by Arnette Lamb
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 Keir 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 naiveté, 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 spectacles, 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?
Miriam came awake and stiffened beside Duncan. His arms circled her in a hold she couldn't break.
"What are you doing here?"
Against her hair, he said, "I wilna justify so stupid a question, lass. You know exactly why I'm here."
"I will not forgive you."
"Aye, I trow you will."
"Don't think you can woo me with your deceitful Scottish words. I've heard enough to last a lifetime."
"That, sweetheart, is precisely the reason I'm here. To discuss the rest of your life."
She clutched his upper arms and gasped. "Sweet heaven, you're naked!"
He chuckled at her outrage. The rush of her breath against his neck and the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest reminded him vividly of their past embraces. "You've seen me naked before—a number of times as I recall."
"That's a lie. You only slither into my life in the dark of night."
"Your perfect memory has deserted you, love. You looked under my tartan once when I was scuffling with Malcolm. Doona deny it."
"'Twas an accident, and not at all like…"
He stroked her arm. Her skin felt satin smooth beneath his roughened palms. "Like what?"
"Like the other times," she blurted. "And get out of my bed this instant or I'll order Verbatim to chew off your head."
Patience, he told himself. "She won't hurt me. You told her I was a friend, remember? She knows who I am."
At length, she said, "You cur!"
"Aye, Keir, the name of the man you love."
Her fingernails started a slow rake down his arm. Wincing, he grasped her wrists, rolled her onto her back, then settled atop her. "Well have none of that."
"We'll have nothing else, either." She moved against him, trying to break his hold. "Get off me!"
Passion spiraled through him and flooded his loins with need. He tried to stifle a groan, but failed. Instinctively, his hips rocked against her.
"Oh, Lord, you're—you're…"
"Very excited by you."
"I don't want you excited. I don't want you at all. You're a liar."
Duncan suppressed his physical needs. "I did lie, Miriam, but I believed I had no choice. I thought you were like the others the queen had sent, but when I realized I couldn't buy your favor with money, I…" The words died on his lips.
"You seduced me."
Frustrated at his inadequacy to explain himself, Duncan blurted, "I didna intend to actually seduce you."
"Ha! You've tripped yourself up. I knew you didn't really want me."
Softly, he said, "I wanted you enough to put my life and my son's future in your hands. I love you. Please forgive me."
The honesty in his voice warmed Miriam like brandy on a cold night. Weakness and love assailed her, but she was too heartsore to believe him. "Easy words for you to say, Duncan. Or are you Ian tonight?"
He jerked away from her. The mattress shifted as he moved to the edge of the bed. She'd become so accustomed to their visits in the dark that she could almost see his every movement.
His breath came out in an impatient huff. "I don't know who I am, and that's the sad truth of it."
The tangible pull of his frustration reached out to her. "What do you mean?"
He pulled back the bedcurtain and lit the candle on the nightstand. A soft yellow glow illuminated his golden hair and exposed his inner struggle. Shoulders slumped, he looked troubled to his soul, and nothing like the dark lover she had lain with so often.
She bit her lip to keep from saying the words he wanted to hear. Now was the time to listen.
"I thought," he began in a rough whisper, "that by reviving the Border Lord I could gain justice for my people without living up to the reputation of my father."
So noble a sentiment absolved him, didn't it? She wasn't sure; there was too much unsaid between them. "What of the bumbling earl who makes the finest lures in Scotland?"
He slid her a sideways glance. Smiling crookedly, he said, "He got himself hooked by a red-haired Scotswoman who's too smart for her own good."
Laughter brought tears to her eyes. "I'm not certain if that's a compliment."
He leaned over her, his powerful shoulders blocking out the light, his hands bracketing her head. "Then be certain of this, Miriam MacDonald. I love you as I love Scotland. I'm a sorry wretch who doesn't deserve you, and if you'll but give me the chance, I'll spend the rest of my life making you happy. Marry me."
Joy curled in her belly and tightened her womb. "I'm pregnant."
He flashed a broad smile. "I know. I've been watching you from a tunnel behind that wardrobe. I saw you crying the day I gave you the tartan."
She remembered the pain, the loneliness. "You hurt me."
"Aye. I'm sorr
y for that, too. 'Twas the poorest piece of work I've ever done." He lay beside her and spread his hand over her stomach. "Will you forgive the miserable father of this remarkable babe?"
She'd start apologizing herself if he didn't stop being so sweetly charming. "You have no idea if she'll be remarkable or rotten. Stop dodging my questions."
"She?"
Miriam couldn't help but smile at his astonished tone. "You're dodging again."
With his lips a breath away from hers, he said, "Aye, 'tis a fault for sure."
"Wait! No kissing yet. You have a lot of explaining to do."
He fell back against the pillow. "All right."
"Did you know how to wield a sword before I came here?"
"Aye. The Grand Reiver insisted I learn."
She could imagine how cruel the lessons had been. "Do you fence?"
"I wilna tell you. But after the bairn comes, you can challenge me and find out."
"You could learn between now and then."
"I promise," he whispered, "never to be out of your sight."
Happiness purled inside her. "Does Malcolm know you're the Border Lord?"
"Nay."
"What will he say about us?"
Duncan chuckled, his breath caressing her ear. "He'll probably revive the archbishop of Canterbury, turn the chapel into Westminster Abbey, and insist on performing the ceremony himself."
She shivered and snuggled closer. "Seriously."
"He'll be excited, Miriam. He needs you almost as much as I do."
"Then let's tell him now."
He groaned. "I had other plans for the evening. Besides, he's playing sentry in the kitchen."
The thief. "I wonder who's stealing the food."
His arms grew taut. "Alpin is. She stowed away in the sleigh. I thought you knew."
"How did you find out?"
"I almost knocked her down in the tunnel. She's hiding in the tower room waiting for her Night Angel to rescue her."
The candle sputtered, casting shadows on his face. "The Border Lord," she said.
"Aye. Adrienne asked me to watch out for the lass. She's so headstrong. Compared to her, you're malleable, love."
"Oh, really?"
He pulled her over him. "Aye, and don't get huffy with me."
A lifetime of happiness loomed before her. "What will you do?"
Smiling, he said, "This…"
Then his mouth touched hers and she forgot bumbling earls and dark strangers and kissed Duncan Andrew Ian Armstrong Keir, the man she loved.
Epilogue
A week later Duncan strolled into the keeping room and sat in his favorite chair. Miriam had insisted he return the Kerr throne to the dais where it had stood since the first earl of Kildalton swore fealty to the first Stewart king of Scotland.
The ancient wood felt warm and satiny to the touch. Duncan surveyed the empty room until his gaze fell on the portrait of his father. Love, hatred, and regret seared him.
"Banish that thought, my lord!"
Covered from neck to toe in a fur-lined robe of soft blue velvet, her glorious hair trailing to her waist, her face flushed from the cold, Miriam stood in the doorway. "Alexis and Angus are coming."
Hatred and regret fled. Duncan patted the arm of his throne. "Good. Sit with me."
She hesitated, then pulled a beribboned document from beneath the robe. "I sent Alexander to meet them. He brought me this."
Duncan saw the royal seal. It was broken. Anne had exercised her divine right. Miriam already knew what the queen had decided. He looked deeply into Miriam's eyes but could not read her thoughts. Struggling to keep the fear from his voice, he said, "Has she ordered me to give up Malcolm?"
Miriam glided toward him. "No. Should you change your mind about fostering your son, you'll decide where he's to go. Her Majesty has also ordered the baron to make restitution for all the farms he's burned and the lives he's taken."
Weak with relief, Duncan slumped against the high back of the family throne. Through misty eyes he watched her ascend the dais, the lovely woman who had stolen his heart, the brilliant diplomat who had secured his future. "Thank you," he whispered, and pulled her onto his lap.
She gazed up at him, her gray eyes glittering with love. "I've brought you something else."
I'm a happy, lucky fellow, he thought, knowing he would bask for the rest of his days in the glow of her love. "What?"
Slipping the queen's official writ beneath the sash of his tartan, Miriam clapped her hands. "Sir Francis…" she called out.
Malcolm, in the guise of Sir Francis Drake, complete with ruff, padded doublet, and a painted-on mustache and pointy beard, shuffled into the room carrying one end of a long, covered box. Alpin, wearing a new jerkin and leather trews, carried the other end. They struggled with the cumbersome package, then set it on the floor. Something in the box moved.
Duncan bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud. Glancing down at the love of his life, he anticipated mischief. The twinkle in her eyes confirmed it. "What have you brought me?"
She rolled her head toward Malcolm and nodded. With a flourish, the boy whipped the drape off the box.
"Peacocks, my lord," Miriam said. "I remember how much you wanted them."
Once he had cursed her dratted memory. Now it would be the keeper of all their yesterdays and the harbinger of all their tomorrows.
POCKET STAR BOOKS PROUDLY PRESENTS
TRUE HEART
Arnette Lamb
Coming mid-December from Pocket Star Books
The following is a preview of
True Heart.…
Prologue
Rosshaven Castle
Tain, Scottish Highlands
Spring 1779
"You didn't for a moment think I believed you asked me into the stables to show me a new horse."
Even after all these years, Juliet brought out the rogue in Lachlan. He took her hand and pressed her palm against his cheek. "What I have in mind is infinitely more entertaining than a foal."
Her interest engaged, she lifted her brows. Her fingers traced his mouth. "Which is why you brought me to the loft."
Her familiar scent softened the robust aroma of freshly mown hay. Her touch did more earthy things to his sense of decorum. "Why I brought you up here is a surprise."
"I see." She licked her lips. "You intended to wrinkle my dress and muss my hair?"
"Aye. The first before I ravished you, the second while I ravished you."
Always the grand skeptic, she said, "A husband cannot ravish his own wife…" She had more to say, but she'd make him wait. Juliet had helped Lachlan raise Agnes, Sarah, Lottie, and Mary. But respect and love for his four bastard daughters only scratched the surface of her generosity. She'd given him four more daughters and an heir. He loved Juliet more today than when she'd placed his son in his arms. At sunrise next, he'd love her more still.
Touching her was a pleasure he couldn't deny himself now that they were alone. "In the event you've lost the gist of the conversation, you were holding forth on the issue of whether a husband may ravish his wife."
"The word 'holding' distracts me." She glided her hand down over the placket of his breeches and made a carnal image of the ordinary word. "Tell me why there is a satin pillow beneath the hay." She flicked her very arresting gaze to the spot where roof met wall.
Lachlan chuckled. "If you hope to tease me with conversational detours, you'll go wanting for that, love. Not even a bolster of gold could distract me at the moment."
Her supple fingers began a dangerous rhythm, and her voice softened to an enticing purr. "Pondering two things at once is surely manageable for a man of your invention."
Desire thrummed in his chest, rang in his ears. On a shallow breath, he said, "You, on the other hand, are not completely captivated."
With her free hand she cupped his neck and pulled him closer. "I've been captivated since the winter of sixty-two."
The occasion of her entry into Lachlan's life and t
he genesis of his true happiness. For hours he'd anticipated this time alone with her. Their eldest, Virginia, was betrothed this very day to Cameron Cunningham, a lad they favored. Their son Kenneth would foster soon with Cameron's parents, Suisan and Myles. Lachlan's elder daughters were seventeen years old and planning their own futures.
For now, time alone with Juliet was a luxury to Lachlan, but in a few years he'd have her all to himself. This afternoon's tryst was a gift he intended to savor. Teasing her was a part of their lovers' game.
He plucked a straw from her hair. "But coherent thought is ever your constant companion, no?"
"Not always."
"Let's see about that." Gaze fixed to hers, he kissed her. Her brown eyes glittered with pleasure and desire smoldered in their depths. A sense of belonging swamped him, and as he deepened the kiss, he wondered for the thousandth time what great deed he'd done to deserve this woman. With a sweetness that always thrilled him, she returned his ardor and fired it with her own.
In the distance he heard the happy sound of childish laughter. Juliet heard it too, but that was the way of mothering with her. Even in the crowd at Midsummer Fair she could discern the voices of her own children.
"Which of our brood is so joyous? Cora?" He spoke of their youngest daughter.
"Kenneth. Agnes must be tickling him."
"I'll be glad when his voice changes."
"Will you rejoice when Agnes flies the nest?"
"Aye and nay. 'Tis dear Sarah I worry over more."
"Not our newly betrothed Virginia?"
Juliet's first daughter was unlike any of his other children. She'd been strongly influenced by her four older sisters. From Lottie she'd learned grace and stitchery. At Mary's hand she'd perfected an artist's skill. From Sarah she'd gained a love for books and law. From Agnes she'd learned too much cunning and bravery.
"Now who's distracted?" Juliet teased.
Lachlan moved closer. She winced and shifted.
"Uncomfortable?" he asked.