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

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Uh, thanks, milady,” he said. Stupid, stupid me.

  He looked into her eyes, wincing as he expected to see scorn written in those iced pale depths. With some surprise, he saw concern. Tenderness. Curiosity.

  “You wish to sit in them awhile?” she asked. “I like the kitchen gardens best myself, too. So fragrant.”

  Francis nodded. “Uh, yes. They are. Would you...” he forced the words through a parched throat, “come and join me?”

  Lady Claudine's eyes went wide. “I...I would like that, milord. But I am unchaperoned! I...”

  He smiled tenderly. “Well, then, as I respect your honor, we'll remain in sight of the colonnade. But may I sit with you awhile?”

  She looked flustered. “I...of course, sir. If you would wish to.” She sounded almost surprised, as if it was odd of him to wish that. He felt himself start to frown.

  “I do wish it,” he said softly. He lowered himself to the wall beside her so that he looked into her eyes. She blinked, seeming a little afraid.

  “Sir. I...”

  She looked into his eyes, her own heart thumping. This close, he could see the moisture on her lips, and almost feel her breath. He tensed, resisting the overwhelming desire to lean closer, to plant a kiss on those sweet lips...

  Before he'd thought about it at all his lips touched hers. She froze.

  “Sir!”

  She tensed and withdrew instantly. Francis closed his eyes. Francis! You idiot. What are you doing?

  “My lady. I...forgive me please!” he pleaded. “I meant no offense. See? I'm leaving.”

  He stood and backed away.

  “Wait,” she said.

  Francis took root in the flagstones. He stared at her. She stared back, her blue eyes kindled with a mix of horror and uncertainty.

  “My lady. You wished to ask me something?” Francis asked.

  “I...” she looked down and when she looked up again, Francis could see tears in her eyes. He felt horrified and wretched. He knelt down.

  “What? Oh, my lady. Oh! I'm so sorry. Please. No, don't cry...” he fumbled into the space between his tunic and belt, reaching for a handkerchief. He drew one out and passed it to her. She took it, breathing tightly.

  “I'm so stupid,” she said. Her eyes were closed and she shook her head, tears pouring down her cheeks. “Stupid and useless and ugly and...”

  “What?” Francis stared at her. “My lady! Are you serious?” He reached up and rested a gentle hand on her shoulder, breathing in as his fingers contacted that sweet softness. She tensed but didn't leave.

  She opened her eyes. “I'm sorry,” she whispered. She shook her head. Her blue eyes swam with sadness. “It's true. Of course it is. Which is why I'm so confused.”

  “Confused,” Francis said. He had no idea what she was talking about. “My lady?”

  “You,” she murmured. “You confuse me. You are so...so attentive. So kind. Why?”

  Francis blinked at her. She sounded angry with him. “I...my lady? What do you mean? I am unmannerly, I know, but...”

  She sighed sadly. “Oh, go away,” she said. She sounded annoyed.

  Francis stared. What was this about? He had known he'd traduced her boundaries by kissing her, but he expected affront, expected, perhaps, to be called stupid and doltish. He had been, after all. Why was she angry with herself though? Why confused?

  “I'll go,” he said, feeling wretched. He couldn't help her, clearly. Better by far to leave.

  She stared after him, her face resigned in sorrow, tears tracking slowly down her pale, glowing cheek. He couldn't do it.

  “My lady,” he said after walking two footsteps back across the courtyard. “No. I cannot leave you. Please. Tell me what I did?”

  She murmured something and he came back, kneeling before her once again.

  “I'm sorry, milady?” he asked softly. “I didn't hear that.”

  “Why do you care?” she asked again, loudly this time.

  Francis stared. Tenderly, he reached up to stroke her cheek, brush her hair back from where it stuck, sweetly, to the traces of tears. She flinched and glared at him. He withdrew his hand.

  “What, my lady?” he asked.

  “Answer the question?” she said, pleading. “Please?”

  Francis felt confused. Then he sighed. She had a right to know.

  “I am sorry, my lady, for my impudence. But you are the sweetest, most lovely lady I ever saw. That is why I care. Why I am here. Why I...offended you so, earlier.” He looked at the ground, feeling like the most repulsive wretch ever.

  He heard her give a little huff of an exhale. When she looked up again, he was surprised that the sadness and anger was replaced by growing wonder. Her eyes were huge. Her mouth had parted again, making a little “O” of wonder. The expression fired her blood.

  “You mean it,” she said. It wasn't a question, but he nodded.

  “Yes. I do.”

  She laughed then. “But how can you?” She shook her head, making those blond curls bounce on her shoulders. “I am a cripple.”

  Francis stared at her. “No! No, my lady. You have...difficulties walking. I don't deny it. I know your health is delicate. But why would that detract in any way from your beauty? Your nature?”

  She sighed again, a sad little huff of breath. “Who would want me?”

  Francis felt his heart turn inside out, even as he wanted to laugh. “You must jest, milady. Cannot you see the eyes that follow you around everywhere? When I was talking with you, I felt as if at least three gallants plunged their daggers into me.”

  “No!” Claudine giggled. “You think they'd have done so?”

  He nodded. “You didn't see the way they were looking at me, milady.”

  “No,” she said. “I don't believe you.”

  “Well, you should,” he said firmly. “You are beautiful.”

  She stared at him. “Oh, my lord.”

  She sniffed. Francis felt dismay. What had he said now? He kept upsetting her! He reached for his kerchief again to wipe off her tears but when she looked up again, she was smiling.

  “You're the first person who ever said that,” she said, sniffing. “I...thank you,” she finished awkwardly, letting her hand rest near to his.

  He looked into her eyes. He felt as if he was drowning in their tender blue depths.

  “Oh, my lady.”

  That was all he could think of to say. It didn't seem possible. Yet he knew she was telling the truth. How could she not know that? He was horrified. She was so beautiful! How had she believed until now that she was ugly?

  He flushed, realizing he was the first man to have ever spoken to her in that way. It made him feel proud and a bit bashful at once.

  She smiled, her cheeks lifting in the sweetest dimples he'd seen in his life. “I should go,” she said softly. “My companion will be looking for me.”

  “I should go too,” Francis agreed, thinking a little guiltily of how he'd promised to help Gaspard find the armorer to sharpen his sword somewhere.

  “Well, then,” she said. She stood, smoothing down her skirts with a gentle hand.

  “Well.”

  They looked at each other. He felt as if his heart would melt.

  “Good day,” she said in a small voice. She dropped a curtsy and then walked slowly away, her sweet body fluid and graceful despite the slowness of her pace. Francis stared after her.

  “Good day,” he whispered.

  He couldn't stop thinking about her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AN EVENING ENCOUNTER

  AN EVENING ENCOUNTER

  Claudine watched Bernadette, her maid and companion, wistfully. She was laying out silks and satins on the bed before her. The evening sunlight filtered in, making them all glow softly.

  “Must I choose one?” Claudine asked.

  “You must, milady,” Bernadette said, smiling. “You'll be sure to look lovely no matter which. Though I think the Duke of Fouchet's birthday calls for somethin
g special, not so?”

  Claudine sighed. “I suppose it does.” Why was it so hard for her to get excited about such things?

  I wish I could dance like the other young ladies! Mayhap then I would enjoy it more.

  Even the prospect of seeing Francis at the party did not help to raise her spirits. Today her exhaustion had preyed on her worse than usual. She had barely found the energy to stand. She couldn't bear the thought of an evening company of old countesses who would pity her or young ladies and gentlemen who'd cast strange looks at her.

  “Milady?” Bernadette prompted gently.

  “You choose one for me, Bernadette,” Claudine said sadly. “I cannot decide.”

  “Oh, milady. What is it?”

  “I don't know,” Claudine said. “I suppose I'm just feeling a bit dismal.”

  “Is it your head? My poor Lady Claudine. Would you like something from the kitchens? A syllabub? You ate hardly anything at luncheon today.”

  Claudine shook her head. “No. Thank you, Bernadette. I just want to rest.”

  “As you wish,” Bernadette said with a small frown. “But here! How about this blue gown? I've not seen you wear it yet. And the blue is so becoming, for you. It shows up your eyes.”

  Claudine smiled sadly. “Thank you, Bernadette. I'll do that.”

  Bernadette nodded and lifted the creation off the bed. With a v-shaped waist, a wide skirt and long sleeves that lapped down over the hands, the dress was beautiful. It was made of blue silk. Claudine felt a wan excitement as Bernadette helped her out of her night dress and into the dress.

  “There, milady! You look a picture.”

  Claudine stood back from the mirror, uncertain about that. She tilted her head on one side, surveying the effect.

  “I suppose I do look pretty,” she said.

  Bernadette smiled fondly. “You do indeed, milady.”

  The woman in the mirror had a thin waist, generous hips and a full bust that pushed at the low collar of the dress. Her long arms were covered by the long sleeves and her blonde curls cascaded down loose round her shoulders. Her sky blue eyes shone. They were a shade paler than the dress, a slate blue silk that winked in the evening light as she moved.

  “Will you dress my hair now?” Claudine asked. She felt weary again – the exertion of the dressing had sapped almost all her energy.

  “Of course, milady. Come, sit.”

  Claudine watched the transformation with detached interest, studying herself in the flickering light of the candles on the dressing table. Bernadette arranged her hair expertly into a bun, her face framed by soft curls that escaped it.

  I wonder if Francis will be there?

  She smiled at the pink-lipped, lovely face in the mirror. She hoped he would be. If she must sit through an evening with people who pitied her or mocked her, at least he would enliven things.

  And I have to admit I like him.

  She recalled their meeting in the courtyard. She liked him a lot. It would be lovely to sit and spend some time with him. He will be almost sure to be there. He is a nobleman and if I know the duke, he'll have invited everyone at Court.

  “Niece?” a voice called. “Are you ready? We should leave.”

  “Coming, Uncle. Thank you, Bernadette,” she added. “I should return before midnight.”

  “Very good, milady.”

  “Claudine! My niece! You look lovely. I feel quite proud to have you grace my arm,” her Uncle Lucas smiled as she appeared, bending his elbow so she could slide her hand into it for support.

  “Oh, Uncle. You're so good to me. What would I do without you?”

  “I wish I could be even better,” her uncle said musingly. “But such is life.”

  They headed through the colonnade and down the stairs, slowly, to the great hall. As they reached the stairs, they found themselves caught in a crush of other guests, scented and elegant, all heading downstairs. Claudine stalled, wanting to hang back to let the faster guests pass.

  “My lady. Come, let us walk together. I don't wish to outpace you,” the count of Rheims said from behind her. Claudine looked at her hands.

  If he doesn't wish to draw attention to my ailment, why say that? Why cannot he just ignore it?

  “The count is kind,” she said thinly.

  She walked on down, biting her lip to ignore Mirella and Jacintha, who drifted past.

  “I cannot wait to dance,” Mirella said. She looked at Claudine. “Oh! I suppose I shouldn't say that. I'm sorry.”

  “Not at all,” Claudine said tightly. “I'm sure you'll enjoy it.”

  She cast a glance sideways at her uncle. His eyes had narrowed and he looked defensive.

  “Just tell them you're disinclined to join in,” he suggested.

  Claudine closed her eyes as tears flowed there. His concerned advice made it worse.

  I wish I could join in! I loved to dance. I was so good at it and now they all think I'm a crippled, helpless thing.

  The sadness was a living thing within her. They went down the stairs together, where they were stopped at the door by a footman.

  “Ah, here we are. The count of Corron, good man, and his niece, the fair lady Claudine.”

  Claudine blushed. The footman at the door announced them and she walked in slowly, steadied by her uncle's strong arm. She looked at the floor, hating the feeling of all those eyes on her. She could see compassion in some eyes, scorn in others. The ladies of her own age mainly just looked glad it wasn't they themselves who was so ill.

  Why do they have to stare so pityingly?

  She tensed and her uncle patted her hand gently. “Almost at the table,” he said under his breath. “I think we're seated at the end. Ah! Yes. My lord duke! A happy birthday to you,” he added as a man stepped out to great them.

  The duke, a short man with graying hair and big blue eyes, smiled winningly at Uncle Lucas and bowed to Claudine.

  “My lady! Always a beauty. Welcome. Welcome.”

  “Good wishes, my lord,” Claudine said faintly.

  “Thank you, Claudine.”She kissed the duke on both cheeks fondly, but found she wasn't paying attention. Her eyes were already scanning the long tables of guests, looking for the one face she wished to see. Where was he? He must be here! If Francis wished to see her, he would have come.

  I suppose he was just being polite yesterday. She felt disappointed. If he were here, he'd stand out, so her failure to spot him meant he wasn't.

  “Come, niece,” her uncle said. “Here we are. Let's sit. I feel hungry enough to not wish to delay my dinner.”

  When dinner began, she picked at the soup, the fish, the eggs...she barely felt hungry and her head was starting to hurt.

  “Niece?” her uncle whispered. “You are not unwell?”

  “No,” Claudine whispered.

  “Poor dear,” the dowager countess of Beaufort said from next to her. “This malady must be so debilitating for a girl. If only you could dance and play the harp like the rest can do!”

  Claudine winced, her eyes clouded by tears. That was it. Suddenly she couldn't take any more subtle insults. She pushed back her chair and stood.

  “Excuse me, Uncle,” she said tightly. “I'm going to the terrace for fresh air.”

  Her uncle raised a brow. “Of course, my dear.”

  Claudine steadied herself against the chair and then walked slowly from the hall.

  Wretched people! Why do they have to be so cruel? I know that's unfair, that they don't mean it but...Oh! How I wish I was well, healed, and whole.

  Claudine bit her lip, trying to hold back the tears then, when she felt them start to flow despite her efforts to contain them, she sat down heavily on a stone-carved bench and sobbed.

  The night hid her from the door, illuminated fitfully by a torch's flame that wavered and cracked with the wind. She let the sound, and the tinkle of a distant fountain, the whoop of a night bird, calm her.

  I want to stay out here. It's safe here.

  Concealed
by darkness, no one could be cruel to her. She leaned back and closed her eyes. Being alone was better.

  Crack.

  A twig broke behind her and she jumped. “Who's there?” she whispered. Her head whipped round and she stared.

  With his red hair illuminated to warm highlights by the torches, his long, lean face boasting a shy grin, he was so handsome that her heart skipped. She couldn't look away.

  “Lady Claudine,” he said, and then he frowned.

  She sniffed, cuffing away her tears with the back of her hand. “Lord Francis.” She lifted her tear-stained face to his.

  “Why are you sad?” he asked gently.

  Claudine gave a mirthless laugh. “Why do you think?”

  His green eyes lit with highlights in the torch's flame, stared into hers. “I have no idea,” he said. “Tell me?”

  Claudine looked at her hands. “I can't walk, Francis. I can't dance. I can't play the harp, or ride, or sing. I can't do anything anyone else can do. And people keep telling me!”

  She was angry, more than sad. Fierce, hot tears ran down her face, pooling at her chin. Now that she had started sobbing, she couldn't stop. It was two years' worth of stored misery. She sobbed so that her shoulders shook and her tears flowed down her face and collected at the collar of her gown. She sobbed until she was empty of tears.

  Then she stiffened as an arm crept gently round her shoulders. She felt Francis lean toward her and she leaned against him, letting his gentle presence warm her. She nestled closer.

  He bent down to face her and his lips locked with hers. Claudine stiffened, her eyes flying wide open. Then they closed as his mouth gently traced hers, chewing a little at her lip. He let his tongue flick along the line between her lips and she felt her body melt as he did it again, and then withdrew.

  More, her body seemed to cry aloud. She tensed and looked at her clasped fingers. He covered them with a big, lean hand.

  “My lady,” he murmured. He stroked her hair gently with his other hand, the warmth of his right hand on her own. “I am so sorry you're so sad. I would do anything to take this away from you.”

  Claudine shook her head. “Lord Francis,” she said brokenly. “I thank you. Thank you for trying to understand,” she added a little bitterly. She supposed it took some effort. She didn't want to believe he was doing this as sincerely as it seemed.