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

by Emilia Ferguson

  “That seems best,” Marguerite agreed. She leaned back, sighing. “I know you don't always trust me, but you know many secrets of mine. You can tell me things. I promise to always respect your confidence.” Her brown eyes held Ettie's gaze, expression kind.

  Ettie swallowed hard. “I know, milady,” she said, voice raw. “And...I thank ye.”

  “Well, then,” Marguerite said. She didn't say anything else and Ettie went to the door, feeling a little guilty.

  “I'll take a walk, then.”

  Marguerite nodded and Ettie left. The hallway outside was silent – no sign of any of the other maids, or the footmen, or steward. She could have been alone in the house. Her heart ached.

  I could have done with the silence two days ago. When I needed to sneak about, the place was full of people!

  She sighed. The relative calm was what her nerves needed, if nothing else. She suddenly realized what a hard toll they had taken these last days, sneaking between the kitchen and the shed and back, fearing discovery.

  For all that, she would not exchange those days for anything. It had been a strange pleasure to have Mr. Hale there. Or, at least, it had been agonizingly worrying at times, but now that he was no longer there, she felt as if a part of her heart was utterly empty.

  She made her way down silently to the kitchen.

  “Need some tansy?” Merrick asked. Her back was turned.

  Ettie swallowed hard. The offer had sounded like a challenge. When Ettie glanced at her, she was looking blankly at her, but her eyes were smiling.

  “I don't anymore, no,” Ettie murmured. It was as close as she could come to a confession.

  She had told nobody her secret – the man in the shed – not even Merrick. She had no idea what would have been done if anyone found him. Nothing, probably – there was no reason for a wounded man not to take shelter in the barn, or even in the manor itself. However, something had told Ettie to keep matters secret.

  If nothing else, he thought she was the mistress of Duncliffe.

  “Well, if you need it, you're free to go to the airing-room whenever you wish it,” Merrick said.

  The offer was not one lightly made and Ettie swallowed hard. “Thank you,” she said.

  It was the closest Merrick came to expressing her mentoring. It meant the world to Ettie. She felt as if someone had touched her very heart.

  Merrick turned away, brushing hair off her cheek. “You get along, then,” she said, her voice throaty and utterly unlike its usual timbre. “If you're outside, you might dig up some garlic. I need it for the sauce later.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Merrick.”

  Ettie wandered out.

  The garden was sunny, the day setting to evening after a long afternoon rain. The ground smelled fresh and damp and she settled down with the chore of collecting herbs for Merrick.

  She frowned as she worked. It wasn't the chore itself, but her thoughts from earlier.

  He thought I was her. The Lady of Duncliffe.

  That was the most awful part of it.

  She recalled the way he looked at her – wary, amazed. Would he look at her in anything resembling the same way if she was not above his station? If she was just...well...herself?

  She shrugged, wiping hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand. Why would he?

  “Come on, that's enough,” she told herself. She got to her feet and walked back to the kitchen, hands full of herbs.

  Had she concealed him to keep him safe? Or to keep the deception from being risked? And if she had done it to preserve the story, who for? Him? Her mistress? Or herself? She didn't want to think about it. All she knew was that he was gone now and that was hard enough to bear.

  A TROUBLED RETURN

  It was nightfall on the third day when Garrick finally came within sight of Queensferry. He tensed. Riding at night was not something he favored. Particularly not riding at night here.

  Queensferry is bad enough by day. At night, it's murderous.

  The buildings were dark on a blue sky, and Garrick tightened his knees, encouraging Dunstan to a trot. His head hurt, as it had, to a greater or lesser degree, throughout the journey, and he winced, glad that it was not too much longer now.

  I was foolish to leave then. But what could I do?

  He had a sense that the longer he stayed at the manor, the more he risked harming Lady Marguerite.

  Not that he had any reason for believing she was in danger, except for his master's strange requests for his attentive collection of information. And Lady Marguerite's distance.

  It seemed as if she was worried by his presence there.

  “Well, she risked her life, saving you,” he said harshly. “And then you ride off without so much as thank you.”

  He shook his head. He was a rude, ungracious fool. He was also a worried one.

  The next morning, he would have to meet with his master and report on the conversation.

  He rode in through the town gates, passing along the cobbles toward the merchant's lodgings. Garrick's own rooms were not close to the merchant's home, nor were they close to the warehouse, a fact for which he was grateful. The region around the warehouse was particularly dangerous.

  I'll be glad to be home.

  In his own lodgings – which he thankfully reached without danger – he lit the lamp, scraped together some supplies out of the larder, and then, after a meal, sat heavily on the bed.

  He closed his eyes, wishing he could do something to make himself blot out the thoughts of Lady Marguerite. However, they haunted him.

  Everywhere he looked – especially now that he was tired – he saw her. That dark hair resting against her pale-skinned face. Her gray eyes, serious with wisdom or creased at the corners when she smiled.

  She was a walking mystery, Lady Marguerite. At once poised and gracious, there was steel in her. In addition, why did she have that strange, worldly-wise aspect, for all her grace and otherworldly air?

  The admiration for her was teamed with a longing for her body that was almost overwhelming. Garrick recalled the first evening he'd met her, when she’d wore that blue dress, her hair loose like water about her shoulders, dark red mouth inviting. His loins ached painfully.

  “Come on, Garrick,” he said harshly. What was he thinking? He had no more right to moon about over this woman than he did to move to Holyrood Palace to take up residence there.

  I would probably get further with that scheme – at least if I sneaked in at night, probably no one would see me.

  He sighed. Lady Marguerite was as far above him as anyone ever could be and he might as well forget about her. There was a time when he would have used whiskey to forget, but he wasn't doing that anymore. Moreover, oddly enough, he didn't feel the inclination to do so.

  Lady Marguerite put so much effort into fixing me up. The least I can do is try to enjoy the life I have.

  The thought of making himself numb and senseless, unable to see or feel or experience anything, was just not appealing anymore. He wanted to be awake to the possibilities, to feel what happened next.

  He sighed and took off his boots, and then lay down on the bed. He was exhausted, but his ribs were less sore than they had been, and he was in his own home. He fell asleep.

  “Hale,” a voice greeted him from the darkness of the warehouse, early the next morning when he arrived for work.

  Garrick swallowed hard. “Yes, sir?”

  “Tell me why, when I send you on an errand that takes eight days, you take eleven?”

  Garrick wet his lips. “I can, sir,” he said. “I was assaulted. By thieves.”

  “Ha,” the man said, the laugh flat, lifeless. Garrick shivered. “Why does that seem unlikely.”

  “Because you know I can fight.”

  Again, the man laughed. “I do,” he said. “So maybe that's it. In any case, you're here. What happened?”

  Garrick licked his lips. Of all the things he'd been worried about during his absence, this was certainly one of them.
<
br />   “I went to the manor, as you sent me. Met with the residing powers there. Then I came back. On the way I was assaulted and...”

  “Pray repeat that?”

  Garrick frowned. “I was assaulted...”

  “No, the earlier bit. Powers who reside there...? Who did you meet?”

  Garrick sighed. “The young master's wife. Lady Marguerite.”

  “Oh.” The man smiled. “Lord Douglas is away then?”

  Garrick swallowed hard. “He was not at home when I arrived, sir. As to his whereabouts...well, he could have been hunting. I have no idea where he might have been, save that he was away when I arrived.”

  “Oh.” The man looked disappointed, and Garrick was instantly alerted.

  “I have reason to believe he may return home soon, sir,” he said. “In fact, word was he was there when I finally left the infirmary.”

  “Oh.” The man's face had fallen even further. Garrick frowned. Why did he look so utterly disgruntled about that?

  Why would he want to know if the master was there, when he professed this was an honest trading venture discussed?

  He shivered, the way Dunstan did when flies bit him. He didn't feel right about this at all.

  “So,” the man said, frowning. “What manner of woman is she?”

  Garrick swallowed. This was it – the question he'd been dreading trying to answer. “Unusual, sir,” he said firmly. “I think there need be no cause for the young master to worry when away. She is shrewd and wise, observant.”

  “Oh?” the merchant frowned, but looked much more interested than he had. “You spoke to her for a long while?”

  Garrick shrugged. “We dined,” he said. “I didn't say much, but I had the impression the lady was wise and strong-minded.”

  “Fine,” the merchant shrugged. “What did she look like?”

  “I didn't see clearly,” Garrick demurred.

  “Oh, come,” the merchant chuckled. “You saw something. Fair? Or plain? Hair? Height?”

  “She is dark-haired, sir,” he said softly. “Middle height. Not so tall as me, but not so very much shorter either.”

  “Fine,” Mr. Crae nodded. “Now, how many guards did the place have?”

  Garrick felt his hair stand on end. Why ever would he ask such a thing? To ensure the whiskey was safe in the cellars? It seemed so much more than that.

  “I didn't see,” he said, which was true. “I think it had several,” he added. That ought to deter anyone who was planning any mischief. Not that Garrick could even imagine why anyone would be, or what sort of mischief – he just knew he didn't like it.

  “Good,” Mr. Crae nodded, a smile on his face. Garrick shivered again.

  I worked for this man for nigh on eight years and I still like him as little as when I began.

  There was something predatory about Mr. Crae.

  “Sir? Is that all?”

  He nodded. “Yes, Garrick. To be getting on with.”

  The use of his name made Garrick feel no more at ease – the man always used it when he wanted to try and make Garrick relax, or as if he'd done a job well.

  This wasn't the sort of job he wanted to do well. He still had no idea why he had been sent. Or why Mr. Crae was curious.

  “I'll go down to the quay, sir,” he said, walking back to the door.

  “Aye, do that,” Mr. Crae dismissed him genially. “I'll call you when I need you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Garrick walked out into the cloudy daylight.

  The day was cold, a bitter wind coming in from the sea, restless and snatching at his cloak. It wasn't the cold that bothered him though. It was the sense of something badly wrong.

  “I can't let him do this.”

  “What's that?” Brogan, one of the dock-workers, called.

  “I said, mind your business,” Garrick snarled, then, when the fellow stared, he laughed – he couldn't help it. “Sorry,” he added.

  Brogan nodded. “Well then. No harm done. No reason tae fly off the handle with me. I ain't done nothing.”

  “No,” Garrick agreed mildly. “You haven't.”

  The day passed quickly with loading and unloading in the warehouse. By the midday break, he felt exhausted, though he'd done no more than usual. His ribs ached and something on his head still throbbed, reminding him of recent injuries.

  He leaned against the wall outside, soaking in some sunshine for a moment. That was when he overheard some chilling words.

  “Duncliffe?”

  “Aye, but it's guarded,” a voice he knew too well said sourly. “We'd need tae wait.”

  “You won't catch me waiting,” the other voice said.

  A clipped voice, with careful enunciation, Garrick thought it had a foreign sound to it. He leaned closer, listening carefully.

  “You might have to,” Mr. Crae said, faintly amused. “It's not a place to crack easy.”

  “Well, you try my patience.”

  “I try no one's patience. It might, yet. The manor.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  The conversation continued a while, but in voices too low for Garrick to hear. He leaned back against the wall, tense.

  Something was going to happen. And it was going to happen at Duncliffe.

  He couldn't just stand by and let something hurt Lady Marguerite.

  Garrick stayed where he was, not quite believing what he was going to do. He had just almost been beaten to death, spent three days recovering, risked his livelihood, and got home. Now he was going away again?

  “What else can I do?”

  “You can come and have lunch,” a voice muttered.

  Garrick almost swore, but he had to smile. “Coming, Brogan,” he called.

  He went and joined the man at the stack of crates he and some of the other warehouse employees used as a table.

  As he ate his bread and cheese, Garrick made a plan. He was going to ride back there this very night. At least, he was going to start. First, he needed to tell his employer.

  “Mr. Crae?”

  A shape moved in the darkness. Garrick paused. He was not a man who was easily scared, but this man unnerved him terribly. Mr. Crae looked up and those soulless brown eyes regarded him. “What, Hale?” he asked.

  Garrick swallowed. “Um, sir? I have...a plan.”

  “Truly?” He sounded mildly interested, a little bored.

  “About the lord of Duncliffe, sir.”

  “Oh?” This time, Garrick was fairly sure he could hear a note of interest in that flat, cold voice. He felt hopeful.

  “I was thinking to go back there,” he said. “Make more inquiries. Do a proper look around. Now as I know what you want to find out.”

  “Why must I send you?” Mr. Crae asked. “Others could go. I need you here. Strong, able fellow...You're good at thuggery, Garrick.”

  Garrick swallowed hard. He hated being reminded of that fact. His past was not something he was proud of and he wished, just sometimes, that people would not remind him of it. Especially not Mr. Crae, who he more or less owed for his release from that circumstance.

  “I know,” Garrick said tightly. “And no, you needn't send me. Save that I know what it is you want to know.”

  “Oh?” Mr. Crae sounded interested.

  “A way in?”

  The man's eyes widened fractionally. Then he laughed. “Why would I want a way in, pray? I want to store the biggest cache of whiskey destined for the French shores this side of Christendom. I want the place unassailable.”

  “Oh,” Garrick blinked lightly. He had no reason to doubt the man, save that one surprised stare.

  I am not wrong.

  Palms wet with sweat, heart thumping, Garrick waited to hear what would come next – and prayed the man would say yes.

  “Well, then,” Mr. Crae allowed. “Since you have heard what sort of things I wish to know, and you're familiar there already – at least, they've seen you,” he demurred with a chuckle, “then yes. By all means, go.
Tell me how fortress-like the place is.”

  “I will do that,” said Garrick honestly.

  Then he turned to leave.

  He set out that night. He didn't take Dunstan, but took some coins – precious ones – from his salary to hire a horse to ride. Dunstan had done enough for many weeks.

  “I think I had enough too,” he murmured under his breath. Even so, he rode.

  The route seemed faster the second time – probably because he knew it well. He also didn't risk the woods at night, but set out early from Lowkirk.

  It was on the third day, in the morning, that he arrived at Duncliffe.

  At the gate, he paused, seeing a guard.

  “Who goes there?” the guard asked. He was none of the men Garrick recognized. That made him glad.

  “I'm here with a message,” he said carefully. “For Lady Marguerite.”

  “Oh,” the guard nodded. “Go to the kitchens. Someone'll see to it from there.”

  “Yes, sir,” Garrick said carefully. No point in arguing. After all, he had what he wanted – he was in the gate.

  Holding his breath, feeling tense with wonder and nerves, he rode.

  His horse left at the stables – Keith was there, but didn't seem to notice him – he headed up, toward where he assumed the kitchen was.

  He waited at the door. Then, when no one appeared, he knocked.

  “Hello?”

  He peered inside. His eyes grew enormous.

  It couldn't be her! However, it was. There, at the kitchen table, talking with the cook, wearing a simple white linen gown, almost as she had worn when he saw her last, was her.

  Marguerite.

  He stared.

  He was about to knock again when the door opened.

  “Hello?”Garrick stared down into her face. She was not quite as tall as he'd remembered. That, and her utter surprise, made her seem younger, more vulnerable.

  “What...?” She stared.

  He smiled, tender. “Milady, forgive me,” he said softly. “I had to come. I heard some grave news. I needed...I felt the need to share it.”

  “Oh,” she whispered. She looked completely stricken. Then she swallowed, and he saw her composure return. “You'd best come inside.”