Border Lord (19 page)

"Ah, Duncan. You are so thoroughly countrified."

"Thank you, Your Grace. I do but try."

Real interest sparkled in her eyes. "Lady Miriam has no resources, other than her friendship with Alexis Southward and her skill as a diplomat. If Lady Miriam fails to strike a peace between you and the baron, the queen will marry her off to the minister of Baltic affairs. He's rather in his prime, the duke says. Which means he's a dottering old lech."

Duncan's mouth went dry, the meat suddenly as tasteless as rowan bark. Had she been eager for a last fling with a younger man? If so, he'd given her a bonnie dose of passion. A more painful possibility occurred to Duncan. What if she'd been trying to weasel information from him? Then he laughed to himself, for in that area only, she'd gone away disappointed, for he'd spoken lovers' phrases.

"Don't you find her situation interesting, Duncan?"

"So much so, I shall give her my felicitations and a pair of warm mittens."

Sputtering, the duchess groped in the folds of her gown for the napkin. "There's other trouble between Miriam and the queen, an old matter neither will discuss. Aren't you curious, Duncan?"

He washed down the hare with a long pull on the beer. "I doona see why I should be. The secrets of women are of no consequence to me. The queen could marry her off to the pope for all I care." He laughed. "I'd probably offer a dowry for the wench. Since she's without."

"Wench?" she squealed. "Dowry? What's gotten into you?"

Feeling used and vengeful, he made a show of wiping his mouth with his napkin. At length, he rested his elbows on the table. "While I sympathize with the plight of our lovely, dowerless diplomat, I'm fair weary of English interference in Border affairs."

"Plight? You don't know the half of it. Your life is a harvest fair compared to hers."

Then she told him a story about Miriam that broke his heart.

Hours later as he lay awake in bed, Duncan thought about an orphaned lass who had survived a devastating childhood, overcome an adolescence filled with tragedy, and matured into a woman who could challenge a queen. And capture the heart of a Border Lord.

Blessed saints! During her diplomatic career, Miriam had had ample opportunities to lose her innocence. She'd just never faced consequences so dire.

The urge to possess her, to confirm her affection rose fiercely in him. His bed was cold, lonely. His life confused, unsatisfying. He wanted her back at Kildalton. He'd drag her back here by her hair. He wanted her under his protection. He'd teach her to dally with his affections. He wanted to obliterate her childhood tragedy. He'd chain her to his bed. He wanted to give her children of her own.

He wanted her for his wife.

The only man she wanted was a product of his imagination. She favored a bold adventurer who thrived on danger and conquest, not a country earl who struggled for peace and harmony.

As the aching in his heart grew, Duncan considered telling her the truth, but a part of him cried, "Hold on to her while you can."

In the face of so fervent a plea, his gentle nature yielded to the darker, more insistent side of him. He would yield again tomorrow night, and the next, and the next. The duchess of Perth would depart on the morrow. At nightfall Duncan would banish the country earl and don the disguise of the Border Lord. Then he'd ride into England and reclaim all the baron's men had stolen of late. One glimpse of his dark form and the English would scurry for the safety of their houses and cloak themselves in prayer. He'd retrieve his stolen flax and salt, then return to Kildalton.

He would continue to practice swordsmanship with Angus. Miriam wanted a warrior. Duncan would oblige her.

He smiled and fluffed his pillow. He knew the way to win her heart: a love letter to arrange a tryst at midnight in the shadow of Hadrian's Wall. The messenger would keep Duncan apprised of her plans. When she concluded her visit with Baron Sinclair, she'd be furious with Duncan Kerr. But she'd fall into the arms of the Border Lord.

She slapped him so hard he fell against the Roman wall.

"You thoughtless barbarian," she shouted loud enough to make the sleuthhound scurry for the safety of the bushes. "How dare you send a love note to me at Baron Sinclair's?"

Shocked, his cheek smarting, Duncan didn't know whether to kiss her or turn tail and run. Lord, she could get angry. Even the hood of her cloak quivered with a rage she didn't try to control.

She stood on tiptoe. Starlight added to the fire in her eyes. "Have you nothing to say for yourself,
Sir
Border Lord?"

Her sweet breath fanned his face. Safe in his disguise, he feebly murmured, "I thought my note said it all."

"A note the damned maids could've read, you dolt," she hissed, all injured feminine pride. "How dare you compromise my position and threaten my authority? What if the maids had told the baron about your ridiculous note?"

The insult stung. He'd apologize for many things, but not for loving her. He grasped her shoulders. "The baron's maids doona read. Forget them. You have kept me waiting on this spot for an hour. 'Tis bletherin cold out here."

In the moonlight, her serene smile boded ill. "Too cold for you? That's odd, since you spend your nights on that horse terrifying the poor citizens of Sinclair."

Thanks to the duchess of Perth, Duncan knew that Miriam had come to Scotland ignorant of the facts of the feud. Now that she'd heard the baron's side, the gentle Duncan was in for a battle. The Border Lord had to even the odds. "Did the poor citizens of Sinclair tell you I turn cattle into sheep and deflower virgins only at the full of the moon?"

"The English are more gullible than the Scots, for they fear you. Stop changing the subject. Where were you a sennight ago?"

I was listening to the duchess of Perth tell me how your parents died. I'm sorry, he wanted to say. Instead he prevaricated: "I shared a pint with my black cat. He's my familiar."

"Do tell. Someone raided a farm near Cooper's Mill and almost made off with a herd of the baron's spotted cattle. I suppose you'll swear that neither you nor the earl had anything to do with it."

He wanted to beg her to see the truth, but weakness and groveling wouldn't work with Miriam. Reason and finesse would. "Spotted cattle, you say? A rare breed in these parts. The earl bought such a herd last fall. He even has the bletherin papers on the beasts. He talked of nothing else for months. His pride and joy, they were."

"A convenient story since the earl's a fellow Scot. Did he pay you to raid that farm?"

An owl sailed over the wall, its talons clutching an English prey. It had ever been so. From mice to men, every creature in the Borders struggled for survival and dominance.

"Well?" she demanded.

He'd come here hoping to salve his pride and make her love him again, but she seemed eager to fight. To dominate, he thought ruefully. "The cattle belong to the earl. If you doona believe me, ask him. Or look in that record book of his. He'll prove he owns the cattle and tell you the date the baron took them."

"Rest assured," she said, "I intend to deal with his lordship, but now we're speaking of you, Ian. Or whatever your name is. You lead the raids on Sinclair land."

She radiated determination, her shoulders squared, her chin held high, her luscious mouth softly pursed. But he knew about her now, and he had to get her mind on sweeter subjects. A wee truth and a fair dose of seduction seemed a good starting place. "I was christened John, but the Scots use Ian. 'Tis the name you called out when I made love to you."

She stared at Hadrian's Wall, melancholy in her eyes. At length she said, "You're a rounder to remind me of past indiscretions." With a shake of her shoulders, she pulled free of him.

"Indiscretions? Tell the truth, Miriam. You wanted me."

"Since you're in a mood for honesty, Ian, tell me what you know about a shipment of salt that disappeared from the baron's barn on Tuesday last."

"Where did the baron acquire salt?"

"I'm asking the questions. I'm also concerned about the twelve cartloads of flax that were stolen from the baron's tenants in Wickham."

He felt like a pot ready to boil over. "The earl, not the baron, owns the salt. He's been selling it to the duke of Cromarty for a decade."

"You're very knowledgeable about his affairs. That's odd since you yourself named him a private person."

He reached for her. "Drat your memory, and to hell with salt and flax."

She knocked his hand away. In a low, insistent voice she said, "What of the flax?"

Cursing himself for losing his temper and forgetting how smart she was, Duncan struggled for control. The hood of her cloak framed her face in miniver. He ached to touch her. "I hadna thought to talk of business tonight, lassie. I saw a bonnie rainbow today. It reminded me of your beauty."

A cloud passed over the moon, throwing her face in deep shadow. Her gaze didn't waver. "I'll verify the salt. Tell me about the flax."

His confidence plummeted. "I'd rather hold your hand and take you for a stroll in the moonlight. I havna seen you in weeks. Doona play the diplomat tonight, Miriam."

Her teeth closed over her bottom lip. He could sense her weakening. He searched for the right words. When he spoke, it was from the heart. "I meant what I said in the note. You rob me of sleep. I've missed you sorely. Be my love again."

She faced him, her intrepid mettle a shield. "The flax."

Resigned to failure, he said, "'Tis grown near Loch Lockerbie. The baron's land hasna the water to support so thirsty a crop. He stole the flax from the earl. I got it back."

"Tell me this, is your life worth a sack of salt or a cartload of flax?"

"Do you care so much for my life?"

Like a soldier in battle, she had wiped away all sentiment, every scrap of emotion. His respect for her trebled. But by the bones of Saint Ninian, she would lose this battle. She had her strengths. He bletherin well had his.

He folded his arms over his chest. "So you do care whether I live or die."

"Of course I care. But I cannot respect a man who does not value his own life."

Duncan took small encouragement from her words, but he hadn't come here to discuss midnight raids. "You've forgotten your folklore, Miriam. Ghosts doona give a second thought to mortality."

She sucked in her breath. "How dare you be so glib?"

"I'd rather be sweet and loving, but you wilna give me the chance. Let's not quarrel."

"Quarrel?" She raised her arm as if to slap him again. A second later, she decided against it. "I never quarrel. I spend too much of my life patching up the squabbles of prideful men and deceivers like you. Good night." She spun around, her swirling cape casting a long shadow on the rocky ground.

Alarmed, he shouted, "Miriam!"

She stopped and snapped her fingers. The hound raced to her side. "Have you ever seen a pack of hungry mastiffs fell a deer?"

His stomach floated like a cork. "Aye, 'tis a gruesome sight, even to the stout at heart."

"Come near me again and I'll make certain you learn why even a starved mastiff fears a sleuthhound."

Reason and finesse be damned! He ripped off his gloves and holding them in one hand, he grabbed her with the other. Exerting pressure, he spun her around.

Time slowed to a crawl. She turned, drawing a breath and parting her lips to utter the command. He jammed the gloves into the dog's muzzle and covered Miriam's mouth with his hand. She stiffened. Her chin came up. The hood fell back, exposing her glorious hair.

"Doona lecture me about dogs, Miriam. The Romans brought their beasties here. The Norsemen brought theirs." He tipped his head toward the wall. "The Romans played a game. They tossed bread over the wall to coax the children near. When the hungry bairns had come close enough, the Romans loosed their 'pets.' Over the pitiful cries, the soldiers laughed and made wagers over how long 'twould take the children to die. Border folks learned to deal with dogs centuries ago." His hand dropped to her shoulder. "I doona fear your Verbatim."

"You're trying to shock me."

"Nay. I'm trying to befriend you. You doona ken the trouble here."

"I know all I need to know."

"To do what?"

"To be fair."

Frustration dragged at his good intentions. "You canna be fair, Miriam, for there are no fair solutions. It's been tried before."

"Not," she ground out, "by me."

"Why are you different from the others?"

"Because I'm better than the others. I made the Treaty of Utrecht for crissakes! I've heard more convincing lies from the lowliest page at court than I've heard from the baron or the earl. The truth is the place to start."

If assurance was the harbinger of victory, she would succeed. The possibility filled Duncan with ambivalence. "One of them speaks the truth."

"You know which one, don't you?" she mocked. "You've taken sides."

Duncan grew desperate to make her see reason. "Aye, the side of peace."

"I'll win a peace here. Only a Scot can."

Her simple declaration bounced off Duncan's temper like raindrops off a mallard's back. "Even a Scot canna always understand the Border. Heritage doesna make you a Scot, lass. 'Tis what's in your heart that counts. You've met the earl and the baron. Which man do you believe?"

"Both of them, and neither of them."

Disappointment seared him. "You speak, but say nothing. Will you act and do nothing?"

"If you knew anything about me, you wouldn't ask that question."

"Oh, I know about you, lass." He did. He knew a story that even today brought tears of shame to any decent Scotsman. "I know that you shiver in your sleep and dream dreams that make you weep and whimper like a lost child. You never sleep the night through, for sunrise finds you pacing the floor. I think you spend your days running from your nights. Let me help you stop running."

"Ha! Spoken by a man who is always on the run, a man who won't reveal his true identity." She turned away, her profile limned in silvery moonlight. "Where do you spend your nights?"

"When I'm lucky… with you."