by Arnette Lamb
Malcolm said, “I want to. I like her ever so much.”
In a thick voice, Mrs. Elliott said, “Don’t you fret, Mistress Alpin. He’ll take the very best care of Hattie. We’ve plenty of carrots with the tops on.”
“You won’t cook her?” asked Alpin.
“Alpin, please remember your manners,” the baron scolded.
A smile of pure kindness wreathed Mrs. Elliott. “Of course we won’t, Alpin. I promise.” Then to the baron, she said, “I’m certain his lordship would want me to offer you refreshment.”
It was a lie, Miriam thought, but a necessary one. Duncan and the baron might never be friends, but they must learn to tolerate each other. Civility seemed an excellent place to start.
“How very hospitable of you,” he said and headed up the steps. Turning back, he glared at Alpin. “Behave yourself or I’ll give away your fox kits.”
Alpin leveled him a look that said, I dare you to try. “If Malcolm puts his smelly lips on me again, I’ll wallop him good.”
Malcolm blushed. Saladin, who’d returned to his place, chuckled.
All too conscious of her role as neutral observer, Miriam smiled at Mrs. Elliott. “I’ll show your guest to the keeping room, if you like.”
The housekeeper cast a sad glance at Alpin. “Aye. And thank you, my lady. I’ll bring a tray.”
Miriam followed the baron through the castle, watching him duck beneath door frames and chandeliers. He stopped just inside the keeping room and stared at the empty dais. “Where’s the mighty Kerr throne?”
He referred to the great chair in the earl’s bedchamber. She had wondered why it wasn’t in the public room. “Throne, my lord?”
He prowled the room, picking up a silver box to examine the engraver’s mark on the bottom. “A monstrosity of a thing, all carved with lions and blazing suns. It was on that dais the last time I was here.” Putting down the box, he moved on to a pair of ruby glass candlesticks, which he held up to the light. A spray of crimson dots splashed his face. “Primitive in the extreme as are most things here.”
“Where did the throne come from?”
He strolled to the pedestal table that held a lantern clock. Bending, he peered at the timepiece. “’Twas a gift from one of those barbarous Scottish kings, I suppose.”
“The earl must have redecorated this room.”
“No. This John Bowyer clock hasn’t been moved, and the pre-Delian candlesticks are in the same—” He stopped and gave her a sly smile. “How clever you are.”
“Clever? Hardly, my lord. ’Tis seldom I meet someone with a better memory than mine. I do enjoy our visits. After the formality of the Europeans…” She let the sentence trail off to see what he would make of it.
“I know precisely what you mean.” Fluffing his lace cravat, he swaggered across the room and levered himself onto one of the straight-back benches, his long legs stretched out. “I must agree. People who can’t remember the gist of a conversation bore me to tears.”
She gave him the same soft chuckle that had proved effective in disarming him during their prior meetings. “I know precisely what you mean. Goodness, that dais looks bare, doesn’t it?”
He didn’t seem to notice that she had to remind him of the topic, for he said, “That depends on one’s taste. I am surprised that Duncan would part with the beastly thing. Like his father, he loved to hold court in it, or so I’m told. Those half-naked clansmen seem to enjoy worshiping him.”
The men respected Duncan, but worship was way off the mark. In demure fashion, she said, “I’ve been away from Scotland for a long time. I know little about the seventh earl of Kildalton, except the tidbits Lord Duncan reveals.”
As if gathering an audience of children, the baron leaned forward and draped his arms over his legs. “What would you like to know? I’ve heard all the stories about Kenneth Kerr.” Flapping his arms in exaggerated obeisance, he added, “The Grand Reiver.”
He hadn’t even known Kenneth Kerr except through gossip, which he’d been free with in the past. Hoping he’d shed new light on the old problems here in the Border, she said, “What kind of father was he, I wonder?”
“A rough bully, and he taught his son to carry on the family traditions. I worry about dear Malcolm. Duncan has become a master.”
Miriam thought him an indulgent father, but what was the crime in that? “A master at what?”
She must have spoken too sharply, because he patted the place beside him and in a friendly tone said, “I truly didn’t come here to dredge up the bitter past or tell tales on my noble son-in-law, the earl.”
At least the negotiations hadn’t stopped him from claiming Duncan as his relative. At Sinclair, she had used the association as an inducement to make the baron see how important it was to reach an agreement with his neighbor. “Answering a direct question can hardly be called gossiping,” she said. “You know how curious a woman can be about lineages, especially noble ones.”
“Don’t I?” He chuckled. “With fourteen of them under my roof, I know their peculiarities well.”
“You certainly deal with Alpin.” And poorly, she thought.
He fished a silver toothpick from his waistcoat and began poking at his teeth and noisily smacking his lips. “She worshipped dear Adrienne. Hasn’t been the same since the girl was kidnapped.”
“You still think Duncan was responsible for her disappearance?”
“Well, I don’t believe Kenneth Kerr arose from the dead to do it. The Border Lord didn’t either.”
Miriam felt her heart trip fast. But she casually said, “Who is he? Do you know?”
With his tongue, he rolled the silver pick to the corner of his mouth. “He’s an excuse my tenants use to keep from paying their rents. The house servants use his presence to escape their duties. Just last week the dairy maid took to her bed all day, complaining that he’d come to her the night before and wrapped her in that magic cape. He drained her will to resist, she says, and spirited her away to Hadrian’s Walls. Two days later, he seduced her sister.”
Miriam’s stomach bobbed like a boat adrift. Could Ian be so fickle as to take another woman to their special place? He’d said he loved her to distraction. He’d seduced her so easily. What about her feelings for Duncan Kerr? Wasn’t she being fickle by desiring one man and giving herself to the other? Absolutely. Only a slut would act so disreputably.
“Then the cows’ milk dried up,” the baron went on. “We haven’t had a dollop of decent cream since the Border Lord supposedly paid us a visit.”
She put aside her personal dilemma. She’d have time later to examine her own poor behavior. “Then you don’t believe the Border Lord exists.”
“I don’t believe the romantic tales of seduction, and I’m too practical to fall prey to the suspicions of peasants. How could a man return from the grave to seduce women and steal my livestock? I think he’s a mercenary hired by Duncan Kerr.”
“Why would the earl do that? I thought you said he was like his father.”
He sighed, as if summoning patience. “I told you before. Because he’s spiteful and greedy, and he is just like his father. Only Duncan’s methods differ. He knows the queen won’t tolerate barbarous behavior. So he pays someone else to do it. Too busy writing fish tales in his journal.”
“But if Duncan were truly like Kenneth Kerr, he wouldn’t hire someone to fight his battles.”
“Of course he would. He’d stoop to any depths to bedevil me and trick you. But you’ve taught me the importance of compromise. So I’ve thought of a way to make sure the situation improves.”
The certainty in his voice alarmed her. “How will you improve it?”
“With this. I also have a proposition of sorts.” From his breast pocket, he produced an envelope.
Miriam pried open the wax seal and slipped the card free. The baron was having a ball, and to her surprise, the guests of honor were the earl of Kildalton and his heir, Malcolm Andrew Kerr.
“You’re frowni
ng,” he said. “Do you think it’s presumptuous of me? I mean—you made me see the logic in resolving my differences with Duncan. You have managed to make him see reason, haven’t you?”
All Miriam had done was alienate Duncan, but since their meeting she had taken steps to correct the situation. Alexis would speak to the queen and buy some time. The baron, however, made her wary. “What do you mean by make him see reason?”
“I chose the wrong word. Surely you understand why Roxanne insisted I foster the boy.”
She wasn’t quite ready to address the fostering issue. “Roxanne was your stepdaughter. She sought peace by willing the land to her son. The people who live on the land between here and Hadrian’s Wall want Duncan for their overlord. They told me so when I visited them.”
“Roxanne was ever naive, and so are those tenants. They will obey whoever has jurisdiction over them. Who better to guide Malcolm than I?”
His arrogant presumption disappointed her. Lord, now she’d have to coddle him out of his black and white thinking. She couldn’t summon the patience. She was tired of bickering, backbiting men. “Legally the governing hand belongs to Malcolm’s guardian. I tell you, Baron, the crux of it is, the law will prevail here.”
“Exactly,” he said, oozing confidence. “I do so long to make a lasting peace with Duncan. Fostering his son is one way.”
He believed that by fostering Malcolm, he would gain control of the land. He was correct; all of the revenues from a minor’s property reverted to the guardian, and all Baron Sinclair cared about was the money. Because Malcolm was born before the Act of Union, he might be viewed as a Scottish citizen and exempt from the law. His mother’s wishes wouldn’t matter. But the baron needn’t know that.
Until she heard back from the queen, Miriam had no intention of making a commitment on custody of the boy. “Peace will be made, Baron. Mark my word.”
Mrs. Elliott entered the room carrying a tray with goblets and a pitcher of beer. Under her arm she carried a bunch of carrots with the tops on. She served the beer, then quietly left the room.
“We’re fortunate,” said the baron, holding up his mug in salute, “that the queen sent you to strike the peace. Will you come to the ball?”
She ignored his patronizing comment. The event was a fortnight hence. By that time Alexis would have done her work. The queen would send word to Miriam. Then she could pen the formal treaty and present it to both men for signature. She prayed Anne would heed her advice. “Certainly. I’d love to. Now, tell me about your proposition.”
“It concerns my niece, Caroline. I believe she can help patch up this whole ghastly mess.”
Miriam sifted through the names and faces of all the women in his household. She saw a diminutive golden-haired girl of ten and eight with warm brown eyes and an easy smile. “How can she help?”
He began jerking his neck again. “As I told you, I hold no grudge against Duncan. To show my good faith, I’m willing to offer him the hand of my dear Caroline in marriage.”
Miriam rebelled at the thought of Duncan marrying. He’d done that once to gain peace. But she was fooling herself if she used his past marriage for an excuse. As capricious as it seemed, she didn’t want anyone else to have Duncan Kerr. Confused by her possessive attitude, she decided to hedge. “I’m not sure another alliance between your families will solve anything, my lord.”
“What objection could you possibly have? ’Tis the perfect solution.”
She couldn’t answer him, because her objection was purely personal. She’d given her heart to the Border Lord, yet she couldn’t bear the thought of losing Duncan Kerr’s affection. She also couldn’t tell the baron he was wrong. “What if it compounds the problem? I suggest you wait until the negotiations are completed.”
“I insist you approach the earl with my offer. Avery Chilton-Wall concurs.”
Swallowing back disgust, she said, “Chilton-Wall’s approval is neither here nor there. The queen is replacing him. And hiring a sheriff, too.”
The baron leaned back against the bench, which he dwarfed. “I’m surprised you would throw away the queen’s money on a sheriff? Duncan and I can settle matters around here. I’ve given you the perfect vehicle. You know, Miriam, you really should think things through before acting so rashly.”
His puny attempt at an insult amused her. “As I explained to you, my lord, at the request of Her Majesty, I’m simply affording you and the earl time to get to know each other again. You won’t be burdened with the taxing business of enforcing the law or passing judgment. They’re hardly fitting tasks, after all, for men of noble birth. Don’t you agree?”
He laughed, a high cackling sound that made her ears ring. “I’d agree to tying my own cravats if it would keep my family in clothes and food, and my poor, frightened tenants safe.”
His overdone tale of woe garnered no sympathy from Miriam. “I thought the only thing they feared was the Border Lord.”
“Oh, they do fear him.”
He’d left her the perfect opening. “But they don’t fear the two criminals you brought with you today?”
“Criminals?” He spat the word. “Those men are my bodyguards.”
She told him about Betsy Lindsay. “Shall I fetch her here, my lord?”
Red-faced, he said, “No. I believe you. What shall I do with them?”
“Don’t let on anything’s amiss. When you get home, have the magistrate arrest them. Lord Duncan will press charges when he returns.”
“Very well, but I hope you don’t think I’m to blame.”
She did, but the courts would call his crime omission.
“Lady Miriam!” Mrs. Elliott stood in the doorway, the wilted carrots in her hand, her face a picture of alarm.
“My lady!” Saladin raced around the housekeeper and skidded to halt before Miriam. His swarthy skin was as white as bleached parchment. “Please. You must come. I think Alpin killed Malcolm.”
Chapter 16
His cheek a scant inch from the neck of the galloping stallion, Duncan squinted into the biting north wind and raced for home. His thighs ached from gripping the horse. His fingers cramped from clutching the reins. The messenger from Kildalton had long since fallen behind.
Duncan’s mind swirled with reasons for the baron’s unannounced visit. One possibility kept nagging at him. Miriam had ignored his defense and enforced the codicil to Roxanne’s will; the baron had come to claim Malcolm.
Duncan burned with murderous rage. The pounding of hooves matched the hammering of his heart. He’d ceased trying to contain his anger. If he arrived home to find Malcolm gone, he’d make Miriam MacDonald sorry she’d come to the Borders to brew her diplomatic poison. Peace with Baron Sinclair would become irrelevant, for if that thoughtless bastard so much as parted Malcolm’s hair wrong, Duncan would wage a campaign of destruction that would make a Viking raid look like a May fair.
By the time the towers of Kildalton rose like great black shadows against the late evening sky, Duncan had honed his anger to a fine, lethal edge.
The stallion stumbled. Duncan eased the pressure on the reins and sat back in the saddle. The horse slowed to a half canter and blew loudly, the heaving breaths billowing like a spring fog. Duncan panted, too, sucking in frigid air. Icy snowflakes settled on his face and hands, cooling skin that radiated his inner fury.
A torch flickered in the distance and seemed to float across the inner bailey. At the curtain wall, the light winked out, then popped into view again. It bobbed over the road toward Duncan, bringing trouble.
Only the direst of straits would compel Alexander Lindsay to send out a man to meet Duncan. For a moment the angry warrior within him grew silent. The loving father took the fore. Fear clogged his throat and squeezed his chest. The unfairness of his situation besieged him. Only God should have the right to separate a man from his son.
Under the baron’s control, the spry, cheerful Malcolm would grow despondent and wither like a plucked weed. No one would care that he
sometimes blamed himself for his mother’s death. Who would comfort him when he fell to his knees at the side of his bed and called God a foosty scunner for taking his mother to heaven? Who would find the time to nurture his bright mind without starving his lively imagination? Who would call him by his nom du jour?
Who would teach him to be generous and understanding? Who would teach him right from wrong? Who would teach him to earn the respect of his fellow man? Who would teach him to woo and befriend the woman of his choice?
Tears blurred Duncan’s eyes. He saw his own miserable childhood. He remembered the solemn vow he’d made to a squalling, motherless Malcolm: You’ll never want for companionship and love as I did.
When the torch-bearing soldier rode within earshot, Duncan again summoned the angry warrior inside him. “Is Malcolm all right?” he demanded.
The soldier halted his mount. The torch light illuminated his face. Alexander Lindsay. Oh, Lord. The situation must be worse than dire. “Has the baron taken Malcolm?”
The soldier whirled his mount alongside Duncan’s. “Nay, my lord. I’m afraid ’tis far worse than that.” He stared straight ahead, abject misery pulling his features into a grimace. “The girl Alpin. She tied the lad to a tree and—”
“And what?” Duncan’s blood ran cold. “What did she do to him?”
Alexander swallowed loudly. “The foul-mouthed besom put hornets under that toga he was wearing. His manly parts are … Dammit, sir. His lady crackers are swelled up as big as your fists. The midwife says he’ll never sire a child of his own.”
Absurdly relieved, Duncan wilted in the saddle. He’d thought his son dead.
Sweet Malcolm. Stung by hornets. Duncan’s own manly parts throbbed in sympathy and his knees hugged the horse. With the midwife to nurse him, Mrs. Elliott to coddle him, and his father to nurture his wounded pride, Malcolm would mend. But what of protection for a lad who’d been taught to cherish the gentler sex? Malcolm would sooner answer to his own name than raise a hand to Alpin—even in self defense. Hell, he always tried to kiss her.