The Border Series (Omnibus Edition)

by Arnette Lamb

  Over the gurgling of the fountain, he heard the dog lapping water. The resident bullfrog croaked to his lady love.

  Conscience nagging, Duncan thought of the ways he encouraged Malcolm when the lad grew shy. “You feel safe with me, don’t you, Miriam?” he queried softly.

  A subtle change occurred in her bearing, and while Duncan couldn’t precisely name it, he sensed she was judging him. “You’re very forward, Sir Border Lord. What is your given name?”

  The special boots added inches to his height and allowed Duncan to rest his chin on her head. Her clean, fresh fragrance permeated his senses. The word companionship flashed in his mind. He whisked it away, snatched a name for himself, and got to the business at hand. “’Tis Ian. Tell me. What brings such a finely bred and bonnie Highland lass to the Borders?”

  With a feather-light touch, she brushed her hand over his tartan. Even through the heavy wool his skin prickled.

  During the years Duncan had donned the costume and the demeanor of the Border Lord, he’d seldom encountered a woman, let alone romanced one. Now the notion challenged him.

  “I’ve come to settle a few matters,” she said.

  He might be portraying a different man tonight and view the situation through new eyes, but Miriam hadn’t changed. She was still the wily diplomat. He could be wily, too. He clutched her left hand. “You don’t wear a wedding ring or a widow’s band. Is that the matter you’ve come to settle?”

  “No. I’ve no wish to marry.” Then she added, “At this time.”

  By modern standards she should have been wed five, even ten years ago. “You should have a man to cuddle up with on a warm winter’s night, or a man to give you bairns.”

  She leaned back, bringing her thighs in contact with his. “You’re bold.”

  If she got any closer, she’d redefine her opinion of boldness. His confidence soared; he could play the rogue. “I am right about you, but doona take umbrage. I’m country-bred and have little knowledge of courtly manners and such.”

  “Are you a farmer?”

  “Aye.” Nonsense popped into his mind. “I’ve a pig farm,” he said, putting a note of pride in his voice.

  “I thought pigs lived in a sty.”

  Lord, she missed nothing. Delving deeper into his bag of fiction, Duncan said, “What do you know about swine?”

  “Little. Does your wife mind living on a pig farm?”

  “I’ve not found the lass who’d have me—or my pigs.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “’Twas not my intention. I merely thought you a forthright man.”

  Now he was on even ground. “I’ve been known to pursue a quest with a certain amount of vigor.”

  Her hand stilled. “Are you pursuing someone here at Kildalton? A maid, perhaps.”

  With absolute confidence in her inability to understand innuendo, he said, “Not in the castle proper.”

  “Then why are you here?” she asked.

  “Ah. A woman who doesna mince words,” he said. “How delightful and rare.”

  “A man who minces around questions,” she murmured. “How interesting and suspicious.”

  “Mince?” he said defensively. “I’m standing in a secluded garden, a beautiful woman snug in my arms, and she asks me what I’m doing.”

  “Ha! I could be as ugly as a plucked goose and you wouldn’t know it. ’Tis too dark to see.”

  “Aye, ’tis too dark now, but I saw you today near Hadrian’s Wall.”

  She stepped out of his embrace. “I didn’t see you.”

  He felt like a dancing master, skirting a lie. “I was watching you through a spyglass. Even from a distance your hair blazes like a fire on a dark moor.”

  “Very poetic, Sir Ian.”

  With disarming scrutiny, she studied him. Unease tiptoed up his spine. Wait. She didn’t know that he wore the wigs and the scarf to hide his fair hair. Or that he darkened his eyebrows and side whiskers with lampblack. The brim of the hat obscured his eyes. His friend Adrienne hadn’t recognized him. The stranger Miriam MacDonald wouldn’t either. Relief cooled his skin. “Do you favor poets, lassie?”

  “Aye. You’re very tall.” The smile in her voice said she liked that aspect of him, too. Faint moonlight cast her in a golden glow. “I don’t recognize your tartan. What’s your clan?”

  Her regal nose lent her a lofty air. A result, he thought morosely, from poking it into everyone’s business. She could scour the clans of Scotland and never find a family to claim the unique plaid of the Border Lord, for the weaver had designed it especially for Duncan. He hoped the mystery of it bedeviled the wits from her. She was too intelligent by half. “I doona think anyone knows all of the tartans.”

  “I do. I have a very good memory.”

  “Come sit with me.” He led her to a bench near the fountain.

  Once seated, she said, “Why were you sneaking out of Kildalton Castle?”

  As Duncan considered his answer, a pleasant realization occurred to him. In a way he was meeting her for the first time. “I wasna sneaking. I was visiting the earl.”

  She stiffened and folded her hands in her lap. “Are you his friend?”

  So casual was the question, she could have been asking directions to the Great North Road. But her physical withdrawal told a different tale.

  “Duncan’s a pleasant enough fellow,” he said cautiously. “A bit odd, though, for a laird. Do you know him well?”

  “Apparently not well enough, for he’s never mentioned you.”

  She’d answered, but told him nothing. If she were as clever in the physical aspects of love as she was with words, a true rogue would chain her to his bed. The image made him feel very much the cavalier. “I’m a boor of a fellow, and I doona care for fishing.”

  “Then why are you here? Did you bring him the peacocks?”

  Taken off guard, Duncan threw back his head and laughed.

  She snapped her fingers. Pebbles rattled nearby. In a spray of rocks, the sleuthhound raced to her side.

  Duncan held out his hand to the dog, but his eyes stayed fixed on the woman. “My stock in trade is pigs, not peacocks.”

  “Shame on you, Ian. You shouldn’t mock Lord Duncan just because he’s different from you.”

  Aha! Now he was getting somewhere. If he could keep her defending the bumbling earl, the Border Lord might distract her enough to glean her plans, earn her patronage, then facilitate her swift departure. “I was simply laughing at the idea of me delivering a pair of peacocks.”

  “How did you know he’s expecting two peacocks?”

  She was as sharp as a barrister at the court of Lincoln’s Inn. But Duncan Kerr would not play the harried victim in the witness box. “Why are you so suspicious? ’Twas a logical assumption, Miriam. He’s distraught over the loss of his birds, which he breeds with some success. His last cock could pounce on a peahen and give her his finest before she could scratch in the dirt.”

  She gasped. “If you’re not here to deliver peacocks, why are you visiting the earl?”

  “I doona think I should tell you. Duncan’s a very private person.”

  “I’m surprised he would mention the birds, then—if he’s such a private person.”

  “We shared a glass of wine, which makes him less private.”

  “Meaning…”

  Blessed Scotland, she was persistent. “I’m not a gossiping stable lad. I prefer to make my own scandals.”

  “That’s no explanation.”

  He sighed and, feigning reluctance, said, “If you must know, the earl has no tolerance for strong drink.” Let her do with that tidbit what she would.

  “Thank you for telling me. I won’t gift him with any of the fine wines I brought from Europe. Actually…” She shooed the dog away. “You could prevent me from making any number of faux pas by telling me more about Lord Duncan.” She snuggled closer.

  If he weren’t careful, she’d have him choosing the st
ones for his own cairn. But he knew she was trying to distract him with sex, and he rather liked the idea of holding her again. “Are you still cold?”

  “A bit. I should go in, I suppose.”

  Propriety demanded she make such a statement, but decorum had no place in the life of the Border Lord. Not when he had the queen’s beautiful minion exactly where he wanted her.

  Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, he brought her to his side and drew the cape around them. “’Tis early, Miriam, and you have nothing to fear from me. I am interested in the ‘matters’ that brought you to the Border.”

  “’Twould bore you to tears.”

  Would she never talk about herself or mention the Treaty of Utrecht or her role in the affairs of England? The mediators before her had rambled for hours on their accomplishments. Ah, well, perhaps her career was a topic for the bumbling earl to broach. For the moment, Duncan would learn what he could. “Beautiful women never bore me. Give over, Miriam. Tell me why you’ve come to Kildalton.”

  She cleared her throat. “Do you know Baron Sinclair?”

  “Aye, I know the man.” He kept his voice even, but his stomach pitched in anticipation of her next words.

  “Then I’d like your opinion of his quarrel with the earl.” She could set verbal traps with the skill of a gamekeeper. Hoping to divert her attention, Duncan began to stroke her arm. Even through the thick gloves, he felt her warmth. He wanted to touch his skin to hers, but if he removed the gloves, she’d notice the blisters on his palms.

  “I understand your hesitance to discuss Lord Duncan’s enemy. May my hair turn white and my scribes run off with lightskirts tomorrow if I don’t.” Her hand settled gently on his knee. “Please believe it’s important that I know all sides of the quarrel. I commend you for speaking up.”

  Lulled by the tone of her voice and the eloquence of her plea, Duncan scrambled for a reply. “They’ll never reach accord,” he said. “Not while both of them live.”

  “I know how much you want to put the matter behind you. Life is too short and unpredictable for petty annoyances and feuding lairds. Who knows that better than a fellow Scot? Did the baron burn the MacLarens’ farm?”

  “Aye, the bastard,” Duncan grumbled.

  “So he is.” She gave his knee a squeeze. The tendons in his leg tightened, sending a jolt of pure pleasure to his groin. She might as well have caressed his manly parts. “How has he wronged you?”

  “He…” Duncan paused, pretending to hesitate in the hope that she’d touch him again. He needed her to touch him again.

  “You’re a saint to reveal your troubles to me,” she said, her voice a pleasing octave lower. “I’m sure the earl will repay your loyalty handsomely. Did the baron raid your pig farm?”

  With a belated flash of insight, Duncan realized that she wielded her velvet tongue with the skill of a fencing master drawing his foil. Had she not mentioned the ridiculous pigs Duncan would’ve poured out his soul.

  “If I’m to accomplish what God intended for me, I must know your role in the problem, Ian.”

  Bless Saint Ninian! She was as shameless as a royal concubine. No wonder England enjoyed the most lucrative trade agreements on the globe. Given the chance, Miriam MacDonald could convince the king of France to wipe her slippers. But Duncan Kerr was wise to her tricks, and had a few of his own.

  He put his hand on hers. “I want to trust you, lassie.” He began to draw her hand slowly upward. “But the earl wouldna take kindly to my spilling his troubles to you.”

  She moved her hand back down to his knee. “I thought he wanted peace.”

  His own hand followed. “Everyone in the Borders wants peace, but no one knows how to begin.” As he spoke he again guided her hand higher. “’Tis a powder keg to be sure.”

  Her fingers slid from beneath his and glided back down to his knee. “You mustn’t worry, Ian. I know what I’m about.”

  So did he. Duncan again covered her hand and began the trek upwards. “You were saying…”

  “I’m here to help you—if you’ll let me.”

  Raw lust infused him, and his randy body seemed determined to meet her hand halfway. “Oh, but I will,” he said, his mind eons away from Border feuds and selfish Englishmen.

  “Think how wonderful it will be if we work together.”

  “Wonderful seems a bland word.” Especially for the carnal fulfillment he had in mind. His hand continued its slow, agonizing upward journey.

  “We’ll begin carefully,” she said.

  Two more inches and she’d give him the touch he craved. He could take her here on the bench. Erotic possibilities dashed through his mind. Her skirts hiked to her waist, her pale legs parted in invitation, her silky, fragrant hair pillowing his cheek. His mouth began to water. Perspiration drenched his brow. He could lift her onto his lap, lean her back, and suckle her breasts while she rode him.

  “I know you’re in a difficult position.”

  A groan lodged in his throat. Cramps of frustration attacked his groin. He swallowed in a noisy gulp. “Difficult isna the right word either.”

  “Please, Ian, trust me. I work with the utmost discretion.”

  Distracted, he said, “Discretion, aye. We’ll need that.”

  “The earl need never know.”

  Again, reality intruded. But this time he was a victim of his own desire. Regrets played havoc with hindsight. She, with her wily ways and feminine allure, had instigated the episode. It wasn’t his fault she hadn’t perceived his train of thought. Given the chance, she’d suck his mind dry of information and use it against him.

  Oh, Christ, he couldn’t make love to her. He had only himself to blame. He’d leaped into the role of seducer without considering the consequences, and suddenly, the trappings of the bumbling earl seemed a safe harbor, albeit a frustrating one. Who would have thought a woman like Miriam MacDonald could get him so hot and bothered?

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  Futility made him say, “That I’ve never trusted a woman so completely.”

  “You’re in good company, for I’ve never trusted a man so completely. Let’s make a bargain, you and I.”

  Mischief pervaded his dilemma. Hell, he was desperate to gain control of the situation and rule this conniving redhaired wench. “I favor bargains. ’Tis tradition between a fair maiden and an errant knight to seal a bargain with a kiss.”

  She turned to face him, bringing her lips dangerously close to his. Blinking, her face wreathed in confusion, she said, “That’s not the sort of bargain I meant—”

  “Good.” With her sweet breath wafting across his face, he could no more stop himself from kissing her than he could save Hadrian’s Wall from the ravages of time. “The Border Lord sets his own bargains,” he said, bringing her hand home.

  Relief eased the aching fullness of his loins. He fitted his lips to hers, and as he expected, she tried to pull away. “Shush,” he whispered, “and kiss me.”

  She gasped and withdrew her hand. Pushing against his chest, she said, “Let me go.”

  He clutched her shoulders. “You wanted me to kiss you, so doona be denying it now.”

  She shook her head. “No. You misinterpreted my intentions.”

  Even in the faint moonlight, he could see her discomfiture. “Did I?” he drawled. “You put your hand on my knee. You caressed my leg.”

  She twisted free of him, shot to her feet, and backed away. “’Twas only a friendly gesture. I never meant anything by it.”

  He stalked her to the garden wall. “’Tis also a friendly gesture to fondle me.”

  Her hands flew to her breasts. “You did that.”

  “Nay. You did, and we both enjoyed it.” Leaning forward, he forced her against the wall. Bracing his hands on the cool tiles, he demanded, “Did you protest?”

  “Yes. I mean, I am now. I was merely—”

  “Merely what?”

  She took a deep breath and blurted, “The queen sent me to make pea
ce between the earl and Baron Sinclair. I’m a member of her diplomatic corps.”

  “Do you always use your feminine wiles in negotiations?”

  “Most men I negotiate with are not lusty rogues.”

  The admission did little to soothe his fury. “Then know this, my sneaky wee diplomat. The only man in the Borders who can aid your cause is me.”

  Pride brought her chin up. “For a pig farmer, you’re very sure of yourself.”

  “Oh, aye.” The need to outsmart this too intelligent, overalluring woman consumed him. “I’m more sure of you, Miriam MacDonald.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she said, as prissy as a spinster on May Day.

  He stoked his raging desire with aggression. “You wanted me to kiss you. And you can deny it until your hair turns white and your scribes find their lightskirts, but it wilna change what you feel in here.” He brushed her hand aside and lay his gloved hand on her breast. “Your heart beats for me.

  Miriam stared up at him. “You’re wrong.” She grasped his wrist and tried to dislodge his hand. Her heart didn’t just beat for him, it hammered with an intensity so wild she almost leaped into his arms. Raw desire mocked her purpose and her protest.

  “You may have deluded those dandified fops at court,” he said. “But your scheming machinations will cost you dearly here. Are you willing to pay the price?”

  “What price? What do you have to sell? Why should I be willing to pay?”

  He loomed over her, a dark and dangerous shadow. Perspiration glistened like diamonds on his upper lip, giving evidence of the control he exercised over his passion. She remembered the feel of him in her hand, pulsing with life and vigor. Even now, his power held a part of her spellbound, but for too many years she’d resisted courtiers and cavaliers more wily than he. The irony was, she usually did the angry protesting, then turned it to her advantage. A challenge beckoned. She drew strength from it.

  Capitulation seemed a good place to start. “Very well. I admit the prospect of kissing you interested me. But you lured me with what I thought was an honest offer of friendship.”

  His heated gaze remained steady. “’Twould take a blind man to ignore your charms.”