by Arnette Lamb
“What sound?” Saladin asked.
“I thought I heard a noise in the tunnel.”
Heart pounding, Alpin held her breath. If only she could see them, but the hidden door had been so well crafted not even a stream of light trickled into the tunnel.
Saladin said, “Hand me that lantern and I’ll see what it is.”
Alpin shivered, scooped up her shoe, and backed out of the alcove. Once in the tunnel proper, she felt for the wall. When she had her bearings, she touched the key in her pocket.
“It’s probably a rat.”
“Since when do you have rats in your castle?”
“Since the snakes died, I suppose.”
Snakes! Alpin listened for the sound of scaly creatures slithering along the dirty stone floors. Her knees locked.
“What if the snakes aren’t dead? What if they multiplied?”
“Impossible,” said Malcolm. “They were both males.”
“How could you tell? They looked alike, down to the fangs.”
Fangs!
“The snake dealer at the market in Barcelona told me so.”
“You believed that swindler? He also tried to sell you the crown of Isabella.”
“He tried to sell you the sword of your namesake.” Malcolm laughed. “You almost bought it.”
“Forget the snake dealer and our foolish youthful adventures. Where were we? Oh, yes. You were about to tell me what you have planned for Alpin.”
Malcolm’s voice dropped to an indistinct rumble. She crept into the alcove again and put her ear to the squat door that she had once walked through with ease. But that was years ago. She had been a lonely, desperate child. She had become an angry, desperate woman—who couldn’t hear a blasted word Malcolm was saying.
As soon as he finished mumbling, Saladin whistled and said, “I’m impressed with your clever ideas.”
What ideas? Impatient, and feeling the darkness press in on her, Alpin struggled to conquer her fear and quiet her breathing.
“Did you hear something?” Malcolm asked.
“Noise in the tunnel again? Perhaps it’s the ghost of the Border Lord come back to haunt us.”
“Bah!” said Malcolm. “He never was any more than a ghost.”
Alpin knew better. At her first glance of Malcolm Kerr, the adult, she had realized that the Border Lord and her Night Angel were the same man. But why didn’t Malcolm, of all people, know the true identity of the legendary dark stranger?
“I always wondered about him,” Saladin said. “Was he real or a legend created by parents to make children behave?”
“You wonder about everything from the stars in the sky to the fall of man.”
“Please,” Saladin drawled. “What were we talking about?”
You were talking about me! Damn that accursed Malcolm. Would he never reveal his plan for her?
“We were talking about vermin in the tunnel. I have an idea.” Malcolm’s voice grew softer, as if he had moved away, across the room. “You go around through the main door to the tunnel. I’ll duck under the squat door here. We’ll flush the pest out the back of the tunnel and into the walled garden.”
Alpin’s heart climbed into her throat. Using the same route Malcolm planned, she could flee, for she’d used the garden door to gain access to the castle years before. She could run down the inky corridor, through the iron door, and out into the walled garden. Or she could follow the tunnel to the stair tower and hide there. But the thought of entering that room she had once called home bothered her more than the prospect of facing down a rat.
“I don’t want any rats in the garden. That’s where I say my prayers to Allah.”
“Just take your scimitar with you. No rat would stand a chance against that blade.”
“I’m not going into that tunnel.”
“Why not? Are you afraid? I thought Moors were fearless.”
“Even if the snakes have died and the rats become shy, I remember your skill at setting trip wires.”
Trip wires! Oh, Lord. What had she gotten herself into? And when would they get back to talking about her?
“That was years ago. I dismantled them all.”
Saladin huffed in disbelief.
“Would I leave so dangerous a thing where an innocent servant could fall victim?”
“Probably not, but no one ever uses the tunnels anymore. Me included.”
“Except those hairy, long-legged spiders,” Malcolm said.
Spiders? So what? Alpin wasn’t afraid of any spiders.
“Nasty creatures.” Saladin’s voice wavered with disgust.
“Don’t tell me you’re frightened of insects.”
“I am if it’s the same spider that gave Mrs. Elliott that vicious bite a couple of years ago. She nearly died.”
Poisonous spiders! Perspiration blossomed on Alpin’s skin; yet she felt cold with fear.
Leather creaked; one of the men had risen from a chair. Alpin told herself to stay calm. Even deadly spiders were timid and afraid of people. Right? She wasn’t sure, but she was certain she had enough time to make her escape, if she didn’t trip and fall into the web of a—
“Why don’t I believe those vermin are dead?” Saladin said.
“’Tis baffling to me. I’m a man of my word.”
“You’re also a bit too eager to get me into that tunnel. I have a feeling you want me to fall on my face.”
Hooray for Saladin’s skepticism!
“I’ve outgrown such pranks.”
“Swear, then, on your honor as the ninth earl of Kildalton.”
As far as Alpin was concerned, Malcolm Kerr had no honor, earl or not. She wouldn’t believe him if he swore on the bones of Christ.
“I’m wounded that you don’t believe me.”
“Let’s just say I’ve known you too long and I’m not completely convinced.”
“Wait,” Malcolm said. “Sit back down. I’ll tell Alpin about the rats. She’ll know what to do.”
“I never thought I’d hear you sing her praises.”
Yes! Now she would learn what was on Malcolm’s mind.
“Times change. People change.” She could almost see him shrug.
Saladin laughed. “You’ve certainly got some changes in store for her.”
What blasted changes? Would they never stop speaking in ambiguities? It was almost as if they knew she could hear them. That thought made her skin crawl. But she disregarded it; they couldn’t have any idea that she stood in the tunnel.
“Where is she?” Saladin asked.
“Riding, I think. She’s taken a liking to the dappled gray.”
“That gelding’s a spirited mount. Do you think she can manage him?”
“I hope so. I’d hate to see the lass hurt. I’m sure the baron would have something to say about that.”
The baron! At the mention of her hated uncle, Alpin stomped her foot.
“There’s that noise again.”
“’Tis your Moorish imagination. There’s nothing but ghosts of rats and spiders in there.”
Alpin shivered.
“What will Sinclair say about her living here rather than with him? He is her only kin.”
“He’s still in Ireland fawning over a grandchild.”
“He’s certainly changed, Malcolm—since your stepmother defeated him. He’ll want to know that Alpin’s here.”
“Aye. I may send word to him, but I suppose I should tell Lady Miriam first.”
“Will you tell the baron and Lady Miriam what you just told me?”
What did the mighty Malcolm just say?
“Oh, I don’t think so,” he said, a silky quality in his voice that gave Alpin pause. “I like to keep my plans for Alpin close to my chest.”
Alpin thought a dagger would look better there.
“I’ll leave you to your correspondence,” Saladin said. “It’s time for my prayers.”
When she heard the door open and close, Alpin retraced her steps and exited the tunnel. O
nce in the lesser hall she plopped down on the ancient family throne and breathed a sigh of relief. Her excursion into the bowels of Kildalton Castle had gained her little, except the knowledge that Malcolm had some plan for her. She was determined to learn exactly what Malcolm Kerr had on his mind.
Common sense told her she had the perfect tools, but would her conscience allow her to use them?
Chapter 7
Later that day, with the walls of Kildalton Castle far behind her and the wind snatching at her kerchief, Alpin eased back on the reins until the gray slowed to a walk. Her legs ached from the jarring ride, and a slight soreness in her bottom reminded her that she hadn’t sat a horse since leaving Paradise.
Paradise. Swamped by a wave of homesickness, she closed her eyes and conjured up a vision of bright blue skies above a jewel of an island lush with lacy ferns, sprawling bearded fig trees, and an ocean of sugarcane.
Tears rolled down her cheeks. The cool breeze chilled her dampened skin, telling her vividly of the differences between her tropical home and this northern land. She had hated her life here, and when Malcolm’s father, Lord Duncan Kerr, had put her on a ship more than twenty years ago, Alpin hadn’t looked back. She had embraced Barbados with the zeal of an explorer claiming new territory. Her territory. Her own new world.
People there depended on her. She had given the slaves a promise of freedom. Upon her return she would again pick up the banner of emancipation. The indentured servants would see their years of toil culminate in the promised gift of a parcel of land and independence. Under the supervision of Henry Fenwick, Paradise would pass the slow months after harvest. If necessary, the planting would wait for her.
When her loneliness grew and a sob welled up in her throat, Alpin knew she must rally her courage. Dwelling on past injustices and future rewards would only hinder her return to Paradise. Still, it seemed unfair that Malcolm possessed so much while she owned so little.
Malcolm.
She felt hollow at the thought of him, of his teasing smiles when she had expected mocking sneers, of his masculine allure when she had believed herself immune to romance. Her remembrances of him centered around dunking in a brisk loch or searching for the perfect skipping stone and, on rainy days, playing peevers and tag in the dark, hidden corridors of Kildalton Castle.
How did he see her now? How did he reflect on their childhood together? He spoke of broken stilts and stolen kisses, but when he pulled her into his arms and lured her with a man’s expertise, she sensed an anger she didn’t understand. With the ease of a dockside hawker luring passengers from an incoming ship, he was drawing her into a scheme. Yet sometimes his charm and his attraction to her seemed superficial, as if he were still playing one of his many roles.
His reasons for so heartless a ploy eluded her. Unless it was the hornet incident. But she’d been only six at the time. Surely he wouldn’t hold a grudge for so many years. She’d done him no lasting harm.
She had been the orphan, the poor relation shuffled from her mother’s deathbed to the indifferent care of her uncle, Baron Sinclair. At first her nightmares and weeping had kept the others in her adopted family awake. Their scorn of a bereft child had hurt more than the uncaring woman who’d given her life, then died, a brokenhearted and penniless widow.
To escape the sneers and scolding of her new relatives, Alpin had gathered her meager possessions—a lucky coin, a lock of her mother’s hair, and a collection of knives—and staked out a corner in the stable at Sinclair Manor. In the bustling, crowded household, no one had even missed her.
She learned to hear a lullaby in the lowing of a milk cow. She found comfort in caring for sick and injured creatures, not knowing at the time that she herself was one.
Then on a bleak winter’s evening, at a spot not far from where she now rode, her Night Angel had found her and taught her that children were supposed to be cherished and nurtured.
Seeing Malcolm as a man, she had at last discovered the identity of the first person to show her kindness. Malcolm’s father had cared. The memory of her dark savior sparked her courage.
She dashed away her tears and swallowed her sorrow. The devil take Malcolm Kerr. She could and would make the most of her stay in the Borders. She’d find a measure of enjoyment in the land she’d left so many years ago.
Patches of heather and gorse thrived amid a field of cotton bracken and perfumed the air with the unforgettable scent of Scotland. In the distance Hadrian’s Wall snaked across the land like the exposed backbone of an enormous reptile. Once she had frolicked in those Roman ruins.
Hoping to recapture those days she guided the horse onto the narrow road she had traveled often as a child. The freedom road to Kildalton Castle.
A family of red grouse dashed across the path and scurried beneath the protective canopy of a tangle of last year’s bramble. A herd of hungry sheep ignored her passing, but a pair of red deer stags, their budding antlers thick with velvet, cocked their heads and stared, then bolted for the cover of a stand of beech trees.
As she approached the crumbling stone wall, she was surprised to find it smaller and more ravaged than she remembered. But back then everything had seemed enormous to a girl called “runt.”
Alpin reined in the gelding and slid off the horse’s back, her fingers gripping the saddle, her feet dangling in the air. The jump to the ground jolted her ankles. The horse sidestepped and ambled to a puddle of rainwater. On wobbly knees, she struggled for balance, all the while wishing she were tall enough to dismount with ease.
Laughing at so foolish and senseless a whim, she found a stick and began to overturn rocks. The familiarity of her surroundings warmed her: the old road and the break in the wall, mounds of earth the Romans had moved and nature had sown with weeds, industrious meadow pipits darting overhead and ferrying food to their young while the crafty hooded crows looked on, the constant breeze that even in summer made gooseflesh of her skin.
“Well, how now, Lady Alpin? What see you in those rocks that you lose so much attention?”
Malcolm Kerr.
Even in a raging hurricane, she’d have known his voice.
Grasping the stick tightly, she faced him. And was again startled by his masculine beauty. Dressed in full Highland regalia and seated on a pure white stallion, he looked like a powerful monarch in command of all he surveyed.
“Surely you have a greeting for me,” he said.
Her will to resist his allure threatened to crumble much like the wall that served as his backdrop. Appalled at her own weakness, she tucked the stick under her arm and approached him.
“You have my attention now, my lord, and my cheeriest good day.”
He doffed his bonnet, replete with three eagle feathers and a smaller version of his clan brooch, a blazing sun cast in silver. “My same to you. What are you doing here? Spying on me again?”
“Again? I was here first. You’re spying on me.”
He looked away, as if he’d said something he shouldn’t. Then he stepped from the horse in a fluid motion that sparked her envy. “A favorite pastime of yours, as I recall.”
“As I recall”—she strolled to a spot near the wall—“this was my land.” She drew a line in the dirt. “That was yours.”
He gave her a cocky grin, his oak brown eyes glittering with challenge. “Then I’m trespassing.”
Her heart said he’d become an expert at invasion, but her pride said she could best him at that, too. “One of your minor offenses, I’m sure.”
“Oh? And I suppose you’re the saint who’ll recite all my sins.”
“Only a few. I must consult your other women to learn the rest.”
“I’ve not committed a sin with you now that you’re a woman. Although I’ve been trying.”
“You’re so glib, Malcolm. What are you doing here?”
He pointed over the wall. “I live there, on occasion.”
She climbed up the fallen stones and peered over the wall. In the distance, near a loch where she
used to fish, she saw a well-traveled road leading to a small estate. She squinted to make out the details, but she was too far away. Then she remembered. “That’s Carvoran Manor.”
“Aye.”
That hollow feeling in her stomach returned. “You keep your mistress there.”
“Kept. She’s gone.”
She pursed her lips to keep from smiling. “Oh. So sorry. You must be bereft.”
He twirled the bonnet while his eyes made a lazy inspection of Alpin’s riding costume. Uncertain whether he was judging her or her outfit, she grew defensive. At one time her wardrobe had consisted of breeches and tunics he’d outgrown. “Why are you staring at me?”
“Because the sight of you in leather breeches offers much consolation—to my bereavement. Especially from this vantage point.”
He was only teasing. She laughed and jumped to the ground. “You’re either a prime rogue or a creative jester.”
“Perhaps I’m both.”
“And perhaps I’m the queen o’ the May, instead of a homeless maiden.”
His smile faded. “Why do you always do that, Alpin?”
“Do what?”
“Speak bitterly about your life so that I’ll feel sorry for you.”
Pride made her reckless. “You’re mistaken. I don’t want your pity or anyone else’s.”
“Then what do you want?”
My home, her soul screamed.
“It’s only fair,” he said in a chiding tone, “that you tell me. I’ve never lied to you.”
Surprised by his frankness and stumped for an appropriate reply, she surveyed her surroundings. “I want that chest of Roman gold we always searched for.”
He grew dead serious, his piercing gaze pinning her where she stood. “I’ll find out, you know. You can’t hide your secret from me.”
The threat in his voice struck a warning bell. “What makes you think I’m hiding something?”
He winked. “I’m your best friend, remember? And I’ll be your first lover.”
She felt like an animal, caged by his virility and trapped by her own foolishness. “Somehow I have trouble thinking of myself as one of the objects of your lusty proclivities.”