The Highlander’s Dilemma (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  The way he said it, mocking and lightheartedly, made Leona despair. He had killed him. She was almost sure of it now. “Conn!”

  She hissed out a breath as his hand cuffed her.

  “You will not say that again.”

  She was too stunned to do anything more. He had struck her! Men did not strike women. It was something that had been drilled into her since birth. No gentleman would strike a lady. Then again, she already knew that he was no gentleman.

  She could think nothing after that, for they joined a road and the jarring, jolting ride continued at a quicker pace, her bones jarred and aching with every step. Just as she thought she could bear no more, her mind hovering at the end of consciousness, her every joint and muscle screaming, they stopped.

  “Here.”

  The sudden stop jolted her and the Comte dismounted, hands reaching up to grab her.

  “Let me, Master.”

  “Yes, Rogier.”

  She felt herself lifted by strong hands and carried bodily across a stretch of grass, then dropped onto something mercifully cushioned. It was, she realized, looking around dazedly at the confined space, the seat of a coach. She could see the roof overhead, smell leather, feel wood boards behind her feet where the other door held her prisoner.

  “Let me go,” she whispered dully.

  “No,” the Comte said. He smiled at her, sliding into the seat opposite. “Close the door,” he commanded.

  The servant slammed it shut.

  “No!” Leona managed to force her bruised, aching body upright, flying to the door, banging on the inside.

  “It's fastened shut, my lady,” a voice soothed. “There's no escape. You might as well relax.”

  “No!” Leona sobbed. She collapsed back against the leather seat, tears streaming down her face.

  “Oh, come,” the soft voice insisted. “It's not so bad, is it? You will be my wife soon. Though mayhap I will postpone the wedding for a few days, forestalling it...”

  A hand reached out and ran down her hair, stroking her face in a familiar manner. Leona tensed in shock, and then recoiled.

  The handsome face before her changed, eyes narrowing. “Oh, come,” a voice whispered; angry and dangerous. “I am not monstrous.”

  “Inside, you are,” Leona whispered.

  When it came, the blow stunned her. She fell back against the door of the coach, stiff and silent. A tear trickled down her cheek.

  “You will learn to hold your tongue,” the voice hissed softly. “And one day, you will smile for me. You will learn to want me. You'll see.”

  “Never,” she whispered. She saw his face darken again and shrunk back against the seat, rocking herself in complete misery.

  The carriage was racing ahead. The only sound in the close, dark space was the roar of hooves and wheels on stone. Leona settled down on the seat, curled up, head on her hands, knees folded against her chest. Devoid of anything but terror and exhaustion, she slept.

  She woke to darkness. And silence. The blackness was so complete that she had no idea whether or not her eyes had opened. She stared ahead. “Hello?”

  “Lift her up,” the command came.

  “Yes, Master.”

  Leona felt herself lifted in the same strong, indifferent arms that had cast her into the coach, and she lay heavily, not making the job easier. She was rewarded when the man swore with effort.

  Good, she thought distantly. If he dropped her, perhaps she would hit her head and pass out. At least she would be unconscious for whatever was going to happen next.

  “Where to, sir?” a voice asked close to her ear.

  “Into the parlor,” the Comte said softly.

  Leona felt night air on her face. She stiffened, eyes opening wide. She was in a garden, could smell dew and the scent of night-flowering blooms and dust. She strained against the arms that held her, kicking and moving, trying to break the grip that held her fast.

  “Stop that, you!” a voice growled in her ear as the grip tightened.

  Leona knew she had no hope against the man who held her – whoever he was, there was no use fighting with such superior strength. He would not let her go until he was told to do so. She again made herself as heavy as possible and lay very still.

  She felt herself carried up stairs and opened her eyes, straining around, trying to see where she was. Her head was on his shoulder and she could see down a long stone path toward some distant bushes. Nothing else.

  Then, she was crossing a threshold into a brightly-lit hall. She could smell a faint musky scent, the air warm and fragrant. A door slammed.

  “Welcome,” that thin, cold voice said, “to Monte Bois, my country home.”

  Leona felt herself lowered, then lifted again as the man started to walk up stone steps. She looked down as they went, noting a distant stone-flagged entrance way and the long, curving flight of steps. Then she was in a small room where a fire burned, elegant wooden furniture standing about.

  “Leave her here.”

  “Yes, Sir Comte.”

  Leona felt her booted feet hit stone floor. The jolt was so sudden that she fell back and found herself sitting on cool flagstones, back to the fire. The Comte stood in the doorway. Someone left the room; she heard the door.

  “You are here, alone,” the soft voice threatened. “You cannot escape.”

  “You abducted me,” Leona whispered, shrinking back toward the wall, making herself as small as possible. “What, do you think, will my uncle do?”

  “Your uncle will do nothing,” the Comte said easily. He lowered himself into a carved wooden seat by the fire, where he sat, relaxed, and turned to face her. “He values the land in the valley overmuch.”

  “My uncle...would sell me? For your land?”

  “Oh, come,” the count said, looking weary. “Be not so mercenary! No sale was made of anything, land or otherwise. He simply would not dare to deny me my...peccadillo...for want of it.”

  “You are despicable,” Leona whispered. Her skin shivered as if from the cold wind.

  To her surprise, he smiled. “Thank you,” he murmured. “It is not a description that has been applied to me before. It is quite fitting.”

  “You seem unashamed,” Leona said, forgetting her terror through sheer amazement and horror.

  “Indeed,” the velvet, dangerous voice mused. “To be despicable is to be feared. To be feared is to wield the power of that fear. I am not displeased by it.”

  Leona shrunk away from him, moving sideways so that her back pressed against the seat behind her. “You're mad.”

  He smiled, that handsome face lit to lurid red from the leaping, crackling fire. Leona shivered. “Oh, no,” he smiled. “I'm quite sane. If I were mad, you'd have no reason to fear. I'm perfectly in command of my rationality, which makes it all the more dangerous.”

  Leona twisted sideways, inching toward the door. If she could sneak through it, then she would have a chance, however small, of escaping him.

  He saw her and stood, walking to the door. She heard booted feet on the flagstone and saw the swish of a long cloak. She stood.

  “You have assaulted me, sir,” she said, voice trembling. “You have abducted me against my will. What else do you wish to do to me?”

  He smiled. It was even more disconcerting than his glare. “Wed you, milady.”

  She spat. “You think I would agree to that?”

  He smiled. “Come, you are an intelligent woman. You must see the sense of it. Here you are, with me; alone. You would not want everyone to know you spent the night here with me, alone, would you?”

  Leona tensed as if he’d slapped her. She had not thought of that. Her reputation was as good as ruined right now. She had, indeed, spent hours alone with the Comte. If he returned her to her uncle now, she had no chance of a decent marriage. Not with any beside him.

  “You are wicked,” she whispered, shaking her head in utter amazement. How could anyone think of such a devilish, wild scheme?

  “No,”
he smiled “I'm cunning. It's a good trait. How do you think I have amassed such land and wealth?”

  Leona shook her head. She was weary. She was sickened. She was scared. She sat down heavily, curling up on the chair beside the fire. She studied him blankly.

  “You have no choice but to accept, sweetling,” he said softly. “And who knows? It will be no bad thing for you. You will gain a title, lands. A husband. And I wager I'll have you begging me for my favor in our bed.”

  Leona stared at him. “You are insane,” she said with complete certainty.

  He gave her a look of rage. “You will pay for that, milady,” he said, low-voiced. “And perhaps after enough paying, you will come to crave my touch and fear my displeasure.”

  Leona looked away from him, staring into the fire. She watched the flames leaping, sought meaning in the colors: red, ocher. The words of a childhood song played through her head and she heard herself giggle, a little wildly. She knew that her mind was cracking under the strain of fear and threat and she shook herself, not wanting to give way to the slow, steady surge of insanity that was bearing her away.

  She sat up and faced him. Looked into his eyes. Coughed, and spoke. “Maybe you will be right,” she said levelly. “Maybe I will marry you. Maybe it will all be as you say. But I promise you, Lord Comte, there will be a reckoning. What you have done does not come without a price. Nevertheless, I do not need to curse you. You have cursed yourself. You have sown sorrow, hate, and sadness. That is what you will reap.”

  Abruptly, the tension drained out of her. Where she had felt that sense of utter, complete calm and certainty, she was only exhausted. She saw the look of anger cross his face and felt, not fear, but tiredness. “Go ahead,” she said, shrugging wearily. “Hit me. Do as you will. I don't care. You have blighted your own life. Blight mine as you wish. I'll not stop you.”

  The Comte breathed out raggedly. “You spit curses like a village girl,” he said, shaking his head. “It's words only.”

  “Not...words,” Leona whispered. The tiredness was filling her up now, draining her strength, leaving her cold, stiff, and exhausted. She curled up on the seat, laying her head on the backrest. She closed her eyes.

  The Comte sighed. “We will stay here the night,” he explained. “Then tomorrow, we will continue the journey to Cleremont. There, we will stand before the priest. You will become my wife. I will gain a foothold in Annecy; your uncle will gain the southern hillside he so much wants. Everyone will benefit, see?”

  Leona shook her head wearily. Closed her eyes.

  “I will leave you,” the Comte continued. “We will travel early tomorrow and I will rest. Do not try to escape. The door is barred from the outside. The windows are three floors up and any fall from them will break some bones.”

  Leona rolled into a ball on the seat, not listening. She heard, distantly, as he withdrew; heard the door slam.

  I am too tired to even try to escape.

  She curled up tighter, glad of the warmth of the fire. She was shivering. The cold was inside her and no amount of blankets or warmth would banish it hence. She was doomed to wed the Comte.

  Unless I can escape.

  She thought of Conn. He was dead. In her heart she knew that. She was sure that the servant had killed him. Her mind wove a picture of him, still under frosted sky.

  I will never see him again. Why would I wish anything but death?

  Leona drew herself to her feet and staggered to the window. Looked out. The paving beckoned, three stories down. She thought about it. Then she looked up at the stars.

  If I die, I will never see what happens next.

  She walked away from the window. Went back to the seat. Curled up on it, mind suddenly clearer than it had been.

  We are in Monte Bois. Mayhap I could escape. Lose myself in the village. Wait for someone to come through with a cart, heading to Annecy. I have silver still. She smiled, recalling the links hidden in her boot. She could pay for an inn. Hope was not lost.

  All I need to do is wait until morning. When they open the door, I can escape.

  It was a wild plan, but perhaps it would work. It was the only hope she had. If she could reach the front door, she could hide on the estate; reach the village. Escape.

  No one except my uncle and the Comte know where I have been. If I could reach Scotland, I would be without reproach.

  Her mother would believe her story. And someone must explain about Conn. Who was dead. Who had died saving her. Who would never walk with her, smile at her, laugh with her more.

  She squeezed her eyes tight shut, not even wanting to think it. Conn was dead. Someone would have to tell Aunt and Uncle.

  Leona bit her lip, too moved to cry. There was no meaning to that thought; it made no sense. Conn could not be dead. He was her world. Her candle in the dark. He could not die. He couldn't.

  Eyes squeezed shut, she rolled up on the chair, rocking and sobbing until unconsciousness claimed her.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  WAKING UP

  WAKING UP

  The sky pulsed in and out, a dizzying, shattered image. Conn blinked to clear his vision. His head ached. He could barely see. He tried to move, to wriggle his toes, but he was numb. He couldn't feel his body.

  “What..?” he croaked. “Where am I?”

  His legs were cramped and aching, his hands numb. He sat up, wincing as the feeling returned to his limbs. His feet had long ago lost their feeling. He could hear birds calling and smell loam and dew.

  “I'm outside.”

  With the smell and sounds came memory. He was in the woodlands just off the estate. He had fought with the Comte's man, trying to save Leona.

  Leona.

  Sudden panic laced through him. Conn staggered to his feet, spitting and coughing as his stomach roiled in nausea. He stumbled toward the trees, the ground still churned with hoof-tracks in the mud. He followed them a little way, knowing it was futile.

  “They will have been gone for hours now!”

  He swore under his breath. Leona and her captors were long gone. He had to get to Cleremont. He had to save Leona.

  “But how?”

  He shook his head, feeling absolutely helpless. Here he was, in the forest in Annecy in France, about a mile's walk from the village. He had no money, no supplies, nothing. No idea of where Cleremont was. And he spoke no French.

  “It has to be done,” he said, sighing. Leona needed him, and that was all he knew. Everything else would resolve itself. It had to.

  Wincing as his head spun, hissing in pain as his feet touched the path, Conn limped onward. As he walked toward the road, he made his plans.

  I ought to go back to Annecy. Ask Leona's uncle for help.

  As he thought about that possibility, it came to him that it was a bad idea.

  Why would he do anything to help us?

  If Leona's uncle had not supported the Comte, she could not have been abducted from his home. Her uncle favored the Comte He would not intercede on her behalf. Especially not because Conn asked him. The thought was repellant, but he had to believe it. Her uncle knew full well what had happened. There was no help to be found back there in Annecy.

  All I can do is go forward.

  His feet joined the cobbled road, and he headed back the way he had come; walking to the village of Annecy. The morning was still frosty, despite the approach of summer and the sunny heavens above. He crossed his arms, tucking his hands into his armpits for warmth, and headed down the hill.

  After half an hour or walking along the roadside, he found his feet heading down a slope. Below him in the slight valley, he could see thatched roofs and, a little distant, a church spire that climbed up skyward. The woodlands opened into fields as he reached the valley bottom, and he could hear people, carts, and somewhere a dog, barking.

  I'm in Annecy.

  Conn felt his cold face lift in a smile. He couldn't quite believe he had managed to find it again.

  It felt as if he was making p
rogress on his quest for Leona. Here he was, in the village. All he had to do now was find information.

  Knowing he couldn't actually ask questions, knowing that suspicion and mistrust would probably be all he received for his pains, he walked on. Something would happen. He had faith.

  He found an inn. At least, he guessed it to be an inn: An iron sign swung outside the thatched, whitewashed house, the symbol of a haystack and a flower wrought in the iron. The words below it said “La Fleur de Annecy.”

  He shrugged. It was all meaningless to him. He rolled up his sleeve, knocked on the stout wooden door.

  A woman answered it. She smiled at Conn, and Conn blushed, feeling embarrassed.

  “Hello...” he said.

  Her smile changed to a frown and she withdrew a little. “Pardon?”

  Conn raised his shoulders in a shrug, smiled helplessly. “Is this an inn?”

  “Je ne comprende,” she said, slowly drawing the door shut.

  “No! Please!” Conn said urgently. He ran forward, stuck his foot in the door.

  “Bertrand!” the woman shouted urgently. He heard a man's footsteps coming down the stairs, found himself confronted by a tall, heavily built man with a scowl on his suntanned face.

  “Que faites-vous?”

  “Please,” Conn said, smiling a little desperately. “I didn't want to hurt anyone.” An idea came to his head and he raised his hands, stepping back in what he hoped was a gesture of surrender.

  “Je....va...a Cleremont,” he managed to say. I go to Cleremont.

  The man and the woman looked at each other, and then looked at him. The man shrugged.

  “Que faites-vous la?”

  Conn shrugged again. Repeated his statement. “Je va a Cleremont.”

  The man threw a glance at his wife, a wide-eyed look that seemed to convey Conn was lacking in the wits. Then he gave a sigh. “Quel est votre travail?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The man threw up his hands in exasperation. “Travail! Travail...” He bent over, mimed raking hay, beating with a hammer, digging. “Travail.” He repeated it again, looking hopefully at Conn.