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

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Might as well eat and be on my way then,” he decided. He lifted the tray and set it on his knee, ravenously eating the meal. It was good – proper stew with meat and barley in it – and he found himself surprised. This was no mess saved for servants or traders, but proper stew, as good as anything Mr. Crae ate.

  Someone made sure I got the best in the kitchens.

  Mrs. Merrick, whoever she was, most likely. He refused to consider the possibility that perhaps Lady Marguerite had something to do with it. The more he thought about it, the more he recalled that never once had she brought him anything less than the best food in the kitchens.

  “Come on, Garrick. That's nothing to do with anything.”

  Maybe it was just a very good, well-stocked kitchen and everybody in Duncliffe ate as well as he was eating now. It was possible.

  Even so, I have to be on my way.

  Using the last of the bread to soak up the sauce, Garrick licked his lips, dabbed them dry with his handkerchief and headed to the door, rolling his shoulders under his fine-fitting jacket. Then he headed out.

  In the garden, he crossed quickly toward the stables. There, he paused. Lady Marguerite was there, leaning against the wall of the garden. He drew back, watching her.

  She was wearing a simple shift, hair loose down her back. He stood where he was, marveling at the way the breeze lifted her hair, the cling of her dress to her narrow waist. She was so breathtaking that he couldn't look elsewhere.

  His heart ached, watching her. He felt the rest of his body respond too, and bit his lip, wincing in embarrassment. He closed his eyes, groaning, and turned hastily away.

  I can't do this anymore.

  It was all too much. The memories of her – that sweet, sunny smile, the tender warmth of her eyes – mingled with the memory of her cold, hard manner. Together they would drive him mad.

  He marched across the garden and back into the house. He knew it was stupid, but he had to do something.

  He waited in the hallway until he spied a servant passing through it – the young woman, dressed now in black worsted.

  “Excuse me,” he said politely. “Can ye show me tae the kitchens?”

  She looked at him in surprise. Then she nodded. “Aye, sir. Follow me.”

  He followed her down through the tangled web of corridors and to the room on the ground floor that seared with warmth the moment he opened it. He leaned against the door, wishing he could take off his coat.

  “Come in,” a voice called from inside. “If you stand there, you're letting the draft through.”

  Garrick shot upright, looking around for the source of the voice. Lazy and acidic at once, the voice could have been the coals hissing. He searched around in the gloom and at last located her. A tall woman with black hair bound back in a long plait, her eyes looked into him and through him and out the other side in a way that reminded him, fleetingly, of Marguerite.

  “Ma'am?” he said.

  She laughed richly. “It's been a while since I heard that,” she said ironically. “Merrick is what most people call me. Now, if you're looking for seconds, sit down. I need to heat up the stew again.”

  Her voice went from amused to businesslike as she turned away, back to the stove. Garrick blinked. So this was Merrick, who had sent him the meal. She must be the cook, though for the life of him he would never have imagined such a rich, nuanced voice coming from someone in so ordinary a position.

  “Thank you, but no,” he said carefully. “I mean, thank you for the meal earlier – it was very good. And for the offer of more. But I must go.”

  “Aye, you must. But where?” Merrick asked. “Do ye ken?”

  He frowned and felt his hands clasp each other in an unconscious gesture of discomfort. “Well, I need to go back to the dockyard, and...”

  She just made a small noise that could have been a laugh. Her back was to him again, and she bent over, focused on something on the stove. Again, Garrick was reminded, disconcertingly, of Marguerite.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, though he wasn't quite sure for what. “What I came in here to ask was, have you any paper and a pen?”

  Mrs. Merrick turned around. She was smiling again. “You wanted to ask that?” she said. That seemed to be very amusing. “Well, if that's your only question, the answer's easy. It's over there by the door.” She turned away again, hands busy with the next task.

  Garrick nodded and headed in that direction. He sighed. It was indeed all he wanted to know right now, though he had to admit he had far more questions than that in his mind.

  He found the parchment and quill where she'd indicated, beside an already-used piece of paper on which ingredients were hastily scribbled in a spidery, neat hand. He guessed it to be Merrick's. Looking around the room for somewhere that afforded privacy and some light, he headed to the counter at the back, where a series of copper pots stood, neatly stacked, gleaming in the light from the fire.

  He looked at the tall, rigid Merrick, chopping herbs, her back to him. She ignored him and he found himself settling down to write. It was a painstaking, slow business for him, since he knew but the rudiments of it. The spelling of several words he wished to say evaded him, but he decided to soldier on, writing them as best he knew how.

  Dearest Lady Marguerite, he wrote. Instantly he drew lines through the “dearest”, to make it less obvious. What would she think if he wrote that?

  Lady Marguerite, he wrote instead. I write this in apology for a fault committed in error, and by accident, since I do not know what it was. All the same, I regret it. If I have caused you offence, pain or discomfort, know that it was all in error and in ignorance. I would never wittingly do that, and if I did, the remorse would surely kill me. Know that your presence is dear to me, your person precious to me, your smile a light. I know you are above me, but your birth serves only as a casing for the jewel you are. Brave, true and wise – you are unusual in so many ways. I think of you often and with greatest fondness. Forgive me. Yours sincerely, Garrick Hale.

  When he had finished, he looked down at the words, stunned. Where had all that come from? Out of reserved, quiet Garrick Hale? How was that possible? He sighed, shaking his head. He was no poet, yet the words, when he read them back slowly, had a sort of feverish poetry. He shook his head, blowing the ink to dry it. He folded the paper in half and headed up out of the kitchen again.

  “Where should I take it?” he asked himself.

  Where would Lady Marguerite find it? Not in the servant's corridor, that much was certain. He had to leave it somewhere in the house.

  Unsure of where to start, he chose a door at random and opened it, walking into what appeared to be a hallway of the manor, one he hadn't been in before.

  Thump, clatter. Thud.

  Someone was dusting, vigorously, in one of the rooms, so he went onwards to where the hallway was silent. There, he stopped and peered around a doorway. He was looking into an empty room, a fire burning cheerily in the grate, a long chair he thought was called a chaise set out before it. Everything was tranquil, beautiful and orderly. He could even smell the scent of pine, from the fire, and lavender, from a chest of cloth. Noting a basket of sewing on the chair, he guessed Lady Marguerite spent some of her time in here. He smiled, imagining her sitting there with the sewing.

  I'll leave it here then, where she'll find it.

  He intended to leave the note in her workbasket, but the floor creaked and he looked around, worried about being apprehended. He reached over and left the note on the long table at the back, and then headed out hastily.

  “That's all I can do.”

  Back in the hallway, he walked quickly downstairs and, quite by chance, found himself opposite the front door. He looked around and caught sight of her, Lady Marguerite, in a simple white dress, walking along the hallway.

  Wait, his heart called. Talk to me! Say something.

  He was amazed by how earnestly he wanted her to stop, to acknowledge him with some little gesture, some nod or smi
le. She was in such a hurry that he hesitated to stop her, her expression so set and firm that he felt a little nervous. He wasn't about to call out to her. Instead, he stepped back hastily into the shade of a pillar.

  She walked quickly past, heading for the stairs.

  “Marguerite?” he called.

  He barely said her name, yet she turned as she climbed the stair, almost as if she had heard him. Then she looked around again and walked on hastily.

  The image of her stayed with him, burned on his heart. Those big gray eyes, that long, sensitive face. His heart sang.

  He stood where he was and watched her walking up the stairs, straight-backed. She moved with a shy grace that made his heart ache. His loins tightened and he imagined, just briefly, what it would be like to hold her against himself, to feel that sweet body pressed against his chest, those soft breasts full and warm as he undressed her...

  Garrick!

  He went red. How could he dare even think such things? The woman was high-born, and, even were she not, he would do her dishonor by imagining such an intimate thing without any hint that she returned his sentiment.

  Flushing red, he walked briskly through the door and out into the courtyard.

  “Of all the stupid, foolish, daft...”

  “Sir?” a voice interrupted his rant. Garrick spun around to find a maidservant behind him, the one who'd brought the supper. Her eyes were huge, and he was glad he hadn't moved onto the real dockside curses yet – the poor lass would likely have fainted clean away.

  “Yes?” he asked, reddening still further from embarrassment.

  “Sir, beg yer pardon. But Mrs. Merrick had a message for ye.”

  “A message?” he frowned. “For me?”

  What would Mrs. Merrick possibly have to say to him? He shifted uncomfortably, wondering if, perhaps, she had managed to read something of the letter he wrote. However, he dismissed the thought instantly – he hadn't seen her cross the room once to peer over his shoulder as he worked.

  “You know the message?” he asked the girl, feeling nervous.

  “Yes, sir. She said...um...wait...That's it. She said, ‘In the darkness, all things look alike. Don't blind yourself. And watch over your shoulder.’”

  Garrick stared. What in perdition did that mean? He shivered. “Um...that was all she said?” he asked, hoping for some hint of what it all meant.

  The girl curtseyed quickly. “Yes, sir,” she said. She looked around, rubbing her upper arms with her palms to keep herself warm, and Garrick nodded.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Best go inside.”

  “Thanks, sir,” she nodded, and quickly headed back into the house.

  Garrick stood there in the courtyard, heedless of the cold. His mind sought to decipher those strange words. What could they mean? In the darkness, all things look alike. Don't blind yourself. Look over your shoulder.

  They sounded like a warning. Shivering, Garrick gathered his cloak closer about his shoulders and headed into the stables. As he did so, he felt sure he could hear Merrick's throaty laugh. He reached for his horse's bridle and went through to tack the creature. The sooner he got out of here, the better.

  The docks, with their violence and threat, and sinister Mr. Crae seemed somehow less intimidating than this. At least, he reckoned bitterly, lacing the girth tight around his horse's belly, on the docks, if a person wished to stab you in the heart, they simply did so, and that was that.

  This way he felt for Lady Marguerite was a torture worse than that would have been.

  Shivering, letting out a long sigh of breath that turned into plumes in the cool air before him, he turned away and led his horse out of the stables. He had a long, cold ride ahead.

  CARE REVEALED

  Ettie went up to check the fire in Lady Marguerite's room, walking hastily along the hallway in the cold air. It was icy up in the gallery, and she shivered in her plain linen gown. It really was getting on for winter, and she settled down gratefully by the fireplace to check the grate.

  “Just a few more coals are what it needs.” Her hands worked automatically as she fed the flames, tipping coals from the scuttle that sat by the mantelpiece.

  The fire was soon burning merrily again and she sighed, closing her eyes and leaning against the lintel for a moment.

  What am I going to do?

  The situation with Garrick was untenable. Keeping busy might momentarily make her forget, but in truth Garrick was always on her mind. His face floated before her, all handsome and lit with hope as it had been in the kitchen all those hours before. What was she supposed to do about the news? He had so obviously brought it because he cared. She squeezed her eyes shut, wanting to banish it from her thoughts. Just the thought of it made her heart ache, and that tortured her.

  I cannot afford to feel this way. He doesn't know who I am!

  Lady Marguerite's deception had taken wing in a direction the woman would never have imagined.

  “Ettie?”

  Ettie shot upright, aware suddenly that she'd been leaning against the mantel, eyes shut, and arms tight around her chest. She found herself looking into the gentle face of her employer. “Milady!” she stammered. “Sorry. I was cold. You are in need of something?”

  Marguerite smiled, the firelight softening her red hair, making her delicate skin glow lightly. “Don't fret yourself so. I'm sorry you were cold. Need you an extra petticoat, or aught?”

  Ettie shook her head quickly. “No, milady. I've got one. I just had to mend a tear in it.”

  Marguerite smiled again, more gently this time. “Don't fret so! My dear Ettie. Whatever happened?”

  “N...nothing,” Ettie stammered, feeling frustrated. Why was she being so odd? Lady Marguerite would think she'd gone daft.

  “Well, I'm glad I found you,” Marguerite said warmly. “I wanted to ask you to keep me company as I sew awhile in the drawing room. You can be such a help, keeping an eye on Alexandra for me.”

  “Yes, milady,” Ettie mumbled. “I'd be glad to.” At least, she realized quickly, she could try to pass the message on that Garrick had left. Getting hastily to her feet, wiping her coal-dark hands on her apron furtively, Ettie headed from the room.

  Up in the drawing room it was blazingly warm with the fire roaring in the grate. Ettie sat down gratefully on the chair she always used, from where she could keep a close eye on the small form of Alexandra, tucked into her basket and slumbering peaceably.

  “So,” Marguerite smiled, looking up at her across the hoop of embroidery she was sewing. “Isn't this nice? A peaceful afternoon, just like we always had.”

  “Yes, milady,” Ettie mumbled. She looked down, intent at her sewing – she was mending one of the baby's garments – and tried not to show how sad she was.

  “I believe we had a visitor?” Marguerite asked.

  Ettie jerked upright, stabbing her finger with a pin as she did so. She winced, hastily sticking it in her mouth to stop the blood flow. “Yes, milady,” she said.

  “Oh, Ettie, here,” Marguerite said, kindly passing her a handkerchief. “You really are upset! Was it aught the visitor said?”

  Ettie nodded. “Milady, it was Garrick.”

  “Garrick?”

  “Mr. Hale,” Ettie corrected quickly. “He...oh, milady. He had fell news.”

  “Fell news?” Marguerite looked concerned. “Not of Douglas...”

  “Oh, no!” Ettie felt upset. “No, milady. Don't fret yourself – your husband is well. It was not news of him he carried, but news of us.”

  “Us?” Marguerite's delicate brow shot up a fraction. “You and I?”

  “Duncliffe, milady,” Ettie said unhappily. “He said it's in danger.”

  “What?” Marguerite had laid her embroidery aside, her face incredulous and shocked. “In what sense are we endangered here? By the army?”

  “He said he didn't know, milady,” Ettie mumbled, not wanting to look up and see the disturbance on her mistress' face. “He just said, well, that he'd heard
someone wanted to get in and do us mischief.”

  “Oh, no!” Marguerite leaned back, horror on her heart-shaped face. “Whoever would think of such a thing? Well, if they do come, we'll be ready.” She sniffed, sitting up straight. “This place has withstood countless sieges. It can hold against anything this merchant or his fellows can think up.”

  Ettie felt her heart flare with pride. She couldn't help loving Marguerite for who she was, and in that moment, she saw the strength of her. She nodded. “Should we do something to make ready?”

  “Alert the guards,” Marguerite said. “They'll know what to do. He didn't say how large a force we might expect?” she asked, already setting her things back into the basket, hands working absently as her mind shot off new questions for Ettie.

  “No, milady.” Ettie shook her head. “He just said there'd be danger.”

  “Well, then. We will expect it in no matter what guise it comes,” she said bravely. “Douglas can rest assured we'll let naught happen here that would not happen were he here with us.”

  “Oh, milady,” Ettie said, proud. “You're so brave.”

  “Nonsense,” Marguerite said, turning back from where she walked briskly to the door. “I'm a woman who has been left command of a manor and will do her best to keep it safe – it and her baby. “Mr. Glenfirth?” Marguerite called out. “Call Knoll, the guard. I need to speak with him.”

  “Very good, milady.”

  Ettie watched her mistress take command of the situation and felt her heart sink just a little further. Why was it that she had to be so different to Marguerite in every way? It was bad enough that Garrick Hale was drawn to the glamour and mystique of nobility, without Marguerite being crisply competent as well.

  I wish I really was like her. Just sometimes.

  Ettie instantly felt guilty, not wanting to envy her mistress. Nevertheless, she couldn't help it. The woman was everything she wished, so fervently, she could be.

  Genteel, accomplished, sweet-natured, wise. Mixed with noble and gracious, she's just perfect. I wish I was her.