Border Lord (23 page)

"What's wrong, Miriam?"

"Nothing," she rushed to say. "These are quite in order. It was very clever and generous of you to ask only for the land your father took as Roxanne's dowry. You made amends for your father's crimes when you could have asked for more."

He stared at the smoldering coals in the hearth, giving her an unobstructed view of his elegant profile. He seemed so at home in the room filled with books, heavy furniture, and Kerr memorabilia.

"I wanted an end to the dispute," he said at last.

Casually, she said, "Where is Adrienne?"

He turned so fast he almost slung the spectacles off his nose. "Uh… I wish I could tell you. Unlike her sister, Adrienne was ever headstrong. I couldn't possibly hazard a guess about where the lass has gotten herself to."

Disappointed, Miriam strummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. He was lying. "According to her personal maid and the baron, Adrienne considered you her brother. Both say she spent weeks here after the death of your wife. She came here often until the time of her disappearance."

"Did you meet anyone at the baron's who
didn't
want to leave his house?"

He had a point. Miriam recalled the overcrowded parlor, the elbow-to-elbow dining, the young men sleeping three to a bed, the girls packed like herring in a barrel. The poor harried servants. Miriam's heart went out to each of them. But she couldn't let her personal opinion hinder her investigation. Big families always suffered. So did orphaned children, the little girl in her said.

Swallowing back self-pity, she said, "We were speaking of the whereabouts of Adrienne Birmingham. Did you kidnap her?"

His mouth drawn in a tight line, his eyes narrowed, the earl stared at the documents in Miriam's lap. "I'm hardly the type."

Miriam wasn't so sure anymore, now that she knew him better. "Then what happened to her?"

"She was in love with a fellow named Charles—a glazier, I think, from Bothly Green."

"Did he make your spectacles?"

He started, his over-large eyes blinking behind the lenses like a startled maiden. "No. The tinker gets them for me." With obvious reluctance, he added, "You could ask after Charles in Bothly Green. They say the innkeeper is a fountain of information. That's all I can tell you."

"Can or will?"

He finished off the tankard, then licked the foam from the corners of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. "I doona know anything else."

She gave him a refill, hoping another pint would loosen that tongue. Besides, he became more charming when he lapsed into that Scottish burr. Much like another man she knew with a deeper, huskier voice. But thoughts of her lover were too distracting. The Border Lord had no place in this discussion.

"Find Adrienne's fellow and you'll most likely find her."

The baron had said nothing about Adrienne having a beau, but he had looked guiltily at the magistrate, Avery Chilton-Wall, who'd cupped his private parts at the mention of Adrienne, the woman he'd wanted for his mistress.

The earl reached for the tankard. "We can share mine. Will you make Sinclair return my spotted cattle?"

She took great pleasure in saying, "Yes. If you'll give me the certificate of ownership and tell Ian to stop raiding Sinclair land."

Putting the tankard aside, he reached for the papers in her lap. His hand grazed her thigh. "Pardon me, Miriam. But I've become very protective of what's mine. I'd best keep it under lock and key. Rest assured I'll speak with Ian."

For a moment she sat riveted by the suspicion of a double meaning. But no, the earl was talking about the papers. She scooted back in the chair and watched him stroll to the desk. An image flashed in her mind of another man—a dark stranger sauntering toward her with seduction on his mind and magic in his hands. Passing off the notion as pure fancy, she hid a smile and sipped the fresh beer. The Border Lord was definitely a more virile man.

Duncan rummaged through a stack of papers, sending a occasional feather flying from the desk. "I know the dastardly thing is here somewhere." Not looking up, he said, "Have you seen evidence of Ian's raids on the baron's land?"

If she weren't careful, she'd lose the ground she'd gained, and parroting the baron's exaggerated accusations was a sure way to alienate the earl. "I heard testimony from his tenants."

"Did you now?" He glanced up. The spectacles sat low on his nose, giving her a clear view of his eyes. Framed by thick eyelashes and thicker brows, his clover green eyes glowed with an intensity she hadn't seen before. Her gaze dropped to his mouth and the subtle points of his upper lip, the deep indentation that led to the tip of his nose, the perfect turn of his nostrils, the suddenly appealing planes of his cheek and jaw.

"You stayed at Sinclair's for weeks. He took you to their farms and showed you the destruction?"

Rather than actually hearing him, she read the words on his lips. His very attractive lips. Absently, she said, "I'm not at liberty to say. You tell me what Ian did."

"You didn't take the baron's word for the crimes, did you, Miriam?"

Seeing her name on his lips and reading the accusation in his eyes jolted her. Again he'd snatched control of the conversation and compelled her to reveal what the baron had said. The diplomat rebelled. She had no intention of telling him what she'd seen, for he'd pick the details to pieces, and in the doing, lose sight of the primary issue: solving the problems.

Men, she thought with disdain and impatience. How had they managed to work together long enough to carve the first wheel? A perfectly reasonable explanation occurred to her. A woman had done it. Inspired, she gave him a detail to pick at. "You said you have proof those spotted cattle are yours."

He snatched up a page. "I most certainly do. Baron Sin can't be bothered with buying stock and improving bloodlines, not to mention providing occupations for his people. All he cares about is putting beef on his table and wine down his gullet. Here."

Applauding herself, she said, "You're very cooperative."

An arm's length away, he stopped, his features serene with understanding. "You're very patronizing, Miriam MacDonald. Am I so transparent?"

Miriam fought the urge to squirm. Partial honesty, she decided, must prevail. "Let's just say you're a man with troubles." Smiling her most winsome smile, she added, "I'm very good at alleviating trouble between men. But only if you help me."

He threw the paper in the air and laughed. A very charming laugh. "Why do I try to pry information from you?"

Laughing, too, she said, "I don't know, Duncan."

He scratched his chin. "You won't tell me what you saw at the baron's. But I keep asking."

"No, I won't, and yes, you do."

"Must be the soldiering that makes me want to know what my enemy is up to."

It wasn't the soldiering; it was his gender. But she wasn't about to tell him that. "I'm certain it is, and now that we've settled that—"

"You're patronizing again…"

Miriam sighed. He was dangerously close to understanding her methods. If he did, she might as well give up hope of winning a peace here. Throw him a bone, her experience said, but do it respectfully. "I apologize. It must be all of the company I've been keeping. Good lord, the baron's house is busy."

She watched his ruffled feathers settle nicely. Then he picked up the paper and handed it to her.

"Would you care for a game of chess?" she asked. "I could set up the board here in front of the fire." She often drew men into a chess match and let them win. They were always so involved in the individual moves, the strategy, that they invariably dropped their guard. Some of her best sleuthing had been done with a rook in her hand. Such had been the case with Baron Sinclair. For once, though, she'd like to meet a man who could outplay her and keep his secrets.

Did the Border Lord play chess? She'd have to challenge him to a match. That way he'd have to show his face.

"I'll just clean the table," she said.

"I'll get the chess set." He went to the bookcase.

She picked up the large pitcher. It was almost empty. She'd had only a small portion. He'd probably be drunk soon. To be certain, she topped off his mug.

"I'll wager you've played against some interesting fellows," he said.

"A few." Turning, she saw him standing before a wall of books, a chessboard under one arm, the other extended to a high shelf and a carved wooden box. Over his shoulder, he said, "I keep the set out of Malcolm's way. My grandmother made it."

Good, thought Miriam, he was already relaxing and making her task easier. His pose, though, struck her as odd. He looked as if he could scale the bookcase, much the same as the Border Lord had scaled the castle wall. The comparison surprised her. "Did she teach you to play?"

"Aye." He stepped down and put the box on the board, then walked toward her with the dignity of the archbishop of Canterbury carrying the crown of England. "But don't tell Malcolm we played. He'll whine for days and days. The set is quite precious and too delicate for his eager hands."

His easy familiarity warmed her. "I can keep a secret," she said, thinking of her lover.

"Who knows that better than I?" He opened the box and put it on the table.

Nestled on a bed of worn white velvet lay a young boy's treasures, cleverly fashioned into playing pieces. Sixteen smooth stones, eight dark, eight light, represented pawns. Mounted on tall squares of wood were the kings, a jagged dark shell for the black, a clump of snowy quartz for the white. On slightly shorter wooden dowels sat the queens; one a pearl, the other a garnet. The bishops were wishbones, one polished, the other painted black. Carved miniature horses, one caparisoned in white, the other in black, were the knights. Castles were arrowheads driven into pin cushions; one dark, one light.

The significance of the chessmen awed her.
His grand
mother had made it. Sentiment choked Miriam. "It's wonderful."

He grinned boyishly. "It's not very fancy. I'm sure you've seen the finest sets of ivory and jasper and solid gold—in your travels."

His childhood lay spread out before her, lovingly preserved. The orphan in her coveted the set. The diplomat told her to get back to business.

She scooped up the dark pebbles. "I'll take black."

Once she learned his strategy, she'd slow him down enough to distract him. She moved a pawn. "I understand you commerce in salt with the duke of Cromarty."

He slid a white pebble forward. "Who told you that?"

"A friend." She moved another pawn. "May I have a drink of your beer? It's really quite good, but you know what they say about Scotsmen and beer."

He handed her the mug. "Aye, we brew the best beer in the world. This friend is someone you trust? Someone you admire?"

Her feelings for the Border Lord were much more visceral. A lie seemed apropos. "Implicitly."

He nudged another pawn into the fray. "I imagine trust is very important to you, isn't it?"

Heartened by his conservative play and cordiality, she handed him the beer. "Why do you say that?"

He turned up a work-worn palm. "I assumed you travel much of the time. Common sense tells me the nature of your work lends itself more to passing acquaintances than building lasting friendships."

So, the earl was a philosopher. She liked that aspect of him, but felt the need to defend herself. "I have Alexis, Saladin, and Salvador. We're great friends, a family, if you will."

Slyly, he said, "I imagine you've turned down a horde of marriage offers—foreign princes and the like."

The sad truth of the matter sat like a stone in her stomach. To allay the uncomfortable feeling, she laughed and said, "I wouldn't exactly call their propositions offers. They're hardly fit for mixed company."

"Then they were fools," he declared. "For you're far too intelligent to fall for such knavery." He cleared his throat. "You're very beautiful, too."

The compliment, delivered with shy hesitance, started a glow in Miriam. "Thank you."

Mirth twinkled in his eyes. "Highland women generally are. Not that you're general in any way. I simply meant that your hair lends a certain fire to what I'm sure is a… an altogether sensible demeanor—" He bit his lip. "I'm botching it rather badly, aren't I?"

Embarrassed for both of them, she held up her hand. "You were telling me about the salt."

He swallowed, drawing her attention to the powerful muscles in his neck. Why hadn't she noticed them before?

"The baron intercepted the last shipment."

Like the crack of a whip, his accusation snapped her thoughts back to reality. "I'll need to see any correspondence on the arrangement between you and His Grace of Cromarty and any other papers on the enterprise."

"Certainly." He took a long pull on the beer. "I'll take you to the mine. You're even dressed for it. Mining salt's a nasty concern."

"I'm sure it is. But thank you, no." She moved a wishbone. "It won't be necessary." The prospect of bouncing around in a carriage made her tender parts protest. "I'm rather tired today."

"Oh?" he said, all concern, his hand poised over an arrowhead. "Did you pass a bad night? The watchman said you were out very late and alone."

Miriam felt herself blush. "My night was rather pleasant, actually." Her words were a monumental understatement.

"I'm so glad you're enjoying yourself in Scotland. If you'll tell me about your night, I'll tell you about the sunny trout I caught last week. Without my peacocks, I had to resort to using a shapely beetle. I had to pounce on the creature, wrestle it to the ground and strip the wings from it—and all before I could bury my hook. I snagged three panty fish before exhausting my beetle. A bracing, unforgettable adventure, it was."

Comparing her night of lovemaking with the Border Lord to the earl's fishing expedition seemed absurdly funny. Her newly found sense of humor suddenly had its disadvantages.

"Couldn't you sleep?" he asked.

"I'm fine. Truly. You needn't trouble yourself on my account. I do have a few more questions to ask you."

His cheerful expression dissolved into wariness. "Ask away."