Border Lord (17 page)

Her hands traced his nose, his brow, and his cheeks. Her palms would be stained with lampblack. With her loving gestures she had inadvertently stripped him of every vestige of his disguise. Later he would wipe her hands with his shirt and hope for the best.

"I trust you," she said.

Her honesty stopped him. He'd never bargained for her trust. Or had he? As Duncan, he needed her to believe in him, but the Border Lord required no such allegiance. Or did he? One identity bled into the other. Confusion and passion warred within him.

The movement of her breasts against his chest and her softly spoken, "Please… I want you," ended his emotional battle.

With a shaking hand, he guided himself into her and felt a moment's regret. But then his thoughts scattered and her maidenhead beckoned. Lust caught him in its grasp. Exerting gentle and constant pressure, he broke through her veil of innocence.

She didn't cry out, but spoke the name Ian in a heavenly soft whisper. Still, the quick heaving of her breasts and the feel of her teeth gently scoring his shoulder told him he'd hurt her. Bridling his own raging passion, he reverted to Scottish, and murmured every lovers' phrase he knew. Between promises and pledges and the quelling of his own need, he managed to soothe her. To keep his own lust in check, he let his mind wander.

The mantle of the Border Lord had never been heavier, and of late, Duncan found himself wondering which man he was. Now more than ever, he simply wanted to be a man ruling his kingdom and raising his son.

She felt small beneath him, her narrow hips a perfect cradle, her slender legs a soft frame for his larger form. But he couldn't forget her other admirable qualities—her intelligence, her independence, and her loyalty to a country that, more often than not, relegated women to the kitchen or the marriage bed.

Suddenly he was proud to be the first lover of a woman who had risen to glory in a profession reserved for men.

The man who captured Miriam MacDonald's heart would be a lucky bastard indeed. She'd bear sons to stand at the right hand of kings. She'd bear daughters to stand at the left hand of kings. Sadly, Duncan Armstrong Kerr would not be that man.

"What are you thinking?"

He almost laughed at the irony of her question, but she wouldn't understand his response, and the last thing he wanted right now was to alienate Miriam MacDonald. "I was thinking that being inside you is so pleasurable a thing 'twould drive a sane man to madness."

He felt the curve of her lips against his cheek. With a smile in her voice, she said, "I thought you wanted an experienced woman."

"You're different," he said, and realized it was true. Never before had God made a woman like Miriam MacDonald. "And you doona qualify anymore."

She moved against him. "You kept your word, my gallant knight. You didn't hurt me."

"Good. For now I intend to pleasure you royally."

"Tell me what to do."

Primed and eager, he surged forward, burying himself completely. His breath caught. Her sweetness surrounded him, clutching him in a velvet vise of excruciating pleasure. So great was the urge to give himself up to the passion, he had to squeeze his eyes shut and grind his teeth.

Long moments later, when he'd mastered his control, he said, "Bend your knees, and do what your body tells you."

She proved an apt and inventive pupil, and when the strain of near completion again threatened to overpower him, he felt her stiffen. Hidden feminine muscles contracted, squeezing him, enticing him to spill his seed. He did, and as the heavenly spasms began, he wondered how he'd ever let her go.

He awoke to the news that she was gone.

Shaking off the cobwebs of sleep, Duncan bounded from his own bed. "If this is your idea of a jest, Angus, 'tis not funny."

Wearing a breastplate, leather breeches and boots, his gauntlets tucked under an arm, Angus stepped back. "I'd love to claim I had a part in her leaving, but 'twas none of my doing. When the news reached me, I was in the old tilt yard testing that new lad from Lanarkshire. Here." He tossed Duncan a sealed parchment. "She left you a note."

Miriam was gone. The morning after he'd made love to her. Duncan didn't know whether to charge after her, drag her back by her hair, or rejoice and bid her fare-thee-well. But she'd said her good-byes hours ago to the Border Lord. He'd led her down the tower stairs and to the door outside the lesser hall. Drunk on passion and physically exhausted, he'd made his way to his chamber, stripped off his clothes, and slept the sleep of the dead.

"What time is it?"

"Almost nine o'clock, my lord."

Duncan pried off the seal and stared at the words she'd written.

I have gone to Baron Sinclair. Should the need arise, you may reach me and Lady Alexis there.

Need? Sweet Saint Ninian. He needed to strangle her. He needed to lock her in that tower room. He crumpled the paper and threw it in the hearth.

The chill of morning brought gooseflesh to Duncan's naked skin. Inside, however, he burned with rage, for the taste of her lingered on his lips, her essence lingered elsewhere. "How dare she leave today."

Lines of confusion scored Angus's forehead. "My lord, why are you angry? 'Tis what you wanted."

His pride in tatters, Duncan walked to the table by the hearth and snatched up a water pitcher. He drank deeply. "She canna go traipsing off without asking me."

"I think," Angus said ruefully, "she's a woman who comes and goes as she pleases."

Duncan slammed the pitcher against the mantel. With a dull crack, a spray of pottery shards rained on the hearth. "Well it doesna please me!"

"I see," Angus murmured, eyeing Duncan from head to toe. "Would you like your robe?"

Tom by conflicting emotions, Duncan started for the wardrobe and his clothes. A shard of pottery punctured his big toe. "Ouch!" Hopscotching through the debris, he hobbled to a chair.

The rumble of Angus's laughter broke the silence.

"Doona just stand there," Duncan said. "Do something."

His lips contorting to hide a smile, Angus opened the door and yelled for Mrs. Elliott to send up a bath and a maid to sweep.

Grasping the sliver with his fingernails, Duncan pulled it free. A drop of blood seeped from the wound and ran between his toes. "I doona need a bath."

"Aye, you do, my lord. You've lampblack smeared all over your face and hair, and—" He cleared his throat and stared at the beamed ceiling. "And… uh, dried blood on your lady crackers."

The memory of loving Miriam MacDonald diffused Duncan's anger. Staring at his manly parts, which indeed bore traces of her virgin blood, he was again reminded of the sweet feel of her beneath him, yielding. The sound of her soft cries, rejoicing. His body responded.

"I take it you didn't hurt yourself there," Angus said, his eyes squinted with worry.

Duncan leaned forward, not out of any need to shield himself from Angus, for he had nothing to hide from the man who'd been both a mentor and a friend, but suddenly he felt weary. He rolled the inch-long piece of pottery between his thumb and forefinger. "Not the kind of harm you're speaking of, but I doona think I advanced the cause any."

With the toe of his boot, Angus began nudging the broken pottery into a pile. "One thing's for sure. Being the Border Lord has given you a knack for the cavalier ways, eh?"

"'Twas the woman, Angus, not the disguise."

His eyebrows raised in surprise, Angus said, "She seduced you?"

"I canna recall for sure. It just happened." Three times, he vividly remembered. Had he driven her away with his lust? He'd been surprised himself at his ardor, but she hadn't protested or complained; she'd been as eager as he.

"What will you do now?"

"Clean my battle wounds and tend to business… until she comes back."

"She went to the baron's."

"Aye." Duncan tossed the shard into the hearth. "I expected as much, just not so soon."

"Look on the bright side," Angus said. "Sinclair'll fill her head with tales, offer her a fat bribe—"

"Twill be a mistake on his part. She wilna care to be bought."

"Then let's hope he does pull out his purse. Maybe she'll side with us."

Until now, Miriam's knowledge of the feud had involved outside events: reiving, burning, and general villainy. But now the dispute would become dangerously personal. "He'll tell her about Roxanne. He'll tell her I kidnapped Adrienne."

A look of loathing lent a feral quality to Angus's strong features. "Kidnapping," he spat. "You saved the lass from a life of shame and dishonor at the hands of the magistrate. 'Tis a pity your bonny diplomat will never learn
that
truth."

Exhaustion swept over Duncan. He threaded his hands through his hair. A trace of oily lampblack coated his palms. "I told her about the baron's plans for Adrienne. Miriam won't forget, and bless her memory for that."

"You mean you told her you helped Adrienne and her beau flee the baron?"

"Nay. Only the baron's threats to Adrienne. But Miriam knows too much about me as it is."

Angus went to the storage chest and returned with a towel. "Here. 'Tis best the maid doesn't see that soot on your face."

On a half-laugh, Duncan said, "She might mistake me for the Border Lord and accuse me of seducing her grandma-ma." He began wiping the remains of the disguise from his face and hands.

Angus whacked the gauntlets against his thigh. " 'Tis the cleverest of your tricks, my lord. A good thing, too, for the people are fair enchanted by the Border Lord's return. Gives them hope, you ken? They believe justice will prevail."

Duncan thought back to the time of his wife's death, the bloody raids that followed, the senseless destruction, and the havoc Baron Sin had wreaked on the people of Kildalton. Not since the bloody time of Kenneth Kerr had the Border seen such destruction. But the resurrection of the Border Lord had evened the odds and spared Duncan from being likened to his father. One day soon the Border Lord would settle the score. Unless Miriam's interference destroyed his plans.

"Well." He got to his feet. "I've a mountain of work to catch up on. Send out the word that I'll hear any disputes this afternoon in the keeping room. I've a hankering to dress as myself again. Lord, those wigs and spectacles are a bother."

Angus rushed to his side. "You can't give up the disguise, my lord. Lady Miriam left one of the twins behind."

"Which one?"

"Saladin, the Moorish lad. He's out in the tilt yard teaching Malcolm to wield a scimitar."

The joy of the moment faded as Duncan considered the responsibility he'd heaped on his son. "Stay with them, Angus. We can't expect Malcolm to watch his every word."

"You had a talk with him, didn't you?"

"Aye, he needed discipline, no thanks to you and the other soldiers."

Angus pulled a scrap of paper from his gauntlet and handed it to Duncan. "Let him be a lad, Duncan. Allow him the childhood the old laird denied you. He hasn't cursed once this morning, or mentioned his unmentionable parts."

As always, Duncan wondered if he was raising Malcolm properly. But a little indulgence wouldn't spoil the lad. Glancing at the paper he saw his son's familiar scrawl and his
nom du jour
. "Suleiman," Duncan said. "The magnificent?"

Angus roared. "Gloriously so. He began the day as King John, but when Saladin brought out his sword, Malcolm dashed inside and came back with a handful of these notes and one of his mother's lace shawls wrapped around his head for a turban."

The picture amused Duncan, but a serious ramification could result. "What if Miriam instructed Saladin to pry information from Malcolm?"

"Is she so devious as that?"

Duncan's first response was no, but he realized loving her colored his judgment. Loving her. The notion shocked him and spurred an argument with his conscience.

Did he love Miriam MacDonald?

He'd
made
love to her, that was all.

He'd taken her maidenhead.

She gave it willingly.

But why to the Border Lord, unless she fancied herself in love with him?

She wanted information that would gain her greater fame at court.

She'd asked no questions last night.

She called him her gallant knight.

She'd had too much beer with supper, and she was already drunk on praise from rescuing Mary Elizabeth.

She harbored a deep affection for him.

"Is she, my lord?"

The urgency in Angus's tone snatched Duncan's attention. With regret, he said, " 'Tis possible she could use the young scribe."

Angus jerked on his gauntlets. "Then she's no better than a camp whore if she'd use a child for her own gain."

The comparison troubled Duncan. Could Miriam be so cold and selfish? He wasn't sure. "Leave the woman to me. You befriend the lad. Turn on that MacDodd charm and teach him a few things about being a man."

"But that's stooping to her level!" Angus objected. "At the expense of the lad. Saladin's only twelve years old, Duncan. He's alone here now."

The informal address spoke volumes about Angus's mood. Throughout Duncan's childhood, he had basked in Angus's unconditional love. "He'll be a finer man for any time spent with you."

"Bah! You've been spending too much time with that silver-tongued diplomat. She has you believing any means justifies the end."

The jibe hit home. Duncan retreated. "Very well, Angus. Forget I brought it up."

Angus scratched his beard. "He's a bright boy, but if you asked my opinion, the Lady Alexis coddles him overmuch."

"Then while the good duchess and our wily diplomat are gone, he'll profit from your tutelage."

"What will you do?"

The challenge beckoned. Rubbing his hands together, Duncan added, "I intend to serve the people of Kildalton again—and not as a bumbling earl. 'Twill be your task to keep the lad Saladin occupied elsewhere."

Angus sighed, his mighty shoulders heaving. "Just this morning I heard him ask Malcolm where his mother was."

Shocked, Duncan gripped the arms of the chair. "How did Malcolm answer?"

Angus shook his head. "At the time he was still calling himself King John, so he said his mother was Eleanor of Aquitaine and she was buried at Fontevrault Abbey."