Love For A Reluctant Highland Lass (Blood of Duncliffe Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  I have never seen a woman like this.

  His eyes wandered down her form – from her glossy black hair, loosely-curled, to her pale skin, shown to such beauty by the low-cut neckline – she was exquisite. And those eyes. He wasn't going to look at them. Gray as mist, and as dangerous to the unwary traveler, they drowned his soul.

  “Shall we begin?” she asked.

  “Um,” he cleared his throat, coughing. “My lady, I have...a proposition...to convey from my master, Mr. Crae.”

  “State it, then.”

  Garrick coughed. “He has agreements with whiskey-makers inland. Their – um – product has to be conveyed by cart down to the coast. He wished to know if you could store the whiskey here, at Duncliffe, for several months. If it's collected here, it makes it easier for him to cart it down to the coast. For this, he offers you a tenth part of his profits.”

  “A tenth part?”

  He swallowed. She was giving him a strange look. He felt ashamed at his master's offer. Was it unreasonable? She seemed to think it was. “Yes, milady. We are...open to negotiation.”

  “Yes,” she said evenly.

  Garrick sighed. He was squirming with discomfort. The woman was having the most peculiar effect on him. With her dark red lips and pale skin, she looked like something out of a dream...and it wasn't the innocent sort. His body ached in that moment and he had the bizarre longing to stand, turn her chair and kiss her full on her mouth.

  Whist, you! he thought angrily. This is Lady Marguerite you're talking to. It's out of the question.

  He shifted uncomfortably. “Milady, I will convey your answer to my master when I return. You wish to negotiate further. Yes?” He swallowed hard.

  “I will think on it more,” she said carefully. “You will, I trust, stay the night?”

  The mere thought of staying the night in this house, knowing that she was somewhere in it, was torture. “Milady, I can stay the night at the Miller's Rest,” he demurred.

  “You are welcome to what accommodation we can offer,” she said carefully. “We will arrange a room.”

  “Thank you” he said, feeling terribly uncomfortable. “You're very kind.”

  She nodded. She waved a thin, pale hand. “Think nothing of it.”

  Garrick nodded. “I'm obliged, Lady Marguerite.”

  She gave him an odd look – one dark brow raised, lips parted – and he wondered what had crossed her mind. Then she nodded.

  “You have taken dinner?”

  He shook his head. “No time, milady. I came straight through from Estmoor.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Well, we had repast prepared. If you will join me?”

  “Um, yes,” he yelped. “I mean, thank ye, milady. I would be most obliged.”

  He ran his hands through his hair, feeling utterly out of his depth. He was no gentleman! How could he take dinner with this beautiful woman? His master would likely have felt comfortable – as a wealthy merchant, he often dined with gentlefolk – but himself?

  I'm a message-runner who grew up on the street. I don't know what I'm doing.

  “Well, then,” she said, and there was no mistaking the sweet tilt to her red lips. She was smiling. “If you will follow our footman? He'll take you upstairs.”

  “Um, thank ye, milady,” he said carefully. He stood and, pushing in his chair heavily, stood and went to the door.

  He heard her stand and her heeled shoes crossed the floor as she went out.

  “Whew.”

  In the hallway, he leaned against the wall for a second or two, brow dripping sweat. He had faced situations so grave he'd narrowly avoided his own death, but he had never felt as awkward as now.

  “Sir?”

  He jumped. He hadn't expected the footman to appear out of nowhere like that. “You scared me,” he chided.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  He sighed. “I am looking for the – um, dining room?” He had no idea where dinner might be served in so grand a house.

  The man inclined his head. “The meal has been set out in the upstairs parlor, sir. If you will follow me?”

  “Um, thank you,” he said.

  “Of course.”

  Garrick, feeling hopelessly out of place, followed the man upstairs. When he got to the door, he paused and stared.

  Lady Marguerite was there, standing before the fire. Her long blue gown fell like water from her body, its fall lingering at her breasts and hips in a way that made his loins ache. The firelight played across her pale skin. Her hair hung down her back, in ringlets just below her shoulders. He coughed, feeling his throat close up with wanting.

  She turned and saw him. The movement was slow; her long curls flowing with it. He drew in a breath. Her loveliness was a torture to him. She was so far above him, like some sweet forbidden nectar held just above his head, out of his reach.

  “Will you join me?” she asked, brow raised.

  Garrick nodded. “Yes, milady.”

  Feeling like he was walking into impossible danger, he drew out a chair and sat down.

  She sat on the chair across from him. Under the table, Garrick was just aware of her knees, close to his. He held his breath and tried not to give in to the temptation of letting his knee move just slightly forward, pressing against hers.

  “You have ridden far today?” she asked.

  “Um...yes. From Lowkirk,” he said, swallowing uncomfortably.

  “You must be tired,” she commented lightly.

  “Yes.”

  The conversation between them stopped. The footman appeared, carrying a bottle.

  “Wine, milady?”

  “Um, yes. Thank you.”

  Garrick watched as the man poured red wine into first her goblet, then his own. The only sound in the room was the gurgle of the wine in the goblets.

  When the man had gone, Lady Marguerite lifted the goblet to her lips. She drank, and then lowered it. The wine left a trail of moisture on her lower lip and Garrick tensed with longing, staring at the glistening skin.

  She licked her lip, enhancing his torture. Garrick winced, not able to help it. Then she moved the goblet aside, so there was nothing standing between them on the table.

  “You have come a long way to deliver such a short message,” she said.

  Garrick cleared his throat. “It is...in my master's best interests to investigate this proposition. His costs will be strongly reduced, should he be able to collect the product here.”

  “I see,” Lady Marguerite said evenly. “Well, he is lucky to have so loyal a man to convey his message to us.”

  “Um...thank you,” Garrick said. The compliment made his cheeks flame. He looked at the table, studying the ridged grains in the wood.

  “Milady, fillets of sole.”

  Garrick looked up as a plate was placed in front of Lady Marguerite first, and then himself. He breathed in the savory scent and his mouth watered. He hadn't eaten very much that day.

  A click of cutlery on the plate opposite him made him look up across the table. He was in time to see Lady Marguerite slide the fork out of her mouth, her eyes closed as she chewed, tasting the fish. He breathed raggedly through his nose and tried to focus on something else.

  “You don't like fish?” Marguerite asked, looking up questioningly.

  The comment was so incongruous that Garrick actually smiled. “I am merely distracted by other, better things, milady.”

  He was shocked by his own boldness, and winced inside, waiting for her to suppress him with some cold comment. To his surprise, her cheeks went red. She looked down at her plate.

  “You had fair weather for the ride?” she asked at length, when the silence had stretched.

  “It was fair,” he commented. “Not too warm,” he said wryly. He reached for his wine, surprised by her discomfort at his compliment.

  “You'll leave early tomorrow?” she asked. Her eyes met his.

  He nodded, slowly. “Yes.”

  “Oh.”

  Again, the silence s
tretched uncomfortably. He looked about the room. It was a small room, the walls stone, the fireplace ornate, with the glory of a bygone era. He had the sense of ancient grandeur. “Your home is...quite substantial,” he said. “It has a history, I think.”

  “It's old,” she commented, reaching for her glass again. “A grand house.”

  “Mm.”

  That seemed to dry out that particular channel of conversation, and he looked around, striving to think of something else to talk about. In the end, he settled on a topic she'd raised earlier. “The fish is good,” he said.

  She smiled. “It is. I like fish.”

  He noticed she had already finished it. He bit back a smile. Somehow, that small weakness made her more approachable and he felt a lot of warmth for her.

  “I grew up at the coast,” he commented. “I had so much fish that I learned to dread it.”

  She raised a brow. Her gray eyes looked into his, full of warmth and an odd compassion. “You needn't eat it, if you'd rather not.”

  His gaze held hers for just a moment, and he was shocked by the understanding he saw there. It was as if, for a moment, he looked into the eyes of a truly kindred spirit, and felt her mind touch his.

  He swallowed hard. She looked away before he did. “It's not bad fish,” he said, clearing his throat. “I like it.”

  She wasn't looking at him anymore, though. She was looking down at her hands, clasped in her lap. He wondered if he'd upset her and leaned over, looking into her face. His heart almost stopped. Her face had gone completely blank, her eyes unfocused, as if she was seeing a distant memory. He reached across the table, suddenly concerned.

  She put her hand on his, tightly. He jerked in surprise, but she was holding his hand so tightly that he couldn't have moved his hand if he wanted to. And he didn't.

  “You're a man who’s been far,” she said, voice even. “You've seen many things. Far seas. You've faced many challenges. Many dangers. But are you strong enough to face the one who waits?”

  He stared at her. All his hair stood on end. He'd heard of people who could foretell the future – wise ones, in the cottages in the mountains, who would tell you what was ahead for you. However, he had never imagined them like this.

  The way her eyes had gone huge and focused on his face, not quite seeing it, the feel of her fingers on his hand, and the urgency in her voice. He could barely breathe for the wonder and fear he felt.

  Then, as abruptly as it had happened, she fell back against the chair. Her fingers slackened and her grip released his arm. She fell back into the chair, utterly exhausted. He stared.

  She groaned and reached up, resting a hand on her forehead. “Oh...” she moaned. “Water. I need some water. I feel ill.”

  Garrick was already hurrying to her side. He reached for her hand, kneeling in front of her. Her pulse was fluttering. He turned around to hear the footman entering.

  “Roast ham with sauce of redcurrant...” His voice trailed off and his eyes went big in horror as he looked around the room.

  “Get some water,” Garrick said, turning to face the man. “The mistress is poorly. And fetch her maid, or someone to take her upstairs. She needs to lie down.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man nodded. He looked around again, as if hesitant to leave Lady Marguerite with this stranger. Garrick sighed.

  “Lady Marguerite is ill. She needs help. I would fetch it myself, but I don't know where to go.”

  That seemed to reassure him and he went out, hurrying away.

  Garrick turned back to Lady Marguerite. She was chalk-pale, her gray eyes big and solemn.

  He touched her wrist again, this time realizing what an intimate act it was as he did it, the urgency somewhat gone. He looked at the soft, tender skin, felt the veins underneath and his face went red. He gently lowered her arm back to lie against her velvet skirt. “Milady,” he said gently. “You feel any better?”

  She blinked and stared at him, dazed. “What happened? Did I say something?”

  He frowned. “You did, milady. I...” He paused, licking his dry lips. He was very close to her, looking into that striking oval face. He had no idea what to say. Do you know the Sight comes over you sometimes? It didn't sound like something he could say, so he cleared his throat and tried something else. “I sent a man to fetch help.”

  “What help?” she asked, sounding panicked.

  “Just someone to fetch water, and to take you upstairs to rest, if you feel the need.”

  “Oh,” she whispered. She relaxed a little, leaning back against the seat. “What did I say?” she asked.

  He frowned. “You spoke of a danger in the future,” he said. “Of the need to be ready for something.”

  She looked into his eyes. Her gray gaze held his. He looked levelly back. His heart felt pulled toward her, as if part of it had always known her.

  “The danger...” she began carefully. “Did I say what it was?”

  He shook his head. “You did not, milady.”

  She looked at her hands. Said nothing for a while. Then she sighed, leaning forward on the chair, head supported on her hand. She looked suddenly very young, and vulnerable.

  He leaned back, where he knelt on the floor before her. She looked up and met his eye. She swallowed hard.

  “I should go,” she said. “I regret that I am...in no fit state to say more.”

  He nodded. “Yes, milady.”

  At that moment, a woman arrived at the door. She had red hair and a soft, heart-shaped face, and was very pretty and vital. She glanced at Lady Marguerite.

  “Her ladyship needs to go upstairs?” she asked, curiously.

  Garrick nodded uncomfortably.

  The woman came over to fetch Marguerite, who gritted her teeth and made herself stand. She leaned on her maid's arm and together they walked from the room, leaving him alone.

  Garrick sighed and got to his feet. He sat down again on his chair and leaned back, exhausted.

  What an evening!

  He sighed. He had never experienced such a tumult of emotions in such a short time in his whole life. First meeting Lady Marguerite, and the terrible tension of the attraction he felt for her. Then the surprise of her prophecy, and the weariness that came after it. And his confusion. He leaned back against the chair and closed his eyes, exhausted.

  You've seen many things. Many dangers. Are you strong enough to face the one who waits?

  He shook his head, suppressing a shiver. He was too tired to make sense of it right now.

  “Sir?”

  He opened his eyes blearily, looking up at the footman who entered. “Yes?” he asked, exhausted.

  “Her ladyship..?” He was holding a metal pitcher of water, a drop of it running down the smooth surface of it and dripping on the floor.

  “Her maid arrived and helped her to her room. I reckon the interview's over. I should find somewhere to rest.”

  “Indeed, sir,” the man said at once. “This way.”

  Garrick got to his feet and followed the man out. He felt as if he was a hundred years old – too weary and drained to take a single step.

  The hallway led to another set of steps and then along another hallway, to a small, fairly plain but comfortable chamber. Garrick sat wearily on the bed.

  I don't know when I've felt so drained.

  He sighed.

  One thing he knew for certain was that he would sleep and dream of her that night. Lady Marguerite. The lady with the haunting smile.

  FIRST IMPRESSIONS

  Ettie sat down on the box in the attic where her mistress stored her summer clothes. She leaned back against the wall, closed her eyes and sighed.

  I am a fool. What was I thinking to do that?

  Marguerite had said nothing when she came to fetch her – at least, nothing bad. She'd been gentle and sympathetic and understanding. She had also quickly left Ettie to her own devices, heading downstairs to tend to her daughter.

  She thinks I failed her.

  She sigh
ed. She hadn't asked her mistress if all was well, and her mistress hadn't asked her anything either. Ettie had told her nothing of the encounter. She recalled the conversation.

  “MacNeith said you were sick,” her mistress had said, as soon as they were on the stairwell.

  Ettie nodded. She noticed her mistress' garb – she was wearing a plain white dress that could – almost – have passed for a maidservant's attire, had someone conveniently not noticed it was fine linen blend. She had covered her hair with a cap and left it loose. It was almost convincing.

  “I...Milady, I'm sorry you had to come down and...”

  “Hush,” Marguerite said gently. “Come on upstairs. We can talk a little and then I can fetch Dr. Brewer.”

  “No, milady,” she demurred at once. “I'm not that sort of ill. I just need rest.”

  “Poor Ettie,” she said gently. “It was a big demand to place on you.”

  She shook her head. “It was nothing, milady. I hope...I hope I did it aright.”

  Marguerite nodded. “We'll talk more in the morning. Don't trouble yourself now.”

  Ettie swallowed hard, remembering her distant kindness. She had no idea how much of the conversation Marguerite already knew, or how she felt about Ettie's sudden falling ill. She felt as if she had failed her mistress' request.

  Now she'll likely demote me for betraying her trust in this.

  She sighed again, shaking her head. Closed her eyes wearily. Her body felt weak and worn out and she could barely stand. The Sight. It had never come over her as strongly as it had today. Why did it have to happen now?

  She had a thought. There was only one person in the world she could tell about this – only one person she could ask what had happened, and what it meant.

  Standing, feeling like her whole body was a mass of aches, she walked down the stairs and headed to the kitchens.

  She had exchanged the velvet dress for her own cotton under-shift and stiff worsted over-dress as soon as she was upstairs. It felt a little stiff after the velvet, though in truth she was glad to get it off. She had felt wrong wearing it, as if she had no right to such things.