Shadowy Highland Romance: Blood of Duncliffe Series (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Ferguson, Emilia

  Camma left, leaving her alone. Genevieve walked to the fireplace, feeling unexpectedly restless.

  I don't know whether I wish to do this or not.

  The party was planned to start at seven, and to start with a banquet. Arabella had invited all the local gentry, which meant they'd be sharing dinner with perhaps ten other people. Afterward, or so Arabella had said, they would have dancing for those who wished it, and perhaps a game of cards. Genevieve felt tired, but she hoped she would revive in time for the dances.

  I don't want to dance with Adair. I don't.

  She shook her head, a small smile twisting her lips. There wasn't much point in trying to convince herself: she knew she was excited about seeing him. No stranger to balls and dances, she nonetheless had never felt quite this odd nervous excitement before. Not even when she was a girl, and parties themselves had been new, never mind the thought of dancing with boys.

  “I wish I had a sister,” she said a little sadly. At this moment, some sisterly counsel would have helped, she imagined. Seeing Arabella and Francine together made her feel the lack all the more. They seemed so close, as if they could tell each other anything and be understood.

  The little gold-faced clock on the mantel chimed, making Genevieve jump. It was seven of the clock. Time to go down.

  “Genevieve, tranquillité,” she told herself, breathing slowly as she left the room. Calm. Stay calm.

  It was only a ball, after all.

  In addition, that man – the one she was so interested in – he might be a spy.

  She had spent some time that afternoon writing in her journal, trying to make sense of what she'd discovered so far in Scotland. She had promised to note down all the things she noticed, keeping a thorough record. Even trivial things, like the weather or the shape of the hillside could be useful to the army, her father said. She had done her best to observe everything.

  A happy laugh from the hallway brought her attention back to the present and she looked down to see Francine embracing her sister. She wore white, a style frothy with Brussels lace. Her sister wore red velvet the color of damask roses.

  As she walked down the stairs, the two sisters looked up. They were standing with their arms linked; seeming so happy that Genevieve felt guilty intruding. She was pleased when Arabella's face split with a smile.

  “Genevieve! Join us. How stylish you look! We can all learn so much from your fashions.”

  Genevieve looked down modestly. “Thank you,” she murmured. “You look lovely too.”

  She meant it. The two sisters both looked radiant and beautiful. Their dresses were of a classic style that transcended the fact that they were slightly outmoded, and the cut and style suited their curvaceous figures. She was surprised when Arabella fondly linked her arm through hers and the three went together into the dining hall. It was like she was a third sister, and the gesture touched her heart.

  The gentlemen were already there – at least, she could see Richard and Henry, standing at the table, as well as several people – gentlemen and ladies both – she didn't yet know. She felt a little tug of dismay in her heart as she scanned the room. Was Adair coming?

  There!

  She would have almost missed him where he stood, a little back from the others, over by a long window. He looked tense. He was dressed in black, a suit of fine velvet with knee-breeches that showed calves powerful from riding.

  Genevieve! That's shocking.

  She concealed a grin. She wasn't used to feeling like this – the raw physical attraction she felt toward this man was like nothing she'd ever experienced. Her heart fluttered as his eyes met hers and he bowed low. It was ridiculous, this twinned suspicion and excitement he aroused within her. Nevertheless, she couldn't help it.

  “Lady Genevieve.”

  She walked over to take the place opposite him as if she had been acting in a play, and done this a thousand times. He looked surprised when she sat down across the table, but didn't object. Arabella sat beside her, and Francine beside Adair.

  “So,” Richard said, coming over to the table. “Welcome! Henry, Francine. A pleasure to have you here.” He raised a glass. “Henry and Francine.”

  “Henry and Francine,” the company echoed. Genevieve pressed the cup to her lips, and looked about, bewildered, as everyone else passed the wine glass over the glass of water first, before raising it to their lips. She shot a look at Adair, who looked back fondly.

  “It's a toast to the King Across the Water,” he explained. “We always pass our wine glass over the water first, as a gesture to him.”

  “That's charming,” Genevieve said sincerely. She had no idea, before now, of the strength of these people's devotion to the Stuart heir. That was another thing to report in her letters to her father. She copied the gesture boldly, and lifted the glass to her lips. Across the table, Adair smiled. She felt her stomach tighten in pleasure.

  “You support our cause, milady?”

  “I don't not support it,” Genevieve said carefully, feeling wary. If this fellow was who she thought he was, it would be best not to give anything away. Any strong views would be something to make him vigilant. Just being from France marked her as a potential conspirator. She would have to be careful.

  “Our cousin Genevieve is moderate in her views, like us, I think,” Francine commented gently. Genevieve gave a sigh of relief and inwardly thanked her cousin for providing her with such excellent cover.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “That's right.”

  “Oh.”

  Adair seemed disinterested, lifting his spoon to take a sip of the pea soup before them. However, Genevieve eyed him carefully, noticing his eyes looked tense and alert. She still had no idea if the fellow was a spy or not: it was so hard to read his ways.

  “We'll move to the ballroom after dinner,” Arabella said beside her, interrupting her thoughts. “I managed to find Mr. McNowell and his quartet to play for us. We'll have some fine dances, I think.”

  “He's still going, eh?” Henry asked, grinning, from across the table. “That's good.”

  “Oh, yes! Very lively he is, too,” Arabella commented wryly. “He'll have us all doing Rondeaus until our feet ache.”

  “Rondeau?” Genevieve raised a brow. A French dance in origin, she hadn't imagined it was popular here. It was a little outdated at the French court, but still popular in her quieter county home.

  “We kept up with the courts,” Richard commented, and everyone quieted, with the realization that there was no longer a court in Scotland, and hadn't been one with a resident king since James VII.

  “Well, I am glad to know I shan't be left out of the dances,” Genevieve commented brightly into the silence, feeling embarrassed for Richard, who looked uncomfortable.

  “That is good,” Arabella commented.

  The conversation quieted down a little after that, and Arabella sipped at her soup, trying to think of something to say. She was aware of the brooding presence opposite her at the table, and she wanted to speak with him. However, topics of conversation that might engage him were hard to think of.

  She noticed Francine watching her. The pale blue eyes held a mix of compassion and firmness, as if she knew Genevieve was there under some sort of ulterior motive, and didn't mind. Genevieve shifted uncomfortably.

  She couldn't know that, she told herself. I've hardly been obvious about it!

  All the same, she found her new cousin slightly disconcerting. She resolved to reserve her judgment on her until she knew her better.

  A stir in the room made her look up, and she noticed liveried serving-men coming in, bearing trays of steaming food. The next course was clearly here.

  “We have generous hosts,” Adair commented. Genevieve nodded.

  “Yes, we do.” She set aside her soup dish, which was empty anyway, and let a footman take it away, replacing it quickly with a salver of grilled trout.

  “You like fish?” he asked. Genevieve stared.

  That's the first time he's ask
ed me a direct question.

  “Yes,” she murmured. “I do. We had good carp in Malpons.”

  “Carp are nice.”

  “They can be,” Genevieve agreed. “Especially grilled with a sauce of butter.” Just thinking about the carp the way Monsieur Dupuis, their cook, had made it – succulent and flavored with herbs – made her mouth water.

  “That sounds good,” he said. He grinned warmly, and she couldn't help smiling back. A grin transformed his face, turning his usual somber looks into something of intense beauty. She felt that strange tug in her heart that she always did when she was near him.

  He looked away, and she looked down too, aware, suddenly, of how close his leg was to hers below the table. It was the closest contact they'd had since she arrived, and it felt as if her whole body was aware of his in ways she'd never been of anyone's before.

  Nonsense. You know this man might not be what he seems.

  “Cousin, you like to sew?” Arabella asked from beside her. “Francine was just suggesting we travel into Kinsbrook to buy thread tomorrow. There's a good shop there, with fine stuff imported from the Indies, so they say.”

  “I love to sew,” Genevieve agreed.

  She found herself embroiled in an intricate discussion about tapestry and the best needles for each task. When she looked up, she felt Adair's eyes on her. She looked down, flustered.

  When he stares at me like that, with that wistful smile, it makes me think and feel things I really shouldn't.

  She felt a little annoyed with him. If he hadn't been here, her task would have been simple. Meet her cousins, learn from them about the Jacobite cause in Scotland, assess the lay of the land and the armed strength of their forces, and go home. With him here, things were more complicated.

  She finished her fish and pushed away her plate.

  The dinner ended with another sort of pudding – this one comprising nuts and apples instead of raisins – and then Arabella clapped her hands, getting the guest's attention.

  “We'll go to the ballroom now. There is a card table set up there, for anyone who cares to play piquet.”

  Again, Genevieve was surprised. She hadn't known that piquet would be as common here in Scotland as it was in France – though it also hadn't occurred to her that it wouldn't be. It was reassuring.

  “I'd like to play,” she said. “But first, I want to dance.”

  She pushed her chair back, grinning, and made to stand. Opposite her, she saw a stricken expression pass over Adair's face. She wondered what it was. Did he want her to stay? Was he a keen card player, and wished not to join the dancing? Was he...

  Of course. He's scared of company. I know that already.

  Genevieve crossed the room to stand beside him. “I feel a little shaky,” she said. “I think it's all that pudding. Can you help me..?” She put her hand on the crook of his elbow, asking for support.

  She felt him tense under her hand, nervously.

  “Of course,” he stammered.

  She looked up at his face and saw a flushing in his cheek. She was surprised at the little thrill of pleasure that shot through her as her hand made contact with his arm. She didn't really understand what had prompted her to help him like this, but she was glad she had. His expression was one of profound relief.

  Her attention was drawn back to her own feelings. The velvet of his coat was soft and warm, the muscle round his elbow hard beneath. His arms were strong, she noticed – this man spent many hours riding or fencing, clearly. She felt a delicious tingle and her cheeks flushed, embarrassed at her thoughts. Fancy thinking something like that!

  He leaned closer as they went through the door, and Genevieve felt her heart pulse as his body brushed against hers. It occurred to her to wonder if he'd done it deliberately.

  No. He wouldn't do that. He doesn't feel...that way about me. Why would he?

  Together they went to the door.

  “It's nice to be a bit less warm,” she said, as they emerged into the hallway. The place itself was dark, though light fell through the doors of the ballroom, thrown open to admit the oncoming guests.

  “It is.”

  Adair gently squeezed her hand and they stepped aside to let one of the strangers pass. Genevieve found herself alone with him in the dark hallway.

  Her heart thudded as she realized that. She looked up into that mysterious, fine-boned face. Who are you? she thought. What are you really doing here in the heart of this home?

  She was surprised that she did not feel afraid. Not really. Her heart fluttered and her tummy tingled, but it was not from danger. It was something else. She looked up at him, the dark giving her an opportunity to observe him without his awareness. He sensed her scrutiny, it seemed, though the light was poor and he looked away. The darkness painted the gaunt planes of his face in blue and silver, his eyes shining.

  “We should go in,” she murmured.

  “Yes.”

  His voice was a thread of sound. Genevieve looked across the hallway to where the doors yawned open, throwing their yellow light on everything.

  He's afraid, she realized again. Why does he hate company so?

  She frowned and stood beside him, not sure what to say.

  “We don't have to go in,” she said. “We can go back to the dining room, or even out to the courtyard, if you want.”

  He said nothing. She studied his face. He seemed to be considering something carefully. Her heart made its first twinge of disturbance. She didn't know anything about this man, and what little she did know suggested he was someone she ought to fear. Why was she letting herself be caught alone in a darkened hallway with him? For all she knew, he might be the very sort of dangerous person her father had sent her here to uncover.

  “I think mayhap...” she began, starting to walk away toward the door. Mayhap I should go. Mayhap I shouldn't be here.

  “We can go in,” he said.

  She blinked, surprised. Of all the reactions she might have expected, that wasn't one of them.

  “Very well,” she shrugged, trying to look as if she hadn't been afraid to start off with. “Let's go then.”

  He walked to the door with her and they went into the room.

  The ballroom was not large – that was the first thing Genevieve noticed. For all that, it was still grand, with high vaulted ceilings that suggested it had been built a century earlier, and a floor tiled in a checkerboard pattern.

  “Should we join Arabella..?” Genevieve asked, but she looked round to find Adair had left her, heading to the refreshments table and the alcove beside it.

  Fine, she thought, feeling a little hurt. I wanted to see you, but if you do not wish to talk to me, then go somewhere else. See if it bothers me!

  She knew she was being foolish, but she couldn't help it. She crossed the black and white floor pointedly and headed to her cousins.

  Arabella smiled at her and stepped back a little to include her in the group.

  “Henry! You must make sure Marguerite comes to see us...We want to meet Alexandra! And I do long to see Douglas again...”

  As Arabella chatted to her guests, Genevieve looked around the room. The musicians were setting up on the far corner, a quartet. People stood around in small groups or pairs, talking or laughing together. There were only twenty of them, but the ballroom was small and it didn't seem too few for a party.

  “You feel as if you can't trust him.”

  Genevieve whirled round in surprise as the small, calm voice spoke into her ear. She found herself looking into the eyes of Francine.

  “Yes...I mean, no.” She stared at her cousin in astonishment. “I mean...why do you say that?”

  “It's something about how you sit, or stand, when you're beside him. You're tense, waiting to get away. But not sure if you should.”

  “Yes,” Genevieve said, feeling relieved at being able to finally talk to someone about the disconcerting Adair. She still had no idea how her cousin had guessed her thoughts, but she was glad she had. “Th
at's right,” she agreed.

  “You don't trust easily,” Francine said directly.

  “No,” Genevieve admitted.

  She found herself stepping back, so that she and her cousin were standing out of earshot of the rest, secluded in an alcove near the back wall.

  “Your trust would be a strength,” Francine continued, not looking at Genevieve, but instead out over the ballroom, surveying the rest of the couples, some clearing a space so they could dance together.

  “I think trust is a weakness,” Genevieve said, feeling bitter. She did not trust easily, her cousin was right. She just didn't know why. Genevieve had seen trust be a weakness: Her father had loved and trusted her mother absolutely and she had died, taking his heart – and his trust in a future – with her.

  “You think that, yes,” her cousin persisted. “And that is why you won't see it until it's too late.”

  Genevieve stared at her, spine prickling. “See what?”

  Francine turned to face her, those blue eyes cloudy as if she looked at some far-flung horizon. “You won't see the shadow moving behind you. And you won't see the light ahead.”

  Genevieve felt all of her hair stand on end. She shivered, though it was not cold. “Shadow? Light...what is this about?”

  Francine turned to her dreamily, and then the strange distant look went away again, replaced by a small frown.

  “I said something that disturbed you?” she asked, in her ordinary voice again.

  Genevieve stared at her. She felt another shiver and knew, suddenly, that the story about her Scottish ancestress and her uncanny ways was true. She had just seen something out of the ordinary happen. Francine had a perceptive gift that was beyond usual.

  “You said something about light, cousin? And shadow. It sounded like you were warning me.”

  Francine nodded. “Don't turn away from the light,” she said. She took Genevieve's hand in her own. “You will feel it in your heart. Trust that. If you trust nothing else.”

  With that, she turned and walked away, heading to the refreshments table, where Henry was.

  Genevieve looked across the room, watching the musicians dully. She felt as if someone had just stepped into her world and turned it upside-down. She had never thought such gifts existed – not really. Now, to have a warning – a prophecy of sorts – given to her, in the middle of a ballroom? It defied every idea she had about the world, and about what was true.