, but it's debatable."

Her chin came up a notch. "Tell me."

Do it, his conscience demanded. "I'm the Border Lord."

She blinked, then put a hand over her mouth, and laughed.

Outrage nicked his pride. "Stop that."

"Oh, Duncan," she said behind her hand. "Forgive me… but 'tis so—so outrageous." Tears of mirth swam in her eyes.

Stunned, he pounded the arm of the throne. "Outrageous or no, 'tis true."

Between chortles, she said, "And I'm a Persian harem dancer."

Her flippant reply barreled through him like a razor-sharp dirk. "I'll prove it." From his sporran, he pulled a black scarf and tossed it in her lap.

Still sniffling, she dabbed the tears from her eyes. "Even Verbatim has one of these."

Determined, he leaned forward and drilled her with his coldest stare. "I nearly broke my neck climbing the castle wall that night you took the key and locked me out."

"Mrs. Elliott could have told you about the key a moment ago when I went upstairs to fetch it. Ian could have told you about that night in the garden. What did you really wish to tell me?"

He hadn't considered that she wouldn't believe him. "The truth, Miriam. I'm the Border Lord."

"That's the most preposterous thing I've ever heard." She laughed again, so hard her shoulders shook.

Growing desperate, he said, "I'll kiss you. That should be proof enough."

"Oh, Duncan." She stood. "I have no intention of kissing you. Come, Verbatim."

Completely lost, Duncan watched her leave. Cursing himself for a stupid fool, he decided to regroup.

The next morning Miriam hesitated before going down to breakfast. She still smiled when she thought about Duncan's confession. At one time she'd been certain he
was
the Border Lord. But no man could be in two places at once. His reasons baffled her, though. What did he stand to gain? No suitable answer came to mind.

She arrived at the table to learn that half of the meat pies the cook prepared and a full pail of milk had vanished from the pantry. Duncan didn't seem distressed over the news. From his spot at the head of the table, he made a solicitous query about her health and lamented over the small amount of milk she was served.

Throughout the meal he smiled too much and said too little. Until Saladin and Malcolm excused themselves. Over the rim of his tankard, he said, "Do you know my full name, Miriam?"

To verify the date of Malcolm's birth, she'd looked in the family Bible the day the baron had come to Kildalton. Out of respect for Duncan's privacy, she hadn't bothered to read the other entries. "Nay, I do not. Nor do I understand what difference it makes."

Looking every bit like the lord of the keep, he put down the mug and fetched the book. Standing over her, he put the volume in her lap. She stifled another bout of mirth and watched him turn the worn pages. "There," he said.

Searching the line above the tip of his finger, she read the name. Doubt trickled through her certainty.

"Read it aloud, Miriam."

The burr in his voice reminded her of stolen moments in dark places. Suddenly she
did
know, but the realization sent her mind spinning with questions. Why had he pretended? How could he have handed her the bloody tartan and feigned indifference when he knew her heart was breaking?

"Miriam?"

She needed time to think. He was either the lowest scoundrel or the biggest fool in the realm. Or was she the fool? Confusion and hurt forced her to say, "You're Duncan Andrew Ian Armstrong Kerr."

"Ian. The Border Lord."

Mustering more courage and patience than she'd needed the day the King of France propositioned her, she lifted his hand from the page and closed the book. Then she rose and faced him. "How splendid, Ian. You must tell me about the times you seduced your own governess and left heather on her pillow or the time you wooed the swineherd's grandmother."

His mouth formed a tight, white line. "Those were tales to hide my true identity."

She could see the truth of it now. The lies. The seduction. The bloody tartan. Her hands shook so badly she thought she might drop the book. Thank God for her years of training, but even experience would carry her only so far. She had to get away from him. "Clever tales they were. Well." She slapped the book against his chest. "If you'll excuse me."

She left him clutching the book, his mouth agape. Numb with shock, she walked up the stairs and into her room.

He'd worn spectacles. He'd put his shoes on the wrong feet. He lied from the moment she'd set foot in his ghastly castle. Only when she'd told him about trying to change the queen's mind had Duncan told her the truth.

A weight seemed to press her down. She leaned against the door and fought to keep the heartache at bay. How he must have laughed at her that morning at the swineherd's farm when he'd mocked the legend of the Border Lord. Fairy tales and romantic fiction bored him to tears, he'd said.

"The wretch!" She recalled his sly innuendoes on the morning after their meeting at Hadrian's Wall. "Too much exercise in the wee hours of the morning," he'd said. "I prefer it in the morning, don't you?"

Shame plunged her into despair. In the guise of a bumbling fool he'd ridiculed the love she'd given freely to a dark stranger. The passion-filled nights, the breathless whispers, the time in the tunnel when she'd confronted him.

"Me, Duncan Kerr?" Then he'd laughed and said, "I'm no niddering poltroon."

She thought of the day she'd told him about Glencoe. He'd comforted her. "What would your mother say about you being so sad, Miriam? She wouldn't want that, would she?"

Oh, God. He knew her every secret. Or did he? She touched her still flat stomach. He couldn't know about the child. His child. A child conceived in deception.

Poor baby, she thought. Poor me, she lamented.

She cringed. She was not some green laundry maid to be tricked by a smooth talking butler. She was Miriam Mac-Donald, a world-wise and intelligent woman. If he tried to sway her with seduction, she had just the keepsake to thwart him.

The moment she stepped into his study the next morning, Duncan knew he was in for trouble—her sweet smile, her glittering eyes, her confident air told him so.

She glided toward him, a vision in watered silk. The fabric rustled loudly as she perched on the edge of his desk.

"I've been thinking about what you told me, Duncan." Her hands fluttered with the grace of a butterfly. "I keep asking myself why you would confess to being the Border Lord."

Because I love you, he wanted to say and drop to his knees and beg her forgiveness. But somehow he knew if he showed any weakness she'd pounce on him like a cat on a fat, slow mouse. Aye. She wanted to toy awhile with her prey.

Resigned to his comeuppance, but determined to control the game, he put on a casual smile. "We're friends, Miriam. Do you believe me?"

She pursed her pretty lips and looked affronted. "I believe the part about our being friends. How could I not? We've shared much, you and I. After all, I told you about Glencoe."

A stab of guilt stole his breath. Why in bloody hell had she chosen to wear her hair loose, the shimmering, flame red waves falling over her shoulders and pooling on his desk. His fingers twitched with the urge to touch her silken curls, to peel off that frothy dress and kiss all of her pink spots. "I—uh—" Lust clogged his throat. He coughed to cover his discomfort. "I thought 'twas time we shared more."

She examined her fingernails. "I don't believe you're the Border Lord."

Slyly said, the statement sounded like a challenge. Well, he could be sly, too. "I wonder what I could say or do to convince you?"

"I've been perplexed by that very notion." Her gaze roamed his face before settling on his eyes. "The Border Lord knows things, I suppose."

Such as she loved him and carried his child. True, he'd acted like the most heartless of cavaliers, but damn her, she ought to forgive him. "What," he said, taking her hand and stroking her palm, "would you like to know?"

She gasped, but recovered her composure with a skill he'd witnessed and cursed a hundred times. "Where is Adrienne Birmingham?"

It was the last thing he'd expected her to ask. But leave it to Miriam to catch him off guard. He was thinking of romance. She was thinking about business. "She's in Barbados."

"Did you kidnap her?"

He laughed. "Hardly. I arranged for her and her lover, Charles, to settle in the islands. They're having a go at farming sugar cane."

"You could have accomplished her escape as Duncan Kerr. Adrienne stayed here when your wife died. You said you were friends with her. You didn't have to don a cape and disguise yourself. How did you manage the black hair?"