Border Lord Read Free Page B

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 Mai—"
    "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