Border Lord (6 page)

"Did he also fight with Baron Sinclair?"

Duncan wondered if she practiced that smile in a mirror. Was she attempting to distract him? Or trick him with wily questions?

Answers would have to wait, for Duncan needed to keep his wits about him. Wits! He almost laughed out loud; he was supposed to be witless. "Also? You don't think I'd sink to the baron's level? Heaven forbid. Violence brings on the grippe. I prefer fishing, but then you know that. Did I ever tell you about the boot I mistook for a salmon?" He twisted his face into a self-effacing grin. "Bent my hook and destroyed one of my most valuable lures. I call it the spangle-dangle. Took me a whole day to make another."

"How clever of you to name them."

She stared at the horses, but Duncan knew she wasn't thinking about the grays. He'd trade all the salt in Kildalton for a peek at her thoughts.

"Are you named for your father?" she asked.

Duncan spoke from the heart. "No. For the king MacBeth slew. My father was a rough Scotsman who embraced the clannish ways. A likable, bold chap, I suppose—if you favor that sort. They called him the Grand Reiver."

"He raided, then?"

"Until the eve of his death."

"How old were you when he died?"

He had expected her to ask personal questions. He just wished he could return the favor. He wanted to know why she'd never married. If she were betrothed? Was she the mistress of some well-fixed peer? Were her nipples pink, and did they pucker when suckled?

"If the subject makes you uncomfortable, my lord…"

Duncan marshaled his lustful thoughts. "Not at all, my lady. I was twenty and in Rome at the time." Sheepishly, he added, "I've always enjoyed studying the Romans. The aqueducts fed some of the finest trout streams in Italy."

"Ah yes. I'm curious," she said, toying with the leather lead. "Why does the baron accuse you of raiding?"

"Why, it's as obvious as the scales on a bass. He accuses me to cover his own ghastly crimes. Surely someone of your vast experience and knowledge understands that."

He might have been a spy lurking in her wardrobe, she eyed him with such suspicion. He almost chuckled, for that's exactly what he intended to become.

Sunlight turned her irises to sparkling gems of blue and gray, and her hair to golden fire. She powdered her face, he decided, for he could discern a faint spattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. How adorable. Perhaps he should powder his face too, or ask her what cosmetics she preferred. The carriage hit a bump. He turned his attention to driving the team and playing the fool.

"Where shall we visit first?" she asked.

Pretending spontaneity seemed a good tactic. "You've seen the MacLarens' croft—or what's left of it. Do you truly want to see the other farms Sinclair has burned? You'll muss your dress and dirty your hands."

"No. But I should like to meet a few of the farmers. Not, of course, that I don't believe you, Lord Duncan."

He should have expected the request. Considering her reputation for composing detailed trade agreements, Lady Miriam wouldn't take the pope's word for the date of Easter. Ah, but she was newly introduced to Duncan Kerr.

He almost laughed. "I should be flattered that you think me capable of subterfuge. Do you speak Scottish?"

"Aye. I'll be able to converse with the people." In his language, she said, "You hesitated before answering me. What were you really going to say?"

He loved playing verbal hide-and-seek with her. In English he said, "Oh, Lady Miriam. I fear you already think me foolish."

"If you don't tell me, I might think you're hiding something."

Duncan snatched an outrageous topic. "If you must know… I was wondering if dogs could be taught to fish."

She looked like a child tasting a lemon for the first time.

To keep from laughing, Duncan said, "I told you 'twas foolish. You'll forgive me, I'm sure. It's just that fishing is such a marvelous pastime. I'm always inspired to improve upon my technique. I'm a very progressive thinker, you know."

Skepticism lent an angelic quality to her features. God, did the woman never laugh?

"I'm sure," she murmured.

They visited two cattle farms and three shepherds. At every croft they were met first with cheers and then straight faces. Angus had done his job well. The women wailed of crimes committed by the baron. The men knotted their fists and called Sinclair names that would have made a lesser diplomat than Lady Miriam blush. Goodwives fawned over Duncan as if he were incapable of caring for himself. Everyone spoke of the dreadful twist of fate that required him to wear spectacles. He was proclaimed a saint, a savior, and a gentleman among men.

Blessed Scotland, his people were magnificent.

Except for Lettie Melville.

Later in the afternoon, they had stopped at the croft belonging to the Melvilles. Duncan had been pulled aside by Finlay, a wiry shepherd who had lost a hand while protecting his flock from Sinclair's raiders. As he listened to Finlay praise the sleuthhound, Duncan watched Miriam. She chatted amiably with Finlay's wife, Lettie, but her attention and her bewitching gray eyes constantly strayed to him.

"Oh yes," said Lady Miriam, as charming as Malcolm on the day before his birthday. "I understand Lord Duncan's lures are all the rage."

"Sure as the good Catholics eat fish on Friday, milady," said Lettie, bouncing her son on her knee. "Ladies come from as far as Aberdeen to get a taste of his 'lure.'"

"I beg your pardon," said Lady Miriam. "You mean they come to fish with him?"

Finlay burst out laughing.

Lettie huffed and said, "Oh, he's been known to hook a few ladies all right. All they suffers is a broken heart."

Miriam turned so fast that her shock of hair swung over her shoulder. The look she shot Duncan said, "You, a heartbreaker?"

If she were as easy to bed as she was to fool, they'd be buck naked and going at it like newlyweds. The image kindled a fire in Duncan. He pictured her languishing on his feather mattress, her glorious hair blanketing his pillow, her slender arms extended in invitation. His loins swelled with need.

It was time to get back to bamboozling her.

Once they returned to the carriage and headed toward Hadrian's Wall, she said, "You and Mr. Melville seemed to find much to whisper about."

As he had since the excursion began, Duncan discarded his natural response and thought of what a bumbling coward would do. He held his breath to make his face turn red.

"Don't be shy. Tell me about today's chat." That trouble line reappeared in her forehead. "Are you blushing?"

Tucking his cheek to his shoulder, Duncan did his best to look embarrassed. "Oh my. I couldn't possibly repeat it. 'Tisn't suitable conversation for a fine lady."

Her chin came up. "I'll be the judge of that."

Oh, she'd regret it, for Duncan relished her reaction. Would she blush in soft pink or red to match that enticing satin jerkin? Guilt stabbed him, for Duncan realized he liked her. Still, he had a role to play.

"Finlay wanted to send his bloodhound courting your Verbatim—when, uh, the time is right," Duncan blurted.

Surprise smoothed out her features, and her skin blossomed in an enchanting shade of pink. "I see."

A master actor in a play of his own creation, Duncan added, "I told you so. Now you'll think me crass, when I want more than anything to be cooperative." Almost more than anything; he wanted
her
cooperation in a very different matter.

She cleared her throat. "No, not at all. I did, as you say, ask for it. Thank you for your cooperation."

Duncan wondered if she ever had fun. He could make a vocation of entertaining her. But as diverting as the prospect might be, it was impossible, for he couldn't go on being the witless earl forever. Or could he?

Studying the landscape, she said, "Why are the farms smaller on your side of the wall?"

She recovered quickly, he'd give her that. Squinting, he peered over the rims of the spectacles. "A man can only work so much land—or so I'm told."

"But I've seen entire families working in the fields, both here and on the baron's land."

Were she truly knowledgeable about the baron, she wouldn't make such a statement. Unless, she'd only viewed his holdings from the London road. Those he kept prosperous, for show. Cautiously, Duncan said, "You know the man?"

She stared at the dog, who was chasing a hare. "He brought the complaint against you."

A hedge, if Duncan ever heard one. Could the renowned Lady Miriam of Her Majesty's diplomatic corps be so unprepared and uninformed? She hadn't known that the baron only arrived in the Border eight years ago; she'd asked if Duncan's father raided the baron. Duncan had to find out how much she knew. "Complaint?"

"I told you. Robbery, vandalism, kidnapping, and bodily injury."

Duncan decided to fish. He thought of Adrienne. "That's laughable. You do know that in June he offered one of his stepdaughters to the magistrate as an inducement to dismiss a charge I brought against him."

" 'Tis a father's obligation to arrange his daughter's marriage."

Happy thoughts of Adrienne carrying her first child made Duncan smile. "Unfortunately, the magistrate was already married at the time. A cruel trick to play on a well-bred girl."

Her eyes narrowed. A moment later, she said, "You were telling me what you know about the work ethic of the crofters."

What would it take to shock her? The Border Lord could find out. He tried to imagine the life she'd led, the experiences that could bring about such iron control. No wonder the queen praised and valued Miriam MacDonald. Why, then, had no one briefed her on the problems here? He'd find out, but he'd pick his time to ask, for Duncan had learned a thing or two about diplomacy himself.

"The crofters, my lord," she prompted.

The carriage clipped along at a brisk pace, wheels whirring, harnesses jingling. Fields sped by. "Sinclair works his poor families to the bone. But in Kildalton, the children don't work in the morning. They attend school."

Her gaze whipped to him. "All of them?"

"Most. I provide the school and the teacher—nothing elaborate, or so my steward tells me. But no one forces the children to attend. I like to think their favorite subject is nature study. Imagine a whole crop of youth learning about fish and fowl." He preened. "That was
my
idea."

She waved a gloved hand toward a field that had been plowed in stick-straight rows. "Yet the farms in Kildalton prosper."

He dare not tell her how hard he and his tenants worked to implement new farming techniques and try new crops. Instead, he chose a defensive stand. "None of the farms near the wall do as well as they should, because of Sinclair's vile raiding."

"Does the baron also provide a school?"

Duncan had to work at stifling his anger. He flipped the reins. Summoning nonchalance, he said, "I can't trouble myself with his agenda. I have my own interests. Do you know about the ruins near the wall? 'Tis a wondrous place the Romans built. I've been exploring there since I was a child."

Successful diplomacy required a certain amount of com-promise from all parties involved. Duncan waited, hoping she'd do her part.

"Then you must have had an interesting childhood."

Again he wondered about her life. To which MacDonald clan did she belong? Where had she grown up? But his role didn't allow for familiarity with the queen's minion. His next words tasted bitter. "Oh, a very interesting childhood."

Hadrian's Wall came into view. Guiding the team off the road, he steered them toward a bracken-infested vale that contained two stone walls and a well.

"Behold… the remains of Virgin's Gate," he said.

She stepped from the carriage and approached the well. Peering over the edge, she said, "Hello…"

Spoken into the well, the word sounded hollow, distant. Duncan didn't move from the carriage, for his eyes and his senses suddenly fixed on her slender ankles and shapely calves. Her hips were narrow, too, he suspected. Silently he begged her to bend over just a bit more.

The dog joined her, front paws braced on the lip of the well. "Listen, Verbatim." She spoke playfully, smiling at the dog. "There's an echo in there."

Tail swishing, her regal head cocked, the dog listened in rapt attention.

Duncan sneaked up behind them. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he said, "Woof."

The dog yelped and jumped back. A startled Lady Miriam froze. "Quite diverting, my lord. Go find something, Verbatim."

The dog lumbered off. The woman turned toward Duncan.

His breath caught. She looked the picture of feminine charm, an alluring virgin. Or was she? The Border Lord would find out.

God, he wanted her.

"Tell me about the well."

She wanted to know about a stupid well.

His groin aching, Duncan didn't have to pretend to stumble on the rocky ground. In a voice pinched by longing, he said, "It was built in
a.d.
120, but destroyed twenty years later."

"Who destroyed it and who fixed it?" She eyed the structure.

Duncan eyed her. "The Scots destroyed it. An engineer named Severus rebuilt it. This was a fort once. The Roman soldiers brought their families."

He dragged her along, showing her the spots where he'd found treasures, and laughing over the rubbish he'd carted home. She listened intently, even sifted through rubble for a treasure of her own—the handle to a teacup.

"Once," he said, sitting on the lip of the well and drawing her beside him, "after scavenging for the better part of a morning, I found what I knew to be a priceless vase belonging to old Hadrian himself. I was eight, as I recall, and destined for what I knew would be international acclaim." He chuckled so hard, his shoulders shook. "I hauled the heavy thing home and spent days cleaning it up. Only to discover that it was a chamber pot from a pottery concern in Worcester."

She tilted her head. The sun sparkled in her eyes, which were soft with concern. "How can you laugh?"

How could he reply without tripping himself up? He'd let down his guard and stepped onto dangerous ground.