Border Bride (34 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Malcolm cast off the last shackle of sleep and awakened to the reality that he and Alpin lay naked on the floor with only his tartan covering them. Over him stood his stepmother and her dog.

"That naked brunette had better not be Jane Gordon."

He tried to decipher her warning. Politics often dominated his stepmother's life. She never meddled in his private affairs. He had written to her of Gordon's visit. He had hinted at the unrest among the Highland clans. He had been specific about Gordon's offer of his daughter's hand in marriage.

His conclusion drawn, Malcolm quietly said, "She is not Jane Gordon."

"Good. I feared he would go to any lengths or depths to press the suit." She picked up the marquetry box and clutched it under her arm. "I was looking for this."

As always, Lady Miriam was a victim to her own logic and dedication to work. The box contained Malcolm's notes taken from the months of correspondence between Gordon and the exiled Stewarts.

Alpin stirred beside him. Placing his hand over her ear so as not to wake her, he whispered, "Wait for me outside, Mother, and take that slavering beast with you."

"Yes, of course. I'm terribly sorry." She put her hand against her cheek, a cheek that was as smooth as that of a woman half her age. "I just didn't expect to find you here at this hour. I mean, I did expect you to be awake by now, but not here and with—Oh, Malcolm, why couldn't you have locked the door?"

Alpin moved again, and this time her knee brushed his groin. Dodging an arrow of desire, he clenched his teeth and said, "Apology accepted. What time is it?"

She stared at the array of male and female clothing scattered on the floor. "Almost six."

He glanced at the drapes, but the heavy fabric blocked out the light. "Leave the lamp. I'll join you in a moment."

She snapped her fingers. The huge sleuthhound, aptly named Redundant for his resemblance to his grandam, trotted to the door. In a swirl of green silk and stately elegance, Lady Miriam glided out of the room.

Malcolm closed his eyes and breathed deeply, giving his dignity a moment to recover. He spent most of his time at Kildalton Castle, but he had always kept his women at Carvoran Manor. He had younger sisters here and their sensibilities to consider. He also respected his parents too much to parade his lusty proclivities before them.

But he was past his desire for mistresses; the woman in his arms was all the female he needed and more. Her frankness and the reasons behind her asking for the property in Barbados spoke volumes about how much she wanted their marriage to succeed.

It was unfortunate that she would never have the opportunity to present her newly acquired dowry to a daughter or bequeath her money to a son. He had wanted to tell her the truth last night, but she'd been too excited about becoming a woman of means, and too eager to exercise her new independence. Spontaneity had been their watchword last night, happiness the result.

Yet their marital bliss stood on shaky ground, the bedrock cracked with a lie.

He intended to make a full confession, just as soon as he'd spoken to his stepmother.

Feeling lighter for having made the resolution, he pulled Alpin onto his chest. "Wake up, you slugabed."

She moaned and cuddled against him. "What time is it?"

"'Tis nearly six o'clock."

"Oh, my goodness." She bolted to a sitting position, taking his tartan with her. "Dora will need her instructions. We were to make candles this morning, and the floors in the barracks are a muddy mess from the rain yesterday."

She looked delightfully mussed, her expression still endearingly sleepy, her hair a mass of chestnut-hued ringlets trailing to her waist. How could anyone term her glorious hair brunette? The word sounded too ordinary. It must have been the dim light.

"Wouldn't you rather forget Dora and dirty floors and give your husband a good-morning kiss?"

Saints condemn her, she actually pondered the question. Pride stinging, he said, "Unless you don't care to know the name of the very special person who arrived here a few moments ago."

She leaned over him and rubbed her nipples across his chest. "Good morning, husband mine."

Her hair formed a warm curtain around them, and when her lips settled on his, he thought he might just have to make love to her again. His randy body confirmed it.

He hugged her close, allowing his mind to drift to the softness of her skin, and the way she fit perfectly against him. He enjoyed savoring this woman and nurturing her passion, but he couldn't banish the idea of a quick loving.

She drew back. "What's so funny?"

"I was thinking about one of the coarser terms for lovemaking."

Curiosity sparkled in her eyes. "Tell me."

"'Tis called the rooster rut."

Her carefree laugh was the second sweetest sound he'd ever heard her utter.

"What is the rooster rut?" she said.

"'Tis something that happens very quickly. Are you interested?"

She stared at the ceiling, her teeth toying with her bottom lip. The delicate column of her neck and the perfect planes of her shoulders drew his attention. Her dainty size was misleading, for she possessed an abundance of womanly charms.

She glanced down at him, a wicked gleam in her eye. "Instead of nipping me on the neck and calling out my name when you… you know…"

Enjoying her discomfiture, he smiled. "You mean when I'm trapped in the throes of passion."

"Yes. Instead of enjoying what you usually do, I'm eager to see you tuck your thumbs in your armpits, wag your elbows, and cock-a-doodle-doo."

They both laughed, and he embraced her again, feeling cozy and content. His desire subsided, replaced by a deeper need for harmony and trust with this very special woman. She warmed his heart. She made him long for day's end and the time when they could be alone. She made him regret all of the years he'd spent scheming for revenge against a crime committed by an innocent lass who'd never known love and security.

A shadow of doubt passed over his happiness. What if she couldn't forgive him?

"Who is here?" she said.

What if he couldn't make her love him? Malcolm shied from the possibility. "Lady Miriam."

Alpin scooted away again. "Truly?"

"Aye, she arrived a little while ago."

She scratched her forehead, then gathered her hair and pulled it over her shoulder. "Where are my hairpins?"

"Scattered, I'm sure, as are your clothes."

"She mustn't see me like this."

He didn't have the heart to tell her just how much Lady Miriam had seen. "Take the tunnel up to our room. Do you remember the way?"

She snatched up her stockings and petticoats. "Yes, I think so." Once she had dressed, she scooped up the papers and the lamp and disappeared into the tunnel.

As he dressed, he wondered what Lady Miriam would say when he told her about his handfast marriage.

"Congratulations, Malcolm," she said. "Who's the lucky lass?"

She stood at the base of the main staircase, her tapestry valise at her feet, the enormous sleuthhound at her side.

"Welcome home, Mother."

A warm smile brightened her face, and she hugged him fiercely.

The embrace brought to mind how much she had enriched his life. A woman of extraordinary character, a world renowned diplomat, Lady Miriam MacDonald Kerr had changed the course of British history and affected the life of everyone in the Borders. By example she had taught him to fight for his dreams and hold his principles dear. In the latter he had failed her.

Her dog barked and wedged a cold nose between them.

"Redundant, get back!"

The dog, which weighed a pebble shy of six stone and sported front legs as thick as Malcolm's forearms, immediately sat. Aside from being the only creature able to snap Malcolm from a sound sleep, the sleuthhound could smell a rabbit from a hundred paces and track it for miles without tiring.

"Well?"

Lady Miriam's arrival spawned dozens of questions. "My news can wait," he said. "Tell me when you got back."

She huffed impatiently. "My ship docked in London three days ago."

"'My'? Singular? Where's the rest of our family?"

"Malcolm! I'm as curious as the widow MacKenzie. Who is your bride?"

Although the top of her head barely reached his chin, Lady Miriam was truly a formidable presence and an expert in the art of intimidation. The only problem was, she often failed with family members. "You go first," he said. "What happened in Constantinople?"

She put down the marquetry box and began pacing. "'Twas an unremarkable treaty punctuated with passages from the Koran and concessions from both sides. I drank an ocean of fruit juice and ate a mountain of rice and greasy mutton. The sultan wanted to house me and your sisters in the seraglio. Your father bedeviled me by pretending to contemplate the arrangement. Saladin would have been in heaven there. Salvador despised every moment and had the nerve to fashion tiny icons into the illuminated border of the sultan's copy of the treaty. Mahmud came to terms with the Persians. As we speak, both sides are scrambling to find ways to break the agreement. I expect that effort to keep them busy for a couple of years."

She stopped and bowed from the waist. "So there, my inquisitive son."

She rattled off matters of state as if they were a list of household chores. Her flawless memory and attention to detail had been the bane of kings and carpenters, the torment of bootboys and bishops.

"Did you tell that to King George?" Malcolm asked.

"I told him nothing. He's in Hanover trying to make a mistress of the Countess von Walmoden."

"But you saw the queen or Walpole?"

"Both, unfortunately." She removed her lace-worked coif and shook her head. Her shoulder-length hair fell perfectly into place. "That's why I'm a day late getting here. The prime minister insisted I attend a reception commemorating the opening of his house on Downing Street. The queen was there. We stood in a broom closet while I gave her my report on the mission."

He laughed. "You expect me to believe you convened a meeting with the queen in a broom closet?"

"You always were a skeptical lad. Now. I've told you everything about my trip. Will you please tell me everything about your bride?"

He felt as proud as he had the day he'd learned to wield a broadsword. "She's Alpin MacKay."

Surprise enhanced her youthful appearance; caught off guard, Lady Miriam could have been mistaken for her eldest daughter. "The baron's Alpin MacKay?" she said. "That's who you were with just now?"

Possessiveness consumed him. "She's
my
Alpin MacKay, and she's gone upstairs to change and comb her hair. She's nervous about seeing you again after all these years."

Now that she'd regained her composure, she scrutinized him like a mother reunited with a wayward child. "How long has she been here?"

"'Tis a long story, and you look exhausted. Let's sit down."

She stuffed the delicate coif into her pocket. "You're such a comfort to a vain mother."

Ignoring her gibe, he led her to her favorite room, the lesser hall, which was empty. Redundant trotted to his favorite spot at the base of the Kerr throne and plopped down with a thud.