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

by Emilia Ferguson

  “No,” she said. “Now, you must go. I will see to it that your tracks are well covered. They think you have gone east and…”

  “I know,” he said softly. “Mattie said so.”

  They went through the door again, back into the garden.

  Chlodie sighed. She knew she would say anything – talk nonsense even – to delay the moment when he must go. She couldn’t bear it – he had come into her life so suddenly, but already he had come to mean so much to her. She couldn’t bear to see him leave.

  “Visit, if you’re about,” she whispered. Her voice was taut with sorrow.

  “I will,” he said gently.

  This time, when he stroked her cheek, she let him. She closed her eyes, wanting to remember the way it felt when his fingers touched her skin, the way he touched her so gently, so hesitatingly, as if she might disappear into shadow.

  “Fare well, Chlodie?”

  She felt the reply too tight in her throat. She nodded.

  “Fare well, too, Domnall,” she whispered back. “May Heaven protect you.”

  “And you.”

  He stepped back. He faced her, his handsome face a mix of love and sorrow. She looked away.

  “Go, now,” she hissed. “While they’re still searching Estford. It’s important. Go, now.”

  He nodded. He said nothing. Took one step back.

  Then, as she looked up, he melted away, running soundlessly through the garden, into the forest.

  Chlodie watched him leave.

  “I’ll never see him again.”

  She felt the realization fill her throat, a lump that choked all sound. She wanted to scream, the pain was so great, and yet she knew there were no words to her sadness.

  Shaking her head, she went quickly inside.

  “Milady!” Mattie appeared almost as she shut the door. “Is he…”

  “He’s gone, Mattie,” Chlodie said.

  Suddenly, the whole world was too much – too gray, too pressing, too heavy. She wanted none of it right now.

  “Oh, good!” Mattie sounded overwhelmed. “The Master was just calling for ye. He said that…”

  “Tell him I’m exhausted from the ride,” Chlodie said.

  Stilling any further protests by hastily turning away, she headed to her room.

  She wanted to be alone.

  A SURPRISING PLACE

  Domnall felt his lungs burn from the exertion. He kept on running. The forest floor was hard under his feet. The air, lifting the borrowed cloak of McNeil tartan, was cold. He didn’t feel it. His body was numb, his heart empty. He couldn’t think of anything but her.

  “Lieutenant…” Bethann called out from at his shoulder. “How much further..?”

  “'Til we’re a good mile away from here, Bethann,” Domnall called back. The words cost him more breath than he could spare. He bit his lip and lost himself again in running.

  Not too far now. Just up the hill. Once we reach the ridge, we’ll be as good as hidden.

  His feet carried him without his mind having to think about it, his thoughts blurring out into the strange gray almost-sleep that filled his head when running. He didn’t need to think didn’t need to be…

  “Lieutenant?”

  “What?” Domnall hissed. A pox on Bethann! Why did he have to keep breaking his concentration? His running was all that stood between him and wild sorrow.

  “Sir. We’re at the hilltop.”

  “Oh.” Domnall stopped. “Yes. You’re right. We are.”

  He stared around him, surprise warring with exhaustion in his veins. He had been so intent on running that he hadn’t actually noticed that they had already reached their destination. His lungs heaved. His whole body felt as if it had been beaten with sticks and he reached out to steady himself against the bole of a vast pine tree, sighing.

  “Whew.”

  “I thought we might run off the cliff face,” Bethann said, chuckling. His knees were bent, palms resting on them. He coughed and spat into the leaves. Then he grinned.

  “Whew, sir,” he said. “That was something. We’ll go down slower, eh?”

  “We’ll have to,” Domnall agreed dryly. He looked down the slope opposite them. Steeper than the way they’d just come, there were parts of it that were rugged rock faces, lethal for a runner. They would have to climb down part of the way, slowly. The only blessing was that it was not, particularly, high.

  “You run fast, sir,” Bethann said, still breathing hard.

  “I tried, yes,” Domnall said tiredly. He managed a grin. He was surprised, actually, that he’d run that well. A day of good food and a good night’s rest had evidently been quite beneficial.

  “Well, your wounds are a bit better?” Bethann asked, evidently coming to the same conclusion he had.

  “They’ve stopped festering,” Domnall said, realizing suddenly that they were itchy, and the run had pulled them a little. “It was good to get them tended.”

  “Aye! And that lass…”

  “Shut up about the lass,” Domnall growled.

  Bethann, fortuitously, must have guessed he was in earnest, for, just this once, he kept his mouth shut. Domnall sighed.

  “We need to go downhill now.”

  “When we’re breathing better,” Bethann countered, still panting somewhat.

  “Aye, when ready,” Domnall echoed softly. They stood there for a while, the only sound their breathing in the silence as the wind stopped.

  “Sir…” Bethann said after a long pause, as he got his breath back. “You think we’ll find somewhere to stay?”

  “I think there’s something this way,” Domnall said hopefully.

  “Well, then,” Bethann looked cheered. “Shall we go down?”

  Domnall nodded. “If you’re ready.”

  Bethann shrugged. “I reckon I am, sir.”

  “Good.”

  They headed carefully down the slope.

  As they went, Domnall found himself returning again and again to the image of Lady Chlodie under the trees outside. She looked so forlorn, so beautiful…

  Stop thinking about her. You’ll never see her again.

  He made himself focus on the rocks in front of him.

  “You reckon we’ll find somewhere for dinner?” Bethann asked. He was clinging to the rock, valiantly, the over sized pack on his back an added handicap.

  “I reckon,” Domnall said, though in truth he thought that unlikely. He eyed the pack. “I reckon they’ve victualed you enough to keep us going for a fortnight, too.”

  “Just a week,” Bethann wheezed, as he lowered himself to a ledge. Domnall laughed.

  “A week, eh?”

  “If we eat it slowly, Mrs. Brune said,” he demurred. “She said she reckoned lads like us would get through it in two days, if we wanted to, but…” he shrugged, wincing as he rotated his wrist. “How’re your wounds, sir?”

  “Not worth mentioning,” he said brusquely.

  “Oh.”

  They stood on the ledge, catching their breath.

  “Not so long, now,” Bethann said, cheerfully. He looked down over the ledge. “We’re almost at the bottom, sir. A good hour’s climb and we’ll be on firm land.”

  “Aye,” he sighed. “You’re right.”

  They paused for a while, to give arms and hands time to regain strength, and then continued down.

  At the bottom of the cliff, they paused.

  “You know, sir,” Bethann said after a long moment, “we can set up camp here. Mayhap make a fire. Cook some of those…”

  “Wait,” Domnall said, lifting a hand for pause. He looked round. Something – he wasn’t sure what, yet – had caught his attention. He lifted his head. Sniffed.

  “Smoke,” he said.

  Bethann tensed.

  “You think…”

  “Wait,” Domnall said quickly. “I don’t know what to think.”

  “Maybe we could…” Bethann was already moving back toward the path, heading for cover of the tree line o
n their left.

  “It’s not soldiers,” Domnall whispered. “It can’t be.”

  “You sound very certain.”

  “Listen,” Domnall repeated. “Where are their horses?”

  Bethann listened. At length, he nodded. “Foot soldiers?”

  Domnall shook his head.

  “Not enough noise for foot soldiers,” he whispered back. “That lot wouldn’t be out in less than a platoon of men. I can only hear four people here – four at most.”

  Bethann raised a brow. “Well, fancy, eh!” he said, fairly loud and making Domnall wince. “Who’d have thought you could tell so much from footsteps!”

  “Whist,” Domnall said, desperately. “Please..?”

  Bethann nodded. The forest fell abruptly into silence. The only noise remaining was whoever that was, crashing about.

  I hope I’m right – it sounds like a right noise, easily enough for eight people.

  Now that it was closer, he wasn’t so sure.

  Whoever the group was, they were moving about in a seemingly uncoordinated fashion through the woods. He heard someone crash ahead, and then a man’s voice, commanding, call them back.

  “Hey, there, Alexander! No need to go roving so far!”

  The voice broke on a laugh, and Domnall’s brow lifted higher. For somebody on patrol, whoever this was sounded at once unusually careless and unusually cheery. It also seemed odd that an army officer would call men by their first names.

  Though I call Bethann by his first name, sometimes. When he isn’t annoying me to the point of going barmy.

  He glanced sideways at Bethann, who was standing still beside a tree, seemingly blending in with the trunk, his eyes huge and staring. He would have laughed, except that it gave him an idea. Nodding to the fellow to stay put, he jerked his head sideways, indicating a circling motion. Then he crept out ahead, keeping to the shadows of the trees, his shoulder rubbing with the bark.

  I’ll sneak round behind the bastards and give them the fright they deserve.

  He tiptoed across the leaf mold, trying to move as soundlessly as he could. Then, when he reached a point where he was close enough to hear a man’s breathing, he dropped to his knees, hiding in the brush.

  “Whist, Francis! You’ll not find anything that way…”

  The same voice called out and Domnall looked up sharply. In the evening light, he could see a man on a horse. The man had a long narrow face and black hair. He was handsome, with broad shoulders and a commanding presence. He wore a green cloak of a tartan Domnall didn’t recognize. He hugged his own borrowed cloak around him and hoped it blended in with the forest shrubs.

  “Aye, Lord Douglas,” the man called Francis shouted up to him, cheerfully. “But I might find a place to relieve this pressing urge in my bladder…”

  More laughter followed. Domnall went stiff. If Francis was searching for a place to relieve himself, he might stray further from the path and find his hiding place. He wriggled forward, and found himself looking at the feet of the horse of the leading man.

  “Alexander..?” Lord Douglas called. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m here, Douglas. I…”

  Domnall heard the silence, and, with it, he realized that he could feel the prickle of stares. Feeling foolish, he stood up from the brush, dagger – which he wore habitually at his belt – in his hands.

  “I surrender,” he said.

  “Well,” the man called Francis breathed. “I almost stepped on him.”

  “That’s as may be, Francis,” Douglas said, calmly. “I reckon it would be wise if we surrounded him. Sir? Drop the knife and you will be unharmed. Attempt to resist, and I’ll finish you off myself.” He patted the sword at his side. “Now, what is your business in my grounds?”

  Domnall looked at his feet. Brilliant. He had avoided being arrested as a conspirator and now he was about to be tried as a thief or trespasser.

  “Milord, I didn’t ken it was your land,” he said, honestly. He stayed looking at the ground, assuming a non-threatening mien. If he appeared as mild as possible, perhaps nobody would harm him.

  “Search him, Mr. McNish,” Douglas said curtly, giving the command to a fourth man whom Domnall hadn’t heard yet, dressed in the unobtrusive clothes of a forester.

  “Yes, milord,” the man said.

  “Now, sirrah, are you unaccompanied in this…visiting…of my land? Or are there more of you?”

  Domnall swallowed hard. He wondered about his best answer here. If he admitted to being with Bethann, he would seem more like an intruder, but if he pretended that he was alone, it was only a matter of time before they found Bethann anyway.

  As it was, he was saved from answering. As the man, McNish, laid a hand on his back, the brush burst apart and revealed Bethann, brandishing a dagger.

  “Hey! Leave him alone, you scalawags!”

  Domnall sighed.

  “Lord Douglas, may I introduce my companion Bethann, Sergeant McCrae?”

  “Oh,” Lord Douglas said calmly. “Search him, too,” he said curtly to McNish. “And see that he’s unarmed.”

  As it was, his friends – Alexander and Francis, as they were named – were taking care of the process already. He heard Bethann yell, and saw Alexander twist the dagger from his hand. He bit back a cry of outrage.

  I’ll make you pay for that, he thought hotly. He glared at Bethann. Then he looked up, for their captor was speaking again.

  “You’ll accompany us back to the manor,” he said. “Where Mr. McNish will ensure you are adequately housed. We will address this difficulty in the morning.”

  Domnall cleared his throat, and then decided that anything he said would likely make his predicament even worse. He glanced sideways at Bethann, as he, disarmed, was shoved roughly forward to closer by.

  Domnall have Bethann a reassuring glance sideways, but there was no time to exchange any words. Francis and Alexander flanked them, pushing them forward. McNish walked behind. Domnall watched his sergeant rub his wrist. His blood boiled.

  I’ll see you pay for that, Lord Douglas.

  He fanned the flames of his anger all the way through the forest, along the slight rise that led, unexpectedly, to a high gate. He felt a good slow fire of resentful rage by the time Douglas swung down from his horse and went to the gate.

  “Brewer? Open the gate!”

  “Yes, Milord Douglas.”

  The gate swung open and Domnall, blinking, found himself looking into a courtyard that made him think, at first, that he had been transported into some fairy tale like his nurse might have told him. The place had high walls, a flagstone paving and a big door. It looked for all the world as he would have imagined the castles in one of her stories to look.

  “Alexander?”

  “Yes, Douglas?”

  “I’ll head to the stables first. If you and Francis wish to go in? I’m sure there is repast set out for us in the drawing room. I’ll be up directly.”

  Domnall felt his rage increase as the younger man swung smoothly down from the saddle and led his horse toward the stables. He watched him go, blood boiling. It was the fellow’s whole refined, calm manner that annoyed him – so aloof and remote.

  He’s about to condemn me and Bethann to some horrible fate and he still walks about like he’s in a ballroom somewhere.

  He shot the man’s retreating back a wrathful stare. He felt a hand descend sharply on his shoulder and McNish spoke, hard, in his ear.

  “Now, we’ll have no fighting from ye.”

  Domnall tensed, but let the man push him slowly but insistently down towards a staircase that, as he had suspected, led to a store room. He saw Bethann dragged along too – resisting every step – by a guardsman who’d suddenly appeared from somewhere in the courtyard. Then he felt himself pushed forward and put his hands out instinctively to catch his weight. He found himself kneeling on a cold stone floor, covered with straw and discarded sacking.

  He looked around. Barrels lined one wall, sac
ks another. The place was cold, the walls raw stone. He sat down on the straw – the warmest thing in the place – leaned against the wall and looked at the roof. It was, predictably, cold stone. A small window above the door let in air and light. The rest of the place was quiet and dank and cool.

  “Looks like we’re in for the night,” he said.

  Bethann shrugged. He sat down on the straw likewise.

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Domnall frowned. His companion looked so disheartened. He forced himself to cheer up, hating the sight of normally-cheerful Bethann so downcast. He chuckled, humorlessly.

  “Well, one thing is, at least the patrol won’t find us down here.”

  “True, sir.”

  They sat back against the wall. There was silence.

  Domnall leaned back and closed his eyes and looked up at the stone roof. It was strangely peaceful in here, he thought. If he could just forget that nagging sense that something terrible were about to happen, he’d be happy.

  If I could forget her, too.

  He sighed, and wondered, idly, what Lady Chlodie was doing now. If nothing else, thinking of her distracted him from his own fate.

  She’d be finishing dinner now, most like, he thought with a small twist of a sorrowful smile. He imagined himself sitting opposite her. Heard her sweet voice.

  She’d be telling me about something amusing, and I’d be laughing.

  He smiled, in spite of himself, recalling the dinner the previous evening. So much had happened since then. The chase in the woods, the conversation. The kiss.

  The sweetest kiss I ever had.

  He bit his lip, feeling his whole body overcome with the longing ache he felt, just thinking of that kiss. Now, here he sat, probably condemned to a good few months in prison, or worse, for trespassing on some lordling’s land.

  Father would say something to help me out.

  He sighed. It was not worth considering it. He couldn’t get word to his father fast enough. Even if he could, he was not about to reveal his identity and embroil his father as a Jacobite supporter. It was all for the best if he remained silent, lied about his name, accepted his punishment – trespassing wasn’t as bad as treachery – and served the sentence.

  If they know who I am and what I really did, I’ll be dead.