No engagements with enemy forces. That meant no one had tried to besiege Duncliffe. If there was intent to make retribution against her father's wrongs, it hadn't happened yet. Her family was safe.
“Thank you,” she said raggedly, meaning the words more to more generally express thanks than just to Richard, for bringing the news. “I am glad.”
“As am I.”
They ate in silence for a while longer.
“Any...other news?” she asked softly.
He nodded. His eyes met hers. This time, he couldn't quite conceal the relief he felt.
“Yes. Major Rowell's gone to Edinburgh. He'll be gone three days.”
“Whew.” Arabella felt the last of the tension leave her. She smiled at Richard, feeling finally at peace. She hadn't known how much she feared that man. Knowing that she wouldn't have to see him again – not for the next few days, at least – meant the world to her.
Opposite her, she sensed similar relief in Richard. He nodded. His eyes were bright.
“Well,” he said, dabbing at his lips with a napkin, “do you want to see the surprise?”
“Surprise?” she asked, feeling her heart tingle with excitement.
He grinned. “Well, I hope so. At least, I hope it's surprising in a good sense – as I hope the same of Bromley's cooking.”
“Sir?” Bromley appeared in the doorway just then, a startled expression on his face, a tray in his hands.
“I said, I trust your cooking will be a surprise – not the same way an ambush is a surprise, but something better.”
“I hope so, sir,” Bromley nodded. “This fish, it's a surprise, sir. Surprised me the jolly thing was edible when the marketer sold it to me. But, all prepared, it looks quite good to me. Tell me what you think!”
“I will reserve my judgment until the morrow, Bromley,” Richard nodded. “If I live to see another day, I may live to agree with you.”
Arabella had to laugh. The talk that went between Richard and his man was too funny to resist. They were clearly good friends, despite the difference in their rank. As she watched as Bromley laid fresh plates and took the dishes from the soup away with him, she found it odd to think she'd lived differently than this.
“So?” Richard asked, lifting up the fork by his plate, examining the dish warily. “What do you say?”
Arabella lifted her own cutlery and, not wanting to seem not brave, took a hesitant mouthful. Fresh, crumbly and delicious, the fish was baked to perfection. She smiled, letting the warm juices flow down her throat, flavored with fennel and butter.
“This is delicious,” she agreed.
“Well,” Richard said. “That is a surprise.”
They went upstairs after supper. The surprise turned out to be a wrapped parcel, lying on the bed. Arabella frowned at Richard, curious.
“Go ahead,” he said, a strange secretive smile twisting his lip. “Open it.”
“Richard...” she said, bending down toward it. Wrapped in linen, whatever it was seemed like something one could only acquire from a very expensive shop. She reached for it and began to untie the twine that held the linen closed. She stared at it.
“Oh...Richard!” she was speechless.
There on the bed lay two dresses. Day dresses, one was a rich emerald, made of finely woven linen, fine and good quality. The other was a blue dress, woven of soft wool. They were both so beautiful they took her breath away. The sort of thing a modest merchant's wife might wear, but with an added fineness that spoke of being the best that money could buy.
“I wanted to find something beautiful for you,” he said softly. “You are so beautiful, my dearest.”
Arabella felt her heart melt. Wordlessly, she reached for him. “Richard,” she whispered. “You shouldn't have! You spoil me so...” she trailed off as he kissed her gently.
“I don't,” he murmured. “You spoil me, too. I'm spoiled just by having you here. I am.”
He kissed her and she felt her body dissolve with longing under his touch.
They slept together in a bed for the first time that night.
MORNING NEWS
The small room where he sometimes took his breakfast was utterly different when she was in it, Richard noticed. Normally, the place was drab, featureless. With her opposite him, Richard noticed the quiet beauty of the sun shining through the windows, the soft glow of the wood of the sideboard, the blue paint high up on the walls where they were decorated.
“More milk?” he asked, passing the jug across to her.
“Thank you, yes,” she nodded.
He watched as she lifted the ceramic jug and poured a little milk into her porridge. He added more butter and salt to his own, and grinned with amusement.
“I've grown to like the Scots way of eating it,” he said. She laughed.
“It seems as though we've a liking for each other's custom.”
He nodded, slowly. “It seems so.”
As he ate the porridge with relish, he wondered what it would mean for them, this difference of ways. She was a Scotswoman, he English. It was going to be wonderful, he assured himself firmly. How could it not be? Every day, they would discover something new and interesting about each other.
“Blue becomes you well,” he whispered. She was wearing one of the two dresses he'd bought her, the blue wool one with the high neck, its collar embellished with lace. He had, he realized, never seen her in blue before. It made her hair seem even more vibrantly colored, were that possible.
She smiled. “You think so?”
“I do,” he said.
“I never used to like blue,” she said with a soft smile. “I remember how Francine and I used always to swap – I took green, she took blue. That way, we always got the colors we liked.”
“You did?” he chuckled. He noticed the wistfulness on her face and couldn't help but feel a sudden ache of conscience. He had taken her away from her family! At least they knew there had been no attack at Duncliffe, but she must long for news of them.
“Yes,” she murmured. “I remember Francine saying once that we should divide things down the middle – she blue, yellow and brown, me red, green and gold.”
“Did you do that?”
“Yes,” Arabella nodded. “It seemed more or less foolproof, except if there happened to be two blue gowns, of course.” She laughed.
Richard felt his heart ache, seeing her think of her sister so wistfully. He wondered if there was some way he could get word from the fortress. If he could ride there, perhaps, and get a message for her.
“I often think of her,” Arabella said, settling his decision.
“Have you seen Bromley this morning?” he inquired thoughtfully.
“He was here, but then I heard him leave,” she noted absently.
“Oh. Must be at the storehouse,” Richard nodded. “I'll find him later.”
They sank into a comfortable silence. As it stretched, he noticed that Arabella looked a little worried and he wondered why. Probably thinking about her family, he reckoned, cross with himself.
“I should go.”
As he pushed back his chair he noticed a little frown cross her face and he wondered what it meant.
“Well, then,” she said, smoothing away the frown. “As you must. I will see you at luncheon?”
He shook his head. “At luncheon I'll have to report to head office.” The thought was not appealing – it may only have been a week since he last sat down for a meal with the other officers, but it seemed a lifetime ago. Everything in his world had changed since then. He was a new man. And none of them will know why.
He stood, noting again the little frown of concern on her brow. He wondered again why she looked disturbed. Probably just so many things to get used to, he reasoned with himself. Again, he felt sorrow at having altered her life so drastically. He hadn't been fair.
“Well, I will see you later,” he said. “If Bromley comes back, tell him the cash is under the tea pot on the mantel.”
“I w
ill,” Arabella nodded, frowning.
“Stay well,” he said, kissing her cheek as he passed her on the way to the hallway. “See you tonight.”
She nodded, and he thought a faint color came to her face at the mention of the night. His own loins ached at the thought.
Smiling at her from the doorway, he turned and collected his hat at the hook on the wall of the hallway, and hurried out.
“It never seems to be warm in the mornings,” he mused, drawing his coat around him as he walked quickly to the house where his men were billeted. Once there, he set about looking for a particular one among them.
“Stower,” he called at the doorway. “Is Heathfield in?”
“He is, sir,” Stower's cheery voice said sonorously from the depths. “Out at the yard.”
“Thanks. I'll go there.”
In the yard, he spotted Heathfield. A tall, good-looking fellow, Heathfield was a half-Scottish soldier with a quick mind. He also, Richard noticed afresh, looking up at him, looked exactly like the local populace and would be able to pass into any town in Scotland undetected as an English sympathizer.
“I have a job for you,” he said.
“Yes, sir?”
“You think you could take a message into Duncliffe Fortress?”
From three inches of extra height, Heathfield frowned down at him, considering. Then he nodded.
“Reckon I could, sir.”
He didn't ask any questions, which was a relief. Richard was not about to explain that the mission on which he was sending Heathfield had nothing to do with the conflict whatsoever.
I just want my wife's sister to know she's safe, and for her to have word of her own family.
“Perfect,” he nodded. “Well, then. I will write the message later and bring it to you before luncheon. If you can go then, you should be back this evening.”
“Yes, sir,” the man nodded.
Richard tried not to find his cool competence annoying. It was difficult. Added to it was the fact that the fellow was what Richard was fairly sure all women would like. With black hair and gray-brown eyes, a lean face and high cheekbones, thin-lipped mouth and a muscular neck, he seemed like he just had to look at a woman to make her heart race.
And he's Scottish.
Oddly enough, that made Richard even more uncomfortable. That he spoke Scots like a native and had lived here a lifetime meant he was one of Arabella's own people. He was fairly sure that the sort of man she deserved was someone like Heathfield.
“Blast myself,” he whispered under his breath as he left briskly, “but I'm jealous.”
It was ridiculous, he knew. The last thing he should be feeling was jealousy, for one of his own men. Yet he did.
Shaking his head, he hurried off to the head office, to make an appointment to see the colonel and to write his note.
“Steeple,” he greeted the Colonel's secretary, a thin-faced, unpleasant officer. “I need to speak to Colonel Bricknall. Is he in?”
“He's about,” Steeple said, non-committal. “He's busy, though. Had some news from a certain Major.”
“Major?” Richard frowned.
“Yes. Your major, to be accurate. Major Rowell.”
“He's back?” Richard asked with surprise.
“Got back this morning,” Steeple said. “Seems he has a problem on his hands. Not sure what the view will be of your going missing in action, Lieutenant.”
Richard leveled him a cold gaze. “Are you suggesting I deliberately absented myself from duty, sir?”
The man had the grace to look away. “No, Lieutenant,” he said in a lighter tone. “I merely meant to pass on the information that the Major's back, with news of recent developments. The Colonel will likely be busy with him until midday, sir.”
“I'll speak to him after luncheon, if he's going to be in after luncheon, Steeple?”
“Yes, sir.”
Richard nodded, feeling his worry suddenly redouble. He had thought he'd brought Arabella to a safe place. What of Rowell? The look he'd given her had seemed far from safe! What would he do, if he knew she was here and under his nose?
“I've written you in for half an hour past one,” Steeple called after him. “If that's convenient?”
“It's perfect, Steeple,” Richard called back, grabbing his hat from the peg by the door where he'd just left it.
Looking down the street toward the Major's lodging, he hurried back toward his men's billet. Armed with a piece of parchment and a quill that he found in the billet, he scrawled a note for Heathfield to take away.
I am in the position to report that your sister is in good health. She thinks of you often and inquires after your well-being often, also. If you could give me some manner of message, which she will recognize as authentic from you, and some words as to your whereabouts and health, I would be immeasurably grateful.
Your faithful servant, R.
He folded the note, considered sealing it and wisely left it blank, simply pressing the seal shut with his finger, rather than marking it with the flat, barred pattern that was on his familial seal. Heathfield he trusted, but if aught happened to the man and the letter was acquired by some enemy, he did not wish any traces to lead back to him or Arabella.
“Here,” he said, heading out into the yard. “If you could depart as soon as possible, it would be best.”
“That was fast, sir,” Heathfield mused.
“Change of plans, Heathfield,” Richard said stiffly as he left the yard. And we could do without your intransigence, he thought to himself. Not that the man was intransigent, not exactly. He just managed to keep everything polite, while being rude at the same time.
“Stop it, Richard,” he told himself. “You're just taking offense at everything the man does.”
He knew it was his own sense of being not quite enough for his wife – he might be many things, but he would never be able to be Scottish, never share that part of her. He sighed.
You're just being silly, he told himself crossly.
All the same, the feeling mixed with his cold shock at the fact that Rowell was here somewhere in the town, made him restless.
Checking his watch – it was ten of the clock – he strode off toward the mess.
“Osborne!” one of the officers – a difficult sort called Arthur Chisholme, called out. “You were missing for ages!”
“Ages is an exaggeration, Arthur,” he called. “I've been gone just under four days.”
Was that all it was? It seemed a lifetime.
“Well, that is a long time,” Hugh Mallory said over his shoulder. He regarded Richard inquiringly.
“I suppose it is,” Richard said, trying not to feel impatient. “Any news, since I need to find out a whole three days of information?”
“Quite a lot,” Arthur said mildly. If either of them noticed the irony in his words they ignored it wildly. “Rowell's back, as you heard.”
“Yes,” Richard nodded, testily. Why was it, he thought crossly, that everyone insisted on telling him that? The last thing he needed to hear was about Rowell and his being back! Yet the fellow seemed to be the latest word everyone was trying to pass on to him. He frowned.
“What is it?” Mallory asked. “You look worried.”
“No, not really,” Richard said, trying for the same nonchalance they projected so easily. “Rowell...he has news?”
“Yes,” Arthur nodded. “Said he caught a bunch of insurrectionists in the woods. Fort's full of Jacobites, as we know. The lot did for Davis, and Green, and Huddersley, and...”
“Yes, I know,” Richard said sharply. “I am as aware of those deaths as you, and mourn them daily.”
“Easy, old boy,” Hugh said. “Nobody was court-marshaling.”
Richard sighed. He knew he was over reacting. However hearing the list of the dead who had been killed in the hall of his wife's family was not what he had in mind for a diverting morning. He wanted to forget the whole incident, to forget the fact that she and he had ever been on
opposite sides of this conflict.
He glanced at the uniforms of Arthur and Hugh. Looked down at himself and sighed.
As if I could ever forget. How can I?
It was his very profession and livelihood to oppose people like her father. He could no more step away from it than he could from himself.
“Richard?” Arthur asked.
“What?”
“Hugh was just asking if you'd spoken to the major,” Arthur said. Both men looked upset, as if Richard had suddenly accused them of insubordination for sitting at the table overly long.
Richard sighed. “No, I haven't,” he said. “I will go and find him after luncheon.”
“I say, old fellow, you do seem a bit wrought today,” Arthur commented blandly.
“Yes,” Hugh nodded. “Had a bad night?”
“I had plenty of sleep,” Richard said firmly. “Just have a lot to think about.”
Arthur and Hugh looked skeptical.
“See you at luncheon?” he asked.
“Yes,” Richard sighed, pausing at the door and jamming his hat firmly on his head. “I'll see you at luncheon.”
He headed out into the cool morning.
As he crossed the courtyard, heading to the storehouse in the hopes of finding Bromley to ask him to get more fish, he froze.
It was something about the way the man walked that made him recognize him even in silhouette in the distance. Rowell.
He leaned against the wall, waiting for the man to pass. As he did so, he strained his ears. He was talking to his own immediate junior, an unpleasant fellow by the name of Jefferson.
“So,” he said. “How goes our lot?”
“Still quiet, sir,” Jefferson said.
He heard Rowell laugh softly. “Bloody difficult lot. Well, you'll break them down, won't you? Trust me to catch a hunting party. Most difficult lot.”
“We'll get them talking,” his man agreed.
The Highlander’s Trust_Blood of Duncliffe Series_A Medieval Scottish Romance Story Page 15