swore she greased your saddle and put thistles 'tween your sheets."
He'd forgotten many of Alpin's harmless pranks. For years he'd lived with the repercussions of her one unconscionable sin. He swallowed hard and felt the bark of a tree at his back and across his chest the ropes that secured him to the trunk. Alpin had stood over him that day, a storm of anger in her eyes, a jar of buzzing hornets in her hand.
"Take back what you said about my dress," she had demanded, shaking the jar.
"Never," he'd spat and kicked dust onto the hem of the only dress he'd ever seen her wear. "You look worse than a pukey lass. You look like your uncle's lapdog all dressed up in satin and bows."
Tears had filled her eyes. "I hate you, Malcolm Kerr."
"My name is Caesar," he had announced.
Then she had lifted the hem of the toga he wore, twisted the lid from the jar, and tossed it under his costume.
The tickle of insect legs on his private parts turned to stabbing, biting, excruciating pain. When the swelling started, he thought it would never stop, and by nightfall his balls were as big as the blacksmith's fists.
The midwife had said he would never sire a child. His stepmother had vehemently disagreed. Her staunch belief had proved fruitless, for none of Malcolm's women had ever conceived. Only his parents, Saladin, and Alexander knew the awful truth. If it became public knowledge—Nay. He stopped the thought, couldn't bear the disappointment his people would feel.
"Was she the meanest child in Christendom?" Dora asked.
Unable to gloss over Alpin's past, he said, "Aye. She was a fair hellion."
"Never know it now, my lord. Right businesslike she is and don't take no sauce from any of the staff." Dora chuckled. "She sent prissy Emily away a while ago. Caught her in the barracks playing kiss-the-freckle with Rabby Armstrong."
With one less maid, the barracks wouldn't get cleaned. The soldiers would complain. Malcolm would have to discipline Alpin. She'd get angry and storm off to her uncle's, a place she'd run away from years ago. Precisely where Malcolm wanted her. Yet the prospect of having Alpin under his roof and his thumb—hell, under him in bed—held a certain appeal.
Using only the edge of his fork, he cut another bite of meat, his thoughts fixed on the confrontation.
The next afternoon he found Alpin in the barracks, bending over a cot and stripping off the sheet. Haifa dozen soldiers, as cocky as swains on Laird's Day, lounged nearby, their gazes, some hungry, some curious, fixed on her.
Was she flirting with his men? Anger ripped through him. So the wicked child had become the coy woman. But as he leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb to listen and watch, he realized she was telling his men about the time he'd fallen off his stilts and tumbled into the well.
Wearing a worn blue dress, without panniers and voluminous petticoats, she looked more like an industrious parson's daughter than the businesslike housekeeper Dora had described. What struck Malcolm most forcefully was the ease with which she commanded attention and the unholy joy she derived from telling the tale.
Plumping the straw-filled leather mattress, she said, "After he rescued Malcolm, Lord Duncan asked him if he was troll hunting or practicing his part in the May Day parade. Malcolm stiffened his spine and said he was merely thirsty all over."
"Our laird can bandy words with the best of them," Rabby Armstrong boasted. "I expect Lady Miriam had a thing to say about our laird nearly drowning."
The men laughed. Two of them moved to help her. She waved them away.
"She did indeed. Volumes as I recall." Alpin stared out the window. "Then she taught us both to swim."
Malcolm remembered. Once the lessons were over and the adults gone, Alpin had insisted on swimming in nature's garb. She'd been tiny and rail-thin, with a chest as flat as oatcakes and nipples like pink buttons. She'd given him his first full-blown hard-on. Then she'd laughed and warned him
He'd forgotten many of Alpin's harmless pranks. For years he'd lived with the repercussions of her one unconscionable sin. He swallowed hard and felt the bark of a tree at his back and across his chest the ropes that secured him to the trunk. Alpin had stood over him that day, a storm of anger in her eyes, a jar of buzzing hornets in her hand.
"Take back what you said about my dress," she had demanded, shaking the jar.
"Never," he'd spat and kicked dust onto the hem of the only dress he'd ever seen her wear. "You look worse than a pukey lass. You look like your uncle's lapdog all dressed up in satin and bows."
Tears had filled her eyes. "I hate you, Malcolm Kerr."
"My name is Caesar," he had announced.
Then she had lifted the hem of the toga he wore, twisted the lid from the jar, and tossed it under his costume.
The tickle of insect legs on his private parts turned to stabbing, biting, excruciating pain. When the swelling started, he thought it would never stop, and by nightfall his balls were as big as the blacksmith's fists.
The midwife had said he would never sire a child. His stepmother had vehemently disagreed. Her staunch belief had proved fruitless, for none of Malcolm's women had ever conceived. Only his parents, Saladin, and Alexander knew the awful truth. If it became public knowledge—Nay. He stopped the thought, couldn't bear the disappointment his people would feel.
"Was she the meanest child in Christendom?" Dora asked.
Unable to gloss over Alpin's past, he said, "Aye. She was a fair hellion."
"Never know it now, my lord. Right businesslike she is and don't take no sauce from any of the staff." Dora chuckled. "She sent prissy Emily away a while ago. Caught her in the barracks playing kiss-the-freckle with Rabby Armstrong."
With one less maid, the barracks wouldn't get cleaned. The soldiers would complain. Malcolm would have to discipline Alpin. She'd get angry and storm off to her uncle's, a place she'd run away from years ago. Precisely where Malcolm wanted her. Yet the prospect of having Alpin under his roof and his thumb—hell, under him in bed—held a certain appeal.
Using only the edge of his fork, he cut another bite of meat, his thoughts fixed on the confrontation.
The next afternoon he found Alpin in the barracks, bending over a cot and stripping off the sheet. Haifa dozen soldiers, as cocky as swains on Laird's Day, lounged nearby, their gazes, some hungry, some curious, fixed on her.
Was she flirting with his men? Anger ripped through him. So the wicked child had become the coy woman. But as he leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb to listen and watch, he realized she was telling his men about the time he'd fallen off his stilts and tumbled into the well.
Wearing a worn blue dress, without panniers and voluminous petticoats, she looked more like an industrious parson's daughter than the businesslike housekeeper Dora had described. What struck Malcolm most forcefully was the ease with which she commanded attention and the unholy joy she derived from telling the tale.
Plumping the straw-filled leather mattress, she said, "After he rescued Malcolm, Lord Duncan asked him if he was troll hunting or practicing his part in the May Day parade. Malcolm stiffened his spine and said he was merely thirsty all over."
"Our laird can bandy words with the best of them," Rabby Armstrong boasted. "I expect Lady Miriam had a thing to say about our laird nearly drowning."
The men laughed. Two of them moved to help her. She waved them away.
"She did indeed. Volumes as I recall." Alpin stared out the window. "Then she taught us both to swim."
Malcolm remembered. Once the lessons were over and the adults gone, Alpin had insisted on swimming in nature's garb. She'd been tiny and rail-thin, with a chest as flat as oatcakes and nipples like pink buttons. She'd given him his first full-blown hard-on. Then she'd laughed and warned him
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