Border Bride (6 page)

Malcolm sat in his study, the now cold midday meal before him on a tray. He sawed at the braised rabbit, but no matter how small he cut the pieces, the meat was still too tough to chew. The brown bread would have been a welcome change, but only to a sailor six months at sea.

Giving up on the hare, he stuck his fork into a glob of what could have been perfectly cooked pearl barley or horribly overdone peas. He braved a taste and discovered barley with too little onion and too much salt and nutmeg. Nutmeg! His tongue grew quills.

Reaching for a mug of beer, he washed down the lumpy mess and cursed Rosina for running off another housekeeper. His stomached growled. At the rate he was eating, he might as well share Saladin's Muslim fare. But a diet of nuts, berries, vegetables, and rice did little to quell his hunger.

He'd have traded his herd of fat Spanish cattle for a banquet of roast suckling pig, baked quinces, potatoes with parsley and butter, crusty bread, and a trifle big enough to fill a bucket. For that he'd have to wait until his parents and Mrs. Elliott returned. His mouth watering in vain, he slammed down the mug, pushed away from the table, and began to pace the study.

Like his father, grandfather, and all the previous earls of Kildalton, he conducted the commerce of his kingdom from this room. On Malcolm's twenty-first birthday, his father, now the marquess of Lothian, had abdicated his lesser titles, then retired to a life of diplomacy and making his marchioness happy.

As a lad, Malcolm had basked in the glow of his father's and his stepmother's love. By example, they'd shown him the closeness a man and a woman could share, the mutual respect, the ability to forgive and forget. Alpin had cheated him of the chance to have a family of his own. He was destined to be a bachelor forever.

Even so, as a youth, Malcolm had prowled the better drawing rooms of Edinburgh, London, and Paris on a futile search for a woman and helpmate of his own to love. But when none of his mistresses conceived, he faced the grim truth that he would never wed. Only dishonesty would gain him a bride. He could not live with that bit of fraud.

A familiar sadness pulled at him. He stared at his boots and noticed a worn spot in the rug. Three times he'd witnessed his father pacing this very floor when Lady Miriam had begun the travail of childbirth. He'd seen tears of both joy and relief in his father's eyes when each of Malcolm's half sisters had been delivered safely. Their hungry wails still echoed in Malcolm's ears. Of late, he could certainly sympathize.

He strolled to the wall housing a succession of family portraits. The latest featured the entire family. The first pictured Malcolm, his father, and a very pregnant Lady Miriam.

The years had passed and Malcolm's father never pressured him to find a wife. So he'd settled cynically into the role of bachelor earl. Lairds of Scotland's finest clans, eager for an alliance with the Kerrs, paraded their marriageable daughters before him. He put on a show of playing the marriage game, but Malcolm couldn't deceive the innocent girls who honestly wanted a husband to give them children. The sad and secret truth was that the ninth earl of Kildalton couldn't provide the tenth.

But perhaps—He halted the thought. Now was not the time to embrace a futile dream. The northern clans bristled under the stern and unfair rule of George II and turned their attention toward Italy and the exiled James Stewart. "The king across the water," they hailed him, and styled themselves Jacobites in his name. If the Hanoverian currently occupying the throne of the British Isles didn't show more concern for the welfare of his Highland subjects, Scotland was in for trouble that could make the Battle of Flodden look like a petty squabble.

A Lowlander and laird of the Borders, Malcolm felt squeezed between the two factions. He couldn't take sides. His birth mother had been English and had willed him her dower lands, a substantial portion of Northumberland. He couldn't turn a blind eye to his English subjects. Neither could he turn his back on his Scottish kinsmen. So he performed the most neutral service he could: he kept Rosina, the Italian mistress, who spoke fluent Scottish and ferried messages between the Highland clans and their estranged monarch.

No one suspected Malcolm's involvement. For decades his family had sold salt to the Highlands. Each time his friend Saladin took a load of the precious commodity north, he also passed letters to the Jacobites and accepted their replies, which Rosina then delivered to James Stewart either in Rome or at his summer estate in Albano.

When Saladin returned from this latest trip, Malcolm would carefully lift the seals, read the correspondence, make notes, and advise his stepmother accordingly. He would not be an unwitting partner to treason. He would interfere only if the clans began to speak of war. Still, if he were caught in the act, he would be hanged for a traitor and his estates forfeited to the Crown.

A knock sounded at the door. It was probably Alexander bringing word that either Saladin had been spotted by the lookout or Rosina had been returned to Carvoran Manor. Malcolm said, "Come in, but only if you've got a leg of mutton and a mountain of fresh haggis."

Alpin breezed into the room. She'd changed into a full-skirted pink gown with lace trim at the rounded neckline and on the short puffy sleeves. The springtime color complemented the honey hue of her skin. She'd be a scandal in Edinburgh or London, for proper young ladies avoided the sun. But then, Alpin MacKay had never been one for convention.

Her gaze fell on the table. She smiled and, with mock severity, said, "Now, why would you be wanting more food, Malcolm? You've hardly touched what's on your plate."

His empty stomach growled again. "My stepmother's sleuthhound wouldn't touch this fare. But try it, if you've the courage."

Her chin came up a notch. Malcolm applauded himself; she could never refuse a dare.

She tore off a piece of the hare, popped it into her mouth, and began to chew. Her eyes grew wide, and she almost gagged, reminding him of the time as children they'd hidden beneath a banquet table and sampled caviar.

She swallowed and wiped her hands on his napkin. "I take it your cook hates you."

"She loves me like a son, but she's gone to Constantinople."

She looked down at the tray, but not before Malcolm saw her eyes light with interest. What was she thinking? That he might die of starvation? Probably so.

Picking up the bread, she tapped it on the pewter plate. It sounded like a hammer on an anvil. "I'm surprised Rosina doesn't take better care of you."

He almost said that Rosina's talents lay abovestairs, but despite his distrust of Alpin, he couldn't bring himself to embarrass her with so crude a remark. Besides, he honestly didn't think she would understand sophisticated sexual banter. "Rosina has left us as well."

She moved from the table to the bookcase and leaned close to read the titles on the leather-bound spines. "Then the subject of you leashing your lusty proclivities is moot—unless you have another mistress hiding somewhere."

Malcolm choked with laughter, thinking that the wicked lass had become a clever woman. But just how clever? And how many affairs had she truly had? He searched for a lover's mark, but found none. She didn't carry herself with the same feminine assurance he'd seen in kept women.

"Did I say something wrong?" she asked.

"Nay. I'm more concerned with keeping my belly filled and preventing mutiny among my clansmen."

"Mutiny?"

"Aye. The men are hungry for a decent meal. Tell me, can you manage a household, Alpin?"

She pulled out one of the books and opened it. With her fingernail she scraped a glob of old candle wax off the page. "I remember reading this story when I was hiding here years ago." A wistful smile made her look even younger. "It's about a goblin that snatches up children who refuse to go to bed." Her expression turned grim. She snapped the book shut and returned it to the shelf. "I'm sorry I got wax on the page of your book."

Malcolm pictured her at six years old, huddled in the windowless tower room of Kildalton Castle, a candle in one hand, a monster story in the other. Sympathy swamped him.

"Lord," she said, "I was a fanciful child."

She'd been cruel and spiteful to everyone who crossed her path—even those who tried to help her. "Fanciful?" he challenged. "You dumped soot in the flour bin."

She frowned and scratched her temple with unfeigned surprise. "Did I? I don't remember that."

What she'd done as a child he intended to avenge. Her past misdeeds could be an effective weapon, but he mustn't let them overshadow the recent crimes of a selfish woman who had no respect for human beings. "You haven't answered me. Can you manage a household as large as Kildalton?"

Her eyes met his. "Yes. As soon as you present the servants to me."

The reply reeked of honesty and confidence. He could help her by introducing her to the servants. He could threaten to dismiss any who dared to gainsay her. He could make her life easier, but he wouldn't.

"Dora can show you where the stores are kept," he said, "and acquaint you with the staff, such as it is… later."

She continued to peruse the bookcase, but stopped when she noticed a bell hanging from a cord about a foot over her head. "What's that?" she asked.

It was a contraption his father had devised years ago when he'd caught Malcolm snooping in the secret tunnel behind the bookcase. The bell was tied to a fishing line that was attached to the tunnel entrance, a door near the lesser hall, twenty-five feet away. Malcolm answered her with a lie, saying, "It's a Mecca bell. When Saladin made his pilgrimage he brought it back for my father."

She crossed the room and lifted herself up on the window seat. Her tiny slippered feet and delicate ankles dangled below layers of lace-trimmed petticoats. She folded her hands in her lap. "You used to tell stories about all of the things you'd do when you became the earl. Is it what you expected? Have you accomplished all you wanted to do?"

Surprised by her interest, Malcolm picked up the tankard and drank. Through the glass bottom of the mug he could see his plate and the stringy rabbit. "Being at peace with my English neighbors enables me to put my energies into the commerce of Kildalton." Dissatisfaction among the Highland clans complicated his life, but he didn't feel comfortable telling Alpin about Scottish problems.

"You must involve yourself with the tenants," she said. "I've never seen such prosperous farms in the Borders. I remember the people being poor—at least those between here and my uncle's property in England."

He felt a deep sense of pride in his accomplishments, yet he spoke offhandedly. "We've worked to breed better and stronger draft horses, fatter cattle, and we import Spanish steel for scythes and plowshares."

Again she scratched her temple. "Spanish steel," she murmured, her eyes distant. "It's worth the extra price? It doesn't rust and it keeps a sharp edge?"

Amused by her interest, he took a knife from his desk. Drawing the blade from the leather sheath, he handed it to her. "Be careful," he said, stepping back. "You might cut yourself."

She grasped the bone handle and tested the blade with her thumb. Her eyebrows rose in surprise, and she let out a soft whistle. "In Barbados, we use a big knife called a machete to harvest the cane."

"We?"

Her brows fell. As haughty as a duchess, she said, "I mean the slaves do, of course." She quickly sheathed the blade and pitched it to him.

He put up his hand and caught the knife, the leather casing slapping against his palm. She had a strong arm and an excellent aim. But then, Alpin had been deceptively robust as a child. Even now he doubted she weighed much more than six stone. But was she still deceptive and conniving? He intended to learn everything about her, from her plans for the future to the name of her exotic fragrance. "Tell me more about the sugarcane and your life in Barbados. Frankly, I'm surprised you didn't meet some dashing sea captain and marry there."

Mischief, or perhaps anger, flashed in her eyes. Then she laughed and flattened her palms on the window seat. Bracing her arms, she tipped back her head and studied the stuccoed ceiling. "Most of the eligible Englishmen who came to the island were second or third sons without a farthing to their name. They gambled or speculated with what little they had. Few of them made a successful go at anything more than betting on a winning cock."

Seeing her posed as she was, Malcolm had an unobstructed view of her slender neck. Suddenly he thought those second and third sons foolish. Still, she had professed to having affairs, in the plural. He couldn't resist saying, "Did you ever wager on a cock?"

She stiffened. "Ladies do not attend cockfights."

"If Alpin MacKay has grown into a proper lady, the Hanoverian king is fluent in Scottish."

She laughed. "I truly am a lady."

"I see." Mature? Aye, she was that, but he doubted she acted like a lady. "You used to wear breeches and ride bareback."

She grew serious, her eyes luminous, her lips softly parted. "I also used to live in the stables at Sinclair Manor, or have you forgotten that?"

Taken aback, he returned the knife to a drawer in his desk. "I thought you preferred your menagerie of wounded creatures to your cousins."

"I traded one set of creatures for another. That's why I ran away and came here."

She'd made Malcolm's life a living hell and had sown the seeds that would destroy his future. He buried the old hurt behind a halfhearted smile. "I caught you stealing food from our kitchen."

She shivered and rolled her eyes. "I was so frightened I almost wet myself that night. You said they would hang me and use my ears for fish bait."

"It was the only time I had the upper hand with you, as I recall."

Blinking, she said, "Is that truly what you believe?"

Some of their childhood confrontations did seem humorous now, as he looked back on them, and he took a moment to wonder if he wasn't planning to deal too harshly with her. "What do you believe?"

Then she leaned forward and, over the rustling of her petticoats, said, "I
know
that you held me down and kissed me, and you made me promise to give you a child."