A Highlander's Gifted Love (Blood 0f Duncliffe Series Book 9)

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Good. Then if you could send up the weekly account? I will look over it before sending it to Father.”

  “Very good, milady.”

  She headed out of the room then and back up the stairs. The door shut behind her.

  Mrs. Brune turned away, and Domnall heard Bethann grunting as he tried to lace up his bundle of clothes.

  “Well! That was a fine lass,” he said.

  “Shut your mouth, Bethann,” Domnall growled.

  “What?” Bethann asked, standing, the pack – bulky and badly-fastened – in his arms. “I only said she was a fine…”

  “I know,” Domnall said tightly. “So, don’t say it. Are you ready to go?”

  “Sir! Without breakfast?”

  “You’ve already had breakfast,” Domnall replied shortly, seeing the pitcher and cup at the table where, a few moments ago, Bethann had sat.

  “That was only a first course,” Bethann contradicted. “Mrs. Brune said she’d make me something for the way, and…”

  “And you already have bread and butter and cheese in that pack of yours, Master Bethann,” the cook accused, grinning. “Don’t you go telling tales tae yer officer.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Brune,” Domnall said, glad someone, at least, acknowledged him, however scantily.

  She grinned. “You’re alright, lad,” she said, by way of a compliment. “And if you like, I’ll make you up a luncheon too. No sense in starving, when you can be well-fed. Hey, Master Bethann?”

  “Spoken like a paragon of wisdom, milady,” he said with an elaborate bow. The cook went red.

  Domnall grinned.

  He followed Bethann to the kitchen door and through it out into the yard. There, Bethann shut the door.

  “You gone daft, Lieutenant?” he asked.

  “What?” Domnall stared at him.

  “I mean, have you gone daft, leaving this place?” Bethann asked, sounding urgent. “Here, where we have bed and board and we can stay and recover awhile? Get off the road? Avoid the reprisals?”

  “Stop it, Bethann,” Domnall snapped. “You’re suggesting we exploit these people, and…”

  “Exploiting nothing!” Bethann protested. “You saw? Mrs. Brune gave me bread and butter of her own free will.”

  “Yes, I saw,” Domnall sighed. “And you saw, also, how disenchanted the lady of the house was with me?”

  “Disenchanted, eh?” Bethann shook his head. “Fancy long word.”

  Domnall made a face. “You know what I mean. She’ll be happier if we just leave. And I don’t blame her.”

  He recalled, belatedly, what he’d heard. The master eats less than a bird.

  The master? That must be some male relative of Lady Chlodie. If she’d invited them here without his permission, she would be facing reprisals of her own. He recalled the rest. I’ll look over the accounts, before showing Father.

  Her father, then. He was also clearly unwell. She managed this household herself, with a collected ease that suggested she’d been doing it a long time. Whatever it was that ailed her father, he’d likely been ill a long while. That meant that she had her own worries and didn’t need him and Bethann bringing their own special brand of discord to her life.

  “We need to go,” he insisted. “Trust me.”

  Bethann stared at him dismally. Then he sighed.

  “You’re right.”

  Domnall felt his heart sink into his boots as Bethann walked towards the gate.

  “You mean, now?” he called after his sergeant’s retreating back. “Just like that?”

  “Sir,” Bethann said solidly, turning around. “What do you want me to do? Stay? Or go before we cause more trouble?”

  “Fine,” Domnall sighed. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

  “I’m usually right,” Bethann agreed. “Even if I know fewer fancy words. Shows what good they do,” he added, sighing.

  Domnall, following his sergeant to the gate, shook his head wearily. If only I did know more fancy words. If only the first thing out of my mouth whenever I saw her wasn’t something mundane, like bollocks.

  He couldn’t believe it. At this rate, she would be celebrating his departure. He knew he couldn’t blame her.

  “Bollocks,” he sighed.

  Bethann turned around and nodded.

  “You’re right there, sir.”

  Together, they headed through the gate. Bethann had his pack with him – Domnall had left his ruined clothes behind. Their collective luggage – blankets, some cash, provisions – was in the pack Bethann bore. He, as the injured party, hadn’t been carrying much beyond his own belongings.

  I leave with nothing, like I arrived.

  Well, not quite nothing, he thought, looking down at his new kilt and shirt. He was leaving with bandaged wounds, new clothes, and memories.

  Memories that will keep me awake a while.

  He bit his lip, feeling his need for Chlodie like a physical pain. In the intimate moment when she’d dressed his wounds, and later, too, sharing food, he’d felt closer to her than he’d ever felt to any living woman. She was quick, clever, funny…everything he liked most in a person, male or female. Now he’d made her hate him.

  “Grand.”

  Bethann stopped in front of him on the forest track. Domnall walked into him.

  “What the…”

  “Whist, sir,” Bethann whispered. “Wait. Something’s moving.”

  “Oh, for…” Domnall hissed through his teeth. Of all the things he needed least in his life right now, Bethann getting a fit of the jitters was the last. “It’s some creature, Bethann…” he started reasoning.

  “Whist!”

  Domnall bit his lip as Bethann gestured him to silence. He tried to ignore his annoyance. It was likely better if Bethann was being cautious – they stood less chance of walking into a trap than if he was blithely unaware. He decided to humor him.

  “Where is it..?” he whispered.

  “Here!” Bethann said, pointing straight ahead.

  At that moment, Domnall heard it too. Hoof sounds. Heading towards the clearing.

  Someone, riding like a madman, heading through the woods.

  “Soldiers!” he breathed.

  His worst nightmare had suddenly come true. They had been tracked here by Hanoverians. Now they would be shot, and the house in the woods ruined, in reprisal. He looked round, panicking, for the best direction to run.

  At that moment, the horse burst out of the coverage.

  It was a white horse, tall and well-built, and he had a fleeting impression that he’d seen it somewhere before. The rider was tall, too, though they leaned forward with the practiced ease of long riding, though they were twisted sideways, because they were riding side-saddle, and the tall hat on their head held back curls of pale auburn that streamed back in the wind, along with a white skirt…

  “Lady Chlodie!”

  She heard him, and her eyes met his, and he saw her lips move, framing a word. Then, suddenly, her horse shied at some movement and bolted.

  “Stop!” Domnall yelled.

  “Sir…” Bethann said tightly. “Sir..?”

  “Stop!” Domnall called again, and found himself racing after the horse. He knew it was foolish – no person could stop a racing horse – but he had to do something! He couldn’t just stand there.

  He heard Chlodie scream, and the sound of the horse’s neigh. His heart almost fractured in panic.

  “Sir?”

  “I’m going after her, Bethann!” he yelled as he sprinted away, lungs burning, wounds aching. “Look after our pack!”

  “Sir…” Bethann protested, but Domnall was already out of hearing range.

  He ran down the track, feeling the hard earth slap against his feet, jarring in his knees. His lungs were already burning and they ached as he heaved one slow, careful breath after another. He hadn’t run since the day he was wounded, over a week ago. He forced himself to go slowly, knowing he was unfit.

  “Wait…for me,” he pant
ed, making it a plea. “Wait…for me.”

  His breath came with that rhythm as he ran. Wait for me.

  He heard another shout, and his heart almost stopped. It was to his left, and a little ahead. He ran.

  In the clearing, he stared.

  Lady Chlodie was clinging onto the horse, while it reared and crashed down again. Her horsemanship was excellent, but he had seen cavalry soldiers unhorsed by less, or have their necks broken when their mounts threw them to the front.

  “Milady!”

  “Hold your whist!” she yelled at him. “You’ll spook him.”

  The horse reared again, and came crashing down. Domnall, his heart in his mouth, watched as she jarred on his back, almost fell, and caught on. Seeing her there was more than he could bear.

  Knowing she was right – that anything he did right now could put her in more danger – but wanting to help, nevertheless, he sneaked round to her horse’s left.

  “Mistfell, stay!” Chlodie screamed, desperate, as the horse poised himself for another spine-jarring rear. As he crashed down again, Domnall rushed forwards, covering the horse’s eyes with his hands. He knew he had no hope of keeping them there – a horse was ten times stronger than a man, and one driven to this excess of fear and pain would kill him to get away – but he wanted to buy her time.

  “Can you dismount?” he yelled, as the horse stayed stationery for a moment, twisting its head away from him, preparing to run.

  “Yes!” she called.

  As the horse jerked sideways, she slipped down, neatly. The horse wrenched its head away from Domnall and ran across the clearing where it stopped, shaking, head down, skin shuddering as if flies bit him.

  He looked to where Lady Chlodie stood. She was wearing a long tartan cloak, a white skirt showing beneath it, and a riding hat. Her face was white and a soundless tear ran down it. Her breath heaved. Her hands were hidden in riding gloves. One held her cloak’s clasp, the other hung loosely at her side. He could see a fine tremor running through her body.

  “Milady,” he whispered. “Are you well?”

  “I’m…fine,” she whispered.

  Then, to his horror, her one leg collapsed from under her and she fell into a kneeling crouch.

  “Milady!”

  He ran to her, his arms going around her automatically, hands running down her shoulders, down her sides, feeling for any breaks. She was rounded and curvy and yet, at that moment, it wasn’t his physical response to her that reached his brain. It was horror.

  “I’m…there’s nothing broken,” she whispered softly. “I’m just…I’m tired.”

  “I understand,” he said softly. “Oh, milady!”

  He realized that he was kneeling on the forest floor, his hands on her shoulders, his body an inch or two away from hers.

  Wordlessly, he leaned back. Let his hands drop from her shoulders.

  “Milady, can I do aught?”

  “I’m…fine,” she whispered again. Her breathing was slow and labored, and she was crying, tears pooling at her lip, though she was soundless.

  He had to clench his fists, to resist the urge to reach out and cup her cheek in his hand, wipe those tears. He saw her green eyes fill with them damply, and he had to fight the urge to kiss her.

  “Milady,” he said softly. “Can I help you get home?”

  “What will…Father say?” she whispered. “He…he forbade me to ride.”

  “He did?” Domnall was shocked. “Why so?”

  “He said it’s unladylike,” she said. “That I should concern myself with the duties of the household.”

  “Many fine ladies ride,” Domnall said back, loudly. He was shocked. “Even the Queen of France rides, or so I’ve heard. Never seen it, o’ course.” He chuckled. He knew he was talking to fill the silence, but he couldn’t help it. He felt saddened for her, and for her obvious fear and shame.

  “Well, you tell that to Father,” she said, sniffing. To his happiness, he saw a glimmer of a smile stretch her lips. He felt as if the sun shone brightly.

  “I would,” he nodded, grinning gently. “If you’d let me. You’re a fine lass, milady. None finer…and a daughter to be proud of.”

  She laughed, though the words made her cry also. Proud? Her father had never said anything of the sort. The words from a stranger made her cry harder. Yet it also felt as though some strange dam in her chest had melted, taking the pressure and pain away. She sniffed, feeling the tears subside. Reached into the pocket of her dress, to find a handkerchief. She blew her nose. Started to scrub away her tears.

  Without thinking of it, he reached up. His hand rested over hers. He felt the wetness of a tear trickle under his finger and he had to fight the urge to lift the sweet damp to his lips.

  She looked into his eyes. This time, she didn’t look away. She didn’t smile, but he didn’t see any anger in her gaze, either. Instead, he saw a wary wonderment. A feeling that, more or less, echoed his own.

  He smiled, feeling his cheek lift in a grin. He saw her start to smile. Then she looked at the ground.

  “I should get back,” she said softly. She sounded reluctant. “I should be looking at the accounts.”

  “Let me help you,” he said. “You’ve had a shock. I’ve seen soldiers who would have been thrown more easily.” He smiled, admiration too great to be concealed in his voice and gaze.

  “You have?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. He took her hands and leaned back, letting her lean on him to pull herself upright. She accepted his help without comment.

  “What sort of soldier were you?” she asked, inquiring.

  “A good question,” he chuckled, sniffing.

  “I didn’t mean that,” she said, looking upset. “I meant, really. Were you in the cavalry, or..?”

  “Infantry,” he interrupted, nodding. “I was one of the men with targe and dagger.”

  The targe – his round shield – had split during the fight, which was why he was open to attacks from other daggers, leading to the wound he had. He felt silly about it, and was surprised that, when she looked at him, he saw admiration in her eyes. He felt his heart swell. He swallowed, feeling glowingly proud and a little silly now, but for a different reason.

  I shouldn’t let her admiration have such an effect.

  He was warm and glowing inside and knew it was foolish of him, yet also knew he could do naught about it.

  “We fought in the old way, like my father taught me,” he said. It was at once a source of pride and shame for him, for the old techniques had proved ineffective against men armed with muskets and rifles. “Which might have been a bad idea, thinking about it…”

  “It was very brave,” she said insistently, this time interrupting him.

  He swallowed.

  “Thanks, milady.”

  Oddly, that confirmation made him feel better about himself than he had in a long time. He hadn’t realized that he carried a sense of shame, a sense of failure. He reckoned all the soldiers must feel that way – their cause had lost, after all. It was odd how light he felt, now she had relieved it.

  He smiled shyly at her.

  She smiled back, equally shyly.

  They didn’t look at each other as they crossed the clearing, clearly each of them feeling a little uncomfortable with the new layer of intimacy. He walked beside her and together they crossed to the stallion, which had lifted his head now, but was still clearly tired.

  “I don’t know what happened to him. Hey, boy?” she asked gently, reaching for his reins. He tossed his head back, clearly uncomfortable.

  “He probably saw Bethann and me,” Domnall said.

  She chuckled. “You usually scare horses?”

  “It’s been known to happen,” he said, concealing a grin.

  This time she laughed. He felt his soul brighten, hearing it.

  “You do?” she asked, sniffing.

  “Well, it happened once,” he said, flushing sheepishly at the memory.

  “What h
appened?”

  She was leaning on a tree branch, looking up at him with that green gaze. He felt his heart warm. He’d never had such an interested audience, especially for his silly stories. He felt himself smile, warming to the recounting.

  “It was when I first signed up. Bethann was with me, though he wasn’t a sergeant then, of course. We’d been sent out on a reconnaissance – just the two of us. Captain wanted to get rid of us for a while, I reckon.” He chuckled. “There we were, then – just Bethann and me, trying to move quietly through the forest, when all of a sudden, this horse smells us. Yelled like a stallion seeing another stallion, and then the whole lot were off. The troops with them went crazy. Twenty horsemen, all rushing about in the woods, trying to decide where the enemy was hiding.” He chuckled again, freshly amused by the memory.

  “What happened?”

  “Well, nothing. As luck would have it, we’d found our own column.”

  “They were your men?” she was really laughing now, shoulders shaking, cheeks pink. He had to laugh too.

  “Yes!” It was a funny story, and telling it to her made him see it afresh, making it even funnier to recall. “Imagine our surprise when we saw the uniforms, and heard our own bugle calls to order the men! It was a real mess.”

  He shook his head. She looked up at him, those green eyes bright with warmth. He felt his throat tighten, looking into that soft gaze. He noticed a strand of soft hair, fluttering in the wind, stroking her forehead. He lifted his hand to touch it, to wipe it out of her eye. He checked the movement, not wanting to scare her.

  She looked down, seeming to realize at the same moment that they were supposed to be indifferent acquaintances.

  “You must have been pleased, when you found out?”

  “We were relieved!” he agreed, grinning. “And then we felt like right daft fools, we did.”

  “Your captain was angry?”

  “Our captain didn’t know,” he replied. “As luck would have it, the men we met had been making reconnaissance too – they’d been looping round the enemy and bumped into us. They were as relieved as we were, I can tell you.”

  She smiled. “I think you’re all very brave.”

  He swallowed, pride mixing with a sort of self-consciousness.