by Arnette Lamb
The familiar role of diplomat settled about her like a cloak of confidence. “I suppose, then, that you’d know a fellow who calls himself the Border Lord.”
He slid a glance at the earl, who fumbled with the well bucket. “No,” she said. “Not Lord Duncan for heaven’s sake. The Border Lord.”
“You mean the one the womenfolks tells the tales about? The man who sets their hearts aflutterin’ and has ’em pinin’ at their doors on Hogmanay?”
Miriam’s own heart skipped a beat. She shouldn’t have been surprised that so bold a cavalier had a reputation. “I seem to recall that the person who mentioned him said he had a certain … manly appeal.”
Squeezing one eye shut, he whispered, “Did they tell of ’is caped tartan and a hat with pitch black feathers?”
Excitement raced through her. “Yes, I believe so.”
“An’ did he come to ’em in the night with the burr of Scotland on his lips?”
The memory of the musical cadence and deep pitch of his voice echoed in Miriam’s mind. She clasped her hands to steady them. “Yes, that could be said of him.”
“An’ he called himself the Border Lord? Yer certain o’ that?”
“Quite certain. Er, my source was quite certain, that is. Have you seen him?”
“Seen him?” He smacked his lips. “Can’t nobody see the Border Lord.”
The creaking of the windlass sliced through the country stillness. “Oh, really. Why not?”
An expectant gleam twinkled in the old man’s eyes. “’Cause the poor man was killed by the English more ’n a hundred years ago.”
Logic rejected the words. Miriam leaned against the hitching post. A denial leaped to her lips. “Then we’re speaking of someone else. This man’s given name is Ian.”
The swineherd picked a piece of straw from his battered cap. “Did he say he was a shepherd from Barley Bum?”
“No. He’s a swineherd.” Miriam felt as if they were talking in circles. “That’s why I thought you might know him.”
“Oh, aye. I know of him.” He nodded slowly, staring at the earl’s clansmen who had moved from the well to the shade of a rowan tree. “Full o’ stories, that one. Come to my grandmother at the first frost o’ winter in her fifteenth year. The Border Lord told her he was a cooper from Whitley Bay. Had her all dreamy-eyed, my grandsire said. Stayed that way ’til Whitsunday, she did.”
“Then it can’t be the same man.”
“Yer a Highland lassie, are ye?”
“Aye. A MacDonald.”
“I’d’ve said so myself.” His wizened gaze fixed on a spot over her left shoulder. “’Cause o’ yer hair. Makes sense he’d come to ye then. Always visits the bonnie ones, he does.”
Miriam began to pace. “You’re very kind. I appreciate your telling me where I can find the man I was speaking of.”
“Nothin’ to that. Find trouble and you’ll find the Border Lord. Just ask our fine laird.”
Miriam wasn’t certain which statement was more preposterous. That the man she’d met last night was a ghost or that Duncan Kerr held the respected position of laird. If her suspicions about both men were true, any information from the earl about the dark stranger would be untrustworthy.
She decided to try another line of questioning. “What kind of trouble?” she asked.
The swineherd studied his hat again. “Same as been happenin’ since the Great Bruce was a pup. ’Tis the way o’ things in the Border.”
“You mean the raids, the slaughter, and the burnings.”
He jerked his head toward the well. “Here comes the laird. He can tell ye better’n me.”
The earl shuffled toward her, a pail of water in one hand, a cup in the other. “For you and the dog.” He gave her the cup, then put the pail before Verbatim.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Did I miss something?” he said, looking from her to the swineherd. “You look upset, Ian. Don’t tell me you couldn’t find that sow.”
The stone cup felt ice cold against Miriam’s palms. “We were just discussing the Border Lord.”
Grinning expansively, he said, “Everyone in Kildalton has a jolly tale of his ghostly derring-do. I never tire of hearing them myself. Why, my first governess swore he gifted her with sprigs of heather. She always wore them in her hair—until my father sent her away for telling ghost stories to an impressionable lad.”
“I met a man who calls himself the Border Lord, and I assure you, he was no ghost.”
He smiled indulgently. “How delightful. You’ll have a fanciful story of the Border to pass on to your children, won’t you?”
His placating tone irritated her. She gripped the cup so tightly her torn fingernail ached. “I have never been fanciful, my lord.” Even if she had, it was none of his affair.
“Then we’re kindred spirits. Fairy tales and romantic fiction bore me to tears. I prefer a history text or an exhilarating treatise on the modern techniques of animal husbandry.”
“I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from sharing your exhilarating stories with our host.”
“You’re too gracious, my lady. Too gracious, indeed, for country bumpkins like us. Wouldn’t you say so, Ian?”
The swineherd swallowed loudly, probably embarrassed to have his opinion sought by a nobleman. “I’ll be fetching Quickenin’ Sally.”
The earl rubbed his hands together. “Splendid. We’ll see about plucking a bit of sow’s hair.” He turned to go, but stopped. The spectacles wobbled, and the wig swung about his shoulders like a mane. “Unless you’d like to watch, my lady? I shouldn’t care to be a neglectful escort.”
She’d sooner watch Torquemada interrogate a heretic. “I’ll just put these back.” She scooped up the pail and headed for the well, Verbatim on her heels.
She’d only gone a short distance when Miriam realized her mistake. Fairness and objectivity were the tools of her occupation. She’d been accused of much worse than being fanciful. Growing defensive in the face of so petty a charge wouldn’t serve her at all. Ghosts didn’t exist. The Border Lord was a real, flesh and blood man who made her feel very much a flesh and blood woman.
She’d find him. She had the key to the tunnel door, and she was a master at waiting and watching. If the swineherd spoke the truth and the baron sent his men to raid Kildalton land, the Border Lord would appear. She’d be waiting for him.
From the edge of her vision, she watched the earl and the swineherd walk toward the sty. Duncan Kerr towered over the older man, but so did she. Yet Lord Duncan cut a fine figure, dressed as he was in full Kerr regalia. The red and green kilt barely covered his knees and drew attention to his legs, which appeared surprisingly muscular for a man who spent his time attaching feathers to hooks. Without the green jacket, his waist seemed trim, his hips slender. The elaborate sporran and its finely tooled belt added to the illusion of male virility.
Her admiration, she decided with a smile, stemmed from his Scottish attire and her affinity for it. The queen’s court teemed with Scotsmen. Even the pudgy, bowlegged Argyll looked resplendent in his hated Campbell plaid.
Lord Duncan draped his arm over the swineherd’s shoulder in a casual affirmation of male camaraderie. The swineherd spoke. In response, the earl gasped and slapped a hand to his gaping mouth, effectively shattering the masculine image.
Confused by her conflicting images of him, she turned away. To his credit, he somehow maintained the respect of his people and his soldiers. What would his enemy say about him? Unanswered questions and inconsistencies nagged her. Once she met Baron Sinclair, she would better understand both men. Then she could steer them toward reconciliation and peace.
Verbatim barked, lunged a few feet away, then stopped and barked again. “All right, girl,” said Miriam. “Go find a stick.”
As powerful and loose-limbed as a tiger, the sleuthhound raced for the rowan trees. The band of clansmen grew silent and, as one, watched the dog canter across the yard and straight to a fallen branch. Barel
y breaking stride, her long ears flapping like bonnet ribbons, Verbatim snatched up her prize and dashed back to Miriam.
She’d find out who the stranger was and why he visited the earl. She’d spent her adult life prying vital information from men who were much more clever than the Border Lord. A pig farmer was he? Bosh. With each toss of the stick, Miriam thought of another insult. She’d singe his ears. In a game of verbal throw and fetch, he didn’t stand a chance.
Duncan stood outside the pigsty, but his attention stayed focused on the queen’s emissary. He’d angered her with the remark about having a tale of the Border Lord to pass on to her children. She’d clutched the cup so tightly her knuckles had turned white, drawing his attention to her bruised fingertips, one nail broken to the quick.
Under different circumstances, he would have played the cavalier and kissed and bandaged her injury. Then he would have catered to her every need and fulfilled a burning one of his own.
“We fooled her good, my lord,” Ian said.
Duncan thought of her perfect memory and her skill at catching him off guard. “Doona be so sure, my friend. She isna like the others.”
Ian sat astride the sow, his hand poised on the animal’s ear. “Ye take me fer bein’ old and blind? I can see she ain’t like those money grubbin’ ne’er-do-wells. She’s got pride and dignity, and a fair set o’ motherly necessities.”
Duncan remembered the softness of her breasts and the way she’d leaned into his caress. “Aye, she does.”
Concentrating on the task of grabbing a handful of hair, Ian said, “What’ll ye do with her?”
A midnight fantasy played out in Duncan’s mind. “Not what I’d like to do with her, I assure you.”
Ian grunted, then leaped free of the squealing sow, a tuft of umber-colored hair in his hand. “She’s easy on the eyes, fer sure. Here, my lord.”
Duncan laughed, but without humor, and took the sow’s hair. “I’m trying to forget the way she looks.”
“But yer lady crackers keep remindin’ ye, eh?”
Painfully so, thought Duncan. “You shouldna listen to Angus MacDodd, much less quote him.”
“Yer pardon, my lord.” Ian touched his forehead, but his smug expression belied the show of apology. “I been knowin’ ye since the day the Grand Reiver strapped ye to his saddle and brought ye ’round for all to see. I say the MacDonald lass will go the same way as those gin-soaked lords the queen sent before ’er. Ye’ve done yer best to make peace with Baron Sin. Yer bonnie redhead can’t do better. I’ll wager my Sally’s next litter on it.”
Loyalty so freely given inspired Duncan. Yet in his heart he hoped Miriam could bring about a peace. He was weary of strife. “I’ll hold you to that bet, Ian. But now I’d best get back to being the bumbling earl.”
“’Tis a fair job yer doin’ of it, my lord. You was born to bumble.”
Duncan groaned and stuffed the pig’s hair into his sporran. His fingers touched something scaly. It moved. Looking inside the pouch, he spied a fat newt. Malcolm’s handiwork, no doubt.
Vowing to take the lad to task, Duncan gathered Miriam and the dog into the carriage and headed home. The soldiers rode ahead and behind.
Five minutes later, she said, “You have a special friendship with the swineherd.”
As if facing a long climb up a craggy hill, Duncan gathered his strength and his stupidity. “He’s a generous fellow. Always willing to pluck his best sow so I can have my fishing flies.”
“What would you do if the baron raided his farm?” Duncan affected a pout. “I’m no Lancelot,” he whined. “I’d protest most vigorously, but I’m hardly the type to go bounding over the countryside, brandishing a sword in defense of the downtrodden.”
“You could hire someone to fight your battles.”
“I do. That burly fellow sends some of those men.” He fluttered a hand at his clansmen. “They help clean up the debris.”
She stared pointedly at his gloved hands. “Who buries the dead sheep and dogs?”
Sly, conniving creature. “Heavens, not I. I’m busy at my desk doing what any decent and law-abiding overlord would do. I write to the local magistrate.”
“Who is he?”
“Avery Chilton-Wall. Do you know him?”
“He’s originally from York.” She stared at her injured finger. “A short man, rather portly. He has brown eyes, a long face with a rather bulbous, red nose. He takes snuff … frequently. He likes peas and biscuits and French brandy. His wife’s name is Mirabelle.”
“Then you know him well.”
“Nay. I met him once about three years ago. He was in London for his daughter’s coming out. The duchess of Richmond sponsored the girl. I attended a dinner given in her honor.”
Drat her memory! If minds were arsenals, the woman beside him could make Guy Fawkes look like a schoolboy. “Chilton-Wall is a hunter, not a fisherman. So we seldom speak of anything but business.”
Miriam shrugged and picked at her finger until it began to bleed. “Where is he?”
“Probably at Baron Sin’s. They’re thick as ditchbank thieves. They ride to the hounds together. Birds of a feather, and all that. The baron bankrupts himself to entertain the magistrate, who always sides in the baron’s favor.”
“You say you’ve written to him to voice your complaints. Do you keep a record of your correspondence?”
“Of course. I’m as meticulous about crimes as I am about the entries in my fishing journal. I hope someday to publish my collective works on the spawning cycle of the red-finned salmon.”
“I’d like to see it.”
He knew precisely what she meant, but couldn’t help saying, “Certainly, but not until next week.”
“Why not now?”
The carriage hit a rut. The bonnet flopped low over his brow, but Duncan made no move to right it. “Because the baron’s men are fishing the Tyne today. We mustn’t take such a risk, even for red-finned salmon.”
“I meant,” she said, her voice laced with patience, “your journal.”
“Oh, silly me. Be my guest. But you already are. I’d let you read my fishing entries, but I’m very protective of my research. You understand, of course.”
“Of course. Why do you share fishing rights to the river Tyne?”
“Share?” He tried to control his anger, to keep a loose grip on the reins. His fingers knotted. The horses reared. “I don’t do it by choice,” he grumbled, trying to settle the team. “The river’s on Kildalton land, but Sinclair pays no attention to boundaries or laws.”
She reached out to steady the sleuthhound, who teetered on the opposite seat. “I see.”
Duncan didn’t relax until the towers of Kildalton Castle came into view. The moment they entered the castle yard, Angus broke away from a crowd of farmers and rushed to the carriage.
His relief at being home fled when Duncan saw the rage burning in Angus’s eyes.
The soldier darted an uneasy glance at Miriam and said, “May I see you alone, my lord?”
Duncan dropped the reins and made to leap from the carriage. Angus stopped him with a hand on his knee. “I wouldn’t distress you for all the heather in Scotland, my lord. I know how easily fashed you are.”
Catching the warning, Duncan settled back into the seat. “Very well, then. What’s happened? Why are all those fanners gathered in the yard?”
“The baron came. When you weren’t here he went away peacefully enough. But on his way home his men raided the Lindsay farm and made off with the man’s wool.”
Betsy Lindsay broke away from the crowd and ran to the carriage. Tears and misery wreathed her face. “Oh, my lord. ’Tis my Mary Elizabeth,” she wailed, clutching his tartan with hands that were scratched and bruised. “She’s gone! When the raiders come, I put her in the springhouse and told her not to make a sound. The bastards must’ve taken her, ’cause she wasn’t there.”
Overcome by the conflicting urges to kill and comfort at once, Duncan acted on instinct. He
stepped from the carriage, took Betsy’s hands, and pulled her into his arms.
“My lord!” warned Angus under his breath, his eyes again darting to Miriam MacDonald.
Duncan whispered, “Doona fret, Betsy. We’ll find the lassie. She’s too spry to come to harm. Will you trust me?”
Her head bobbed beneath his chin. The angry crowd milled, the men brandishing pitchforks and shepherd’s staffs. Feminine whispers blended with angry male threats.
Taking a deep breath, Duncan feigned indignation. “I say, this is an outrage of the meanest sort. This poor woman is beside herself. Do something!” he shouted to Angus. “Order those men off the wall and go after the brigands.”
“But what about the little girl? Can’t you do something?” Miriam’s voice, hoarse with outrage, poured over Duncan.
Betsy drew back and gazed over Duncan’s shoulder. “My husband says she’s gone. But she does like to wander. Oh, Sweet Saint Ninian, she’s only three years old.”
The carriage squeaked and shifted. Miriam stepped down. “Do you have some article of her clothing, Mrs. Lindsay? Something that Mary Elizabeth has touched?”
Hope glimmered in Betsy’s eyes, then faded. “Her shawl. She didna even have it on.”
Duncan said, “She’ll be cold, the poor lambkin.”
“The sun is warm today. Please don’t worry,” said Miriam, pushing Duncan out of the way and wrapping her arm around Betsy’s shaking shoulders. “You’ll have your daughter back before nightfall.” She snapped her fingers and the sleuthhound bounded from the carriage. “Do you see this dog, Mrs. Lindsay?”
“What’s a dog got to do with my poor, lost bairn?”
“Well,” said Miriam, as chipper as a lark in spring. “This dog happens to be the very animal that rescued the duke of Orleans from a band of gypsies. Haven’t you heard about it? ’Twas a very daring act.”
Besty’s cheeks sagged in confusion. Before she could speak, Miriam said, “Verbatim tracked their caravan, and His Grace was happily reunited with his duchess. If you’ll find Mary Elizabeth’s shawl and let Verbatim smell it, you and I will get in that carriage and follow the hound. She’ll lead us to your daughter.”