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

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Lieutenant, eh?” The first words out of the fellow in charge’s mouth came as a surprise to Domnall, who inclined his head.

  “Yes,” he said evenly. “I was one.”

  “So,” the fellow looked at him squarely. “Now you can be one again.”

  Domnall looked at him, sure his surprise showed on his face.

  “Why would I?” he asked, trying not to sound unbelieving. “The rebellion is over.”

  The fellow snorted. “Only if we say so,” he said.

  “What?” Domnall looked at the man, wondering if he were sane. How could anybody, who had stood on the field at Culloden, think to continue?

  “The rebellion is…”

  “You’re a coward, lad,” the fellow spat, a deliberate challenge.

  Domnall raised a brow. “Nobody at Culloden that day was a coward,” he said.

  The fellow shot him a look, and Domnall wondered if he’d been there.

  “You don’t want reprisals?”

  Domnall shook his head. He felt no rancor, not anymore. He had seen too much of dying to think it solved anything.

  “I think our country is better served by peace.”

  “By servitude,” the fellow snorted. “Have you heard the laws? Even what you’re wearing’s treason.”

  Domnall shrugged. “It’s clothes, really.”

  The fellow laughed. It wasn’t friendly. “Maybe that’s all it is to you,” he sneered.

  Domnall refused to allow himself to be drawn. He made a face. “Mayhap.”

  “I don’t understand you lads,” the fellow said disparagingly. He was Domnall’s own age, making the statement an insult. Domnall turned away.

  “I’ve had enough war.”

  “You haven’t started yet.”

  Domnall shrugged, though he was starting to feel uneasy. This fellow was clearly quite obsessive. If he was planning a rebellion, Domnall wanted no part in it.

  Yet, surrounded by his supporters, stuck here with the men, did he have a choice?

  Bethann was standing with the other men, uncharacteristically quiet. Domnall felt his stomach twist.

  These men were leaving in the morning. He was apparently going with them.

  A DIFFERENT JOURNEY

  The rain was falling. Chlodie stood in the parlor, looking out. She didn’t see anything. Didn’t listen. All she wanted to do was run down into the rain, heedless of the cold and wet.

  “It’s difficult to get the men out of it, now that they’re set. This sort of rising is happening all over the country,” Marguerite said behind her.

  “It’s mad,” Chlodie whispered. “They’ll be killed.”

  Marguerite came to join her. She said nothing for a long while, simply stood beside her at the window, looking out.

  “It’s not possible to stop them,” she said softly. “Douglas…he daren’t…”

  “I know,” Chlodie said. “I understand how.”

  It was not possible for Douglas to condemn the men. He himself had conspicuously not sided with anyone in the conflict – in that he was not alone among Scots nobles, but none who had done so were appreciated by the Jacobeans.

  Now that Douglas was known for not supporting the rebellion, if he tried to force these men back, he would be seen as actively opposing it. Alone here in the woodlands, without reinforcements, there was nothing he could do to fight them.

  “Domnall wouldn’t join.”

  Chlodie turned around, frustrated. “Domnall cannot refuse, friend.”

  “I know,” Marguerite looked worried. “And he will go with them. I know.”

  “Yes,” Chlodie whispered. He had been stuck down in the courtyard all night, she knew. He would have come up if he hadn’t been endangered.

  “If I can help with…”

  “You can help me,” Chlodie said quickly.

  “How?”

  “Know you of a way down to the stables?”

  “It’s dangerous, Chlodie.”

  “I know,” Chlodie nodded. Yet she had to.

  The way down to the stables led out from the trader’s entrance, skirting the kitchen gardens. She fled down the path the collier-cart would traverse, and then headed straight, towards the low sandstone building.

  “Whist, lad,” she whispered as a stallion shorted, announcing her presence. She looked around, aware of how dangerous was her situation. The eight men – Douglas said eight of them – were billeted in the cellar, fifty paces away. She was acutely in danger.

  She reached out and slowly stroked the horses, striving for equilibrium.

  When a step sounded on the path, she tensed. Then she heard an in-drawn breath.

  “I thought I’d visit,” she said without turning around. “You seemed detained.”

  “Chlodie…” he was behind her, his hands stroking her back, her waist, her hair. She closed her eyes and leaned back and clasped his hand, briefly, in hers. Then she turned around.

  “You’re leaving,” she said.

  He swallowed, eyes closed. “Chlodie, I…”

  “Shh,” she said, her throat tight. “I know. I understand.”

  “I don’t want to!” He sounded tragic. “I want to stay.”

  “I know,” Chlodie said softly. “But the country calls…”

  “It isn’t that,” he said at once, surprising her with anger. “It’s that I have no choice.”

  “I understand,” she said softly. Inside, she felt as if he had set a brand inside her. In some way, knowing that his desire to liberate his country and restore his king was outweighed by his love for her, his sickness of fighting, moved her heart.

  “I have to go.”

  “I know.”

  They looked at each other. Chlodie felt her heart melt as she stared into those soft brown eyes. She didn’t want to miss him.

  She turned her back, steel inside.

  “You will come back to me,” she said.

  “Chlodie, I…”

  “Go, now,” she said, not turning around. Her heart was ice. Anything he said threatened to melt it, making her weep. She wouldn’t weep. She would be strong. “So, you can come back.”

  “Chlodie…”

  “Go!” she hissed.

  He reached out and rested a hand on her shoulder.

  “I go nowhere,” he said. “For you are in my heart always. Nearer than soul.”

  She reached for his hand, then turned and kissed him. He pressed his lips to hers, fervent and soft.

  “Goodbye,” she whispered, and then she could not see him anymore, for her eyes clouded over. She turned away, tears streaming down her face.

  Behind her, she heard him whisper, then turn away.

  “I love you, too,” she whispered after him. “I love you, too.”

  She ran back, blindly, to the house.

  The troops left that morning. More had gathered, so that a group of perhaps fifty left Duncliffe the gardens.

  In the parlor, Marguerite sat opposite her. She looked as tense as Chlodie felt. On the settee on the right, a guest sat. A tall woman with dark hair, Marguerite had introduced her as Adeline, a neighbor. She was a pretty woman, with big dark eyes and a stone face. With her was her eighteen-year-old son.

  “It’s a bad time of year for apples,” Marguerite observed, saying something – anything – into the remote quiet.

  “Yes,” Lady Adeline said, her voice grave. “Your husband is sanctioning this?” she asked.

  “My husband has no involvement,” Marguerite said tightly.

  Chlodie looked at Adeline, wondering how it was she didn’t know. Everyone, surely everyone, knew that Lord Douglas was neither?

  “I am new to these parts,” Adeline said, her voice strained. “It is strange to me, all this conflict.”

  “I’m sure, Adeline,” Marguerite said softly. She looked at Chlodie, as if she hoped she would come up with something to ease conversation. Chlodie said nothing.

  How could she say anything, when her heart was sore?

 
; “Tea, milady?”

  “Yes, thank you, Hume.”

  As soon as she could, Chlodie fled the stifling, socially-constrained room with its etiquette. She locked the door of her bedchamber and lay on the bed, silent.

  I don’t have more tears.

  She lay there for a long time in the silence, thinking. Oddly, it was the stiff expression of Lady Adeline, the wide-eyed stare of her son, which stuck in her mind. Something about the pair of them had troubled her.

  I don’t think they are a part of this.

  If anyone was responsible for the new uprising, Lady Adeline, she was sure, had nothing to do with it. The tale of her having moved down from the remoter Highlands had some backing of truth. Why would a widow and her son have anything to do with more fighting?

  No, if she wished for blame, she wasn’t going to make it stick. Right now, blame was the last thing on her mind. She didn’t care whose fault this was. All she cared about was that it was happening, and she wished it wasn’t.

  And I can’t even see anything.

  She sighed. Merrick had made her realize the Sight wasn’t shameful. Nevertheless, she had not provided any useful information as to how it could be summoned, if necessary.

  Maybe it’s impossible.

  Chlodie sat on her bed, trying to make herself See. She sniffed, the effort making her head ache. After fifteen minutes of trying to will the Sight, she gave up.

  “It’s useless,” she told herself bitterly. “And you might as well go home. You’re useless alone here.”

  She felt her whole soul clench at the thought. If she went home, she wouldn’t even have the memories of Domnall. Not the recent ones anyway.

  She recalled anew how she’d first met him, his hand clawing her wrist out of the darkness, arms enfolding her.

  It was so strange to think of her anger. Now, she knew how gentle he was.

  She made herself stop thinking about him. Thought about the journey ahead. She had to go home, sometime, after all. The servants would doubtless be frantic. Especially if they heard tales of men trying to gather recruits.

  They might thing the coach was set upon, stolen.

  She sighed. Her father, she thought, would probably mourn the coach ahead of mourning her. She shook her head at herself.

  I’m useful to him, too.

  Somehow, the last few days had lifted the mist of her own inadequacy, and made her see how convenient it was for him that she believed herself incapable.

  I will go home, but I won’t go back.

  She wasn’t going to let that happen now.

  She packed her things, and then headed upstairs to find Marguerite. She saw a dark-haired presence and tensed.

  “Have you seen Tam?”

  She shook her head. “No,” she said. “Isn’t he upstairs?”

  “Here I am, Mama.”

  Lady Adeline whipped round, pale face relieved.

  “There you are! Whew,” she shook her head, pressing her hand to her chest. “I was worried. Apologies,” she said, turning to Chlodie with wide eyes. “I thought that…”

  Chlodie nodded, understanding. Her son was old enough – if just – to be dragged off and recruited. His noble birth might save him, but he might still feel coerced to fight.

  And this is the last sort of fight anyone needs now.

  She knew, with a heavy heart, that any fight after Culloden was truly ill advised. They would not have the allies with them anymore, and the forces were not cohesive, as they had been then. The resistance would be crushed.

  And then what of the men who were fighting?

  She wasn’t going to think about that.

  “Excuse me, Adeline,” she said gently to the woman, who rested a hand on her shoulder.

  “Thank you for understanding.”

  Chlodie raised a brow, feeling an odd sensation. It felt as if, just for a second, her heart had touched Lady Adeline, feeling all her hidden fear and torment.

  “You are a mother, it is natural,” she said softly.

  Adeline smiled and their eyes held a moment. Then Chlodie hurried on upward to the parlor.

  “Marguerite,” she said softly. “Are you here?”

  “I’m here…” A voice echoed from around the corner. “Just coming…”

  When Marguerite arrived, she had a roll of cloth in one hand, hair disarranged.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I was just fetching material. I thought I’d make a new tapestry…”

  Chlodie let her talk, knowing that her discussion about motifs for a new frieze was actually to cover up how worried she was.

  “And then, when Douglas gets back, he’ll have something to hang up.”

  “Douglas is back?”

  “He’s gone east, to take word to our friends at Inverkeith,” she said. “They’re also aloof from the conflict, as are his sisters and their family. They need to know.”

  “I see,” Chlodie said.

  “These are such terrible times,” Marguerite whispered.

  “I know,” Chlodie said, taking her hands. “I wish I could stay.”

  “You’re leaving, too?” Marguerite sounded brisk. “Well, I suppose you must.”

  Chlodie knew she was speaking thus to hide her pain. She embraced her tenderly.

  “I’ll come back,” she said softly. “So will Douglas.”

  “Yes, you will. Of course, you will,” she said with a small chuckle. “And then when you do, you will be invited to dinner here.”

  “Thank you, Marguerite,” she said softly. “Take care.”

  “Fare well, Chlodie. Take care too.”

  Chlodie hugged her friend again, then left, heading down to the hallway.

  “Mrs. Hume? Please fetch my coachman. Tell him to make ready to depart.”

  As Mrs. Hume nodded her head, Chlodie sped away. Her heart ached.

  I wish I could tell someone of my time here.

  She swallowed hard. Her whole life had changed, yet nobody knew. As she settled herself in the coach, luggage on the back, she wondered if she could tell Father.

  “He’ll be so angry.”

  He had made plans for her marriage – plans he hadn’t discussed with her, but plans nevertheless. Now he’d have to rethink them. He’d be furious.

  Somehow, the thought made her tired, but not afraid. She was quite finished being afraid.

  “All the same, I’ll not tell him yet,” she decided.

  She would feel better later. When she had, at least, somebody else like Marguerite as a house guest nearby.

  As the coach rattled across the bumpy track, she found herself slipping in and out of sleep. She found that her thoughts were caught between thoughts of Domnall and recollections of her time in Duncliffe.

  Thoughts of Domnall carried with them scenes of woodlands. She had a sense of alertness, as if he was striding through the forest, looking for sentries. She felt her own skin prickle, and had a fleeting glimpse of what it would feel like to be scanning the woods for enemy.

  Then, just as quickly, the scene changed. She was in a house, with dark walls and a damp smell. She had a sense of being stifled. She looked round, and saw Tam, the son of Lady Adeline. She realized that the feeling was Adeline’s sorrow.

  The scene changed again, and was of Duncliffe, and a vague terror. Then, just as abruptly, her mind was blank and she was waking, tiredly, from a sleep.

  “My poor head,” she murmured, stretching. She realized it wasn’t simply daydreaming, though, but some sort of Sight.

  Closing her eyes, she tried to find Domnall. She got a sense of trees and green again, but that was all. She felt a small smile.

  At least, if she had the Sight, it seemed that now, since she was no longer ashamed of it, the gift was stronger. She had never before experienced anything quite like this.

  “Whoa,” the coachman called. She looked out of the window, noticing that it was starting to get dark. It was late afternoon already, the day hastening to night. She felt herself tense up. They were neari
ng her home.

  Half an hour later, the coachman was swinging down into the yard, a flock of happy stable hands leading happy horses to homely stables. She felt the soft wind as the door opened and she jumped down onto the path, nodding to the coachman.

  “Thank you, Mr. Denning.”

  “My pleasure, milady.”

  She walked past him wearily and up the stairs, body aching. It was part weariness, part tension, she knew as she reached up and knocked, heavily, on the door.

  “Milady!”

  The housekeeper opened the door, exclaiming, and Chlodie, exhausted, fell in through the door.

  As she felt the woman’s arms tighten round her, she heard her voice give a soft cry of protest. That was the last thing she remembered before she woke up in her own bedchamber, a fire roaring in the grate opposite.

  She rolled over and, exhausted, went to sleep.

  The bed was soft and surprisingly comfortable, the fire warm and the bed-warmer tucked in its linen wrap at the bottom of the bed helping to warm her freezing feet. The room smelled familiar. She was surprised at how quickly she fell into a weary, soundless sleep.

  Her dreams were dark and tense, and when she woke she only half-recalled them. Something about seeking something, and trees. The dawn's light touched her eyelids and she opened her eyes, feeling tired but ready. It was breakfast time in her own home. She was ready to face the upcoming day.

  HEAVY HEART

  The rain fell, finding ways to trickle down all the places where Domnall’s clothing gave it space. Shivering, he drew his cloak closer, trying to keep warm. The rain was like his mood – low and heavy and cold. He missed Chlodie.

  He sniffed and tried to distract himself from his sorrow.

  Beside him, Bethann leaned against a tree trunk. His pale hair was plastered to his skull with the damp, his brow shining with the wet. His customary grin had disappeared. He frowned at Domnall.

  “Fine place we’re in,” he said, insincerely.

  “Aye,” Domnall nodded. “Fellow’s quite barmy.”

  “McLammore?”

  “Aye.”

  McLammore was the leader of the group, or so they had discovered earlier. A fanatical Jacobean, the defeat of the uprising seemed to have turned his wits. At least, that was Domnall’s opinion, which he shared only with Bethann.