Soul Of A Highlander (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  He smiled. Claudine felt her heart melt a little at the sweetness of the expression. “My lady,” he said, bowing low. “I regret to admit that I know little of the quatrain. I would be of little use to you...you seem already so admirably well-trained in it.”

  He grinned again and Claudine watched Yvette go redder. The ladies around her giggled and Jacintha fanned herself with her hand as if the courtyard had suddenly become overly warm for her liking.

  I know how she feels, Claudine thought, feeling a slow flush of heat creep up through her own body, though she could not have said exactly why. It was something to do with the young man, she knew, and his confidence, his grace. His disarming friendliness.

  “My lord!” Yvette said, when she'd found her voice again. “You are too gallant. We know very little of the dance and are certain we'd be paired well, if you have as little expertise as you seem to profess.”

  He went red and shook his head, still grinning openly. “I protest, my lady. I do know almost nothing, and, while I'm honored by the request, would prefer to be on my way. My apologies. But I would only disgrace myself if paired with you, and would hate to do so in such beautiful company.”

  He gave the seven ladies a dazzling smile and Claudine felt her heart twist with a mix of joy and envy. Joy at seeing something so lovely. Envy at seeing it directed at the ladies down below her, dancing and able-bodied.

  I suppose I'm fooling myself to even look at him, she thought harshly. Who would want to look at a useless woman like me? Uncle's right. Father should give up. No one would ever want me...why would they?

  She turned away to hide her flaming cheeks, eyes wet with sudden tears. As she did so, a petal drifted from the rose she'd tucked into her bodice earlier. The young man caught sight of it and looked up.

  Their eyes met.

  Claudine felt color flood her cheeks. He was looking up at her, staring straight into her eyes. His own eyes were pale green. She blinked, feeling heat rise in her face and her heart start to thump in a way completely different to anything she had ever felt before.

  He is looking at me as if...as if I'm something worth looking at. She had seen that look on faces before, admiring the intense beauty of the palace grounds, staring in wonder at some new rose or flowering bush the gardeners had planted. However, she had never expected that this young man would direct such a look at her.

  Claudine coughed, embarrassed, and wrenched her eyes away.

  “Niece? What ails you?”

  “N...nothing, Uncle,” Claudine stammered. She leaned over the edge of the balcony again, and the young man was still looking up at her. She blushed and ducked quickly back.

  Her uncle was frowning at her when she turned to face him.

  “Niece? What happened? You look quite flushed. Ought I to call your maid?”

  Claudine shook her head. “I'm well, Uncle. This is no fever. At least...I think not.” She forced her fingers to relax, let them stretch out by her sides, just brushing the long, cream silk gown she wore.

  “Well, you might have fooled me,” her uncle said testily. He raised his brow, and then gave her a gentle smile. “I am sorry, niece. But I worry for your welfare. You do look awfully flushed.”

  “I am well,” Claudine repeated again, more hesitantly. What could she say? She hardly knew what was ailing her now herself. She looked at her hands, composing her thoughts quickly. “Though I think perhaps Bernadette might be able to assist me.”

  “Of course. Come, niece. You are weary. Come inside. I'll call your maid directly.”

  “I can do it,” Claudine said hesitantly. She smiled shyly at her uncle. “I know you always worry for me so, dear Uncle,” she added, squeezing his hand impulsively, a tender gesture. She was so fond of Uncle Lucas – he was so funny and so attentive of her needs. Too attentive sometimes. He babied her ever so slightly.

  “I know you can do it,” Lucas said, frowning. “But if you have need of anything...” his voice trailed off hesitantly.

  “I'll be sure to let you know, Uncle,” Claudine said quickly. She hurried off toward her bedchamber. Inside, she shut the door and leaned against it. Her heart was thumping though it did not hurt, rather she felt excited.

  I feel alive, she thought. Happy, more capable. Why?

  She frowned. “Bernadette?” she called, summoning her maid who slept in a smaller room adjacent to her own, separated by a wooden screen lest she need to summon her during the night for anything.

  She heard someone stand up from a seat – the soft creak of wooden furnishings, the whisper of a skirt along the stone flooring – and Bernadette appeared.

  “Yes, my lady?”

  Her sweet, heart-shaped face looked pleased to see Claudine, no concern showing there, except possibly in the depth of her blue eyes. Bernadette was so much more than a helper – she was Claudine's best friend.

  “Bernadette! There you are. I feel quite weary. I would retire to bed, if you could help me out of this?” she indicated the long cream silk dress, which would take another pair of hands to unbutton.

  “Of course, my lady,” Bernadette replied. “Nothing worried you, did it?”

  “N...no, Bernadette,” Claudine said, biting her lip. She wasn't sure what to tell her companion. She wasn't sure how to tell herself what happened yet, much less anyone else.

  All she knew was that something had changed the moment she saw that young man in the courtyard and he saw her.

  Something strange and wonderful had happened inside her.

  For the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt excited about life. Like she really wanted to live it. Like she wanted to see what would happen next.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A BALL TO REMEMBER

  A BALL TO REMEMBER

  “Do I look halfway reasonable?” Francis asked awkwardly.

  His manservant, Yves, frowned and stood back critically. Then he pursed his lips. “You'll do, milord.”

  Francis met the dour old man's eye, and saw a shimmer there. They both laughed.

  “Yves, seriously! You are about as reassuring as The Last Judgment. And as harsh, probably,” he added. Yves shook his head.

  “One shouldn't jest about matters of faith, sir,” he murmured. Francis sighed.

  “I'm sorry, Yves. It's my nerves. I'm so nervous and I just can't help it. I'm not myself.”

  His manservant grinned knavishly. “You'll do.”

  The son of a clerk and clever, Yves was a learned, trustworthy man. Francis was glad of his opinion tonight. This was his first ball at the palace. He had already seen a girl he hoped would be there.

  I can't stop thinking about her.

  He knew it was silly, but that moment in the courtyard, earlier in the day, when his eyes had struck the eyes of the girl on the balcony, had stayed in his mind. With her soft, heart-shaped face and that wavy gold hair, she had looked something like the porcelain angels on the altar of the church. Those blue eyes had looked right into his, as if they could see the very depths of his soul.

  “Thanks, Yves,” Francis said nervously, feeling his stomach clench with nerves as he walked through the elaborate apartment he'd been given – smaller, for a nobleman less illustrious than a duke, but nevertheless exquisitely furnished and decorated – and headed to the door.

  “Right. I'm off.” He drew in a nervous breath and stood up straight.

  “Very good, sir.”

  Francis opened the door, strode out into the hallway and shut it softly behind him. Then, his stomach fluttering ominously, he headed down toward the winding staircase that went to the hall.

  “Come on Francis. It's not battle, for Heaven's sakes. It's a ball. Have some sense.”

  He couldn't help it, though – his first event at court was a terrifying prospect. He didn't know if he could navigate the uneasy seas of etiquette, if he could be a popular conversationalist, or if he could do the dances as well as expected here.

  I don't know what anyone's supposed to be capable of.r />
  Having spent his whole life at Annecy, with occasional trips for hunting to the other neighboring estates like Moreau and Paysanne, he had no idea of what would be expected of him here.

  He swallowed hard. Only one way of finding out. Get it over with.

  He strode forward into the hall.

  Before he'd even got halfway across the threshold, a short man with a dour expression stepped forward. “Wait a moment,” he said.

  Francis froze.

  The man cleared his throat. “Francis McNeil, count of Annecy.”

  Francis felt himself blush as the heads nearest to the doorway all turned. He wished he didn't have to mention his surname. It stood out a mile among all the French ones, drawing attention to his differences.

  Damn the man. If he wasn't here I'd just have sneaked in.

  “My lord of Annecy,” an older man said, bowing low. “A pleasure to see you at court. New faces are always welcome. Are they not, Matilde?”

  The woman beside him, a sweet-faced older woman with a soft expression and flowing, elegantly styled gray hair, nodded. “Yes, indeed, Richard. Welcome, young man. Pray join us.”

  Francis swallowed hard through a tight throat and nodded shyly. He couldn't help scanning the crowd as he looked around. Where was she? He knew it was silly – there were perhaps a hundred guests here in the hall. Why would he happen to see her? Nevertheless, the thought was sustaining him, making this evening marginally less fearful.

  “Thank you,” he managed to say. “I'm glad to join you. It's my first time at court,” he added, realizing they had guessed that already. He sighed under his breath, feeling awkward at having made yet another gaffe. He'd only been there five minutes after all.

  “Yes, indeed,” the older woman nodded with that same soft smile.

  Francis shook his head, suddenly remembering his manners. “Forgive me, Madame! I know you know my name, but I ought to introduce myself. I'm Francis McNeil, count of Annecy.”

  “Lady Matilde, countess of Chaudet,” she said politely.

  “Enchanted, my lady,” He swallowed again, feeling awkward.

  “You come to seek some petition, sir?” the count inquired kindly. “Or just for the social aspect?” he added with a warm smile.

  Francis nodded. “Yes. I mean, um...for both, Lord Count.” Goodness, man! Can you say nothing sensible? What's the matter with you tonight?

  “Ah!” the count raised his eyebrows with an inquiring look. “In which case, my dear,” he said to the duchess inquiringly, “we might introduce our daughter, Estella.”

  “Oh.” Francis swallowed, throat tight, as a young lady with the same long oval face as Lady Matilde appeared, only with a mass of black curls piled in a highly fashionable style up on her head.

  “I'd...it'd be an honor,” he said lamely.

  “My lord,” the tall, elegant society woman said in a soft voice, dropping a breathtaking curtsy, eyes lowered modestly. “I am pleased to be introduced, sir.”

  Francis tried to make a sound but nothing came out. He cleared his throat, feeling desperately at sea and rather foolish. “My lady,” he managed. “It's a real pleasure.”

  He bowed and stood up briskly, relieved that the worst part was likely over. He felt his pleasure turn to sudden dismay when the two older nobles – the count and his elegant wife – moved subtly away. They left Francis and Lady Estelle, facing one another.

  “You are enjoying the weather, milord?” Lady Estelle asked gravely. She had black eyes, heavy-lidded and slanting up at the corners. The low “v” of her bodice showed her pale skin and bosom to an enticing level of splendor. Francis swallowed again, though his mouth had gone dry.

  “Y...yes, milady Estelle,” he managed weakly. “Most diverting, is it not? Good for walking.” What am I supposed to say? Francis tried to still his fidgeting and concentrate. He couldn't believe the nonsense that was coming out of his mouth.

  “Oh, indeed. Though I do not go much further than the courtyard, I am afraid,” she said in a low voice. “I trust you are a very great walker.”

  Francis frowned. He had no idea what the proper reply might be so he giggled a little awkwardly. “Oh, no great walker,” he said. “I just like an odd stroll out towards the woodlands. The King has elaborate hunting grounds.”

  “Indeed he does,” she said softly. “Though I know little of hunting.”

  “Ah,” Francis said, feeling silly. Of course she doesn't, you dolt. Ladies don't accompany the hunt. At least not ladies like her. Gently raised, polite ladies.

  “Ah...yes,” he said, not sure what else to say. “I suppose.”

  “Estelle, dear,” Lady Matilde said, appearing suddenly at her daughter's elbow. “Come greet the count of Trevier?”

  “Yes, Maman.”

  Francis bowed. “Enchanted to have made your acquaintance, my lady,” he murmured.

  “Likewise enchanted my lord,” she said, giving a low, elaborate curtsy.

  Well! My first encounter with an eligible young lady at court. I survived it.

  Francis wasn't sure he'd managed much better than mere survival, but perhaps he would get better at it with practice.

  “Right. Now all I need to do is find more ladies like that and give it another go.”

  Like learning to joust. The first time you fell off the horse, you just had to get back on again and give it another go. Francis took a deep breath and walked further into the hall.

  “My lord? Do come and join us. I am Lady Gertrude.”

  “Honored, my lady. Lord Francis,” Francis introduced himself hastily.

  He found himself drawn into the circle, which included two young ladies. He felt uncomfortable and looked around, focusing on the surroundings. A quartet played a stately measure and couples were already sallying out onto the dance floor.

  “Shall we dance?” he blurted.

  Lady Mirella, with whom he was talking, giggled and curtsied. “I'd be pleased to, Lord Francis.”

  Mirella was a beautiful woman – soft, curvy and compact, with abundant curly hair and a full bosom. Francis took her soft, scented hand. He found he was shaking as he walked out onto the dance floor.

  What do I do now?

  “My lord? You know the quadrille?”

  “I...would be delighted to learn,” Francis said awkwardly.

  Mirella giggled. “Well, I am happy to teach you. In this place, if nowhere else, you must follow my lead.”

  Francis went red as his body responded to the implicit statement. He couldn't help that the images running through his mind were of other sorts of dancing.

  “Th...Thank you,” he stammered.

  “Now, you stand here, and I go over there,” Mirella explained briskly. “There.” She grinned at him across a space of perhaps ten paces away, across a polished marble floor.

  He watched as other couples stepped out onto the dance floor – ladies in elaborate brocade gowns, trains sweeping the floor, sleeves overlapping long, slim hands. The muted candlelight shone off glossy hair in elaborate braids and diffused softly on the velvet doublets of the other young gentlemen, courtly and graceful, who accompanied them.

  What on earth am I supposed to do now?

  He looked at his hands, feeling desperately awkward. The music started up and he looked around a little wildly.

  If in doubt, copy what the other people are doing. He heard his father's sage advice.

  Francis looked to his left and watched the other gentlemen. They all seemed to be waiting too. He stayed as he was.

  The quartet struck a particular cadence. All the gentlemen bowed and the ladies curtsied. Francis quickly did the same. Then they stepped forward, right hands out, to touch the right hands of their partners.

  Francis found himself doing the same thing. He was a little bit out of time with the others, since he had to copy what they did. It wasn't that he'd never learned any formal dancing – he knew how to do a sarabande, a gigue, a gavotte...he just didn't know the quatrain or quadrille –
more elaborate dances that must have hit the court first.

  They're all stepping back now. Step back. Oh, no. You just stood on someone's dress. Never mind. Step forward again. No one'll notice.

  Francis could feel the heat of a blush rising in his cheeks and his heart was pounding in his chest.

  Right. Now round again. Breathe, Francis. It's a ball, not an execution. Touch her hand; put your other hand on her waist. Oh, my goodness what a lovely waist.

  He winced as he touched her sweet body, and then stepped back shyly, following the lead of the other dancers. The dance led them in a graceful circle, and then they were bowing and curtsying to each other.

  They left the floor and Francis cleared his throat.

  “Um...thank you, milady. It was an honor to dance with you.”

  “Thank you, sir. You managed very well for a beginner.”

  She giggled, but the tone was not quite as friendly as it could have been and Francis felt cut. He shook his head, surprised by it.

  “Um...” he cleared his throat again, but Mirella was already gone, lost in the throng of nobles in the hall.

  Well, if that isn't a surprise.

  Francis blinked. It wasn't a particularly nice feeling, having his dancing-skills insulted, even if the insult was framed as a joke. He sighed.

  Well, she's right in that I've never danced a quatrain before. But that was a bit unkind, really.

  He noticed that the mood in the hall was changing – he had arrived a little later than the rest and it seemed that a pause in the proceedings was in order. Guests who had been dancing were heading toward the tables to take their seats. Francis shrugged and followed them. He felt awkward and silly and as if he stood out from the rest.

  He followed the guests to the nearest table and sat down wearily, covering his eyes with his hand. What did he even think he was doing here? He wished he'd never come.

  Who do I think I am? I'm just a poor excuse for a French nobleman, a country bumpkin with no idea how to behave. Redcap. Fool.

  “Excuse me?” a sweet voice said in his ear.

  Francis dragged a weary hand down his face. “Yes?” he asked. Then he opened his eyes and stared. He blinked and stared again.