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

by Emilia Ferguson

  She reached for a linen towel and dried herself hastily, then wrapped it around herself. She looked about the room, wondering if there was anything she could use.

  “We should dry our things,” a voice spoke from behind her.

  “Yes,” Ettie murmured. “I'll lay mine out before the fire.”

  “Me too.”

  Ettie heard the chair shift on the floor and turned in time to see Garrick, swathed in linen, going to the fire with his clothes bundled up in his arms. She went to join him and wordlessly they recruited the chairs as clothes-stands, spreading out their soaking clothes before the blaze.

  At last, Ettie looked up. Her eyes met Garrick's. His gaze held hers. They were both naked, except for the towels wrapped around them. Water sparkled in his hair and his lean face was oddly gentle. She felt her whole body ache to touch him.

  “We should rest,” Garrick whispered.

  “Yes.”

  They looked at each other. In both their eyes was the knowledge that they were alone; that there was a single bed.

  “We should...”

  “I'll go there,” Garrick whispered, indicating the third chair in the room, before the fire.

  “No,” Ettie insisted. “We can share that. We'll lie back-to-back. We can even put something between us,” she added. Her voice was tight in her throat and she blushed scarlet even as she said it. The last words were lost in a whisper.

  “You're right, lass,” Garrick whispered. Again, he reached for her hair, about to stroke her head as he had, earlier in the coach. His eyes clouded and his hand dropped, unused, to his side.

  “We should get warm,” Ettie whispered. Her throat was dry as she turned away. She walked to the bed.

  “I'll not look,” he promised. He turned her back and she let the towel drop and climbed, quickly and breathlessly, beneath the coverlet.

  She lay back, teeth chattering as she slowly warmed. The covers were bundled to her ears, several layers of them, and the sheets crisp and soft below her. Whoever had helped them find this room had spared no expense. Her mind flitted, briefly, to thoughts of who their benefactor might be.

  Then all thoughts flew away as he called out gently. “Are you ready?”

  “Aye,” she whispered back.

  The floor creaked and he walked across it. She felt the mattress shift and then she heard the sound of someone settling on the sheets. She could not feel the warmth of his body and knew he was doing his best to keep separation between them. The bed was only a single, but it was fairly wide. She let herself uncurl from the tight ball in which she lay rolled, as she slowly warmed.

  She heard him sigh and felt him shift and knew that, finally, the pain he felt had lessened somewhat. She felt her own heart thump and fought to still her mind. Fevered, it ran with images of him. In the woods, in the coach, in the street. Over them all, however, rose the image of him, warmed in firelight, lying in the bath.

  Her whole body ached with that strange longing. She closed her eyes tightly and willed herself to sleep.

  She must have been more tired than she thought, because sleep did eventually come to her, and it was the soft gray light of morning that woke her, shining through the window onto her closed eyelids.

  A MOMENT OF TALK

  Garrick stood, shifting carefully so as not to wake the form who lay beside him, sharing the bedclothes. She had shifted during the night, so that he had to move carefully to move his feet away from hers, where they almost touched his under the covers.

  He felt tenderness flow through him as the thought of her sleeping presence overwhelmed his senses. He walked softly to the window, doing his best to make no noise to wake her. At the window, he looked out.

  The sky was gray there, and he could see carts in the yard – the miller and the collier, bringing coal and flour and other things to the inn. He sighed, scratching his neck where a cut stung it.

  I am lucky I'm alive.

  He turned and looked back at the bed. A head of dark hair lay on the pillow, the bedclothes hunched in the form of a woman's shape. His loins flooded with blood. He looked out of the window, biting his lip. He tried desperately to distract himself from thoughts of her, but the task was hopeless.

  I spent the night sleeping beside her.

  The thought was so remarkable, so enormous, that Garrick couldn't get it from his mind. He shook his head, feeling his cheeks lift in a smile. It was so wonderful. He recalled the night before, when she'd been in the bath.

  His mind fed him the image of her skin, so pale and smooth, the firelight playing on it gently. Her black hair had hung down behind her, almost touching the floor. Her eyes were closed, her gentle oval face in repose.

  She looked so restful – more so than I have ever seen her.

  His body throbbed as he thought of her. He wished he could have walked over and kissed those lips.

  He recalled the moment in the coach, where he had given in to the temptation to kiss her. A bitter smile played across his mouth. She was so beautiful. So irresistible. She was also mistress of Duncliffe.

  She was the lord of Duncliffe's woman.

  He had no right whatsoever even to think the way he did, to have kissed her, touched her, seen her! And yet, it seemed as though he was drawn to gaze at her, to want her, like a man compelled by witchcraft. Forbidden it might be, but it had a desperate allure.

  She is like magic: wild, unbidden. Dangerous.

  He shook his head. His imagination of a gentlewoman was so different from her. He would never have imagined such spirit, such freedom! Most women of her status seemed caged to him – by propriety, by expectation, or by convention.

  She alone was beautiful and free, a priceless jewel indeed, still set in stone. He felt privileged to have seen her like this, alone. To have spent this time.

  Something made him cough and he winced, realizing his ribs ached. He heard someone shift in the bed and felt a tinge of frustration at having woken her.

  “You're coughing badly,” her voice said. He heard her shift on the bed and then someone walked lightly across the floor. He heard the boards creak and then felt someone reach to touch his chest. He tensed. Her gentle hand awoke his loins, making them tense and twitch in a way they had just stopped doing.

  “Och, it's nothing,” he whispered gruffly. “You shouldn't worry yerself...”

  “Whist,” she said gruffly. “It's what I do.”

  He frowned. “You're a healer?”

  He found himself looking into her eyes. Her gaze held his, and he could read bitterness in her dark eyes. She smiled, but there was little joy in it.

  “There's a lot you don't know,” she said carefully. “After breakfast, I suggest I tell it. Until then, you need to dress warm. The things are dry.”

  “Um, thank you,” he said. He turned away stiffly, acutely aware, suddenly, of the fact that he was naked except for a thick linen towel. He went to the fireplace and collected his clothes, which were, indeed, dry. His boots still had one or two patches of damp, but he was sure that, given an hour or so longer, they would dry out too.

  “We should leave later today,” Lady Marguerite's voice spoke, muffled by the fact that she had her back to him.

  “Indeed. Yes,” he added, feeling flustered. He reached for his shirt. She seemed to be dressing, though he didn't dare risk a look in that direction.

  He drew on his shirt, surprised by its scratchy familiarity against his skin. He had slept so well, so warmly, in the bed, that he'd forgotten what coarse linen felt like. He shifted his arms, feeling it chafe a little against his skin.

  Well, it's the best shirt I have.

  He shrugged, buttoned it, and reached for his trousers. When he was ready, he tensed, wondering if she was. He fought the urge to turn around. On the very edge of his vision, he could see something whitish, moving. He guessed she was dressing and fought down the longing he felt to see her. To turn.

  “So,” she said, turning around. “We should see to breakfast and...Oh,” she f
lushed. “You're ready. Good.”

  “I am,” he agreed. His eyes held hers and he saw a flash of a smile cross her face, quickly gone.

  “Let's go down,” she said softly.

  “Yes.” He reached for his boots and hastily drew them on, wincing at the damp patches against his skin.

  He followed her down the stairs toward the breakfast-room. The inn was still quiet, and he guessed it to be around seven of the clock. The farmers and traders would already have breakfasted, the gentry and other guests still asleep.

  And I am here with Lady Marguerite.

  He shook his head, the surreal nature of the whole situation dawning afresh. He crossed the empty room behind her, and she stopped and turned to face him.

  “Where do we sit?”

  He shrugged and reached a table beside the window at the back. “Milady,” he added, drawing out her chair.

  She looked at him, frowning, then swallowed, nodding, and sat down. “Um, thanks,” she murmured hastily.

  He bit back a smile. There were odd things about Lady Marguerite, he noticed. Things that didn't quite add up. He reckoned it could be something to do with her foresight – after all, a person who was gifted with being able to foresee the future couldn't be expected to be the same as others in every respect.

  “We can see into the street,” he commented, trying to introduce some topic of conversation.

  “Yes,” Lady Marguerite said awkwardly. “We can.”

  Silence followed. Garrick leaned back against the chair, his boots scraping a little on the flagstones below the table. He realized afresh how tired he was. How much his ribs ached. He felt weary and old and tired. Everything hurt.

  He heard someone at the door – the floor creaked, and then shifted – and he opened his eyes, expecting to find the proprietor there with breakfast. Instead he found himself looking into the eyes of Lady Marguerite.

  “I have something to tell you.”

  “Oh?” He frowned, heart thumping in his chest. Whatever it was, it was clearly something important. He leaned forward, almost forgetting the ache in his rib, which he was almost sure was cracked.

  “I...when you visited...” she began. She was interrupted by a footfall on the dining room floor.

  “Here we go! Oat porridge and bannocks, and a jug of fresh milk for ye.”

  “Oh.” Garrick looked up, just as the scent of fresh-baked bannocks met his nose. His stomach lurched and he realized he'd hardly eaten yesterday. Likely Lady Marguerite too.

  “Thanks,” Lady Marguerite said to the innkeeper.

  “Of course,” the man said jovially and Garrick watched, intently, as the bowls were set down, then the plate, and lastly the jug. The man withdrew, leaving them in silence.

  Garrick looked across the table. She nodded.

  “I think we can wait until after breakfast.”

  He nodded. “Thank you.”

  He reached for the salt, sprinkling a little onto the surface of the thick, gelatinous porridge. Then, once she'd finished pouring, he added milk and stirred. All his senses floated away, lost in a tide of warm, creamy oats as he ate. His stomach cramped painfully as he swallowed and he hoped, shamefacedly, he'd be able to keep it down.

  They ate in silence, each clearly feeling some sense of urgency in the matter. When the porridge was finally finished, Garrick reached for a bannock and crumbled off a mouthful, facing her. “You wished to tell me something?”

  “Yes,” she said. She set down the bannock she had been about to take.

  “You can tell me then, or not, as you will, Lady Marguerite,” he said, noting she was utterly pale. “Whatever is it?”

  “I'm not Lady Marguerite.”

  “What?” he frowned, feeling incredulous. He set aside the bannock, leaning forward, one brow twisted in a confused frown. “What can you mean? What happened?”

  “I'm not Lady Marguerite,” she said in a small, savage whisper. “Because I never was. I never will be. We deceived you.”

  “What?” Garrick's head was reeling now and he reached up to his brow lest the lump he felt there meant his skull was cracked and something had got in and curdled his mind. “Who deceived me? What do you mean?”

  It felt as if he had strayed into a bad dream. What did she mean? This was Lady Marguerite! Surely it was?

  The woman opposite him – the one who looked like Lady Marguerite, sounded like her, but had black, bitter eyes the way Marguerite's gentle gaze had never pierced him – shrugged.

  “We – my mistress and I. She...she had reasons for suspecting you were a danger. So she asked me to stand in her place. I'm a maidservant,” she said. Her lips twisted into a bitter grimace. Her eyes chilled him. Dark, soulless, flint-hard, they sucked at the fabric of his soul.

  “You...a maidservant?”

  “There,” she laughed. “I've shocked you. Have to wash again, eh? Sharing a bed with a grubby lass, a no one from the wrong side of Blackwood. Who knows what you might catch!” Her voice was hard.

  “Milady, I...” He shook his head as his use of the title made her laugh again, a sound harsh as the shattering of icicles. “Forgive me! I didn't think...didn't mean...”

  “Och, but you said it,” she said, and pushed back her chair. Her anger was a fire inside her now, fanned by the flames of his unconscious cruelty, of her heart. She reached for a bannock and tucked it into her pocket and then stood. “I think we'll be traveling separate, eh?” She shot him an acerbic grin.

  “No!” Garrick protested. He, too, pushed back his chair. What was happening? This changed everything! In one stroke of a few words, Lady Marguerite went from impossibly out-of-reach to someone from the same social tier as himself! He could marry her! “Wait!” he called. “Please...”

  However, she was already heading into the hallway, and as she turned to glare at him, the innkeeper's wife appeared.

  “Now, lass,” she said genially. “Did you sleep well?”

  “I wish to settle the account,” her ladyship – no, not her ladyship, he must remember it – replied.

  “Och, lass! It's taken care of. Lady Dowell settled it.”

  “She did?”

  “Aye, she did. Said, should you and your man ever wish to find her, I should give you her card. Can ye read, lass?” she asked.

  Garrick walked away as the woman who was not Lady Marguerite took the card and tucked it into her pocket. He hadn't heard her answer.

  If she's like me, she likely can't read or write too well either.

  He headed into the dining room to relieve her of the embarrassment. She was furious. With him.

  I don't blame her. Of all the things I could have said, almost anything would have done it better.

  His shock at discovering her to be a maidservant, with little more status than his own, must have been evident. Now she thought he considered her badly and there was nothing – absolutely nothing – he could do to change it.

  Blackwood, he recalled. He tried to think if he knew anything about the place. His mind fed him an image of a harsh place, the sort of place a lass would not wish to come from. He shook his head. She was used to hard work and mistreatment, likely. Probably used to people treating her badly, as if she were a bad smell in the nostrils of the gentlefolk. Now he'd gone and compounded it.

  “I'm sorry...” he whispered.

  He turned back to the hallway, but she'd already gone. The innkeeper's wife caught him staring and nodded to him.

  “Yer lass is upstairs,” she said. “Och, are ye well? Those bruises look right bad. I'll call the physician...?”

  “No,” Garrick said harshly, hurrying to the stairs. The woman looked shocked and he softened his voice. “Don't trouble yerself,” he added. “I'm well. Just need to get back to work.”

  With that, he headed briskly up the stairs. He found her in the room they'd shared.

  “I didn't mean it,” he said to her back, where she briskly collected the last of their belongings from the room.

  “You sa
y that,” she said tightly. She marched past and out into the hallway.

  “At least let me carry that,” he said, pointing to the cloak she carried, bundled up and shoved under one arm.

  “I can manage perfectly well. I'm used to carrying loads,” she said tightly. “Farewell, Mr. Hale.”

  With that she turned and walked quickly into the hallway.

  Garrick ran after her, but heard her footsteps echo on the stairs, dying softly away. He returned to the bed and sat down, ribs aching.

  Where was she going? How was she going to get back home? Lowkirk was at least half a day's travel away, and then Duncliffe almost a day from that.

  She's not safe alone. What are you thinking, man? Go after her!

  He stood and limped to the door, cloak thrown over one arm, and then headed with slow, aching progress down the stairs and out the door.

  He was just in time to see her slipping into the mail coach. “No!” he yelled. “Wait?”

  The coach pulled away. He was left in the drive, watching it head off along the road.

  Tears rose in his eyes. Angry, he cuffed them away.

  “You useless fool,” he told himself harshly as he limped back to the inn. He saw the innkeeper's wife look out, and froze. If he went back in there, she'd know they weren't together. The story would spread and it was only a matter of time before word got out that the dark-haired woman had spent the night in a bed with someone who was not her man.

  Then what?

  He shook his head. He was a messenger at the docks, and a guardsman. She was a maidservant. She came from a distant village, so her family would likely not know anything of the tale. The scandal couldn't hurt them.

  Even so, he didn't feel like facing the innkeeper's wife and her judgment – or even her anger at their deception of her. Instead, he trudged wearily down the road.

  He was standing by the signpost for a full ten minutes before a cart appeared. It slowed.

  “You want tae go somewhere?”