by Arnette Lamb
Between chortles, she said, “And I’m a Persian harem dancer.”
Her flippant reply barreled through him like a razor-sharp dirk. “I’ll prove it.” From his sporran, he pulled a black scarf and tossed it in her lap.
Still sniffling, she dabbed the tears from her eyes. “Even Verbatim has one of these.”
Determined, he leaned forward and drilled her with his coldest stare. “I nearly broke my neck climbing the castle wall that night you took the key and locked me out.”
“Mrs. Elliott could have told you about the key a moment ago when I went upstairs to fetch it. Ian could have told you about that night in the garden. What did you really wish to tell me?”
He hadn’t considered that she wouldn’t believe him. “The truth, Miriam. I’m the Border Lord.”
“That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard.” She laughed again, so hard her shoulders shook.
Growing desperate, he said, “I’ll kiss you. That should be proof enough.”
“Oh, Duncan.” She stood. “I have no intention of kissing you. Come, Verbatim.”
Completely lost, Duncan watched her leave. Cursing himself for a stupid fool, he decided to regroup.
The next morning Miriam hesitated before going down to breakfast. She still smiled when she thought about Duncan’s confession. At one time she’d been certain he was the Border Lord. But no man could be in two places at once. His reasons baffled her, though. What did he stand to gain? No suitable answer came to mind.
She arrived at the table to learn that half of the meat pies the cook prepared and a full pail of milk had vanished from the pantry. Duncan didn’t seem distressed over the news. From his spot at the head of the table, he made a solicitous query about her health and lamented over the small amount of milk she was served.
Throughout the meal he smiled too much and said too little. Until Saladin and Malcolm excused themselves. Over the rim of his tankard, he said, “Do you know my full name, Miriam?”
To verify the date of Malcolm’s birth, she’d looked in the family Bible the day the baron had come to Kildalton. Out of respect for Duncan’s privacy, she hadn’t bothered to read the other entries. “Nay, I do not. Nor do I understand what difference it makes.”
Looking every bit like the lord of the keep, he put down the mug and fetched the book. Standing over her, he put the volume in her lap. She stifled another bout of mirth and watched him turn the worn pages. “There,” he said.
Searching the line above the tip of his finger, she read the name. Doubt trickled through her certainty.
“Read it aloud, Miriam.”
The burr in his voice reminded her of stolen moments in dark places. Suddenly she did know, but the realization sent her mind spinning with questions. Why had he pretended? How could he have handed her the bloody tartan and feigned indifference when he knew her heart was breaking?
“Miriam?”
She needed time to think. He was either the lowest scoundrel or the biggest fool in the realm. Or was she the fool? Confusion and hurt forced her to say, “You’re Duncan Andrew Ian Armstrong Kerr.”
“Ian. The Border Lord.”
Mustering more courage and patience than she’d needed the day the King of France propositioned her, she lifted his hand from the page and closed the book. Then she rose and faced him. “How splendid, Ian. You must tell me about the times you seduced your own governess and left heather on her pillow or the time you wooed the swineherd’s grandmother.”
His mouth formed a tight, white line. “Those were tales to hide my true identity.”
She could see the truth of it now. The lies. The seduction. The bloody tartan. Her hands shook so badly she thought she might drop the book. Thank God for her years of training, but even experience would carry her only so far. She had to get away from him. “Clever tales they were. Well.” She slapped the book against his chest. “If you’ll excuse me.”
She left him clutching the book, his mouth agape. Numb with shock, she walked up the stairs and into her room.
He’d worn spectacles. He’d put his shoes on the wrong feet. He lied from the moment she’d set foot in his ghastly castle. Only when she’d told him about trying to change the queen’s mind had Duncan told her the truth.
A weight seemed to press her down. She leaned against the door and fought to keep the heartache at bay. How he must have laughed at her that morning at the swineherd’s farm when he’d mocked the legend of the Border Lord. Fairy tales and romantic fiction bored him to tears, he’d said.
“The wretch!” She recalled his sly innuendoes on the morning after their meeting at Hadrian’s Wall. “Too much exercise in the wee hours of the morning,” he’d said. “I prefer it in the morning, don’t you?”
Shame plunged her into despair. In the guise of a bumbling fool he’d ridiculed the love she’d given freely to a dark stranger. The passion-filled nights, the breathless whispers, the time in the tunnel when she’d confronted him.
“Me, Duncan Kerr?” Then he’d laughed and said, “I’m no niddering poltroon.”
She thought of the day she’d told him about Glencoe. He’d comforted her. “What would your mother say about you being so sad, Miriam? She wouldn’t want that, would she?”
Oh, God. He knew her every secret. Or did he? She touched her still flat stomach. He couldn’t know about the child. His child. A child conceived in deception.
Poor baby, she thought. Poor me, she lamented.
She cringed. She was not some green laundry maid to be tricked by a smooth talking butler. She was Miriam MacDonald, a world-wise and intelligent woman. If he tried to sway her with seduction, she had just the keepsake to thwart him.
The moment she stepped into his study the next morning, Duncan knew he was in for trouble—her sweet smile, her glittering eyes, her confident air told him so.
She glided toward him, a vision in watered silk. The fabric rustled loudly as she perched on the edge of his desk.
“I’ve been thinking about what you told me, Duncan.” Her hands fluttered with the grace of a butterfly. “I keep asking myself why you would confess to being the Border Lord.”
Because I love you, he wanted to say and drop to his knees and beg her forgiveness. But somehow he knew if he showed any weakness she’d pounce on him like a cat on a fat, slow mouse. Aye. She wanted to toy awhile with her prey.
Resigned to his comeuppance, but determined to control the game, he put on a casual smile. “We’re friends, Miriam. Do you believe me?”
She pursed her pretty lips and looked affronted. “I believe the part about our being friends. How could I not? We’ve shared much, you and I. After all, I told you about Glencoe.”
A stab of guilt stole his breath. Why in bloody hell had she chosen to wear her hair loose, the shimmering, flame red waves falling over her shoulders and pooling on his desk. His fingers twitched with the urge to touch her silken curls, to peel off that frothy dress and kiss all of her pink spots. “I—uh—” Lust clogged his throat. He coughed to cover his discomfort. “I thought ’twas time we shared more.”
She examined her fingernails. “I don’t believe you’re the Border Lord.”
Slyly said, the statement sounded like a challenge. Well, he could be sly, too. “I wonder what I could say or do to convince you?”
“I’ve been perplexed by that very notion.” Her gaze roamed his face before settling on his eyes. “The Border Lord knows things, I suppose.”
Such as she loved him and carried his child. True, he’d acted like the most heartless of cavaliers, but damn her, she ought to forgive him. “What,” he said, taking her hand and stroking her palm, “would you like to know?”
She gasped, but recovered her composure with a skill he’d witnessed and cursed a hundred times. “Where is Adrienne Birmingham?”
It was the last thing he’d expected her to ask. But leave it to Miriam to catch him off guard. He was thinking of romance. She was thinking about business. “She’s in Barbado
s.”
“Did you kidnap her?”
He laughed. “Hardly. I arranged for her and her lover, Charles, to settle in the islands. They’re having a go at farming sugar cane.”
“You could have accomplished her escape as Duncan Kerr. Adrienne stayed here when your wife died. You said you were friends with her. You didn’t have to don a cape and disguise yourself. How did you manage the black hair?”
Hell and damnation! She’d maneuvered him into a corner. He hadn’t expected direct questions on exact topics. Why couldn’t she be as predictable as other women? The answer lifted his spirits. “I used lampblack.” He touched his side whiskers. “Here.” He touched his eyebrows. “And here.”
She stared at the arm of his chair. “How clever of you.”
He allowed himself one stupid question. “Are you angry?”
“Angry? Of course not.” She stood up and made a production of straightening her skirts. “That would suggest I believe you.”
Weary of the charade and fearful of losing her, he rushed to her side and pulled her into his arms. “If my words wilna convince you, Miriam. This will.”
The instant his lips touched hers, he saw the folly in his plan. He should have wooed her slowly and built upon the friendship they’d begun. Instead he’d come on like a lusty buck eager for his first doe. But recriminations receded, became lost in the feel of her mouth opening beneath his and the gentle way she leaned into his chest. His Miriam, a prize beyond value, a woman to cherish.
Cherish her, he did. He kissed her with finesse, knowing that when he twirled his tongue with hers, she always sighed, then took the lead. Caught up in the kiss and anticipating the forgiveness he knew would follow, Duncan gloried in the embrace, pressing her closer.
Her soft sigh urged him on and confirmed what he knew in his heart—she loved him. An instant later she became the aggressor, wrapping her arms around him and slanting her lips across his to achieve a greater intimacy. Eager too, he caressed her breasts until he grew frustrated with the barriers between them. He reached into her bodice, and rather than the soft swelling mound he expected, he encountered fabric.
Confused, he pulled back and opened his eyes. Nestled between her breasts lay the black scarf of the Border Lord.
She stiffened, and her eyes fluttered open. The dreamy passion faded, replaced by a cold hard stare. In a soft, determined whisper, she said, “You don’t kiss the same as the Border Lord. And he’s taller than you.”
“I had the cobbler build up my bootheels.”
She whirled, yanked open the door and ran out, slamming it in his face.
“Miriam!” he bellowed. “Come back here!”
He found her at the base of the stairs, her fingers clutching the handrail, her charming smile bestowed on Malcolm, who wore a green bonnet with a pheasant feather.
She curtsied deeply. “Thank you, Robin of the Hood.”
Malcolm kissed her hand. “I swear by my trusty bow, I’ll not rest until the food thief is caught and … and hanged from the castle wall.”
“I feel ever so safe, Robin.”
“Papa.” The boy brandished a quiver and short bow.
“Maid Miriam said you wanted to join my band of merry men. We’ll find out who’s raiding the pantry.”
She started up the stairs, her hair swaying, the skirt rustling. Over her shoulder, she said, “Of course, he wants to join your band. Wouldn’t he make a fine Little John?”
“Will you, Papa?”
“Aye, as soon as I’ve finished my conversation with Maid Miriam.”
At the landing, she stopped. “Oh, but I wouldn’t think of taking up any more of your time.”
Frustrated, and uncertain of his next move, Duncan matched her civility. “Until supper, then.”
She didn’t answer, but Malcolm grumbled, “If we have any.”
Chapter 19
That night Miriam locked her door, stayed in her room, and requested a dinner tray. When Mrs. Elliott brought it, she smiled apologetically. “The cook roasted a duckling with carrots and turnips, but it’s nowhere to be found. So I brought you cheese and scones, and cabbage pudding. There’s a full pitcher of milk.”
The housekeeper had helped Duncan carry out his charade. That night in the tunnel, she’d pretended to speak to him. “Thank you,” said Miriam. “This will be fine. I take it the thief hasn’t been found.”
Mrs. Elliott surveyed the room. Seeing Miriam’s silk dress draped over the foot of the bed, she picked up the gown and hung it in the wardrobe. “Nay, and the oddest thing happened today. The stableman found pastry crumbs in the cage with that toothless badger you brought from Sinclair Manor.”
Staring at the bow tied at the back of the housekeeper’s apron, Miriam wondered if the woman had seen her in the arms of the Border Lord that time in the tunnel? Had she heard their cries of passion? The possibility embarrassed Miriam, but she couldn’t blame Mrs. Elliott for being loyal to her master. “The earl did tell the stableman to look after Alpin’s animals.”
“Aye, but the man ain’t one to be feeding pastries to a badger.” She closed the wardrobe doors, but they swung open again. “More like he’d eat the pies himself.” Grunting, she closed the doors again.
“You’re wasting your time,” Miriam said. “The latch is broken.”
“Oh, aye,” she said, suddenly nervous. She turned toward Miriam but stared at the carpet. “Do you suppose the Moorish lad could have…?”
The implication was clear, and like a mother hen protecting her chick, Miriam leaped from the bed. “Saladin is his name, and his religion forbids him to eat meat.”
The housekeeper looked up, her brown eyes narrow with indignation. “Pardon me, my lady,” she said without a smidgen of remorse. “I know the lad’s eating habits. I’m the one who sends the potboy after quinces and nuts and instructs the cook to prepare his soup without meat. I only wondered if Saladin had a devotion for the crippled creatures. He does take special care of your hound.”
Abashed but still distrustful of the woman, Miriam softened her tone. “Thank you for seeing after his diet. Others, even in his own native land, have not been so kind toward Saladin. I assure you, he is no thief. His religion forbids that, too.”
Mrs. Elliott glanced about the room and Miriam noticed tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry, my lady, for … for…”
“For tricking me?”
Brackets of misery framed her mouth. “Aye.”
Harboring a grudge against a servant was unfair. “I forgive you, Mrs. Elliott, but don’t ask me to forgive your master. Good night.”
“Good night, my lady.”
The housekeeper left. Miriam locked herself in and sat down to eat. Expecting Duncan to knock on the door at any moment and demand entry so he could practice his wily ways, she jumped at every pop of the fire and rehearsed a dozen rebukes. She had just finished off the milk when the knock came.
But it wasn’t Duncan with wooing on his mind. It was Saladin with Verbatim on a leash. Calling herself a fool for feeling disappointment, she said good night to Saladin and locked the door after him.
She brushed her hair, brushed Verbatim, then picked up a book of sonnets. The romantic verses depressed her even more than the duplicity of her lover. Disgusted with herself and the muddle she’d made of her perfectly decent and respectable life, she blew out the candle, drew the curtains around the bed, and tried to sleep.
Like scenes from a tragic novel, every encounter with Duncan Kerr stood out vividly in her mind. She saw him as the bumbling earl, feigning innocence, deploring violence, and befriending her all the while. She saw herself as the dutiful diplomat, believing him, trusting him, while trying to make a peace. He’d lulled her into naivete, and when her defenses were down, he’d come to her in the night and stolen her heart. Falling in love was her mistake. She didn’t blame him for taking what she so freely gave. What she couldn’t reckon was the theft of her pride.
She saw him laughing at her behind the spectac
les, and tried to picture herself as he must surely see her: a woman too long on the shelf, with only a perfect memory and a collection of diplomatic successes to her name. She could supply favorable references from the crowned heads of Europe, but they wouldn’t buy the respect or earn the honesty of the man she had foolishly come to love.
Oh, what an oddity he must think her. Thank goodness, Alexis hadn’t been here to see Miriam’s humiliation. Feeling miserable, she surrendered to the tears and cried herself to sleep.
Duncan stood in the drafty tunnel and shivered with cold. He cupped his hands to his mouth and blew on his fingers to warm them. A dozen times today, he’d raced up the stairs, determined to beat down her door and demand her forgiveness. A dozen more times, he’d dragged himself upstairs and dawdled at her door, his mind awhirl with spineless entreaties. Should he play the Border Lord and force her? Should he become the bumbling earl and beg? Which man was he? He didn’t know anymore.
He’d spent so much time portraying the kind of man he thought he should be that he’d lost track of himself. Only one thing was certain: he loved Miriam MacDonald with his heart and soul. And by God, he would keep her.
He’d left orders with Mrs. Elliott that he was unavailable to everyone, even the queen herself. He intended to stay in this room with Miriam until she forgave him.
Now determined, he slid open the panel, held her clothes aside, and stepped through the wardrobe. A cold, canine nose touched his hand. He jumped and whacked his elbow on the wardrobe door. Stifling a curse, he patted the dog until his heartbeat had slowed and the pain receded. Then he tiptoed to the bed, stripped off his clothes, and climbed in beside her.
She stirred, but didn’t wake. Taking advantage of her movement, he tunneled an arm beneath her and pulled her against his chest. She cuddled against him, and he breathed in the smell of her perfume, letting her freshness intoxicate his senses as easily as the woman besotted his mind.
In repose, she felt fragile and yielding, a world away from the resilient, determined diplomat. Which man did she want? She’d given herself to the Border Lord, but she’d befriended the gentle earl? Companion or lover, which role should he play?