Border Lord

Prologue

Summer 1713

The stallion burst into a gallop. Duncan threw back his head and inhaled the glorious fragrance of heather. His tartan cape snapped like a loose topsail in a raging wind. His blood coursed with the song of excitement.

Behind him rode a dozen loyal clansmen and one fugitive. Before him lay a quest fit for the bards.

Power seeped into Duncan’s bones, and the pounding of hooves deafened him to all sound save the siren of impending danger.

Hadrian’s Wall loomed ahead.

In the light of the full moon, the barrier cast a slashing black scar on the fair face of his homeland.

He crouched over the lathered neck of his steed and whispered an ancient word. The mighty crimson bay lunged. Forelegs tucked, the animal sailed over the wall. And into England.

A battle cry rose in Duncan’s throat, but he set his teeth and stifled the motto that would announce his arrival and endanger his mission.

The troop raced across the rolling hills. The land should look different now, he thought. English demons should crawl from beneath the rocks and peer with evil eyes at the Scottish intruders.

The fanciful image brought Duncan to his senses. He tempered excitement with purpose, and turned southeast to a copse of stunted beech. Once there, he raised a gloved hand to halt his men. Between his tense thighs, the horse’s sides fanned like a bellows.

Alone, Duncan rode into the stand of trees. The night wind soughed softly. Crisp green leaves rustled and cast dancing shadows on the lush turf.

To his right, a twig snapped. Ears twitching in alarm, the horse turned toward the noise. Duncan reached for the pistol in his belt.

A small figure, caped from head to forest floor, stepped into the moonlight. The horse snorted. Duncan cocked his pistol. Who’s there?

The figure gasped and drew back. ’Tis Adrienne Birmingham, she whispered, her voice quivering with fear. I came alone just as your message said.

Duncan secured the weapon. She’d been his special little friend since the day eight years ago when she’d strewn rose petals in his path and giggled when he’d kissed his new bride.

He leaped from the saddle. I’m glad you’ve at last learned obedience.

Putting one hand on her cheek and the other at her waist, Adrienne laughed. Sir Border Lord. I should have known ’twas you, brother of my heart.

Chuckling, he doffed his cavalier’s hat and sketched an elaborate bow. Your servant, mistress.

Servant? She surveyed him, from the black scarf tied pirate fashion over his thick blond hair to his flowing tartan cape and bucket top boots. Since when, she challenged, is the infamous Border Lord lackey to any?

Pride forced him to say, Since your gullible mother married that greedy, worthless bastard.

Oh, Duncan. Her hand slipped from her cheek, revealing an ugly bruise. He beat me!

Simple loathing turned to fierce hatred. Aubrey Townsend, baron Sinclair, would pay dearly for all his crimes. Duncan Kerr, in the guise of the Border Lord, would mete out justice, but not tonight.

With a familiarity born of friendship and honed by affection, he held out his arms. On a sob, she flew into his embrace. He hugged her close, and as she clung to him, years of treasured memories flashed in his mind. Sprigs of heather tucked into his scabbard. Hunting arrows dressed up with pink ribbons. A merry wedding. Her first dance. A sad funeral.

Her sobs turned to hiccoughs. When I refused to bed that fat magistrate, the baron had my Charles arrested for treason. Then he hit me and locked me in my room. He said if I didn’t do my duty he’d have poor Charles hanged.

Hearing the fear in her voice, Duncan said, You’re certain this Charles is the man you want?

Oh, yes. I’d go to the ends of the earth with him.

Duncan held her at arm’s length. Had she matured enough to know what she truly wanted? He hoped so. ’Tis no jest, Adrienne, for you’ll have to do just that.

She smiled a woman’s smile, knowing and resolute. ’Tis my heart’s desire.

Very well. Your adventure awaits. Duncan whistled a signal.

A lone rider guided his horse into the copse and dismounted. Adrienne? he called out.

She peered around Duncan. Charles?

Then the lovers were in each other’s arms. Pledging troths and promising eternity.

Longing pierced Duncan. Would he ever find a woman to pledge away her life and her home for his sake? If not, he prayed for God to cool the need that burned inside him.

He jammed his hat on his head and pulled a bag of coins from his belt. Approaching the lovers, he held out the money to the young man. I’d not have her come dowerless to you, nor would I have her suffer at your hands.

The young man drew Adrienne to his side and smiled down at her. My adoration for her has no price.

Ah, but it does, my young friend, Duncan said sadly, for you can never return to England.

That matters not. We’ll start a new life across the sea.

So you shall, said Duncan. Take this for luck. He pressed an ancient Roman coin into Charles’s hand. Go quickly now, for the tide won’t wait. Get you to Whitley Bay and then to Barbados.

Charles clasped Duncan’s arm. Our first son will bear your name, my lord, and with God’s blessing, your kind and good heart.

Duncan smiled and gazed at Adrienne. He thought of his wife, dead these seven years. Would that Roxanne had been more like her sister, Adrienne.

Melancholy stabbed at him. Adrienne stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, and whispered, Please watch out for little Alpin. Don’t let the baron break her spirit or … worse.

Duncan swallowed hard. I promise.

He’d never see this spritely lass again. He’d never pluck another thorn from her finger or take a fish from her line. She’d never again call him the brother of her heart. But he would keep his word and protect another wee lassie.

With bittersweet satisfaction he watched them ride away and out of his life.

Angus MacDodd, his second-in-command joined him. At fifty, Angus could still wield his claymore and vanquish opponents two at a time. He could also carve the best toy sailboats in Kildalton. ’Tis Her Majesty’s wrath you’ve gained tonight, my lord. Baron Sinclair will complain again. I’ll bet my precious lady crackers on it.

Duncan chuckled. You can’t afford to lose that wager, my friend.

Angus scratched his bushy beard. She’ll send the dragoons this time.

Thoughts of the aging and sickly Stewart monarch swam in Duncan’s mind. Nay, she’ll do as she’s always done.

What will you do, my lord?

I’ll either bribe him or trick him.

As he mounted, Duncan Armstrong Kerr, earl of Kildalton by day, Border Lord by night, conjured a picture of the official emissary Queen Anne would send.

Sweet Saint Ninian, he swore, he’ll be another gouty minor lord with an empty purse and a mind to match.

1

Fall 1713

Sweet Saint Margaret, Miriam swore, he’ll be a gout-ridden Scotsman with braids in his hair and beer on his breath.

Her companion, Alexis Southward, laughed. Does that mean you’re finally going to tell me what we’re doing here?

Miriam quelled her anger. We’re going to see a bull-headed Scotsman who can’t stay on his side of the wall.

Let’s just pray he’s sensible, Miriam. I do so hate it when these bickering men don’t take you seriously. ’Tisn’t a pretty sight, the way you can strip a stubborn man of his pride.

Nor do I relish the exercise. Miriam flicked the reins and guided her horse through a gap in Hadrian’s Wall. Behind her, the wheels of the luggage wagon creaked under the load. Seated atop the trunks and wig boxes, her twin scribes, Saladin and Salvador chatted in their second language, Español. The carriage, empty but for food and drink, brought up the rear. A dozen cavalrymen, more interested in filling their bellies than performing their duties, guarded the well-stocked conveyance. Where the men stationed themselves mattered little, for the only danger they’d encountered since leaving London had been in the forest near Nottingham.

A pack of hungry wild dogs had crept into camp. Miriam’s sleuthhound, a female named Verbatim, had charged the intruders. When faced with a snarling protector that weighed six stone and stood waist high to a man, the trespassers yelped like frightened puppies and scurried into the woods.

Now Verbatim loped ahead, long ears flapping, black nose skimming the ground.

Once clear of the ancient wall, Miriam gazed at the land. Scotland. Her home. Long buried memories, like the mirages she’d seen in the deserts of Araby, shimmered to life. She shivered. No longer a respected diplomat in the court of Queen Anne, Miriam saw herself as a frightened child of four. Instead of the rolling hills of the Border, gilded by the setting sun and kissed by the chill of fall, she saw a frozen glen, blanketed with snow and splattered with the blood of her clan.

Miriam?

She turned. A smile of understanding wreathed Alexis’s face. Her pale blue eyes swam with sympathy. She maneuvered her mount close and extended a gloved hand. Miriam took it.

Squeezing gently, Alexis said, There are no demons here, my friend. Only memories, fond and bad. ’Tis all in the way you choose to see them.

Miriam sighed. Melancholy dragged at her. For twenty years, Alexis had been mother, sister, and consoling aunt, as the situation dictated. She could give advice in nine languages, scold in fourteen. Miriam understood them all. Together they’d traveled from the lavish courts of the czars to the exotic palaces of Persia. Discreet to a fault and as loyal as a true mother, Alexis could be trusted with the most delicate of state secrets. On an hour’s notice, she could pack up their household and move them cross country or continent with the skill and speed of the queen’s own steward.

Thank you. Miriam gave the helping hand a last squeeze, then shifted to a more comfortable position in the sidesaddle.

So, said Alexis, tell me why Her Majesty would be sending the star of her diplomatic corps to a gouty, drunken Scot?

Her Majesty would have sent me to hell, I think, had Lord Shepton not intervened.

In her most motherly voice, Alexis said, You shouldn’t have told her she didn’t know what she was doing.

Miriam ground her teeth. That’s not what I said.

Oh, no? Then the gossips must’ve been wrong. Let me guess the truth of it. Her Majesty said ’twas time you were wed. You did a merry sett of verbal dancing, but your brilliant effort went for naught, for the queen knows you too well. She commanded you. You grew angry. You must be slipping.

Miriam tensed. Her mount sidestepped. Gathering the reins, she considered telling Alexis the truth about her quarrel with the queen. For years Miriam had asked Anne to bring to justice the Highlanders who’d murdered Miriam’s family. For years Anne had refused. This time Miriam had demanded. Anne had become so furious Miriam had feared the sickly monarch might swoon. But Anne had rallied and threatened to betroth Miriam to the minister of Baltic affairs.

Out of loyalty to Alexis, Miriam told a part of the truth. I had every right to question her. The men in her service do. And if she tried to force one of them to marry a dottering lech, they’d trip over their own tongues in their haste to object.

True. But losing your temper and arguing with her, not to mention insulting her, no matter how delicately, was foolhardy.

The queen’s unfairness gnawed at Miriam. Everyone else on the negotiating team had been excused from court to pursue their private concerns. But not Miriam. I didn’t set out to insult Her Majesty. I only reminded her that negotiating contracts for marriages or peace was my expertise, not hers. She can’t have it both ways, Lexie. One moment she orders me to Utrecht to end the War of the Spanish Succession. The next moment she expects me to grovel like a ’tween stairs maid who’s grateful that a footman wants to be her beau.

A rueful smile lent a timeless elegance to the older woman’s face. You don’t have a beau.

Girlhood dreams shone brightly, then faded. The horses started down another of the rolling hills. Miriam braced herself with a hand on the pommel. Nor will I ever, it seems.

There’s no disputing that. Five and twenty is a bit long in the tooth for courting.

Ha! You’re eight and forty, and you preened like a virgin when that French count fell off his horse to gain your attention and your favors.

Alexis Southward, onetime duchess of Challenbroke, smoothed the folds of her velvet riding habit. In a throaty voice, she said, "Gervais was a delightful diversion. Need I remind you that his son was … shall we say eager to divert you as well."

I’ll believe that when the queen conceives her eighteenth child.

"Honte a toi. You should not say such a thing."

I know. But the cavalier didn’t want me, you sly creature. He wanted advance information on the treaty.

Perhaps, said Alexis, her voice rife with disbelief. But so long as you pine for a Sir Lancelot who divides his time between defending the poor and domineering his way into your bed, you’ll never find a suitable husband.

A gaggle of honking geese flew overhead in a wavering V formation. A lone pair of birds brought up the rear. Mates, thought Miriam. Her girlish dreams might never come true, but she had no intention of wedding a man she couldn’t respect. He’d also have to best her at chess and outwit her, but not too often.

Dreaming of Sir Lancelot again?

Oh, bother it, Lexie. It makes no difference anyway.

Alexis chuckled. Tell me about this gouty Scotsman. It’s not like you to be so secretive.

Remembering her disastrous audience with the queen, Miriam upbraided herself again for not choosing her words more carefully. She’d expected gratitude from the queen for the success at Utrecht. An orphan without a dowry, Miriam had earned the queen’s generosity. Instead, the angry sovereign had banished Miriam to the Border for another negotiating task.

And should you fail, the queen had said, you will forfeit any chance of bringing the Glenlyon Campbells to justice. Although why you’re so determined to dredge up the crime, I cannot imagine.

Angry and exhausted, Miriam had replied, Your parents weren’t butchered.

How dare you! Seething, Anne threw down her scepter. Strike a peace on the Border, Miriam, or you’ll marry the minister of Baltic affairs.

Even now Miriam cringed at the thought of living in so cold a climate. She breathed deeply of the crisp fall air, ripe with the promise of winter. Perhaps she’d linger awhile in Scotland. The queen wouldn’t be the wiser if Miriam dawdled in the Borders. She needed a respite from England’s politics. A winter sojourn in Scotland seemed the perfect answer. Could she face the snow?

Aye. The alternative gave her courage. She’d toast her toes before a roaring peat fire, warm her belly with mulled wine, and dream of a hero who could slay dragons and discuss Socrates.

In a nearby vale, a roebuck with a magnificent rack of antlers stalked a flirtatious doe. Verbatim quivered with the need to give chase, but the dog was too well trained. The agile doe dashed away, kicking up fallen leaves in her wake. The prime buck threw back his head and trumpeted his frustration. The doe stopped and twitched her white rump patch. When the male resumed his pursuit, she darted away again.

Verbatim went back to her inspection of Scotland.

I do so love a courtship, don’t you? said Alexis.

Courtship? I’m here to settle what might be a war, not to arrange a betrothal.

Alexis rolled her eyes to the heavens and blew out her breath. I was speaking of the rut going on over there. ’Twas a jest, Miriam.

Oh.

Humor had always been lost on Miriam. She wanted to join in, to get caught up in the amusing subtleties that others found so entertaining. She could wade through a stream of rhetoric, but couldn’t catch an innuendo. She recognized it for the fault it was, but had no idea how one learned how to be jolly.

They were joined by her escort, the leader of Her Majesty’s Fifth Regiment of Horse. A gust of wind ruffled the white plume in his cap, and the fading sunlight lent an orange cast to the golden regalia on his uniform.

She nodded. Captain Higginbotham. Won’t you join us?

He drew himself up in the saddle. Leather creaked. Clean-shaven and as neat as a parson on Sunday, he spent the noon hour polishing his boots and scabbard.

Almost there, Lady Miriam. I’ll send a man ahead to announce you, he said, staring at her breasts.

How common, she thought. How degrading. But she was accustomed to such base behavior. Smiling pleasantly, she said, That’s very thorough of you, Captain. I think, however, that just this once, we shall forego protocol and simply pop in.

When he opened his mouth to protest, she added, I’ll be sure to tell your uncle, Lord Drummond, of your unwavering competence in the field. I have been truly impressed. The czar’s personal guard couldn’t have done better.

He toyed with the cuff of his gauntlets, and tapped his teeth together. The annoying habits signaled his disapproval.

Thank you, my lady. He nodded curtly, fell back, and ordered his men to advance. Amid the rattling of swords and the pounding of hooves, the soldiers began moving.

Well? prompted Alexis, eyeing the double column of soldiers as they passed.

Over the jingling of harnesses, Miriam said, Well what?

Why are you being so secretive about this mission?

Mission? thought Miriam. Predicament seemed a more fitting term. Oh, Lexie. I’m not. I’ve told you everything I know about the trouble here. The queen said, in so many words, that I overstepped myself. She thinks I’ve become too world-wise for a mere woman. Sending me here without telling me what’s going on was my punishment.

Alexis spat a curse that she’d learned at her father’s knee. How swiftly my royal cousin forgets that you gained your experience in service to her—mere woman or no.

I know, said Miriam, thinking of the years she’d served the queen. Miriam’s apprenticeship had begun when the then Princess Anne had taken in the orphaned Miriam. At the age of five she’d often ferried the sad message to Prince George that yet another of the queen’s children had died. Remembered pity softened her next words. She also said that since I knew her mind so well, she needn’t waste a royal breath explaining the participants or the particulars of the problems here.

A whistle escaped Alexis’s lips. "She was angry at you. Miriam studied the horizon. Indeed. The burr in her voice was as thick as the towels in a Turkish bath."

’Tis a wonder you still have your head. ’Twould be a pity, though, to let all that glorious red hair go to waste.

The compliment brightened Miriam’s black mood. But she still couldn’t bring herself to tell Alexis what had truly angered the queen. When she told me that I could either marry the Baltic minister or earn my keep in the usual way, I told her I would sooner join the harem of King Ahmed.

Alexis made the sign of the cross. She knows how much you hate the cold.

Aye, she does. I decided to fall back and regroup. I just didn’t think I’d be doing it in the Borders.

You’ll make quick work of this dispute. How will you begin?

Miriam hated being ignorant, but what she knew about the Scotsman wouldn’t fill a thimble. I’m not sure.

I have every confidence in you, my dear. Now, tell me. What did Her Majesty say about the Englishman?

Little. His name is Aubrey Townsend, Baron Sinclair. He was the one who petitioned for assistance, accusing the Scotsman of kidnapping, thievery, etcetera. Oh, and she commanded me to visit the Scotsman first.

That’s odd, even if the Englishman did bring about a complaint. She’s always careful not to show favoritism to her countrymen. Maybe she knows the Scot. Or— Mischief sparkled in her eyes. He could be a cousin of sorts.

I wouldn’t think so. He leads a clan of Lowlanders. I don’t imagine they have any ties to the Stewarts—on either side of the blanket. Realizing the slight, Miriam rushed to say, Oh, do forgive me, Lexie.

Alexis waved her hand in dismissal. ’Twas nothing. What’s the fellow’s name?

Duncan Armstrong Kerr, the earl of Kildalton.

Sounds very Scottish … and promising. Has he a countess?

Not anymore. He’s widowed, according to the innkeeper back in Bothly Green.

Very promising indeed, my dear.

Miriam had to shield her eyes from the setting sun to see her friend’s face. For you, me, or the negotiations?

Alexis wagged her finger. You, of course. Then she gazed at the rolling hills and rocky terrain. Perhaps Sir Lancelot waits o’er yonder hill. Him or the legendary Border Lord they spoke of in Bothly Green. Then you’d be preoccupied with matters of the heart. A legend could sweep you off your feet, beguile you with poetry, and cart you away to his bower of love.

At the edge of her vision, Miriam saw Verbatim perched on the hill in question, her long tail arched over her back, her nose in the air. The animal had scented something. She whined in fright.

Wait here. Miriam kicked her horse into a canter and raced up the hill. At the summit, she gasped, and flooded her lungs with the biting odor of stale smoke.

In the glen below stood the charred timbers and hearth-stone of what had been a crofter’s hut. On the periphery of the blackened field she saw a freshly mounded grave. She slumped, wondering if the destruction had been the result of a carelessly banked fire or a consequence of the trouble she was here to settle.

If the latter was true, she’d need more than diplomatic flummery to bring about a peace. She conjured a picture of Duncan Armstrong Kerr, and saw a gouty, stubborn Scotsman who would challenge her expertise and try to bully her into taking his side.

But the man she encountered an hour later challenged her in a different way.

Standing in the common room of Kildalton Castle, Miriam was reminded of Louis XIV’s least gifted fool the day he had once again failed to amuse his sovereign.

Pity and confusion overwhelmed her.

Dressed in a waistcoat and knee breeches of forest green velvet, a crimped and powdered wig aslant on his head, and spectacles thicker than church glass perched on his nose, the man looked more like a disheveled jester than the lord of the keep.

Have you brought the peacocks? he said, hope dancing in green eyes that were distorted by the lenses.

The peacocks, she repeated, stalling for enough time to form a reasonable reply.

Behind her, Alexis coughed to hide a giggle. Saladin and Salvador stood frozen, their mouths open, their eyes as large as the earl’s.

To Lexie, she pointedly said, You’ll want to warm yourself by the fire. Take the twins with you.

Alexis nodded and led the boys to the far side of the room.

Turning back, Miriam said, Where were we?

The peacocks. They haven’t molted, have they? he asked in the clipped speech of a scholar. If so, I hope you brought the creatures anyway. He held up a contraption of orange-brown feathers attached to a hook. Can’t catch a fish with a pheasant. These are as useless as another coal in Newcastle.

For some reason, he laughed. His wig jiggled and shed a handful of gray powder on the rounded shoulders of his waistcoat. Then he took a faltering step toward her.

That’s when she noticed his shoes; they were on the wrong feet.

Through a shroud of compassion for the poor fellow, she dredged up her kindest tone. You’ve mistaken me for someone else, my lord. Executing a perfect curtsy, she said, I haven’t brought you peacocks.

Frowning, he poked the contraption into his pocket, but when he withdrew his hand, the hook clung to his finger. He shook his hand, but to no avail. Finally, he plucked the hook free. Grunting, he clapped it on his sleeve. You’re travelers. How splendid. He wiped his hand on his breeches, leaving a thin smear of blood on the green velvet. Shuffling toward her and extending his hand, he said, Allow me to present myself and welcome you properly. I’m Duncan Kerr, eighth earl of Kildalton.

She took his hand and was surprised to find blisters on his palm. Her logical mind stumbled, then settled on the inconsistency. How had he gotten blisters? Plucking feathers? She didn’t think so. Why would an absentminded, near-blind nobleman have the hands of a workman?

He released her, then tipped his wigged head to the side, as if waiting. Through a haze of possibilities, she fell back on manners. Thank you, my lord. I’m Lady Miriam MacDonald.

Ah, you’re a Scot.

She tried, but couldn’t pull her gaze from his. Intelligence and something else lurked in his eyes. Instinct told her that he had the upper hand. Necessity demanded she take control. He knew the problems here. She didn’t. But she couldn’t admit her ignorance.

Father! bellowed a childish voice behind her. She turned to see a gangly lad with pitch dark hair dash into the room and to the earl’s side.

Over a tartan kilt, the boy wore a man’s scabbard and sword buckled around his waist. The heavy weapon scraped the stone flags and the belt dragged at the plaid she recognized as the symbol of the Kerr clan.

‘There’s soldiers in the stable, he declared, his voice breaking. English soldiers! We must to arms." He tried to draw the sword, but succeeded in disturbing the pleats of his kilt. The garment slipped beneath the swordbelt, revealing pale buttocks and skinny legs.

As the earl leaned over to right the garment, he whispered to the boy, who froze in rapt attention.

Like fingers drawn to the rough edge of a ragged thumbnail, Miriam’s senses toyed with the idea that something was wrong here. How could this bumbling man command the clans of Kerr and Armstrong? He didn’t look capable of kidnapping or any of the charges brought against him.

Lady Miriam, he said, this rowdy lad and defender of the true faith is my son Mal—

Father! snapped the boy. You’re doing it again.

So, I am. The earl fished in his pockets, retrieved a scrap of paper, and squinted at it. Ah, yes. My son Rob Roy.

The now-beaming boy bowed from the waist. Miriam stood stupefied, for the earl couldn’t even remember his son’s name. Another oddity, she thought. Distracted, she managed to say, A pleasure, Master Rob Roy, I’m sure.

The boy whispered to his father. Miriam’s mind hopscotched through the conflicting bits of information, trying to draw a logical conclusion. According to the queen, the Englishman swore this Scotsman was a Border reiver who led an army of thieves.

Again Miriam cursed herself for losing her patience with Anne and gaining her wrath. If only Miriam had held her tongue, she’d know the peculiars of the trouble here. She’d sit down with Duncan Kerr and ask him direct questions. Then she’d do the same with his English neighbor. Then she’d make peace between them. As it was, she didn’t even know what questions to ask. Now she’d have to sleuth out the truth.

Like discovering a path out of the wilderness, she found a starting place, a tangible. Excuse me, my lord, she murmured, and headed for the castleyard to investigate.

2

Bursting at the seams of his self-imposed idiocy, Duncan watched her go. Through the lenses she appeared as a dark red blur. Over the rims of the spectacles she looked like a vision in crimson. He surveyed the tilt of her chin, the set of her shoulders, the sway of her hips, and the purpose in her stride. The impulsive exit of his charming guest spelled trouble.

Why was she going outside? And why hadn’t she told him her reasons for coming to Kildalton? No flighty female, the Lady Miriam MacDonald and her diplomatic accomplishments were legend.

Oh, but her mission here was doomed. She’d secure no peace in the Border, for there was none to be had. Her fancy rhetoric would be wasted on a dispute that involved burned out farms and freshly mounded graves. Duncan Kerr would deal with his English neighbor in his own way. But first, he had to convince her of his innocence in the Border feud. Then he’d send this delectable diplomat and her odd entourage packing.

Quickly, too, for the Border Lord had work to do.

A pity, he thought, that he couldn’t have met her under different circumstances. He liked women with brains and experience, and if the rumors were true, she possessed the lion’s share of both.

She also had skin with the luster of polished pearls and eyes as gray and intriguing as snow-laden clouds. Perfect poise and a cleavage that made his lips pucker seemed cruel wrappings on a package he couldn’t afford to open. She must see him as a bumpkin with fishing lures on his mind and cowardice in his heart.

Over the chatter of his son and Lady Miriam’s traveling companion, Duncan chose a plan of action that would turn Miriam MacDonald upside down. That decided, he pulled the bellcord to summon his housekeeper, then turned his attention to his only offspring.

The kilt-clad boy stood before the two lads in Lady Miriam’s party. An interesting pair, they were: one dark as a Moor and thinly built, with the obsidian eyes and wooly black hair of his African ancestors. The other boy had the noble profile and olive complexion of a Spanish grandee. Yet there were similarities in the