by Arnette Lamb
The next morning, secure behind the locked door in Malcolm’s study, Alpin searched his desk. She found a bundle of letters from Charles, but the loose string and the old knot binding them told her that some of the correspondence had been removed.
She sorted the letters by date. The oldest had been written not to Malcolm but to his father, Lord Duncan Kerr, who had given Charles the money to buy Paradise Plantation over twenty years before. Lord Duncan had offered the funds as Adrienne’s dowry.
So, Alpin thought, that was the debt of honor Charles had cited in his will. That was the reason he’d bequeathed the plantation to Malcolm.
But wait, the value of Paradise had increased tenfold over the last two decades. Due to her hard work. Surely honor alone didn’t warrant so generous a repayment. Not even the greediest of usurers could term the transaction a fair return on investment. Still, Charles could not have been called astute in business matters.
Hoping there was more, she read the other letters, and found only a single missive to Malcolm, dated four years earlier. Amid a rambling dissertation on the virtues of the long deceased Adrienne, Alpin discovered a jarring passage: “I must reiterate my thanks for your generous offer and your unselfish solution to the problem of dear Alpin’s welfare. It does ease my troubled heart.”
Her hands shook, blurring the words. Malcolm had been concerned about her, had made a generous and unselfish offer. Of what? He certainly hadn’t given her any money to live on, nor had he freely offered her a home in Scotland. She’d had to haggle with him to earn both. He hadn’t expected her to come to Kildalton after Charles’s death. He’d been genuinely surprised by her arrival here, and when she’d made the remark that she belonged to him, he had smiled and called it a truly interesting turn of events. Had she incorrectly read pleasure into his statement, or had he been hiding some ulterior motive?
Either way, Malcolm’s reaction explained why her guardian had been lax in providing for her future. But at the time this letter was written, Charles had already transferred ownership of Paradise to Malcolm. According to the will, the transaction had occurred one year before the date of this letter. Charles had never intended to leave the plantation to her.
Hurt but convinced that Charles saw little of the world around him, she read the passage again. One word took her attention: “Reiterate.”
Suddenly chilled to the bone, she realized she’d found the key that would unlock the puzzle of Malcolm’s involvement in her life. But when had his interest in her welfare begun? And for mercy’s sake, what form did it take?
She scanned the rest of the page, but read only of the soul-deep despair of a man who had lost his will to live and prayed for the day when he would be reunited in heaven with his beloved Adrienne.
Guilt and sympathy swamped Alpin. She’d never understood the depth of Charles’s pain, and by comparison her trouble seemed trivial. She, at least, could control her destiny.
Upon her arrival in Barbados, she’d witnessed a love that had made paltry work of even the most romantic poet. Then fate had wielded its ugly hand and snatched dear Adrienne away.
For the next ten years Alpin had watched poor Charles waste away. The sad memory reinforced her belief that the price of enduring love was too high. Oh, she intended to go through with the handfast marriage to Malcolm and hoped to conceive a child, but she would never risk giving him her heart. She would persuade him to give her the plantation. Then she would return home.
The yearning she’d suppressed throughout the night stemmed solely from physical need. Malcolm had stirred her long-repressed passion. Sleeping alone in his massive bed had heightened her need. When he returned, she would join him in the sporting aspects of love, but her participation would end there. She would keep his castle and manage his servants. Then as soon as she had the papers she would return to Paradise and leave Malcolm behind. Her conscience would be clear.
That settled, she went back to the letters. To her disappointment she read only more of heartbreak and hopelessness. A further search of the desk yielded little for her cause but great insight into the daily life of the laird of clan Kerr.
Eager to investigate Malcolm’s suite of rooms, she cleared the desk.
A bell clanged. Alpin yelped and jumped like a kicked puppy. Too terrified to breathe, she stared at the door. She expected Malcolm to break it down. Then she relaxed. As his housekeeper and steward she had every right to be here.
He was off hunting. The letters were back where they belonged. Even if he did return early, he’d never know she’d been snooping.
Besides, the gonging sound had come from within this room. Saladin’s Mecca bell. Of course. Chuckling at herself, she wiped her damp palms on her skirt and willed the tremor from her hands.
How silly of her. But why had the bell rung? Of time-dulled brass, it still lay on its side on the high shelf, same as before. Curious, she moved the footstool and climbed up on it. Just as she stretched out her arm, the bell clamored to life again.
She shrieked and drew back. Arms flailing, she teetered, balancing on the balls of her feet at the edge of the stool. In desperation, she threw herself forward and grasped the nearest shelf. With a knock-knocking sound, the stool rocked to a stop on the floor. Her heart pounded like a drum. Her fingers curled in a death grip. Her sore wrist shook under the strain.
She took several deep breaths. When she’d calmed herself, she planted her feet on the stool and relaxed her hands. Then she reached again for the bell.
And saw the string. One end was tied to the clapper, the other end disappeared into a tiny hole in the side of the bookcase.
Seized by an ugly suspicion, she put the bell back in its place and jumped to the safety of the floor. Recently she’d stood in the dark tunnel behind this bookcase and eavesdropped on Malcolm and Saladin’s conversation. Years ago she’d made the tunnels her home.
As if it were yesterday and she a desperate child of six seeking shelter from her cruel uncle, she reached for the wall sconce and turned it to the left.
Metal scraped against metal. One section of the bookcase swung away from the wall, exposing the main corridor of the tunnel system. Once she had traversed the tunnels with the speed and agility of a doe on the run. Today she moved cautiously into the maw.
Two feet above her head she saw a row of rusted fishhooks that served as guides for the string. A warning signal?
She snatched up the lamp and followed the path of the string. It ended at the top of a door twenty-five feet away. Her teeth clenched, she grasped the handle and pulled. The portal opened, exposing the lesser hall with its high bank of shutterless windows and double row of tables and benches, deserted in midmorning. The massive throne, carved from a giant oak and emblazoned with the symbolic Kerr sun, sat empty. As a child she had climbed onto the chair and in the quiet darkness pretended to rule this kingdom.
Behind her she heard the bell, but from this distance the clanging sounded more like a tinkle. If the bookcase door had been closed she wouldn’t have heard the signal at all. And worse, whoever occupied the study would have fair warning that someone lurked close by.
The contraption had been devised by a conniving mind and employed by a worthless scoundrel. She had been its victim, quaking in fear at the mention of rats and snakes and trip wires. Oh, how Malcolm and Saladin must have laughed.
Keeping a lid on her simmering temper, she pondered the current mystery. Who had opened the door moments ago?
Determined to find out, she retraced her steps, secured the bookcase, and followed her instincts to the kitchen.
She found Dora squatting on the floor and stroking the arched back of a brindle cat that seemed more interested in lapping up a bowl of cream than receiving the ministrations of the maid.
The mouser. Alpin had told Dora to find the cat and put it in the tunnel, but that was before she’d discovered that the story about rats was Malcolm’s attempt at intimidation.
Cursing her poor memory, Alpin chided herself for qu
ailing like a nervous nellie.
“Good morning, Dora.”
The maid sprang to her feet. “Morning, my lady. This poor starvin’ mouser cat prowled those tunnels all night with nothin’ to show for it. An’ her with a hungry litter of kits mewlin’ in the stable.”
“You just let her out?”
“Aye. I’d no more’n opened the door in the lesser hall than ol’ Delilah here came runnin’ out.”
That explained the ringing of the bell. It didn’t excuse Malcolm, though, for Alpin could have fallen off the stool and broken her neck.
“I knew there weren’t no rats in there, even though his lordship told you ’twas so. Mrs. Elliott’d turn to sinnin’ in the Rot and Ruin tavern before she’d let Kildalton fall to vermin. Taught all of us maids her tidy ways, too.”
“You did very well, Dora.” Alpin took a scone from the warming pan and sat at the table. “As soon as Delilah’s had her cream, take her back to the stables and give the farrier a pound of butter for lending her to us.”
“Aye, my lady. Will there be anything else?”
“Have you seen Elanna this morning?”
“She’s still abed. Shall I wake her?”
“No. But I’d like you to clean the windows in the upstairs solar.”
Her tail as stiff as a ship’s mast, Delilah wound herself around Dora’s ankles. The maid snatched up the cat. “Straightaway.” She headed for the door.
Her appetite gone, Alpin called the maid back. “How long does Lord Malcolm usually stay away?”
“He’ll be back in a week, was what he told Mr. Lindsay.”
A week. He hadn’t even seen fit to tell his handfast bride. It seemed like both a reprieve and a sentence to Alpin. She could use the time to search for the missing letters. Surely they would tell her why he’d taken an interest in her life as long as five years ago. A part of her hoped that affection had been his motive, but she was too sensible to believe in such a sentimentality.
Dora was eyeing her expectantly.
“Let’s just hope he’s successful,” Alpin said and returned the scone to the pan. “There’s hardly enough meat in the larder to last through the harvest. By winter you’ll be starving.”
“Me?” She shook her head, jostling her mobcap. “Lord Malcolm wouldn’t let any of his people starve.”
Alpin had accidentally excluded herself. Dora couldn’t know Alpin planned to leave, but she must watch her words. “Of course he wouldn’t.”
Dora cuddled the cat and swayed like a lovestruck girl holding her hopes to her breast. Giggling, she said, “You and his lordship’ll be livin’ on love.”
Come winter, Alpin would be in Barbados toiling in the tropical sun and enjoying her independence. Let Dora see romance in the handfast marriage; it made no difference to Alpin. “I’m sure we will.”
When the maid had left, Alpin went upstairs to Elanna’s room. She found her friend sitting before the mirror brushing her hair.
“You slept well?”
Elanna reached for a length of cloth and began wrapping it around her head. “Like a lizard in the sun.”
Her false gaiety didn’t fool Alpin, and the undisturbed linens suggested that Elanna hadn’t been to bed.
Curious, Alpin asked, “What was in the sack of provisions you had Dora give to Saladin last night?”
This time Elanna’s smile was genuinely cunning. “Food for his mighty Muslim principles.”
Vindictiveness lurked behind that grin. “And …?”
Tucking her headwrap in place, Elanna offhandedly said, “And a little of my squat-in-the-bushes sauce.”
“What?” Alpin didn’t know whether to laugh or curse. “Oh, Elanna. He’ll be purging his bowels instead of felling stags.”
“Betcha that.”
But ten days later, up on the return of the hunting party, Alpin suspected the plan had gone awry.
Chapter 10
“Saladin is dying,” Malcolm said.
Dumbstruck, Alpin craned her neck to stare up at him. His mount sidled, pivoting on prancing front hooves. She snatched the reins to steady the horse. Thinking a hunting accident was the cause, she found her voice. “Oh, no.”
Dark circles under his eyes, darker misery in his bearing, Malcolm tapped his teeth together and stared at the arched doors of the castle. “Aye, ’tis true.”
Alarm barreled through her. “How did it happen?”
“For the last few days he complained of a sour stomach. He went to sleep last night and hasn’t awakened.”
Elanna’s potion. But the drink wasn’t supposed to induce sleep. “You tried to rouse him?”
“Aye, we burned feathers and put them ’neath his nose. Rabby yelled his name loud enough to bring down the angels. It’s no use. He’s still unconscious.”
“Oh, Malcolm, you mustn’t give up hope. Where is he?”
Malcolm jerked his head toward the gates. Riders, three abreast, entered the yard. “A few minutes behind us in the wagon. Rabby’s driving it.”
Her senses reeling, Alpin dropped the harness and yelled for Alexander. When the soldier joined them, she held up her hand to Malcolm. “Come down, Malcolm.” His hand slipped into hers. She felt his tremor of fear. “I promise you, he’ll be fine.”
He huffed in disagreement. “We never should have gone on that hunt, and he ought to eat the same bletherin’ food as the rest of us.”
Alpin prayed that he’d merely ingested too much of Elanna’s purge. She squeezed Malcolm’s hand. “What did he eat last night?”
“Some roots and berries. Dandelion greens. The same rabbit’s food he always eats.”
The creaking of wheels signaled that the wagon was nearing the gate. “What roots? Could he have chosen wrong and harvested a poison?”
“I don’t know,” he growled through clenched teeth. “It makes no sense. He’s been eating plants all his life. He knows what to eat and what to avoid.”
“What did he drink last night?” Alpin held her breath.
Looking dazed, Malcolm glanced back at the dray. His shoulders slumped. “We all drank from the swineherd’s well, some of us from his beer barrel. But not Saladin, of course. He took some of that orange water he favors. Nothing tainted or unusual.”
That’s what he thought. Alpin knew better. As sure as the bearded fig tree grew in Barbados, Elanna and her potion had snuffed out Saladin’s life. It was Alpin’s fault, though. If she hadn’t brought Elanna to Scotland and suggested she bring her potions, Saladin would be alive and well.
Common sense intruded. If Elanna had made him ill with her potions, she must make him well again.
Alpin gave his hand a final squeeze. “You and Alexander take him inside and put him in his bed. I’ll get Elanna. Don’t worry. She’ll know what to do for him.”
As Alpin raced across the yard, she thought of the horrid turn the day had taken. An hour before, in the sun-drenched tiltyard, she had leaned against the post that housed a well-battered quintain. Beside her lay a keg of rum and a canvas bag containing lengths of sugarcane and a machete.
The children of Kildalton had crowded around the globe of the world she’d brought from Malcolm’s study. The little ones had spun the orb and searched with eager fingers to locate Barbados.
Banishing the memory, she barged through the castle doors and raced to the kitchen. Elanna sat at the table plucking the feathers from a fat goose.
Two days before, Elanna had dipped into their supply of sugarcane and given a stick to the potboy as a reward for weeding the kitchen garden. Curiosity over the treat had spread through the castle community and prompted Alpin to conduct the morning’s geography class.
But as she approached Elanna, Alpin thought only of her childhood friends.
“Saladin is ill.”
Elanna glanced up, careless disregard giving her a queenly air. “Sorry, sorry.”
Alpin slapped a hand on the bird, pinning the carcass to the table. White feathers flew. “You may have killed him. I
suggest you delve into your medicinals and find a cure. Plenty quick, girl.”
Her eyes wide with shock, Elanna sprang up from the table. “Killed? Where is he? How is he?”
“He’s unconscious. He’s been that way since last night. Malcolm and Alexander are bringing him inside. They think he’s dying.”
Raking feathers from her fingers, Elanna dashed to the wooden bucket and began washing her hands. “What did he eat?”
“He drank that orange concoction you tainted.”
“What else?”
From the foyer Alpin heard the shuffle of booted feet. She pictured them carrying Saladin to the stairs.
“What did he eat!” Elanna shouted.
“Berries, roots, and I think dandelion greens.”
Elanna froze, then swung her head slowly toward Alpin. “Dandelions? Blackamoor ate dandelions last night?”
Alpin’s hopes plummeted. “Yes. Is that bad?”
“Bad combination, dandelion greens and too much squat-in-the-bushes sauce. Very bad.” Not bothering to dry her hands, Elanna went to the hearth, wrapped her apron around the handle of the steaming kettle, and swung it off the fire.
Racked with regret and impotent anger, Alpin stalked her friend. “Will he die?”
“I do not know. I’ll feed him a little boiled sea-grass root. If he wakes up, we pour mighty big doses of plain orange water down his gullet.”
Alpin clasped her hands together. “I pray this works. I’ll get your medicinals and meet you upstairs.”
Five minutes later Alpin stood with Malcolm at Saladin’s bedside. Against the white linens the Moor’s swarthy complexion looked dull gray.
“He looks bad,” Malcolm said. “He’s hardly breathing.”
Alpin stepped in front of him. The despair in his eyes made her chest grow tight. “Please don’t worry, love,” she whispered and reached up to cup his unshaven cheek. “Elanna will do everything she can to make him well.”
He sighed and gave her a halfhearted smile. “I wish I had your confidence in her. Since I don’t, I’ll send for the midwife.”