mixing our races. But it no longer applies. Figuratively speaking, and without offense to the Prophet, the mountain has come to Muhammad."
Saladin slumped. "We're both in for trouble."
"Not I. I have no need for a permanent mate."
Saladin's mouth flattened to a white line. "False, my friend. You've a need, but you're too sanctimoniously noble to take a wife, knowing you can never…" He broke off and looked away.
"Give her a child?" Malcolm finished for him. He would never sire a son to wield a toy sword and wage mock battles. He'd never sire a daughter to string flowers and chase butterflies. Melancholy stole his breath, yet he knew the futility in dwelling on the impossible.
Alpin had crippled him.
She would pay. As soon as he put Rosina and the troublesome letters on a ship, he'd renew the conquest of Alpin MacKay.
"Enough about my virtues toward the fairer sex. Let's talk about yours. What will you do about our African princess—"
The bell clanged, signaling that someone had entered the tunnel behind the bookcases. Saladin sprang from the chair. "What the devil?"
"Shush." Malcolm put his index finger to his lips.
Only two keys existed. He rummaged through his desk until he found his. Mrs. Elliott kept the other key. That meant Alpin had it now. She had remembered the layout of the castle yard before Malcolm built the new barracks; she probably remembered the tunnels as well. She'd traveled them often enough as a lass.
He mouthed her name to Saladin.
Frowning, the Moor whispered, "Why? What does she want?"
Malcolm shrugged, then cupped a hand to his ear and pointed to himself and Saladin.
"She's eavesdropping?"
Embittered by her intrusion, yet curious as to what she hoped to gain, Malcolm nodded. Then he carefully considered his options. He had a grand opportunity to fill her head with false information.
Smiling, he whispered, "Let's oblige her, shall we?"
A grinning Saladin unfolded his hand, palm up, to Malcolm.
Moving close so she could hear his every word, he stood before the bookcase and spoke in a loud, clear voice. "Our Alpin has certainly grown into a beauty. Don't you agree, Saladin?"
Standing in an alcove in the dark, musty corridor, Alpin felt the compliment chase away her anxiety. She had come to pry. Instead she'd heard pretty compliments.
"True," she heard Saladin say. "Island life seems to have agreed with her."
"Aye, but she's better off here, where she belongs."
"What are her plans?"
"She hasn't shared them. I like to believe she's content keeping house for me."
When mangoes grow on fig trees, thought Alpin. As soon as she could get him to transfer ownership of Paradise to her, she'd be on the first packet home.
Saladin laughed. "I don't have to guess how you feel about having Alpin so close at hand."
"Having her so close at hand does indeed stir my imagination. I just hope she doesn't find out."
"Find out what?" Saladin asked.
Yes, what?
Malcolm said something in Scottish, a language Alpin had never learned.
"We both know you have special feelings for her," Saladin replied in English. "I wouldn't dream of telling her. But I'm sure she suspects."
"How do you know that?" Malcolm snapped.
Alpin stared into the inky darkness, confusion and curiosity running rampant in her mind.
"Because of the way you look at her."
"And how is that?" Although Malcolm spoke calmly, she couldn't miss the accusation in his voice.
"You look like a starving man awaiting the first dish in a ten-course meal," Saladin said. "Don't glower at me. I didn't write the menu."
"But you glory in my predicament."
"Guilty as charged. Tell me, friend. Does Lady Alpin return your lustful feelings?"
"If she doesn't now, she soon will. I have a plan."
Keenly alert, Alpin moved a step closer. Her toe slammed into something hard and sharp. She had forgotten about the blasted boot scraper. Pain shot up her foot, and she bit her lip to muffle a gasp.
"What was that sound?"
In agony she leaned against the wall,
Saladin slumped. "We're both in for trouble."
"Not I. I have no need for a permanent mate."
Saladin's mouth flattened to a white line. "False, my friend. You've a need, but you're too sanctimoniously noble to take a wife, knowing you can never…" He broke off and looked away.
"Give her a child?" Malcolm finished for him. He would never sire a son to wield a toy sword and wage mock battles. He'd never sire a daughter to string flowers and chase butterflies. Melancholy stole his breath, yet he knew the futility in dwelling on the impossible.
Alpin had crippled him.
She would pay. As soon as he put Rosina and the troublesome letters on a ship, he'd renew the conquest of Alpin MacKay.
"Enough about my virtues toward the fairer sex. Let's talk about yours. What will you do about our African princess—"
The bell clanged, signaling that someone had entered the tunnel behind the bookcases. Saladin sprang from the chair. "What the devil?"
"Shush." Malcolm put his index finger to his lips.
Only two keys existed. He rummaged through his desk until he found his. Mrs. Elliott kept the other key. That meant Alpin had it now. She had remembered the layout of the castle yard before Malcolm built the new barracks; she probably remembered the tunnels as well. She'd traveled them often enough as a lass.
He mouthed her name to Saladin.
Frowning, the Moor whispered, "Why? What does she want?"
Malcolm shrugged, then cupped a hand to his ear and pointed to himself and Saladin.
"She's eavesdropping?"
Embittered by her intrusion, yet curious as to what she hoped to gain, Malcolm nodded. Then he carefully considered his options. He had a grand opportunity to fill her head with false information.
Smiling, he whispered, "Let's oblige her, shall we?"
A grinning Saladin unfolded his hand, palm up, to Malcolm.
Moving close so she could hear his every word, he stood before the bookcase and spoke in a loud, clear voice. "Our Alpin has certainly grown into a beauty. Don't you agree, Saladin?"
Standing in an alcove in the dark, musty corridor, Alpin felt the compliment chase away her anxiety. She had come to pry. Instead she'd heard pretty compliments.
"True," she heard Saladin say. "Island life seems to have agreed with her."
"Aye, but she's better off here, where she belongs."
"What are her plans?"
"She hasn't shared them. I like to believe she's content keeping house for me."
When mangoes grow on fig trees, thought Alpin. As soon as she could get him to transfer ownership of Paradise to her, she'd be on the first packet home.
Saladin laughed. "I don't have to guess how you feel about having Alpin so close at hand."
"Having her so close at hand does indeed stir my imagination. I just hope she doesn't find out."
"Find out what?" Saladin asked.
Yes, what?
Malcolm said something in Scottish, a language Alpin had never learned.
"We both know you have special feelings for her," Saladin replied in English. "I wouldn't dream of telling her. But I'm sure she suspects."
"How do you know that?" Malcolm snapped.
Alpin stared into the inky darkness, confusion and curiosity running rampant in her mind.
"Because of the way you look at her."
"And how is that?" Although Malcolm spoke calmly, she couldn't miss the accusation in his voice.
"You look like a starving man awaiting the first dish in a ten-course meal," Saladin said. "Don't glower at me. I didn't write the menu."
"But you glory in my predicament."
"Guilty as charged. Tell me, friend. Does Lady Alpin return your lustful feelings?"
"If she doesn't now, she soon will. I have a plan."
Keenly alert, Alpin moved a step closer. Her toe slammed into something hard and sharp. She had forgotten about the blasted boot scraper. Pain shot up her foot, and she bit her lip to muffle a gasp.
"What was that sound?"
In agony she leaned against the wall,
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