By, but she's a bonny one.
He shook his head, biting his lip. She must think him a fearsome brute. He could barely talk to her!
“It is fine, though we have done some little to modernize it since the days of my ancestors...”
As Douglas led Claudine around a corner, Brogan followed. Douglas was showing Claudine the new east wing, and she crossed the courtyard, walking dreamily over the cobbles. She saw him and stopped. She drew a sharp breath.
“Laird McRae! I...sorry. I didn't know you were here. Good morning.”
She curtseyed low. She wore a white dress, patterned with little flowers in blue. The skirts moved like water as she bobbed and stood.
“Um, no,” Brogan said. “I mean...No, I didn't know you were here. I...Excuse me, milady,” he said, gritting his teeth. “I wasn't expecting company this morning.”
He waited for her to laugh, or look at him as though he were a madman. Why was it he could never speak sense, around her? To his surprise, she grinned.
“I know,” she said. “I, too, am a little lost for words. I think it's the cold out here – it begs for silence.”
“Aye,” he nodded, grinning. “It does, that. You have as cold a winter in the south?”
Claudine shook her head. “Never this biting, no. You are exposed to the worst of the elements here. Though, I think, the trees shelter this home.”
“Aye, they do, that. Tor McRae, now...We're right on the top of a big cliff. The wind howls there in the winters...it could drive a body mad.”
Again, she laughed. There seemed real warmth between them. He flushed, enjoying her company.
“I can imagine! Though you must have some way of reducing its effects,” she added, smiling.
“I wouldn't bank on that, lass. I'm not what I'd call sane.”
Claudine really did laugh this time, her wonderful eyes crinkling at the edges as she tipped her head back, laughing.
“Oh, Laird McRae! You're very far from mad.”
Brogan grinned, feeling it stretch his cheeks. “Meself, I've never been too sure. It comes from living all locked up by yerself, I reckon. You lose track of what's sane and what isn't sane.”
She stopped laughing, reaching into the pocket of her gown for a handkerchief. The pockets were concealed in the skirt, hidden cunningly in an upper seam. She dabbed her eyes. “Oh, milord! You jest. But it must be hard, living there alone.”
He nodded. “It is.” He felt a stab of sorrow then. He had never imagined to be nine-and-twenty and shut up in the Tor alone, isolated. A vision flashed through his mind of the hall, a fire roaring in the grate, sending soft light over the forms of bairns, playing on the hearth-side. Oddly enough, they all had red-brown hair.
He felt self-conscious then, and looked away across the courtyard. Someone was walking his horse, helping him to stretch his legs.
“Yer cousin keeps a good stable,” he said, nodding in the direction of the stable hand.
“He does, yes,” Claudine nodded. “You are going out for a ride, later? It's cold!”
“I thought to, mayhap,” he said. “I was wondering if...” The words to ask her to join him froze on his tongue as Dunstan South appeared. He had seen them talking and came across to them directly.
“There you are, milady,” he said. He barely glanced at Brogan. “Good day,” he said, inclining his head stiffly. “We were waiting for you! We're going to the pond.”
“Cousin Douglas told me so, yes,” Claudine said tensely.
Brogan frowned at her. She seemed withdrawn and nervous with him. That was a surprise, since South seemed to assume a close relationship. He certainly thought nothing about placing a hand on her wrist, as if he had a right to!
“Well, then! We have been waiting a full ten minutes! I didn't want to put our hosts out any longer.”
“The host is her cousin,” Brogan said levelly. “I reckon he's not going to be put out by the lass spending a few minutes by herself.”
South looked at him. His gaze was flat, like a drawn blade. His expression was neutral.
“I think, sirrah, that I was not talking to you.”
Brogan felt the insult like a glancing blow – sirrah was a term for servants, not for equals – but shrugged it aside.
“I think, milord,” he stressed the word, “that you spoke for both of us to hear...We were in conversation, before you arrived.”
Dunstan raised a brow, and then looked away, turning to Claudine. “Come on, milady. Let us go. I think this fellow steps across the borders of courtesy.”
“I reckon ye dinnae ken where the borders are,” Brogan mumbled.
South looked at him again. He said nothing. He took Claudine's elbow in his hand and led her away. “Milady, I was worried sick. You should not stray so from the party. This is a harsh land.”
Aye. And there are some here who think they are not brutish, but brutes they are.
Brogan thought it sourly as he watched them leave. Claudine walked at the fellow's side, albeit stiffly. She seemed to know him well – and he had followed her from her homeland, after all – but there was something about his proprietary attitude with her that bothered him.
She wasn't happy when she was around him.
Brogan sighed. He was probably just imagining it, but watching her walk beside the fellow, she seemed to shrink, her usual bright presence dimmed, as if he drew a cloth around her.
She's such a bright, bonny lass. Whatever is she mixed up with his sort for?
“Laird McRae?”
Brogan turned to find Marguerite at his side, her earnest face creased in a little frown.
“Yes, milady?” he asked.
“We are all taking a turn toward the pond. I know it's nothing new for you to see, but will you join us? It will be a pleasant walk before luncheon.”
“Aye, milady,” he nodded. “I'll come with ye.”
He didn't know why exactly, but he didn't want to leave Claudine alone with that fellow. He walked beside Marguerite as they followed the group around the western wall toward the pond.
“You were seeing to your horse?” Marguerite asked.
“Aye, milady. He hurt his hind leg yesterday. A bread poultice'll fix it up, right as rain.”
“You know a lot about horses, it seems,” Marguerite observed. “And of healing.”
He shrugged. “I ken a bit.”
Marguerite laughed. “You likely know a lot! You might be modest, but I suspect you know a good deal. Merrick would like to talk with you, I think.”
“Merrick? Oh! Yer healer,” he nodded.
“Yes, that's right,” Marguerite said approvingly. “I think you Highlanders know more of such things than most.”
“We keep the old traditions, aye,” he nodded. The wind blew cold around his legs, and he was glad for the socks he wore. They had almost reached the pond. He could see Douglas, Dunstan and Claudine, already there. As he watched, Claudine drew away from the group, heading to the water. Dunstan followed quickly, as if he couldn't let her long out of his sight.
He shivered. “Milady..?”
“Yes, Laird McRae?” Marguerite asked, frowning.
“Keep an eye on them, will ye?” he asked.
“On Claudine and Lord South? You think...” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Of course I will, milord.”
“Thanks,” he said grimly. “I'm glad for it.”
Marguerite looked at him searchingly, almost as if she wanted to ask him something. He shook his head. He had no idea what it was that bothered him. He just knew that, since that fellow came to the house, he had not felt right.
He watched them bend down to look at the water. Claudine reached out to touch the surface. Dunstan took her hand, pulling her away.
Brogan shivered. He watched them searchingly. He saw Dunstan tense and look across the water. He looked away.
No, he decided, shaking his head. I don't like this at all.
However, what could he do? Lady Claudine had been friendly
to him that morning, it was true. Still, he had no claim on her, no reason to tell her aught, or to say anything at all about her life.
What could he do?
Shaking his head, he turned and followed Marguerite where she joined the path, heading to the pond. There was nothing whatsoever he could do. All he could do was what he had done – warn Marguerite, and together, keep careful watch.
It wasn't likely he'd ever be in a position to do anything else, after all.
The sound of voices drifted across the water as they neared. The pond was wide – perhaps fifty paces across, almost a smallish lake. He breathed in the crisp cold scent of water, the silver surface contrasting with yellow trees.
“Oh, cousin, you jest!” Claudine said to Douglas, giggling. “I don't believe you ever did such a thing.”
“But I did,” Douglas protested, black eyes sparkling. “I promise. Just ask Merrick! She'll tell you what a devil I was.”
“I cannot believe that,” Claudine grinned.
As Brogan joined them, feeling his lips twist in a smile, he saw Dunstan step up and lay a hand on her shoulder.
“Claudine is overwrought,” he said to Douglas. “You mustn't take her teasing seriously.”
Douglas looked at him in surprise. Beside Brogan, he felt Marguerite tense, and then laugh. “Oh, Lord South! We have no laws here that prohibit teasing!”
The tension broke. Dunstan South offered a tepid chuckle. Douglas turned away. Claudine looked at her feet, clearly ashamed.
Brogan felt his hand clench in a fist. “Does anyone want tae go fer a proper walk?” he asked, loudly. He looked at Dunstan.
Dunstan raised a brow. “Challenge accepted.”
Douglas chuckled nervously. “I think the rest of us will return early. I understand the luncheon will be at a quarter past midday. Unless we ought to hold it off a while?”
“No,” Brogan said gently. “I wouldnae wish to put you out, Lord Douglas. We'll no' be long. Just another hour. And we can take something cold upstairs.”
Douglas shrugged. “As you wish.” He looked uneasy.
Brogan looked across at Dunstan, gaze holding his. “Right, milord South,” he said. “Let's see how southern legs can take a walk.”
OF TWO PROBABILITIES
Claudine fidgeted at the table, unable to settle. The luncheon was exquisite, but she could barely find an appetite for it. Her thoughts were elsewhere: in the hills with Brogan and Dunstan, walking along the slim-cut, precipitous mountain paths.
Please, let them be safe. Please.
“Milady will take wine?”
Claudine shook her head. “No, thank you, McLean.” She had no stomach for anything, not now.
“As you wish,” McLean said respectfully, removing her used dinner plate. She had done her best to eat the roasted wildfowl, but had no stomach for that either. She felt sick. No matter how hard she tried, she could not withdraw from her mind the image of Dunstan and Laird McRae, facing each other.
I think one of them will harm the other.
She had no idea why she suspected that – the two men had only just met and, it seemed to her, had no reason for their instant dislike. Yes, Dunstan had been rude – unforgivably. The intense dislike seemed deeper. It seemed like a matter for a duel.
“Claudine? More sauce?” Marguerite asked beside her, passing her a small jug in which cream sauce reposed.
Claudine shook her head mutely. The remains of her dessert – stewed fruits, hot and sweet – lay on the plate. She found she could barely face them.
“I feel quite weary,” she said, dabbing at her lips with the linen napkin.
Marguerite frowned, but nodded. “If you have had enough, of course...you must lie down. McLean? Clear away Lady Claudine's dishes. And see that she is escorted to her chamber?”
He bowed. “Very good, milady.”
Claudine followed McLean upstairs, leaning heavily on his arm. Her stomach clenched and she thought she might be ill.
“Should we call the physician, milady?”
She shook her head. “No, McLean. I'll be quite well.”
She gritted her teeth and walked to her bedchamber. She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes.
This is ridiculous!
All the same, the more she tried to stop thinking about Dunstan and the Scots lord, the more her mind imagined every sort of dire happening. Dunstan had set upon the fellow. He had challenged him to a duel. Laird McRae had lost his temper and pushed the fellow from a cliff. So many possibilities!
She sat up, hands clenched together. “Stop it, Claudine.”
The room was silent, and the silence wore on her. She recalled Laird Brogan's words about the silence. Too much time alone and you could lose your grip on sanity.
I am going outside.
She stood and headed to the door. A glance in the mirror showed her worried face, hair loose and tumbledown about her shoulders. She shook her head.
I'm just going for a walk. Who is there to see me? I need to be outside.
In the fresh air, cold and cloudy though it was now, she could at least think straight.
She crossed the courtyard, shivering as she drew her coat about her. It was cold out here, the wind biting like a knife. She thought of McRae in his kilt and plaid, and hoped he was not too cold.
“Claudine! Stop it.”
She was so impatient with herself. She should not care for McRae, but for Dunstan! He was, after all, her father's choice. He was neither a Jacobite nor a Hanoverian, as far as either of them knew, and from a respectable, noble family. He was right for her.
McRae, on the other hand, had no discernible allegiance either, save that he was there to support Douglas and Marguerite, should their lands be invaded by a hostile force. He was rough, uncultured and unused to society.
But he is gentle, thoughtful. Caring.
She shook her head! What good would it do to idealize the fellow?
She should try to find some traits in Dunstan that she liked.
She reached the corner of the western wing, where the building curved around a little, heading down toward the pond. She looked around toward it, shivering. The mirror surface was ripples now, the bronze-leafed trees dancing in the wind.
Dunstan is respectable. He is decent. He is upright. He is from a similar family to me, with similar customs and ways. He knows how to behave in English society...
“Milady!” a hand rested on her shoulder, the fingers firm. The grip shocked, her, spinning her round. She stared.
“Dunstan.” She leaned back, twisting her shoulder so his hand dropped from it. “You startled me.”
He chuckled humorlessly. “It is best that it was me that startled you. What are you thinking, alone and unchaperoned out here? Where is your servant? Where is your sense of moral decency?”
Claudine gasped at him. Then she felt her horror replaced by cold rage.
“Where is my moral decency?” she asked, drawing herself up to her full height, dignified. She looked at him from an inch above him, standing slightly ahead up the slope. “I wonder you can ask me such a question.”
He shook his head, and then stepped up to close the distance between them. Here, he looked a little down into her eyes. “You fail to understand this land, Claudine. It's dangerous. These men are...wild,” he shivered. “I dare not leave you alone here!”
“For fear the wild natives will lay a hand on me?” she asked. She reached up, pointedly, to her shoulder, where his fingers had grasped her.
He shook his head impatiently. “You are innocent, Claudine. You understand nothing of the ways of men like this. You...I cannot bear to see you here in this waste! Come back?”
“To England?” she stared at him. “I am here on the orders of my father.”
“And I can countermand them! He would listen to me. He had no idea what sort of place he sent you to. And with the threat of war imminent...” He shuddered. “Come back with me.”
Claudine stepped back. “No,” she
said. She didn't like the unhealthy glimmer in his eye, the way his stare fed on her face. “I do not wish to.”
“But yet, if I took you with me, you would come.”
He gripped her hand. Claudine struggled and then pulled her hand away.
“Lord South, you are overwrought,” she said, choosing the same word he'd used against her earlier. “You are worried, and I appreciate your sentiment. But please. I am with my cousins, who care about me. I am safe.”
“Douglas, whose only obsession is his new orchard, and Marguerite, who only cares for babies?” His expression was scornful.
Claudine stared at him. White hot anger seared through her then. “Pray do not insult my cousins,” she said tightly. “Whatever you say or think of me, leave them be.”
“Why, Claudine?” he asked harshly from behind her. “Because you're at their mercy? Is that why you care what they think of you so much?”
“Because I am a decent human being,” she said, rounding on him. “And my cousins care about me.”
“So you think.”
“So I know,” she said emphatically. She glared at him. She made herself stay upright, facing him down. A tiny voice in her mind asked her a question. Do they care about me? Maybe he's right. How would I know?
He looked down. Chuckled, harshly. “Fine,” he said. His voice was mild, but bitterness ran through it like a toxin. “You can think what you will. But know this: I will not leave you alone here. One way or another, you will come with me.”
Claudine looked at him. Anger had deserted her, along with fear, or rage, or anything besides a strange, slow weariness. She shook her head.
He said nothing though. He turned away, already walking back to the house.
Claudine stayed where she was until she was certain he had gone. She felt it start to rain, icy cold drops falling slowly onto her, soaking through her dress and into the petticoat she wore below it. She stayed where she was, her cheeks wet and cold, her hair plastered to her head.
You care what people think because you're afraid of them. Your cousins don't really care about you. Who would care about you? Your own father didn't really care. All he cared about was restoring James Stuart to the throne. You might as well do what he says and marry Lord South – what else is there for you?
The Highlander’s Runaway (Blood of Duncliffe Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 8