Border Bride (10 page)

She shivered in fear—fear of yielding to her nemesis, fear of the yearning he aroused in her, fear of being sent away to the wretched house she'd fled at the age of six. A greater dread gripped her. Was she destined to live out her life and never know the love of a man, never see just how far passion would take her?

But Malcolm Kerr wasn't speaking of tenderness or affection in the traditional sense. Sport was what he'd called it.
Sport
.

Her stomach turned sour, and bright girlish dreams faded like curtains too long in the sun. She didn't want romance anymore. In her youth she had. Watching Charles and Adrienne devote their lives to each other had given Alpin a sound understanding of the meaning of love. It had also shown her the danger of so deep a commitment, for when Adrienne died a part of Charles had perished with her. From then on, he'd been a shell of a man, uninterested in the world around him and blind to the needs and to the future of his young ward.

Alpin's life had changed on that fateful day. She had put her childhood behind her. Rather than swimming in her favorite pool of rainwater, she began devising ways to divert it to irrigate the thirsty fields of sugarcane. Instead of playing hoodman blind with the slave children, she spent her time formulating a plan to set them free.

She became a practical woman, interested only in the basics of life: a roof over her head, enough land to support herself, and peace of mind.

Malcolm Kerr had taken all three. With the stroke of a quill he'd taken her home and her livelihood. With one kiss he'd stolen her self-respect.

Lifting a shaking hand, she touched her lips and remembered the feel of his mouth on hers, melting her resolve and inciting a desire that lingered even now. She could put an end to her torment. She could knock on his door at midnight, lie in his arms, and discover the mysteries his kisses foretold. But from observation, she knew where a tender liaison would lead: she might gain the means to fulfill her dream of returning to Paradise and freeing the slaves, but in doing so she ran the risk of enslaving her heart to a man who wouldn't value it.

Her strong will rebelled against such sentimentality. She had work to do, plans to make. She'd gotten in over her head and suffered a momentary setback. He'd pulled a dirty trick on her. Bravo for him. He'd obviously forgotten that Alpin MacKay was an expert trickster. In her own way she would refresh his memory.

Casting off self-doubt, she scooped up the laundry and took it to the washing shed. Then she went to the kitchen to oversee the preparation of the evening meal.

Alone in the cavernous room, Elanna sat at the oak table, peeling a mountain of turnips. Her eyes, as dark as molasses, surveyed Alpin. "Trouble be coming with you through that door."

Thinking Malcolm had followed her, Alpin flinched and glanced over her shoulder. Except for an industrious spider, expanding an already impressive web, the doorway was empty. "If I were you"—Alpin reached for the broom and destroyed the web—"I'd leave off playing the sage, at least while we're here. These country folks might stone you for a witch."

Elanna held up her hands as if warding off a foe. "Big bad Scotsman put mighty fright in poor slave girl's heart."

Alpin laughed and set the broom aside. "You can also put away your Bajan. You speak perfectly good English when it suits you. And you're free."

"Because of you." Elanna patted the table, her dark skin blending perfectly with the aged wood, her gaily flowered dress adding cheer to the ancient room. "Sit. Tell me what happened to put such fire in your eyes."

Alpin lifted her skirt and stepped over the bench. "You were right about me finding trouble." She picked up a turnip peel and coiled it around her finger. Then she told her friend about the seduction of Malcolm.

"Why worry? You said he always kissed you, even when he was a lad."

"This was a different kind of kiss."

"Betcha that. You don't look like you've been romanced by any boy."

Alpin dropped the peel and again touched her lips. Even the tangy flavor of the turnip couldn't obliterate the warm taste of him. "Now he wants me to be his mistress."

Elanna picked up the knife and stabbed at a turnip. "He's supposed to want to say 'I do, I do' first."

Admitting defeat dulled Alpin's senses and sapped the strength she'd garnered. "I must keep a level head where he's concerned. The scoundrel insisted I share his bed or return to the house of my uncle, Baron Sinclair."

"Ecky-beckie man!"

She referred to the freedmen turned poor white trash in Bridgetown. "Lord Malcolm is hardly a drunken beggar," Alpin replied.

Using the knife, Elanna scratched an itch just beneath her turban. Glancing left and right, she whispered, "He did some kind of begging to get poor Master Charles to give him your Paradise."

The old injustice rose like a sour tide in Alpin. Paradise Plantation rightfully belonged to her. Making a fist, she pounded the table. "I know. But if I share his bed, he'll have to marry me. As his wife, I can lay a claim to Paradise."

"Betcha that. But be plenty careful. You give him all the mangoes, he won't want the tree."

Naively, Alpin had anticipated a proper courtship, then an honorable marriage. She hadn't expected him to be so devious. "He knows we have nowhere else to go. Oh, why did Charles give him our home in the first place?"

Pails rattled in the yard outside the kitchen door. "Shush," said Elanna. "The servants here are loyal to this Scotsman, and they get to gossiping quicker than Master Charles could empty a bottle of rum." A mischievous smile revealed Elanna's pearly white teeth, of which she was inordinately proud. "As soon as you find a way to get in his study and peek at his papers, you'll learn why the plantation fell to him."

Alpin's one small success gave her confidence. "I've already managed that. I agreed to take on the work of steward, too."

"Don't surprise me. You never could sit still for more than a minute."

When Alpin rose, Elanna chuckled. "See?"

Alpin ignored the gibe; she'd heard it too many times over the years. "If you'll watch over the evening meal, I'll get started on the books now."

Elanna grasped her wrist. "What about the other? How can you get him to say 'I do, I do'?"

Alpin hadn't a clue. Worse, part of her yearned to be his lover, to know firsthand the intimacies a man and woman could share. But she wouldn't fall in love with him, not with the one who'd stolen her home and her life's work and taken what little independence she had. "I don't know. I'll just have to be more conniving than he."

"You already are. You outwitted every white man in Barbados. Besting a skirt-wearing Scotsman should be as easy as shinnying up a fig tree."

The reminder of their home buoyed Alpin's confidence. "'Tis a tartan kilt, Elanna, and very traditional in this part of the world. You'll get in big trouble calling it a skirt."

Pulling her generous lips into a pout, Elanna said, "They'll stone me for that, too?"

Amused at her friend's irreverence, Alpin shook her head. "They'll shun you."

"They will not. They're too busy staring at me and murmuring dire threats about what's to happen to me when that man they call Saladin returns." She brandished the knife. "No Bacchra with a Turk's name gonna put a scare in this Ashanti princess. I say, go ahead and burn my free papers before I'll go back to saying 'yes sir, no sir, get it quick right now, sir.'"

Elanna assumed Saladin was a white man; Alpin had never mentioned the Moor. She could explain, prepare her for the shock of meeting a man of her own race here in Scotland. But seeing the stubborn glint in Elanna's eyes, Alpin decided her friend needed a small lesson in humility. "What will you do when he arrives?"

Elanna brushed her thumb over the edge of the blade. "Maybe carve out his liver and make some mighty fine pate."

Alpin strolled to the door. "Just don't bloody up the floor. We're one maid short."

"Betcha that. Oh… what should I cook?"

Over her shoulder, Alpin said, "Lots of vegetables. Saladin doesn't eat meat."

The bench legs scraped against the stone flags. Turnips rolled off the table and thumped loudly onto the floor. "You know him from when you lived here before!"

Alpin grasped the handle and pulled open the door. "Yes. I used to hide his prayer rug and hammer nails with his scimitar."

"Come back here!"

Elanna's angry command ringing in her ears, Alpin strolled rapidly into the lesser hall and made her way to Malcolm's study.

She had just finished comparing last night's inventory of the pantry to the figures in the household ledger when the door banged open and Malcolm came in. Her pulse jumped at the sight of him, resplendent in Highland dress, his shoulder-length black hair mussed by the wind. As a lad he'd been compassionate and imaginative. He'd treated her kindly when others called her a poor relation and a wicked child.

Now he stiffened at the sight of her. Interest flickered in his eyes, then turned to chilly indifference. What had happened to the caring, sensitive boy? How could she trick this cold man into marrying her?

He began stripping off his gloves. "Ah, you're still here."

Seated in his oversized chair, she felt small, defenseless, and her hands shook. She set down the quill before she made an inky mess. Forcing a smile, she tapped the page. "You've too much grain in the inventory and not enough meat in the springhouse, which is too small."

He stared at her breasts. "I never seem to have enough of the things I truly want. But I suspect that's about to change."

Perhaps they would both get what they wanted—a fair trade of sorts: Paradise Plantation for her, another female to conquer and perhaps an heir for him. But he had to marry her first.

"Those are strange words from a man who was born to wealth."

"Money doesn't provide everything."

That was a common belief among the rich, a sad cliché from a man who'd never wanted for shelter on a rainy night. Those less fortunate could struggle to better themselves and he would never understand their ambition, let alone applaud their achievements. "Charles would have agreed with you, but he would have added that money can certainly tip the scales of fate."

"Then I trust you'll provide the needed balance for my scales?"

She'd wanted few things in her life, had received fewer. But the pain of her failed hopes and tarnished dreams would remain a private matter. Still, his cryptic statement deserved a like reply. "I'll be an excellent provider, if you'll trust my judgment."

A noise in the hall drew his attention, giving her a splendid view of his noble profile. She was again reminded of the caped man she had called her Night Angel. "If time permits, we'll add 'earning trust' to tonight's agenda, won't we, Alpin?" Before she could commit the folly of telling him what he could do with his agenda, he waved a hand toward the hall. "Now let me reintroduce you to Saladin Cortez."

Her interest stayed fixed on Malcolm. A worry line marred his forehead, and tension tightened his jaw. Why? What was it about Saladin's return that troubled him so?

The moment the Moor stepped into the room her curiosity fled. A hand's length shorter than Malcolm and much trimmer in build, Saladin Cortez wore the same type of clothing she remembered, except for stylish differences. His cotton turban featured an impressive ruby the size of a pigeon's egg; golden embroidery trimmed his brown tunic and knee pants. He still favored knee-high red boots, but he now wore an exotic pointed beard.

He blinked, his inscrutable gaze focusing on Alpin and revealing his surprise at seeing her here.

A courier's satchel was draped over one of his shoulders, a belt housing his deadly scimitar the other. Although familiar, the weapon looked smaller than Alpin remembered. She glanced at Malcolm's sporran and realized his chieftain's pouch appeared smaller, too. Prior to her recent arrival, the last time she'd seen Malcolm and Saladin they'd been boys wearing the accoutrements of men. Now they were adults carrying the ancient symbols of their vastly different heritages.

"Welcome—" Saladin coughed and sent a questioning glance at Malcolm.

"Aye. She's most welcome indeed," Malcolm said with smooth authority. "Lady Alpin is now our housekeeper, among other things."

Saladin eyed Malcolm with keen regard.

Malcolm eyed the satchel.

Alpin grew uneasy, felt like an outsider. She closed the book, stood, and began tidying the desk. "It's been a very long time, Saladin," she said, at a loss for anything else.

Malcolm ushered his friend into the room and held out his hand. Saladin sighed and, with what she thought was regret, yielded the leather pouch. "Ill tidings, my lord."

Malcolm immediately delved into it.

The Moor faced her. Steepling his fingers, he touched his forehead and bowed. "It has been too long, my lady. May the blessings of the Prophet be upon you."

She murmured her thanks, but her attention strayed to Malcolm, who now frowned as he examined a handful of letters. What kind of ill tidings had he received, she wondered, and from whom? Probably a woman, she decided, and bully for her, if so.

Hoping to put a dent in his armor of self-importance, she said, "Why, how now, Lord Malcolm! 'What see you in those papers that you lose so much complexion?'"

He stiffened and glared at her, his dark brown eyes alive with accusation. "As I remember, you couldn't read the simplest primer when you left here for Barbados. Now you recite Shakespeare and quote boldly from a tale of traitors. I wonder why you chose a passage from
Henry the Fifth
."

She had thought it fitting, but to be truthful, she had wanted to show him that she'd bettered herself over the years. His reference to treason, however, completely baffled her.

To hide her vulnerability, she faked a sulk. "I was trying to impress you, but you've found me out. Whatever will I do now?"

His brusque demeanor softened to a cool regard that threatened retribution. " i suggest you pray that God of his mercy gives you patience to endure, and true repentance of all your dear offenses.'"