Border Lord (30 page)

She ignored his patronizing comment. The event was a fortnight hence. By that time Alexis would have done her work. The queen would send word to Miriam. Then she could pen the formal treaty and present it to both men for signature. She prayed Anne would heed her advice. "Certainly. I'd love to. Now, tell me about your proposition."

"It concerns my niece, Caroline. I believe she can help patch up this whole ghastly mess."

Miriam sifted through the names and faces of all the women in his household. She saw a diminutive golden-haired girl of ten and eight with warm brown eyes and an easy smile. "How can she help?"

He began jerking his neck again. "As I told you, I hold no grudge against Duncan. To show my good faith, I'm willing to offer him the hand of my dear Caroline in marriage."

Miriam rebelled at the thought of Duncan marrying. He'd done that once to gain peace. But she was fooling herself if she used his past marriage for an excuse. As capricious as it seemed, she didn't want anyone else to have Duncan Kerr. Confused by her possessive attitude, she decided to hedge. "I'm not sure another alliance between your families will solve anything, my lord."

"What objection could you possibly have? 'Tis the perfect solution."

She couldn't answer him, because her objection was purely personal. She'd given her heart to the Border Lord, yet she couldn't bear the thought of losing Duncan Kerr's affection. She also couldn't tell the baron he was wrong. "What if it compounds the problem? I suggest you wait until the negotiations are completed."

"I insist you approach the earl with my offer. Avery Chilton-Wall concurs."

Swallowing back disgust, she said, "Chilton-Wall's approval is neither here nor there. The queen is replacing him. And hiring a sheriff, too."

The baron leaned back against the bench, which he dwarfed. "I'm surprised you would throw away the queen's money on a sheriff? Duncan and I can settle matters around here. I've given you the perfect vehicle. You know, Miriam, you really should think things through before acting so rashly."

His puny attempt at an insult amused her. "As I explained to you, my lord, at the request of Her Majesty, I'm simply affording you and the earl time to get to know each other again. You won't be burdened with the taxing business of enforcing the law or passing judgment. They're hardly fitting tasks, after all, for men of noble birth. Don't you agree?"

He laughed, a high cackling sound that made her ears ring. "I'd agree to tying my own cravats if it would keep my family in clothes and food, and my poor, frightened tenants safe."

His overdone tale of woe garnered no sympathy from Miriam. "I thought the only thing they feared was the Border Lord."

"Oh, they do fear him."

He'd left her the perfect opening. "But they don't fear the two criminals you brought with you today?"

"Criminals?" He spat the word. "Those men are my bodyguards."

She told him about Betsy Lindsay. "Shall I fetch her here, my lord?"

Red-faced, he said, "No. I believe you. What shall I do with them?"

"Don't let on anything's amiss. When you get home, have the magistrate arrest them. Lord Duncan will press charges when he returns."

"Very well, but I hope you don't think I'm to blame."

She did, but the courts would call his crime omission.

"Lady Miriam!" Mrs. Elliott stood in the doorway, the wilted carrots in her hand, her face a picture of alarm.

"My lady!" Saladin raced around the housekeeper and skidded to halt before Miriam. His swarthy skin was as white as bleached parchment. "Please. You must come. I think Alpin killed Malcolm."

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 palm 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.