by Arnette Lamb
“You can’t ignore it. Do you refute the codicil to her Will wherein Roxanne gives her stepfather the right to foster the boy?”
Her insensitivity chilled him. “The boy?” he said mockingly. “As in—the embroidery frames? The trunks of clothes? Malcolm is not an object or a commodity. And Roxanne wrote the codicil to bring peace to the Borders.”
Her keen gaze bored into him. “Fostering is a common practice throughout England.”
But this is Scotland, he almost shouted, echoing his father’s favorite excuse for doing whatever villainy he pleased. The memory yanked Duncan back into himself. Be reasonable, he told himself, you’re nothing like the Grand Reiver. Miriam wouldn’t win on this point, and she might make him pay in other areas of the negotiations. Surely she felt vulnerable now.
In his most rational tone, he said, “Discounting the law, which gives me the right to govern all of my property, offspring rudely grouped with chickens and table linens, can you honestly see Malcolm living in that mess the baron calls a household?”
She quirked her mouth as if to say he had a point. “Well, thank you for your cooperation and the chess—and everything. If you’ll excuse me.” She headed for the door.
Shocked that she would just leave, he said, “That’s it?”
She stopped. “No, there is one more thing.” Glancing over her shoulder, a thick red braid against her cheek, an odd gleam in her eyes, she said, “The duchess of Perth was correct. There’s something very different about you, Duncan. I’ll find out what it is.”
Chapter 13
Later that day, standing at the window in her chamber, Miriam watched the shadow of the stair tower creep across the yard toward the castle wall. Just as the day was coming to a close, her time in Scotland was coming to an end. She hadn’t expected to regret leaving the land of her birth. But she hadn’t expected to find the Lancelot of her dreams, either.
Over the scratching of Saladin’s quill and the occasional hiss of the peat fire, she heard Verbatim gnawing on a bone.
Fading sunlight splashed the western sky, transforming a bank of clouds into a treasure chest of amber, garnet, and amethyst. Oh, Scotland, she thought, I remember you as a bleak, loathsome place.
Thinking of that day twenty years ago, she saw once more a silent, haunted child huddled in a rickety cart between the mutilated bodies of her mother and father. The old pain, heartbreaking and bone-deep, seared Miriam. She bit her lip and began the drill that always chased her demons away. But recalling her accomplishments and counting her blessings couldn’t banish her melancholy. She knew why. Earlier today the earl of Kildalton had enticed her into dredging up her painful past.
In a moment of weakness she’d come close to jeopardizing her career and her future. Thank God she hadn’t cried out her frustration, for once the tears had begun, they would have flowed unchecked. Yet even now, the comfort of his embrace reached out to her, urging her to tell him the tale. A crushing weight had robbed her of breath. Duncan Kerr had extended the hand of friendship. He’d showed her his most precious childhood treasure, the chess set. He’d seemed different today. Yet so familiar.
She remembered vividly the moment solace had become yearning. When his lips had touched her temple and his arms had held her fast, her feelings had taken a decidedly passionate turn. Only one man had held her so. And she’d never considered telling her lover about her past. Why, then, had she told the earl? Because she desired him, too? She couldn’t want both men; logic and her own morals told her the folly in that.
Still, the incongruity plagued her.
The gentle, bumbling earl had blundered into her heart as easily as the mysterious, domineering Border Lord had stormed her defenses. One offered passion and ecstasy, the other peace and understanding. In his attempt to soothe her, Duncan had spoken of her mother. It was the kindest gesture imaginable, and one Miriam would never forget.
A draft sailed through the room and stirred the open drapes. She shivered and rubbed her arms to chase away the chill. Verbatim whined.
Turning, she saw the dog leap to her feet and race across the room. Tail wagging like a flag, the hound poked her keen black nose into the wardrobe.
Saladin looked up. “What’s Verbatim doing?”
The dog lifted a front paw. “I keep her leash in there. She’s anticipating her evening walk,” said Miriam. “Which she won’t get until we’re done. Where were we?”
Saladin’s jet black eyes grew large. “You forgot?”
Surprised, too, she said, “Yes, it seems I have.”
“But you never forget your place.” He rolled his eyes. “Or anything else.”
She’d forgotten more than her place in the correspondence; she’d disregarded her principles and befriended a man who would hate her when she told him the queen would most likely enforce the wishes of his late wife. Unless Miriam could work a miracle, he must surrender his child to his enemy.
She should have told him today, but indecision and her own melancholy had stopped her. He would learn the bad news soon enough, for she felt honor bound to prepare him. “Where were we, Saladin?”
Reading from the page, the scribe said, “A new magistrate, less open to bribery and better suited to the rigorous life here, will better serve the cause of peace in the Borders.”
She’d forgotten diplomacy, too. “The last sentence is too blunt.” She waited for him to ink the quill. “Change it to read … I’m sure Your Majesty will see the wisdom in dispatching, at your convenience, a new magistrate who is well-versed in local customs. Such a man will better … Go on from there, Saladin.”
Like a double column of soldiers on parade, the problems and solutions of the Borders marched across Miriam’s mind. She began to enumerate each of them out loud.
The quill scratched.
The dog whined.
Miriam ignored both, her attention straying from her dictation to the castle yard and the night shadows that swallowed up the light of day. She had the most bizarre compulsion to race toward the sun and follow it until there were no more nights.
You spend your days running from your nights.
Your mother would be proud of you, you know.
A philosopher. A good Samaritan.
“What’s next, my lady?”
A moral and ethical dilemma. She had slept with a rakehell and now she longed for an earl, all in the space of one day.
The urge to run rose like a hunger in Miriam. Whirling, she began to pace. She had the oddest sensation that someone was watching her, seeing inside her soul.
Verbatim remained by the wardrobe. From his spot at the vanity, Saladin looked up. His curious gaze flitted from the dog to Miriam. Alexis was in the next room packing for her journey to London.
Verbatim barked.
Miriam stumbled on a thick rug bearing the Kerr sun.
“My lady!” Saladin dropped the quill and shot to his feet.
“I’m fine.” She held up her hand to stay him. “Let’s get on with the letter. And you!” She pointed at the dog. “Get down and be quiet!”
In a heap of gangly legs, the dog crumpled to the floor, her cowed expression a comical farce because her alert black eyes kept straying to the wardrobe and the leash.
Wiping her thoughts clean of spoiled dogs, lusty lovers, and earls who were not what they seemed, Miriam cleared her throat. “On the matter of the disposition of the late countess’s dowry…” She waited for Saladin to take up his quill.
But he shuffled through the papers. “Do you wish to change the wording, my lady?”
“Aye, if I could,” she said, impatience once again gnawing at her concentration. “I’d name Roxanne princess of Wales. Then Parliament could settle her damned estate.”
Saladin scanned a page, his forehead so furrowed his widow’s peak almost met his eyebrows. “But you said Malcolm would retain title of the land—” He laughed and slapped his turban. “You were jesting again.”
She’d also lost her place again. Vowing to ke
ep her mind on business, she snatched at the theme of her report. “Yes, I was, and in very poor taste. Let’s move on to the concessions.”
In her no-nonsense diplomat’s voice, she said, “The earl of Kildalton has generously offered the baron Sinclair fishing rights to the river Tyne one week out of each month. A precise schedule will be drawn up and approved at a later date. Both gentlemen…”
Hiding in the cool passageway beyond the wardrobe, Duncan gasped. Generously offered! What in the name of Scone Abbey did she think she was doing? For years the baron had fished at will on the Tyne. He considered it his right. Duncan would be damned before he’d forget the bastard’s poaching, and if that deceitful redhead thought he’d step aside and let the injustice continue, she could put that clever mind to work thinking again. Christ, she was the most unfair, double-talking diplomat to ever set foot in Scotland. She was also the only woman he’d ever loved.
“Verbatim!” she shouted, startling Duncan. “If you don’t get your nose out of that wardrobe, I’ll chain you in the kennel with those scraggly beasts from Aire.”
Duncan stood stock-still. Peering between the gowns, he could see her clearly. She stood over the dog, her fiery-hued braid dangling over shoulder, her eyes blazing annoyance. A cold sweat beaded his brow. If she looked up, she’d see the open panel behind the row of dresses. If he tried to close it, she’d hear. He could dash away, but she’d still know someone had been spying on her.
The dog whined. Miriam patted the animal’s head, then slammed the wardrobe door. A blessed pool of darkness fell over Duncan.
“Be patient, girl,” she said, her voice muffled. “If I don’t finish my report to the queen and stop these men from squabbling, we’ll be doing our walking in the tundra.”
Squabbling? How dare she reduce a problem that threatened to rip the fabric of his life to the pastime of frustrated fishwives? Disgusted, he folded his arms over his chest, clamped his jaw shut, and quietly tapped his foot.
“For a time they’ll pout like jilted spinsters,” she went on in that condescending voice, “but in the end they’ll clasp hands and fall all over each other to make retributions.”
Duncan grasped the irony, and almost laughed out loud, for he was pouting. Still, he couldn’t help but scoff at her optimism.
“Saladin, strike the sentence beginning … Both gentlemen,” she said, sounding weary. Moving away from the wardrobe, she continued, “Just say … Both men are fair and desire peace. The baron can’t afford to feed or secure the futures of his enormous family. The duchess of Perth has graciously offered to sponsor three of the baron’s natural daughters. His four eldest sons have all reached their majority with little to show for the passage. Military commissions would benefit these men, but the baron hasn’t the wherewithal to supply them. If benefactors could be found, the baron’s obligations would be reduced by half. I await Your Majesty’s counsel on the matter.
“As for the earl of Kildalton…”
Anticipation stole Duncan’s breath.
“The earl…?” prompted the scribe.
“The earl is … I’m not sure anymore about the earl.”
“He’s fair, my lady. Not so—so gawkish since he’s learned to wield a sword.”
“You like him, do you?” she said with a hint of humor.
“He’s an infidel, but tries to better himself.”
At length she said, “Back to the report. The earl is a beleaguered man, who unjustly bears the brunt of his father’s reputation for reiving.”
Some Scotsmen applauded Duncan for being gentler than Kenneth Kerr. Others smiled in acceptance of his peculiar approach to alleviating the problems in the Border. The English, on the other hand, shared the baron’s low opinion of Duncan. But Miriam had seen the truth. He just hoped she didn’t see too much of the truth.
During the next hour, as he listened to her identify the problems and engineer the solutions, Duncan saw the wisdom in her methods. By arranging the futures of the baron’s older sons and daughters, the household would be reduced to a manageable size. By allowing the baron fishing rights to the Tyne, Duncan wasn’t giving up anything at all. But in the eyes of the queen, he would appear magnanimous. As it stood now, the baron fished the river when it suited him. Once the treaty was in effect, he’d be forced to govern his fishermen or stand answerable. But to whom?
His answer came when she said, “I encourage Your Majesty to create the post of sheriff of Kildalton. Further, I recommend John Hume, a protegé to the marshal of the royal household, be dispatched immediately to fill that office.”
Kildalton would have a sheriff. The fight went out of Duncan. He leaned against the stone wall, shaking his head in wonder at the genius of Miriam MacDonald.
By creating the post of sheriff and recommending the notoriously honest Scotsman, Hume, to fill it, she had raised shrewdness to new heights. God, he’d underestimated her.
With a new English magistrate to interpret the law and a Scotsman to enforce it, responsibility for the troubles would be taken out of the hands of Duncan and Sinclair and put where it belonged—in the lap of the government that made the law.
He wished he could see her face. Did her eyes glitter with pride and accomplishment, or was she so accustomed to being brilliant that she took it as everyday fare?
He’d take it—every day and every night for the rest of his life. Like survival, the need to secure her love and loyalty burned like a fire in Duncan.
The Border Lord would conveniently disappear, leaving the road to her heart open for Duncan. Just this afternoon, she’d wanted him to kiss her, had welcomed his embrace. He knew, felt in his bones, that as surely as the first snowfall was on its way, Miriam would soon welcome his attentions. It was up to him to make her forget the Border Lord and nurture her affection for the man he truly was. Excitement filled him.
“On the matter of Baron Sinclair’s claim regarding the fostering of the earl’s heir, Malcolm—” She stopped, leaving the statement hanging in the air and Duncan hanging on her words.
Not daring to breathe, he waited. The silence of the tunnel buzzed in his ears. He leaned into the wardrobe. Fragrant velvet caressed his cheek. Foreboding knotted his gut. The fate of his precious son rested in her hands, as did peace in the Borders. Even Duncan Kerr dared not disobey the edict of the queen’s representative.
“Saladin,” she said, sounding distracted. “Do you know what color the earl’s hair is?”
“No, my lady. Don’t you think it’s black, like Malcolm’s?”
“Merciful heavens!” she shouted. “No. No. It can’t be.”
Saladin said, “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
Fingers of fear clutched at Duncan.
“A ghost? Nonsense,” she scoffed. “Why didn’t I see it before?”
“See what, my lady?”
“That men are not always what they seem. That scheming knave.”
“Who?”
Yes, who? Duncan thought, his legs trembling.
“No one, Saladin. No one at all. Tell me. Has Malcolm mentioned the Border Lord?”
Her abrupt change in topic brought gooseflesh to Duncan’s skin. What was that business of knavery, and when would she get back to the custody issue?
“No, my lady,” Saladin answered. “But everyone else talks about the Border Lord. Just yesterday, the bootboy swore that at the last full moon the Border Lord rescued his uncle’s sheep from the baron. The tanner laughed, and told the boy to go on, because everyone knows the Border Lord busies himself deflowering English virgins at the full moon.”
The room fell silent. Duncan cringed. She must be thinking she isn’t special, since the Border Lord seduces so many women.
“So I heard. Does Malcolm never tell tales of bravery and the like?” she asked in that quick fashion reminiscent of a barrister.
“Malcolm always tells tales. Today he was pretending to be that Norman, Thomas of Bucket, who flogged the king of England. He even ruined a whip—thrashing a
mounting block.”
“You know very well ’twas Thomas Becket, the archbishop of Canterbury.”
“’Twas also a very fine whip. He wasted it.”
She chuckled. “Everyone doesn’t appreciate weaponry as you do, Saladin.”
“A man who doesn’t respect his sword dies a bloody death,” he recited sagely. “Why did you ask about the Border Lord? Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Of course I don’t. He’s a flesh and blood man, though. Not a ghost.”
“You’ve seen him?” Saladin squeaked. “Where? When? What kind of sword does he wield? Does he have a dirk? Is it jeweled? Does he hone it himself?”
She paused for so long a time, Duncan thought she might not answer. He shifted, searching for a gap between the closed doors of the wardrobe so he could see her. But the carpenter had fitted the closure well.
“I don’t know anything about his weapons,” she said. “But I’m beginning to see just how much I know about him. Tell me, has anyone ever described him?”
“They say his hair is as black as soot,” began Saladin with too much melodrama. “His eyes are as dark as a moonless night. His touch can steal a woman’s will.” In his normal voice, the scribe added, “But their will is weak. Allah, in his infinite wisdom, said women are vessels, here to serve man and obey his every command.”
“Truly?” she challenged.
“Uh. Hum,” he stammered. “I believe that—it’s possible that—Allah never met a lady so great as you.”
“I see. He also never met Elizabeth of England. Or Zenobia of Palmyra. Or Joan of Arc. But that neither diminishes their greatness, nor erases their gifts to mankind, does it?”
“No, my lady,” he said, as contrite as Malcolm when caught in a lie. “Absolutely not. The people also swear,” he rushed to say, “that the Border Lord wears a tartan cape woven from the lost souls of Scotland.”
“Lost souls.” She seemed to ponder the words. “Did they say what colors these souls have taken on? Are they woven in green and black, or black and brown? What pattern do they form?”