by Arnette Lamb
A sand fly landed on Codrington’s nose. He swatted it away. “You may, of course, take any family heirlooms.”
Knowing the veil concealed her wide-eyed astonishment, Alpin put all her effort into keeping her voice calm. She would cut cane to earn her keep before she’d depend on any man again. “What of Paradise Plantation?” She held her breath. If Charles had foolishly gambled it away or mortgaged it …
Codrington batted the fly again. “I am at liberty to say only that five years ago he transferred ownership of all his worldly possessions. A tricky matter for some in my profession, considering the distance and correspondence required, but quite simple for me. Mr. Fenwick will continue to oversee the estate until the owner decides what to do with it.”
Fear buzzed in her ears, obliterating the pounding of her heart and scattering her thoughts. Paradise gone. Impossible. This was her home. Where would she go? She could challenge Codrington, but to what end? She would expose her bitterness. Jeopardize any chance of righting this wrong.
Right it! Keep your wits. There’s time aplenty to learn the facts and think out a plan. Henry Fenwick was a capable and kind overseer, but he despised the ruling class of Barbados.
She took a deep breath and put on a cheery face. “To whom did Charles transfer ownership?”
In a protective gesture, Codrington closed the flap on the satchel, fastened the buckle, and folded his hands over it. “The transfer was a private transaction between gentlemen. I’m sworn to secrecy.” He handed her the will. “Have you mastered reading, Lady Alpin?”
In four languages. But the slimy toad needn’t know that. Let him think her ignorant; his own superiority might loosen his tongue. “The art of deciphering words can be difficult.”
Benevolence lent him a pitying air, his mouth went slack, his hands relaxed. “I understand. And I suppose I can tell you that by transferring the plantation to another party, Charles was repaying an old debt of gratitude.”
Gratitude? To whom? How could Charles have been so cruel as to leave her with only a paltry stipend? She had forgone marriage to shoulder his responsibilities. And for what? To care for a man who had nursed a broken heart from a bottle and passed his wealth on to someone else? Her sacrifice had been for nothing. Someone else owned Paradise.
Her stomach roiled. Who?
The answer lay in that satchel. Why else would Codrington guard it so fiercely? A name. She needed a name. Hatred filled her. If she could examine those papers she’d have a target for her ire. She knew the way. Once she had Codrington away from the house, she’d excuse herself for a female necessity.
But first she had to get his attention. She swept off the veil. He stared, gape-mouthed.
“Is something wrong, sir?”
He fumbled with the satchel. “I, ah … You, uh … It’s just that Charles told me …”
“Told you what?”
“He told me that you were unmarriageable—more … mature. I expected—” He cleared his throat. His gaze fell to her breasts. “May I say you have preserved yourself admirably.”
The clumsy comment, delivered with a lustful leer, disgusted Alpin. Because she was small, people always thought her younger than her age. As a girl she had hated being mistaken for a child. Now she could use her youthful appearance to her advantage.
“How very thoughtful of you, Mr. Codrington. Would you like to see the mill?”
He jumped up so fast, the satchel fell to the floor, forgotten.
Twenty minutes later, her fingers trembling, she opened the pouch and scanned the legal documents. At the sight of the name on the transfer papers, she tossed back her head and groaned through clenched teeth. Her childhood rose up to haunt her.
By the time she replaced the papers and returned to the mill and her guest, Alpin had made her plans. She breathed deeply of the spicy smells of Barbados, but her thoughts had already turned to Scotland and Kildalton Castle. She was about to mount the next siege in the years-old war with the scoundrel who now controlled her destiny.
Chapter 1
Kildalton Castle
Summer 1735
“And if I refuse?”
Craning his neck, the soldier squinted into the dim interior of the falcon mews. “She is prepared for a refusal, my lord, and up to her old tricks, I trow.”
Malcolm’s hand stilled, his fingers holding a scrap of meat above the open mouth of a hungry owlet. The wounded mother owl looked on. “How is that, Alexander?”
“Lady Alpin said if you doona come and greet her personally, she’ll carve out your eyes and feed them to the badgers.”
Malcolm dropped the meat into the hungry maw. Childhood memories flashed in his mind: Alpin splintering his toy sword and throwing it down the privy shaft, Alpin howling with laughter as she locked him in the pantry, Alpin hiding in the tower room and crying herself to sleep, Alpin coming after him with a jar of buzzing hornets.
A shudder coursed through him. Years ago she had played havoc with the life of a gullible lad. The world-wise man would now play havoc with hers. “I wonder what she’ll do if I call her bluff?”
Alexander Lindsay, trainer of archers and master of the hunt, moved cautiously down the aisle between roosting falcons, agitated kestrels, and a trio of golden eagles. The predators paced on their perches, wings stirring the air. When he reached Malcolm, Alexander doffed his bonnet and revealed a pate as bare as the pinnacles of The Storr. Still squinting, he looked in Malcolm’s general direction. “I only brought the message, my lord. ’Twas not my place to interrogate your guest.”
“Guest?” Malcolm laughed. The wide-eyed and downy owlet peeped for more food. Smiling, Malcolm tore another piece of meat from the carcass and fed it to the eager bird. “Tell the lady Alpin I’m busy. And report to me the moment Saladin returns from Aberdeenshire.”
Alexander eyed the owl with wary curiosity. “To be sure, the sentry will signal at the first sight of the Moorish lad. But Lady Alpin, she also said if you wilna come, she’ll change her mind about forgiving you for what you did to her years ago in the tower room.”
“She’ll forgive me? Blessed Saint Ninian, she’s twisted the events of the past. Send her on her way to her kin in Sinclair.”
“Aye, sir. England’s the place for her kind.” Alexander strolled out the door and closed it behind him.
Sinclair Manor, a short hour’s ride away, south of Malcolm’s Scottish holdings and beyond Hadrian’s Wall. In England. Alpin would hate it there. She always had. Only now she couldn’t don the clothing of a bootboy and seek sanctuary here in Malcolm’s Border fortress. As a lad he’d borne the brunt of her wrath. He’d been seven years old and she six when she was justly deemed uncontrollable and exiled to the island of Barbados. Years of separation had dulled the enmity Malcolm felt toward her. But five years ago when he learned of her disloyalty to her island guardian, Malcolm had put in motion the wheels of revenge.
Long ago she had taken from him his heart’s desire. Now he’d taken hers.
A grinding ache, bone deep and soul scouring, held Malcolm immobile. Sensitive to his moods, the birds grew restless, their deadly talons clicking on perches of rough-hewn oak. The worried owl tried to draw her chick beneath a protective wing. Malcolm felt cheated, self-betrayed, for he made a practice of leaving his cares outside this dark sanctuary. Today he’d brought them inside with him.
He’d also maneuvered Alpin MacKay into a corner. Since receiving word of Charles’s death, Malcolm had expected news of Alpin’s return to the Borders. In a week or so he’d pay a call on her at the home of his English neighbor. Then he’d watch Alpin squirm like a mouse impaled on a claw.
Secretly pleased, he forced away the old pain and spoke reassuringly to the distressed owl.
The door swung open. Sunlight flooded the room, making the owl hiss and the kestrel squawk. The owlet pecked Malcolm’s finger. He drew back his hand, his senses fixed on the figure of a woman standing in the doorway.
“Hello, Malcolm.” Her panniered s
kirt almost filling the opening, her features obscured by the brightness of the light, Alpin MacKay stepped into Malcolm’s private haven.
Darkness settled over the mews again. Malcolm watched her blink, trying to focus her eyes. Alpin’s expertise lay in deceit and avarice. Which would she practice first?
Despite his memory of past injustices, Malcolm couldn’t help but admire the pleasant changes that had occurred in his childhood nemesis.
He remembered a scrawny hoyden nicknamed “runt” with a grudge against the world, her matted hair trailing to her waist, and a spotting of freckles like measles dotting her nose and cheeks. Alpin MacKay had matured into a vision of petite femininity. No taller than his chest, she looked small enough for him to carry on his hip, her neck slender enough for him to circle with one hand.
She wore a gown of sunny yellow satin, the bodice cut square across the top and dropping to a point below her narrow waist. Her dress was modest, but even a monk’s robe could not have hidden the bountiful charms of Alpin MacKay.
“Where are you, Malcolm? I can’t see.” Her alluring violet eyes surveyed the mews. “Say something so I can find you.”
The rich, husky timbre of her voice also seemed at odds with the caviling shrew he was certain she’d become. But he’d changed, too, as she would soon discover.
He tossed the rabbit carcass to the watchful mother owl, then walked to the door. “I’m here, Alpin.” He touched her elbow.
She jumped back, her skirts tipping over an empty bucket. “Oh!” Delicate fingers curled around his forearm. “Please don’t let me fall.”
As a child she had always smelled of the food she’d filched and the animals she’d rescued. As a woman she smelled of sweet, exotic flowers blossoming in the tropical sun. The idea that anything about Alpin MacKay would please him shocked Malcolm more than her presence in his sanctuary. She should have gone to Sinclair Manor to await the return of the uncle she hated. Events of late had left her nowhere else to go. Malcolm had planned it that way.
“I doubt you’ll fall,” he said. “You were always nimble on your feet”
She laughed, tipped back her head, and squinted up at him. “That was before stays, skirts as big as hayricks, and modern shoes. Are you standing on a box?”
“A box?”
Her expression softened, but her eyes were still adjusting to the darkness. “Either that or you’ve grown as tall as an oak.”
He stared at the crown of her head and the thick coil of braids she’d made of her hair. Wisps of mahogany-hued ringlets framed her face. “You don’t seem to have grown at all.”
She pursed her lips. “I expected a more original observation from you, Malcolm Kerr. A kinder one, too.”
She could expect whatever the hell she wanted, but James III would sit on the throne of the British Isles before she’d get honest pleasantries from Malcolm Kerr. “Why, I wonder,” he mused, “for kindness was never the way between us.”
“Because—because we’ve known each other for so long.”
“A circumstance,” he murmured, “that brought me great heartache and other assorted pains as a lad.”
“Oh, come now.” She leaned into him, her shoulder pressing against his ribs. “Surely after more than twenty years you’ve outgrown your hatred of me. I’ve certainly outgrown playing tricks on you.”
Tricks? She had a gift for understatement. “But you haven’t outgrown threats, unless carving out my eyes and feeding them to badgers is your usual way of greeting an old acquaintance.”
She bristled with indignation, a trait she’d mastered before she lost her milk teeth. “You are not an acquaintance. You’re my oldest friend. And I was only jesting.”
“I’m relieved, then,” he mocked and threw open the door. Shielding his eyes from the sunlight, he stepped outside. Alpin’s closed carriage stood across the castle yard. A group of curious children had gathered around the conveyance. Releasing her, Malcolm turned and plunged his arms into a barrel of rainwater so cool it chilled his anger. He began scrubbing his hands. “It’s nice of you to visit. You had a pleasant voyage?”
“Visit?” Lifting her chin, she cupped her hands over her eyes to shield them from the sun. “I’ve come all the way from Barbados to see you, which I haven’t had the opportunity to actually do, what with the darkness in there and the sunshine out here, and all you have to say is some insipid nicety before sending me off?” A sheen of tears glistened in her eyes. “I’m wounded, Malcolm. And perplexed.”
Guilt pricked his conscience. He hadn’t witnessed the trouble she’d caused in Barbados, and Charles hadn’t supplied the details. Malcolm believed it, though, for Alpin MacKay could turn a May fair into a bloody feud. But this snip of a woman couldn’t threaten him now. Since his father’s elevation to marquess of Lothian, Malcolm, as earl, ruled all of Kildalton and half of Northumberland. His enemies feared him. His clansmen respected him. Alpin MacKay, the woman, suddenly intrigued him. “I had no intention of wounding you.”
She smiled and rubbed her eyes. “I’m relieved,” she said in a rush. “I have a million questions to ask you and at least that many stories of my own to bore you with. You can’t believe how different Barbados is—” She stopped, her eyes wide in surprise.
“What’s amiss?” he said, thinking he’d never seen a woman with lashes so long and skin so sweetly kissed by the sun. He knew her age to be twenty-seven. She looked nineteen. Where had her freckles gone?
“My God,” she breathed, her gaze scouring his face. “You’re the image of my Night Angel.”
Malcolm’s admiration turned to puzzlement. “Night Angel. Who’s that?”
She stared at the old tiltyard, concentration evident in the pucker of her chin, the crease in her forehead. Then she shook her head as if clearing her thoughts. “’Tis nothing but my memory deceiving me. Your hair’s so dark and—and yet you favor Lord Duncan.”
At the mention of his father, Malcolm thought again about the misery this selfish woman had visited on everyone who had ever befriended her. But now was not the time to reveal his feelings or his plans for Alpin MacKay. Now was the time to bait a line with friendship and go fishing for her trust. “Mother would certainly agree that I favor Papa.”
“You mean Lady Miriam. How is she?”
Thinking of the gracious woman who’d indulged his childhood fantasies and encouraged him to become his own man, Malcolm smiled. “My stepmother is still the fairest of women.”
Alpin turned to the castle entrance, excitement dancing in her unusual eyes. “Is she here?”
“Nay. She and Papa are in Constantinople.”
“I’m disappointed. She was always kind to me. I did so want to see her. Is she still a diplomat?”
Pride and affection warmed him. “Aye. Sultan Mahmud wants peace with Persia. He asked King George to send her.”
A sigh lifted Alpin’s shoulders and drew his attention to the symmetrical planes of her collarbones and the thin gold chain that disappeared into her cleavage. “Must be grand to be so valued,” she said. “Imagine the king asking favors.”
The soldiers on the wall had turned to stare. The fletcher stood in the doorway of his shop conversing with Alexander Lindsay. Passersby slowed, their curious gazes darting from their laird to his lovely visitor. Malcolm reached for a towel. “I think she would prefer a sojourn in Bath to a summer in Byzantium.”
“I prefer the Borders. It’s wonderful to be home.” Alpin scanned the battlements, then the castle towers. “Have you brothers and sisters?”
Home? He considered challenging her absurd declaration, but decided to cast out another line of cordiality. “Aye, I’ve three sisters.”
A dimple dented her cheek. “Oh, how wonderful for you. Are they here?”
He almost laughed and revealed how peaceful his home had become without his gregarious siblings. He had no business speaking so casually to Alpin MacKay. He did have business with her, however. The very gratifying business of retribution.
He tossed the towel aside. “Nay. The eldest married the earl of Hawkesford last fall. The other two are with Mama and Papa.”
Alpin threaded her arm through his and strolled across the yard, pulling him along. “I can’t imagine why they’d want to leave this place.”
Looking down, he could see the mounds of her breasts and a familiar Roman coin at the end of the chain. His mind fogged with hazy images of a skinny ass and stick-thin legs shinnying up the drainpipe on the castle tower. Lord, she’d changed. “You always hated Kildalton Castle.”
“Oh, Malcolm. I was such an angry child.” Her guileless expression softened his heart. Her lush assets had an opposite and unwelcome effect “I had nothing, no one, back then. It seems so safe and protected here now, as if your Scottish ancestors are standing guard over everything and everyone.”
“Well, aye,” he found himself saying. “Kildalton Castle has a way of capturing your soul.”
“See?” She hugged his arm. “I knew we were still friends, and I’ll wager the gifts I brought for you and Saladin that you’re a romantic at heart.”
Malcolm’s wariness returned. He could think of no good reason for her to befriend him, let alone his confidant, Saladin. “How did you know Saladin lived at Kildalton?”
“The two of you are the talk of Whitley Bay. Is Salvador here?”
She spoke of Saladin’s twin brother. “Nay, he’s with my stepmother.”
Her lips pursed with regret. “I’ll miss seeing him again.”
She’d ever been a solitary child. Before his death her guardian in Barbados had lamented in his letters to Malcolm that he feared she’d never find a kindred spirit. Now she was destitute. What farce did she play? “You’ve had quite a change of heart,” he said.
“Of course I have.” Her hand touched his. “I’m a woman now.”
He didn’t need his father’s fake spectacles to see how gloriously maturity had embraced her. “You used to call me a sniveling cur.”
“You used to call me ‘runt.’” She looked at his arms, his chest, his neck. An artless feminine smile again produced the dimple. “Don’t expect me to call you names now. You’re a formidable presence, Malcolm Kerr.”