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

by Emilia Ferguson

  “I need to travel early,” she said, back still turned, not wanting to see the incredulous expression on her maid’s face. “If you could fetch my case? I want to take a dress for the journey. I don’t know when I will return. The white dress, please.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  Without protest, Mattie withdrew.

  Chlodie waited for Mattie to return with the small leather traveling case, fretting with impatience. She had already started brushing her hair by the time the woman returned.

  “Milady! You are determined.”

  “Yes, Mattie,” Chlodie said stiffly. “I am.”

  Dressed and ready, half an hour later, clutching her cloak around her, she headed to the kitchen. The day was still pale, the servant’s hallway dark and damp. She knocked on the door of the kitchen, and was greeted by warmth and the scent of baked bread.

  “Milady!” Mrs. McCleary opened the door. She stared round, shocked. “What are you doing here? It’s half an hour past seven...”

  “I know,” Chlodie cut short her protests. “I need provisions for a journey. “It will take a day.”

  The woman raised a brow, but nodded.

  “Very well, milady.”

  Armed with bread and cheese – enough for two days, at least, she reckoned – she headed outside. Mattie had already organized the coach, and it was drawn up and ready.

  “Your father will be…” the coachman began, but Chlodie raised a hand.

  “My father’s opinion is for me to consider,” she said tightly. “Now, to Duncliffe, if you please?”

  Gravely, he nodded.

  The coach set out.

  Only when she was inside, leaning against the cool leather of the seat, did Chlodie feel the urgency start to drain from her. Weary, she watched the sunlit countryside move past. It was early still, and sun light flooded, watery and pale, between clouds, striking mirrors from wet church steeples and shimmering in the rain on leaves.

  Chlodie turned away from the window, too tired to watch it for long. She closed her eyes, head on the cushioning padding of the seat.

  “Whew,” she sighed.

  Her body ached all over with tiredness – she had slept poorly, waking earlier than almost ever. She reached into her bag of provisions, finding warm bread, sliced, and cheese between.

  “Well, it might be urgent, but it’s time for breakfast.”

  Taking a bite of bread and cheese, she leaned back against the seat.

  Later, revived, she assessed the situation.

  My vision showed me someone in the darkness, lost. Adeline was afraid.

  The person, she guessed, must have been Tam. He was somewhere, unsure of where, alone and afraid.

  “Could he have been riding? Been separated from his group?”

  She shrugged. It was possible. At eighteen, boys were inclined to foolish acts of boastful courage. Perhaps he had been challenged to stay outside the night, and lost his way in the woodlands. It could be anything.

  Whatever it was, it was urgent.

  She recalled that pressing sense of being hunted, the threat of death.

  “I need to warn her.”

  With luck, she would be in time to prevent whatever it was from occurring. If it had already happened, she thought, shuddering, her role was less certain.

  I have no hope of finding him. I don’t know where he was.

  The trouble with visions were that they showed only as much as the person themselves knew. She had no idea where Tam might be, or why. All she knew was he was lost, and hunted.

  She looked out of the window, willing the coach to go faster.

  They stopped for lunch and to water the horses at a small inn, surrounded by forest. Chlodie, seeing it, felt as if someone twisted her heart. It was the same place she had stopped on her way home, four days ago. She knew each detail, from the archway over the door to the sentinel trees.

  Then, she recalled, she had just been leaving Duncliffe. As well as all its memories.

  “Domnall?” she whispered, heartache tight in her throat. “Where have you got to?”

  Somehow, he had not been the subject of the visions. Though she would have given almost anything, to have news of him, no visions had visited her.

  She closed her eyes, saddened. She had no power over what was granted to her to see. All she knew, after long experience, was that she must act on it.

  She waited in the coach while the coachman went in to water the horses, ate bread and cheese from her hamper and tried not to think about the past.

  The coachman returned an hour later. They trundled on.

  It was just getting on for evening, when they finally arrived at Duncliffe. The clouds were painted yellow overhead, the walls of Duncliffe dark gray and sinister before it.

  “Duncliffe manor, milady.”

  “Thank you, Heath!”

  She alighted from the coach, knees jarred by the flagstones of the courtyard.

  “Instructions, milady?” Heath inquired.

  “Take the coach to the barn, the horses to the stables. We stay the night.”

  “Very good, milady.”

  Surprised by her own boldness – she hadn’t even mentioned to her father where she traveled – she headed up the stairs.

  “Milady?”

  The Duncliffe butler, when he opened the door, stared at her, horrified.

  “We hadn’t any word of your arrival, milady! Pray excuse that…”

  “I need to see Lady Marguerite,” Chlodie interrupted his monologue, surprising herself. “It’s urgent.”

  He looked worried. “Lady Marguerite has requested no disturbance,” he said, looking slightly nauseous. Caught between displeasing his mistress and offending a guest, he clearly had no idea what to say.

  “She will be glad to have this news,” Chlodie said firmly. “Now, show me in, pray.”

  Clearly unhappy, the man, silent now, accompanied her upstairs. Together, they reached the parlor.

  “Lady Marguerite, I present…”

  “Marguerite!” Chlodie interrupted, running through the door. “I had to see you…”

  She stopped. A person sat with their back to the door, teak-brown hair loose around her shoulders. Her posture was stooped, defeated. She looked up.

  “Lady Adeline!”

  The woman stood. Her face, always pale, looked almost white. Her eyes were red-rimmed. She looked as if she hadn’t slept in several days.

  “Sorry, Chlodie,” Marguerite said softly. “But I did ask not to be disturbed. You see, Lady Adeline is in difficulty…”

  “My son has disappeared.”

  The woman said it with such frosted anguish that it chilled Chlodie through. She stared. Within, she felt as if somebody had knocked her flat.

  “Lady Adeline,” she said softly. “I can help.”

  “Chlodie…” Marguerite said hesitatingly. Chlodie ignored her. Focused her attentions instead on Adeline, who was the one in need.

  Lady Adeline’s dark eyes lit. They focused on her as if she was a lantern on a dark night.

  “You…can?” she whispered. “How?”

  “I had a vision,” Chlodie explained. “I have them, sometimes.” Again, she ignored the small noise from Marguerite, which she assumed was shocked. “I saw your son. He is alive.”

  Adeline collapsed.

  She sank into the settee, tall form giving way like a reed in a storm. She covered her head with her hands, exhausted.

  “Can it be true?” she queried.

  Chlodie, with utter certainty, came and sat down beside her. “It is true,” she said, feeling the certainty grow inside her. “He is lost, but he is safe. We can find him. When did he go?”

  “Two days ago,” Adeline whispered.

  Chlodie bit her lip. That suggested the vision she had seen the previous night was current – something actually happening, neither something about to happen nor something she'd presaged. It was really as she’d seen it, no more and no less.

  “He was in
a forest,” she said, deciding to tell her vision exactly like she’d seen it. “He was lost. I had a sense that he had no idea where he was, or where he was going.”

  “That sounds right,” Adeline sniffed. She was smiling, sadly. “I think he had no idea. He ran off.”

  “Where…did he say where he might be going?” Chlodie queried.

  “He…no, he didn’t,” Adeline sniffed. “He did…he always spoke of joining the army. He was sorry, I think, that he had missed the chance.”

  Chlodie stared. The army! It all made sense. He had been here, when the “recruiters” came.

  She looked at Marguerite.

  “The men,” she asked, feeling a flush of knowing. “The ones who were here. Did they say where they were going?”

  Marguerite frowned. Slowly, she shook her head.

  “I think they were heading south. To the garrison there.”

  “Ruthven.” Somehow – she had no idea how – Chlodie knew the name. She saw Adeline nod.

  “That’s right,” she said, suddenly interested. “I heard Tam say that he thought it was grand. The men were going to rise for the True Monarch, from Ruthven and…somewhere else.” She waved a hand, vaguely, to indicate forgotten words.

  “Ruthven is to the south,” Marguerite began, suddenly more alert. “I think the shortest road goes via Lammure, but that will take five days, at least.”

  “Lammure,” Chlodie nodded. “We must go there.”

  Adeline, tall and slender, was already upright. Marguerite looked from one of them to the other, frowning.

  “It’s six o’ clock in the evening,” she began.

  “I don’t care,” Adeline put in, voice flat with newfound determination. “I have to go. Now.”

  Marguerite looked at Chlodie, appealing to her for sense. When Chlodie said nothing, she shrugged.

  “Very well,” she said. “But at least take a packed dinner? It will do your son no good if you starve on the road before you get there.”

  Adeline said nothing, already heading to the door. Chlodie nodded, acknowledging the sense of that.

  “Thank you, Marguerite.”

  Marguerite’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. “What else can I do?” she asked. “Please, Chlodie…are you sure?”

  “I saw a vision, Marguerite,” Chlodie said tiredly. “I see visions. Ask Merrick, if you don’t think…”

  “I believe you.”

  Chlodie stared. She felt as if someone had struck her. If they had, she could not have felt more surprised.

  “You do?” she asked, amazed.

  Marguerite nodded. “I have a friend – the sister of Douglas. She has visions. And Merrick. She works here? She has…”

  “I know,” Chlodie acknowledged. “She gave me courage to believe them. I am indebted to her kindness.”

  “As are we all,” Marguerite said in a small voice. Chlodie wondered, privately, what part Merrick and her visions had played in the past. However, then she turned to see Adeline coming in at the door again.

  “I’m packed already,” Adeline said swiftly. “Marguerite, I must go. I have to find my son…”

  “Of course, of course,” Marguerite soothed. Adeline was in tears. Chlodie mutely stood beside her, not sure what to do. Adeline turned to her.

  “Will you come with me?” she asked. “You must know whereabouts he…”

  “I know only that he was alive last night,” she said. “And he was in a forest, near a camp.” That last part made his predicament make sense. The sense of being on the edge of something, being in danger, was explained if he was trying to join the group. Perhaps he feared rejection. Perhaps he feared being seen.

  Another thought occurred to her, but she decided to keep it to herself. Perhaps he had decided to hunt the enemy alone.

  In which case, they started their search in completely the wrong place.

  Shivering, she ran her hands down her arms to warm them. Adeline was looking at her, dark eyes filled with hope. “Should we go?”

  Chlodie swallowed hard. “Yes,” she said softly. “We can go now.”

  “Take a packed dinner,” Marguerite called after them. In the hallway, Adeline turned to Chlodie.

  “She’s like a mother,” she said, a fondness in the disparagement. Chlodie nodded.

  “She can be, yes.”

  “Do you know where my son is?” she asked, voice wondering.

  “Yes,” Chlodie whispered. “I think so.”

  They headed out into the darkness, to find him.

  IN THE CONFUSION

  “Run! Run! Into the tree line! Now!”

  Domnall shouted it, his head spinning. It was daytime, and he had woken into his worst nightmare. The sound of shots rang out, and shouting men, and screams. He looked round the camp, where most of the men still lay, dazed, wondering what was happening.

  “We’re being attacked!” he shouted, hoarsely, and then repeated it in Lowland Scots, for those who didn’t speak Gaelic. “Into the tree line! Now!”

  The men scrambled to their feet. Some of them – those who had been riflemen when they were with the Jacobite forces – slept within reach of their artillery. They grabbed and fired. The scent of powder filled the clearing. Domnall ducked, as a rebuff shot whistled overhead.

  “Run!”

  He twisted from left to right as he followed his advice, making a harder target as he raced for the trees. Behind him, a gun fired, and he heard the bullet rattle overhead, missing him by inches.

  He reached the thick stand of trees and threw himself to his belly, lungs burning.

  “Whew.”

  There was barely time to breathe. The shots were more frequent now. Though each gun needed to be reloaded every time it fired, whoever had discovered them was alert, and heavily equipped.

  Another thing McLammore should consider.

  The thought made him scan the field. Where was McLammore, anyway? He looked round more slowly, and spotted him. He was caught out in the clearing, a rifle in hand, the furthest from the trees.

  Good. I hope the fool gets shot.

  He was surprised by the violence within him. He felt no sympathy for McLammore, only a dull, cold distaste. It was his fault these men were here, together, being killed, when they could have been safe at home, recovering.

  Like me.

  Shouldering his own hurt, he reached into his pocket, searching for ammunition.

  Though he carried no gun, he had a few spare bullets, stuffed into his pocket, should any of his former men need to reload. He grasped one and threw it to a nearby rifleman, who had cracked the barrel of his gun back but seemingly had nothing to reload it on.

  “Catch!”

  The fellow’s smile dazzled him. He nodded in acknowledgment, and then pressed his back to the tree as a loud report sounded in the clearing. A bullet whistled overhead.

  “Bethann!”

  He caught sight of a glimmer of pale hair. His sergeant was pressed against a tree, gun in his hand, reloading. He looked round, then, breaking cover, ran to him.

  “Bethann,” he breathed. “Can you see them?”

  “About thirty of the blackguards,” he said. “In the trees, yonder.” He indicated the direction with a jerk of his head.

  “In the trees?”

  “Yes,” Bethann shouted, as another gun cracked, sending a streak of white powder flashing past.

  Domnall coughed, and then spat, clearing his throat. “You reckon we can…”

  “No chance,” Bethann said, guessing what he suggested. “We can’t go around them.”

  “Fine,” Domnall looked round, grimly. He saw two men of theirs lying in the clearing, and caught a flash of a red coat in the trees. He itched to have a rifle. At his side, his dagger lay against his leg. He looked at Bethann.

  “Get closer?”

  Bethann shrugged. “If you like?”

  His sergeant had a rifle, and he was sighting down it, aiming at the place the glimmer of coat had been. He pulled the trigger, deafenin
g them both with the report. The smoke spread out, thinly. Bethann, looking satisfied, blew smoke off the gun.

  Domnall nodded acknowledgment, and then looked round. He was useless across a clearing! He had to try and reach the enemy.

  “What I think I can do against thirty, I have no idea.”

  Bethann shrugged. “Scare them?”

  Domnall laughed aloud. “I can try, yes.”

  Still chuckling, the two of them dropped to their knees, questing forward over the fallen leaves. A sort of careless headiness had possessed Domnall. He crept forward and, in this moment, didn’t care overmuch if he lived or died. He was on the battlefield, and he was here to teach the enemy a lesson.

  And teach someone else one to, I reckon.

  He glanced sideways to where McLammore still stood, back against a tree, surrounded by his loyal men. There were three of them, Domnall noticed, vengefully.

  Serves that blackguard right.

  He felt a grim satisfaction as a shot whisked past, causing McLammore to press back against the tree. Seeing the fellow have a taste of what he’d brought on all of them was pleasing.

  “Let’s go forward.”

  Still creeping, he and Bethann progressed slowly over the ground. Keeping low to the cover of brush and fallen branches, clinging to shadows, they inched across into the clearing. They were getting closer, and Domnall could see, now and again, the flash of red coats amid the trees.

  Mouth dry, he inched forward. They were close enough to see individual men, now, the expressions on their faces set and grim. He saw a solid-looking sergeant, dressed in a wig and tricorne, a rifle at his shoulder. He marked him down as a target. Ahead of the others, out of range of the nearest rifleman, he could down him with his knife and take his gun before anyone could fire upon him.

  “Ready?” he whispered to Bethann.

  “Reckon so, sir,” Bethann shrugged. “Always a good time to go, eh?”

  Domnall swallowed, remembering the number of times he’d said those words. They’d been light words, easy words, said by a young man who was ready to die because he had, as yet, no idea what it meant truly to be alive.

  Now, rocketing to his feet, dagger firm in his fist, he was a different man. He knew what it meant to love, and live, and the pain of losing either was greater than anything he could imagine.