Border Lord (3 page)

Alexis said, "You will, of course, want to lead us in,
ma capitaine
."

"Thank you, my lady." He nodded curtly, fell back, and ordered his men to advance. Amid the rattling of swords and the pounding of hooves, the soldiers began moving.

"Well?" prompted Alexis, eyeing the double column of soldiers as they passed.

Over the jingling of harnesses, Miriam said, "Well what?"

"Why are you being so secretive about this mission?"

Mission? thought Miriam. Predicament seemed a more fitting term. "Oh, Lexie. I'm not. I've told you everything I know about the trouble here. The queen said, in so many words, that I overstepped myself. She thinks I've become too world-wise for a mere woman. Sending me here without telling me what's going on was my punishment."

Alexis spat a curse that she'd learned at her father's knee. "How swiftly my royal cousin forgets that you gained your experience in service to her—mere woman or no."

"I know," said Miriam, thinking of the years she'd served the queen. Miriam's apprenticeship had begun when the then Princess Anne had taken in the orphaned Miriam. At the age of five she'd often ferried the sad message to Prince George that yet another of the queen's children had died. Remembered pity softened her next words. "She also said that since I knew her mind so well, she needn't waste a royal breath explaining the participants or the particulars of the problems here."

A whistle escaped Alexis's lips. "She
was
angry at you."

Miriam studied the horizon. "Indeed. The burr in her voice was as thick as the towels in a Turkish bath."

"'Tis a wonder you still have your head. 'Twould be a pity, though, to let all that glorious red hair go to waste."

The compliment brightened Miriam's black mood. But she still couldn't bring herself to tell Alexis what had truly angered the queen. "When she told me that I could either marry the Baltic minister or earn my keep in the usual way, I told her I would sooner join the harem of King Ahmed."

Alexis made the sign of the cross. "She knows how much you hate the cold."

"Aye, she does. I decided to fall back and regroup. I just didn't think I'd be doing it in the Borders."

"You'll make quick work of this dispute. How will you begin?"

Miriam hated being ignorant, but what she knew about the Scotsman wouldn't fill a thimble. "I'm not sure."

"I have every confidence in you, my dear. Now, tell me. What did Her Majesty say about the Englishman?"

"Little. His name is Aubrey Townsend, Baron Sinclair. He was the one who petitioned for assistance, accusing the Scotsman of kidnapping, thievery, etcetera. Oh, and she commanded me to visit the Scotsman first."

"That's odd, even if the Englishman did bring about a complaint. She's always careful not to show favoritism to her countrymen. Maybe she knows the Scot. Or—" Mischief sparkled in her eyes. "He could be a cousin of sorts."

"I wouldn't think so. He leads a clan of Lowlanders. I don't imagine they have any ties to the Stewarts—on either side of the blanket." Realizing the slight, Miriam rushed to say, "Oh, do forgive me, Lexie."

Alexis waved her hand in dismissal. "'Twas nothing. What's the fellow's name?"

"Duncan Armstrong Kerr, the earl of Kildalton."

"Sounds very Scottish… and promising. Has he a countess?"

"Not anymore. He's widowed, according to the innkeeper back in Bothly Green."

"Very promising indeed, my dear."

Miriam had to shield her eyes from the setting sun to see her friend's face. "For you, me, or the negotiations?"

Alexis wagged her finger. "You, of course." Then she gazed at the rolling hills and rocky terrain. "Perhaps Sir Lancelot waits o'er yonder hill. Him or the legendary Border Lord they spoke of in Bothly Green. Then you'd be preoccupied with matters of the heart. A legend could sweep you off your feet, beguile you with poetry, and cart you away to his bower of love."

At the edge of her vision, Miriam saw Verbatim perched on the hill in question, her long tail arched over her back, her nose in the air. The animal had scented something. She whined in fright.

"Wait here." Miriam kicked her horse into a canter and raced up the hill. At the summit, she gasped, and flooded her lungs with the biting odor of stale smoke.

In the glen below stood the charred timbers and hearthstone of what had been a crofter's hut. On the periphery of the blackened field she saw a freshly mounded grave. She slumped, wondering if the destruction had been the result of a carelessly banked fire or a consequence of the trouble she was here to settle.

If the latter was true, she'd need more than diplomatic flummery to bring about a peace. She conjured a picture of Duncan Armstrong Kerr, and saw a gouty, stubborn Scotsman who would challenge her expertise and try to bully her into taking his side.

But the man she encountered an hour later challenged her in a different way.

Standing in the common room of Kildalton Castle, Miriam was reminded of Louis XIV's least gifted fool the day he had once again failed to amuse his sovereign.

Pity and confusion overwhelmed her.

Dressed in a waistcoat and knee breeches of forest green velvet, a crimped and powdered wig aslant on his head, and spectacles thicker than church glass perched on his nose, the man looked more like a disheveled jester than the lord of the keep.

"Have you brought the peacocks?" he said, hope dancing in green eyes that were distorted by the lenses.

"The peacocks," she repeated, stalling for enough time to form a reasonable reply.

Behind her, Alexis coughed to hide a giggle. Saladin and Salvador stood frozen, their mouths open, their eyes as large as the earl's.

To Lexie, she pointedly said, "You'll want to warm yourself by the fire. Take the twins with you."

Alexis nodded and led the boys to the far side of the room.

Turning back, Miriam said, "Where were we?"

"The peacocks. They haven't molted, have they?" he asked in the clipped speech of a scholar. "If so, I hope you brought the creatures anyway." He held up a contraption of orange-brown feathers attached to a hook. "Can't catch a fish with a pheasant. These are as useless as another coal in Newcastle."

For some reason, he laughed. His wig jiggled and shed a handful of gray powder on the rounded shoulders of his waistcoat. Then he took a faltering step toward her.

That's when she noticed his shoes; they were on the wrong feet.

Through a shroud of compassion for the poor fellow, she dredged up her kindest tone. "You've mistaken me for someone else, my lord." Executing a perfect curtsy, she said, "I haven't brought you peacocks."

Frowning, he poked the contraption into his pocket, but when he withdrew his hand, the hook clung to his finger. He shook his hand, but to no avail. Finally, he plucked the hook free. Grunting, he clapped it on his sleeve. "You're travelers. How splendid." He wiped his hand on his breeches, leaving a thin smear of blood on the green velvet. Shuffling toward her and extending his hand, he said, "Allow me to present myself and welcome you properly. I'm Duncan Kerr, eighth earl of Kildalton."

She took his hand and was surprised to find blisters on his palm. Her logical mind stumbled, then settled on the inconsistency. How had he gotten blisters? Plucking feathers? She didn't think so. Why would an absentminded, near-blind nobleman have the hands of a workman?

He released her, then tipped his wigged head to the side, as if waiting. Through a haze of possibilities, she fell back on manners. "Thank you, my lord. I'm Lady Miriam MacDonald."

"Ah, you're a Scot."

She tried, but couldn't pull her gaze from his. Intelligence and something else lurked in his eyes. Instinct told her that he had the upper hand. Necessity demanded she take control. He knew the problems here. She didn't. But she couldn't admit her ignorance.

"Father!" bellowed a childish voice behind her. She turned to see a gangly lad with pitch dark hair dash into the room and to the earl's side.

Over a tartan kilt, the boy wore a man's scabbard and sword buckled around his waist. The heavy weapon scraped the stone flags and the belt dragged at the plaid she recognized as the symbol of the Kerr clan.

"There's soldiers in the stable," he declared, his voice breaking. "English soldiers! We must to arms." He tried to draw the sword, but succeeded in disturbing the pleats of his kilt. The garment slipped beneath the swordbelt, revealing pale buttocks and skinny legs.

As the earl leaned over to right the garment, he whispered to the boy, who froze in rapt attention.

Like fingers drawn to the rough edge of a ragged thumbnail, Miriam's senses toyed with the idea that something was wrong here. How could this bumbling man command the clans of Kerr and Armstrong? He didn't look capable of kidnapping or any of the charges brought against him.

"Lady Miriam," he said, "this rowdy lad and defender of the true faith is my son Mai—"

"Father!" snapped the boy. "You're doing it again."

"So, I am." The earl fished in his pockets, retrieved a scrap of paper, and squinted at it. "Ah, yes. My son Rob Roy."

The now-beaming boy bowed from the waist. Miriam stood stupefied, for the earl couldn't even remember his son's name. Another oddity, she thought. Distracted, she managed to say, "A pleasure, Master Rob Roy, I'm sure."

The boy whispered to his father. Miriam's mind hopscotched through the conflicting bits of information, trying to draw a logical conclusion. According to the queen, the Englishman swore this Scotsman was a Border reiver who led an army of thieves.

Again Miriam cursed herself for losing her patience with Anne and gaining her wrath. If only Miriam had held her tongue, she'd know the peculiars of the trouble here. She'd sit down with Duncan Kerr and ask him direct questions. Then she'd do the same with his English neighbor. Then she'd make peace between them. As it was, she didn't even know what questions to ask. Now she'd have to sleuth out the truth.

Like discovering a path out of the wilderness, she found a starting place, a tangible. "Excuse me, my lord," she murmured, and headed for the castleyard to investigate.

Bursting at the seams of his self-imposed idiocy, Duncan watched her go. Through the lenses she appeared as a dark red blur. Over the rims of the spectacles she looked like a vision in crimson. He surveyed the tilt of her chin, the set of her shoulders, the sway of her hips, and the purpose in her stride. The impulsive exit of his charming guest spelled trouble.

Why was she going outside? And why hadn't she told him her reasons for coming to Kildalton? No flighty female, the Lady Miriam MacDonald and her diplomatic accomplishments were legend.

Oh, but her mission here was doomed. She'd secure no peace in the Border, for there was none to be had. Her fancy rhetoric would be wasted on a dispute that involved burned-out farms and freshly mounded graves. Duncan Kerr would deal with his English neighbor in his own way. But first, he had to convince her of his innocence in the Border feud. Then he'd send this delectable diplomat and her odd entourage packing.

Quickly, too, for the Border Lord had work to do.

A pity, he thought, that he couldn't have met her under different circumstances. He liked women with brains and experience, and if the rumors were true, she possessed the lion's share of both.

She also had skin with the luster of polished pearls and eyes as gray and intriguing as snow-laden clouds. Perfect poise and a cleavage that made his lips pucker seemed cruel wrappings on a package he couldn't afford to open. She
must
see him as a bumpkin with fishing lures on his mind and cowardice in his heart.

Over the chatter of his son and Lady Miriam's traveling companion, Duncan chose a plan of action that would turn Miriam MacDonald upside down. That decided, he pulled the bellcord to summon his housekeeper, then turned his attention to his only offspring.

The kilt-clad boy stood before the two lads in Lady Miriam's party. An interesting pair, they were: one dark as a Moor and thinly built, with the obsidian eyes and wooly black hair of his African ancestors. The other boy had the noble profile and olive complexion of a Spanish grandee. Yet there were similarities in the lads: identical widow's peaks in their foreheads and spaces between their front teeth.

Why would a diplomat travel with two lads? Duncan stepped forward to greet them.

Before he could accomplish that, Lady Miriam glided back into the room. Curiosity over the young men fled like trout before a pheasant lure.

She moved with the grace of a deer, and smiled with the assurance of a queen. What tidbit had she gleaned in his castleyard that gave her such confidence? His people were loyal; none would betray his disguise.

Assuming the blank expression he'd practiced since the lookout had brought word of her imminent arrival, Duncan shuffled toward her. "Did you forget something? I could have had a servant fetch it."

A winsome smile illuminated her heart-shaped face. "I did indeed, Lord Duncan. I neglected to introduce you to my friends."

He could grow to hate that placating tone, unless, of course, she were lying naked in his bed and whispering endearments in his ear. He almost smiled at the prospect of making love to so fine a lady. But now was not the time for smiling or seducing. If he wasn't careful, he'd give himself away.

"They're twins, Father," declared his son, still tugging at his tartan, which was precariously close to landing in a heap on the floor. "And they're twelve years old."

Lady Miriam stepped between the boys and draped an arm over each of their shoulders, which were almost on a level with hers. "My lord, may I present Salvador and Saladin Cortez, the finest scribes in all of Europe and England. Gentlemen, this is Lord Duncan, the earl of Kildalton."

Each greeted him pleasantly, and why not? They'd learned their manners from the queen of protocol. Duncan shook their hands and noticed other peculiarities: ink stains and modesty.

Blinking like the fool he pretended to be, he said, "Scribes? Well, isn't that a fine occupation. I always have difficulty with numbering pages. Get them all ajumble every time. I suppose age truly has little bearing on some achievements, does it not, gentlemen?"

If expressions were words, Duncan faced disgust in two languages, both foreign. Saladin frowned, his mahogany-hued skin oddly light at the corners of his mouth. Puffing out his chest, Salvador shot Duncan a measuring glare and found him wanting.

Smiling innocuously, Duncan said, "You've met my son, Mai—"

"Rob Roy," Malcolm put in.

Duncan wanted to blister the boy. He could hate his name, refuse to answer to it, but not, by God, in front of the emissary of the queen. Vowing to have another talk with his stubborn son, Duncan breathed a sigh of relief when his housekeeper, Mrs. Elliott, bustled into the room.

She glanced at his disguise, humor twinkling in her eyes. Drawing up the skirt of her apron, she buried her pug nose in the cloth and faked a sneeze.

"Welcome to Kildalton Castle, my lady," said Mrs. Elliott. "I've just prepared rooms for you. If you'll follow me, I'll show you to them."

Thinking of the rooms his guest would occupy, Duncan relaxed. A maze of tunnels in the castle gave him access to every room. The secret passageway outside her chamber would allow him to eavesdrop on her conversations. By pushing aside the panel in the wardrobe, he could enter the room and inspect any correspondence to or from London.

He bowed from the waist. "I'll say goodnight then."

Malcolm cradled the unwieldy sword and bounded up the stairs. The scribes and the other lady with an oddly familiar face followed.

To Duncan's surprise, Lady Miriam slid into a chair by the hearth. "Will you join me, Lord Duncan?"

He glanced at the clock. The need for vengeance thrummed through him. In less than an hour, his men would gather near Hadrian's Wall. He would lead them across the Border, where they would reclaim a herd of stolen sheep. Would that he could avenge the deaths of his crofters. His conscience plagued him, but he could not take the lives of poor English tenants. He wanted a peaceable end to the violence.

He took the seat facing Lady Miriam. "Can we keep this short?" he whined. "I have a batch of owl feathers to clean."

Tracing the grain of the wood on the chair arm, she absently said, "How enterprising. 'Tis wonderful to be off that horse."

He was prepared for rhetoric. "Surely you didn't ride all the way—" He swallowed the words "from London," for he wasn't supposed to know who she was or why she'd come.

Gray eyes fastened on his. "But of course. I simply refused to take another ship so soon. I do love to ride, as does Lady Alexis."

His curiosity about the lady overrode his need for haste and discretion. "Who is she?"

Not batting an eye, she said, "Alexis Southward."

That caught him off guard. Alexis Southward was the most talked about bastard of the late Charles II and cousin to the queen.

"I was wondering," his guest continued in a congenial tone, "why there were no soldiers on the battlements when we arrived, and yet just moments ago, at least fifty armed men manned the walls."

Hell and Hogmanay! That's why she'd gone outside. The wench was as sneaky as a badger on the prowl. But Duncan Kerr could match her. "I'm sure I don't know. I shall have to ask that burly fellow who trains them. Perhaps we always have so many guards. No. We are a peaceable people. I'm certain your safety is at the root of it."

"I see."

An understatement, for she saw too much. His first instinct was to plead exhaustion and flee. His men awaited. But watching her, so sedate and appealing on the surface, yet conniving and clever beneath, Duncan decided he wanted to play. "I wish I could," he said on a sigh.

She blinked and glanced at the portrait of Duncan's father that hung over the hearth. "Could what, my lord?"

He sighed again and adjusted the ridiculous spectacles. "See. I wish I would see even half so well as normal people. I just pray my son's eyes never grow as weak as mine."

Her fingers began to strum on the wood. The tick-ticking of her fingernails filled the room. Duncan applauded himself; she wasn't as composed as she let on.

She caught him staring at her hands. The strumming stopped. "The soldiers who accompanied me will stay the night in your guardhouse. They'll be returning to London on the morrow."

She'd accompany those prissy English soldiers, too, if Duncan had his way. "I'm sorry you'll be leaving so soon."

"Oh, but I'm not leaving."

He gasped and drew his hands to his chest. "But we can't entertain a lady here. That is, we offer shelter to any traveler. 'Tis the Scottish way. But I have my work. You'll interfere with my schedule."

"I promise not to disturb you too much."

The thick glass gave him a magnified view of her cleavage. Flawless, satiny skin rose and fell enticingly. Poor vision, he decided, had its advantages. So did he at the moment. But the instant she confessed her purpose and stated her intentions, he would better know how to deal with her. "Who will escort you home?" he said. "You can't travel alone. 'Tis too dangerous."

"I know." She smiled much too sweetly. "I saw the burned farm… and the graves."

What the devil had she been doing so far off the road? If she knew people had died, what else did she know? Those calculating eyes stayed fixed on his, but Duncan wasn't about to reveal the sorrow he felt for the crofters. "The sheep can be replaced." And avenged. "My steward will take care of the matter."

Her fine eyebrows shot up. "You buried sheep in those graves? Ah, I see. And you blistered your hands in the doing."

He felt as if he were picking his way through a bramble bush. One slip, and he'd feel the prick of her thorns. Vowing to outsmart her, he said, "They were good, sturdy animals that never did any harm. Not as smart as fish, though. Now you take a Scottish salmon. You can't fool them with just any lure. But when they take the bait…" He showed her his injured palms. "They'll make you pay the price."

Her eyes stayed fixed on his hands. "Do you always plant crosses on the graves of slaughtered sheep?"

She thought she had him. Scratching his wig, he said, "I couldn't say for certain. To hazard a guess, I'd say they were valuable animals. People get attached to them, I suppose. Like I get attached to my fish. Did I tell you about the sunny trout I caught last May Day? Weighed almost two stone. People came from as far away as Carlisle to see it. Mrs. Elliott served it with a cream sauce that was simply divine."