Border Lord Page 8

  He stepped away from her. "'Tis a pity. For squabbles between Englishmen and Scots are a way of life here. I promise you this, lassie. You'll grow old and frustrated trying to solve them." He touched the brim of his hat and started walking away. "Lang mae yer lum reek."

  The wish for good fortune, spoken in the beautiful language of her youth, snared her heart. The sound of retreating footsteps filled her with despair. She reached out to him. "Wait."

  Quick as a cat, he turned and grasped her hand. "What is it?"

  "I can't bear for you to go yet."

  "I'll stay, but for one purpose." He pulled her toward him and whispered, "This."

  He surrounded her, a dark visage offering a haven of light. He smelled of a lush forest, unexplored and precious in its isolation. She sought shelter there and found herself welcomed and comforted by sweet Scottish words, then enticing her to cast off her worldly cares and languish in his arms.

  When his lips touched hers, Miriam gave herself up to the desperation he inspired, and plunged heart first toward the fulfillment he promised.

  "One touch of your honeyed lips," he murmured, "could drive a man to madness."

  Endless nights of girlish dreams came brilliantly to life. Dizzy with desire, she pressed forward, cupping her hands to his strong jaw, feeling the muscles stretch when his mouth opened wide and his tongue shot forth to pillage her senses and sharpen her need. Like a primitive dance done 'round a roaring fire and to the beat of an ancient drum, the kiss evolved into a basic awareness that knocked on the door of her soul. She shuddered beneath an onslaught of feelings so simplistic in nature that give extended to take, want embraced need, sustenance obliterated hunger, and warmth banished cold.

  Then her body spoke of a different need, and he answered with hands that caressed, lifted and shaped her hips into a cradle. He nestled himself there, rocking against her in a rhythmic motion that sent a spiral of wanting to her belly. Wild with the urge to touch and know, her hands roamed his face, her fingers encountering the sheared beaver of his hat, then sending it flying.

  He stiffened and dragged his mouth from hers. Into the silence of the night burst the labored rasp of his breathing. Or was it hers? She opened her eyes, only to see him slide from her line of vision. Weakness drenched her bones. The night wind chilled her skin.

  With a muffled curse, he snatched up the hat and jammed it on his head. In a strained voice, thick with the burr of Scotland, he said, "That's a fair bit of socializing."

  "From you, too."

  He turned to go.

  The garden door swung open. He stood in the shadow of the wall, the hat pulled low over his brow, his gloved hand curled around the aged wooden portal. She felt compelled to utter some meaningful, poignant phrase that he would carry with him, that would imprint on his heart the memory of a woman who'd never forget him.

  With heartbreaking honesty she realized that outside the rhetoric of diplomacy she had no talent for the romantic. The knowledge saddened her. "Will I see you again?" she asked.

  Without turning back, he said, "You haven't seen me the first time, yet."

  "How will I know you? 'Tis so dark I don't know what you look like."

  "You'll know me. You know my terms: No questions about the feud. Have you the courage and the time to meet them?"

  Suddenly time became a commodity she possessed in abundance. Information was what she lacked. Gleaning it was her forte. Again she reached out to him. "Oh, but I do have the time. I'm thinking of wintering here."

  He lifted his head. The murky moonlight wreathed his hat in a silvery patina. "Saint Ninian help us, then."

  In a swirl of inky shadows, he moved through the gate. His resigned prayer hung in her mind and mingled with the sweet remembrance of his embrace.

  Her arm fell to her side. A cold canine nose nudged her palm. "Well, you certainly took a liking to him."

  Verbatim sat back on her haunches and extended a paw.

  As Miriam made her way back to her chamber, she couldn't dispel the image of the dark, intriguing stranger. As she undressed in the privacy of her room, she could still feel his eyes on her, still remembered the gentle touch of his hands, relived again and again the soft insistence of his lips. Even as she slipped beneath covers, she felt the comfort of his embrace. And as she closed her eyes, the echo of his hearty laughter and the memory of his bold seduction made a mockery of her attempts at sleep.

  Gleaning information from the Border Lord would be difficult, for he would try to seduce her in return. Wintering in the Borders suddenly represented a challenge she welcomed. Smiling, Miriam drifted at last to sleep.

  Cursing, Duncan stomped into the stables. Horses nickered and poked their heads out of the stalls. Even the greeting of his favorite mount failed to deter him on his quest for sanctuary.

  He passed the tack room, rife with the aroma of old leather and new manure. He stopped at the base of a darkened stairway.

  As a child he'd walked this route countless times, some days with pride swelling his chest and a Roman treasure in his hands. Other days he'd come with tears in his eyes and welts on his legs.

  He'd come for reassurance on the night Malcolm was born. He'd come for solace on the day Roxanne had died. Tonight he came because Miriam disturbed his soul.

  He grasped the wooden railing and bounded up the narrow steps two at a time. A bar of light streamed beneath the door. With the slightest effort, Duncan pushed it open.

  Angus MacDodd sat at a desk, a bone-handled knife and whetstone in his hands. The spacious room served as both his private quarters and armory. Crossbows and pikes filled one long wall; shields bearing the Kerr sun and breastplates bearing the signature dents and scrapes of battle lined the other. Interspersed with the hoard of Kildalton's defense were the ancient treasures unearthed by an inquisitive lad. Pitted Roman lances, helmets shorn of their brushy plumes, and a tub of broken pottery served as a fitting foil for the devices of modern warfare.

  Angus put the tools aside and helped Duncan with his cape, "I take it she's more interesting than a gouty minor lord with an empty purse and a mind to match." He folded the garment and laid it in a trunk.

  Duncan swept off his hat and raked the scarf from his head. "Interesting?" He handed the clothing to Angus, who added them to the box. "She has a mind and a purpose to match Marcus Brutus."

  Angus grimaced, "I was hoping for the gentle disposition of a Claudius."

  Duncan peeled off his gloves, tossed them in with the rest of his disguise. He slammed the trunk. "She could devour him with a 'how do you do.'"

  Angus went back to the chair, the light shimmering in his red hair and beard, which were generously salted with gray. Even so, Duncan was reminded of another redhead.

  He must have scowled, for Angus said, "I take it she wasn't afraid of the Border Lord."

  "Afraid?" Duncan began to pace the room that had been a haven for as long as he could remember. "I woefully underestimated her, Angus."

  A smile and a knowing glint in merry brown eyes transformed a battle-hardened soldier into a trusted friend. "She's just a woman, lad."

  Visions soared in Duncan's mind. "Aye," he growled. "So was Boadicea, but she ran the Romans out of London. Our little diplomat has a tricky enough tongue and ample charms to send a man chasing after his own tail. I doona wonder now why she's never married. 'Tis as plain as the battered nose on the face of an Irishman."

  Angus put his foot on an empty chair and sent it sliding toward Duncan. "You should be happy she's not got marriage on her mind. Sit down."

  Duncan pulled the chair between his legs and sat with his arms resting over the back. The position eased the lingering ache in his groin. "It's what she does have on her mind that worries me. She's also cunning enough to make a man regret he'd ever set eyes on her."

  "You don't mean she found you out?"

  "Nay. She's just wily."

  "A challenge, then? An available challenge?"

  The understatement made Duncan smile
.

  "Good," Angus declared. "You need that. You spend too much of your life in the role of guardian. You deserve a comely diversion now and then. Nothing like a redhead to put a skip in a man's step."

  Anger subsided, leaving in its wake a determination that brought both excitement and caution to Duncan's soul. "Oh, aye. I need a comely diversion like I need another English neighbor."

  "She's still a Scot, and a MacDonald to boot. Is she from Skye?"

  Duncan wrung his hands. "I was too busy kissing her to ask."

  "So, the Border Lord has become a cavalier? Here." Angus pitched Duncan a towel. "You've lampblack smeared on your forehead."

  "Have I?" A genuine smile lightened Duncan's spirits. As he wiped the soot from his face, he related most of the details of the interlude, omitting her intimate touch and the pleasurable, erotic journey he'd made of it. The parting kiss was another matter altogether. Given time, he'd understand the tender feelings she inspired, but he'd do his soul-searching in private.

  "What will the Border Lord do next?" asked Angus.

  "I don't know." Duncan held up his hand. "I'm a weary, confused man with too much on his plate and no taste for the meal."

  "Then have a drink."

  Angus filled a tankard and passed it to Duncan. The yeasty ale flowed over his tongue and mingled with the taste of Miriam MacDonald. Heat rushed through him, and he gulped down the contents of the mug, trying to wash away the flavor of a woman he couldn't have.

  After downing his own ale, Angus said, "So, the bumbling earl has his work cut out for him, eh? What will he do next?"

  "Curse himself for donning those ridiculous spectacles."

  "You look rather fetching in the disguise. Everyone says so. The people of Kildalton haven't felt closer to their laird or more entertained since your grandfather captured the Armstrong heiress and held her for ransom. He was a fine laird, much like you."

  Pride warmed Duncan. "You're forgetting that my grand-father's attempt at blackmail went for naught when his captive grew big with his child."

  Angus tucked his thumbs into the wide leather belt that separated a barrel-thick chest and massive arms from trunklike legs. "I was a lad at the time, but my Da said the old earl bragged about what a fine breeder she was." Fondness softened a voice perfectly suited to barking orders and upbraiding laggardly soldiers. "Then your grandsire doubled the ransom. Lord, he was a braw one, the old earl was."

  "He'd never pack up his wits, don spectacles, and give a woman the upper hand."

  "Don't take it to heart, laddie." Angus leaned forward, his callused index finger extended. "'Tis only a temporary setback. She surprised you, nothing more. You'll retaliate. You always do. But can you swear that you don't enjoy the masquerade?"

  "At this moment, I'm sorry I locked myself into the role of bumbling earl. Malcolm's getting out of hand. Mrs. Elliott bursts into laughter every time my name is mentioned. Oh, she covers it by pretending to sneeze, but it's embarrassing all the same. The only person who doesna seem entertained by it all is Lady Miriam."

  "You want to bed her."

  Passion rose again in Duncan. "Who wouldn't? Have you seen her?"

  "Aye, she's a bonnie one, and smart, you say?"

  "Miriam MacDonald could have talked Caesar out of Rome."

  Placing his palms on his cheeks, Angus stroked his thick beard into a point at his chin. "You've a task ahead of you, my lord, what with Sinclair's men pouring across the Border like Crusaders into the Holy Land."

  Everyday problems crashed in on Duncan. Guarding the safety of his people was a constant task, but a more immediate concern blazed in his mind. "I've got to get rid of Miriam MacDonald," he said. "Before Sinclair does his worst."

  Angus reached out and clutched Duncan's hand. "Do you truly believe he'll try to take away your son?"

  "Oh, aye," said Duncan, fury rising like bile. "He'd resurrect Malcolm's mother if he thought he could turn a profit by it. The presence of our bonnie diplomat may just inspire him to new depths of deviltry. I'm afraid that like all the other emissaries of the queen, Miriam will believe the bastard." Duncan's stomach sank, for he didn't like the notion that Miriam MacDonald might be unfair.

  Angus slapped his hand over his heart. "Baron Sin will never take Malcolm."

  Duncan sighed. "What if Miriam sees it differently?"

  "I learned a few things about her today that might help our cause," said Angus.

  Hope chased away Duncan's misgivings. "Tell me."

  Angus refilled their mugs. "According to Lady Alexis, they've never set eyes on Sinclair. They don't know the particulars about the strife between you two. Nor do they know of the relationship."

  Relief mingled with satisfaction. Duncan had suspected she knew little about the problems here. "Lady Alexis told you all that?"

  "Give an old man some credit, lad." He leaned back in the chair, his eyes glittering with manly pride. "She's tall, you know, and carries herself with dignity, same as her father did." Angus made the sign of the cross. "God rest his pure Stewart soul. I merely asked her if it bothered her to stand so close to a fellow of Sinclair's stature."

  "By God, you baited her well. He's a giant." Duncan slapped his thigh. "What did she say?"

  Chuckling, Angus said, "She looked down that pretty nose at me and said a well-bred and intelligent woman didn't judge a man by his size or his lack of it. Why, if I hadn't been fishing for information about Sinclair, I'd've thought she was referring to me. Stump that I am."

  "Sounds as if she was flirting with you." Duncan pictured the stately Alexis beside the good-hearted man who'd been too busy caring for a lonely, mistreated lad to find himself a wife.

  Angus's smile faded, replaced by an expression of understanding that Duncan had seen often in his life. "Nay, lad. I'd not expect Alexis Southward to flirt with me."

  "Why not?"

  "Let's just say I'd question her motives. She's a Stewart princess, no matter what side of the blanket she was born on. I won't go lusting after her, either."

  Duncan couldn't let lust cloud his reason or influence his decisions, for the welfare of his people and the future of his son hung in the balance. "Good advice, Angus."

  "Lady Miriam got your blood up. I see it in your eyes and…" His sly gaze dropped lower. "Elsewhere."

  Duncan ground his teeth and focused on a Roman helmet he'd spent weeks restoring. "I'm a widower, not a monk."

  "Forget the ache in your lady crackers and guard your heart, lad, for if what my brother said about Miriam MacDonald is true, she hasn't the capacity for affection— not the kind you're seeking."

  Disappointment weighted Duncan's spirits. "What else did the good tinker allow?"

  "He swears, according to the trustworthy chambermaid in the household of the mayor of London, that the MacDonald lass is a cold fish and wouldn't know humor or passion if they ambushed her in the road."

  Duncan remembered the feel of her mouth moving beneath his, and the pleasurable sensations of her satiny tongue gliding between his lips. Renewed lust rocketed to his groin. In retrospect, he could recall the precise moment when she yielded to passion and became its eager student. He hadn't known then that the experience was a new one for her. Now he sorely ached to initiate her fully in the joys of physical love. But the risk was too great. She mustn't find out he was the Border Lord. She mustn't stop him from defending his crofters and his own son.

  "Have you nothing to say?" asked Angus.

  "Aye." Duncan downed the remainder of his ale and slammed the tankard on the table. Getting to his feet, he said, "If the tinker said she was a stranger to passion and humor, he was right on only one count."

  5

  "You can't possibly intend to winter here," said Alexis.

  "Keep your voice down," Miriam whispered, not breaking stride in her journey down the main stairway of the castle.

  In the entryway, a housemaid sloshed a rag mop into a pail, then twirled the handle between her flattened palms. A servant boy c
arrying a brimming ash bucket paused to talk to the girl. Miriam went on her way.

  Alexis hurried after her, her calf slippers making soft rustling noises on the stone flags. "You can't, Miriam. The queen will be furious."

  "She's furious now." The aroma of freshly baked bread drew Miriam toward an arched corridor. Her stomach growled. "This way. I'm famished."

  Alexis clutched her forearm. "Say you're jesting."

  "I never jest, and you know it." Except once last night, but she'd erred royally in all other aspects of the evening. She'd learned nothing and experienced everything.

  "There's something you're not telling me," said Alexis. "Don't ask me to guess, 'tis too early in the morning."

  "Then I won't."

  "Oh, drat you," she grumbled. "Unless…" She snapped her fingers. "It's about that man you saw in the garden, isn't it? Who is he?"

  Miriam took great pleasure in saying, "He's a pig farmer who tried to seduce me."

  Alexis tilted back her head and gave Miriam a stern glance that reeked of motherly disapproval. The expression also made her look exactly like the state portrait of her father. "You let a swineherd kiss you?"

  Miriam thought of the dark stranger. Conflicting images tweaked her mind. One moment he soothed and comforted with gentle words and coaxing hands, the next he seduced and bullied with bold threats and vulgar ultimatums. She knew that her queries about the earl had caused the change in the Border Lord's mood and methods, she just didn't know why. Unless they were in collusion. But his parting kiss had nothing to do with territorial disputes and everything to do with cheap seduction.

  "You must tell me," said Alexis.

  Confused, Miriam whispered, "Later, Lexie," and walked into the lesser hall.

  To Miriam's delight, the elusive housekeeper stood at a trestle table, her arm pumping as she sawed a loaf of brown bread into thick slices. She wore a sturdy woolen frock beneath a crisp, linen apron, shiny from starch and wear.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Elliott," said Miriam, taking a seat at the long bench by the table.

  A smile puffed out the older woman's cheeks. Blinking, she said, "You remembered my name, Lady Miriam. Thank you."