by Arnette Lamb
“Bah!” Her chin went up. “Religion makes weaklings of kings.”
“How can you accuse Saladin of being weak when you ply him with love potions, then grow angry when he refuses to bed you? He sounds strong and admirable to me.”
Elanna’s jaw worked, and her nervous gaze darted from the front doors to the urn of fresh heather at the base of the stairs. “Silly, silly man.”
Alpin tapped her foot. “He has principles.”
Elanna held up her index finger. Her dark eyes snapped with conviction. “One stupid principle.”
Patience gone, Alpin snapped, “You are full of yourself. I should never have freed you.”
Elanna swallowed hard and wrung her hands. “Never say that. I owe you my life.”
“You owe me nothing except to listen to my opinions. But you owe Saladin respect.”
Remorse lent an earthy quality to Elanna’s ebony beauty. “What can I do?”
Alpin sensed a possible compromise. “Go to the tavern and sit with him. He’s never taken alcohol before in his life, and everyone knows he’s broken faith. He also lost his sword in a bet. He’ll be embarrassed, Elanna. As embarrassed as you were that time Charles put a bow in your hair and paraded you before the Ladies’ Social Club.”
“Very bad time.” She shook her head slowly, and her eyes filled with pain. “Very bad.”
“Then you know how Saladin feels. You’ve driven him from his home. Go to him. Talk him into coming back where he belongs.”
Long, dark fingers gripped the chair arms; then she pushed to her feet. “You one smart white woman, Alpin MacKay, and I think you are happy with your Scotsman.”
Echoes of the dream still tormented Alpin. She scanned the room and the stairs to be sure they were alone. “Others need me. Good people who helped me have a happy life. I promised them I would return to Barbados. I cannot forsake them.”
Elanna walked to the door. Over her shoulder she said, “You will not forget them, Alpin MacKay. They know this.”
Alpin smiled. “Sing Saladin a sorry, sorry song.”
“Betcha that. After I sing your name to the gods.”
It was the greatest compliment Elanna could pay, and Alpin acknowledged it with a respectful nod. Then she went up to bed to rest and devise a way to deal with her own stubborn man.
Hours later, like a patient cat with a trapped mouse, Alpin watched Malcolm stir. His sooty eyelashes fluttered, the pitch black color a perfect match to the stubble that shadowed his chin and jaw. The red silk scarves securing his wrists to the headboard gave him a particularly vulnerable look.
He emitted a groan, writhed; then his eyes popped open.
She pounced. “What did Saladin mean when he accused you of meddling in my life?”
Bloodshot eyes focused on her, then closed. “Why are you sitting on me, and what time is it?”
Her knees hugged his ribs. She glanced at the clock. “It’s time for you to answer me. Did you trick me into coming to Kildalton?”
He sighed. “You must be tired, Alpin. Come lie down and go back to sleep.”
She hated his placating tone and lordly arrogance. He shouldn’t look so appealing after a night of selfish indulgence. “Answer me.”
“You came to me. You said I was your best friend. Now untie me.”
He would have to bring that up. Well, she could be clever, too. “I thought you liked being tied up. You said as much last night.”
Through gritted teeth he said, “That was then; this is now. Get off my belly or you may regret it.”
“You’re bluffing. How will I regret it?”
“I may throw up on you. Untie me.”
Her own stomach roiled, and she edged her bottom down to the cradle of his hips. His manhood stirred.
His eyes flew open. “Jesus, Alpin. You wouldn’t dare torment a man fighting the demons of too much ale—and getting a tongue-lashing from his wife.”
She squared her shoulders and didn’t bother to dignify the absurd statements with a reply.
“Would you?” he asked weakly. Misery wreathed his face.
She felt herself weakening.
“That’s a lass,” he crooned. “Let me up and we’ll discuss what’s bothering you. We’re both intelligent, compassionate people. Let’s act like it.”
He was too blasted reasonable. She shifted. He smiled in triumph.
“Not so fast. I want an explanation.”
“I was besotted, sweetheart. ’Twas the ale talking, and you cannot hold me responsible.”
Like boiling cane dripping sugar, he oozed charm. “Oh, yes, I can. Stop changing the subject. Did you or did you not meddle in my life?”
“You wanted to return to Kildalton. You came to me because I was your best friend. That’s what you said. Remember? Please let me up, Alpin. I must go to Saladin. He probably feels as wretched as I.”
“That’s no answer.”
“’Tis so.”
“’Tis not. Why do you want me here?”
He grew still. “Because,” he said quietly, “I love you, Alpin, and I think you keep looking for reasons not to love me.”
Her mind skidded to a halt, and her heart soared. She hadn’t expected him to declare his love, not with so much unsaid and so many things unsettled between them. “That’s an unfair answer, Malcolm.”
“Loving you is unfair? Why?”
“Because you said it to distract me.”
“Then turnabout is fair play, for you often distract me. You’re beautiful.”
“No, I’m too short, and my skin is unfashionably brown.”
“Your skin is lovely, and you’re a tireless helpmate.”
“How would you know if I’m a tireless helpmate? You keep me busy in the kitchen and the scullery.”
His brows rose and he made a meaningful examination of the bed.
Flustered, she said, “Well. Once we’re out of this room you never ask my opinion on important matters.”
“Such as?”
“Such as when you moved that herd of sheep from Farleyton to Sweeper’s Heath.”
He stared at the canopy. “I always move the ewes to the heath in fall.”
She hadn’t intended to pour out her complaints, but couldn’t seem to stop the flow of words. “Had you asked me, I would have pointed out that it would be more practical and economical to put the herd in the outer bailey. You pay the Fraser brothers to cut the grass. The sheep will do it for nothing.”
“True, but how will the Frasers make a living? They’re proud men.”
“Of course they are, and hard workers, too. They can learn to shear sheep, or better yet, you can teach them to raise a herd of their own. The Frasers are not young men, and they have no land. What will happen to them when they’re too old to swing a scythe?”
Her practicality confounded Malcolm. He had admitted his love, but she’d accepted his devotion as if it were no more than a daily chore. To hide his disappointment, he took refuge in addressing her flawed theory. “I take care of my people, including the Frasers.”
“But that’s charity. I doubt they would be happy old men living off your generosity.”
She was thinking about her own life, about being a poor relation. It was another valuable insight into a woman who assumed responsibility with the same glee as other women accepted a new dress. It was also another reason why he loved her. “I admit yours would have been the better plan. We’ll bring the ewes here next year, and you’ll be the one to tell the Frasers about their new life.”
The light of excitement faded from her eyes. “Very well.”
“Thank you for the suggestion. Now can we agree that you like me a wee bit?”
She studied his bare chest. “You could say that. But I’m still angry because you told Saladin that I tied you to the bed.”
How did he explain to a woman the working of a lifelong friendship between two men? “Last night Saladin told me the secrets of his heart. I felt bound to return the favor by telling him one o
f my own.”
A confused frown furrowed her forehead. “It was your idea,” she grumbled. “Not mine.”
He longed to kiss away her troubles and ask what was really bothering her. Using the silken restraints had been her idea; she’d suggested it in the garden weeks ago. But Malcolm knew he had to foster her affection, for she held on to it the way a miser guarded his gold. Arguing wasn’t the way. Besides, he had a full day of work ahead and the effects of a longer night to contend with. Still, creating harmony with Alpin came first.
He knew of one topic that would stimulate her interest and put a spark in her eyes. “Since you’ve shown such ability with the Frasers’ welfare, you can advise me on the sale of Paradise Plantation.”
She flinched as if he’d slapped her, and instead of a spark in her eyes, he saw an explosion of fear. “What do you mean, sell it?” she demanded. “When did you decide that?”
She might have been honest when she said she wanted to return to Scotland, but Malcolm knew that Alpin MacKay had unfinished business in Barbados. He was desperate to know the details, but he’d just vanquished her morning irritation and wouldn’t risk alienating her again. He had to win her love; only then could he learn her secrets.
“Codrington sent me a list of prospective buyers. They have the funds and are eager to strike a deal.”
“Who? What are their names?”
“I cannot recall, but I’ll show you the letter. Now will you either untie me or make this captivity worth my while?”
An endearing blush crept up her cheeks. “I thought your stomach was troubling you.”
His randy body responded with a vigor only Alpin MacKay could inspire. “The ache is a wee bit lower now.”
Chapter 16
I love you.
Standing in the crowded market later that day, her hand poised over a mound of freshly cut leeks, Alpin heard the echo of Malcolm’s words. Around her, feminine chatter faded and movement became a soft blur. All that mattered was the soaring of her spirit and the low twinge of excitement deep in her belly.
I love you.
His words had become tangible, so real she had the absurd desire to string them on a daisy chain and hang them from the castle gates for all to see.
I love you.
A pledge that answered every prayer she had whispered in the loneliness of her life. A promise that fulfilled the soul of an orphaned child, a banished girl, and a solitary woman. A tribute that would alter her future and the life of every person she held dear. One other life would be affected: the life of the child she carried.
The sharp odor of leeks made her mouth water and her stomach pitch. She now understood why she’d been irritable earlier. That and the absence of her menses told the tale: she had conceived Malcolm’s child.
Amid the turmoil her life had become, she felt a solidity, an anchor, and she thanked the hand of fate that had brought her to Scotland. Her sojourn here had not only sweetened the bitterness of her youth but had heaped a bounty upon a woman who had expected much less out of life.
Malcolm’s child. Malcolm’s love.
Guilt tripped on the heels of her happiness. He’d come along too late for Alpin MacKay; she’d already committed herself to a future and a people thousands of miles away. But the boy or girl tucked safely in her womb would have a better chance. This child wouldn’t go begging for love and security. This child wouldn’t look expectantly into the faces of strangers and hope for a smile or a word of kindness, only to receive indifference or a cuff on the jaw for having bothered them.
She dropped a handful of onions into her basket and moved on to the other produce. Just as she reached the apples, she felt an awareness prickle her skin. Sensing she was being watched she turned and saw a group of women staring at her, smiles wreathing their faces.
She knew them: Mrs. Kimberley, who helped with the baking; Miss Lindsay, Alexander’s maiden aunt; Nell, the barkeep’s wife; and Dora’s mother, Betsy, who managed the market. Alpin couldn’t call them friends. They were Scots, cruel critics from her past, unsuspecting players in her destiny.
Alpin had elected to go to the market herself today, Malcolm’s admission of love had given her the strength to storm this bastion of female authority.
But as she looked from one face to the next, she was unexpectedly reminded of another group of women an ocean away, women with ebony-hued skin and a dream of freedom. Slave women who would rejoice at the news of her impending motherhood. Indentured women who depended on her, women who honestly enjoyed her company.
The clock of time turned back, and the little girl in her braced for the disdain that always came from the women of Kildalton.
Betsy stepped forward. “We’re so glad you’re handfasted to Lord Malcolm. Some of us believed him when he swore never to wed until he found the perfect mate.”
A knot of tension inside Alpin began to ease. The smiles and the concern of these women were real. They had even confided a truth about her husband. He could have made a dynastic marriage, but he’d wed for love instead. For that gift she said a prayer of thanks and absolved the women of their cruelty years ago.
“You’ve made him very happy, my lady,” said Betsy.
This one experience was so different from the encounters of her youth and the camaraderie was so intense that Alpin felt tears pool in her eyes. Too choked up to speak, she shrugged self-consciously.
The stately Miss Lindsay elbowed her way to the fore. Her arms folded primly at her waist, her bonnet ribbons tied in a lopsided bow near her cheek, she was the image of a dignified spinster. “Betsy, you should be ashamed of yourself for embarrassing her ladyship so.” She executed a perfect curtsy. “Contrary to what Betsy would have you believe, we were not gossiping about his lordship’s private affairs. I was just saying how he has a fondness for cobbler, wasn’t I?”
“Cobbler?” squeaked Nell. “You was talkin’ about—”
“As I said,” Miss Lindsay interrupted, glowering at each of them, “we were discussing how Lord Malcolm favors cobbler. None of us would stoop to gossiping about what a blessing it was that he chose you rather than that Cameron heiress.”
Nell harrumphed. “Your own nephew says the Highland clans are pressing for an alliance with the Borders. Lord Malcolm could’ve wed the Gordon lass. Her father came to call, or have you forgot?”
“I haven’t forgot the visit by John Gordon. His clansmen left a pretty penny in your husband’s pocket for all that ale they drank at the Rot and Ruin.”
“I say,” a beet-faced Betsy declared, “politics is an unnatural subject for ladies.”
A dozen questions blazed in Alpin’s mind. Sensing the conversation might turn to banal matters, she looked to Alexander’s aunt for answers. Playing the innocent, as she had with the lawyer Codrington, seemed wise. “I’m terribly confused, Miss Lindsay. Why does Lord Malcolm need an alliance with anyone?”
“Because someday those troublemaking Jacobites will start another war.”
Caught off guard, Alpin said, “War?”
A stern-faced Miss Lindsay nodded. “Aye. They still want a Stewart on the throne.”
Betsy sighed and rolled her eyes in exasperation.
Alpin remembered Malcolm’s anger at the unexpected arrival of John Gordon, a Highlander. If these women hadn’t dabbled in politics, Alpin would never have known about warring Jacobites, who really didn’t interest her, or Malcolm’s need for a tie to the northern clans, which interested her very much.
Had his declaration of love been a political ploy?
All contriteness, Miss Lindsay rushed to say, “Do not give those Highlanders a thought, my lady. Lord Malcolm tolerates them when he has to.”
Alpin had a niggling suspicion that his desire to reunite her with her father’s family stemmed from selfish motives. To test her theory she said, “But aren’t the MacKays Highlanders?”
“Certainly,” said the spinster. “They’re probably the most reasonable of the lot, according to Alexander. But they�
��ve naught to do with you. You’re from around here, my lady. We’ve known you since you were a girl. There’s no link between you and the Highland MacKays, however advantageous for Lord Malcolm that match might be.”
Oh, yes, there was a substantial link: Comyn MacKay.
“They couldn’t find you, Alpin,” Malcolm had said of the MacKays. “They wanted to care for you. Give them a chance to love you now.”
Understanding snuffed out the flame of her euphoria. Love. She’d been foolish to believe in so tender an emotion. The methods of her paternal relatives and her handfast husband were suspect in the extreme. As always, she must look out for herself. For weeks she had shelved the issue of her security. But no more. She would wait for a break in the storm of his male power. When a calm arrived, she would make use of it.
“Well,” she declared, waving a hand toward the baskets of produce, “since we’ve used our feminine logic to settle all of the man-made strife in Scotland, I think I should worry about feeding my husband.”
Eyes twinkling with mirth, Mrs. Kimberley put a hand on Alpin’s arm. “Right you are, my lady. Those apples’ll cook up fine and juicy in a cobbler,” she said. “Shall I bake you one?”
“She makes the best cobbler in Kildalton,” declared Miss Lindsay. “Everyone says so.”
Alpin set down her basket. “Yes, please, and I insist on buying enough apples so you can make a pie for your own family.”
Miss Lindsay hummed her approval and nodded to the others.
Mrs. Kimberley started sorting through the pile of fruit. “Thank you, my lady. I’ll bring it ’round before dark.”
Her basket filled with Malcolm’s favorite foods, her heart racked with doubt, Alpin headed for the keep. In the crowded lane, the people of Kildalton respectfully noted her passing. She exchanged small talk, but her interest kept straying to the tanner’s wife, who stood with her husband outside their shop, her belly swollen with an advanced pregnancy. The man’s tender expression bespoke pride and devotion.
Had hers been an ordinary marriage, Alpin would have sought out Malcolm, thrown herself into his arms, and told him that she carried their child. Once again, however, his dishonesty demanded she keep her news a secret and redouble her efforts to get home.