Destiny Of A Highlander: Blood of Duncliffe Series (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Ferguson, Emilia

  “Sister,” Douglas smiled, sighing as he looked up. “Well! That was a ride.”

  “Are you awake now?” Francine smiled.

  Douglas laughed. “I am, yes!”

  They both laughed. Francine reined in beside him and they walked on, letting their horses rest and wander about a bit.

  “You have something you want to tell me, sister?”

  Francine considered it. If she told Douglas about the demand her father placed on her, he would want to help. Moreover, if Douglas started helping, he would be unlikely to stop, no matter how detrimental to him it was. She frowned, still considering. “Father...did he mention to you that he plans for me to wed?”

  “Wed?” Douglas shook his head. “Sister, no. To whom?”

  “Fraser McGuinness.”

  “What?”

  The horrified stare warmed Francine's heart. If Douglas thought it was so outrageous that she should marry Fraser, then she could be forgiven for thinking the same herself. She felt her cheeks lift in a smile of relief. “Well, I also thought that.”

  “Sorry, sister.” Douglas shook his head. “But that is a step too far. Fraser is...I do not know how he could deem him suitable for you. The man's horrid.”

  Francine laughed, relieved to hear her own sentiments so completely echoed. “Yes! I think so too. Oh, Douglas.” She smiled at him warmly. “I'm glad you're my brother.”

  “And I am glad you're my sister, Francine. Now, we should get back. I must speak with Father. See what he says. I only hope I can talk sense into the fellow before he talks to Fraser.”

  “I have a week,” Francine murmured.

  “A week?” Douglas stared at her aghast, turning back to face her from where he rode further. “Sister. We must move now.” His face, long and strong-jawed, was grave.

  “I know,” Francine whispered.

  “We will make him see sense, never fear,” Douglas said quietly. “If I have to visit our uncle and consult him on the matter, we will make sure this doesn't happen. Fraser! Of all the people he could have chosen…”

  Francine swallowed hard. “Thank you, brother. It is good to have support.”

  “Not at all. Now, let's go and find him. If we ride hard, we will be back in time for luncheon.”

  “Yes, we shall.”

  Reaching up to tuck a curl of hair out of her eyes, Francine squeezed with her knees and set off, riding hard and fast across the fields back to the house.

  When they reached the place, the clock said half past eleven. Douglas hurried up the stairs to change clothes.

  Francine paused a moment, and then wished she had been quicker as she heard a voice behind her.

  “Milady Francine?”

  She turned sharply, feeling a hand descend to her elbow. She twisted to stare up into Fraser McGuinness' eyes. Brown and cool, they stared into hers. She had the feeling that some rare stone might have, peered at under the lens of a jeweler. “Yes, Lord Fraser?”

  “You have not forgotten, I hope, that you have six days?”

  “No, milord. I have not forgotten.”

  He grinned. “You seem quite serious. I would not have thought it such a dreadful prospect, then?”

  “It is a prospect about which I have to think,” Francine said carefully. His hand on her elbow was making her feel sick, his presence beside her making her heart thump with warning. She didn't like the way he looked into her eyes.

  “To think, eh?” he said, frowning. “Well. I suppose I can't be sorry if you think about me, eh?” He grinned, much like a predator, and Francine shivered, seeing the sudden warmth in his gaze.

  “I think about the paths of my future,” Francine said, feeling desperate. The last thing she wished was for this man to think she entertained salacious thoughts of him!

  “Well, I hope they are pleasant thoughts. I will be thinking many of those before the wedding.”

  “Very good, milord.”

  He laughed and Francine twisted away, managing to dislodge her elbow from his grip. She walked briskly away and up the stairs, moving as quickly as she could without making it obvious. When she reached her bedroom she shut the door, latched it and sat down heavily on her bed, covering her face with her hands.

  She tried to blot out the thoughts of Fraser – this moment, mixed with memories of past visits – and, oddly enough, as her mind painted over those memories, it replaced them with thoughts of the previous evening. Of Henry.

  “Lord Henry, son of Lord Gracewell, Earl of Althorpe.”

  She knew his name by heart now, and his father's title. She smiled, recalling details of his smile, his eyes, and his words.

  Of all the worries and horrible events just recently, that one memory would comfort her: Henry's warm eyes and gentle smile.

  She wondered, not for the first time, how it was that one was supposed to feel for someone one might wed.

  One thing she knew for certain: frightened was not the right emotion. Not, then, anything like how Fraser McGuinness made her feel. No, she would have to do something about that. And fast. She had less than a week now.

  NEW SENSATIONS

  The music lifted and wove around Henry, making him wish he knew how to dance to it. He sighed. As the only Englishman there, dancing to a Scottish reel was something completely inaccessible to him. All the same, he wished he knew where to start. The music seemed the very essence of happiness.

  “Enjoying the sunshine?” Marguerite asked from beside him, interrupting his thoughts.

  “I am, yes, sister,” Henry nodded, turning to look down into her sweet heart-shaped face. She was wearing a wide-brimmed hat over her red curls, and he couldn't help smiling into her eyes. She looked so pretty, he realized.

  She beamed back. “I'm so glad. I'm rather pleased we came! It's so bracing out here!” She inhaled theatrically, making some of the other people around them turn and stare. She laughed, ignoring the gawkers, too caught up in the moment to be concerned about them.

  Henry smiled. Of the two of them, Marguerite was always more indifferent to the hostile stares they sometimes drew. “It is,” he nodded. “Most bracing. I can't be sorry we came.”

  He drew in a breath and looked around the garden. It was evening, perhaps five o' clock, he judged, and, as it was autumn, the sun was setting. A piper played a reel and the gentlefolk wove between tables of refreshment laid out on the wide, green lawn of Aberleigh House. It was a typical afternoon gathering and looked set to turn into an early supper-party. Henry sighed.

  I suppose there are some benefits to Father being so prominent a Jacobite supporter. At least we get to go to parties.

  They were frequent guests at the homes of leading Jacobite figures. Moreover, as there was no better way to arrange a meeting than under the guise of a party, their list of social engagements was long.

  He looked around the gathering of gentry here on the sunlit lawns of the park. The odd figure stood out for him – Lord Cameron was there, prominently wearing Scottish plaid, whereas many of the others wore ordinary garb. He spotted McDonald as well, and a Fraser. Nobody else was someone he particularly recognized, though he was sure almost all of them were Jacobites.

  At least some of them are getting used to me.

  It was odd, but ever since the ball two days before, he had noticed a marked change in the way people treated him. As if by her presence, the girl he’d met – Lady Francine – had somehow lifted a spell. He was still not openly received, but people were not obviously hostile either. There were less of the cold stares and more simple shuffles to the side when he arrived, almost apologetically done. Somehow she had loaned him some of her mystique and allowed him to pass among these people almost unnoticed.

  It is the kindest act anyone ever did for me.

  Marguerite was speaking to another girl – Lady Beatrice – a girl with whom she'd managed to form a friendship. With auburn hair and a soft, gentle face, Beatrice seemed the best of the Scotswomen, though fairly typical with her masses of red hair and pi
nk cheeks.

  “Lord Henry!” she grinned. “Marguerite was just saying that we should go out into the countryside sometime. If you are so taken with the local pipers, you must hear them in the right surroundings.”

  “Indeed, milady Beatrice,” he smiled, bowing politely as Marguerite and Beatrice laughed. “I would find that very pleasant, I think.”

  “I didn't know you were that interested in the local culture, Henry?” Marguerite frowned.

  “I am interested in all sorts of things,” Henry demurred. When Marguerite and Beatrice had gone, heading across the garden together, he let out a long sigh.

  I suppose my interest is somewhat new. Born of my interest in a particular person, I think.

  He blushed. Lady Francine had made him think differently about Scotland. With her kind, warm grace, the way she had reached out to him so effortlessly, she had made him think it was possible, after all, to become a part of this place.

  I will never be Scottish, but she made me feel it was at least possible to feel at home here.

  He sighed. A few days ago, he would have found that thought impossible. Now he was here considering whether or not he preferred the jig or the reel. It was remarkable!

  “Och, watch your step, lad,” a man said, almost bumping into him. Henry nodded and stood back sharply as the older clansman walked unsteadily past. Dressed in a kilt, the traditional dress of the Highlands, the man was likely the leader of a clan supportive of the Stuart succession.

  I suppose there are many such people, all over the country. Our policy on Scotland was foolish.

  If the new Hanoverian king had written a manifesto asking the Scots to welcome his adversary, he could not have encouraged them more to rid themselves of him, Henry thought.

  Taxes had been raised and riots started. Scotsmen felt as if their concerns were less heard than those of men of England. The treatment was uneven, and unfair. The Scots fought and died for the same king, but somehow, they were not equal when it came to other things.

  Now, if they wish themselves free of a Hanoverian king, I do not blame them.

  The time was right, and it seemed, finally, as if France would support them. It was time to throw off a rule that proved oppressive and welcome something new.

  Henry blinked in surprise, realizing that this was the first time he had ever paused to lend credence to the Jacobite cause. It was part of how he had been raised, and he still had no real idea of why his father supported it, but he could see a reason in these people; one that had nothing to do with ideology and a lot to do with a very real need for freedom.

  “My lord?”

  Henry turned, hearing a voice behind him. He found Beatrice there, a small frown on her brow.

  “Yes, Lady Beatrice?”

  “I mislaid my cloak. Could you help me look for it? It's growing cold out here.”

  “Oh! Of course,” Henry said, nodding at once. He scanned the garden, noticing a bench in the fast-lengthening shadow of a beech-tree.

  “Thank you,” Beatrice breathed. “It will go much faster if we divide and look. I'll go that way. Marguerite said she'd look there, by the musicians and the food.”

  “And I'll go there,” Henry nodded, already on his way toward the tree.

  The bench proved to hold a long dark velvet cloak that must belong to Beatrice. He lifted it and hurried back toward the music. As he did so, he paused. He stared. “Lady Francine?”

  Dressed in pink again, only this time a soft peach with white ruffles at the neck, her hair pale and glowing in the sunlight, it was certainly her. She smiled, taking his breath away. It was her!

  “Milord Henry?”

  He swallowed hard and bowed over her hand. When he looked up into her eyes, she was smiling down at him with a look of such tenderness it made his heart melt.

  “It is an honor to see you here,” he said softly. “And a surprise as well, milady. It seems you frequent many of the same gatherings as I?”

  She nodded, a rueful smile on her lips. “I think we find ourselves unwilling participants, at least sometimes?”

  He laughed. “I think so, milady!” he nodded, folding the cloak over his arm. “Though I find myself enjoying these events of a sudden.”

  “I, too,” she said nervously. She looked at the cloak and frowned.

  “My sister's acquaintance lost her cloak. I was just retrieving it. If I may, I will deliver it. But only if I can be assured of your fair company upon returning?”

  She went pink, a sight that made his whole body tense with sweetness.

  “I will wait here,” she said.

  “Thank you, milady,” Henry managed to say and, swallowing, crossed the lawn toward the tables. “Beatrice!” he said, coming up behind her. “It was on the bench. Here it is!” He smiled as she turned around, a happy smile on her face.

  “Oh! Henry! My thanks. You're a rare one.”

  Henry blushed. “Thank you, milady.”

  Beatrice laughed. “Well, then! It seems we are going indoors after all! Though I am glad you found my cloak – it's a new one and it would be a shame to lose it.”

  “It would indeed.”

  Henry passed her the cloak and then looked around with dismay as he noticed she was right – the company was indeed all streaming for the doors of the great hall, and he couldn't see Francine anymore.

  “Well, I'm going in. It's too cold out here now,” she added, rubbing her hands down her arms. The sun had properly set now, the last rays of it dark fire on the lawns, leaking between the shadows of the trees.

  “It is cold,” Henry nodded. He looked around desperately, searching for a glimpse of Francine. Resigned to having missed her, he turned and started walking inside.

  “It is a large crowd, is it not?”

  He whipped around and looked down, finding himself staring into her eyes again.

  “Yes,” he said, feeling his heart ease suddenly as he saw her, the worry of having missed her subsiding to contentment now. “A large crowd.”

  “Lord Brower is noted for his gatherings,” she said, inclining her head toward their host, a tall man in a brown wool jacket and shiningly-buckled boots, who headed slowly toward the hall.

  “I see why,” Henry nodded conversationally. “It seems a well-planned gathering. Well-attended, too.”

  “Indeed.”

  They were right at the back of the crowd heading into the hall, and Henry suddenly felt his words dry up as he was left alone with Francine. A wall of shyness descended on him and he looked around, swallowing hard, searching for something to say.

  “You attend many gatherings like this, I imagine?” he asked awkwardly. His throat was tight and he cleared it, feeling his whole body flush as she wet her lips carefully.

  “I have been attending these since I was a small girl.”

  “Oh?” He frowned. “Well, you must know most of the supporters then?”

  “Almost all of them,” she said absently. She sounded weary, as if there was something in the topic of conversation that tried her.

  He cleared his throat, quickly looking around. “You must have a very high importance at these gatherings,” he commented, noticing again that the hostility toward him had almost melted away. “You...by talking to me, you seem to have returned me from Coventry.”

  She looked up at him, horrified. “You were being ignored on purpose?” she asked, understanding at once. “Oh! That's horrid! I thought that mayhap you were new to our gatherings.”

  “No,” he said with a smile. “I have been in Scotland three months.”

  “Oh, you poor fellow,” she said, and then laughed. “Not that I think being in Scotland for three months is so horrid, but...” She trailed off as he laughed too.

  “I might have thought so, once,” he admitted, then felt his throat tighten as he looked into her eyes. Her oval face with its delicate skin was so beautiful, those luminous eyes seeming to drink in his soul.

  “And now, you are coming to like the place?”

&n
bsp; “I find it...friendlier,” he said. “More...beautiful,” he added, blushing as he looked into her face. She seemed to realize his meaning, for she blushed.

  “It is a wonderful land,” she said, looking fixedly at her hands, or at the floor. “I am glad to hear you find it so.”

  “I do,” he murmured. She blushed.

  “I trust you will try to see other things, beyond Edinburgh?” she asked. She hung her cloak on the hook beside the door and turned to face him. They paused at the edge of the ballroom. Here, it was quiet, the crowd already entering the hall.

  “I hope to explore Scotland more,” he agreed, stepping out of his own cloak as a footman took it from him. “It seems a land of hidden beauties.”

  Again, she flushed. “It is, milord.”

  “Well, then. I shall enjoy getting to know it better.”

  Their eyes met and again it seemed they spoke on levels entirely other than what they ostensibly discussed. She looked at her hands and he reached for one before he really thought about it, squeezing her fingers lightly in his own.

  So soft! Her skin was like satin, the fingers cool and fine. He felt the contact race through him like a bullet, reaching up into his brain the way wine did, firing the blood. “My lady,” he said, letting her fingers go. “Would I be honored enough for you to dance the first measure with me?”

  She looked into his eyes and wet her lips. Very deliberately, she spoke. “You are.”

  He felt the words rush through him like a flood, making his brain fizz. “Thank you. I am honored.”

  “I am pleased.”

  She curtseyed, he bowed, and together they walked into the hall. The musicians in here were just starting up and it was a slow, achingly-lovely sarabande they began to play. Henry felt his heart clench as he looked at Francine. “Shall we dance?”

  “My lord? Yes. We shall.”

  She went to stand opposite him across the vast marble dance-floor. He bowed, she curtseyed. The measure started. Couples floated across toward each other, hands meeting and parting. He joined hands with another couple and they walked through a series of intricate steps. Henry would have been counting in his head by now, but all he could think of at that moment was her hand, soft and cool, in his.