Border Lord (13 page)

Since Miriam's arrival, Duncan had spent little time with his son. Regrets besieged him. "Do you know why?"

"So the queen will think you're a braw man."

"Aye." Duncan laid his hand on Malcolm's head. "I love you, son."

Malcolm smiled, endearingly sweet. "I love you, too, Papa. And I promise to write my essay."

The tenderest kind of affection infused Duncan. "I know you will. How do I look?"

"Funny. The wig is crooked." He reached up to right it.

Seizing the boy's vulnerable position, Duncan tickled him. Malcolm squealed and tried to dart away, but Duncan followed, thrumming his fingers on the boy's ribs. They tumbled to the floor, and scuffled like children, rubbing the paint off Malcolm's legs and rucking Duncan's kilt up around his waist.

He almost lost the wig, and when he reached up to secure it, Malcolm plopped on top of him. "I'm the tickler now," the boy declared, and dug his fingers into Duncan's ribs.

Flat on his back, the spectacles askew, Duncan bent his knees and bucked, trying halfheartedly to bounce Malcolm off. He grunted with exaggerated effort. "Aye, you're a braw laddie."

Skinny knees straddling Duncan, Malcolm said, "Dost thou yield to Llewelyn Fawr, the High King of Wales?"

Feigning fright, Duncan pleaded, "I yield, your kingship. I yield."

Just then the door opened, and Lady Miriam strolled inside. "My lord, didn't you hear my knock—" Mouth open, she stopped. Her gaze traveled up Duncan's bare legs to his fully exposed manly parts. A lovely shade of crimson blossomed on her cheeks. She gasped. "Excuse me." Then she whirled and fled the room.

Mortified, Miriam raced down the hall toward the keeping room. Just outside the door she stopped, her heart pounding, her senses reeling.

Sweet Saint Margaret, beneath his kilt he wore… nothing. She had seen marble statues of nude men and admired the sculptor's work. She'd seen Italian frescoes and Moorish mosaics, blatant in their depictions of the human form. But seeing a classic rendering in pale stone or tiny chips of tile and viewing a man in hot living flesh were different experiences altogether. Lord, the statues seemed innocent, benign by comparison. The earl, in his natural state, was a powerful sight to behold. Even the Lancelot of her dreams hadn't been so well made.

Could she ever look at Duncan Kerr in the same way? As an ordinary man? He'd made her feel anything but an ordinary woman.

Had he been naked all day, even when he'd found her at the weaver's and escorted her to the swineherd's? The probability made her shiver. She cast out the disturbing thought and became aware of noises in the room beyond. The twins and Alexis were in there.

Pressing her hands to her flaming cheeks, Miriam focused her thoughts on Baron Sinclair's latest raid on a Kildalton farm and the tricky task of confronting the earl about his cowardice. Secure in the safe topic, she strolled into the keeping room.

Saladin, his head swathed in a turban, and Salvador, wearing Alexis's Highland bonnet with a Stewart crest badge, sat on a rug in a corner with an exhausted Verbatim. Alexis, garbed in a fashionable gown of garnet-hued velvet, sat on one of the two straight-back benches that flanked the massive stone hearth.

On the mantel sat a pair of hundred-eyes lanterns with thick tallow candles. The ancient lamps cast a spray of dotted light on the gilt-framed painting of Kenneth Kerr which soared to the beamed ceiling. A kettle of bayberries simmered over the fire, the steam perfuming the air with the fresh holiday scent.

"What's wrong?" Alexis peered up from the book she was reading.

Miriam's vulnerability returned in full force. She walked to a side table that held a brace of candles and a dish of dried rosemary. "Why should anything be wrong?"

"You looked… well, for a moment you looked disoriented. Did you see the earl?"

In perfect detail Miriam remembered just how much
of
him she'd seen. A penis. Good Lord, she'd seen his penis, and she'd stared in awe at the fleshy, weighty sacks beneath.

The muscles in her abdomen tightened. Taking a handful of the dried herbs, she crushed them between her damp palms. "Yes, I saw him. He and Malcolm were tussling on the floor."

"The earl?" Alexis tossed the book aside and came to stand by Miriam. "That's odd. I've never seen him take an interest in the boy."

The need to defend him rose sharply in Miriam. "So? Most parents can't be bothered with their children. I was glad to see them laughing and tickling each other, same as any country gent and his lad."

Alexis glanced at the twins, who were picking burrs from the still-sleeping sleuthhound. "'Tis odd," she said, "how different he and the boy are. But I'm sure you've noticed that Malcolm is boisterous and bold, while the earl is quiet and passive."

"They seemed very much alike a few moments ago. But I hardly know Malcolm." The boy could shed a new light on the father. But the idea of using the lad to gain information pricked Miriam's conscience.

"After your daring rescue of that child tonight, I'll wager the boy will dog your heels for days. He's woefully in need of a hero to worship. A heroine might do."

Miriam pictured Malcolm giggling with delight in the company of his unexpectedly playful father. "We should have taken him along on the adventure. There was no danger at all."

Just above a whisper, Alexis said, "What did you learn from the swineherd?"

"That the man I met in the garden is supposed to be a ghost."

"Truly? Do you think he is a ghost?"

Miriam remembered his seductive words and hot kisses. She related the romantic tales of the Border Lord's appearances. "According to one and all, the earl included, the man was hanged by the English a century ago."

Alexis tapped her teeth with a fingernail and gazed thoughtfully at Kenneth Kerr. "What do you make of it?"

Again Miriam sifted through the possibilities, but the conclusion always remained the same. "I think someone has taken on the identity of this folk hero. Why would he visit Kildalton Castle at night unless his purpose were a nefarious one?"

"What did the swineherd say?"

"He said the Border Lord pops up whenever there's trouble."

Alexis scoffed. "Then where was he when little Mary Elizabeth and her family needed him?"

The inconsistency nagged at Miriam's logical mind. "He obviously picks his battles. Or maybe he only rides at night because of his disguise."

"Do you think the earl knows who he is?"

"Logic tells me yes."

"Well, then," said Alexis as if she were ordering a meal, "you'll just have to use that dangerously clever mind of yours and persuade him to tell you."

She wasn't sure she could face the earl just yet. She needed time to banish the image of that thick penis sprouting from his muscular loins. "I may have better luck seeking out the Border Lord on my own. Now that I have the key to the tunnel door, I intend to lie in wait for him tonight."

"What makes you think he'll come?"

Herb dust clung to Miriam's damp palms. She rubbed at it until her sore fingertip began to throb. "The swineherd said he always appears after a raid by the baron."

"You're so clever, Miriam. But you must be careful." Alexis looked again at the hound. "Verbatim won't be any help to you. She's fair toil-worn."

Miriam recalled the dog's tireless searching and that instant of relief when the animal had barked, signaling she'd located her quarry. Betsy's heartfelt declarations of gratitude and the cheers from the crowd still filled Miriam with joy.

Alexis hugged her. "You looked like Boadicea in her chariot driving that carriage. I cried when I saw you come through the gates."

Fighting off a wave of melancholy, Miriam hugged her back. "It felt good to see that little girl in her mother's arms again."

"Of course it did. You always do the right thing, Miriam. You always have."

The familiar praise warmed Miriam. "Let's just hope the Border Lord makes an appearance tonight, since I seem to be riding a high wave of luck."

The sound of Malcolm's laughter echoed down the hall.

"Come," Alexis whispered, pulling Miriam to the hearth.

"This painting," she said, louder, "is of Lord Duncan's father. They're very different don't you think?"

Just as Miriam was about to agree, Malcolm bounded into the room. A moment later the earl shuffled in, a large book under his arm, a curled white feather in his wig.

Her gaze strayed to his kilt, now modestly concealing his manly parts. The first thought that popped into her mind was an inappropriate question: Didn't he get cold in the winter?

"I'm awfully sorry to have kept you waiting, Lady Miriam," he said, setting the book on the mantel and warming himself by the fire. "I must admit, though, with my spectacles askew, I didn't know who had come in the room. It could have been the queen herself. Malcolm told me 'twas you."

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you." She rose and joined him, her eyes straying to his magnificent badger sporran. She knew what lay behind it. "I should have knocked louder."

With a self-deprecating smile, he said, "I confess that we're regular ruffians on occasion, Malcolm and me. Surely you've learned that we have no locked doors in this castle. 'Tis a part of Scottish hospitality, you know."

From the corner, she heard Malcolm and the twins cooing over Verbatim. "Your hospitality is exemplary, my lord."

"Mine?" He dropped his chin and busied his hands with adjusting the spectacles. "I simply told Mrs. Elliott to refuse you nothing." He glanced at Alexis. "Good evening, my lady."

Glancing up from the book, she said, "My lord. How are the flippity-flops?"

"So kind of you to ask." Chuckling and rubbing his hands together, he said, "They're ready for a fat salmon. However, I'm thinking I might just try one out in my favorite trout stream."

Miriam studied his strong hands. The healing blisters appeared as smooth pink circles on his broad palms. They were strong hands, made for wielding a sword instead of cleaning feathers, yet perfect for tickling a boy into giggles and stroking a woman's flesh.

"Have you supped, Lady Miriam?" he said. "You deserve a feast, you know, for your daring rescue of that poor child. Cook will have a bone for Verbatim, too."

Miriam's stomach growled, but she had matters other than food on her mind. "I'm fine, truly. I'd hoped we could talk about the raid."

A frown marred his broad brow. "I brought my journal," he said absently. "But that can wait. What kind of host would I be if I showed my appreciation by letting you go hungry?"

"I think the damage to the shepherd and his family today is more important. Mary Elizabeth had a dreadful scare. Their entire harvest of wool was stolen."

"Then let's strike a bargain—or is that your line?" Laughter sparkled in his eyes and rumbled in his throat. At her puzzled frown, he said, "Never mind me." Then he tucked the ledger under his arm and took her hand. "We can adjourn to the lesser hall. I'll have Mrs. Elliott prepare you a plate. While you eat, we can talk. Good night, Lady Alexis." He glanced pointedly at Malcolm and the twins, and whispered, "Some details of the baron's crimes aren't fit for everyone's ears. I intend to reveal everything to you."

Her hand felt snug in his, and unexpectedly, a sense of security infused her. "How thoughtful, my lord."

He shrugged and dropped his chin again, a shy gesture she was coming to associate with him.

"Please," he said, as clumsily charming as a bashful cavalier, "call me Duncan."

Suddenly the idea of being alone with him appealed to her. She smiled. "If you'll call me Miriam."

He led her from the keeping room and once he'd settled her in the lesser hall, he excused himself. He returned a few moments later and put a covered tray before her. With a flourish, he plucked off the cloth. "Haggis and neeps 'n tatties," he announced, steam rising from the food and fogging his spectacles, "and a tankard of fresh beer."

Miriam's mouth watered, but she held out the napkin. "Here. So you can clean your glasses."

Flapping a wrist, he said, " 'Twill evaporate by itself."

"Please, let me do it for you."

"Oh, no. Don't trouble yourself. Eat."

Thinking he was probably self-conscious about his poor vision, she picked up the fork. He watched her take the first bite, an air of expectancy about him. The mashed potatoes and turnips, flavored with butter and honey, melted on her tongue. "Delicious."

He grinned and clapped his hands like a gleeful child would. "I believe in exposing myself to different foods, but who can resist good, unadorned Scottish fare?"

"I've eaten snails with crowned heads of Europe, but this pleases me more." Throughout the meal, her attention kept straying to him as he leaned over the journal, his face only inches from the page. His thick eyebrows had a manly arch that drew attention to the high bridge of his nose and the pleasing line of his temples and cheekbones.

Again she wondered if his hair was truly black like his wig and Malcolm's hair, or if it was the same golden brown as the hair that covered his legs? She shuddered, thinking about the other pelt of hair she'd seen. It had looked like silky sable, lush and soft, a vivid contrast to the thick penis and ponderous sacks.

"Are you cold? The drafts do chill a body."

Mortified, she almost choked on a mouthful of tatties.

"I'll just build up the fire." He went to the hearth and bent over to add another log to the flames. The kilt rode dangerously high in back, revealing muscular thighs and straining tendons. Again her lower abdomen went taut, and her mind conjured images of his penis. In a flash of insight she knew how he could ease the tension within her. She saw naked legs entwined, felt heated flesh against flesh, anticipated touching his manly parts, having him touch her where she felt hollow and damp.

Dizziness engulfed her.

Abashed at the vivid pictures and her own preoccupation with them, she took a long drink of the beer and lectured herself on the importance of maintaining her objectivity.

She heard the crunch of coals and the twang of the fire iron on the grate. The fire hissed, popped, and flared.