The Highlander’s Healer (Blood of Duncliffe Series)

by Emilia Ferguson

  He wondered, looking down at her, if he'd regret it. So small and slight, unpracticed in anything of war or subterfuge – at least as far as he could gather – she could be a liability.

  “I'll try alone,” she said.

  He bit back a grin. Some liability. He was more likely to be a brake on her than that way round!

  “No,” he whispered and shook his head gently. “Allow me.”

  Then, before either of them had a chance to think any more extensively, he reached for her slender waist and tightened his grip on it, lifting her up.

  Her muscles are strong and tight, and yet she has the softness of a woman's body.

  He felt his groin lurch helplessly as his fingers held her firm, yet rounded flesh. He winced, biting his lip at the flood of pain from his wound. He felt her foot slide into the stirrup, and then her weight abruptly ease off his arms as she took it onto her own, bracing her weight against the saddle.

  “There!”

  She sounded triumphant and he looked up, grinning dazzlingly up at her elated face. She was flushed with triumph – he could see that even in the moonlight – and she giggled, cheerily.

  “Come on,” she said, gesturing to him. “This isn't so bad! I could even walk forward.”

  “Not yet,” he whispered, laughing, and swung himself up into the saddle. His stallion, Bright-mane, tossed his head, impatient. “Now, then,” he whispered to Prudence. “Let's go.”

  She giggled and they set off down the path together.

  As they began the ride, Alexander glanced sideways at her, studying her. Riding astride – he had taught her and it was the only way he knew – her hands on the reins, her hair fluffed out loose about her face, she looked joyful and vital. She was, he thought wistfully, the most beautiful person, man or woman, he'd ever seen.

  I don't care what her birth is at this point. She could be the collier's child and I would defy Father’s wishes for her.

  He sighed. It was easy to be hotheaded in the moment, but he wasn't sure how he'd feel under other circumstances, without the fire of danger thrilling in his veins. His heart was thumping and he knew each moment was fraught with terrible peril. The closeness of so much death made life so vivid, so intensely beautiful.

  He looked sideways at her again. She grinned, excited.

  “So? This isn't bad.”

  She looked so happy that he had to grin back. It was ridiculous, really, that she should be so happy in such a dangerous situation, but her joy in the ride was touching, and relieved some of his worries. He felt himself chuckle.

  “I'm glad,” he said. “We'll have to ride far tonight. The first stop is a good twenty miles away.”

  “I'm ready to try.”

  Alexander felt his heart swell with pride. He could barely recall his first ride, but he was fairly sure it had been round the field, with Big Jeffson on the edge of his vision, leaning on his staff, ready to save him were anything untoward to happen.

  Here she was, on her first ride, going twenty miles in the dark with a stranger.

  He had to admire her brave spirit. “We can stop when you get tired,” he whispered back. “We've got time.”

  “I won't get tired,” she said defiantly.

  Then, he did grin. That was beginner's courage. She had no idea how tiring it could be, how quickly the fingers numbed or the legs ached or the spirit, under so much tension, wearied.

  “Don't hide it if you are,” he advised gently. Then he reined in beside her and they set off.

  They rode for half an hour. After that, he, glancing sideways, began to notice signs of distress. Her lip was clamped in her teeth, back bent, and her whole posture was stiff, unbending.

  He bit his own lip ruefully. He could imagine how sore her legs and buttocks felt, how her back must be aching for a rest. He knew how it felt because he could remember. She – like the child Alexander had been on his first real excursion – refused to give way.

  They rode for another ten minutes.

  He heard her start to breathe heavily. He looked sideways. A trickle of sweat ran down her forehead. Her hands were claws, clutching the reins. The horse – placid and gentle as the stable-hand had promised – walked almost at a standstill, one carefully-placed foot at a time. He sighed.

  “We're stopping awhile.”

  “No,” she hissed back, with surprising forcefulness. “We can carry on. I can do it. We have to reach Duncliffe tomorrow night.”

  “Aye, I know,” he said, reasonable. “But five minutes' rest won't make a blind bit of difference.”

  “We're keeping on,” she insisted. “You'll not stop because I'm weak.”

  He sighed. “Lass, it isn't weakness. We all have to start somewhere, you know.”

  “You likely didn't, on your first ride,” she said back, giving him a defiant glance. “Just because I'm a girl, you think...”

  Alexander sighed. “No, I didn't stop. Lass, I was three years old, riding round my father's yard.”

  Prudence stared at him. “Oh,” she said.

  He sighed, shaking his head. That was one difference that showed she was not from the same social background as he. Had she been, she would likely also have started riding at two or three years of age. All noblemen and women did, though not all of them took to it as readily as him.

  “Aye, lass,” he said gently. “I've been riding a lot longer than you. Almost since I could walk. So if we need to stop, it's no bad thing.”

  He almost saw her visibly soften. Her lip came out from where she'd gripped it in her teeth. It was marked with a little blood.

  “Sorry,” she whispered. “It's my legs...”

  She slid down from horseback and stood, leaning heavily on the shoulder of her mare, Cloud-bright. He sighed.

  “Easy, lass,” he replied. “We're not in any rush.”

  She leaned against the mare, and he could see tears on her cheeks. He hadn't realized how much pain she had endured. Concerned, he slid down from the saddle and walked to her.

  “Lass, what is it?” he whispered, alarmed. “If you're paining, we can stop and rest a while. There's even a cloak to cover you with, if you need to sleep...”

  “It's not that,” she whispered. “It's...Oh, Alexander! What if we don't reach them in time?”

  He sighed. As it happened, their presence was secondary to the plan. The most important part was her knowledge of Duncliffe Estate, and the lord who ruled it. Duncliffe was half a day's ride from Linmore. If the dispatch rider could reach them tomorrow morning – as he’d assured he could – then all would be well.

  They were just going as emergency, lest something should fell the rider before ever reaching Duncliffe.

  Not, mind you, that whoever fells him won't be felling us.

  He shivered, aware suddenly of how desperately vulnerable they were. Alone in the woods at night, with just the two of them and his rifle and sword-arm for protection, they were prey to felons, enemies and spies. They were, he reckoned, at least as vulnerable as the mail-rider, and more so because they went slower.

  He would have preferred to push on through the night, but he knew he couldn't expect her to do that. Or himself, with his injured shoulder and knee. “Lass, we'll do our best. What more can we do?” he shrugged.

  “I know,” she whispered.

  He looked into her pale, tear-stained face. Suddenly, the desire to kiss her again was overwhelming. Not just the brief, elated kiss of yesterday. Something slow, tender and passionate that would ignite fires in both.

  He stepped forward and, before he had thought about it any further, wrapped her in his arms. He felt his head bend to hers and then his lips, blindly, urgently, were seeking hers. He hadn't planned it like this, but the feel of her against him, the rose-scent of her skin, were like a wildfire in him, setting his passion aflame.

  His lips were on hers, eager, questing. He felt the plush warmth of her mouth resist and then part slackly for his tongue. He felt it slide in and tasted the honey-warmth of her mouth,
clinging and hot and perfect.

  He closed his eyes, the gentle warmth on his tongue making his loins and heart and whole body respond, making him want to tighten his arms around her and draw her, insistent and firm, toward him, feeling her soft form merge against his, melting against him...

  Gasping, he leaned back. Steeling himself as if for a blow, he stepped away. It was hard to make himself turn back – as difficult as prizing apart a rusty rifle for cleaning. His body clung to hers, and he wanted to stay like that.

  He looked down into her face. It was white, cheeks flushed. She looked up at him, eyes round, lips parted.

  “S...s...sorry,” he stammered. He felt like an ogre. She must have almost died of fright! And rightly so, too, he thought guiltily. Here she was, a respectable widowed army wife, and he was taking advantage of her, alone in dark woodlands? She would surely think him every sort of knave.

  I am, though I did not mean to be.

  She looked at him. Her lips moved, soundlessly. He looked away, feeling awful. He'd shocked the poor lass beside herself.

  “It's fine,” she said, at length. “We should go.”

  Firmly, he nodded. “Um, yes. You're right,” he said. He forced briskness into his tone, but it still came out sounding distorted, like he'd just swallowed molasses.

  “Yes.”

  They both looked at each other, and as he looked into that wide gaze he felt a need to do it again, to draw her close and ply her mouth with kisses. “Come on,” he said. “Let's go.”

  She nodded and turned to her horse. She mounted by herself this time, stepping up with the aid of a felled tree. He looked away, not wanting to be caught staring as he admired her muscled litheness.

  “Sorry,” he whispered again.

  She said something, but he didn't quite hear it. Cheeks burning, he followed behind her lead.

  This time, she rode confidently, her back straighter. He was glad they had taken a rest, though he still felt his cheeks burning with shame at his conduct. The poor lass, he couldn't help thinking. How was she supposed to feel here in the woodlands, with her only protection a lecherous soldier?

  He sighed. He would never have expected that of himself. He always thought his conduct was impeccable. Now here he was making lasses terrified of him?

  She rode ahead of him, not looking back. He kept mulling her words to him – the ones he hadn't quite heard properly – over and over. Trying to figure out what she had said.

  After another half an hour or riding, it came to him. “That wasn't bad.”

  He felt his grin light up the night.

  After another half an hour, they reached the inn.

  “A room, and space in the loft,” he managed to mutter to the yawning pot-boy who answered the door at his insistent knock. “And stabling for two horses.”

  The boy's eyes opened wider. He stared up at Alexander. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  Alexander led the horses to the stable and saw to it that they were adequately warm and provided for first. He hoped to find Prudence in the front room, but, unsurprisingly, she had already left.

  “Show me the loft?” he said to the pot-boy, who, staring up at him as if he thought he might be a demon sent to punish him, nodded. He led him outside, pointed to the barn and a slender ladder.

  “Fine,” Alexander said. He found himself climbing the rickety thing, hands and feet moving to reflex, not even noticing the fires of pain in his aching shoulder and knee.

  The last thing he remembered was a pile of hay and the warmth of his cloak settled around his shoulders.

  A MEETING OF OLD FRIENDS

  Duncliffe. Majestic and mysterious, the stone homestead loomed out of the mist. Prudence, looking up at it, felt her guts prickle with anticipation.

  Can I do this?

  She shivered. Last time she was here, she had been a servant in the retinue of Lady Claudine, the countess' cousin. Did she really have the necessary audacity to ride into the courtyard and demand their help?

  The thought was wild. Yet somehow, she felt unafraid.

  Glancing sideways, she realized part of her elated calm was on account of him. The tall, arrogant, composed soldier who rode beside her was her inspiration. His face still in the morning's warmth, back stiff and erect despite the cold and dampening mist that cloaked everything, he gave the impression that he was unshakable.

  She looked sideways again, feeling a frisson move through her that had little to do with danger.

  The kiss.

  She'd lain awake for an hour, at least, reliving the moment. The feel of his lips, hot and hard on hers, his tongue parting them, strangely delicate, to taste and touch and explore her.

  Her body shivered with a delight that felt feverish.

  He looked up and she realized she'd been planted there, surveying the place from the rise, for a good five minutes. She shrugged. “Ready, lass?” he asked gently.

  She nodded, licking dry lips. “We should go.”

  He raised a brow, seeming about to protest, but she nodded again, more stiffly and, shrugging visibly, he fell in beside her.

  Together, they rode to the crest of the hill.

  “Halt!” a guard called as they approached the gate.

  She felt Alexander stiffen, his head shooting up. She paused.

  “Who goes there?” the guard shouted earnestly.

  “It's Prudence Newhurst,” she called back, trying to bolster her courage, and her voice. It cracked, at first, but by the end of the sentence it sounded convincing. Firmer. Less shaky. She saw the guard pause. He was ten paces away, but she could make out his features and see the confusion on his face.

  “Who goes there?” he called again. “State yer business also. No time for journeyers.”

  “I'm Prudence Newhurst,” she said. “Tell the countess I am here. I bear a message for her and tidings from her cousin, Lady Claudine of McReid.”

  “Oh?” the man frowned.

  Prudence tensed. She hoped she had sandwiched enough information in that sentence to sound convincing. She saw him hesitate.

  “Greer?” he called to a companion.

  “Aye?” the man on the wall called down to them both.

  “Go to the steward. Tell him...”

  Words too low and urgent for Prudence to follow from here passed between them. She strained to try and read his lips, but he spoke too fast, in a dialect of Lowland Scots she couldn't fathom anyway. She looked at Alexander.

  He sat so still he could have been sculpted out of stone. He was watching the proceedings with as much interest as she had been. Slowly, he turned toward her. “What happens now?”

  “We wait.”

  Heart thudding, a vague alarm fueling her, Prudence sat.

  What she was so very afraid of, she had no real idea. The worst thing that could happen would be that they were turned away as vagrants. However, a glance at Alexander told her they did not look like people simply looking for a night's rest in the barn. With his cloak of blue and green tartan settled about his shoulders, back straight and stiff, he looked like a king.

  They can't refuse to see us.

  She closed her eyes briefly, afraid almost to hope.

  They waited.

  It seemed to take an age, and Prudence was starting to develop another fear, more bizarre. What if nothing happened, if time had somehow stopped and left them stranded, waiting eternally, before the gate? She bit her lip, jolting herself out of the fantasy. It was the mist, that was it, so unreal-looking, surrounding them and blocking out the world...

  Another man came out of the gate. This time, he had an urgent, whispered conversation with the first guard. Prudence felt her heart start to thump in panic. This was it, they were about to be turned away. She was going to look a total fool...

  “Miss?”

  She stared at the older man, who called her. His tone was almost respectful. She felt herself staring.

  “Yes?” she frowned.

  “Her ladyship wishes to see you. If you wi
ll come this way? She's waiting in the hallway.”

  Prudence stared at him. His tone remained respectful, and he was talking to her. He had barely glanced at Alexander, who he gave a cursory nod.

  “You can leave your horses at the stables,” he said.

  Prudence tried not to gape in shock. He was talking to her with deference? They were being invited in?

  Before she could disbelieve it any further, the gates swung open and the men stood aside, to let them pass. They were entering Duncliffe Estate.

  Prudence rode in through the gates, disbelieving. Last time she was here, she had been a servant, riding in the coach with her mistress, a few days after a perilous sea voyage from her native England.

  Now she rode in on horseback, with a soldier. She was a free woman. How much everything had changed. In addition to all that, the countess awaited her for the news she had to bring?

  It was surreal.

  She paused as she crossed the courtyard, suddenly afraid that this was all some terrible ruse – that they had been betrayed doubly over and that they were riding into an ambush. She looked over her shoulder and saw Alexander riding there. He didn't look at her, or nod at her, but she felt his support more than if he'd reached out to touch her.

  I am here, his relaxed posture seemed to say. If anyone harms you, they will answer to me.

  She shook her head. Fanciful, was what it was. Why would she think that? All the same, she swallowed hard, found her courage, and rode ahead.

  “Milady, the visitor. She said she wished to see you.”

  “Yes, Mr. Milburne. I see her! What news have you, Prudence? How fares my cousin? And how are you?”

  Prudence stared down at the irrepressible redhead who looked up at her. She smiled before she'd thought about the appropriateness of it, and slipped down from the saddle.

  “Milady,” she said, dropping into a formal curtsy. “I bring greetings from Lady Claudine and the Laird of the McReid. Milord,” she added, giving a low curtsy toward the earl, who stood behind her.

  “Prudence! Don't stand on ceremony here! You know you're always welcome,” the countess said, and with characteristic impulsiveness, reached out and drew her by the hand up the steps.