Soul Of A Highlander (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  “I'm sorry,” he whispered. “But yes.”

  Claudine leaned forward so that her head rested on his shoulder. He reached up and wrapped his arms round her body, holding her against him. He sighed. How could he bear her being so sad? He wished he could ride to Evreux. What he wished to do to her uncle in that moment was almost beyond description. The man was wicked to have done this to her. Wicked beyond his wildest imagining.

  “Curse him,” he whispered.

  Claudine went stiff in his arms. She looked up into his eyes. Very gently, she reached out and touched his face. “No, my dear.”

  Francis let out an explosive sigh. “I know,” he said. “But, sweetling, how can I not hate him?”

  “You cannot hate him,” she said quietly. “I wish you to try.”

  Francis shook his head. He smiled at her, a lopsided grin. “You know, Claudine, you amaze me.”

  She smiled into his eyes and he felt his heart flip over with excitement and wonderment. At that moment he didn't have room for any hate inside him.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He leaned forward and let his lips brush over her own. He felt somehow wicked, kissing here in the precincts of the abbey, but it was a sweet wickedness. All the same, the kiss was brief and chaste, but still fired his loins beyond anything he had ever known. He winced and stood, feeling an almost uncontrolled need for her.

  “Claudine,” he breathed. “I...you know what I would ask, were I at liberty to do it.”

  She let her big blue eyes go wide. “No, Francis. What would you ask?”

  He heard himself chuckle softly. “I would...let me do this properly,” he added, and sank down so he looked up into her eyes. “Claudine, daughter of the Duke of Pavot. Would you do me the honor of accepting my hand?”

  He saw her eyes widen and then fill with big tears. He watched as they flowed down her cheeks and then he was enfolding her in his arms as she leaned against his chest and sobbed and sobbed.

  “Oh, my dearest,” she said. She reached up and put her hand on his cheek. Then she drew his face down to hers and their lips explored each other desperately. “Oh.”

  He smiled. “Well?”

  Claudine giggled. “Oh, Francis. My dearest Francis! Yes.”

  Francis felt as if his heart would melt and he crushed her to his chest, wishing he could hold her thus, close and almost indivisible from his own flesh, forever. He loved her so much and having her in his arms felt so, so right.

  “Oh, Francis,” she murmured, looking up into his eyes, her own sparkling with wonder and joy.

  They kissed again.

  Later, Francis and Bernadette sat with Claudine in the garden. Sister Adelaide was at the other side of the table where they sat to take their luncheon, a shadowy figure blending with the trees just out of sight.

  “We cannot let Uncle Lucas' deeds go unquestioned,” Francis said. He felt his resolve fill him. “He must be exposed. Besides, none of us are safe while he lives.”

  “That is true,” Bernadette said. She had been so steadfast during the escape. At the mention of the count he saw her face harden.

  “I know,” Claudine whispered. “But...we are all in danger now. I hate to think of what will happen when we leave this place. We will walk straight into danger again.”

  Francis shook his head. “The abbey is on the borders of my father's land,” he said. “I think your uncle is not so shortsighted as to seek war with my father. While we are here, we are safe.”

  “Thank you,” Claudine said in a small voice.

  “The reason we need to confront him is not so much for our own safety,” Francis continued, “but the fact that the count has deceived everyone. We need to expose what he did.”

  “If nothing else, your father should know.”

  Francis saw Claudine go gray-toned at the mention of her father. “No, Bernadette.” She shook her head. “Why should we tell him?”

  “The man's his brother,” Bernadette said grimly. “He has a right to know.”

  “But my father doesn't care about me,” Claudine whispered. “Uncle said he wanted to rid himself of me. That I was a nuisance...” she trailed off. Francis looked at Bernadette and they all looked at each other.

  “I think your father should have the right to counter that accusation,” Francis said gently.

  Claudine looked into his eyes. She looked scared. “I don't know, Francis,” she said sadly. “What if you're wrong? Mayhap he hates me as my uncle conveyed?”

  Francis raised a brow. “Well, mayhap. But I think we ought to know the truth.”

  Claudine relaxed and nodded slowly. “Yes, Francis. I think you're right. If naught else, he needs to give us his blessing.”

  Francis felt his own heart light up. “Yes. You're right. Indeed he does.”

  Claudine smiled a little sadly. “I think he will. He never expected me to wed at all, you know. He'll be pleased to be rid of me.”

  Francis felt himself look at Bernadette. The woman's eyes met his significantly. Francis nodded.

  “We'll take the journey to Pavot as soon as you are feeling stronger, my dear.”

  For the first time since he'd mentioned visiting her father, Claudine smiled.

  “Well, all things considered, I think that will be soon.”

  It took a week. Francis stayed with the novice monks and helped with the daily tasks. He found himself learning skills he'd never imagined: fixing a fence, replacing broken tiles in the scriptorium, dusting the tapestries. Every day, he visited Claudine. Every day, she got stronger.

  On the morning a week after their arrival, Claudine accompanied him into the fields. It was a warm summer day, a slight breeze ruffling the trees.

  “A glorious day, yes?” Francis asked softly. “And a glorious sight,” he added, waving an arm at a mass of blossoming buttercups in the field across from the monastery grounds.

  Claudine nodded. She twitched her nose, and then drew breath. She sneezed.

  Francis laughed. “Have you a kerchief?” he asked, hunting in the waistband of his tunic to see if he'd put one under the folds.

  “Uh, yes, dear. I do have one, here...” Claudine produced one from under her kirtle but, as she raised it to her face, the wind snatched at it. “Oh! Mercy me...”

  She laughed and pursued it. Francis, laughing, took off behind her. It was only after he had caught up with her that they looked at each other. Her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling, she stared at him in wonderment.

  “I ran,” she said, completely disbelieving.

  Francis laughed. His whole being rejoiced. He kissed her.

  “You ran! My darling. You ran.”

  It barely seemed possible. A month ago, Claudine could barely walk. However, now here she was, running through the field, the wind stroking her golden hair, her cheeks flushed. She was well!

  “We should go to Pavot,” Francis said.

  Claudine nodded slowly. “Yes, we should.”

  They went into the garden, arm in arm, to find Bernadette. They were leaving tomorrow.

  Francis sat back in the coach. It was the third day of their travel. They had taken the Annecy coach on the road north to Pavot. Now, with the pine forest subsiding to fields of summer green grass, they were almost there.

  “We'll have finished our business here before we know it,” Francis said softly. Opposite him, he saw Claudine grow tense. She was clearly nervous, and her blue eyes were sad.

  “I hope so,” she whispered.

  Francis took her hand, gripping those soft, cool fingers in his own. “Assuredly yes, dearest.”

  She nodded and clamped that sweet pink lip between her teeth in a sad expression. Sad though it was, Francis felt his loins throb. He wanted her so much.

  He told himself to be patient. One of the things he could do now was ask her father, formally, for her hand. Soon he would hopefully have the legal freedom to wed his daughter.

  I'll do it whether he grants me that or not.

  He s
miled. He couldn't wait a moment longer. Soon they would be in Pavot.

  “Whoa!”

  The coachman's yell struck Francis, making him jump. He had been half asleep, lulled by the soft motion of the carriage in the drowsy afternoon heat. He tried to stand up.

  Opposite him, Claudine's face was drawn and tight with worry.

  “Here we are,” she whispered. “Be careful?”

  Francis nodded. “I shall. I promise. Wait for me here?”

  Claudine nodded and Francis waited until their coach had been admitted through the wide, high gates before he alighted, striding quickly across the courtyard to the entrance to the great hall.

  “Halt!” a guard yelled. “What business have you with his lordship?”

  Francis raised a brow. He had no patience for this. Not today.

  “The urgent sort.”

  He strode past into the hall, hearing the door handle crash against the stone wall as he pushed it open.

  “No! Stop! Felon...”

  The shouting of the guards died away as two pairs of eyes turned to face Francis. One of them he knew at once. The cool, gray blue, lizard cold gaze of Uncle Lucas.

  The other was a wide, sky-blue gaze. With big round eyes that were so like Claudine's, the taller, sleekly covered man with the thinning gold hair must be her father.

  “Brother! Call the guardsmen,” Lucas said briskly.

  “G...wait,” the taller man said. “No, Lucas. Not yet. Hello,” he said hesitantly to Francis. “A fine fellow you are to break into my hall! What is the meaning of this intrusion? The truth now.”

  Francis blinked. If two men could be complete opposites, it was this man and his brother. Where Lucas was lean and hawk-eyed, this man was smooth and relaxed. His stare was big-eyed as if he were constantly surprised by life. However, he was smiling fondly at Francis and he felt he liked him immediately. If this man had rejected his sick daughter, he'd be surprised.

  “Sir, I come as an envoy from Claudine,” he said quickly.

  “Claudine! How peculiar!” He turned to Lucas, frowning wide-eyed and confused. “Is that possible?”

  Francis saw Lucas shake his head and he cleared his throat, blocking whatever Lucas was about to say.

  “It is, your grace.” He bowed extravagantly low. “I was just now with the lady, and I assure you I am sent by her. I show you this handkerchief as proof,” he said. He reached into his belt and drew out the handkerchief that he, three days previous, had chased with Claudine across a sun-warm field.

  “Give it here,” her father said. He looked at it, his eyes wide.

  “It certainly has her monogram,” he said. “How came you by it? I thought...” he turned to Lucas, who sighed.

  “It's a trick, brother. Obviously. A nefarious trick – your daughter is even now under the care of the monks at Blanchard. I fear she will not survive this latest delirium. How could she have handed this...dangerous foreigner...her kerchief? Don't trust him.”

  Francis felt his cheeks lift in a mirthless smile. He watched the duke's eyes widen and the man looked at him.

  “Well, sir? Is it as my brother has told me? If it isn't, you'd best have a fine explanation to offer! I don't brook any giving my kin the name of liars.”

  Francis looked at the ground humbly. “It is not true, sir. Your daughter is well. I saw her an hour before now.”

  “An hour! But my daughter is three days' – nay, five days' – ride hence! That isn't possible.”

  Francis felt himself tense as he saw the duke subtly beckon his guard. He was in dire danger here. He looked round wildly.

  “Claudine is not at your brother's estate,” he said. “Nor is she falling ill. She is healthy and well and in Pavot now.”

  He saw Lucas smile grimly. “The man's either a dangerous madman or a liar. Or raving! How can you believe him? Where is she, then?”

  Francis felt in real danger as the duke's eyes narrowed. He was a formidable man, clearly, for all his smooth, easy politesse.

  “My brother speaks true. Why would my daughter come to Pavot? Why would she stay in the town, without coming in to see her father? I've not seen her these last two years! If she is here, as you say, why did she not visit me?”

  He sounded sad, more than angry, and Francis felt his own heart twist painfully in his chest.

  She didn't come because she believes you hate her, he wanted to shout. She didn't come because she's afraid of you. Because she thinks you turned away when she needed you. However, what could he say? He couldn't prove any of it. Fleetingly, he wished Claudine had not been unwilling to join him.

  “Indeed!” Uncle Lucas said. “Why would she refuse to see her own father, eh? Tell us that, you scoundrel. And no lies.”

  “Yes,” the duke said, rounding on him, stepping down from the dais with his cheeks flushed. “Guards!” he added, beckoning the five men forward. “Tell me, my lord, why my daughter would avoid her father?”

  As the men ran forward and snatched Francis' arms, he heard the two noblemen gasp. He looked at their faces but they were not looking at him. They were looking over his head at something behind him. Or someone.

  “I avoided my father because I believed he had rejected me,” Claudine's voice said coldly. “Because I believed you, Uncle. And now I want to see if I was right.”

  Francis felt his heart sink. She was here. Was she in danger? He turned round and looked at her. She smiled. Then her eyes went past him. Francis turned round.

  To look into the eyes of the duke, which were suddenly and inexplicably filled with tears.

  “My daughter,” he said softly. “My beloved daughter.”

  “Father!” Claudine sobbed. “Oh! Father. I missed you.”

  Francis stayed where he was, kneeling on the floor, a guard on either side of him. Utterly forgotten, rendered temporarily invisible, he could not have been happier or more content.

  Later, they sat down to a delicious dinner. The scent of delicious cooking wafted up to Claudine's nose: roast fish and fennel. It made her mouth water. She hadn't eaten such fare since the palace ball: that had been the last time she could find the energy to go downstairs.

  “My daughter,” her father said. “It is...remarkable...to have you back with us. And in such wonderful health.”

  “Thank you, Father.” She smiled shyly at him and then looked down at her plate.

  It felt strange, to look into his face. She had not seen him for two years. She could barely drag her gaze away now. Everything about him – from the soft outline of his face to the big blue eyes to the tender way he smiled, cheeks lifting, eyes kindling, when he looked at her – was indescribable and precious.

  A cough from across the table brought Claudine back to the present. She caught the look from across the table and grinned at Francis.

  “You wish to ride tomorrow?” he asked. “Your father was telling me about his stables.”

  Claudine felt her cheeks color. “Mayhap,” she said softly. Just to think of the fact that she could ride now was yet another wonder in a day that already had so many wonders to offer.

  Claudine felt as if her heart would melt. Every time she looked up at him and her eyes met his, she felt as if springtime had visited her inside, making her heart blossom with love.

  “Claudine?” her father said softly.

  “Mm?” she frowned. “Sorry, Father. I was lost in thought.”

  “I remember you getting lost in thought,” her father smiled fondly. “I missed it. I wanted to ask about these people that helped you? The nuns at Bois?”

  Claudine nodded and swallowed a mouthful of delicate grilled perch. “I think they helped save my life, Father,” she said in a small voice. “Well, them, and Bernadette. And Francis.”

  She blushed when she said his name. Across the table his eyes met hers. He grinned and then she lowered her eyes demurely before her whole body caught fire with the growing sensations inside of her. Her stomach was a tight knot of excitement and her heart thudded. Having h
im here in the dining room she recalled so well from her growing-up years was a strangely intimate experience.

  “I hope I can speak to you later, sir,” Francis said to her father, surprising both of them. Claudine saw her father's eyes widen and then return quickly to their normal tranquil shape.

  “Of course, my son,” he said genially. “I am easy to find...just go to my office in the turret. I'll be in there pretending to work while actually I rest after this ample dinner.”

  Claudine giggled. Across the table from her, Francis smiled.

  Claudine felt her pulse thump. She leaned forward and her knee, quite by accident, touched Francis' where it rested under the table. She jumped and he smiled as she withdrew her knee. He pressed forward, so their knees touched. His leg slipped between hers.

  Claudine gasped.

  Her father looked sideways. She went red.

  “Sorry, Father,” she murmured softly. “The stew is hot.”

  Her father nodded. “I suppose it is, Daughter. It's these carrots. Peculiar things. They hold the heat.” If he didn't believe that was the source of her discomfort, he hid it remarkably well.

  Claudine flushed and nodded. “Yes, it's that.”

  Francis was grinning and she felt the urge to laugh. She forced herself to keep a neutral face even though she was shaking with laughter inside. She could feel his knee pressing between her own and somewhere his toe stroked her foot, making her jump again.

  “It is hot, isn't it?” her father mused. “I should talk to the head cook. Encourage him to cut these carrots a bit smaller. What do you say, hey?”

  “You keep an excellent chef,” Francis said gravely. “I would feel doltish suggesting he did anything different on my account.”

  Claudine saw her father's face soften. “Thank you, Lord Francis. Now, if you don't mind, I would like to hear the story of your escape. In full. Leave nothing out.”

  Claudine felt her stomach tighten. She felt ill still, just thinking about it. The last thing she wished to do was hear about it all again. She would rather simply forget.

  “Cannot we just forget, Father?” she asked, hopeful.

  Her father smiled. His hand covered hers, his own big, strong, and comforting. “As you will, my dear. I have already made up my mind what I will do.”