by Arnette Lamb
He stopped and caught his reflection in the cheval glass. His blond hair hung about his shoulders in a wild tangle. His shirt had come free and lay bunched and wrinkled beneath the sash of his tartan. He looked a fierce sight, a kilted Scotsman poised to defend his domain.
That thought brought a sorry laugh to his lips and a pain to his heart. He should be leading his men to the rescue. Not Miriam MacDonald.
He ticked off her faults on his fingers. She was far too distracting. She was too intelligent. She had no business snooping in his affairs. But how could he stop her?
Snooping.
Like a draught of fresh air, Duncan remembered the missing key to the tunnel door. Earlier today he’d found it open and an empty nail where the key should have been. According to Malcolm, Miriam had stood beside him in the garden watching the fencing duel, then suddenly she’d vanished.
A purpose beckoned. Here at last was something he could accomplish, and he’d never have a better opportunity away from her too observant eyes.
He traded the bottle of brandy for a lighted torch and a spare ring of keys. With a twist of his wrist, he turned the wall sconce and triggered the ancient mechanism that opened a secret door in the wall between the fireplace and the bookshelves. Holding the torch high, he wound his way through the warren of tunnels until he reached the outside door.
On his knees, he searched for the key. He didn’t find it, but much to the delight of his bruised and battered pride, he discovered a more condemning piece of proof—a broken fingernail.
Feeling assuaged and eager for another bout with the flame-haired diplomat, he returned to his study and the brandy. Sometime later he heard a cheer from the soldiers on the curtain wall. Then Malcolm burst into the study.
“Come quick, Papa. You won’t believe who’s riding through the gate.”
Chapter 7
Although Duncan had his suspicions, he said, “Who?”
“You’ll see.” Malcolm grabbed Duncan’s hand. “We’ll watch from the tower.”
He let himself be pulled out of the study and to the tower door. Grunting, Malcolm pushed it open. They started up the circular stairway, the boy’s short legs pumping. “Hurry. We’ll never make it,” he said between gasps.
“Make it to what?”
Malcolm stopped and flapped his arms in exasperation. “To see what’s happening outside.”
“Very well.” Duncan swept up his son and propped him on his hip, the same way he’d carried him as a babe. Eye to eye with Malcolm, Duncan said, “But hold on tight.”
Malcolm grinned and thrust his arm upward. “Go very fast. Faster than Rob Roy when Sassenachs are chasing him.”
After five hours of waiting for Miriam’s safe return, Duncan nearly ran up the stairs, his bouncing son squealing with delight. At the top, Duncan kicked open the door and stepped into the cool night.
Distant cheers erupted. Shifting his son higher on his hip, Duncan leaned into a chest-high arrow slit. A score of people carrying torches had formed a double line outside the gate. From the castle yard, hundreds more poured through the human column, lighting torches as they went. In minutes, a flaming yellow gauntlet stretched from the mouth of the portcullis to the curtain wall. In the inner bailey, bleating sheep scattered and sheepdogs raced to herd them.
“Papa, isn’t it wondrous?”
The crowd hushed. Anticipation hung like rain clouds in the air. From the darkness of the outer bailey came the jingle of harnesses. From the depths of Duncan’s soul came a silent plea: let them be unharmed.
Angus rode into the light, his bay horse gleaming like polished mahogany, his smile as broad as Armstrong Moor.
“Look, Papa!”
Behind Angus pranced the sleuthhound, her head high, her tail a banner of high-strung dignity.
The people cheered again. As if to punctuate the excitement, the torches wavered.
“There’s Lady Miriam, Papa!” Malcolm said in awe. “She’s got Mary Elizabeth and her mother.”
“Indeed,” said Duncan as he focused on the open carriage and the woman holding the reins. Her unbound hair shone like a nimbus of fire, the yard-long tendrils licking the breeze.
Envy and misgivings descended on Duncan. Instead of waiting in safety like a brow-beaten goodwife, he should have led the rescue party. As laird, he had a duty to the citizens of Kildalton. As a man, he wanted to command the soldiers and instill pride in the horde of smiling people. But fate had denied him these things.
“What’s wrong, Papa?” Malcolm’s worried expression tore at Duncan’s heart. “Are you angry?”
“Nay, son.” The noise in the castle yard grew deafening. Duncan almost yelled, “I couldna be happier.” Unless, he added to himself, the baron was within striking distance of his fists. Sinclair would rue the day he’d allowed his henchmen to endanger a child from Kildalton. “Mary Elizabeth looks very brave, don’t you think?”
Malcolm screwed up his face. “She’s just a bairn. Besides, lassies are mewling and troublesome, and they grow up to be tart-tongued wenches. They get scared and run away. They can’t be brave.” Puffing out his chest, he added, “Not like lads.”
“Who told you that?”
“I thought it for myself.”
“I think,” Duncan said firmly, “you’ve been doing too much thinking for yourself lately. You’ve also been listening to the soldiers.”
The boy’s gaze darted guiltily from the carriage to the soldiers lining the wall.
“Lassies can be just as brave as lads,” Duncan said.
The boy’s chin puckered with stubbornness.
“Malcolm…?”
“Llewelyn. I want down.”
“I want down,” Duncan mocked the whiny tone. “Now who’s acting like a bairn?”
He stiffened. “I’m not a bairn.”
“Then be reasonable. If I put you down, you wilna be able to see. Look there.” Duncan pointed to the carriage. In complete command, Miriam drew back on the reins and slowed the team to a walk. Betsy Lindsay waved to the crowd. Between the women sat the toddler Mary Elizabeth, her eyes drooping with fatigue, her cheeks smudged with dirt. “Don’t you think Lady Miriam was brave to go after Mary Elizabeth?”
Grudgingly, the boy said, “Yes, but Angus went with her. I wanted to go, but he said Baron Sin’s reivers would love to get their filthy paws on me.”
Parental responsibility weighted Duncan’s shoulders. “Angus told you the right thing. But you’re evading the subject. Lady Miriam didna run away, did she?”
“No. Saladin said they rode horses all the way from London.” His face brightened. “Can we ride horses all the way to London someday?”
“Aye, and all the bonnie ladies at court will kiss your forehead and pinch your perky cheeks.”
His hand flew to his face. “I won’t let them. I won’t show ’em my lady crackers, either,” he said, as serious as a butcher on slaughtering day.
Duncan sighed. His son’s disrespect and vulgar language had gone on long enough. “Son,” he began ominously.
“Look,” Malcolm squealed, leaning into the embrasure.
Over the boy’s head, Duncan saw Miriam guide the horses beneath the portcullis and drive them to the stables. The castlefolk swarmed the carriage. The lathered horses reared. Angus stormed through the throng, shoving the spectators aside. He grasped the harness to hold the team steady, then waved the crowd back.
A cool breeze ruffled Duncan’s hair, reminding him that he’d left the wig in his study. Suddenly he felt exposed.
Miriam stood and scanned the crowd. Malcolm stuck his arm through the arrow slit and yelled her name.
Duncan leaned back, out of her line of vision. He had to return to his study before she came looking for him. He pulled Malcolm back and set the boy on his feet. “Come along, son.”
“No.” Malcolm crossed his arms, his face a picture of defiance. “You can’t make me.”
Anger ripped through Duncan. He took the boy by the arm. “You
seem to be forgetting one vital piece of information, my foul-mouthed friend.”
“I ain’t your friend. I’m your son.”
“You’ll bletherin well start acting like it.” He turned Malcolm around and pointed him toward the stairs. “Walk!”
They retraced their steps. In the hall outside his study, Duncan yelled for Mrs. Elliott. When the housekeeper appeared, he said, “Should Lady Miriam ask to see me, tell her I’m at a crucial moment in the wrapping of my flippity-flops. I canna be disturbed.”
A sly grin blossomed on her face. “Aye, my lord.”
Duncan ushered Malcolm into the study, then indicated the chairs by the hearth. “Sit down, son.”
“No. You tie your auld flippity-flops. I want to go out in the courtyard with everyone else.”
“That’s unfortunate. Sit.”
“But…”
“Sit!”
Like a scolded pup retreating to the corner, Malcolm shuffled slowly across the room and wiggled into the farthest chair. Duncan took the other.
“Where is your essay on Llewelyn Fawr?” he said.
Malcolm began fanning his legs. “I dunno.”
Duncan counted silently to ten. “You didna write it, did you?”
“No. I had to watch the duel,” he said, as if the activity were a matter of life or death.
“You know the rules. You’ll either write it before you go to bed or answer to your own name for a week.”
Mouth open, the boy shot out of the chair. “A week! No. I won’t do it. You can’t make me.”
His control hanging by a thread, Duncan yelled, “Sit down!”
Malcolm plopped into the chair, a sullen expression making him look very much like his mother. The resemblance cooled Duncan’s anger. If he were to succeed at being both mother and father to Malcolm, he had to keep a level head. Didn’t a motherless boy deserve a bit of indulgence? No, not at the expense of good character.
Calmly, Duncan said, “You seem to have forgotten who gives the orders around here. You’ve become disrespectful, rude, and vulgar. You’ve taken advantage of my disguise. Gainsay me again, son, and I’ll forbid you your game of names altogether.”
The boy swallowed loudly and lifted his head. Great tears pooled in his eyes. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Duncan’s heart constricted, and he almost ended the reprimand. But that would be doing Malcolm a disservice, for the lad must learn to respect others.
Duncan held up a finger. “No more mentioning your lady crackers in the presence of females.”
With the back of his hand, Malcolm brushed aside his tears. “Nay, sir. Never again. I promise.”
Duncan held up another finger. “No more sassing me—even when I’m in disguise.”
Malcolm sniffed. “I won’t, sir.”
“No more snakes nailed to the door of the women’s privy.”
Mouth open, the boy said, “Who told you?”
“Never mind that. Your word, please.”
Swallowing loudly, Malcolm said, “I promise.”
“No more newts in my sporran.”
A gamin smile brightened Malcolm’s eyes and teased the corners of his mouth. “If I had a baby brother, I wouldn’t have to play with newts.”
Duncan’s dream of marrying again and siring a large family had died long ago. But Malcolm needn’t know that. “If you had a baby brother, you’d have to share all of your toys.”
“I would, Papa.” Eagerly he sketched a cross over his heart, “I’d give him every last boat and soldier.”
Tenderness welled up in Duncan. “I’ll do what I can, lad. Please fetch me my wig and spectacles. Lady Miriam wilna wait all night to see me.”
Malcolm bounded from the chair and did as he was told. Duncan put on the wig, then held out his hand for the spectacles.
“May I put them on for you?” Malcolm asked.
“Be my guest, just doona be pinching my nose.”
Using great care, the boy placed the spectacles on the bridge of Duncan’s nose. Standing back and squinting to see if the glasses were straight, Malcolm said, “I know a secret about Lady Miriam.”
With great interest, Duncan leaned forward. “What’s that?”
Pride puffed out Malcolm’s chest. “Saladin and Salvador swear she fences even better than Lady Alexis. She has leather pants, too. Can I have leather pants?”
Duncan pictured her long legs encased in flesh-tight doeskin. “We’ll visit the tanner.”
Malcolm’s smile wilted. “You’ll be busy with those foosty feathers and hooks. Or taking her somewhere. You always are.”
Since Miriam’s arrival, Duncan had spent little time with his son. Regrets besieged him. “Do you know why?”
“So the queen will think you’re a braw man.”
“Aye.” Duncan laid his hand on Malcolm’s head. “I love you, son.”
Malcolm smiled, endearingly sweet. “I love you, too, Papa. And I promise to write my essay.”
The tenderest kind of affection infused Duncan. “I know you will. How do I look?”
“Funny. The wig is crooked.” He reached up to right it.
Seizing the boy’s vulnerable position, Duncan tickled him. Malcolm squealed and tried to dart away, but Duncan followed, thrumming his fingers on the boy’s ribs. They tumbled to the floor, and scuffled like children, rubbing the paint off Malcolm’s legs and rucking Duncan’s kilt up around his waist.
He almost lost the wig, and when he reached up to secure it, Malcolm plopped on top of him. “I’m the tickler now,” the boy declared, and dug his fingers into Duncan’s ribs.
Flat on his back, the spectacles askew, Duncan bent his knees and bucked, trying halfheartedly to bounce Malcolm off. He grunted with exaggerated effort. “Aye, you’re a braw laddie.”
Skinny knees straddling Duncan, Malcolm said, “Dost thou yield to Llewelyn Fawr, the High King of Wales?”
Feigning fright, Duncan pleaded, “I yield, your kingship. I yield.”
Just then the door opened, and Lady Miriam strolled inside. “My lord, didn’t you hear my knock—” Mouth open, she stopped. Her gaze traveled up Duncan’s bare legs to his fully exposed manly parts. A lovely shade of crimson blossomed on her cheeks. She gasped. “Excuse me.” Then she whirled and fled the room.
Mortified, Miriam raced down the hall toward the keeping room. Just outside the door she stopped, her heart pounding, her senses reeling.
Sweet Saint Margaret, beneath his kilt he wore … nothing. She had seen marble statues of nude men and admired the sculptor’s work. She’d seen Italian frescoes and Moorish mosaics, blatant in their depictions of the human form. But seeing a classic rendering in pale stone or tiny chips of tile and viewing a man in hot living flesh were different experiences altogether. Lord, the statues seemed innocent, benign by comparison. The earl, in his natural state, was a powerful sight to behold. Even the Lancelot of her dreams hadn’t been so well made.
Could she ever look at Duncan Kerr in the same way? As an ordinary man? He’d made her feel anything but an ordinary woman.
Had he been naked all day, even when he’d found her at the weaver’s and escorted her to the swineherd’s? The probability made her shiver. She cast out the disturbing thought and became aware of noises in the room beyond. The twins and Alexis were in there.
Pressing her hands to her flaming cheeks, Miriam focused her thoughts on Baron Sinclair’s latest raid on a Kildalton farm and the tricky task of confronting the earl about his cowardice. Secure in the safe topic, she strolled into the keeping room.
Saladin, his head swathed in a turban, and Salvador, wearing Alexis’s Highland bonnet with a Stewart crest badge, sat on a rug in a corner with an exhausted Verbatim. Alexis, garbed in a fashionable gown of garnet-hued velvet, sat on one of the two straight-back benches that flanked the massive stone hearth.
On the mantel sat a pair of hundred-eyes lanterns with thick tallow candles. The ancient lamps cast a spray of dotted light on the gilt-framed painting of
Kenneth Kerr which soared to the beamed ceiling. A kettle of bayberries simmered over the fire, the steam perfuming the air with the fresh holiday scent.
“What’s wrong?” Alexis peered up from the book she was reading.
Miriam’s vulnerability returned in full force. She walked to a side table that held a brace of candles and a dish of dried rosemary. “Why should anything be wrong?”
“You looked … well, for a moment you looked disoriented. Did you see the earl?”
In perfect detail Miriam remembered just how much of him she’d seen. A penis. Good Lord, she’d seen his penis, and she’d stared in awe at the fleshy, weighty sacks beneath.
The muscles in her abdomen tightened. Taking a handful of the dried herbs, she crushed them between her damp palms. “Yes, I saw him. He and Malcolm were tussling on the floor.”
“The earl?” Alexis tossed the book aside and came to stand by Miriam. “That’s odd. I’ve never seen him take an interest in the boy.”
The need to defend him rose sharply in Miriam. “So? Most parents can’t be bothered with their children. I was glad to see them laughing and tickling each other, same as any country gent and his lad.”
Alexis glanced at the twins, who were picking burrs from the still-sleeping sleuthhound. “’Tis odd,” she said, “how different he and the boy are. But I’m sure you’ve noticed that Malcolm is boisterous and bold, while the earl is quiet and passive.”
“They seemed very much alike a few moments ago. But I hardly know Malcolm.” The boy could shed a new light on the father. But the idea of using the lad to gain information pricked Miriam’s conscience.
“After your daring rescue of that child tonight, I’ll wager the boy will dog your heels for days. He’s woefully in need of a hero to worship. A heroine might do.”
Miriam pictured Malcolm giggling with delight in the company of his unexpectedly playful father. “We should have taken him along on the adventure. There was no danger at all.”
Just above a whisper, Alexis said, “What did you learn from the swineherd?”