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

by Emilia Ferguson

  “I suppose,” Garrick said brokenly. “You going to Lowkirk?”

  “I'm heading to Claybrooke,” he said. “It's on the way. I'll let you off near-enough. If ye're up for walkin' far?” he added, peering down concernedly at Garrick.

  “Aye,” Garrick said tightly. “I'm up to walking.”

  He waited for the farmer to halt turn the cart, and then hauled himself up into the back, which smelled of recent bales of hay. He leaned against the wooden boards and sacks and tried to forget the ache in his ribs and the even-more painful and pressing stab in his heart.

  How could I be so stupid?

  He leaned back, closing his eyes. Everything hurt. His leg, his chest, his shoulder. His head. His hands. Nothing hurt worse than the knowledge that, after all, he had betrayed her.

  She trusted you. You love her. And now, what have you done?

  He had taken her trust – for he understood how hard it must have been for her to undo the deception – and thrown it back in her face.

  He felt tears fill his eyes as he recalled her closeness in the carriage. The kiss. Her voice in the darkness, singing of nearing springtime.

  “You fool,” he hissed to himself.

  “What was that?” the farmer asked.

  “I said, it's cold,” Garrick said crossly.

  The farmer laughed. “Aye, young feller. It is so. It's November...What you expect, eh?”

  He chuckled and Garrick closed his eyes, trying to stave off the annoyance he felt. The last thing he needed right now was a farmer amused at his own wit. The cart jolted and lurched as it went over unevenness in the pathway and Garrick gritted his teeth as it jostled his ribs.

  I hope she's more comfortable than I am.

  He sighed. His thoughts were with her, wherever she was. He could barely breathe, barely think, without an image of her floating before his eyes. Her dark hair framing that pale face. Looking down at him with all the care in the world in those soft gray eyes. Her hand on his skin, gentle and warm. Her lips, touching his.

  He groaned and opened his eyes, staring out at the stark gray landscape that rolled past, dizzily, as the cart went forward. He let his eyes narrow to slits and watched it, wishing the slow, monotonous journey would wipe clean his thoughts, stupefy his mind.

  The cart jerked and jostled, and his shoulder burned and his ribs ached. He leaned back and felt his mind sink lower, heading down toward sleep.

  “Eh! Here we are! A good hour's walk to Lowkirk. Out ye get!”

  Garrick frowned. It was dusk, and he shot upright, and then winced as his head reeled.

  The farmer chuckled. “Sleeping, aye. Well, that'll be a sixpence for my troubles, eh?”

  Garrick stared at him. A sixpence was exorbitant for such a short journey, and in a cart! The mail coach would charge about the same, for a pleasant journey in a coach. He shook his head and dug in his pocket.

  “I have four pennies.”

  The farmer chuckled. “That'll do, lad.” He reached for the coins. “Now, off you go.”

  Garrick passed over the coins.

  On the way down the path to Lowkirk, his head swam. He realized how tired he still was, and how his ribs ached. He wondered, idly, if he had caught a fever the previous day in the rain. It would explain why his head felt like it floated and why he was cold. So cold!

  He drew his cloak around him, set his jaw and marched onward. If the fever and the cold conspired to take him, he found he didn't care much. He couldn't really imagine what life was going to be like now that he had, utterly and definitively, made an enemy of the one woman he'd fallen in love with finally.

  “I'm a fool.”

  He swore savagely, a long stream of invective that stirred his blood and fanned a little spark of rage within him, just enough to give him energy to walk onward. He was utterly finished.

  After what felt like an age, he found his feet once again on the cobbles of a town.

  “Your business, sir, in Lowkirk?” a guard challenged at the city gates.

  “I need to find a physician,” he whispered. Then, to his utter surprise, he collapsed.

  A CHANCE ENCOUNTER

  The coach ride back to Lowkirk had sapped the strength Ettie had left. She had slept much of the way. When the coach pulled up outside the inn, the evening outside already gray and darkening to nightfall, she shook her head, fuddled with daytime sleep, and wearily dragged herself to the door of the coach.

  “Good day, miss,” the coachman called down politely.

  “Thank you, sir.” She called it wearily, and then headed to the inn. Now that there was no longer a need for deception, traveling was easier. She had told the coachman to send an account to Duncliffe, which he had readily agreed to do. She reckoned the fee would be taken off her wages, but at this point, Ettie didn't particularly care. All she wanted was to get home.

  This adventure is over.

  She felt as if someone had pierced her heart. A dull, shattered emptiness ached inside her in the place where it had recently been afire. The wind whistled past her and it might as well have blown through the gap where her soul once stayed.

  I am empty inside.

  She reached the inn, shivering, and headed inside. The traders and maidservants who had traveled with her in the mail coach had already gone inside, and she found herself standing in the hallway of the inn, feeling utterly lost.

  “Miss? A room and a meal?”

  “Oh. Yes, please,” Ettie said in a tight whisper. “Charged to Duncliffe?”

  “Och, ye work at the manor then?” the man said gently. “We'll settle it there. Up you go, lass. It's not safe tae travel alone, ye ken?”

  Ettie sighed wearily. “No, it isn't,” she agreed.

  Upstairs, she collapsed onto the bed, feeling as exhausted as at any time of her life. She felt her knees draw up to her chest and she wrapped her arms about them. She cried.

  “Just a maidservant,” she said under her breath. “Not worthy. How did I think he felt?”

  She sniffled, biting her lip. She'd been a fool. She had really begun to believe Garrick Hale cared for her. She had let herself be fooled by his gentle ways, his tender voice, and his kiss. How had she ever let herself believe those things were meant for her?

  He had thought she was Lady Marguerite.

  She curled up tighter. She should have known better. It hadn't been affection she saw there, or tenderness! It had been the forbidden thrill of sharing intimate moments with a gentlewoman.

  “And I nearly ruined my poor ladyship!” she winced, feeling awfully guilty. How would Lady Marguerite feel were she to discover that, while using her name, Ettie had kissed a man, shared accommodation with him, let him touch her?

  She'd be shocked. It would be worse considering that man was the servant of a merchant.

  “He's the same as me.”

  Ettie sobbed as the full awfulness of the situation occurred to her. Finally, she and Garrick were on the same level. However, he didn't wish for it.

  He didn't love me anyway.

  She heard feet in the hallway and shot upright, remembering where she was. Dinner was downstairs, a thought that made her stomach ache with wanting.

  Hastily splashing her face with water from the container provided, she combed back dark hair from her eyes, painfully recalling how he had stroked her head. Then, lip held firmly in her teeth to stop herself crying and ruining her appearance any more, she headed downstairs.

  The inn dining hall was crowded. People laughing and chatting, the rise and fall of the tumult of guests, was almost overwhelming. Carters mixed with farmers, mixed with traders and craftsmen and shopkeepers. The place was a riot of sound. Warmed by the fire, the scent of cooking in the air, it should have been a haven.

  Ettie sighed and shifted in her seat. It was hard to feel anything around the emptiness that had filled her heart.

  “Stew and fresh-made dumplings?”

  “Aye,” Ettie nodded listlessly. “Thanks.”

  As the w
oman placed the steaming platter in front of her, and Ettie took up the knife and spoon left there, it occurred to her to note that the meal now and the one this morning were easily some of the best she'd ever eaten, but that it was hard to enjoy them or even, really, to notice what she ate.

  Nothing's the same when your heart's so cold.

  She sighed and started eating. As she ate, she dully watched the crowded inn. The faces, laughing and joking, ruddy in the firelight, seemed almost scary, garish in the firelight. She winced each time someone laughed, hunching over her plate.

  Memories of the past – of the village in Blackwood, people mocking her, people ignoring her – all swam back unbidden. She sniffed and drew her cloak about her, wishing she could disappear.

  He saw me. He cared about me. He held my hand.

  She sniffled fiercely, feeling tears start to flow, unstoppable now. The memory ached inside her, making her sob. It had never happened before that someone had cared for her, just her, so utterly. Now, so cruelly, she found it was all foolery? That he'd never cared at all.

  “Better that he'd never come.”

  She sniffled again and reached for the small roll of bread the innkeeper's wife had brought to match the stew.

  She started to feel a little better as she ate – it cleared her head, though she had little appetite – and the scene of carters and traders became more coherent. She found she was able to notice individual faces, focus on overheard talk.

  “...and I'm headin' up the hill to get in the cattle.”

  “You've not gone yet? You're daft, Bronley.”

  “...use the best iron nails you've got. If you want it to last past winter...”

  “Wool is trading well, in these parts...”

  The words washed over her, a tapestry of meaningless sounds. Ettie watched the people and, at length, her eyes focused on a face.

  She stared. Blinked. Looked again.

  The person had dark hair. Perhaps that was what held her focus. From certain angles, in certain light, it could, almost, have been Garrick.

  The second thing she noticed was the way he sat. Hunched, slightly, almost as if one shoulder pained him. He broke bread and sopped it in the gravy and she caught sight of his profile.

  That fine nose! It could belong to no other. She stared. It was Garrick Hale.

  She felt her stomach twist uncomfortably. Of course he would be here, staying in the same inn in Lowkirk! It was the inn all the journeymen and traders stayed in – a nice, reasonably-priced inn with a lively dining room. She cursed herself for not thinking of it.

  “Ye alone, lass?” a voice asked. She looked up to see a man, somewhat the worse for drink, lingering at the second chair at the table she occupied.

  Ettie's heart raced. “No,” she said quickly, lifting the rest of the bread and standing, pushing in her chair. “My party's already gone up. I'm joining them.”

  Before he could put out a hand or stick out a foot to trip her, she brushed past him, heading toward the stairs.

  “Miss?”

  An indrawn breath as she passed the table – his table – stopped her in her flight. She looked down into his eyes. She reached for anger, framed a sharp retort. The anger wouldn't take, and the retort withered.

  She stared into his wounded dark eyes.

  “Miss,” he said softly. “Please. Sit? I so want to talk with you...”

  Ettie closed her eyes. A thousand retorts flashed into her mind. You had the chance to talk, and you turned away. You insulted me and you never really cared. You hurt me.

  She didn't say any of them though. If she sat, she might get the chance to say at least one. She nodded. “Very well,” she said. “I'll join you. But only for as long as it takes you to eat that stew.”

  To her surprise, he chuckled. “Very well. It's my second bowlful, so you'll be amazed by just how slowly I can eat.”

  Ettie laughed. She couldn't help it. He heard it and his eyes grew tender. She blinked, feeling something in her heart thaw and tears start at her eyelids. “Fine,” she sniffed. “You can eat slowly. And, while you eat, we can talk.”

  He smiled. “Thank you, miss,” he said.

  It occurred to Ettie that he didn't know her name. “Lomond,” she said. “Miss Ettie Lomond.”

  He raised a brow. If the formality struck him as odd, he said nothing.

  “Miss Lomond,” he said. She saw his lips twist and realized he grinned.

  She found herself looking wordlessly at him. She shifted, clearing her throat. “You had a pleasant trip?”

  He chuckled. “Not bad,” he said. “Had worse.”

  “You took the mail coach?” she asked, wondering if perhaps a second one had passed that way after the one she'd taken.

  He chuckled. “Got a ride with a farmer. Cheeky one, too. Charged fourpence.”

  “What?” Ettie laughed, eyes dancing. “You gave him fourpence? From there to Lowkirk?” it was an exorbitant rate.

  “What could I do?” Garrick protested, and again she saw a smile light his face. “I thought the fellow'd lay about me...big hay-rake he had in the back there.”

  That was too much for Ettie. She collapsed forward onto her elbows, laughing with mirth. When she looked up, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye, his gaze on hers was tender.

  “That's better. I missed your smile,” he said.

  Ettie's heart flipped. Her cheeks warmed and she felt her innards melt. She leaned back though, composing herself. She wasn't going to let him get the better of her. Not yet.

  “Well, Mr. Hale,” she said carefully. “I hope your injuries didn't pain you, at least?”

  “They did, a bit,” he shrugged. “Better now.”

  “I'm sorry for that,” Ettie said, feeling sympathy for him. She reached across and her hand almost moved over his. She left it where it was, just beside his plate.

  He looked down at her hand. His shifted fractionally, reaching for hers, then lay where it was. His gaze held hers. “I can't tell you how glad I am you're here,” he said carefully. “I wish...I wanted to say how sorry I am.”

  “You're sorry,” Ettie said flatly. She felt her heart thump again, and didn't want to believe him. It felt as if the fire's warmth melted all the ice that was inside her, renewing her warm life. “For what?”

  He shifted in his seat, looking down at the table. When he looked up again, his eyes were tender with hurt. “I'm sorry for...speaking as I did. You are a remarkable woman, Miss Lomond. It matters not to me what name you use, nor which title you claim. You are worthy of them all, no matter how exalted. And you are better than any title claims, because you are yourself.”

  Ettie stared. Suddenly she found it hard to move. Her whole body was melting under the touch of those words. Had she really heard properly?

  You are worthy of them all, no matter how exalted. Because you are yourself.

  “Sir,” she whispered. Her voice was stuck in her throat and she coughed to clear it. “You speak too kindly to me. You cannot...mean it.”

  For a moment he was silent. She looked at the floor and waited for him to do something – to leave, perhaps. She was about to look up when a hand closed around her chin, lifting it up. She found herself looking into dark eyes.

  “Ettie Lomond,” he said in his low, gentle voice. “I mean it. I mean it more than I ever meant anything.”

  Ettie found she couldn't breathe. She slowly let the air out of her lungs, and then took another breath. She stared into his eyes. “Oh, Garrick,” she whispered.

  He leaned forward as she did, and this time there was no impediment, no secret. His lips moved over hers with intense passion and she gasped and felt her own lips part under his tongue. He kissed her eagerly, his tongue pushing into her mouth with sweet urgency and she leaned forward and felt her body pressed insistently to his chest. She held him tightly, eyes shut as his lips tenderly played over hers, gently caressing them in a way that set fire building up in every part of her.

  When he released her
, gasping, Ettie opened her eyes. She was looking into his eyes, his face twisted with sweet urgency of need. She could feel her own chest heaving with the same longing. She barely understood it, but knew she felt it nonetheless. Moreover, now there was no reason that they could not be together. The only obstacle was the mystery – who was it who sought to enter Duncliffe? However, it was a mystery they could solve together.

  SOLVING THE MYSTERY

  Garrick woke to the sound of carts rattling over the cobbles, the splash as the innkeeper's wife emptied a pail in the yard, a dog barking. Lowkirk was slowly waking with the dawn beyond the window. Garrick lay on his back and looked at the ceiling, and smiled.

  Lady Marguerite was someone I could wed.

  He still couldn't believe it.

  Not Marguerite, he reminded himself. Ettie. Ettie Lomond.

  The smile grew bigger, stretching his cheeks. He couldn't believe he'd thought her name was Marguerite. Ettie suited her so much better. Lilting and lovely, it was a name for the woman he admired and, well, loved. He could be honest about it now.

  She wasn't a grave, remote lady. She never had been! He remembered her rescuing him in the woods, tending his wounds, caring for him. The wild, heartfelt authenticity of her. She was so far outside convention as to be from another world altogether. That was what he'd always loved about her. No wonder it had never mattered what her title was. It didn't matter now.

  All that mattered was that she was free to marry.

  The sound of someone climbing the steps – a slow, insistent tread with heavy footwear – brought him back to the present. He laughed.

  “Not much good to be had in lazing about like a laird,” he reminded himself, swinging his legs out of the bed. “Let's get breakfast.”

  He stood, stretching, and splashed his face in a bowl of water. Then, checking his hair carefully in the mirror – Och, Garrick, stop fussing...you're not being sold at market – he headed downstairs.

  He walked into the dining room and was surprised to see a small, dark-haired form already there.

  She looked up as he hastened across the floor to join her.