Border Bride (7 page)

Like the waning sunlight outside the window, his objectivity faded. "Rest assured, that's one promise you'll never keep, Alpin."

Her inquisitive gaze roamed his face, his neck, and his legs. A flush stole up her cheeks. "I never presumed that you expected me to… that we would… that…" Flustered, she toyed with the gold cord on the drapes.

Amused by her discomfiture, he blithely said, "What did you never presume?"

Palms up, she opened her mouth, then closed it. At last she said, "That we would consummate the promise. I'm here because, as usual, I have nowhere else to go, Malcolm. Charles knew that when he transferred the plantation to you."

"How did you find that out? 'Twas supposed to be a private transaction between men."

"But it concerned me. Charles assumed you would do the honorable thing and make me your ward. We could be friends. I've even agreed to become your housekeeper." More forcefully she added, "I will not accept charity or be a burden to you."

Damn. He hated feeling guilty. All contrition, he said, "How can I call you a burden if you earn your own way?"

She swallowed, her gaze darting from the globe to the desk to the tray of inedible food. "Very well. I suppose we should discuss my salary."

Malcolm hadn't considered compensating her. He had other plans where she was concerned. "Since you belong to me, as you so vividly put it, I'm responsible for clothing you and furnishing whatever essentials you need."

She swung her feet. The gesture made her seem endearingly young. "The same as you do for Mrs. Elliott?"

Affronted by the analogy, he said, "I hardly provide Mrs. Elliott with silk gowns or a dressmaker to sew them."

She plucked at the skirt. "It's cotton, not silk. And Elanna will make my gowns and hers."

The black woman. "I must say I'm disappointed that you perpetuate the institution of slavery. I had expected more humanity from you."

Her eyes narrowed, and she knotted her fists so tightly her knuckles gleamed white. "I detest slavery, and anyone who says differently is a miserable liar. Elanna is a freedwoman."

Malcolm had misinterpreted Charles's vague reference to Alpin causing trouble over the slaves in Barbados. If she was to be believed, she and Charles had differed on the slavery issue. Malcolm realized he'd gotten their positions crosswise; Charles was the one who had favored slavery.

Well, Malcolm decided, at least Alpin had one redeeming quality. "Did you persuade Charles to free her?"

Again, her eyes met his. "Yes. In lieu of several years' salary as his housekeeper. Elanna will earn her way."

Knowing a slave could sell for as much as twelve hundred pounds, Malcolm figured Charles was either very foolish or very malleable. But neither rang true, for according to the records and the bank drafts the lawyer Codrington regularly sent to Malcolm, the plantation had made a handsome profit every year for the past decade. The last harvest proved particularly fruitful; Malcolm had used the proceeds to build a new bridge over the river Tyne. "Charles was a generous guardian."

"I'm a very good housekeeper." Her grin gave him a peek at her dimples. "I trust you'll pay me accordingly."

Malcolm felt he had little choice in the matter, and yet the idea of paying her, the woman who had made his life miserable, rankled. He was a Scotsman, though, and knew how to be thrifty. "I'll pay you fifty pounds a year."

"Two hundred," she said, as serious as a tinker with only one skillet in his wagon. "Plus a suitable wardrobe."

He took the few steps that separated them. Towering over her, he said, "One hundred."

Seemingly unperturbed, she said, "One fifty and any essentials I may require. The wardrobe, of course. Sundays for my own and a free week each year beginning on my birthday. And the stipend Charles left me."

If she could haggle as successfully with the butcher, she might save Malcolm money. "You will pay your own maid."

"Of course. I always have."

"Done." He extended his hand.

She took it, her long, slender fingers curling around his. He stared at her wrist, her elbow, and her arm, and noticed again the sun-washed color of her skin. He thought of her breasts and pictured them milky white, a stunning contrast to the rest of her. Stark white sheets would be a perfect foil for her chestnut hair and lavender eyes.

"What are you thinking, Malcolm? That you've made a poor bargain?"

He shook off the erotic images and cursed himself for having lustful thoughts of Alpin MacKay. "Nay," he said. "I'm thinking that you have."

Pulling her hand free, she hopped down from the window seat. "I never make poor bargains. Now tell me what you like to eat, when you like to eat it, and how many people I must feed."

For the next hour Alpin wielded a quill as he rattled off an extensive list of delicacies even the king's own steward would have been hard-pressed to provide. So transparent was Malcolm's attempt at intimidation, she wondered if he didn't suspect her motives or honestly dislike her. But she'd done no more than pull a few childish pranks when they were young. Surely he'd forgotten and forgiven those. He'd merely grown into an unhappy, beleaguered man who couldn't even have fun at a carnival. He couldn't know she planned to marry him and demand Paradise as her wedding gift. Once the papers were signed, she'd leave the Borders behind and take ship home.

"You'll supervise the housemaids, make certain my bed is made each morning and my shirts and tartans cared for properly."

He was, she decided, full of himself. Oh, he cut a fine figure, slouched comfortably in a wing chair, his chin resting in his palm. Still wearing the perfectly pleated kilt, he crossed his well-muscled legs and oozed enough charm to set a dozen simpering females to swooning. More than his aura of power, he exuded a lazy sensuality. His marvelous brown eyes danced with interest, and his straight nose and fine high cheekbones spoke of centuries of Scottish nobility.

She hid her opinion behind a bland smile. "Will there be anything else, my lord?"

"Aye." He plucked at the tassels on his sporran. "Tonight I've a craving for roast suckling pig, baked quinces, potatoes with parsley and butter, crusty bread, and a trifle big enough to"—he slid her a measuring glance—"to fill a washtub."

Wanting desperately to be away from him and his despotic ways, she replaced the quill, folded the paper, and got to her feet. "Will nine o'clock be soon enough?"

He looked at the lantern clock. It was just after six. "You can't manage it that fast, can you?"

With all the melodrama she could summon, she sighed and held out her arm. "Certainly I can." When he didn't immediately rise, she said, "I was thinking about a raisin and fig sauce for the pork." And a good dose of Elanna's come-to-me juice.

He licked his lips, but stayed where he was.

"Or," she drawled, pointing at the food tray, "I could warm up that rabbit."

Eyes narrowed, he said, "Blackmail is a poor way to start our business arrangement."

Despair weighted her shoulders. She couldn't woo him if all they did was bicker; even the strongest love potion couldn't turn enmity to affection. But if Malcolm didn't show his support for her by presenting her to the staff, she'd have an uphill battle gaining authority over the servants. Her arm ached, but she refused to drop it or lose the battle of wills they waged. "I only have myself to ransom. Now will you introduce me to the staff?"

His steady gaze held her immobile. "I've work to do here. The household ledgers need balancing. Even the grain stores haven't been inventoried since Mrs. Elliott left in February."

Another concession, but she could use the additional duties to her advantage. "I'll do your ciphering. I'm very good with numbers." Seeing his skeptical frown, she said, "And I'm honest. You can trust me."

He cleared his throat and pushed to his feet. As his hand closed over hers, Alpin had the distinct impression that Malcolm didn't trust her at all.

Chapter Four

Malcolm's mouth watered as he gazed at the feast before him, the exact foods he'd requested. "Did Lady Alpin prepare this?"

"Aye, my lord. She and the African." Dora shook her head and ran her finger along the edge of Malcolm's desk. "Who'd've thought a real lady'd roll up her sleeves and sweat over a cooking fire?"

Real lady. The changes in Alpin still baffled him, but not enough to make him forget the past or alter his plans for her future. He had plenty of time, though, and other priorities, namely the Highland Jacobites and their obsession with putting James Stewart on the throne. Pray Saladin returned with communiques that reflected a new moderation or at least the status quo on the part of the northern clan chiefs. "Where is Lady Alpin?"

Dora rubbed at a stain on her new apron. "Counting the stores in the pantry and waiting for her bathwater to heat." Whispering, the girl added, "She bathes every night and said so in front of the whole staff. The maids, you know—not the bootboy or any of the lads."

He speared a slice of roasted pork. Steam, fragrant with figs and raisins, filled his nose. An image of Alpin, naked in the wooden tub, filled his mind. Expectation of both lightened his mood. "She'll soon have you taking to a tub of an evening."

As he expected, Dora huffed up like a gentry matron who'd been pinched on the fanny. "I'd sooner be tied to my papa's plow and dragged to Edinburgh wearing nothing but my shift."

"'Twas only a jest, lass."

"Oh." Blushing, she went back to worrying the stain. "My lord… ? Is it true that Lady Alpin lived here once, when you were a lad?"

The savory meat almost melted in his mouth. "Aye. She ran away from her uncle's house."

"The bootboy said Mr. Lindsay said that old Angus MacDodd swore she greased your saddle and put thistles 'tween your sheets."

He'd forgotten many of Alpin's harmless pranks. For years he'd lived with the repercussions of her one unconscionable sin. He swallowed hard and felt the bark of a tree at his back and across his chest the ropes that secured him to the trunk. Alpin had stood over him that day, a storm of anger in her eyes, a jar of buzzing hornets in her hand.

"Take back what you said about my dress," she had demanded, shaking the jar.

"Never," he'd spat and kicked dust onto the hem of the only dress he'd ever seen her wear. "You look worse than a pukey lass. You look like your uncle's lapdog all dressed up in satin and bows."

Tears had filled her eyes. "I hate you, Malcolm Kerr."

"My name is Caesar," he had announced.

Then she had lifted the hem of the toga he wore, twisted the lid from the jar, and tossed it under his costume.

The tickle of insect legs on his private parts turned to stabbing, biting, excruciating pain. When the swelling started, he thought it would never stop, and by nightfall his balls were as big as the blacksmith's fists.

The midwife had said he would never sire a child. His stepmother had vehemently disagreed. Her staunch belief had proved fruitless, for none of Malcolm's women had ever conceived. Only his parents, Saladin, and Alexander knew the awful truth. If it became public knowledge—Nay. He stopped the thought, couldn't bear the disappointment his people would feel.