The Highlander’s Healer (Blood of Duncliffe Series)

by Emilia Ferguson

  Prudence chuckled, though she still felt a little sad. “What about her..?”

  “Well, you know she is a seeress.”

  “I heard that,” Prudence said shyly. Somehow, she had always found Merrick intimidating. A tall, black-haired woman with a hard face and a disconcerting regal quality, Merrick was not the most comfortable of people.

  “Well, Merrick has always been marked as other – the earl and his sisters were raised by her, more or less. That already gives her a status utterly unlike all other servants. And we all still follow her advice. So does the whole village, I reckon!” She chuckled. “But yet she is happy as a cook. I think if anyone suggested she move into her own cottage and work solely using her talents, she would tell them off sorely!”

  Prudence chuckled. “I do also.”

  “And yet, when given the same choice by my cousin, that was what you elected to do. I think you will find your own way in the world. Some of us are born having a place. Some of us are different, and must seek our own identities. Of the two paths, this one is harder, but I think the more rewarding.”

  Prudence felt like a weight had been lifted off her chest. She smiled, exhaling wearily. “Thanks, milady. You are right.”

  “I should think so,” Marguerite said, with a flash of mischievous playfulness. “Now. Mayhap you could find Douglas, and ask him when he and Alexander plan to set off? I would rather like to have some assurance that Douglas isn't riding all the way.”

  “I understand,” Prudence murmured and nodded slowly. The earl had sworn years ago to take no side in the conflict: a status that would ultimately benefit Duncliffe, as it kept them out of the conflict.

  “And if you see Lewis, tell him to step in and clear up?” Marguerite added, lifting a delicate porcelain teacup to her lips and finishing the last of the tea.

  “I will,” Prudence agreed. She was already on her feet.

  Alexander is setting off soon.

  The thought weighed on her. A little cheered by Marguerite's insight, though still feeling the awful shame that Alexander made her feel, she headed off to find Marguerite's husband Douglas.

  She wasn't sure she wanted to see Alexander again before he left. She didn't trust herself not to show her feelings.

  SETTING OUT A JOURNEY

  “And we need to take more gunpowder...though each man can carry his own in panniers,” Alexander called over his shoulder to Douglas. The courtyard was a hive of busyness and the noise was loud: men calling orders, a cart rolling across the cobbles, horses’ hoof beats.

  Douglas nodded, stepping closer to avoid the need to shout above the din. “We always do that – best if we don't take anything besides the men and what they can carry. That defile is steep, and we'll have to scale it very quickly.”

  “Yes,” Alexander responded and nodded curtly, fastening the saddlebag onto his own saddle. “We will.”

  Douglas came to stand by his shoulder. Those black eyes looked into his, curious and caring, but not judging. “We don't have that much to prepare now,” he said slowly. “You could take time to say farewells.”

  Alexander looked at his hands.

  Prudence. He knew that was what Douglas meant. The earl's insight surprised him – he hadn't known his feelings for Prudence were apparent. He felt uncomfortable, but not because the earl had guessed his love. Because he wasn't feeling ready to face her.

  He couldn't go and say goodbye just now. He knew how badly his reaction had upset Prudence, but he had no idea at all what to do about it. He had little experience making apologies, to either men or women. He didn't know where to begin.

  “I will say them later,” he murmured.

  “Don't leave it too late,” Douglas said, already turning away. “We leave in half an hour. Ah! Presterly. There you are. Ready with the gunners?”

  “Ready, sir.”

  Alexander looked away. He had caught sight of Prudence crossing the head of the courtyard, going in the direction of where he thought the kitchens were located. In a white dress, her pale hair loosely knotted at her nape, she looked fresh and lovely. It added to his fear of facing her.

  I don't want her to hate me.

  All the same, he had no idea how to make her not hate him. He had insulted her on a level he wasn't sure he could come back from, but all by accident. He knew what she thought – that he had laughed at her! How could she know him so little?

  “As if I am so shallow as to do a thing like that.” He felt anger would be a better substitute for sorrow, or perhaps shame. How dare she think that he, a high-minded sort of fellow, would care about her status?

  “She mended my wounds, she saw me weak and helpless,” he muttered and sighed. How could she think it would matter to him that she had once worked here as a servant?

  He rolled his shoulder experimentally, wincing as he felt it pull and ache. Prudence had changed the dressing for him that morning, but it still felt sore and had a prickling itch at the edges that showed healing.

  “I couldn't care if she came from the worst quarters of Edinburgh! She's a healer.”

  He sighed. That wasn't quite true, and he knew it. He could care.

  I did already think it would be impossible to take her to Lachlann.

  That hurt – the fact that he had already been considering it, even when he simply thought she was the widow of a well-to-do trader. How much more impossible should he think it now? When she was no different in status to the woman he saw across the yard, drawing pails of well-water for the kitchens?

  “Come off it, Alexander. You know she's so much more than that.”

  He shook himself, sighing. He knew that, for certes. Nobody else in his social circles would, and if word ever got out – Heaven knows how it could, but it may – that she had once worked as a servant in Lady Claudine's household, then he would be laughed out of high society.

  Would that matter, honestly?

  For himself, he couldn't care. He found most of the local earls – Douglas excepted – ruthless schemers, most of the lairds power-drunk and petty. He didn't really think he would miss the company of either sort. Nevertheless, his earldom would suffer.

  After that, future generations will be reduced to obscurity, the accounts will dwindle and my descendants will be living on a small farm with no connections.

  He shook his head firmly. There was no way he could do that to his lineage! His father would never have forgiven him. His father had passed away years ago though. Did that really matter to him so much, his father's sentiment?

  He bit his lip, uncertain. It had been all that mattered to him, he realized, for most of his life. If it hadn't been for how deeply he cared about his father's opinion, he would probably be out traveling by now, exploring the world as the captain of a fine vessel, or as a merchant trader.

  “Milord? The armorer wants to speak with you?”

  “I will see him,” Alexander nodded, and followed him across the yard. He found himself introduced to a tall, solemn-faced fellow by the name of Mr. Soames.

  “Milord, we have five more rifles for your fellows to take,” he informed. It was great news, but he looked grave.

  “Grand,” Alexander nodded. That would see to it that half the men were armed. The men partaking of the surprise attack would need them to fire at the waiting ambushers from the rear. He glanced at the specimens the fellow had with him. He grimaced. Seized in former conflicts, most of the rifles were woefully aged and some had rusted. However, he reckoned, shrugging, they were better than no guns at all.

  “Make sure they are clean,” he quickly instructed the armorer. “And in good firing order. We don't want them mutilating our men.”

  A clogged barrel or a weak reinforcement could make the gun more of a danger to its owner than his opponent, blowing it into shards of hot iron as he tried to fire it.

  “Yes, sir,” the man said nodded. His expression hadn't changed. “And the distribution?”

  “I'll give them to the men when they're together.”
<
br />   “Thanks, sir.”

  Alexander turned away, feeling irritable. He didn't know why, but he felt restless, like something had settled in his chest, driving him onward. He would, he thought, feel better when they were away.

  As he strode toward the manor, Prudence came out. He stopped dead, back instantly stiffening.

  I don't know what to say to her.

  “Lord Douglas was looking for you,” Prudence said shortly. “He said you should see to it that the men are assembling in the forecourt.”

  “I already organized that,” Douglas said baldly. He swallowed hard. His pulse thumped. He looked into her brown eyes, with those green flecks. He felt his loins tug, as they always did as his eyes moved lower, studying her sweet body. However, the longing was mixed with apprehension.

  She hates me now.

  He didn't want to meet her gaze, see that blank indifference.

  “I think you should...”

  “When I have gone...”

  Alexander shook his head as they both spoke at once. “Sorry,” he said, looking at his laced hands. “I didn't mean to interrupt. You first?”

  “I was going to say, I think you should come inside. Lord Douglas is in the hallway, and I think he wished to speak with you?”

  “Oh.” Alexander looked back at the courtyard, almost wistfully. He felt acutely uncomfortable, here, talking to Prudence. Uncomfortable and shamed. He would much rather be losing himself in the minutiae of defensive preparations.

  “Well, he's waiting for you.” Prudence shrugged uncomfortably.

  “Yes.”

  Neither of them moved. Douglas looked into her eyes. Suddenly, it was all he could do not to reach out and draw her into a crushing embrace, holding her to his chest, covering her face with scalding kisses.

  “Prudence,” he murmured. His voice ached. He held out a hand. “Will you...”

  He had meant to ask her to come with him inside for a while – they stood in the colonnade, near the main doors – but she turned away.

  “I need to go and talk to Mrs. Merrick. She's preparing the victuals for the men.”

  “After your talk, then?” Alexander asked, heart thumping.

  “After my talk,” she said. Her voice sounded hollow. “In the courtyard?”

  “Over there, by the wall,” Alexander said, jerking his head in the direction of the wall that ran behind the stable. It must, in former times, have been the curtain wall. It still served to keep out the wind, and enemies, he presumed, in dangerous times.

  “Yes.”

  He held her gaze a long moment and then, swallowing, she ducked her head and walked away briskly, heading toward the kitchen gardens.

  Douglas watched her go, heart aching, feeling foolish. He turned and briskly walked inside.

  “Milord?” He found himself face-to-face with Douglas, who was just inside the main hallway. He had donned his cloak – the dark forest-green tartan of Duncliffe, and looked regal. He raised a brow at Alexander, eyes already seeing battle plans.

  “Are you ready to go? We have ten minutes.”

  Alexander swallowed hard. “I am, Douglas. I'll just fetch my cloak.”

  “Do that.” He nodded briefly. “I'll mount up and await you at the head of the men. I'll lead the other half part of the way.”

  Alexander nodded. “Yes. Grand.” The earl, he knew, would not take part in the fighting, and simply rode part of the way to escort them off his land. He had loaned his men to the cause on the Jacobite side, but that was the greatest extent of his involvement. Duncliffe would remain neutral.

  He nodded to Douglas, and then headed out as fast as his legs would take him.

  Upstairs, he donned his cloak, letting the warm dark-blue folds, checked with green, settle about his shoulders. Then he briskly turned away.

  “I only have a few minutes.”

  What could he say in ten minutes, maybe less? How could he convey to Prudence how sorry he was, how boorishly he'd acted?

  Heading across the courtyard, already mentally composing phrases, he went toward the rear wall of the stables.

  Waiting there felt like an age had passed. He kept looking around at every noise, expecting that someone would come and seek him. That someone would be shaking their head at his tardiness, ready to demote him from leadership.

  This isn't the military, Alexander, he reminded himself. You're leading borrowed troops, assembled from among the tenants of Duncliffe.

  He sighed and turned away, watching as the last of the horses were led from the stables.

  “Sir?”

  Alexander whipped round. It was a delicate female voice he recognized. It sounded unhappy.

  “Prudence,” he said. “I'm so glad! I thought you wouldn't come to talk!”

  Prudence frowned, that delicate oval face creasing at the brow. “Why did you think that?”

  “Because...Prudence...” He stopped, shaking his head. “I'm sorry.”

  “What for?” she asked, though her voice held a hard quality. She seemed defiant, as if daring him not to know what he'd done.

  “Prudence, when you said...” He winced, not certain how to raise it. “I didn't mean...”

  “You think, because I am a servant – or was one – that my feelings are not as refined as yours,” she said woodenly. “That I can be laughed at, mocked, insulted...and feel nothing. Is that not so?”

  “No!” Alexander said, sounding horrified. “No, Prudence! Please!” he added desperately, “Why would you think that?”

  “You thought I wouldn't be upset, when you sneered at me. When you found amusement in...what I was.”

  “I didn't find it amusing!” he protested loudly. “I thought... Prudence, I don't know what I thought. But I didn't mean...” He shook his head. “Forgive me?”

  “What for?” she asked, laughing harshly. “You didn't do anything that someone like you wouldn't have the permission to do.”

  “Nobody has permission to mock another,” Alexander said stolidly.

  “You think so?” Her lips tugged into a mocking grimace.

  “Well, I suppose some people abuse their positions, but...” He trailed off, now weakly. “But I'm not one of those, Prudence!” he said. “I promise!”

  “No, you're not, are you?” she said bitterly. “You're so noble, so saintly, that you were prepared to overlook my humble origins, my low birth, and condescend to being seen with me?”

  Alexander blinked, flabbergasted. “No!” he said. “No! That isn't it...”

  “But it is, isn't it?”

  She was already turning away. Alexander shot out a hand to detain her. She wrenched around and looked at him.

  “Milord?”

  Alexander felt his eyes melt into her defiant ones, even as a man called him. She held his gaze a moment longer, the defiance dying, replaced by melting sorrow. Then she rapidly turned away. She hastened across the cobbled-stones.

  “Milord?” the man repeated, more urgently. “We are ready...”

  “I know,” Alexander interrupted, turning quickly to him. “I'm coming now.”

  He turned to walk beside the fellow, heading, with legs that felt as if they were cast from lead, along behind the man who'd called.

  At the head of the ten riders he would lead, he swung up into the saddle, impressed once again that Duncliffe could command such a group of men and horses. It was hard enough for most estates to scrape together seven or eight horses, never mind ten, and such fine ones!

  “Right, men,” he said, turning his horse and increasing his volume, to address them. “We ride at a canter toward Fallbrook Hill.”

  “Aye, sir!” they echoed, a scattering of words in the wind-still air.

  Then, back stiff, heart tensed, Alexander turned away again, and led them to the gate. Behind him, he saw Douglas riding out, the dark green cloak settled about him giving him even more dignity than normal.

  He spotted Lady Marguerite at the upper window, the casement open, and the sunlight shining on her
red hair. He looked in vain for blond curls, but saw nobody.

  Prudence hates me now.

  He swallowed hard. He might be shot as his men rode up the defile. Regardless, his heart was sorer with the thought that he hadn't had a chance to make things right.

  He didn't even know how he truly felt, or what choice he would make, given the time and space and luxury to choose his own way in life.

  AWAITING SOME NEWS

  “Prudence...can you see Douglas yet?”

  Marguerite's voice drifted fitfully through the still, warm air of the parlor. Prudence, at the window, turned and shook her head. “Sorry, milady, but no.”

  “I suppose it does take five hours to ride to Fallbrook,” Marguerite said, sounding concerned. She reached for her tea. Prudence noticed that her hand was unsteady.

  “Milady, the earl will be back soon. He's not the sort to get involved in other people's conflicts.” She spoke reassuringly.

  “No!” Marguerite nodded, looking up. “In fact, it's even impossible to make him argue!” She chuckled, her voice rich with fondness. “If he doesn't agree with something, he simply goes quiet, or turns it away with some neutral comment.”

  “He sounds like a fine man,” Prudence commented. She felt a little sad. She was as fond of Alexander as Marguerite seemed of her Douglas. Yet, she thought sorrowfully, she had no real right or way to share it.

  “He is. The very best.” Marguerite nodded, reaching for an embroidery hoop. “I think I will sew awhile,” she said. “Mayhap a tapestry for the parlor. It's distracting. And distraction's very welcome.”

  Prudence nodded, swallowing hard. She wished she could make a tapestry, but the fine, delicate stitching was something she'd never learned. All she could do was sew well enough to mend. It was another thing that marked her as a former servant, and added to her discomfort.

  “Prudence?” Marguerite said, frowning as she poked blue cotton into the eye of a needle. “I hope we're stocked up properly with herbs, in case the men return injured? I meant to ask Merrick, but I know nothing of such things,” she added, shrugging helplessly. She fixed Prudence with a hopeful expression.