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

by Ferguson, Emilia

  “Beg yer pardon, sir. But we have reason to challenge everyone today. Milady's missin'.”

  Henry stared at him. “I beg your pardon?” he said.

  The man blinked. “Mistress Francine,” he said slowly. “She's gone away.”

  “No!” Henry said. “Gone off where? Damn it, I will hear the explanation!” Weariness and horror coalesced together, driven by a need to do something. He slid off his horse and made a grab for the man.

  “Henry!”

  A voice shattered the moment. Henry abruptly let go. The guardsman backed away, anger and wariness mixed in his eyes.

  “Brother,” he greeted Lord Douglas. “Sorry. I...Francine?” He was tired, so tired he could barely make sense of anything.

  “Missing,” Douglas confirmed. “Since just after four o' clock.”

  “After four?” Henry stared at him. “Damn it, Douglas! That's two hours ago, no...More! She could be anywhere by now. What happened?”

  Douglas frowned. “I don't know. I had rather hoped she was with you. Though how I thought she got there, I don't know. Her horse is in the stable.”

  “Where?” Henry was already walking, briskly heading toward the low, long building. “I need to see.”

  What if she'd left a note? Some sort of indication of her whereabouts? He remembered her coded message reference, and held on to the vague hope that she might have left them some hint of her intent.

  “Her mare is in the stables, here,” Douglas said. He overtook Henry as they reached the doorway. “In the last stall. Wallace?”

  “Yes, sir?” A man appeared, frowning at Douglas. His face was worried.

  “Show Lord Henry Milady Francine's things.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man said.

  Henry waited, thinking, while Wallace went off. What if she'd left some message of some kind, somewhere?

  “Wallace?” he asked the man when he returned, carrying the Toledo leather saddle that he recognized at once as belonging to his wife.

  “Yes, milord?” the man said, hesitatingly.

  “What happened, at around four of the clock this afternoon? Can you tell me? Was something untoward?”

  The man frowned and scratched his head. “I wouldnae say untoward, no, sir,” he said, frowning. “The usual sort of thing. Fellow came in round half past three, maybe later, to see the master. Went off again before I got back. Didnae see him go.”

  “Got back?” Henry queried.

  “From a quick cup o' tea in the kitchen. Must ha' been just afore Mallory took the tea upstairs.”

  “So around four o' clock?”

  “Thereabouts, yes, sir.”

  Henry looked at Douglas. “Who was the fellow?” he asked. This sounded odd to him. Someone had been here, and left, around about the time Francine disappeared?

  Douglas shrugged. “Who was it, Wallace?” he asked.

  “It was him,” Wallace said slowly. “Ye ken the feller. He were here afore, visiting. The big tall feller with the red hair up top, ye ken him. He as thinks he's big stuff. It was him.”

  Henry and Douglas looked at each other. “Fraser,” Henry said.

  Douglas nodded. Henry saw his jaw set and knew he had come to the same conclusion.

  “We need to go,” Douglas said. “Now.”

  “No,” Henry said quickly. “I'll go alone.”

  Douglas put a hand on his shoulder. “No, brother,” he said. “I won't let you. I'm her brother. We go together.”

  Henry shook his head. “Someone has to stay here and organize efforts to find her. What if I go wrong? It's a big forest. And if I'm harmed...?” He left the sentence hanging, knowing Douglas would understand.

  “I'll get the men out looking,” Douglas nodded at once. “We need to lose no time.”

  “Thank you, brother,” Henry nodded. He headed off back to his horse.

  As they walked together, he discussed with Douglas what he thought was the most likely route for Fraser to follow. Guinnessfort, the fortress that was his ancestral home, was a day's ride away on the north road.

  “I think in all likelihood he will have gone directly there,” Douglas said. “If you follow the north road, you'll likely reach his hiding place.”

  “Very well,” Henry nodded. “Thank you, brother.”

  Douglas just looked at him with grim determination. “Find her, Henry.”

  “I will.” Henry headed out.

  The rain would start any minute now--that much was clear. It gave Henry hope – albeit a slender hope he had. If they stopped somewhere to avoid rain, he could catch up with them. Otherwise, they could be halfway to Guinnessfort, or more, and he would never catch them in time.

  “Let's go.”

  He rode.

  The rain started after an hour. Henry, soaked and miserable, dismounted and walked with Gilmore into the shelter of the overhanging trees. Anyone else out here, he thought, would be soaked to the skin in no time, and forced to seek shelter.

  The rain wore on and on. He felt himself start to shiver. His body was feeling achingly cold, and then hot. He sighed as his eyes started to blur, just a fraction. If he stayed out here much longer, cold and soaked thoroughly, he would end up raving with fever and be of no use to anybody.

  “We need shelter.”

  Gilmore snorted and Henry had to agree. Feeling utterly useless, he led them along the road, walking slowly. What else could they do?

  A track on his left suggested that he was near human habitation. Hating himself for his need for warmth – his teeth were starting to chatter alarmingly and his joints ached dully – he turned along it.

  I will just wait for a few minutes. Just until I stop shivering.

  They walked steadily along the pathway.

  Henry breathed in slowly and fully, hoping to control the chattering in his teeth. It was then that he smelled it. Smoke. Someone did live here, and they had set a fire.

  The thought of warmth and a momentary respite from the rain mixed with his hope that maybe, just maybe, Fraser had stopped here too. Information of any sort would be useful. Feeling renewed hope swamp him, he headed toward the cottages.

  “Fraser,” Francine said. Her voice caught in her throat and it was hard – very hard – to say anything.

  The tall shadow that was Fraser stopped abruptly. He turned around to face her. “What?”

  “Please, let me go.”

  He frowned, as if the idea was preposterous. “No,” he said.

  “Fraser,” she said again.

  His eyes were dark and the very lack of expression in them made her blood run completely cold. She stayed where she was, too frightened to move. Too frightened to speak. “It's still raining.”

  Francine let out a long breath and looked around. If she was to face some terrible fate, the last place she wanted to meet it was here, in this cottage. She looked around. The place was neat enough, if sparse. It must have belonged to one of the woodsmen, she realized. There was no one here now, and the place had the damp, cold scent of neglect.

  “I'll see to the fire.”

  Francine tensed. Now was her chance to escape. With Fraser in the other room – the kitchen and the other room were separated by an archway – she could back out of the other door and into the woods.

  What would she do there? Francine had no idea. Likely get eaten by wolves, or bears, her mind said morbidly.

  She frowned. Should she stay, or leave and risk uncertain fate out in the woods?

  “Damn thing's damp,” Fraser swore from where he bent before the fire. He was perhaps eight paces away and fully visible to her. However, his attention was distracted. She had always been able to walk silently – it was something she and Arabella had learned from Hal, the stable-hand, long ago.

  Step back. And back. One more step now.

  The floor was earth, hard-packed. She felt her back jar on something and heard a slight scuff on the floor. She turned, seeing she'd walked into a chair.

  Easy, Francine. One step more, and
one more...

  She was at the door. She stood where she was, her body blending into shadow.

  If I escape now, I'll be lost in the woods – I have no idea where I am.

  She thought about what she would do. She couldn't take his horse, it would be too long to find the creature, mount him, and ride away. Fraser could cross the room in a few strides and hurry after her and she would still be untying the bridle from the fence. No, she would have to hide, or walk.

  I can't walk all the way home.

  She hesitated in the doorway. How to choose?

  He turned around.

  “And I think...damn it! Where are you?”

  He swore, realizing she was not where he'd left her, standing just behind him by the fire. Then he looked up and spotted her. She screamed.

  He yelled and ran for her. She pushed the door open and ran.

  “You doxy!” he yelled. “I'll catch you, and when I do, you'll not be able to run away again. I'll kill you if I catch you. I swear it.”

  Francine ran onward. She wove between the trees, grateful to Hal and her past in the forest for having taught her to keep her balance on wet, root-strewn ground. Fraser, it seemed, had no such practice, for, far too close to her, she heard a yell, a grunt and a thud. He fell down hard.

  I have time now, she thought wildly. Just a second or two more. Time to run...

  “I'll get you!” he yelled and she realized with dismay that he was up again. She paused, wondering if she should run, and risk being seen, or stay where she was, and hope he'd lost sight of her.

  She heard him coming closer and then twisted around, running hard. She could feel her feet aching, her lungs burning, her legs pumping hard under her, trying to keep her upright on the slippery, slick, uneven surface of the trees' roots.

  She ran on, heading for a patch of brightness under the dark trees. It was the road.

  Over the top of the rain, over the sound of her breath, the steady footsteps of pursuit, she heard another noise. Hooves. Getting closer. If she could reach the road as the passer-by did, she had a chance. She ran.

  At the edge of the road, Fraser made a grab for her. She screamed. His hand was around her waist and his other hand reached for her mouth, and he twisted her toward him. She felt his hand move to her neck and she had the first stab of real, undiluted terror. Would he really kill her?

  She found her voice. She screamed.

  Then the sound of hoof-beats filled the clearing.

  She screamed again, and the horse yelled and the clearing was filled with the sound of a man, shouting.

  THE WAY OUT

  “No!” Henry shouted. His voice carried so much rage, so much loathing, that he barely recognized it. “Fraser. Stop!”

  The man – tall, red-haired, bulky – stopped what he was doing. He looked at Henry with the casual glance of a man who is used to killing, nay, accustomed to it.

  “You want to fight me?” he asked incredulously.

  Henry swallowed hard. “Get away from her, Fraser. Now.”

  The man shrugged. He opened his hand and Francine fell forward, landing awkwardly on one knee. Henry saw her draw in a breath, pained. A lump, not yet showing its bruise, was at her temple. Her hair was soaked and loose and she was crying, albeit wordlessly.

  Fraser gave Henry his flat, cold gaze. “I'm ready for a fight, if you are.”

  Henry tensed. He hadn't thought to arm himself – he had expected to visit Francine's home, not fight for someone's life. He shrugged. “Why?” he asked. “If you go now and never come back, you won't die for what you did.”

  Fraser laughed. “A coward, eh?” He looked at Francine, his face twisted in anger. “If ye were going tae take someone over me, it might as well not have been a spavined oaf.”

  Francine glared at him. “He isn't a...” she began. Fraser aimed a kick at her knee, the one that she knelt on currently.

  That was when Henry snapped. Roaring, he ran at the man. He had the advantage of surprise and Fraser grunted, stepping back. Henry drove home the advantage, aiming a ringing blow for his head. Fraser went down on one knee.

  Henry aimed a kick at him. Fraser doubled over, and then Henry yelled as he felt a hand grab his knee and twist. It was agony and he gasped and fell backward. That was when Fraser stood.

  “Henry!” Francine screamed. Fraser's attention turned to her for a second and Henry hastily got to his feet. He stood, his left knee still throbbing, and faced the man. Fraser drew back an arm almost casually, and sent a blow to Henry's temple that made him stumble backward. He would have fallen again, but a tree-branch caught his weight and held him. He pushed forward, directing a blow at his opponent's head.

  Fraser took the blow, turning so it was a glancing hit, and then drove in viciously with a punch to Henry's gut that stopped his breath. He doubled over, gasping, sure that some damage had been done.

  “Henry!” Francine screamed. Her voice held utter horror in its core.

  This time, Fraser didn't look at her. He kicked at Henry's leg, hoping to topple him and then, as he sank to one knee, delivered a blow that would have hit straight at his temple. It was the sort of blow that, if you did it just correctly, cracked the skull and delivered death.

  Henry tensed, waiting for the blow. It never came.

  Francine was in the mist. It swirled all around her. She had made the wrong choice. She had walked away from Henry. She had chosen to leave.

  She had not listened to her heart.

  Now, death was everywhere. Stalking her here in this clearing, bearing down on Henry.

  The choice had been weighty, as she had been warned about. So much weightier than she had thought. She had made a choice in that moment at Estmoor, when she chose to leave. Or perhaps at Duncliffe, earlier today, when she had chosen not to stay. Or to go North.

  I was questioning the wrong choice.

  The choice had brought her to here and now--to this place where death was everywhere.

  At that moment, she saw Henry fall. She saw Fraser lean over him, swinging back his hand with casual ease. She knew that blow was the sort that would kill.

  “Henry!” she screamed. She knew then, in a heartbeat, what she would do. She ran at Fraser and, using all her weight, drove into his side, throwing him off balance, knocking him sideways, away from Henry, foiling the blow.

  It worked.

  Fraser, taken by utter surprise, grunted and stumbled left. He was broadsided only for an instant before turning to her with a snarl. It was the instant Henry needed.

  Francine saw him move from the corner of her eye, just before Fraser turned on her, obscuring all her vision. She screamed as he swung a vicious blow at her, winding her and driving her to her knees. Then she heard Fraser scream. He fell to his knees, slowly, and Francine stared in horror as he knelt there, seeming unable to move.

  Behind him stood Henry, though he moved away. Francine stared at him, and at Fraser, who was doubled over, retching and coughing. The rain had stopped, and there were no other sounds, so that she heard the clink of metal when Henry dropped the knife.

  “Henry?” she whispered.

  “It shan't kill him,” Henry said woodenly. Then, abruptly, he collapsed forward onto his knees.

  Francine went to him, her own legs too weary to carry her. Together they knelt on the forest floor, shivering and weary. Her arms went around him and she drew him to her, holding him close.

  They kissed.

  RETURN HOME

  Francine heard the hoof-beats approaching along the road and tried hard to stay awake long enough to cry out. Her head ached and she kept drifting in and out of wakefulness.

  She rolled over where she lay beside Henry, who was sitting up, his face blank white. His eyes were ringed with gray. A greening bruise flowered the side of his head.

  “Henry?” she whispered. “Horses.”

  He nodded. He seemed to be in too much pain to speak. Francine raggedly drew in a breath. Her chest burned. She yelled.

  A m
inute later, they heard hoof-beats in the clearing. She heard old Guthridge, the head woodsman, cry out in horror.

  “Milady? Sir?” He stared, and then turned. “We found them!”

  The woodsmen – Douglas must have sent them, she realized dimly – filled the space between the trees. She was lifted onto a saddle and laid there, her whole body too numb and rigid to move. She tried to ask a question. “Henry..?”

  “He's here, milady,” Guthridge's voice said kindly. “We have him safe.”

  “Horses?” she asked. She meant Henry's horse, and Fraser's. Just because the poor creature belonged to that man didn't mean it deserved to be left in the woods all night.

  “We have them,” a man confirmed. “Found one at the cottage, sir,” he added this last comment to Guthridge, who nodded.

  “Aye. Let's go.”

  Francine remembered nothing of the ride back. She drifted in and out of consciousness, the pain in her head vying with the ache in her joints and the shivering, aching cold that filled her, making her shake and shiver and groan.

  “Perdition, lads,” Guthridge said. “She'll get a fever.”

  The next thing Francine knew was gentle hands, reaching up to take her from the horse. She stumbled, trying to focus. Light. She could see a doorway, glimmering with warm golden light. In it stood Douglas.

  “Brother.”

  “Francine! Guthridge. Thank Heaven!”

  “Best go inside,” Guthridge said bluntly.

  Francine leaned on Douglas, swaying. “I'm...fine,” she whispered. Why was she so weary? And what was it that made her head throb so, her vision swim? “Henry..?”

  “He's here, lass,” a voice said kindly. “Right as rain. We'll take him in.”

  Closer, someone else – she recognized Douglas's voice – coughed, and then said, “Guthridge? Get the physician.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Francine was still protesting as Douglas carried her, carefully and gently, up to bed.

  “Will you just rest, sister?” he said with a hint of amusement. “I'll fetch the physician to see you. You're sickening, methinks.”