Border Lord (26 page)

Hoping such was his habit, she conjured an image of the passageways. Then she felt her way down the inky corridor. As she passed the first door on the left, she heard muffled voices. The earl and Mrs. Elliott. Fighting the urge to eavesdrop, Miriam moved on until she reached the alcove she sought. Bending, she peered through the keyhole to be sure the bedroom was empty. Guilt assailed her. She took a moment to reason out her covert actions. Had he been honest with her, she wouldn't be forced to pry through his personal things. He'd left her no choice. As the Border Lord, he had taken her virginity and stolen her heart; the least he owed her was the truth about his identity.

She grasped the handle and pushed open the door. Inside, she stopped when she spied the great wooden throne. A master craftsman had carved it from an enormous oak. On the high back, the carpenter had chiseled the Kerr sun and the traditional thistles of Scotland. The arms of the piece featured rampant lions so real she expected them to roar.

A sense of wonder stole over her. To better see the chair, she took a lamp and turned up the flame. She thought of the painting in the keeping room. In the portrait, Kenneth Kerr dwarfed the chair, but that was impossible, for the seat was roomy enough for two adults. Obviously, the seventh earl had let his pride influence the artisan.

As she crossed the thick floral carpet, she couldn't take her eyes off the chair. Although darkened with age and use, it still held a majestic quality. The empty dais in the keeping room seemed the perfect place for the throne chair. The earl, however, didn't seem the type of man to rule from a throne.

She tried to picture him perched on the throne and holding forth to the people of Kildalton. But her mind conjured the image of a shadow-shrouded man clad in a dark cape and hat. The timely reminder spurred her to the wardrobe. Certain she'd find the cape there, she threw open the doors. One shelf held a dozen neatly folded Kerr tartans in varying stages of wear. Sachets of heather and pine needles had been placed among the clothing to ward off insects. The other shelves contained stockings and gloves, shirts and handkerchiefs, all monogrammed with the Kerr sun. Her pulse raced as she explored his personal articles and inhaled his now-familiar fragrance.

No cape. Not even a stitch of dark cloth.

Disappointed but not discouraged, she went to the pedestal bed, which was draped in forest green trappings and a mountainous velvet counterpane. She peered beneath the bed, but found only a pair of slippers, and a toy sailboat. Next she rummaged through a desk cluttered with papers and feathers, but found nothing to link the earl to the Border Lord.

In an iron-ribbed trunk she discovered an array of fancy breeches and waistcoats in manly shades of brown, black and biscuit. Why did he never wear them? They were stylish, with the wide lapels and roomy pockets with flaps favored by men at court.

Puzzled anew, she closed the trunk and sat on the lid. Frustration diluted her convictions. She had been so certain that the earl and the Border Lord were the same man. Now her conviction waned.

The mantel clock struck the hour of nine. Fearful of being caught, she surveyed the room one last time, turned down the lamp, then left the way she'd come. The instant she pulled the door closed and stood in the darkened tunnel, a deep voice said, "I doona think, lassie, that I care to find you sneaking out of the laird's bedchamber."

Panic, and a pair of iron-strong hands held Miriam immobile. When she could draw breath, she said, "Let go of me."

His arms tightened around her. "Shush, lass." He loosened his grip, but not enough for her to pull away. " 'Twas not my intention to frighten you."

His voice drifted down to her in the darkness. Keenly attuned to his every move and nuance, she thought that Duncan Kerr wasn't so tall as this man. Usually his speech was refined, and not so resonant or compelling. Only occasionally did he speak Scottish.

Doubts chipped away at her earlier certainty that the man in front of her was Duncan Kerr. "What are you doing here?"

"It isna so important as what
you're
doing here."

She'd move to Russia before she'd tell him her true purpose. "What I'm doing here is my business and the queen's. See it however you choose, but remember, I don't answer to you."

"I see," he said, all threatening male. "You make love to me, but you wilna trust me with a confidence. It doesna speak well of my character. Or your morals."

"
My
morals?" Shocked, she tried to twist out of his grip. "
You
seduced
me
. You said as far as I was concerned you were living out a prophecy, and that one touch of my lips drove you to madness."

"You bonnie well liked my loving—over and over again. Have you forgotten the way you pushed me onto my back and explored my chest and private parts?"

The memory made her blood run hot. "Of course I remember what I did to you. I acted like a Cheapside doxy."

A chuckle vibrated in his throat. "Nay, lass. A Cheapside doxy knows well how to ride a man to glory. 'Twas your first lesson."

She groaned in embarrassment. "You're a scoundrel."

"You're as dishonest as a pack of Plantagenets if you deny you wanted my loving. You still want it."

Her pride told her to slap his face. Her heart told her to leap into his arms. History told her to take him seriously. "I don't deny that you made me want you."

"Made?" He stepped away, but one hand still rested on her shoulder. "As in last night? Or as in some plaything you're done toying with?" His hand slid down to cover her breast. "What about now, Miriam?"

Trying to ignore the floating sensations and the yearning his touch aroused, she grasped his wrist. "You're being unfair and intentionally crude to me. Why?"

"Because you havna exactly swept the stoop, ordered the servants away, and bade your man welcome, lassie."

His possessive declaration touched off a thrill in Miriam. She'd always wanted a demonstrative mate, a man who would treasure her affections. Her Lancelot would allow her the freedom to dance with another; yet when the song ended, he'd appear at her side, impatient to reclaim her.

But she wasn't at a fancy cotillion, savoring the luxuries of life. She stood in a dungeon-dark tunnel, earning her living and laying her heart on the line. If her suspicions were correct, this man could destroy her reputation, her self-respect, and her independence. "You haven't told me what you're doing here."

"Well, Mistress Barrister. Since you insist so prettily, I've come to see the earl. 'Tis ironic, nay? Since you seem to be here for the same reason. Where is the niddering poltroon?"

A clever pretense, she thought, him asking about his own whereabouts. But not clever enough to allay her reservations and certainly not clever enough to distract her. She planted her feet and stiffened her spine. "Oh, yes. You don't know where he is, do you?"

His hands tightened on her shoulders. "Nay, lass, not exactly. But I'll find him. In case your perfect memory has failed you, you just left his bedchamber. Pray he's not abed, but if he is…"

Had there been light, she would have watched his eyes for a sign of deception. Frustrated, she listened for nuances in his voice and heard jealousy. She leaned forward. "Next you'll tell me you've brought him pig's hair."

He leaned closer. "Goose down—dyed a bloody crimson in a caldron 'neath a full moon at midnight."

Laughter bubbled up inside her. She drew a hand to her mouth. He couldn't possibly be the earl of Kildalton. Could he? Oh God, she had to be sure. "Show it to me."

Abandoning her breast, his fingers curled around her wrist, and drew her arm down. " 'Tis too dark, lassie. But I could let you feel it. 'Tis in my breeches pocket. You canna have forgotten…" The breathless, seductive whisper played a vivid counterpoint to the bold journey he proposed.

Her fingers itched to touch him, to trigger the passion that waited just out of reach. Her heart pleaded with her to seek more from him than physical satisfaction.

"Go on, lass. Find it. You'll get no protest from me."

Pride and inexperience held her back. She blinked, straining to make out his features and put to rest the question of his identity. But all she could see was a jet black form against a blacker world. "You should have brought a light."

"I did," he said, his mouth so close, her lips went dry. "You."

Like a strong wind at her back, need pushed her toward him. "But I want more from you than couplings in the dark," she blurted. "I want to know who you are."

"I'm the Lancelot of your dreams. I'm the man who makes your heart race and your loins melt. I'm the man who wants you right here, right now."

His words tugged Miriam into a spell she sought to break. "No. You're Duncan Kerr."

"Duncan Kerr?" He laughed without humor. "Bloody hell!" Wrapping her in his arms, he said, "Curse me for a doiled glaikit."

"You're no fool," she whispered into a tartan cape that spawned fireside tales.

He turned his face away, cool damp air replacing the warmth of his breath. She felt his uncertainty. His silence spoke eloquently of the differences between them, and worse, it made her vividly aware of how foolish she'd been to fall in love with him—whoever the devil he claimed to be.

Was Duncan Kerr holding her in his arms, and with a mere touch, stirring her passions? Had he bamboozled her in the light of day and encouraged her to relive her wretched childhood, only to seduce her in the dark of night?

Surrender clouded her logic. The lonely, accomplished woman who stood at the head of the queen's diplomatic table and watched the great men of England heap respect on her plate didn't care that this man had tricked her; she craved a respite from a life of dull conversations with shallow people and tricky negotiations with sly ambassadors.

What if this smooth-talking Scotsman wasn't the Lancelot of her dreams? Who gave a brass penny? Except for the signing and sealing, the peace here was made.

Yet the war in her heart raged on.

"What's that?" He froze, then drew her deep into the alcove. "Shush."

Ducking under his arm, Miriam peered down the corridor. The door to the earl's study stood open. Mrs. Elliott stepped out, a lighted petticoat lamp hooked over her arm. "Aye, my lord," she said. "I'll fetch tomorrow's herbs from the tower, then come back for the tray."

She moved away, then stopped and looked back into the room. "Sir?" A moment later she smiled and curtsied.

"Thank you, my lord. 'Twas no bother at all. I'll tell the cook."

Just as the housekeeper closed the door, the Border Lord pulled Miriam into the darkness of the alcove and shielded her body with his. "Be still," he whispered urgently. "Make not a sound."

Duncan Kerr wasn't the Border Lord. The earl of Kildalton was sitting in his study complimenting the housekeeper. Now was Miriam's chance to see her lover's face.

Anticipation thrummed through her. She tried to lean back, but his big hand cupped her head and held her still. Mrs. Elliott walked toward them, the lantern transforming pitch blackness to watery gray. At the top of her vision, Miriam saw that he was hatless, the black scarf tied snugly at the nape of his neck.

She drew back to see better and her foot scraped the stone floor.

"Shush," he whispered, clutching her.

Against her tightly clenched jaw, his heart thudded like a muffled drum. Peering around his shoulder, she saw the glow of the tiny lamp throw eerie shadows in the tunnel. Lacy spider webs draped the blackened ceiling. Rusting, empty sconces marched in a line down the gray stone wall and marked the housekeeper's progress.

In a rustle of skirts and unawareness, Mrs. Elliott passed them by, her head down, her attention riveted to her footing.

Slowly, Miriam lifted herself on tiptoe. Her temple brushed his chin, then grazed the muscular plane of his jaw. When they were cheek to cheek, he squeezed her to him, the rush of his breath in her ear setting her skin afire, the swelling of his male flesh against her stomach pitching her thoughts into exotic realms.

Bending, he nuzzled her neck and her throat, before settling his mouth on hers. He feared discovery; she tasted his tension on his lips. But passion had him in its grip and drove him to achieve a level of intimacy that would launch them into familiar, carnal territory.

Wrapped in a cape of lost Scottish souls and drenched in a mind-shattering desire, Miriam clung to him.

The door to the tower opened and closed. Darkness descended again. She had lost her chance to see the Border Lord.

He pulled back slightly. "Where were we, lassie, before Mrs. Elliott interrupted us?"

His casual reference brought new questions. "You were about to tell me why you didn't want her to see you."

"Me? 'Twasn't me I feared exposing, Miriam. 'Twas you."

"Bosh. You know Mrs. Elliott?"

"Aye."

He spoke with such reluctance, Miriam was inspired to say, "Then why not knock on the front door when you have goose feathers to deliver?"

"Because then I wouldn't meet you in dark corridors."

"Don't be glib. Tell me the truth."

Silence, save the soft, rhythmic sound of their breathing, was her answer. Then he released her, and she felt his gaze move away. His cape swished across her hand. He was fidgeting. Why? "Tell me, Ian. What does the Border Lord fear?"

"He fears himself, for he loves you to distraction," he said, the burr thick in his voice. No dialect could mask his frustration. He didn't want to love her. Or perhaps this was all an act. Perhaps he said I love you to all the women.