“We should talk,” he began hesitantly. His throat felt too tight, as if he'd eaten lemons.
“You should return me to my home,” she said. Her voice was brittle and Henry winced, hearing it. “I will cause you trouble, else.”
“No,” he said softly. “No, you won't,” he protested.
She shook her head. “It's...right. I cannot ask you to hide me. I should face this.”
“No,” Henry said again, somewhat desperately. “Whatever happened, it is not right. I cannot leave you to face this alone, whatever it is.”
“Why not?” Francine said harshly.
“Francine, I...” he trailed off as she interrupted again, her voice softer this time.
“Henry,” she said gently. “I value your help, more than I can say. But it was foolish for me to ask you to take me away. This was foolish,” she added, waving a hand at the inn, the surroundings, and the table. “I need to face this alone. It cannot be solved by involving you – it will only cause more difficulty for both of us.”
“No,” Henry said again, this time softly. “I cannot allow you to do this.”
“Allow?” she flashed back. Henry winced. “I have enough difficulty, Henry Gracewell, with being allowed and disallowed things. I do not need you to bring more of the same to this table.”
Henry nodded, hanging his head. “I know,” he said. He felt a fool. She was exhausted, anyone could see that – exhausted and in shock. She absolutely didn't need him to play the knight gallant at her expense.
“We will rest here, and dine. Then,” she said, looking carefully at her hands, “I will return home. It is best, thus.”
He sighed. “As you say, milady.” He felt wretched. How could he return her to danger, when he didn't even know what the danger was? Who was this man, the one who had stolen her from the ball? Why was it she knew and feared him?
And she was afraid – that much was obvious. Her lips had pressed into a thin line, her face white. Her hand, resting on the table, gripped the bread-board's rim, white-knuckled.
“Milady?”
“Yes?” she said softly.
“Can I...can you tell me if you will be safe, at least? I do not like to send you away to unknown dangers.”
The smile she gave him was a sorrowful one, expression wry. “It's not the unknown dangers that concern me,” she said cryptically. Henry frowned.
“Milady?”
She shook her head. “Ignore me, Henry. I am tired or I would not speak thus. I would rest awhile?”
“Of course,” Henry said, pushing back his chair. The innkeeper appeared, and stared at them in horror.
“My lord! My lady! Your second course..?”
“We need to rest, and leave,” Henry explained, feeling regret as he smelled the rich savory scent of the pie. “If you could perhaps wrap some in a handkerchief for us?”
“Yes, milord. Very good. You are leaving?”
“We wish to rest a while,” Francine explained softly. “Then we will be on our way.”
The man's brows shot up. “Milady! It's dangerous. At least let me provide an...”
“We will not need an escort,” Francine said tightly. “We will not go far.”
“Yes, milady.”
Clearly hating the idea of the two young nobles riding through the forest unaccompanied, the innkeeper showed them upstairs. “Here's an empty chamber where you may rest awhile, milord, milady.”
Henry's brows shot up. There was one chamber, and one bed. He went red. Francine nodded to the innkeeper.
“Thank you, you're most kind.”
When he had gone, Francine and Henry stared at each other.
“Francine, I...”
“I am weary, Henry,” Francine said, voice aching with tiredness. “All I wish is to sit down awhile, and rest. If it is improper, I'll sit here in the hallway.” Henry stared as she sank down against the wall.
“No!” he exclaimed, reaching to draw her to her feet. “No! Francine. I should rest here in this hall, if anybody should. Now come, inside, and sit down on the bed. Do?”
Her eyes met his. She nodded, tiredly, and let him lead her into the room. She sat down and then leaned back on the pillows, closing her eyes.
Henry sat down on a stool beside her bed, concerned. She was so pale, her breathing so shallow it was almost indiscernible. “Francine?”
She opened her eyes and her gaze held his. He became aware that his hand was holding hers. She didn't move and neither did he. He studied her. In the darkness, her skin glowed, her hair ragged about her face, her breathing shallow through gently-parted lips.
Her gown was low-necked and the skin of her throat was soft, the firelight playing over it and making it look like flawless satin. Her hand in his was warm. Her breasts were high and full, he noticed. His loins ached and he blushed, looking away. Suddenly, he had an urgent need to go elsewhere.
“I...I should leave you,” he murmured.
“No,” Francine said, and suddenly, looking into her eyes, he realized how very much this evening had affected her. They were wild, the way a horse's eyes are wild when storms start. “Please?” she said, her grip tightening on his fingertips. “I don't want to be alone.”
“Very well,” Henry whispered, gripping her fingers. “I'll stay. I promise.”
He sat there on the stool and watched her, and was not sure whether she slept or not. All he knew was that his heart was filled with admiration, wonder and pain – for her hurt, for her fear, for the story he knew so little of.
He also knew that now he had met Francine, it seemed as if no one else would do.
She was the most remarkable, wild and intriguing woman he had ever met. Whatever his father thought, he would pursue her, Scots or no. It occurred to him that there was so much he didn't know about her. However, whatever it was, he was going to find out.
His heart would not permit him to do otherwise. Not now.
A NEW ADVENTURE
Francine woke, startled. She opened her eyes on darkness. Where was she?
She closed her eyes again, and listened, fighting the rising fear inside her. A fire crackled in the grate to her left and wind sighed around the walls – that was, a gentle night-time breeze. There were no other sounds. Memory came back to her and she opened her eyes. On her right was a chair, with someone in it.
Henry.
She felt her lips stretch to a smile, despite her initial dismay. He was asleep, his full-lipped mouth curved down in rest. The fire played across his golden hair and the fine, chiseled planes of his face, making fuller shadows around his generous mouth.
He is so handsome, she thought, wonderingly. His posture was relaxed, head leaned back against the wall. The fire softened the stark brightness of his hair, rendering it softer, more glowing. His hand was furled, lying in his lap. The other hand rested on the coverlets, not far from hers.
She smiled wider, remembering. He must have held her hand while they both fell asleep.
He cares for me.
She felt her heart melt, even as it tensed in fresh sorrow. As much as Henry seemed to care for her, she was still ruined. She had spent the night outside the house, together with a man she barely knew. What would people think? She shivered. Her father, if he knew, would disown her.
Which would leave me to the mercy of the likes of Fraser.
She shuddered. She had two choices here. Either she could run away now – walk out of the inn, take the horse and ride away, or she could go home and try to undo the damage. If she fled now, she could take shelter with Arabella.
But for how long, assuming she reached her home at all? I would not want to burden Arabella. Her daughter was barely a year old! She would not want to be an encumbrance.
But what will I do, if I return?
If she went home, it was just possible that she could reveal the truth of what happened to Douglas. If she did so, he could help to organize matters. They would have to conceal the story of what happened from their father, since he w
ould immediately blame her. In this venture, they would have the support of Fraser, who wouldn't wish his own name tarnished.
Not that his would be. He could ruin me, but emerge utterly safe.
Abducting a girl from a ball might be laughed off in some circles, even now – the act of a rakish society man. Nevertheless, the girl herself–she would be utterly ruined.
There is something very wrong in our society.
Francine sighed. What could she do to change it? All she could do was hope that she and Douglas could together find a way through this mess. One that would hopefully avoid the problems of Fraser.
Maybe, now, even her father would see the manner of man he was. With that thought, she sat up and shifted to the side of the bed, ready to get up. Henry stirred.
Francine tensed, then watched as he stretched, sighing. He was still, then, and she was not sure if he slept still, or woke.
“Henry?” she said.
“I...what...oh!”
Francine tried not to giggle at the utter horror and bemusement on his face as his brain struggled to deduce where he was and how he'd come to be there. She saw the moment when he recalled it and her heart flipped with pleasure as his eyes met her face.
“Francine,” he said gently. She felt her heart ache with it.
“Yes,” she smiled – she couldn't help it. “I'm here. Good morning.”
“You slept?”
“I did,” she nodded, whispering. The fire had burned lower and it must be somewhere in the early hours of the following morning – too dark and too early for the innkeeper and his wife to be awake yet, too late for anyone to be out in the street. The night was silent outside, the streets empty of people.
“You want to go?” he asked.
“We should.” Francine shifted on the bed, hanging her feet over the edge. She had not removed her slippers, she realized, and her feet had swollen a little, making the slippers seem tight.
“Very well,” Henry agreed, and stood up, stretching vigorously. Francine stared in spite of herself at the breadth of his chest under the shirt. She had never seen anything like its muscled grace, or like the muscles of his arms, visible as they flexed under the coat he still wore. She felt her face heat in a blush.
Francine! That is salacious.
She grinned, thinking about what any of her acquaintances would say. Certainly the countesses and duchesses who moved in her father's circles would stare at her, faces stiff with distaste. However, she couldn't help the warmth in her belly as she let her eyes wander from his calves to his shoulders and back. He really was quite beautiful.
“Stop it,” she whispered to herself. “Go.”
“Eh?” Henry frowned.
She realized, embarrassed, she'd spoken audibly. “Nothing,” she said quickly. “I just said we should go.”
“Oh. Yes.”
Henry was standing at the edge of the bed and she was trying to stand. Her feet were sore, which was why she teetered and fell against him. His arms came out to steady her. She lay against his chest.
He looked into her eyes and neither of them moved. Very slowly, he bent down.
They kissed.
Francine felt her whole body tense with shock, and then relax as the delicious wonder of the feeling spread through her. She felt his tongue slide gently between her lips, parting them, and her belly caught fire with the sweetness.
His tongue pushed into her mouth, and she became aware of the sweetness of his mouth, the way it tasted. He slid his tongue against hers and she lapped back, feeling him tense and his arms tighten about her as he growled, low in his throat.
She felt her body ignite and pressed against him, conscious of his body on hers, the tightness of his arms around her waist. They were kissing and his hands were in her hair, drawing her to him, his throat issuing wordless sounds of longing.
She gasped and drew back. She stared up at him. Wild-eyed, their gazes held.
“Francine,” he murmured, going red. His eyes were horrified. He stepped back. “I...forgive me! Please...I didn't mean...” He turned to face the wall and braced one arm against it, turning away.
“Henry?”
She reached to touch him and saw him tense, then, stopping with her hand extended toward him.
“Francine,” he said, voice tight with shame. “I didn't...it wasn't...I'm sorry.”
“There is no need,” she said softly. “Please, Henry. You didn't do anything.”
He looked into her eyes and she saw the relief written plainly there. “I did,” he said softly. “But thank you, I am relieved that you forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive.”
The smile he gave her was exquisite. She felt it fill her with a renewed wonderment.
Slowly, he opened the door. “Shall we go?”
Her heart tightened with regret, even as she nodded. “Yes.”
They went down the stairs together.
“I'll settle the account,” Henry said. Francine shot him a look, but he nodded. “I have shillings here in my coat-pocket. I can pay him now. It's best that way.”
“Indeed,” Francine murmured softly. She had considered settling the account in the name of Duncliffe estate, but that was soon revealed as a dreadful idea – she did not need her father to see that she had spent the evening in an inn with Henry, alone. This part of the story they never had to reveal to anyone, unless they chose that.
“Here,” Henry said softly, returning from where he'd disappeared into the back part of the inn. “I settled it. Let's go.”
“The horses?” Francine asked, frowning.
“Are at the stables. I paid for that, too,” he said with a grin.
“Thank you,” Francine said softly. Wordlessly, she followed him to the stable-yard.
“You are going to have to tell me,” Henry said, as he held her horse, waiting for her to mount, “how it is you learned to do that.”
“Ride astride?” Francine couldn't help a grin.
“Yes,” Henry said, mounting with the aid of the fence and joining her. Together they rode through the gate. “I never saw the like.”
Francine blushed, noting the appreciation in his glance. She looked down at the pommel of the saddle, where one of her hands rested, holding the reins loosely.
“It was a long time ago,” she ventured. “When I was a girl. Douglas learned, and he taught us. We were glad to learn – Brodgar, the old stable-hand who ran the stables for us – he said it could be useful. Said if we got thrown we'd be less likely to break our necks that way.”
“That's true,” Henry conceded. He was silent for a while.
“I had a most unconventional childhood,” Francine said softly. She wondered what he would think if she confided in him how unconventional, if she told him of the flashes of vision, the way Merrick had counseled her and taught her herb-lore.
He would probably be ashamed. He would recoil from me. Wish he'd never touched me.
“You must have done,” Henry said softly. She tensed, waiting for the recrimination, the shame he'd lay on her.
He was silent for the next few paces and she risked a glance at him.
“You must have had a very unusual childhood,” he said. “For you're an unusual woman. A remarkable woman.”
Francine stared at him. Her heart melted and she found to her surprise that she was crying. “Oh, Henry,” she said, when she could speak again. “Thank you.”
“There's nothing to thank,” he said lightly. He grinned and she grinned back and together they rode on into the forest.
When they reached the gates of Duncliffe, Francine stiffened. “I should say farewell,” she whispered. Their plan hinged on the fact that no one would know she had been with Henry. He sighed.
“Yes,” he whispered. His voice was ragged. “I suppose.”
She looked into his eyes. Pale blue, they were distressed, the muscles of the lids tight at the edges.
“Oh, Henry,” she whispered. “I'll be safe.”
&nb
sp; “I pray you are,” he said sincerely. “Please. If you need me...send word. I will come as fast as I can.”
Francine swallowed hard. “I will be safe,” she said again, with less conviction. She had no idea what would happen. She had the barest thread of a plan, and it hung on the assumption that Fraser would be too ashamed of his behavior to reveal the incident to anyone.
Now, Henry reached over and gently touched her hair. She tensed, her body turning to water under his touch.
“Please, Henry,” she whispered, throat tight on the words. “I must go.”
“Send me word, even if you are safe?” he asked, eyes looking into hers, alight with hope.
“I will,” she promised. “I'll send a bough with new leaves if I am safe, a winter's barren twig if in danger.”
Henry grinned. “More of your wood-craft?”
“No,” she said, smiling. “A coded message.”
Henry laughed. “You are remarkable.”
“As are you,” she said softly. She could not forget how he’d rescued her, throwing Fraser from the horse as if he weighed nothing. He had ridden to her rescue and her heart rejoiced in it even as she wept to leave him. “Now, go.”
“I will not rest 'til you are safe.”
“Nor I, until you are,” Francine said. “Let me know, too?”
“I will,” Henry said, grinning. “Though I am certain I am too frightening a prospect for any brigand to dare approach. A man abroad in the woods at night in this jacket? He'll likely think me a madman and run.”
Francine giggled, and Henry rode away. She watched his horse disappear into the forest before turning to ride up to the gate. She reached it and stopped. She sat up straighter.
“Lady Francine requests to enter,” she called in a clear, firm voice. “If anyone is on duty, let me in.”
“Milady?” The voice that answered hers was utterly disbelieving.
“Yes, Bill,” she said, recognizing the voice. “Let me in?”
The gate opened at once and the old sentry stared up in amazement as she rode into the yard. “Milady! We had the woodsmen all out looking for you! Milord Douglas...he was fierce, he was! He might be out there now, with them. Oh!”
Destiny Of A Highlander: Blood of Duncliffe Series (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 11