“I really ought to go,” she said, grinning. “Someone might come in.”
“I suppose,” he said, still lying down. He studied her, loving the way she looked shy as he let his gaze study her. He loved the way she looked shy and proud at once, her cheek pink.
“You, too,” she whispered, teasingly, “need some clothes on.”
“I suppose,” he teased.
He stood and felt himself flush as he caught her gaze on him. It was admiring, and the thought of that made his body tingle, making him blush.
He reached for his shirt, shrugging it on over his head. Then, as he tried to organize his kilt-pleats, he watched her get into her underclothes.
“Need help?” he asked.
She pulled a face. “Can’t…reach,” she said.
He nodded and, grinning, fastened the one button.
“Thanks,” she breathed.
He smiled and watched, teasing himself, regretful, as her body was again concealed by clothes.
Then, adjusting the pin in his kilt – he had it askew, and he knew that it wouldn’t escape scrutiny – he headed to the door.
“We’d best find some breakfast.”
He floated down the hallway – Chlodie had chosen to wait, going to her chamber to fix her hair – and paused at the door.
“I hope you’re planning to stay, Douglas,” he heard Marguerite saying.
“Of course, milady,” Douglas replied, respectful. “I don’t need more adventuring.”
“No,” she said, strictly. “You don’t.” Her gaze fell on him. He tensed, seeing her eyes widen and knowing he looked disarrayed.
“Good morning, milady.”
He bowed and with the dignity he could summon when wearing a skew kilt and a shirt hastily buttoned, hair messy, he went to a seat and sat down, heavily.
“You woke early,” Douglas commented.
Domnall blushed. “Aye, I did,” he said. “Restless sleep, nights.”
“I understand,” Douglas said feelingly. “I find it hard to sleep myself, sometimes.”
Marguerite chuckled, and Domnall saw their eyes meet, and guessed there was some private story exchanged.
Swallowing hard, feeling his skin tingle with sweet memory, he reached for porridge.
He was just savoring a fragrant mouthful when he heard a voice at the door.
“Good morning.”
His eyes held hers. He could feel their hosts stare and knew that, to anyone who knew aught, their love would be obvious.
He watched Chlodie walk slowly to her seat, body swaying.
He looked away.
If he stared any longer, he would make what was merely speculation, obvious fact.
“We have a fine morning, eh?”
“Yes,” Marguerite answered the whispered comment. “It is fine.”
“I did expect rain,” Douglas commented, buttering bread. “But it seems I was wrong.”
“It does happen,” Marguerite said dryly.
They all laughed.
Domnall leaned back in his seat, smelling the scent of breakfast and watching the woman he loved. He knew that, no matter what else happened, this was a moment he would never ever forget.
“Tea?”
The maid appeared, distracting him from his thoughts. Marguerite beamed.
“Yes, please, Hume,” she nodded. “And if we could have more porridge...?” She indicated the dish. “We have hungry mouths to feed.”
Domnall flushed, realizing that he had eaten most of the potful. He had a raging hunger today, and he knew it was a result of the experience last night.
He chatted with Marguerite and Douglas, and cast admiring glances toward Chlodie.
“Well,” Douglas said, stretching. “I suppose I should exercise our troops?” He grinned at Marguerite.
“Our horses,” Marguerite explained, shaking her head, though grinning. “Really, Douglas! Yes, I suppose you should. And I will see if Alexandra is awake.”
“I want to see her too, before I go,” Douglas opined.
Domnall smiled as Marguerite stood, pushing back her chair.
“Excuse us, Chlodie, Lord Domnall?”
“Of course,” he said softly.
He felt his entire body tense as they left the room, leaving him alone with Chlodie.
“We should go,” he said. “And hurry to the village.”
Swallowing hard, she nodded. She knew what he meant: they had an urgent appointment by the church.
* * *
Chlodie stroked her hands down the borrowed gown. White and simple, though good silk, she felt her heart thud as she looked at it.
This was her wedding gown.
The grass was soft on the path, and she stepped over it lightly, her slippers thin and her feet tingling so that she felt every stone through the linen.
Slowly, mouth dry, she stepped toward the church.
Inside, it was dark. The sunlight filtered, gray-green, through the window, and fell on red hair and a handsome face.
Then, heart thudding, she was aware of nothing else save the words of the preacher and the thumping of her heart.
“I now pronounce you man and wife.”
The words resounded as she leaned forward and felt Domnall’s lips touch tenderly on hers.
Then, laughing and overjoyed, they were outside in the gardens, kissing and hugging, hearts soaring.
“Oh, Domnall,” she whispered, hand on his shoulder, staring at his eyes.
“Chlodie.”
They kissed.
* * *
The joy mixed with wonder mixed with a sort of amazement inside him. Domnall walked from the church, arm around Chlodie.
She is my wife.
It made a wonderful sense, at the same time as his mind refused to grasp it. He was walking from a church with the woman he loved and she was beside him, happy.
He looked down at her, feeling tears fill his eyes. She was smiling, her steps a little dance as they walked together, keeping up.
“I love you,” he whispered, drawing her towards him. He looked into her eyes, and fought to hold back his tears. “I love you so much.”
“I love you.”
They embraced, fiercely, and he let a tear run, scalding, against her shoulder where she couldn’t see it. He felt his body press against hers and knew he would explode from the tender longing that filled his body. Now no one could stop them. They had every permission.
“I think we should go back, now,” he said.
Chlodie’s smile was a mix of wonder and merriment, like he felt.
“Yes,” she said.
Upstairs in his bedchamber, he found it was quite easy to take the white gown from her body. He let it fall to the floor and stood back, admiring her. She smiled at him, the daylight highlighting fresh curves.
“You are so beautiful.”
“You are also beautiful,” she whispered, before his mouth smothered her with kisses.
He lay back on the bed beside her, panting, his whole body lazy after lovemaking. He slipped over onto his side, and lay looking down at her. His eyes drifted from her waist to her throat and back and he knew that he could spend years thus.
“I love you, sweet Chlodie,” he whispered.
She reached for him, smiling. “I love you, too.”
Later, they sat up. The day had moved to afternoon, the light hazy and orange where it fell through the partially open curtain. He sat, propped on an elbow, and looked at her.
“I suppose we’re missed.”
“I suppose,” she echoed, stroking his chin.
He saw a big smile move across her face and wondered, with a shy grin, at her thinking.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, what?” he asked.
“I was just thinking what a fine man you are,” she blushed.
“Really?” he felt his skin tingle, feeling proud.
“Yes, really,” she said, giggling. “You silly man. You must know what you look
like, surely..?”
“I never thought about it.”
“Well,” she said, sitting up and kissing him. “You should. You’re handsome.”
He felt his heart stop. Nobody, in his whole life, had ever applied the wording to him. He’d always thought himself clumsy, oafish. If he ever thought about it at all.
“I am a poor foil for your beauty.”
“Poet,” she said, and pulled a tongue.
Laughing, he sat up and drew her against him.
Later, they went down to the parlor. It was empty, but that, he was coming to learn, was ordinary. He noticed a tray glinting warmly.
“Someone left us something.”
“Tea. How thoughtful of them.”
He watched as Chlodie gracefully fetched the tray, bringing it to the low table before the settee. There was a silver teapot, china cups and a plate that proved to contain bread and jam. He smiled as she poured him a cup.
“Thank you,” he said. “A strange feast.”
“The best one,” Chlodie admitted.
They sat together and ate a repast of bread and jam in comfortable silence.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck, chiming five times.
“Odd,” Domnall whispered. “You’d think they’d drink…” he gestured at the teapot, but Chlodie finished the sentence, shrugging.
“Douglas planned a ride. And Marguerite?” she shrugged. “Probably upstairs, sewing. She does for hours, sometimes.”
“Oh, good,” he said.
All the same, as the clock showed a quarter past five, he felt a twinge of worry.
Silence! That was it. The house was silent.
That in itself was odd. Normally, a house like this would have been a bustle of activity. Servants, lords, visiting friends. Why was it so silent?
“I feel odd,” he said. “Something’s not right.”
“What?” Chlodie frowned, reaching for more tea. “It is odd, that nobody’s at tea,” she added. She looked at the clock, where the silver hands marked half an hour later.
“I don’t like it,” he said.
He stood, walking to the window. Chlodie sighed, protesting.
“Domnall, it could be normal. You’ve been a soldier overly- -long. You’re worried.”
“Yes,” he said, trying to convince himself. “I think you’re right. I’m fretting.”
“Not fretting,” she said, reaching to stroke his hair lovingly. “Just tense.”
“Yes,” he agreed, closing his eyes and feeling calmer as her hand stroked his cheek.
“Just wait,” she whispered. “Soon, Marguerite will come in and…”
“I know,” he whispered, stroking her arm. He turned to face her, lovingly. “I know.”
They sat together silently a long moment.
A moment later, Domnall stood. He went to the door of the room, turning to her.
“Sorry, dearest,” he said regretfully. “I just can’t sit still. I need to know what is happening.”
“As you will,” she agreed gently. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but…” she shrugged. “Who can be certain?”
“Yes,” he echoed. “Nobody can be sure.”
He headed into the hallway.
Silence.
The eeriness of it made him shudder. It wasn’t natural. Something was going on. The house simply shouldn’t be so soundless!
Footsteps.
He tensed and flattened himself against the wall as he heard someone running past. The footsteps were quick and frantic and his heart started to beat, erratic, hearing it.
As the footsteps neared, he drew a breath, and then stepped out, making a grab.
“Who goes there?”
“Whew! Milord, you scared me!”
“Sorry,” he said, reddening as he looked down into the face of a scared maidservant. “I didn’t mean to. What’s happening?”
“Oh, milord, it’s awful!” she said. Her eyes were round. Domnall felt his heart stop.
“What is?” he whispered urgently. “What’s happening? Tell me!”
“Oh, milord,” she said. “The soldiers are here.”
“Soldiers?” Domnall felt his heart stop. The soldiers? He almost cried out, despairing. They had followed him here, the Hanoverian! Now he had brought destruction on his helpers.
“Soldiers,” he said slowly, trying to get information from the frightened lass. “What color? Red?”
“Nae, tartan, sir,” she said. “Scots Jacobites. They’re everywhere.”
“What?” he stared at her, eyes stretched. Of all the things he’d expected to hear, this wasn’t it. Jacobites, massing?
“Of course, sir,” she said, sounding surprised. “You think I can’t recognize a Scots Highlander?” her eyes fell at once. “Sorry, milord,” she added, shamefacedly. “I miss spoke.”
“Never mind,” he said swiftly. “The soldiers. They are here..?”
“In the grounds,” she gestured towards the back of the house, behind her. “In the garden. Lots…”
“Whist, lass.” He held her wrist, seeing how scared she was. Any sort of soldiers – loyal or not – must have seemed terrifying at this stage. In this house, where Douglas, earl of Duncliffe, was known for neutrality.
Which means you don’t see sides, and both sides hate you.
He sighed. The stupidity of that overwhelmed him. Douglas, being friend to both sides, would be seen as an enemy by both sides. The injustice made him want to spit. He didn’t have time for contemplation.
“Is there a window?”
“Window,” she echoed.
“Where I can see down,” he said patiently. “See soldiers.”
“Oh!” she looked relieved. “Yes, sir. A window. At the back of the hallway. A fine one. Come, now.”
He followed her down the corridor which was filled with late-afternoon light.
There, at the end, was a tall window, as she’d told. He leaned on the wall, lifting the drapes a fraction, and peered out. Out in the yard, as she’d said, round the back of the manor where trees grew tall and the woods had been largely left somewhat wild, seven troops stood.
As he watched, he discerned more men, straying into the trees. They wore the many different tartans of the Highland groups, and one or two carried shields. The rest seemed unarmed, though he was sure they carried daggers or pistols, even, somewhere on their bodies. He felt his heart thump.
“What are they doing here?” he asked himself.
“They did not say, sir,” the maidservant whispered.
“I’m sure,” Domnall observed. “Your earl..?”
“He went down to talk with them,” she said. “He’s not back yet.”
Her face twisted with pain. Domnall knew why. If these men had Douglas, they could well kill him for treachery. The irony that he’d actually helped him, a Jacobite, stung.
“Where’s the doorway?” he asked, jerking his head to indicate the garden.
“Sir,” the woman whispered. “No…you cannae risk that.”
“I have to,” he said. He felt at his side, reassured that his dagger still hung there. Then, adjusting his cloak, he hurried away from her, heading down a spiraling stairwell.
At the bottom of it, he found a door. He waited there, listening. He could hear voices outside.
“We stay here, McConn said, until we’ve got more.”
“More..?” a voice inquired.
“More men, daft fool,” he said, loudly.
The others laughed.
“We’re not leaving,” another man echoed.
“You’d do best to wait in the woods, awhile,” a voice cut clearly over the top of them. “I reckon your Hanoverian isn’t sleeping, nowadays.”
“Bethann!”
Without thinking, Domnall opened the door. He found himself stared at by eight pairs of eyes.
A man leaned by the wall, not four paces away. Two others leaned against it, backs against the stone work. With a step, they could surround him. Another stood casually
against a tree, and two others waited nearby, one with the reins of a horse in his hand, another holding a knife.
He felt death hover above him and tried to breathe. Sought the one man he hadn’t counted among them.
“Hello, there, Lieutenant!””
“Bethann!” he met the pale gaze of his sergeant, happy. “What in Heaven’s name are you doing out here?”
“Well, as you see, sir, not much.”
The man closest to Domnall shot his friend an enraged stare as the other men chuckled. He was the one in charge, Domnall guessed, and not liking his authority teased.
“Well, you’re waiting, apparently.”
“So, he says, sir,” Bethann said.
This time, the fellow in charge actually grunted. Domnall stepped forward protectively.
“That daft sergeant’s called McCrae,” he said. “He’s my sergeant, actually.”
“Your sergeant?” Man-in-charge looked, if anything, even more affronted.
“Yes,” Domnall said lightly. “I served with McKinnon’s regiment. If you must know.” He said it as offhanded as he could muster, knowing that would make the fellow more annoyed.
He saw the small eyes narrow further.
“McKinnon’s, eh?”
“That one,” he nodded casually.
“That’s right,” Bethann said blithely. “While some of us were stuck down in the south, counting wagons.”
When the fellow in charge went white, Domnall put his head on one side, indicating to Bethann he’d best ease up. Bethann nodded.
“Looks like rain, yes?”
“Aye,” one of the other fellows agreed. “Looks like rain. Best get indoors, sir.”
Domnall saw the fellow sigh, the fight released, temporarily. He nodded.
“Come on, lads! Round the front.”
“You’re guests of the earl?” Domnall asked. The fellow gave him an odd look.
“We’re staying with the earl, aye,” he said gravely.
Domnall winced. That told him volumes, those words. The earl was evidently viewed, not as a traitor, exactly, but with some distaste. He swallowed hard.
I owe that man, and his family, my life, he thought. He wanted to say something, but decided against it.
The leader hated him already, he reckoned. It would be foolish to make it stronger.
Nodding, he fell in with the rest of the column, heading along with them to the cellar. Bethann, uncharacteristically quiet, followed him.
A Highlander's Gifted Love (Blood 0f Duncliffe Series Book 9) Page 12