The Highlander’s Trust_Blood of Duncliffe Series_A Medieval Scottish Romance Story

by Emilia Ferguson

  Richard swore. “Yes, Stower. I'll be right there.”

  He grimly packed his needle and thread into the “housewife” tin he carried with him, stuffed it into his coat and stood, the spare coat still trailing over his arm, one button loosely stitched.

  Following the ensign, he walked out into the dark afternoon. He went to join his men.

  “Right, lads,” he said, “we're the rearguard. We're to wait until Major Rowell and his lot head off, then Srethley's lot, then us.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  They all stood and started to get into line, some grunting and groaning as men will do when they have sat round a fire for some short warmth and companionship and then have their rest interrupted. Richard, feeling impatience start to grow inside him, stood under the tree and waited for them to line up.

  “So, sir,” one of the men said, “Rowell's lot had a bit of a parade yesterday.”

  “Parade?” Richard frowned, absently listening to the man – Alex Westering, one of the known gossips in the ranks, as they got ready.

  “Yes, sir!” the man chuckled. Another man nearby let out a huffed laugh too. “A right rumpus, so I heard. By! But the major had flames coming out of his ears, he were so vexed.”

  They both laughed. Richard felt a little uneasy, though he couldn't help but be rather heartened by the men's dislike of Rowell.

  “Why was he vexed?” he asked, conversationally enough, though his heart was thumping.

  “Well, it seemed he was giving pursuit in the woods – some vagabonds or summat – never did find out what as they were chasing,” the other man said, beating Alex to the story, who looked quite put out.

  “He was ever so set on his quarry,” he elaborated, filling in before the other man – Matt or something, Richard couldn't quite recall his name – had a chance to complete the news. “That he was cursing the fellows purple so he was, for failing him.”

  “What?” Richard frowned, fear coursing through him. “What was it?”

  “Like we said, we dunno, sir,” the other man said dolefully. “Wish I knew.”

  “Said it must be spies or something,” Alex supplied, ever hopeful of being the first with interesting news. “Why else was the fellow so cross? Anyhow,” he said, looking round as they were joined by a rank of men, “I suppose I'd best shut my trap about him, now he's there.”

  They all looked round to where a red-coated man appeared at the edge of the clearing. Richard noted absently how the men all avoided him. He was known for his cruel tongue and his quick-to-punish temperament. Richard shrugged off the cold feeling that settled in his insides.

  He was pursuing someone yesterday.

  He swallowed hard, composing himself as Rowell rode up.

  “Lieutenant. Your men are finally readied?”

  Richard bridled, hearing the sarcasm in his voice. “Yes, Major.”

  “Well, then. The company will follow mine. I'll go ahead. We can't be too careful in these woods. Keep twelve men back from the rest.”

  “Yes, sir,” Richard nodded. The twelve men would trail his group; to take word back should the head of the column be ambushed. Richard shrugged, considering riding in it himself. He looked for his deputy, Clarkson, and found him.

  “You take this lot – I'm going at the back.”

  “Sir?” Clarkson stared at him, big brown eyes stretched with seeming horror at the plan.

  “Yes, Clarkson. I have a feeling we need someone in the back who can talk to high command without needing to shout through the door.”

  Clarkson laughed. Richard, as the son of a baron, was at least likely to be permitted into the presence of the superior officers. As for the rest of them, Richard knew, if they'd been reporting a full-scale French invasion, the high command would probably have not been interested.

  “Well, sir,” Clarkson said, swallowing hard. “I'll do my best.”

  “You do that, Clarkson,” Richard nodded firmly. “I'll see you later.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They headed off to their respective posts.

  As he stood back, waiting for his men to file ahead, Richard found himself looking around the field, distress gripping his heart. What if Arabella had been pursued? What if she was hurt, lying in these woods somewhere? What if Rowell and his lot had caught her? He swallowed hard. He looked round. Perhaps he could just slip back to where the man was billeted and check?

  “Sir!” Stower came up behind him, almost making him jump. “We're off?”

  “You're riding in the back with me, Stower,” Richard said grimly. “And do you think you can do something for me, something gravely important?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. Anything sir.”

  “Keep your mouth shut when I'm trying to concentrate.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Richard sighed. He hated being short with Stower – the man was the soul of cheerfulness. Right now though, with his nerves frayed to breaking point, the last thing he needed was his cheerful conversation. Smoothing a hand down the velvet of his coat, he swung himself up into the saddle and rode forward.

  The trees were dark and a strange sense of brooding seemed to hang over the woodlands. It had rained that morning and the rain dripped from the needles of the pine trees, making Richard shiver where it dripped on his skin. He sighed and reached up for his collar, wondering where Arabella was.

  He sighed as memories of her flooded back. Her red lips, her brown eyes. The sweet softness of the skin of her throat. His loins ached as he thought of it, imagining the sweetness of planting little kisses down it. He sighed.

  Richard, you might as well imagine flying through the sky. You are about as likely to be let near the daughter of a rebel earl as you are to do that. Now, concentrate, before you get us all killed.

  He sighed again, looking around.

  At his knee, Stower marched along, face taut with the effort, Richard thought grinning, of keeping himself quiet. He almost wanted to reach down and ask him something, just to see the poor man smile.

  I suppose I can be a cantankerous wretch.

  He sighed. He knew he was letting this matter weigh on his mind. How could he fail to think of Lady Arabella?

  She has ensnared me.

  He laughed, knowing he was being foolish. She was a regular woman, not some conjurer, out to lead him to his demise. All the same, he had to admit, that if Duncliffe wanted to destroy the morale of the troops utterly, all he had to do was introduce them to his daughter. They'd be hopelessly in love and stupidly picking fights with each other within two hours.

  Then, he thought with a wry smile, they'd all be riding about in blessed inattention and anyone could pick them off like redcurrants off a hedge, just like me.

  He straightened up and looked around, feeling a flutter of concern. At his side, Stower marched resolutely, Alex not far ahead. He had kept eleven of the men behind – all trustworthy men, all marching in a sort of lozenge shape, with him at the head. He tensed, feeling a prickle of nerves. The woods were eerily silent, the faint sigh of wind in the tallest trees the only noise.

  Anyone could be hiding in there.

  He shivered. Was that what Arabella had thought, riding west all on her own? He shook his head at himself. What had he been thinking, letting her ride back alone?

  “I had to,” he murmured under his breath, not knowing he spoke aloud.

  “Sir?”

  He jumped as Alex stopped beside his horse, looking up at him with a confused expression.

  “What, Westering?” he asked, more harshly than he'd meant to.

  “Just wondered what you'd said, sir,” the man said, frowning. “I thought you said we'll halt here.”

  Richard sighed. “No, Westering, I didn't. If I am ever insane enough to order twelve men to halt in the middle of hostile territory to rest their legs, please take me to the surgeon's tent and tell the man to let the pressure off my brains.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Richard sighed. Alex was a trustworthy man,
stolid and steadfast. He also had virtually no sense of humor at all. He regretted ordering Stower to silence. He glanced at the man, but his face was carefully neutral.

  “Right,” he said. “Another twenty minutes and we'll join the main road. I for one will celebrate being out of these close trees.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They went on ahead in silence.

  Twenty minutes later they did, in fact, join the main road. They were heading north of Edinburgh, the ground sloping upward gently as they moved to elevated territory. They had heard a rumor of troops being mustered up here, near a place called Cambrooke.

  I suspect this is one of the major's plans to quash insurrection before it happens. The man sees threats behind every bush. I sometimes wonder about him.

  He sighed. The Borderers had been fairly well-established in the region, getting information from loyal informers, going quietly about their business, trusted by most of the local folks, until Rowell arrived. With some passionate hatred of the Scots Richard could barely understand, he had led the troops all over the place on some half-formed suspicion or another, leading them to burn storage barns and keep surveillance in towns where there was only the faintest breath of Jacobinism.

  This isn't the way to make peace. It's the way to make enemies.

  Richard shivered at the thought. The mere fact that Duncliffe had massacred so many of the officers was evidence of how hated they'd become. For what? Because Rowell had some tightly held hatred of the resident population?

  “Beats me why we listen to him,” he sighed. They would do better to commit insubordination and save the regiment's reputation than to carry out his orders as they stood.

  “What's that, sir?” Alex Westering asked, looking up at him curiously.

  “I said, if Westering interrupts me when I'm thinking again, I shall box his ears,” he snarled.

  Matt Peters sniggered. Stower went red, trying to contain his mirth. Alex looked offended.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Cheer up, Westering,” Richard added, smiling. “Soon we'll be at the town, and then you can redeem yourself by tacking out my horse. I'm going to see if I can get the best of what's left of the rations for us.”

  “Hurrah!” Matt said.

  Richard laughed. As the very last of the troops to arrive, there wouldn't be much left for them. He was going to make sure the rest didn't take all the decent stuff. He thought Rowell disadvantaged his lot on purpose – maybe he thought the men would finish him off if they felt vexed enough?

  After yesterday, I think Rowell wants to finish me off.

  He shivered as he recalled the intense way the man had looked at Arabella. What had he done, the previous evening? Had he pursued her? Had he succeeded?

  Where was Arabella? Was she safe?

  He sighed and swung down off his horse as they neared the town at last. He wouldn't rest easy, he knew, until he found out.

  DISCOVERIES

  “Och, lass! Where have you been? We were going wild with worry!”

  Arabella glared at Mrs. Merrick, the cook. She was exhausted. She was cold. She had been riding all day in the wet and she was shivering. She was starved. The last thing she needed right then was a barrage of questions.

  “I was pursued,” Arabella said tightly. “Now, if you can draw some hot water? I need a bath or I shall die of a chill.”

  She headed toward the door and saw the woman's eyes widen with surprise as she pushed past, uncharacteristically unfriendly. The last thing she needed was rebuke.

  I am an outcast from my own family. I cannot trust my father. Now I'm also ruined.

  The thought had struck her like a blow as she entered the stone-carved gateway of the manor. She had spent the whole night away from home, unchaperoned, in the company of a lone soldier. The fact was they had slept on either side of a stone wall. However, who would know that? Who would believe it? And the fact was, she thought flushing, I did not necessarily want the wall between us.

  She went red as she went up the wooden staircase, reaching her bedchamber and opening the heavy wooden door. She sat down on the bed, then winced and stood again as the ruined velvet left a wet patch on the covers.

  Stripping it off, she sat down on a wooden, carved chair by the fire and curled up, shivering.

  She was utterly ruined.

  She wished she had someone to talk to.

  “Ari?” a voice called through the door. She went stiff. Douglas.

  “Douglas, I'm not decent. Wait a moment,” she called. She reached for a brocaded night robe, wrapping it around herself. “Very well,” she called, standing by the fireplace, trying not to wince with cold as the door opened a fraction, letting a draft through into the room to shift the flames. “Come in.”

  “Ari!” Douglas said. His handsome face was drawn and pained. “Whatever happened? When we couldn't find you among the living, we sought you among the dead and...” he trailed off. “Thank Heavens you're alive!”

  “I wonder if Father gives thanks,” Arabella snapped, unable to hold back her intense anger. “I would think that, since he seems to delight in conflict and chaos, an extra death would merely add some spice to the event.”

  “Ari!” Douglas stared at her, aghast. “You don't think...” he trailed off. Behind them, her maid came in bearing a bucket of hot water, which she poured into the small wooden bath tub.

  “Don't think what?” Arabella asked wearily. “And do make haste, Douglas. I want to bathe.”

  “Oh,” Douglas looked wildly round at the bath, seeming distressed. He licked dry lips. “You...” he paused. “You think Father did that?”

  “Yes!” she almost laughed. “Douglas, what am I supposed to think? A noted Jacobite invites English officers, Hanoverian supporters, to his hall, and then they are all slaughtered. And you want me to believe it wasn't him? I'm no child, Douglas. You can't fool me anymore.”

  She said it bitterly, reaching for her nightgown as she did, studiously not looking at Douglas as she made ready to take a bath.

  “He didn't.”

  He spoke very quietly. Arabella whipped round, sodden wet hair flagging heavily behind her as she turned.

  “What?” she asked, horrified.

  “I said, he didn't,” Douglas said quietly. “It wasn't him.”

  Arabella stared. That made no sense. She blinked at him like he'd turned blue. “Who, then?” she asked, frowning. Dash this headache! Why was her poor head so sore?

  “It was Lord Arnott” he said. “Not Father. He tried to stop him, but, well...” he shrugged. “What could he do?”

  “Murdoch Arnott did that?” she stared at him. Lord Arnott, Earl of Doncaster. He was an ally of their father, a Jacobite bordering on fanaticism. He had always scared Arabella. Francine had long said their father should distance himself, but he never listened to anyone.

  “Yes,” Douglas nodded. “Seeing as he's Father's ally, when he gave the order, what could he do?” His face was stiff with sorrow.

  “He could have stopped him!” Arabella said, voice intense with feeling. “What was he thinking?”

  It was the worst thing their father could possibly have done for the cause, Arabella thought, disbelieving. Not only would he risk bringing retribution on their heads, but he would draw British ire here before they were ready to face it. It was completely wrong.

  And what can I do? I will never see Richard again.

  She sighed. “Douglas, I want to bathe,” she said tiredly.

  “Sorry,” Douglas said, flushing slightly. “I'll go. I'll be in the solar, if you can talk after?”

  Arabella nodded. “Mayhap,” she said.

  As soon as he had gone, she undressed and sank into the boiling water, the tension draining out of her as she floated there in the warmth. What was she going to do?

  “I should go and find Cook and see if she can give me something to stave off a chill,” she thought sensibly. “Then, I need to find out where we stand.”

  She was too ti
red to leave the bath immediately, though, and stayed where she was, floating in the warm water, letting the heat sink into her bones.

  The larger problem facing her – the one of her own situation and her own disgrace, or lack thereof – she didn't consider. Right now, it wasn't worth considering.

  I can do nothing about it.

  All she could do was to hope that nobody besides her immediate family was aware she'd gone missing. Failing that, she would have to invent a tale.

  Even if I tell them I was abducted against my will, I am still ruined.

  She pulled a face. It was unfair beyond measure, but nonetheless true. A woman would always be ruined, whether by her own choice or not, she was seen to cross beyond the boundaries.

  “Fie to all of this,” she spat. The anger did little to overcome the cold lump of fear that had settled inside her however. She sighed and got out of the bath, reaching for the towel her maid had left for her.

  She selected a white dress of velvet, with a long, narrow bodice and wide skirt, the underskirt pale green, almost yellow. Then she headed up to the solar.

  “Francine?”

  Her sister looked up from her sewing, her face pale and drawn. She wore white as well, only with an underskirt of blue.

  “Sister!”

  Her sister ran to her and embraced her and Arabella felt her heart melt somewhat. At least someone seemed to have been genuinely worried about her! They stared at each other and Arabella felt her heart melt a little.

  “Sister! I'm so glad you're safe,” she murmured into the fragrant hair that brushed her cheek as they embraced. “I thought you were, but so much better to know for sure...” she trailed off, hugging her fiercely to her.

  “I was in the gallery when the fighting broke out.” Francine looked into her eyes, her own blue ones wide with remembered horror. “I tried to get down to you, but Henry and the other guards blocked my way. It was terrible...” she shook her head.

  “How many are dead?”

  “Twenty of our own,” Francine said in a small voice. “All the officers, save two.”