Border Lord

by Arnette Lamb

  16

  His cheek a scant inch from the neck of the galloping stallion, Duncan squinted into the biting north wind and raced for home. His thighs ached from gripping the horse. His fingers cramped from clutching the reins. The messenger from Kildalton had long since fallen behind.

  Duncan's mind swirled with reasons for the baron's unannounced visit. One possibility kept nagging at him. Miriam had ignored his defense and enforced the codicil to Roxanne's will; the baron had come to claim Malcolm.

  Duncan burned with murderous rage. The pounding of hooves matched the hammering of his heart. He'd ceased trying to contain his anger. If he arrived home to find Malcolm gone, he'd make Miriam MacDonald sorry she'd come to the Borders to brew her diplomatic poison. Peace with Baron Sinclair would become irrelevant, for if that thoughtless bastard so much as parted Malcolm's hair wrong, Duncan would wage a campaign of destruction that would make a Viking raid look like a May fair.

  By the time the towers of Kildalton rose like great black shadows against the late evening sky, Duncan had honed his anger to a fine, lethal edge.

  The stallion stumbled. Duncan eased the pressure on the reins and sat back in the saddle. The horse slowed to a half canter and blew loudly, the heaving breaths billowing like a spring fog. Duncan panted, too, sucking in frigid air. Icy snowflakes settled on his face and hands, cooling skin that radiated his inner fury.

  A torch flickered in the distance and seemed to float across the inner bailey. At the curtain wall, the light winked out, then popped into view again. It bobbed over the road toward Duncan, bringing trouble.

  Only the direst of straits would compel Alexander Lindsay to send out a man to meet Duncan. For a moment the angry warrior within him grew silent. The loving father took the fore. Fear clogged his throat and squeezed his chest. The unfairness of his situation besieged him. Only God should have the right to separate a man from his son.

  Under the baron's control, the spry, cheerful Malcolm would grow despondent and wither like a plucked weed. No one would care that he sometimes blamed himself for his mother's death. Who would comfort him when he fell to his knees at the side of his bed and called God a foosty scunner for taking his mother to heaven? Who would find the time to nurture his bright mind without starving his lively imagination? Who would call him by his nom du jour?

  Who would teach him to be generous and understanding? Who would teach him right from wrong? Who would teach him to earn the respect of his fellow man? Who would teach him to woo and befriend the woman of his choice?

  Tears blurred Duncan's eyes. He saw his own miserable childhood. He remembered the solemn vow he'd made to a squalling, motherless Malcolm: You'll never want for companionship and love as I did.

  When the torch-bearing soldier rode within earshot, Duncan again summoned the angry warrior inside him. "Is Malcolm all right?" he demanded.

  The soldier halted his mount. The torch light illuminated his face. Alexander Lindsay. Oh, Lord. The situation must be worse than dire. "Has the baron taken Malcolm?"

  The soldier whirled his mount alongside Duncan's. "Nay, my lord. I'm afraid 'tis far worse than that." He stared straight ahead, abject misery pulling his features into a grimace. "The girl Alpin. She tied the lad to a tree and—"

  "And what?" Duncan's blood ran cold. "What did she do to him?"

  Alexander swallowed loudly. "The foul-mouthed besom put hornets under that toga he was wearing. His manly parts are… Dammit, sir. His lady crackers are swelled up as big as your fists. The midwife says he'll never sire a child of his own."

  Absurdly relieved, Duncan wilted in the saddle. He'd thought his son dead.

  Sweet Malcolm. Stung by hornets. Duncan's own manly parts throbbed in sympathy and his knees hugged the horse. With the midwife to nurse him, Mrs. Elliott to coddle him, and his father to nurture his wounded pride, Malcolm would mend. But what of protection for a lad who'd been taught to cherish the gentler sex? Malcolm would sooner answer to his own name than raise a hand to Alpin—even in self defense. Hell, he always tried to kiss her.

  Duncan must continue to keep his promise to Adrienne and find a new home for Alpin, preferably a world away. Barbados. Aye, Barbados and the care of Adrienne. He'd miss seeing the look of joy on Alpin's face when the Border Lord brought her food or a wounded animal. Or showed her the smallest kindness.

  "I'm deeply sorry, my lord. But rest assured, the lassie paid dearly. The baron yanked her up by the hair and dragged her into his fancy carriage. The watchman swore he could still hear her screaming long after they'd passed the curtain wall."

  Duncan felt pity for a child in a threadbare smock and ragged shawl who spent most of her nights in a chilly stable, feeding her meager supper to a wounded or sickly beast. On the night he'd freed a pretty brown hare from one of Sinclair's traps and brought the frightened and bleeding creature to Alpin for help, she had offered the Border Lord her only pair of shoes in exchange for a bunch of carrots with the tops on.

  The next night he'd brought her a bushel of vegetables, a supply of medicinal herbs and clean bandages, and a pair of leather breeches that his son had outgrown. She'd cried like a baby and called him God's Night Angel.

  Poor Alpin. Poor Malcolm.

  Suffer the little children, and bugger the brutal times that had made a curse out of a simple homily.

  "Where is Malcolm?"

  "He's abed, my lord. Lady Miriam and Mrs. Elliott are with him."

  So, thought Duncan, she hadn't given away his son. Or had Alpin's mischief merely postponed the diplomat's treachery? He'd find out soon enough.

  "Uh, my lord?" Alexander hesitated, his mount sidestepping. "The housekeeper said I was to remind you to—uh— to wear the wig and the spectacles."

  Sensible Mrs. Elliott. Duncan reached into his sporran, but when his fingers touched the wig, he stopped. He'd already decided that the Border Lord should disappear, but vengeance made him rethink his plan. Miriam MacDonald would never belong to Duncan Kerr; how could she love a man who had deceived her? How could he continue to love a woman whose sole purpose in life was to ruin his?

  God and all the saints help him, because he could no more stop loving her than he could unite the Highland clans.

  All things considered, the matter of her knowing the true color of his hair seemed inconsequential. He would continue to wear the spectacles, though. He wanted a good close look at her when he told her the horrible fate of the Border Lord.

  Half an hour later, a wigless Duncan stood on the threshold of his son's room. Mrs. Elliott had fallen asleep in a chair; Miriam sat on the narrow bed, Malcolm's hand in hers. In a voice as clear and pure as the wind off the Cheviot Hills, she crooned a Highland lullaby about a bairn who was so well loved and by so many, the king had given the lad his own clan.

  Duncan couldn't see his son's face; Malcolm's knees were bent and the bed linens draped over him in tent fashion.

  Bracing himself for the worst, Duncan walked to the bed and stared down at his son.

  A cruel hand squeezed his heart.

  Malcolm's closed eyes were puffy, the lids blotchy red. Tracks from the tears he'd shed ran down his cheeks. He'd bitten his bottom lip, for it was swollen and bore the bruised impressions of his teeth.

  He looked small and helpless, his hair too black and thick for a face so fragile and fair. He looked very much like the shy woman who'd died only days after bringing him into the world.

  Duncan swore that nothing would ever force him to abandon this lad. Neither war, nor inept monarchs on any throne, nor diplomats would cause him to leave Malcolm at the mercy of others.

  Duncan dropped to his knees beside the bed and said a silent prayer.

  Her singing stopped.

  Unwilling to look at Miriam just yet, Duncan glanced at her left hand, which lay palm up and joined with his son's. What he saw through the thick spectacles shocked him.

  Four small, boyishly dirty fingers, the knuckles pasty white, curled in a death grip. Dried blood caked her pal
m where the lad's nails had scored her tender flesh.

  Feeling miserable to the depths of his soul, Duncan followed the line of her delicate wrist where her pulse pounded quick and steady. He felt her staring at him, compelling him to look up, and even though silence hung in the room, he heard her unspoken plea: Forgive me, Duncan, for letting harm befall your son.

  Temptation dragged at him. His gaze moved past her wrist to the lacy webwork of veins that embellished her forearm. She'd rolled up the sleeves of her gown. Stains marred the costly sea green velvet. The color would enhance her eyes and complement her extraordinarily lovely hair. Her beauty would draw him. Her mood would soften him, temper his anger, then with clever words, she'd knead his attraction into full-blown desire.

  "Duncan…" Her entreaty weakened him.

  And awakened Malcolm. "Papa… ?"

  Thoughts of yielding to the desirable woman fled his mind like forest creatures scurrying from a fire. His gaze swept to Malcolm. A new kind of heartache wrenched him.

  His face contorted in agony and fresh tears pouring from his eyes, Malcolm held up his arms. "Oh, Papa. Hold me."

  Duncan leaned down and scooped up his son, cradling him against his chest. Malcolm's narrow shoulders quaked and his chest heaved. His heartfelt sobs cut Duncan to the core.

  "I know, sweet son. I know," he crooned in Scottish. "I'm so sorry you're hurt, but we'll fix it. I'll stay right here until you're well. Mrs. Elliott will make you a broonie tomorrow. I'll read you all your favorite stories. You'll be better before you know it."

  Malcolm's wracking sobs turned to soft moans and gasping hiccoughs. Careful of the boy's injury, Duncan held him gently, murmuring reassurance and pledging love.

  The mattress shifted, and he knew Miriam had stood. He thought about the marks on her palm. "Thank you for staying with my son," he said, his gaze fixed on the indentation in Malcolm's pillow.

  She sniffled as if holding back tears. Don't cry, he silently begged; I have enough misery, right here in my arms. Yet a part of him wanted to comfort her and be comforted in return. Another part of him wanted a return to the times when he could leave this castle and his responsibilities, if only for a day, and know his son would be safe. He needed the freedom to sit beside his favorite trout stream and dream of finding a woman to share his bounty. He deserved the time to exercise his God-given right to teach his son the importance of dreaming.

  He needed a woman to bring the dreams to life. A woman like Miriam.

  "I'll just say good night, then." Anguish lent a husky quality to her voice.

  Duncan hardened his heart to the woman who could force him to yield up his son to Baron Sinclair. "Good night."

  Malcolm whispered, "'Night, Lady Miriam."

  Miriam roused Mrs. Elliott, who patted Malcolm's head and gave Duncan's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Wake me," she said, "should you need me."

  Duncan heard them leave, the door clicking shut behind them. Then he rocked his son to sleep and settled in for the longest night of his life.

  Near dawn, when Malcolm had fallen into a deep sleep, Duncan eased from the room and visited the butcher. Then he went to the empty quarters of Angus MacDodd. He pulled the cape of the Border Lord from the trunk and prepared his revenge for Miriam MacDonald.

  He spent the morning with Malcolm, who was faring much better than expected. The lad ate three scones, slathered with butter and honey, and insisted Saladin be allowed to visit him. He offered only a token resistance when the midwife returned to change his dressings. As the fresh cloths soaked in a cool decoction of coltsfoot and mugwort were applied to his tender and swollen parts, the boy actually sighed, dropped his head on the pillow, and fell asleep again.

  Saladin moved to the window and studied his worn copy of the Koran.

  Duncan sent word for Miriam to join him in study.

  Considering her parting words and sympathetic mood of the night before, he expected a subdued Miriam. Her squared shoulders, draped in a lively tartan shawl, and her blunt, "You asked to see me, my lord?" brought him up short.

  Had she worn her clan colors to distract him? He found himself murmuring, "Won't you take a seat?" while staring at the slender column of her neck and the nicely scooped bodice of her yellow taffeta gown. As she crossed the room, the rustling of the crisp fabric vibrated in his ears and reminded him of other times, of breathless intimate moments in pitch dark places and the sounds of clothing hastily discarded.

  His unexpected awareness of her femininity and the predictable response of his manly parts made him glad he'd chosen to conduct the interview from behind his desk rather than the chairs before the hearth. The spectacles, too, offered a small refuge from the allure of Miriam MacDonald.

  He was pleased and encouraged to find her staring at his golden hair. "Thank you, Miriam, for coming so quickly."

  "'Twas quite fortuitous, actually." She gave him a charming smile, the one she probably bestowed on the king of France before convincing him to abandon the Stewarts and recognize the Hanoverians. "I had planned to ask for a few moments of your time today anyway."

  "You sound so formal, Miriam. Have you come seeking another concession from me?"

  She stared at her wounded palm. "I know you're upset over what Alpin did to Malcolm. I don't think anyone suspected their enmity to go so far. They bickered at first, but their childish arguing gave me no cause for alarm. You mustn't take for gospel what the midwife said about his never fathering children. Only time will tell."

  She summoned confidence as easily as she twisted words. But he knew her better now. Picking his way through the tangle of her assurances, he gleaned a curious aspect in her message: In his absence she thought it her duty to protect what was his.

  And in so doing, she had fulfilled one of his basic needs. Perhaps he'd been hasty in blaming her. Maybe there was hope for them yet.

  "I was hoping you'd understand, Duncan."

  Of course you were, he thought, damning himself for forgetting how clever she could be. "I do understand, Miriam. Completely. Now what did you wish to see me about?"

  "Two things. First you were correct about those two men the baron employs. Mrs. Lindsay identified them."

  "Where are they now?"

  "The baron promised to hand them over to the magistrate."

  "You believe him?"

  "I'm testing him."

  She sounded so composed. But Duncan didn't care; he'd see the men were punished. "What else?"

  She strummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. "I think you should speak now."

  "Why?"

  "The other thing I have to say shouldn't be difficult for me, but I find myself in the odd position of being prejudiced. I've come to cherish our friendship, and what I have to say affects you personally, and your future. So, please." She gave him a blinding smile. "Go ahead."

  Second thoughts deluged him. But he'd cast the die, figuratively, when he'd visited the butcher's shop. Now he picked up the package, but when she held out her hands for it, he couldn't bring himself to break her heart just yet. "No." He tossed the bundle to the floor. "I insist that you go ahead. Ladies and all that."

  "You won't like what I've been asked to propose."

  Plainly said, the statement piqued his interest. He lifted his eyebrows and tried a little diplomacy of his own. "We're friends, Miriam. I trust you."

  She lowered her chin, giving him a perfect view of the glorious crown of braids resting atop her head. The style lent an elegance to her fiery beauty. The Glencoe plaid spoke poignantly of the miracle that had spared her life. But the blush creeping up her cheeks caught him off guard. Why would the mention of friendship and trust inspire so maidenly a reaction in the world-wise Miriam MacDonald? Now he was desperate to know what she had on her mind. "Please. I insist that you tell me."

  She cleared her throat and locked her gaze to his. "As you know, the baron is truly anxious for peace between you and him."

  Bitterness filled Duncan; she was back to business again. "Ce
rtainly. That's why he brought Alpin yesterday. To show his good faith."

  Miriam turned up her hand in entreaty. "She can't help the way she is. You do know that Malcolm always tries to kiss her. She's unaccustomed to receiving affection. Most of the time no one even notices her. She doesn't know how to respond to Malcolm."

  Duncan saw the tiny half-moon scars on her palm, but refused to be swayed. "I would hardly call loosing hornets on him not knowing how to respond. I think she knew exactly what she was doing."

  "Yes, Alpin retaliated, but did you know the baron made her give up her pet rabbit? That was only a cruel example of the treatment she receives every day. He simply can't afford to feed and clothe his poor relations."

  Before falling asleep, Malcolm had told Duncan about Hattie, and he sympathized with Alpin's plight. Loyalty to his son won out. "You condone what she did to Malcolm? You should, since you've unmanned men across the continent with your diplomacy."

  She balled her fists. "Of course not. But it has little to do with the baron's state of mind. He honestly wants peace. He's made another… gesture of his sincerity toward coming to terms and settling matters that are outstanding between you. So that the trouble will end and you both can get on with your lives, so to speak."

  Miriam was babbling. Good Lord, what had the baron proposed? Sinclair's gesture had disconcerted her to the point of robbing her of her normally eloquent repartee. Duncan had to know. "If you keep dancing with words, Miriam, my curiosity will force me to agree."

  "No." Her nervous gaze darted from his hair to the lamp on his desk to the tips of her fingers. "I mean, I wasn't trying to force your hand. Not by any means. 'Tis a decision you should make on your own behalf. Should you choose to make it."

  Enjoying the devil out of watching her squirm so prettily, he said, "Do you think I should agree?"

  She opened her mouth, then closed it. "I couldn't possibly presume to influence you in so… so important a decision."

  "What," he said, "must I decide?"

  She took a deep breath and said, "Whether or not to marry the baron's niece, Caroline."