by Arnette Lamb
“You’re different,” he said, and realized it was true. Never before had God made a woman like Miriam MacDonald. “And you doona qualify anymore.”
She moved against him. “You kept your word, my gallant knight. You didn’t hurt me.”
“Good. For now I intend to pleasure you royally.”
“Tell me what to do.”
Primed and eager, he surged forward, burying himself completely. His breath caught. Her sweetness surrounded him, clutching him in a velvet vise of excruciating pleasure. So great was the urge to give himself up to the passion, he had to squeeze his eyes shut and grind his teeth.
Long moments later, when he’d mastered his control, he said, “Bend your knees, and do what your body tells you.”
She proved an apt and inventive pupil, and when the strain of near completion again threatened to overpower him, he felt her stiffen. Hidden feminine muscles contracted, squeezing him, enticing him to spill his seed. He did, and as the heavenly spasms began, he wondered how he’d ever let her go.
He awoke to the news that she was gone.
Shaking off the cobwebs of sleep, Duncan bounded from his own bed. “If this is your idea of a jest, Angus, ’tis not funny.”
Wearing a breastplate, leather breeches and boots, his gauntlets tucked under an arm, Angus stepped back. “I’d love to claim I had a part in her leaving, but ’twas none of my doing. When the news reached me, I was in the old tilt yard testing that new lad from Lanarkshire. Here.” He tossed Duncan a sealed parchment. “She left you a note.”
Miriam was gone. The morning after he’d made love to her. Duncan didn’t know whether to charge after her, drag her back by her hair, or rejoice and bid her fare-thee-well. But she’d said her good-byes hours ago to the Border Lord. He’d led her down the tower stairs and to the door outside the lesser hall. Drunk on passion and physically exhausted, he’d made his way to his chamber, stripped off his clothes, and slept the sleep of the dead.
“What time is it?”
“Almost nine o’clock, my lord.”
Duncan pried off the seal and stared at the words she’d written.
I have gone to Baron Sinclair. Should the need arise, you may reach me and Lady Alexis there.
Need? Sweet Saint Ninian. He needed to strangle her. He needed to lock her in that tower room. He crumpled the paper and threw it in the hearth.
The chill of morning brought gooseflesh to Duncan’s naked skin. Inside, however, he burned with rage, for the taste of her lingered on his lips, her essence lingered elsewhere. “How dare she leave today.”
Lines of confusion scored Angus’s forehead. “My lord, why are you angry? ’Tis what you wanted.”
His pride in tatters, Duncan walked to the table by the hearth and snatched up a water pitcher. He drank deeply. “She canna go traipsing off without asking me.”
“I think,” Angus said ruefully, “she’s a woman who comes and goes as she pleases.”
Duncan slammed the pitcher against the mantel. With a dull crack, a spray of pottery shards rained on the hearth. “Well it doesna please me!”
“I see,” Angus murmured, eyeing Duncan from head to toe. “Would you like your robe?”
Torn by conflicting emotions, Duncan started for the wardrobe and his clothes. A shard of pottery punctured his big toe. “Ouch!” Hopscotching through the debris, he hobbled to a chair.
The rumble of Angus’s laughter broke the silence.
“Doona just stand there,” Duncan said. “Do something.” His lips contorting to hide a smile, Angus opened the door and yelled for Mrs. Elliott to send up a bath and a maid to sweep.
Grasping the sliver with his fingernails, Duncan pulled it free. A drop of blood seeped from the wound and ran between his toes. “I doona need a bath.”
“Aye, you do, my lord. You’ve lampblack smeared all over your face and hair, and—” He cleared his throat and stared at the beamed ceiling. “And … uh, dried blood on your lady crackers.”
The memory of loving Miriam MacDonald diffused Duncan’s anger. Staring at his manly parts, which indeed bore traces of her virgin blood, he was again reminded of the sweet feel of her beneath him, yielding. The sound of her soft cries, rejoicing. His body responded.
“I take it you didn’t hurt yourself there,” Angus, said, his eyes squinted with worry.
Duncan leaned forward, not out of any need to shield himself from Angus, for he had nothing to hide from the man who’d been both a mentor and a friend, but suddenly he felt weary. He rolled the inch-long piece of pottery between his thumb and forefinger. “Not the kind of harm you’re speaking of, but I doona think I advanced the cause any.”
With the toe of his boot, Angus began nudging the broken pottery into a pile. “One thing’s for sure. Being the Border Lord has given you a knack for the cavalier ways, eh?”
“’Twas the woman, Angus, not the disguise.”
His eyebrows raised in surprise, Angus said, “She seduced you?”
“I canna recall for sure. It just happened.” Three times, he vividly remembered. Had he driven her away with his lust? He’d been surprised himself at his ardor, but she hadn’t protested or complained; she’d been as eager as he.
“What will you do now?”
“Clean my battle wounds and tend to business … until she comes back.”
“She went to the baron’s.”
“Aye.” Duncan tossed the shard into the hearth. “I expected as much, just not so soon.”
“Look on the bright side,” Angus said. “Sinclair’ll fill her head with tales, offer her a fat bribe—”
“’Twill be a mistake on his part. She wilna care to be bought.”
“Then let’s hope he does pull out his purse. Maybe she’ll side with us.”
Until now, Miriam’s knowledge of the feud had involved outside events: reiving, burning, and general villainy. But now the dispute would become dangerously personal. “He’ll tell her about Roxanne. He’ll tell her I kidnapped Adrienne.”
A look of loathing lent a feral quality to Angus’s strong features. “Kidnapping,” he spat. “You saved the lass from a life of shame and dishonor at the hands of the magistrate. ’Tis a pity your bonny diplomat will never learn that truth.”
Exhaustion swept over Duncan. He threaded his hands through his hair. A trace of oily lampblack coated his palms. “I told her about the baron’s plans for Adrienne. Miriam won’t forget, and bless her memory for that.”
“You mean you told her you helped Adrienne and her beau flee the baron?”
“Nay. Only the baron’s threats to Adrienne. But Miriam knows too much about me as it is.”
Angus went to the storage chest and returned with a towel. “Here. ’Tis best the maid doesn’t see that soot on your face.”
On a half-laugh, Duncan said, “She might mistake me for the Border Lord and accuse me of seducing her grandmama.” He began wiping the remains of the disguise from his face and hands.
Angus whacked the gauntlets against his thigh. “’Tis the cleverest of your tricks, my lord. A good thing, too, for the people are fair enchanted by the Border Lord’s return. Gives them hope, you ken? They believe justice will prevail.”
Duncan thought back to the time of his wife’s death, the bloody raids that followed, the senseless destruction, and the havoc Baron Sin had wreaked on the people of Kildalton. Not since the bloody time of Kenneth Kerr had the Border seen such destruction. But the resurrection of the Border Lord had evened the odds and spared Duncan from being likened to his father. One day soon the Border Lord would settle the score. Unless Miriam’s interference destroyed his plans.
“Well.” He got to his feet. “I’ve a mountain of work to catch up on. Send out the word that I’ll hear any disputes this afternoon in the keeping room. I’ve a hankering to dress as myself again. Lord, those wigs and spectacles are a bother.”
Angus rushed to his side. “You can’t give up the disguise, my lord. Lady Miriam left one of the twins behind.”
“Which one?”
“Saladin, the Moorish lad. He’s out in the tilt yard teaching Malcolm to wield a scimitar.”
The joy of the moment faded as Duncan considered the responsibility he’d heaped on his son. “Stay with them, Angus. We can’t expect Malcolm to watch his every word.”
“You had a talk with him, didn’t you?”
“Aye, he needed discipline, no thanks to you and the other soldiers.”
Angus pulled a scrap of paper from his gauntlet and handed it to Duncan. “Let him be a lad, Duncan. Allow him the childhood the old laird denied you. He hasn’t cursed once this morning, or mentioned his unmentionable parts.”
As always, Duncan wondered if he was raising Malcolm properly. But a little indulgence wouldn’t spoil the lad. Glancing at the paper he saw his son’s familiar scrawl and his nom du jour. “Suleiman,” Duncan said. “The magnificent?”
Angus roared. “Gloriously so. He began the day as King John, but when Saladin brought out his sword, Malcolm dashed inside and came back with a handful of these notes and one of his mother’s lace shawls wrapped around his head for a turban.”
The picture amused Duncan, but a serious ramification could result. “What if Miriam instructed Saladin to pry information from Malcolm?”
“Is she so devious as that?”
Duncan’s first response was no, but he realized loving her colored his judgment. Loving her. The notion shocked him and spurred an argument with his conscience.
Did he love Miriam MacDonald?
He’d made love to her, that was all.
He’d taken her maidenhead.
She gave it willingly.
But why to the Border Lord, unless she fancied herself in love with him?
She wanted information that would gain her greater fame at court. She’d asked no questions last night.
She called him her gallant knight.
She’d had too much beer with supper, and she was already drunk on praise from rescuing Mary Elizabeth.
She harbored a deep affection for him.
“Is she, my lord?”
The urgency in Angus’s tone snatched Duncan’s attention. With regret, he said, “’Tis possible she could use the young scribe.”
Angus jerked on his gauntlets. “Then she’s no better than a camp whore if she’d use a child for her own gain.”
The comparison troubled Duncan. Could Miriam be so cold and selfish? He wasn’t sure. “Leave the woman to me. You befriend the lad. Turn on that MacDodd charm and teach him a few things about being a man.”
“But that’s stooping to her level!” Angus objected. “At the expense of the lad. Saladin’s only twelve years old, Duncan. He’s alone here now.”
The informal address spoke volumes about Angus’s mood. Throughout Duncan’s childhood, he had basked in Angus’s unconditional love. “He’ll be a finer man for any time spent with you.”
“Bah! You’ve been spending too much time with that silver-tongued diplomat. She has you believing any means justifies the end.”
The jibe hit home. Duncan retreated. “Very well, Angus. Forget I brought it up.”
Angus scratched his beard. “He’s a bright boy, but if you asked my opinion, the Lady Alexis coddles him overmuch.”
“Then while the good duchess and our wily diplomat are gone, he’ll profit from your tutelage.”
“What will you do?”
The challenge beckoned. Rubbing his hands together, Duncan added, “I intend to serve the people of Kildalton again—and not as a bumbling earl. ’Twill be your task to keep the lad Saladin occupied elsewhere.”
Angus sighed, his mighty shoulders heaving. “Just this morning I heard him ask Malcolm where his mother was.”
Shocked, Duncan gripped the arms of the chair. “How did Malcolm answer?”
Angus shook his head. “At the time he was still calling himself King John, so he said his mother was Eleanor of Aquitaine and she was buried at Fontevrault Abbey.”
Once Miriam found out who’d given birth to Malcolm, she’d be madder than a wet cat. Out of revenge she might try to enforce the codicil to the marriage agreement he’d innocently signed eight years before. But Duncan was prepared to fight the devil and all the demons in hell to keep his son. “If she sides with Sinclair, we’ll let her have a peek at the family Bible. For now, send a messenger with the tinker to Sinclair’s. I want to know everything that goes on there. Oh, and get me Mrs. Elliott’s key to the tunnel door. I’ve misplaced mine.” A lie, for it wasn’t missing at all. After they’d made love, Miriam had filched it again.
“I hope it works.”
Feigning innocence, Duncan said, “The key?”
Angus raised his eyes to the ceiling and sighed.
Duncan chuckled. “I canna remember a time when you disappointed me, Angus.”
The soldier turned and walked to the door, mumbling, “Would that I could return the compliment.”
During the following fortnight Duncan settled disputes ranging from a minor quarrel between the swineherd and the butcher to a major feud between his Armstrong and Lindsay cousins over a broken betrothal.
Duncan thought of Miriam and wondered how large a dowry her father would offer. Sadly he realized he didn’t know who her father was.
The messenger wore out a path and nearly winded his horse on the two-hour ride between Sinclair land and Kildalton. He related that Lady Miriam had ridden to the hounds with the baron. Lady Miriam had been crowned the Queen of the Frost Fair. Lady Miriam had danced three minuets and a twosome reel with the duke of Perth, who’d stopped on his way home from London. Lady Miriam had gone a-hawking with Avery Chilton-Wall. Lady Miriam had lost at chess to the baron.
Duncan thought of the many nights Miriam had spent under his roof and castigated himself for never testing her skill at chess.
Leaving Angus in charge of the castle defense, Duncan took a small force of clansmen and the local doctor, and visited every village in Kildalton. In preparation for winter, fuel shortages were alleviated, fences mended, roofs thatched.
Back at Kildalton Castle, he found himself in the garden at moonrise. The darkened window of Miriam’s chamber reflected the bleakness in his heart.
He missed her.
Tormented by the bittersweet revelation, he trudged into the tunnel. He needed no light to find the secret passageway outside her chamber, he’d traveled these tunnels from the time he could walk. Sliding open the panel behind the wardrobe, he was seduced by the bracing fragrance that lingered in the gowns she’d left behind. His senses heightened by the absence of light, he stroked the garments, feeling the nubby texture of brocade, the furry nap of velvet, the airy delicacy of watered silk.
Elegant gowns, costly gowns, gowns to charm a foreign king. But in her quest to snare a Border Lord, she garbed herself in modest frocks of serviceable wool. Then she’d laid siege to his heart.
Would Duncan Armstrong Kerr yield? Not with so formidable an ally as the Border Lord.
Thoughts of his dark persona demanded a bold new strategy. Patting himself on the back, Duncan returned to his chamber, donned the clothing of the Border Lord and planned his next seduction.
Chapter 10
Duncan never got the chance to carry it out, for at dusk Mrs. Elliott came to his chamber to announce the unexpected arrival of the duchess of Perth.
“Tell me it isna true,” he said, a lamp chimney in his hand, his fingers coated with lampblack.
The housekeeper twitched her button nose and stared at the black scarf draped over his shoulder. “As you wish, my lord. ’Tis not the duchess of Perth leading an entourage through the gate, but Eleanor of Aquitaine come to claim her firstborn son, who’s now purging the buttery of infidels.”
Duncan put down the cylinder of glass, wiped his hand, and grasped a moment’s respite before his life erupted into chaos. “Should I discipline young Richard the Lionheart before or after I receive the good duchess?”
Her brown eyes cri
nkled with mirth. “’Tis not for me to say. But I will remind your lordship that when last she visited you said conversing with Her Grace was like bartering with a Turk over the very last horse.”
Duncan winced at the memory. Lord, the duchess could meddle. “Why is she here?”
“The messenger said she’s on her way down from Perth to join her husband at Sinclair’s. It’s to be a hunt and a ball.”
“Last week ’twas a frost fair.” Where Miriam was crowned queen, he thought sourly. “Perhaps the duchess will be so anxious to see the duke that she wilna stay long.”
“I’m sure the housemaids are praying for the onset of her wifely devotion, my lord. They’re tidying the large suite now.”
He bowed from the waist. “Then I’ll change clothes and prepare to dodge her verbal arrow.”
Mrs. Elliott sniffed and plucked at the lace on her apron. “Why is she so insistent that you marry again, my lord?”
“I suppose she canna stand to see a man happy.”
The housekeeper turned to go but stopped. “My lord…” Her voice dropped. “’Tisn’t fair to the lad Saladin, the way master Malcolm’s acting. The Moor can’t help the way he was taught to worship.”
Her sense of fairness pleased Duncan. “What did Malcolm do?”
“He makes fun of the lad, who doesn’t eat meat or take spirits. Malcolm also dances around the Moor when he’s praying.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Elliott. You’re a woman of justice. Tell Malcolm and Saladin they’re to stay the night with Angus, and report to me in the morning. Oh, and give the housemaids the honey I brought from Dearcag Moor.”
Standing taller, she grasped the door handle. “Aye, my lord. Honey or no, you’ll hear nary a quibble from anyone while the duchess is here. We need no bribes. We’re loyal to you.” Glancing over her shoulder, she stared at his black clothing. “If I may say so, you cut an especially braw figure tonight as the Border Lord.”
Flattered, Duncan watched her leave. As he exchanged the black raiments for his Kerr tartan, he tamped back disappointment. Tonight’s raid to retrieve his stolen cattle would have to wait. The duchess wouldn’t. Only one aspect of the evening pleased him; with the scribe Saladin out of the castle, Duncan could forego disguises.