Border Bride (16 page)

Malcolm almost believed her. But through hazy senses he looked beneath her flush of passion and saw desperation. He knew that old reckless enemy. He'd lived with it since becoming a man. Peace of mind had come on the day when he'd accepted the inescapable and hellish truth that he would never sire an heir.

Alpin MacKay had a demon of her own. She just hadn't come to terms with it. She fancied she'd found a way out of her dilemma, though, and it involved Malcolm. Knowing he was the answer to her problem both disappointed and angered him. He also wondered just how far she'd go. Marriage? Was marriage to him her solution?

To test his theory, he pulled her into a sitting position. His head began to spin, and he planted his feet. "Then I suppose I should begin phrasing my honorable intentions."

So keen was her relief, he might have told her she'd be crowned queen on the morrow. Her lavender eyes glittered with hope. She hugged him fiercely and said his name on a sigh. He could have challenged her easy acceptance. Instead, he fought the lust hammering in his loins and played his trump card. "Who would have thought," he said with an odd and unexplainable whimsy, "that Alpin MacKay would handfast herself to Malcolm Kerr?"

She grew as stiff as a Highland halberd. "Handfast?"

"Is something wrong with that arrangement?" he asked rubbing her back and thinking she should be on it, in his bed.

She softened a bit. "I thought… Well, you did use the word 'honorable.'"

"Aye, and I meant it." The lie played tag with his conscience and momentarily disoriented him. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. "Handfasting is probably the most honorable of Scottish customs, for it equitably favors both parties. We'll say our church vows when you conceive—" He stopped, feeling light-headed. Thinking it was the subject matter, he forced back his weakness. "When you conceive my child."

She didn't notice his discomfort, for she blurted, "But it makes me feel that you want me only to produce an heir."

Pushing her back so their gazes could meet, he spoke the bitter truth with absolute sincerity. "I swear to you, Alpin MacKay, getting an heir on you is the least of my concerns. I do have obligations, though."

Her smile could have illuminated a hundred dungeons. Perhaps he'd been wrong in his judgment of her. What if she did truly love him? If so, he'd deal with her affection later. But for now he had too much to learn about the woman and the reasons why she was so desperate to marry him. He also wanted a good night's sleep. "Then you're pleased?"

"Oh, yes, Malcolm." Her voice was breathy. "'Tis my fondest wish."

The words fit their circumstances perfectly, because his passion for her was the one emotion he couldn't disguise. He lifted her and walked toward the horses.

She clung to him like pride to a Scot. He liked the feel of her in his arms. He'd always wanted a mate to share his life, to listen to his troubles, and to help him preserve the noble heritage of clan Kerr. He'd just never had the heart to trick an unsuspecting bride into a marriage that would never bear fruit.

For some reason he couldn't contain his selfish needs. At this moment he wanted her with the hot lust of a green lad mounting his first willing wench. Disgusted with his own vulnerability, Malcolm put her astride the gelding and handed her the reins. "What shall we do now?"

She tossed her head back and, still smiling, surveyed the clearing. "You could show me Carvoran Manor."

Malcolm turned away and fumbled with the reins to his own mount. He'd lied about Rosina; she wasn't leaving for Italy until the morrow. To keep up the pretense of smitten swain, he put on a leering grin and expressed his own fondest wish. "If I take you there, Alpin, you'll be playing the wife before you've enjoyed being the bride."

"Oh." She paused in the process of tying her kerchief, her elbows cocked, the fabric of her tunic stretched across her breasts. The leather breeches hugged her hips and slender legs.

The desire he thought he'd suppressed returned with a vengeance, swelling his loins and cramping his belly. Mouth watering from the taste of her lips, he cursed himself for a noble fool. He should have taken her moments ago and at least fulfilled his body's needs. Since he hadn't, he must take control of himself. "'Tis your choice, Alpin."

"Let's have some fun, then. Like we used to," she said, turning her mount toward the westward path. "I'll race you to Phantom Oak." Slapping the gelding's rump, she held on tight as her horse bolted from the clearing.

"Wait!" Reacting a moment too late, Malcolm sprang into the saddle and took off after her. One thought blazed in his mind: Phantom Oak had been felled by lightning years ago. The great trunk now blocked the old path. She wouldn't be able to see the obstruction, for the tree lay beyond the blind turn around Reiver's Rock, and sunset would soon be upon them.

He yelled her name, but she couldn't hear him over the pounding of hooves. Urging his mount to a flat-out gallop, Malcolm ate up the distance between them. When he was three lengths behind her, he yelled again. She glanced back, her face alive with excitement. Then she yelped in alarm at his nearness. With another whack to the rump of the gray, she pulled ahead.

And raced headlong into danger.

Using the reins, Malcolm whipped his stallion. The desert bred Barb answered with a burst of speed. Bracken and gorse raced past in a green and yellow blur. Malcolm clenched his teeth against the bone-jarring ride.

Catch her, catch her, catch her, his mind screamed. But Alpin's slight weight allowed her mount to outpace his swifter horse.

Reiver's Rock popped into view, a great boulder half the size of the donjon of Kildalton Castle. Up ahead, Alpin crouched low over the neck of the gray, her leather-clad bottom high in the air, her knees expertly hugging the gray's withers. In front of the rock, the road forked. To the right lay the new path, well worn and wide enough for a cart. To the left, the road became a seldom-used footpath mired in weeds. In years past he and Alpin had run this same race hundreds of times, only the finish had ended in a climb to the top of Phantom Oak.

Today it would end in death.

As he expected, Alpin veered left, as she always had. Malcolm yelled again and gave his horse a vicious kick. But Alpin's mount was too far ahead, the rider too determined. In horror, Malcolm saw her lean to the right, preparing for the turn around the rock.

Panic gripped him. He'd never catch her in time. "Alpin!" he roared. "Stop right there!"

She turned and gave him a sassy wave. She was still looking back at him when she passed out of sight.

An instant later her mount screamed. From Alpin he heard no sound. But as if he were witnessing the event, Malcolm saw the gelding balk at the huge fallen tree. Saw Alpin fly from the saddle. Felt her slam into the oak. Pictured her crumpling to the ground in a broken heap.

Damning himself, her, and every saint that haunted the heavens, Malcolm hurried his mount around the rock. The winded gray stood before the massive fallen tree. The saddle was empty. Oh, dear God, he couldn't see her!

Malcolm drew rein, then lunged to the ground. He scoured the weed-strewn path and the thorn-covered bracken. No Alpin.

He called her name. Silence answered.

Heartsick with dread, he ran to the wooden step bridge that marched up and over the trunk of the fallen tree. He should have listened to his father. He should have agreed to cut up the tree. He should have cleared the path.

"Stupid, stupid," he swore, cursing louder with each step he leaped, his fists grasping the handrails. Bounding to the top, he stopped.

And saw her. She'd been hurled over the huge trunk and lay on her side, curled into a ball amid a patch of white heather.

He raced to her and fell to his knees. "Alpin. Talk to me." Carefully he touched her back.

No movement, not even the shallow drawing of a breath. "Alpin!"

He'd wished her dead a thousand times, but that was before he'd held her in his arms and kissed her, before he'd seen the vulnerability she couldn't hide. Even though he didn't trust her, he understood her better now. He suspected that few of her hopes and dreams had come true. She had a right to a life, even if she had unwittingly stolen the most precious part of his.

She gasped and coughed until she caught her breath. Then she groaned and uncurled herself. Her kerchief sat askew, her complexion glowed pasty white.

Only slightly relieved, he felt her forehead. "Alpin? Can you hear me?"

Between rasping breaths, she said, "What happened to our tree?"

Our tree
. His chest grew tight at the sentiment. "Lightning struck it. Where are you hurt?"

Gingerly she rolled onto her back and cradled her right wrist. "Everywhere."

He took her arm. "Let me see."

"Ouch!"

"Shush. Be still." The sleeve of her blouse lay in tatters, and her skin was gritty with dirt and abraded with angry scratches. The bones of her wrist felt as delicate as the wings of the tiny owlet in his mews. Tenderly he probed for serious injury, "I don't think your arm is broken."

She groaned again and looked up at him, her eyes filled with pain, her pupils dilated with fear. "I can't tell you how relieved that makes me feel. Who built those fool steps up and over that fallen tree?"

"I did."

She closed her eyes. "I should have known." Tears streamed down her cheeks. "Why is it always you, Malcolm?"

Perplexed by the obscurity of her accusation and the extent of her sorrow, he grew defensive. "I tried to warn you. I called out, but you wouldn't heed me."

"I couldn't
hear
you." She blew out her breath and pulled her hand away. Wincing, she rotated her wrist and flexed her fingers. "I probably wouldn't have listened anyway. I wanted to win."

He straightened her kerchief and felt her scalp for lumps. Thankfully he found none, but as he cradled her head he was again reminded of how small yet resilient she was. "Some people never change. You had no business riding so recklessly. You could have killed yourself and crippled the gray. You professed a liking for that horse."

She lifted her gaze and rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. Just this once, I'd rather have your concern than your profundities."

Peeved that she would chide him when the fault was clearly hers, Malcolm said, "I'm concerned all right. 'Tis the duty of a lord to all of his subjects." He held out his arms. "Can you stand?"

"Stand what?" Sniffling and laughing, she dashed away her tears. "If it's to be another of your lectures, my answer is an emphatic no."

If she could find humor in her own brush with death, who was he to be so serious? "Then how about a helping hand or two?"

Flexing her wrist again, she said, "Thank you. This one doesn't seem to be of much use to me just now."

He gripped her around the waist and pulled her to her feet. "It'll be sore tomorrow."

"It's sore now." She swayed.

He steadied her. "Can you walk?"

"Not over that bridge. I don't trust the carpenter."

Malcolm swung her into his arms, and was again surprised at how slight she was. "'Twas my first and last attempt at carpentry."

"I'm so glad." She rested her head on his shoulder. "You're better at…"

"Better at what?"

"Never mind."

"Tell me or I'll drop you in the dirt."

"No, you won't."

"Then I'll forbid you to ride the gray."

She studied him for so long a time he grew uneasy. "You'll make a better husband."

That wasn't what she'd started to say. He'd stake his earldom on it. "How do you know I'll make a good husband?"

"You want me. I want you, and I'll give you a castle full of wee Kerrs with hair as black as midnight."

Her useless boast made his anger surge anew, and he caught himself just before he blurted out the truth and contradicted her. Instead, he carried her over the bridge and started to put her on his horse.

"Wait," she said. "I can't go back dressed in these breeches. I must put my skirt on again."

Surprised, Malcolm said, "Imagine Alpin MacKay worrying over appearances."

"I've changed, Malcolm. I'm not a hoyden wearing cast-off clothing and making mischief everywhere I go."

"Pardon me if I'm tempted to argue that point."

Her frown softened into a self-effacing grin. "
Most
of the time I'm so proper you'd find me boring." To his further surprise, she calmly said, "Will you get my skirt? It's in the saddle pouch."

Malcolm put her down and did as she asked, but he still wanted to get a rise out of her. "Much more decorum from you and I'll think island life turned you into a proper lady."

She huffed up. "Oh, stop teasing me and help me get into the thing or it'll be dark before we get home."

He chuckled. "Hold your arms up and I'll slip it over your head."

As he dressed her, he was surprised at the memories the act spawned. "How many times did we unbutton and button, unhook and hook each other?"

The folds of the skirt muffled her laughter. "Every time we went swimming or…"

The skirt caught on the fullness of her breasts. Careful not to rip the cloth, he tugged the garment down to her waist. "Or danced our pagan rituals?" he said.

A lovely blush brought the color back to her face. Staring at his lips, she said, "Do you kiss and tell?"

A current of energy crackled between them, and his first instinct was to kiss her again. "Only with Celtic priestesses."

"Forget what I said about you being a good husband." She poked him in the stomach. "Ouch." Cradling her hand, she murmured, "I think you're a libertine."

For some unknown reason he wanted to hold her, just hold her. He must be shaken by her narrow escape. "I think you'd better ride with me."

"I think so too, Malcolm. I feel safe in your arms."

As I feel safe in yours
. He cut off the startling thought. Afraid he would start babbling romantic nonsense, he put her on his horse, then mounted behind her and headed home, the gray trotting after them.

No sooner had they passed through the gate than Alexander ran to meet them. Grasping the halter of Malcolm's horse with one hand, the soldier doffed his bonnet with the other. He looked at Alpin's tattered blouse. "What happened to her, my lord?"