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

by Ferguson, Emilia

  She felt her body ignite under his touch, aches of longing spreading like fire into the most unlikely places. She gasped and bit her lip, wondering at the sweet sensations filling her.

  He leaned back and his lips moved down her body, a trail of sweet kisses that ended at her waist and then moved beyond it. Her eyes shut in bliss and surprise as he moved his lips lower, parting her legs.

  She couldn't breathe, suddenly, as he sucked her and the feelings of sweet intensity shot through her body, moving from her belly to her brain. She clenched her teeth, gritting them in a pleasure so intense it was painful. Then, suddenly, as his mouth worked her, it felt as if she melted.

  Her whole body went limp, fire surging through her veins to her brain. It was a feeling almost like she would imagine death, filling her at once with bliss and a drowsy pleasure.

  He sat back, grinning.

  Francine felt herself smile.

  He knelt between her legs then and she gasped as, with a little frown of tenderness, he entered her.

  The sensation was so sweet, so fulfilling she could barely stand it. He moved out and back, out and back, and as her body neared the peaks of pleasure to which it had just been driven and then surpassed them, flying higher still with him insider her, he started to gasp.

  Grunting and panting, he tensed and then drove back, driving into her with sweet intensity. Then, just as the melting feeling engulfed her, he cried out. He collapsed on her and laid there, perspiration sluicing them.

  Then, after what felt like a sweet age, he rolled off her and, lying beside her, kissed her. “Oh, Francine,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you,” she sighed. Her heart caught fire with tender warmth.

  They lay side by side and she drifted off to sweet and blissful sleep, held next to him.

  STRANGE OCCURRENCE

  Francine rolled over and looked at the white ceiling of the bedchamber. She stretched, feeling the delicious sweet fulfillment she always felt upon waking beside Henry. She rolled over, feeling the warmth of the bedclothes where he'd been asleep.

  She sighed, listening to the sounds around her. Henry was in the wardrobe-room – she knew that because she could hear him in there: the slight creak of the flooring, the rustle of coats shifting as he selected one. In the days they had been sharing a chamber – a sweet seven of them to date – she had woken to the morning ritual of him selecting his clothes. The noise was customary to her now, as much a part of waking as the softness of the sheets or the slight discoloration on the elaborately-molded plaster ceiling above her.

  I am so happy.

  She sat up; lacing her fingers together, long arms reaching up toward the ceiling in a slow stretch. The morning was pale outside and she noted it was early, the sun still low in the sky. She was so relaxed that it didn't seem strange to rise at such an early hour. She stretched again and slid out of bed.

  “Sweetling?” Henry said, entering. He leaned in and kissed her and she grinned, laughing as he drew her into a playful embrace.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  He leaned back, looking into her eyes. His own eyes were drawn down into a slight frown. “I may have to travel today,” he said. “Nothing long – just a brief trip to Edinburgh to check on our accounts. Something quick.” He looked concerned.

  “Oh?” Francine frowned. The thought of his absence, even for two days, was unpleasant. However, it was nothing untoward – she knew he had accounts and estates to attend.

  “It will be two days,” he said, confirming her thought.

  “Very well,” she smiled, leaning in toward him. “But hurry back,” she added with a coy grin. “Or I will hunger for too long.”

  He laughed, excitement lighting his grin. “Well then, my princess,” he assured. “I will be back before you have noticed I'm gone.”

  She laughed. “Oh, Henry. That's impossible. I notice you're gone when you go out for an instant.”

  He smiled and kissed her, stroking her hair fondly. “I'm so lucky.”

  “No,” she said, drawing him close and kissing him full on the lips. “I'm luckier.”

  He laughed. “I would argue, my dearest. But I find it impossible. You are so sweet, I must agree upon everything you say.”

  She laughed. “Oh, Henry. You're so sweet to me.”

  “No,” he laughed. “You're so sweet to me.”

  The two of them just smiled.

  Henry drew on his nightgown and put his head out of the door to call his manservant to help him dress. Francine likewise donned a thin nightgown of silk and headed into her boudoir, searching for her maidservant.

  “Brenna?”

  “Aye, milady?” Brenna asked.

  “I want to dress informally today – the pink dress, I think.” Francine frowned. There was something about the tall, quiet woman she couldn't quite warm to yet. She had tried her best, but she missed Bertha, her familiar maidservant. In addition, Brenna was oddly tight-lipped, as if she disapproved of everything.

  “Very good, milady.”

  Francine sat at her dressing-table, regarding her face in the mirror, while Brenna went to fetch the gown. She could see in her own eyes that there was something worrying her. She knew what it was.

  It was odd. She had nothing to complain of in her home here – somebody, her sister-in-law she presumed – had ensured that the room was fitted with everything a woman could possibly need. She ran a hand across the polished chestnut-wood of the dressing-table and, as she did every morning, admired its workmanship. For all its beauty, though, there was something that bothered her.

  “Here we are, milady,” Brenna said, returning. “I brought the pink dress and to match it, the white shoes?”

  “Um, yes. Thank you, Brenna.”

  The maid nodded imperceptibly and set about laying the things on the bed – her undergarments first, then the dress, the shoes below it.

  Francine found her thoughts returning to her earlier worries, those about her new life. She loved Henry more with each passing day. However, with the cold, distant manner of his father – she scarcely saw him – and with the odd reservation of Marguerite, she couldn't feel completely content. There was something not quite right and she couldn't put a finger on what it was.

  “I'm being silly,” she said aloud.

  “Milady?” Brenna frowned. She was brushing Francine's golden hair and Francine sighed, seeing her hands pause in the mirror.

  “Nothing, Brenna,” she said. “Just thinking aloud.”

  “Oh.” Brenna sniffed. “None of my business, milady. Beg pardon.”

  “Of course, Brenna,” Francine sighed.

  She had the impression – she couldn't quite say why – that Brenna thought her eccentric to the point of oddness. She had no idea what she'd done to give Brenna that impression, save that she knew, somewhere deep inside herself, that Brenna believed that.

  I am starting to think there's something terrible about me.

  It wasn't Henry – she loved him, he loved her and she couldn't have been more content with matters where he was concerned. It was everyone else around her.

  She sighed.

  “There we go, milady. A fontage coiffure. Mayhap a little old-fashioned, but still good, aye?”

  Francine nodded. The hairstyle was a full, piled style with loose curls down the back of the neck, meant to support a lace cap or ribbons, but in her case she went without the cap. It was a style she had always liked.

  “Thank you, Brenna,” she said tightly.

  “Yes, milady.”

  When the woman had gone, Francine leaned back and closed her eyes, sighing sadly. She wished that she could clear this feeling that people were watching her, as if the whole household, from the pot-boys to the earl, were holding her on probation.

  Ever since Henry had said she would be left here alone for two days, she had worried about it.

  She shook her head at herself, checked her reflection in the mirror, and headed up to breakfast.

  Bre
akfast was a peaceable, slow event, as it always was with Henry. They could have spent all day over it – they talked, drank tea, shared affectionate smiles, and held hands. Sometimes she had found perfect peace sitting lost in silence for tens of minutes, just sitting with their hands clasped, lost in shared tranquility.

  When they finished, or rather when Mr. Knott came to collect the plates and things, Henry stood and looked at Francine with that wistful, apologetic grimace. “I should leave now, my sweetest,” he said, a rueful face doing nothing to shift the intense beauty of his features.

  “I know,” Francine sighed. She squeezed his hand. “Come back safely?” she asked, feeling a slight tremor of concern at the thought of his leaving. The country was taut like a bowstring, with both sides waiting for something to set off a war. It was not a safe time to be abroad, especially around Edinburgh.

  He grinned, softly touching her hair. “I will, dearest.”

  When he had left, Francine went up to the drawing-room and sat facing the windows. She just stared, not wanting to do anything. It felt as if her heart had left with him, going on the road to Edinburgh. She couldn't feel a thing except the dull numb emptiness in her.

  I don't want to move from here.

  She sat there, just staring out of the windows, half-thinking about home, and how she missed Arabella and Douglas, half-lost in the emptiness inside. She would have sat all day, perhaps, if she hadn't heard footsteps in the hallway.

  Tentative, hesitant, they stopped outside the door.

  “Yes?” Francine said, turning around.

  “Sister?”

  Marguerite stood there, her long red hair loose and brushed, though still curling wildly round her pixie-like features.

  Francine frowned. “Marguerite! What is it? Were you looking for me?”

  “Um, not exactly,” Marguerite said hesitantly.

  Francine noticed it again, that strange hesitancy. What was it?

  “I was just passing, and happened to see you,” Marguerite continued. “Do you sew?”

  Francine frowned. “Sew?” she asked, confused.

  “I mean,” Marguerite continued, “embroidery. Tapestry. That kind of sew.”

  “Oh,” Francine nodded. “Sometimes, yes. Why, Marguerite?” The question struck her as a trifle odd. Why would her new sister want to know something like that? Was it because she assumed they were so backward here in Scotland that they never sewed?

  “Well, no reason,” Marguerite said diffidently.

  “Oh,” Francine frowned, feeling that frustration and sorrow she had been trying to forget about come surging back with a vengeance. “Well, then,” she added, shifting on the chaise, where she sat. “I ought to be keeping myself from being idle,” she added tightly. “I mustn't be a burden.”

  That was the other worry that had been starting to grow steadily in the back of her mind. What if it seemed that Henry had married her so fast because he wished to cover up a scandal? What if they all thought Henry was committed to her solely by gallantry and propriety? What would they think?

  “Burden?” A slender eyebrow shot up Marguerite's elegant forehead. “Whatever are you saying?”

  “Nothing,” Francine said grimly. She lifted herself to her feet, feeling suddenly weary. “My apologies, Marguerite. I suppose I am not good company this moment.”

  Marguerite frowned at her, but seemed quiet. She had a pensive frown on her face and Francine couldn't fathom what it was about. She sighed. She should feel more patience with things, but this morning she just felt awful inside.

  She thought through the many reasons for her confused sorrow. Henry had left and she missed him. Even her maid seemed as if she was covertly hostile. In addition, her sister-in-law seemed determined to believe her part of a nation of unmannerly boors. What was she supposed to do?

  “Forgive me, Marguerite,” she said, voice cracking with the sudden need to cry. “But I think I will go and rest awhile. I'm tired.”

  “Yes, Francine,” Marguerite said softly.

  It was only when she was upstairs in her own chamber, sitting alone on her bed, that Francine thought to notice that Marguerite didn't seem so hateful after all.

  She sniffed and reached for a handkerchief. She blew her nose and used the kerchief to dab the streaks of tears off her face.

  I don't want any of them to know I'm crying.

  She sniffed again and leaned back, looking at the ceiling, trying to stop the tears. It was silly, she knew, but it was all too much. Henry might not even have loved her! Mayhap he married her solely because of his manners.

  “You know that isn't true,” she told herself firmly.

  All the same, she didn't really know that, not inside herself. Henry might well have married her solely for the requirements of society. His whole family treated her as if she were a minor disgrace, after all! How was she to know if he really felt as he said, inside himself?

  She sniffed, stopping the tears. She checked her face in the mirror, frowning at the eyes in particular, to see if there was redness there she could cover with white powder she had in her dressing-table drawer.

  “Well, I suppose that will have to do it,” she told herself firmly, deftly blotting away the tears with a kerchief. She headed out of the room again.

  Upstairs in the parlor, she tried to distract herself with embroidery and then sketching, but it didn't seem to help. She was too restless. She set the works aside and headed over to the drawing-room, where there was a harpsichord, a newish one. She stared at it, contemplating whether she dared play.

  Thoughts of the music brought with them a clear memory of her sister, sitting at the keys of a harpsichord, playing fine music. She bit her lip, then to her amazement, found herself leaning on the stool before the harpsichord, sobbing.

  She heard someone coming and sniffed again, trying to hide the tears. She was not fast enough.

  “Francine?” Marguerite frowned.

  “Oh,” Francine said, sniffing in frustration. How could it happen that she let someone see her like this! This someone, in particular?

  I am sure she hates me worse than all the others do...not only did I take her brother, but I am not of her country. And she clearly believes me truly wild.

  “Sister, I heard you crying,” she said gently. “What is amiss?”

  “Nothing,” Francine said, not hiding the annoyance in her voice. She knew she was being cruel, but she couldn't help the fact that, right now, there was little else inside her but anger. And hurt. Even more so than the anger, which was secondary, was the hurt.

  Marguerite blinked. “I suppose I don't understand,” she said. She looked crushed.

  “No, I suppose not,” Francine said, tightly. Of course she wouldn't understand, she thought with more than a little anger. Of course you wouldn't understand a woman from Scotland – we're all wild barbarians, aren't we?

  She knew her voice was probably iced with distaste and she couldn't change it. She looked at Marguerite, who hung her head.

  I suppose she must feel rather embarrassed, which means she at least knows some of what she's doing.

  Then, as she was about to walk away, back held high, head up, she noticed something. Marguerite was crying.

  “Sister?” Francine stopped. Her usually-buoyant sister was sniffing, tears pouring silently down her pale oval-shaped face. “Is aught amiss?”

  “Nothing,” Marguerite managed to say. “I should stop being foolish.”

  “Foolish?” Francine frowned. “Why do you say that of yourself, sister?”

  Marguerite used her handkerchief vigorously, and then looked up at Francine, hazel eyes blinking and soft with tears.

  “What is it?” Francine asked gently.

  “I suppose I just want you to like me,” Marguerite said, sniffing. “I know you don't, but I do try. I don't know how to breach this gulf.”

  “Marguerite!” Francine stared at her, gaping in complete amazement. Marguerite wanted to know her better? Wanted them to like each o
ther? “How could you even think that?” she laughed.

  “Well,” Marguerite sniffed and then she laughed, too. “Well, I suppose it seemed as if you never wanted to see me, like everything I said was somehow too silly for you to be trifled with. Like you avoided me.”

  “What?” Francine was so shocked that she couldn't really believe it. “You wished to speak with me? That means you don't think...” she trailed off, embarrassed.

  “Think what?” Marguerite asked, gently pressing.

  Marguerite swallowed hard. “You don't think, because I'm Scottish, I'm a person of little real worth.”

  Marguerite stared at her. Her jaw dropped. “Francine?” Her voice was shrill with disbelief. “You silly dear! You thought that?”

  Francine grinned, embarrassed. “Yes...”

  Abruptly, unexpectedly, Marguerite got to her feet, crossed the little distance and embraced her. Francine firmly squeezed her back. The sweet scent of Marguerite's perfume and the feeling of warmth and safety filled her world for a moment. Then Marguerite lost her balance and sat down heavily on the settle opposite. They both laughed.

  “My dear,” Marguerite said, shaking her head. “I can't believe you thought that. I simply can't.”

  “Well, I can't believe you thought I was being cold and unfriendly.”

  “I did,” Marguerite said. She sighed. “We are silly!”

  “Yes,” Francine nodded slowly. They were.

  They sat silently, letting matters settle. Francine glanced at Marguerite, hesitant to believe she wanted, truly, to be her friend. Of all the things she'd thought, it was the last she'd expected.

  “Well,” Marguerite said, sighing. “I think this calls for some tea. What say you?”

  Francine nodded. “Yes, please!”

  They laughed and Marguerite left to call for tea. Francine leaned back, closing her eyes. Suddenly, life was good again. She had a husband she adored, she was in a beautiful home, and now, at last, she felt welcomed here. In a day of quiet joys, this was the sweetest yet.

  MORE QUESTIONS

  Henry was in Edinburgh. Francine could barely believe it had only been one day he'd been absent. She rolled over in bed, feeling its coldness and the new unfamiliarity of waking alone. She sighed.