The Border Series (Omnibus Edition)

by Arnette Lamb

  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.”

  Chapter 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 carrying 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.”

  People were surprised by the small gesture that came effortlessly to Miriam. “You’re welcome. Is that bread I smell?”

  Mrs. Elliott sent a maid to the pantry for plates. “Aye. What will you have to drink, my lady?”

  “Honeyed milk, if you please.”

  Alexis slid onto the bench and said, “I’ll have watered wine.” When the housekeeper offered her a slice of bread, Alexis shook her head, a pained look on her face. “Thank you, no. I couldn’t eat a thing so early in the morning.”

  Miriam slathered the bread with butter and candied pippins. Although she intended to compliment the food regardless of the quality, the rich flavors made her sigh with pleasure.

  Alexis, usually grumpy before noon, groaned, “Oh, please.”

  Mrs. Elliott said, “Can I get you anything else, my lady?”

  Miriam hoped to glean information on the mysterious pig farmer who called himself the Border Lord, if, that is, Mrs. Elliott would cooperate. To that end Miriam made a great show of considering her answer. “A thick slice of fresh roasted pork would be grand.”

  The housekeeper’s smile faded and her hands worried a stack of crumbs. She seemed wary, or was she just uncomfortable with visitors? The earl said he didn’t often entertain. “I’m sorry, my lady. We haven’t any fresh pork today,” she said, “but there’s salted ham and oat pudding.”

  Silently rejoicing, Miriam said, “The ham will be fine.” When the meat was served, she exclaimed, “What a beautiful ham. You must have a fine pig farmer in Kildalton. Send him my compliments.”

  Mrs. Elliott’s brows made a chevron in the center on her forehead. “It comes from the butcher. I’ll tell him.”

  Honey ran over the edge of the bread. Miriam caught it with her finger. “The butcher raises his own stock. How enterprising.” She popped her finger into her mouth.

  “He don’t raise it, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Elliott. “I’ll fetch you more milk.”

  Sensing her chance was slipping away, Miriam said, “Alexis, do you remember that eccentric French count who raised pigs in his keeping room?”

  Alexis paused, the tankard an inch from her lips. She rolled her gaze to Miriam, searched her face, then took a drink. “I believe you said his castle smelled wretched.”

  Turning slightly, Miriam winked. To Mrs. Elliott, she said, “Imagine that, will you? Squealing piglets underfoot.”

  The woman’s wariness turned to stiff-necked disapproval, deepening the dimple in her chin into a cavern. “You won’t find swine in this castle.”

  “Not the cloven-hoofed variety,” Alexis murmured into the tankard.

  Ignoring her, Miriam said, “Of course not. I believe I met one of your pig farmers.”

  “You did?” the housekeeper said.

  “Aye. He said his name was Ian, but he also called himself the Border Lord.”

  Mrs. Elliott scooped up her apron and sneezed into it with the gusto of a tavern keeper. Turning her back, her shoulders shook with the force of the sneezes. Slipping one hand free, she waved it at Miriam, curtsied, and rushed out of the room.

  “You should be ashamed,” said Alexis, staring at the empty doorway.

  “I must know more about him. The Border Lord knows both the earl and the baron. He could be useful.”

  Alexis shook her head. “’Tis a crime for a mind to work so deviously at this hour of the morning.”

  After so many years, the familiar barb didn’t prick at all. “’Tis not, so long as I succeed.”

  Miriam finished the ham and was describing to Alexis the tartan of the Border Lord when Alexis said, “Shush!” and picked up her tankard.

  Mrs. Elliott returned, her eyes still watering and her nose as red as a China poppy. “Forgive me, my lady. ’Tis the time of year.” She began separating the comb from a crock of honey.

  Grasping the tried and true tactic of aggression, Miriam said, “Before you left you were telling me about the pig farmer who goes by the name of the
Border Lord.”

  The sieve slipped into the crock. The cook sniffed and held her apron at the ready. “I don’t generally deal with the farmers. We have markets here, so everyone can trade freely.” Her voice sounded strained.

  “But you know where he is.”

  “Aye,” she choked out, and again hid her face in the apron. Through the cloth she said, “There’s a swineherd in Sweeper’s Heath.” Then she dashed from the room once more.

  Miriam’s spirits soared. She would find the Border Lord, and in the light of day.

  “I take it,” said Alexis in weary resolution, “that we’re going on an excursion to the quaint little village of Sweeper’s Heath.”

  Miriam was already mapping out a strategy for dealing with the mysterious Border Lord when she said, “Aye, but first we must visit the weaver.”

  “Why did I bother to ask?” said Alexis, with a royal wave of her hand. “We always visit the weaver before we see the swineherd.”

  Puzzled, Miriam said, “We’ve never been to a swineherd.”

  Alexis got to her feet, mumbling, “I had such hopes for you. You were such a bright child.”

  Duncan yanked up the full black periwig and slammed it on his head. He had intended to spend the day with Malcolm, for according to Mrs. Elliott, the lad was taking his role of indulged brat much too seriously. But thanks to that meddling, I-never-forget-anything redhead, Duncan had to forgo his fatherly duties and chase her down before she made the grievous mistake of looking for a swineherd who didn’t exist.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. Perverse, too. He’d dreamed up the story to mock Miriam and her lack of a sense of humor. The plan had backfired, and a moment’s satisfaction last night had become a joke on Duncan. He wanted a different sort of satisfaction from her, one that prohibited clever repartee and involved tussling naked and nibbling on the delicacies of the flesh.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “Enter at your own risk,” Duncan grumbled.

  Angus strolled inside, his thick hair still bearing the imprint of the visored helmet he now held in his hand. “What is it, my lord?”

  Duncan stifled his anger and frustration; he had only himself to blame. But Blessed Scotland, he hated being one step behind in a game of his own creation. “Do you remember when I told you what occurred in the garden with Lady Miriam?”

  “Aye, my lord. I remember every detail.” His lips twitched in the effort to hide a smile. “First you stomped into my quarters with a hard-on to rival an oak branch and your lady crackers aching. Then you confessed that you told her you were the Border Lord and a pig farmer. Oh, and you quaffed two pints of ale in the doing.”

  “How is it,” Duncan said, trying to keep his voice calm and his anger in check, “that the duke of Cromarty, who rules all of the Highlands, manages to earn the loyalty and respect of his clansmen?”

  Undaunted, Angus replied, “I wouldn’t know, my lord.”

  In spite of himself and the dire situation he faced, Duncan chuckled. “’Twould seem our merry diplomat cornered Mrs. Elliott this morning and grilled her on the whereabouts of a certain swineherd.”

  Angus spat a Scottish curse and rapped the helmet against his thigh. Over the rattling of forged steel, he said, “What will you do?”

  “I’ll wring her pretty neck!”

  “I’m sure you have a better plan.”

  “Tactic, Angus, that’s the operative word.” Duncan snatched up his clan badge and secured his tartan over his shoulder. “Everything to do with that wily witch involves tactics. She’s too bloody smart for her own good—or mine.”

  “Aye, sir. I’m sure she is. But if appearance means aught, you’ll dazzle her with your kilt. The wig adds a nice touch.”

  “You needn’t placate me.” Duncan walked to the standing mirror and donned his bonnet at a jaunty angle that all but obscured the right side of his face.

  “Nay, my lord. I wouldn’t think of it.”

  Studying his reflection, decked out in Kerr regalia, Duncan thought of the differences between him and his fore-bears. “I doona ken why I’m worried. She’s probably halfway to Sweeper’s Heath by now anyway.”

  “No, she isn’t.”

  “She’s most likely cornered the real swineherd and talked poor Ian into baring his soul and damning mine to perdition.”

  “She ain’t in Sweeper’s Heath.”

  “I should have sneaked into the corridor this morning and listened to her plans. Er—what’s that you said, Angus?”

  “I said, she ain’t in Sweeper’s Heath.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because she can’t be in two places at once.”

  His nerves jangled, Duncan said, “Then where, for the love of Scotland, is she?”

  Blithely, Angus said, “At the weaver’s. I saw her on my way here.”

  Duncan went weak with relief. He grabbed his coat and headed for the door, the sporran slapping against his groin and thighs. “Go to Sweeper’s Heath. Tell the real swineherd that if a conniving, dangerous redhead asks him about the Border Lord, he’s to…”

  “To what, my lord?”

  Duncan took a deep breath and prayed to the patron saint of Scotland. “He’s to tell her the truth about the Border Lord.”

  The helmet hit the floor. “What?”

  “Just do it,” said Duncan before he changed his mind.

  Angus scooped up his battle gear. “Oh, aye, my lord. Straightaway. I’d love to be a midge on the wall when she hears the tale.”

  Duncan threw open the door. “Thank you, Angus. I’ll be certain to buzz right back and tell you how she reacts.”

  “My lord,” said Angus, grinning like a Turk. “You forgot your spectacles.”

  The weaver’s shop smelled of dank wool, but the sharp odor was offset by the earthy aroma of the lichens and plants used in the making of dye. To Duncan, the place inspired pride in himself and fondness for the proprietor. At the age of five Duncan had stood stiff as a soldier while Mr. Murdoch draped him in the Kerr family tartan and spent the better part of a morning showing an eager lad how to pleat and tuck and secure his first kilt.

  The pleasant memory took the edge off his anger. The sight of Miriam MacDonald alone in the room and bending over a box of tartans gave him a start. From behind a curtained doorway drifted the sound of voices and the clickety clack of the looms, but Duncan couldn’t take his eyes off the woman.

  She wore a full-skirted gown of ocean blue velvet over a mountain of lace-trimmed petticoats, all visible thanks to both her diligence in rummaging through the box and his vantage point just inside the door. By lifting his chin and peering through the spectacles, he could see in minute detail the weave of her white silk stockings and the blush of skin beneath.

  Engrossed, he tipped back his head and through the magnifying lenses followed the flare of the skirt up to the base of her spine where the lacings of the dress began. He had touched her there. He’d caressed a particular vertebra in the small of her back. Her knees had wobbled. From that moment on she’d participated in the kiss and become a damn fine explorer herself. What would she do if the earl peeled off her clothing and tasted her sensitive spots?

  “Good morning, my lord. How was your trip?”

  Startled, Duncan turned to see Alexis Southward standing inside the curtained doorway, a knowing smile on her lips and a Royal Stewart plaid draped over her forearm.

  Damn! She’d caught him ogling Miriam, who was still immersed in her task.

  He wiped what he suspected to be a leer off his face and said, “Good morning to you. That’s a lovely plaid.”

  “As is yours,” she replied, eyeing him from head to toe.

  For some reason Duncan became aware of the soft wool against his bare buttocks. Now he wished he’d worn trews beneath his kilt, for he felt exposed. But that was silly. Only in the dead of winter did he defy tradition. He willed his blush away. She’d simply surprised him. Once he regained his composure, he could get on with t
he business of escorting Miriam to the swineherd.

  He bowed from the waist. “You’re very kind, Your Grace.”

  “Please,” she said, stroking the most revered plaid in Scotland, “call me Lexie. I severed my ties long ago with the duke of Challenbroke. I consider myself an ordinary citizen.

  Over her shoulder, Miriam said, “Ha! How many ordinary citizens have the blood of kings in their veins?”

  “Thanks to my father…” said Alexis, “many.”

  Miriam whirled to face her friend, a tartan in her hands. Gray eyes glared with disapproval. “Honte a toi,” she said. “You should not say such a thing.”

  Alexis lifted an eyebrow. “Touché, mon amie. Now practice the good manners I taught you and greet our host.”

  Miriam opened her mouth, then closed it. Looking at Duncan’s bonnet, she said, “Good morning, my lord. You’re up early today.”

  When her eyes didn’t meet his, Duncan grew wary. What if she recognized him? Suddenly he felt naked again. He had to slip back into the role of bumbling earl. He pulled a petulant frown and waved a slip of paper. “I had no choice but to rise early. I must get supplies for my most alluring fishing lure, the flippity-flop. I’m going salmon fishing next week.”

  Alexis sniffed, then coughed.

  “What’s that in your hand?” asked Miriam.

  “Malcolm’s nom du jour. I’ve written my shopping list on the back.”

  Miriam glanced at the plaid, then returned it to the box. “How is little Llewelyn?”

  “My son is quite busy, actually,” Duncan said. “Off somewhere practicing being a Welsh king.” And testing his father’s patience.

  As casually as an old friend asking after his health, she said, “What an interesting way to learn history, my lord. Was that clever idea yours?”

  An unsuspecting man would wallow in Miriam’s cordiality. But Duncan was growing wise to her flattery. “Just so, my lady. But I fear I’ve failed with the lad. He can’t tell a salmon from a trout. Did you find the cloth you were looking for?”

  She started, then wiped her hands. “Lexie wanted a new plaid. I just happened to accompany her.”