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

by Ferguson, Emilia

  “Of course.”

  Draining her tea, finishing the last of the spiced cakes, Francine headed downstairs to the place she had always sought direction.

  The kitchen was dark, the fire casting red light on the forms that moved within it. Mrs. Mallory was busy at the stove, making something. Merrick was clearly directing the procedure, for she could see the tall, angular form of her, a dark shadow against the ruddy outline of the firelight.

  “Merrick?”

  Her mentor turned around, an enigmatic expression on her long oval face. “Francine,” she said. “You're here.”

  She sounded utterly unsurprised, and Francine didn't question that. She knew her mentor better than to expect her to react as one would naturally expect. “Merrick, I need your counsel.”

  “No,” Merrick said flatly. “You don't need my counsel.”

  Francine stared at her. If Merrick was angry with her too, that was too much to bear! The one person she had always trusted, she couldn't face it if Merrick was also distant and cold to her. “What?” she asked brokenly. She drew back a chair and sat down, feeling suddenly bone-weary. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you don't need my counsel,” Merrick said, lithely settling opposite Francine at the big wooden table. “The only person whose counsel you need is your own.”

  “Merrick?” she frowned.

  “It's all in there.” She pointed to the center of Francine's chest, where her heart thumped. “All the words and wisdom you'll ever need. You know already what you wish to do.”

  “I know you're right, Merrick,” she began. “I just don't think I can believe myself anymore.”

  “Fine,” Merrick said, and, face still inscrutable, pushed back her chair and stood. “Then there's no use in talking, is there? Clearly it's all nonsense, all that I've ever told you.” She went back to the counter, lifting her knife to chop herbs, her back turned toward Francine.

  “Merrick!” Francine was desperate. “Please, don't do this. I think I've made a terrible mistake and I'm sad and lonely and I really don't need condemnation. Not from anyone.”

  “No,” Merrick said, and there was a glint of softness in her eye. “You don't. So stop heaping it on yourself, lass.”

  “I'm not,” Francine protested. Even as she said it, she wondered if she was right.

  “Go and listen to your heart, lass,” Merrick said gravely. “It's all in there.”

  Francine nodded sadly. She pushed back her chair and stood. “I will try, Merrick,” she said softly. “And thank you for your words. They helped.”

  “Nay, they didn't,” Merrick said cheerfully. She punctuated her words with the staccato chop of the knife, slicing chives. “They made you angry. Right now you're so vexed you probably wish you could throw me out. Mayhap that's good. At least you're feeling something.”

  Francine shook her head. “I'm not angry.”

  Merrick said nothing, but Francine thought her shoulders moved and she had the distinct impression Merrick was laughing. Shaking her head sadly, she walked up the stairs.

  Even Merrick had lost her faith in her.

  In the garden, she walked as far as she could, finding a spot under a tree near the edge of the arbor, where people seldom went. There, she sat down on a bench and wept.

  She tried to recall every facet of the dream she'd had. Someone following her. Being lost in mist. A choice she had to make. One she had to be careful about, lest she make the wrong one.

  “I made the wrong one, didn't I?” she said to the silence.

  Somewhere, the breeze rustled, high up in the leaves. A bee, drowsy with late summer, flitted past. Someone watered the roses, the splash of water louder on the paving. There were no answers to be heard. At least, none that she could decipher.

  Francine sighed and stood. Her mind was made up. She would stay here, at least until she and Douglas could decide what to do next. She would not face Henry and his strange sorrow that she could not understand. Not until she knew how to choose.

  LEARNING AND SEEKING

  Henry burst out of the fields and shot forward on his horse's back, sailing over the park's gate and out onto the open fells. He was angry.

  He rode like he was racing, better than he ever did when his father took him out to hunt. He had no heart for the hunt. Now, passion and anger drove him faster than he'd ever raced in his life.

  Damn Francine. Damn Father. Damn me.

  He was upset with Francine, but his real anger, he knew, was with himself.

  “I am a fool. A thoughtless fool.”

  Poor Francine! She was a good girl, kind and gentle. He had brought her into a home where she was isolated and scorned for the very essence of herself. The very thing he loved.

  She's a Scot. And you thought you could bring her into your world. She was raised on these fells, belongs here...she will die if you take her away too long, if you pen her in amongst fools who might mock her accent, who misunderstand.

  It made him think of when he was a boy, taking periwinkles from the ocean. They looked so charming underneath the water, all pearly and shiny and colorful. However, when you brought them to the surface, they lost their glint and went dull, becoming black as ordinary shells.

  He had, he thought, been thoughtless now as he was then. I cannot take her out of her homeland. What did I think would happen, when we move back to England?

  He couldn't bring his wife with him, that much was clear now.

  This was why he couldn't bear to be indoors a moment longer. He couldn't bear to face the reflection of his selfish…self. He had thought only of his own happiness, his own longing to have her by his side eternally. He hadn't thought of her for a moment.

  “How could I have done it?”

  His horse almost stumbled, running hard on ground that was uneven after endless winds and rains. He leaned back, slowing the pace.

  All I need is to kill or lame poor Gilmore.

  Was there no end to his selfishness? He sighed.

  “Walk on, boy. Let's go easy. We have lots of time.”

  They walked on across the moor. Henry stopped and slid out of the saddle when they reached the border of the woodlands. Sitting on the grass, he rested his face in his hands.

  “I could almost stay here forever,” he sighed. It would be easy to just live here, he thought, knowing it to be idle musing. He could ride into the village and get seed, grow crops...stay here like a vagabond and never have to make another difficult choice in his life.

  He sighed. Gilmore snorted.

  “I know,” he said, squinting at the clouds. “I'm being foolish.”

  He sat a while, trying to find words he could tell Francine. Then, still not knowing what he was going to do, or what to say, he stood and, swinging his leg into the saddle, headed back. He was going home.

  I love Francine. I love her more than I can ever imagine loving anyone. How can I tell her that, but also tell her that I think we must...do something?

  He had no idea. He also had no idea what to do.

  “I need to talk to Marguerite.”

  When he reached his home, it was a dark, silent world. The clouds had descended during the ride, and hung low now, casting a silvered gray on everything. He walked along the hallway, his footsteps rendered sins against the silence.

  “Marguerite?”

  He reached the drawing-room – his sister had recently been here, judging by the scarlet flowers arranged beautifully on the end of the harpsichord. However, she was not there now.

  “Marguerite?” He peered into the breakfast room, and then reached the parlor. A pale face looked up at him from the chaise-lounge.

  “There you are!” he said. He looked at her, frowning. She was pale, eyes wide, and her expression seemed somehow stricken. “What?” he said. “Where's Francine?”

  “She's gone,” Marguerite said softly.

  “What?” Henry stared at her. “What do you mean, gone?” His heart started to thump in utter terror. Where had she gone? What did
Marguerite mean? Had something terrible happened?

  “She's left, Henry,” Marguerite said. Her eyes held his gaze and it was difficult for him to decide whether she accused him for his wife's abrupt departure. “Without saying where.”

  Henry felt weak. He sat down suddenly, mind completely numb. “What?” he said again, knowing he was being foolish, but having nothing else to say. “When did she go?”

  “This morning,” Marguerite said calmly. “A few minutes after breakfast.” She sat down in the wing-back chair across from him. “I questioned her maid, Brenna. She said the mistress had asked to dress for riding. She went out at mayhap half past nine. She's not been seen since.”

  “What's the time?” Henry asked, frowning.

  “Three of the clock,” Marguerite said softly. “You've been out almost all day.”

  Henry hung his head, feeling wretched. Why had he been so foolish? “Has anyone any idea of where she might have gone?”

  Marguerite frowned. “If I have any sense, I'd say she went home.”

  “Home?”

  “Yes,” Marguerite nodded slowly. “To Duncliffe Manor. It's what I would have done, had I been in her situation.”

  “You would?” he asked, confused. “Why?”

  “She thinks we’ve condemned her, Henry!” Marguerite said. She didn't raise her voice, but it ran with rank incredulity that he could have missed so obvious a fact. “She thinks we believe Scots beneath us. Of course she wants to be with her family, who understand her best.”

  Henry groaned, dolefully hiding his face. “No wonder she said that,” he said.

  “Said what?”

  He sighed. How could he have been so stupid? He could barely bring himself to confess his callousness to Francine. “When...” he paused. “What I said when I remarked she must have been embarrassed by my argument with Dunnock. Yesterday at Father's supper party. I said it was wrong of me to do it because...because he was of her kind.”

  Marguerite looked at him. “You're daft sometimes,” she said softly.

  Henry nodded, miserably. “I am,” he agreed.

  They both sat in the silence, punctuated only by the distant sound of someone walking down the hallway, shutting the door downstairs.

  “What can I do?” he asked.

  “Well, brother,” Marguerite shrugged. “If I were you, I'd reckon on her coming back in a few days. She just wants to see her family. I'm sure of it.”

  Henry frowned. “How can you be sure?” he said, sorrowfully. “I really upset her. If I were her...” he trailed off sadly. If he were in Francine's position, he would be considering staying with the family.

  “Brother,” Marguerite began coolly, “don't think of trying to do anything. It will be better just to leave her be. I know she will see sense soon. She was not so very badly hurt.”

  “You don't know Francine,” Henry said, shaking his head.

  Marguerite said nothing, but Henry had already made up his mind. He was going to ride to Duncliffe tonight. Now. He was going to try and get her back.

  If nothing else, I have to tell her that I love her.

  It was what he should have said that morning. What he wanted to say, all he wanted to say, it now consumed him. Country, neighbors, customs...what were they? All else, everything, faded into shadow in the face of that one word: Love. It was all that mattered.

  Henry headed to his bedchamber to dress for riding.

  IN THE MIST

  The house was oddly quiet. Francine had taken luncheon with Douglas, who had gone upstairs to write a letter. That left her at a loose end, in a house that used to be familiar. She quietly went up the stairs toward the turret room.

  Sitting there made her feel even lower. It was dark and dismal up there, despite the fire that someone had lit recently in the grate, crackling away.

  “I should go out to the garden again.”

  Out there, in the shelter of the arbor, she could at least find time to feel truly alone. The house, with the silent servants and, somewhere, her father's stern presence, was oppressive.

  Out there, the air smelled heavily of rain. She drew in a deep breath, knowing it was far too likely to shower to risk taking a ride. She just didn't want to go back inside again, couldn’t bear to return to that weighty silence. There were things to distract her out here.

  She wandered to the edge of the garden, heading toward the stables. As she did so, she heard the distant clatter of hoof-beats on the road, the bark of a dog as it sighted the incomer.

  Must be a hunting party, she thought. She inhaled the rain-dense air and, deciding it might hold just a little longer before showering them with a torrential rainfall, headed up toward the half forgotten arbor.

  I am doing what Merrick said. I am listening to my own counsel.

  Her own counsel told her, repeatedly and in endless variations, that she was a fool. She had leapt at a quick solution. She had chosen blindly.

  “I need to undo this.”

  She had a plan. She would go to see Arabella. While there, she would express the wish to retire to a convent. Nobody would think twice about her separating from Henry if she expressed a will to devote her life to good works and the Church. Then she would move into Northfell Abbey and stay there until the end of her days.

  Drastic, she knew. Better by far than the possibility of living a life surrounded by Lady Andover and her sort. A life that would wear her down to nothing.

  At least there I can use my skill at herbs. The more she thought about the idea, the more it seemed like it was the only sensible choice. She had decided.

  She had reached the arbor and settled on a bench. It was while she was sitting there that she became aware of eyes upon her. She shivered, turning around.

  That hunted feeling! She couldn't bear it. It reminded her of that haunted dream. She stood and turned.

  “Who goes there?” she called out.

  No answer. Only silence. She shivered.

  Mayhap it's my imagination. However, she was sure it wasn't. Why would it be? It was the last thing that she'd have expected.

  She stayed there a moment longer, and the watcher, if such there was, seemed to retreat, the sensation dissipating. Then she turned and, drawing her shawl about her, went back toward the house.

  She was crossing the courtyard when she heard the feet approaching. She looked up.

  “Fraser?”

  Her heart stopped. He was there. He looked at her with cold cruelty on his face. She went rigid. She couldn't have moved if she'd wanted to. It was him, wasn't it?

  “Aye. It's you, alright,” he said. “I thought so when I saw you in the arbor. You're back.”

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered.

  “Well, your father still treats with me, sometimes. Not as closely as I'd have liked, and on the understanding that I really should have been his ally, but...” He shook his head. “No one cheats me,” he added flatly. “I'll take what's mine.”

  “Fraser, no,” Francine whispered. “You can't do this.”

  “No, I can't,” he said bitterly. “But I'm going to do it anyway.”

  With that, he swung out his left hand and hit her so roundly that she crumpled to her knees. She was too shocked to speak, too shocked to cry. Too shocked by far to scream.

  Then another blow connected with the side of her head and everything went dark.

  She woke later, head aching. The world was a blur of swiftness, of hoof-beats, of searing, aching pain. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Her chest ached.

  I am across the front of someone's horse.

  That explained the noise, the pain in her head, and the pressure in her chest.

  She was on the front of Fraser's horse and he was riding away.

  She leaned forward, doing the only thing she could think of. Her body tensed, not wanting to let her do what she contemplated. If she fell, she would be crushed under the horse. She couldn't escape that way. She considered it anyway. At least if she went
, she would go quickly.

  No, you wouldn't. You would likely be maimed and crippled and spend the rest of your life unable to dance, or walk, or ride.

  The thought stayed her hand. She knew it was sound sense and listened to it. She lay still where she was.

  There are always ways to escape. I can wait until we stop, and sneak into the woods. I can play dead, and when he takes me off the horse, I can spring back to life and run and hide. I can escape.

  She had to believe that.

  It was dark in the woods – even without opening her eyes, she could tell that. She wondered what the time was, and how long she'd been unconscious. She had no way of telling. She wondered where they were.

  They were in a forest, and it was late afternoon and about to rain. That was all she knew – which could leave her anywhere.

  If I escape, I don't know what I think I'll do next, where I'll go.

  She went still. She knew there was one thing she couldn't do, and that was imagine anyone would rescue her. Henry had saved her the first time, and that was that. She wouldn't be so lucky as to escape again.

  Henry.

  The thought made her heart ache. She recalled his smile, the way he had laughed with her so often. The warmth of his presence and the way he'd looked at her, so sadly that morning, when he'd gone off.

  She wondered where he was now, and how he was. She hoped he was well. She knew that she would never see him again.

  As the horse turned sharply sideways and her head throbbed, aching alarmingly, her last thought before she passed out again was, I wonder if I will ever know what the dream meant.

  A FRIGHTENING MOMENT

  Henry shot through the woods heading to Duncliffe. He had no idea why – perhaps it was the imminence of rain, perhaps some other force that drove him – but whatever the case, he knew that he had to reach Duncliffe soon.

  “Who goes there?”

  Henry shot through the gate, stopping abruptly as the grounds-man challenged him.

  “Henry Gracewell,” he said, leaning over on the horse, gasping for breath. His horse, lathered in sweat, was utterly finished. So was he. They both stayed where they were, breathing hard. The grounds-man eyed them levelly.