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

by Ferguson, Emilia

  Almost there, he told himself. Just a hundred yards or so, and left. For heading him off, you should take the first left at the turn-off. It comes out just before the valley bottom.

  He rode. Even though the man had a head-start, he had two people on his horse and would be slowed by the downhill ride. Henry was on the flat for most of the way and rode alone.

  “Who did this?”

  He could not imagine who would harm Francine. It made no sense. Heart thumping, horror cold in his stomach, he rode.

  At the fork, he veered left, turning so sharply and so suddenly that he almost slewed sideways off the horse. He gasped and leaned toward the other side, righting himself.

  “Easy,” he murmured to the horse, gently patting its neck. “I didn't mean to turn us so hastily.”

  The horse snorted and Henry realized he spoken in English. The horse, clearly, didn't like the odd-sounding new tongue.

  Henry rode faster toward the valley floor. The road sloped down and then up and he slowed them, straining his ears to listen. As he paused there, hearing the faintest sound of an approach, he realized something.

  He was out in the woods alone at night and had no weapon to mention.

  “What can I do?”

  He looked around, and, heart pounding with desperation, spied a branch. He slid off the horse's back and grabbed it, then scrambled back onto the waiting animal. He was just in time.

  The rider, the one he'd heard, burst into the clearing. Henry took in with a swift glance the man's form, the shape of someone on the saddle, the pale flash of a silk skirt.

  “Halt!” he screamed, a raw, wild yell bursting from his throat. As he yelled it, he swung the branch. It hit the rider on the shoulder, spinning him back. To do him his credit, he was a good rider. He rode with his heels down. This meant that, as his horse reared, he slid neatly off the back and landed in a heap on the ground. The horse bolted.

  “No!” Henry yelled. He rode after it, panting. The horse stuck mostly to the path, for which he was grateful as he cast down the branch, leaned forward on Laird MacNeith’s borrowed stallion and raced to keep up with the speeding horse.

  He could see the form that lay across the withers. He saw bright hair bouncing in the gray half-light and winced, thinking how painful and frightening that must be – how dangerous it was. If the horse reared or fell back, she could be thrown, or her neck broken. She could be crushed.

  “No!” he screamed. He rode onward.

  At a fork in the path, the horse stopped again, and reared. Henry reached out and grabbed the bridle. The person who had lain across the withers was gripping the saddle in one hand, arms and body tight around the horse's neck as he reared again.

  “No!” Henry yelled at the horse. He tugged down on the reins. Someone's voice joined his.

  “Storm-swift, no! Stop!”

  Henry frowned as the horse stopped. Calm now, he stood there trembling, each muscle shivering as if he was shivering off flies. Henry stared.

  “Storm-swift?” he asked, utterly bemused.

  “The horse...his name.” Francine gasped. She sat up, scraping blonde hair out of one eye. Her hairstyle had come undone, leaving blonde curly hair tumbling around her pale oval face. All other thoughts flew from Henry's mind as she faced him.

  “Francine?”

  Her blue eyes were huge and she stared at him. Soundlessly, a tear ran down her face, running to her lips. She sniffed and didn't move to wipe it off. She had swung around so that she sat astride the horse and simply stared at Henry.

  “Francine?” he said again, very softly.

  She didn't react and Henry realized that she was in shock. He had seen it once before, when his friend at Oxford had news of an uncle's sudden death. He reached out and took her hand. “Francine?”

  She noticed him for the first time and sobbed, and he leaned forward and held her. She leaned against Henry, buried her face in his cravat, and sobbed.

  “Ssh,” he whispered, as if she were a babe. “You're safe. Everyone's well.”

  Francine sniffed and seemed to stop crying. Henry held her and slowly became conscious of the feeling of her body pressed to his, her full breasts pressed to his chest, his arms around her waist. He breathed in the scent of roses that was her perfume. The woods were dark and silent and there was only him, and Francine, and the scent of pine and roses in his nose.

  He clamped his mouth shut, not wanting to groan with the longing that ached in his body as she moved closer, that sweet body pressing further onto his. He wanted her to feel safe. The last thing she needed was to fear him.

  Who did this?

  Henry tensed and Francine must have felt it, for she tensed, too. Henry stroked her back, trying to reassure her, but she sniffed and clung to him.

  “We should go,” Henry said softly, suddenly realizing their predicament. They were out here in the woods, alone. Her attacker – while currently unconscious – might very well stir soon and hear them. They needed to get to safety.

  I need to know who he was, but that can come later. Now, Francine needed safety, and warmth. And people she knew.

  “He's...I can't go back,” Francine whispered, suddenly tightening her grip. “He knows.”

  Henry frowned. What she’d said made no sense. She knew who it was?

  “You know this horse,” Henry remembered, speaking before he'd thought about it. “Francine, do you know your attacker?”

  She sniffed. “He's our horse. Douglas' riding stallion. He borrowed him for the party tonight.”

  “He borrowed him. Who? Douglas?” That made no sense. Why would her brother have kidnapped her from the ball? It couldn't have been him anyway. He was in the hall with my sister...

  “No!” Francine sobbed. “Him. McGuinness.”

  “McGuinness?” Henry frowned now, completely baffled. “You know that man?”

  “Please, Henry. Take me back? I promise I'll leave you alone after this. But...I can't go back! He'll hurt me.”

  “Who will...?” Henry began, but when she sobbed he realized that didn't matter for the moment. “No one will hurt you,” he said softly, holding her in his arms. “And I won't take you back...not if someone will hurt you. We'll go somewhere else.”

  “We will?” Francine stared at him, eyes round with amazement. “Oh, Henry! You would help me escape? I can't thank you enough.”

  Her eyes were round and dark and her face shone. He bit his lip. “Come on,” he said. “Let's go to Cambrooke.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you so much.”

  He was about to offer to carry her on his own horse, but she turned and gripped the reins and seemed ready to ride astride, which amazed him. She was in shock and he wasn't sure of the wisdom of her riding alone, never mind in a way she'd likely never ridden. He weighed up the dangers of her riding against the possibility of their arguing and decided that the former was less likely to upset her. He left her to ride alone.

  “It's dark, isn't it?” he observed after they had ridden in silence for a while. He couldn't help the thoughts that kept running through his head – thoughts of her body pressed to his, the way her skin smelled and the softness of her hair.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “We're almost there, yes?”

  “Another mile or two,” he agreed. Estmoor was, fortunately, within an easy ride of Cambrooke, a small but prosperous village. He would not have suggested they go anywhere far.

  “Good,” she said softly. She rode ahead, her white dress shining like pewter in the silver-gray light. He sighed.

  He was riding alone in the woods with an earl's daughter. He was English and held in high suspicion, she was Scottish and at the heart of the Jacobite cause. This was not likely to end happily.

  They will accuse me of abducting her and probably shoot me dead before they hear my answer. And, even if I survive, what of her fate? Why did this person – whom she knows – seek to harm her? I don't understand.

  He considered asking her something, b
ut one glance at her stiff, strained posture made him realize that she was as liable to break as crystal glass. He wasn't going to press her for any answers. Not before she was safe, warm, and rested.

  They rode through the silent woods, following what he hoped was the track to Cambrooke.

  “We are going the right way?” he ventured when they had ridden for what seemed half an age.

  “This is the road,” Francine said expressionlessly. “If we turn left at the first fork, we'll be almost at Cambrooke.”

  “Good,” Henry said back, encouraging. He had hoped that was right, but wasn't sure. “You know the woods well – far better than me.”

  “I grew up in them,” she said.

  He frowned. “You rode a lot as a girl?” That would seem odd. While many women considered riding an accomplishment and certainly learned, it was hard to imagine the young Francine riding through these forests, even with a small force of guardsmen to keep her safe.

  “Yes,” she said. “Arabella and Douglas and I. We...we were much left to our own devices. Merrick saw to our care.”

  “Merrick?” That was someone's surname, he guessed. Whoever they were, they must be a servant. A steward?

  “Our cook.”

  “Oh.” Henry stared in amazement. She rode ahead of him on the path, so it was hard to speak about things of a close personal nature, but her words confused him. Why had the three Duncliffe children been raised by their cook?

  I will find out one day.

  For now, he had at least found out that she had a sister and a brother, and her parents had for some reason ceded the raising of their children to the cook. At least Marguerite and I had a governess and a nanny and two servants...He frowned. Was that really so different?

  “We should go left,” Francine observed, breaking in on his thoughts. Henry blinked in surprise. The turning to Cambrooke was a small road, and he would have missed it had he been alone.

  “Well-spotted.”

  This time, he was riding beside her, so he saw her smile. In the darkness it was like a bright candle, a thing so sweet it warmed his heart.

  “I do know these roads, Henry Gracewell.”

  He shivered at her use of his full name, the words rendered sweet by her lips. He found he was grinning and wiped the smile off, thinking how foolish he must seem. “I know you know them,” he said softly.

  She didn't reply, but she seemed to sit a little straighter on horseback and they rode toward the small village.

  “Who goes there?” the sentry challenged in Lowland Scots at the gates, which Henry fortunately understood. “State your business in Cambrooke.”

  Henry cleared his throat, realizing he had no easy explanation. He imagined trying to explain how he came to be out here, in evening clothes, with the daughter of a Scots Earl, abducted from a ball.

  “We're seeking shelter,” Francine spoke, before Henry had a chance to stammer an explanation. “We lost our way in the woods at dusk.”

  “Milady,” the man said, his tone instantly softening. “Be welcome.”

  The gate opened and they rode through.

  Whew, Henry thought, staring at Francine. That was close.

  She had hidden reserves of strength, he realized. He glanced at her, riding with that air of brittle competence. She had stopped the horse, after all, found their way, and got them into the village without effort.

  He pulled up beside her, and a glance to the side made him realize it was far from undemanding for her to do this. Her knuckles, where they gripped the reins, had turned white. Her mouth was firm, expression grim. She looked like a woman about to shatter at the slightest shock.

  “Shall we find an inn?” he asked, concerned. She needed something to eat and drink, and somewhere warm to rest awhile.

  “Yes. Let's do.”

  She didn't glance at him and they rode, side by side and silent, into the village.

  The streets were silent and deserted. They heard the distant rumble of a cart somewhere, and somewhere else a door slammed. Henry realized it must be almost midnight. He rode along the deserted streets, feeling a growing sense of panic.

  “Here,” he said as his eyes fell on an iron sign, elaborately wrought, showing a sheaf of wheat and a barrel. It was too dark to make out the name.

  “The Brewer's Inn,” Francine nodded. She slipped down off the horse, wincing as her ankles jarred on the path. Henry, shamed by the fact that he hadn't helped her, slipped off his own mount, cheeks hot. He joined her on the step.

  Helpful sort I am, he thought sadly. He felt guilty at how little he had helped her. She opened the door and he hastened to hold it back for her. She walked inside.

  They looked at the innkeeper, who stared agape. The poor man – clad in an old, patched coat and a shirt with the neck-tie loosened and worn – looked at them as if the underworld had opened, disclosing all the demons therein into his hallway.

  “Hello?” Henry ventured, seeking to ease his fear.

  The man continued to stare and it occurred to Henry what a sight they must be – two aristocrats, dressed in evening-wear, standing in the hallway of a small, prosperous inn at midnight, calmly expecting service.

  “We were lost in the woodlands,” Francine began, using the same story from earlier. “We needed to find shelter.”

  “We would like supper, if you could manage it?” Henry spoke up. He saw Francine tense and realized he'd spoken over her, as if she were a child.

  Easy, Henry. You're here to help, not to patronize.

  “Um...sir. Madam. Aye, sir,” the man said, eyes bulging. He wet his lips, clearly terrified. “The parlor upstairs is free, sir. If you go there, we'll bring up something. Soup? With pie to follow?”

  “That would be excellent, yes,” Henry said gravely. He realized how ridiculous it was, both of them – he and the innkeeper – seeking to preserve protocol in such a ludicrous situation. Francine had been abducted, he had rescued her and they were in an inn at midnight in ball-dress, seeking dinner. Why were they acting as if they were at court in Edinburgh?

  “Yes, sir,” the man said, and bustled off. He returned an instant later, face shining with perspiration. “Second room on the left, up the stairs, sir. Apologies for not showing you...I have to heat the soup.”

  “Of course you do,” Henry said gallantly as he scurried off. He realized with a shock that people like himself and Francine could ruin this man with a word, or make his career. Something about this didn't make sense, but he couldn't quite place it.

  “Let's go,” he said to Francine. She was already climbing the stairs.

  Upstairs on the left, they found a room sunk in gloom. The coals still glowed in the grate and Henry hurried to the fireplace to stir them. To his astonishment, Francine joined him at the hearth. She knelt there and blew into the coals, stirring them to life. As the flame curled up, Henry fed it from the tinder-pile, small scraps of wood and bark, and soon they had a fire flickering in the grate.

  “Where did you learn that?” he frowned as Francine stood, dusting off her skirts. In the lurid glow of the fire, the silk under-skirt glowed softly, her tumbledown hair drinking in the light and making it softer.

  “With Mrs. Merrick,” she said and nodded. “And Hal. The stable-hand. He taught us a great deal of wood-craft.”

  “Oh.” Henry decided that it was better not to ask. The mysteries of Francine's upbringing would slowly reveal themselves. He couldn't help but be fascinated. “We need to get warm,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  Francine lowered herself onto a padded bench near the fire. The parlor was simple, rustic. Its furnishings consisted of an oak table, and a bench bracketed to the wall on three sides. The fourth side stood open. The walls were whitewashed, the wood panels that held the daub in place left unadorned.

  “At least it's warm.”

  Francine said nothing.

  “Sir! Milady!” The innkeeper appeared with a tray. The scent of chicken broth made Henry's mouth water. He swallowed ha
rd. “Here we are. The soup is not the best, but I have heated bread to match it. You must be in need of a hearty meal.”

  “We are.”

  The silence was filled with the clink of bowls and the scrape of platters as the innkeeper set the table before them. He lit a candle and the light flared brightly, illuminating Francine's soft face.

  Henry stared. Her full, molded mouth was turned down at the corners a little, her eyes still damp from tears. Her cheeks were pale and glowing, and her hair, now that it was loosened from the style, was curly and pale, shining in the light.

  She is so beautiful, he thought wildly. They said nothing; just looked at each other.

  “We should eat,” Francine whispered.

  “Yes.”

  His attention returned to the plate before him and his stomach cramped eagerly as he looked down at the plate. The broth was golden and rich, thick pieces of chicken floating in it. He breathed in, relishing the savory scent. The bread steamed softly on the platter between them.

  “You start,” Henry gestured. She smiled, the grin lighting her eyes with gentleness.

  “There's no need to stand on ceremony,” she said gently. All the same, he noted, she had waited until he said that to take a piece of bread. She crumbled a bit off and put it between her lips.

  His loins ached, seeing her plump lips part and close. He winced and reached for his own piece of bread, trying not to focus on the beauty of the spectacle of Francine eating.

  The moment he had tasted some of the bread himself, he realized how hungry he was and all conversation halted for the moment as they both ate their fill. When he had finished the plate of soup, he leaned back, sighing in appreciation.

  “That was good.”

  Francine smiled, again with that soft grin. “It is, isn't it?” she replied, setting aside her spoon for the moment.

  He studied her. Her cheeks had flushed a little, and her eyes had some of their sparkle again. He became aware of her foot under the table, resting beside his. He tensed and made himself breathe slowly and evenly, ignoring the sensations that traced through his body at the contact, however slight. His mind recalled the feeling of her body, pressed to his, and his face flushed with warmth.