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

by Emilia Ferguson

  He went tense and silent beside her. She turned to face him.

  To her surprise he was sitting hunched over, his hands clasped. He looked somewhere between bitter and sad.

  “What?” she murmured.

  He laughed. “No matter. I don't want to burden you. Who am I to do so?”

  Claudine felt her eyes widen. “Who are you to not?” she said gently. Her hand reached over and covered his. His fingers were warm. He rested his hand over her own.

  “I'm just a count's son from a small country estate,” he said blandly. “With dubious extraction from a foreign, wild people. I shouldn't even be here, much less be talking to you.”

  Claudine stared at him. “Francis. What?” She almost laughed. “You are serious, aren't you?”

  Francis turned to face her, his expression pained. “I've never been more serious. I shouldn't even be sitting here with you,” he said impatiently. “Your guardian will hate me for it.”

  Claudine bit back her mirthless laughter. “Uncle would be pleased to see someone take notice of me, I think,” she said quietly. “I think he'd practically sell me to anyone who seemed in the least bit interested.”

  Francis looked at her. To her surprise, he was angry. “That's not how he acts to me,” he said hotly. “So I don't know who told you that but they lied.”

  Claudine almost wanted to laugh. She stared at him helplessly. “Francis?”

  “What?”

  “I don't know if I can believe that, or if you're just being sweet. But...thank you.” She looked down as her voice wobbled dangerously.

  He squeezed her hand.

  “I only told the truth, my dear.”

  Claudine felt the words rock through her like a wave on the riverbank. My dear. He had called her “my dear”. Her heart floated and she felt her body lean against his.

  His arm moved to rest on her shoulders. He leaned in, those sweet, marbled green eyes staring into hers, and kissed her.

  Claudine melted in his arms and their bodies pressed together in the moonlight. She felt her heart thump with a sweet, rising urgency. She pressed against him, liking the feel of her bosom flattening against that broad chest.

  “Claudine,” he whispered, his eyes shut, face crinkled with intensity. “I...we mustn't.”

  Claudine breathed out sharply. She knew what he meant. Somehow, her body was prompting her to do things that she knew were sweetly forbidden. She sat back.

  He smiled and reached to stroke her hair.

  “You are so beautiful.”

  Claudine closed her eyes.

  “You are so handsome.”

  He chuckled.

  “You think so?” he asked. He sounded genuinely surprised and she laughed.

  “I know so.”

  They kissed again.

  It was only when she heard the door to the terrace open and someone slip through that Claudine forced herself to stand and walk, slowly, heart thudding, inside; Francis following an instant later.

  What a wonderful, wonderful moment.

  Throughout that evening she could not stop smiling.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MEETING AT THE PRACTICE GROUND

  MEETING AT THE PRACTICE GROUND

  The sound of swords rang out in the courtyard, bright, bold, and harsh.

  “Watch it!” Gaspard, son of the Duke of Monteleon, shouted loudly as he took a swing at Francis. He stepped nimbly back, blocking the blow with his own sword.

  “That's a good down-stroke,” Francis commented, grinning. “But how will you answer this?” He raised his sword and swung from the side.

  The blades shivered together and Francis felt his arms ache as the strike rang through to his bones.

  “Ha.” Gaspard grinned, though it was not an entirely pleasant smile.

  Francis felt a spark of enjoyment. Here on the practice ground was one of the places where he truly shone. His father had employed a knight from Frankia as his tutor and he was schooled in all the latest methods.

  He had the rare pleasure of seeing the Frenchman getting frustrated. Ruffling your opponent was the best way to win, he knew. He stepped back, keeping his cool, and delivered a gentle tap of the blade, countering a side-stroke with apparent ease.

  “Good job, Annecy,” his opponent said hotly.

  Francis grinned, seeing the start of rage building in the man's dark eyes. It would only be a short while now before he managed to do something foolish. Then Francis would win.

  And up...and out...and back... he talked himself through the dance of sword on sword. His arms burned, his heart raced and perspiration shone on his hawkish, handsome profile. However, he was almost smiling.

  “Francis! Look out!”

  The voice shattered his calm just as the enraged Frenchman delivered a blow that, were they real swords, not blunted blades, would have cleaved his head open. He parried it with a shuddering clash and then sent his own counter-swing through the Frenchman's defense, leveling a blade at his throat.

  He looked up, wiping a lock of red hair out of his eyes.

  “Thanks,” he said ruefully.

  Claudine looked down at him from the rail overlooking the grounds. Her blue eyes shone, damp with shock and fright.

  “Francis,” she murmured. “Thank Heavens.”

  Gaspard grunted and saluted Francis with a grudging admiration.

  “Well done, friend,” he said. “Enough for today, eh?” he called. “More tomorrow.”

  Francis grinned. “I'd like that. You're a good swordsman, Gaspard.”

  “That's easy for you to say,” Gaspard shouted back. “When you just beat me. You rascal.”

  The insult was well-meant and Francis laughed. Then, heart melting, he turned back up to the balcony. He shaded his eyes from the glare of sunlight and stared up at her in wonderment.

  With her flossy blonde hair outlined by the sunshine and a smile on those pink lips, she looked like an angel sent to safeguard him. She was wearing a white dress with a wide neck, her cleavage a satiny glow in the afternoon sun.

  “My lady,” he called up. “You have sharp eyes.”

  Claudine looked down at him, pink lips parted in an expression of shock. “You could have been hurt, my lord.”

  Francis smiled up at her. She was adorable! “It would have knocked me cold, certainly. And probably cut into my scalp, too. Those blades can still give a nasty cut when wielded that hard.”

  Claudine looked horrified. “Poor Lord Francis!”

  He smiled. “May I join you up there?”

  “Please,” she said shyly.

  Francis rolled his shoulders and walked in to the hallway, blinking at the sharp contrast – it seemed so dark in here after the reflected bright of the courtyard.

  I hope I don't smell too sweaty. Francis breathed in experimentally. It seemed he was still not too pungent. He headed up the staircase at a run.

  “My lady,” he said as he walked up behind her. She turned round, her blond curls fluttering in the breeze. There was a pink silk ribbon tying it back from her face and she looked almost too beautiful for belief. Her sweet, curvy body was encased in the white linen and it showed off her small waist and wide hips to perfection.

  “Lord Francis.” Her voice was sweet and he felt his poor loins ache as he studied her sweet body, moist lip glistening where she'd been biting it in consternation. “You must be exhausted.”

  He chuckled. “I'm quite weary, my lady,” he admitted. “And pardon me, but a bit sweaty too.” He ran a hand through his hair which was damp with perspiration. “I hope I don't smell.”

  Claudine stared at him in horror. Then she burst out laughing. “Lord Francis!” she said. “I assure you that you don't smell in the slightest. At least, I am upwind of you and smell nothing.”

  Francis laughed, feeling his eyes crinkle up at the corners. “Whew! A relief, my lady.”

  Claudine was leaning on the rail and he realized she probably felt too ill to step much closer, so he walked up to join
her.

  “I must confess I'm very pleased to see you,” he murmured. He had the satisfaction of seeing her blue eyes widen with surprise.

  “Oh. Thank you, my lord.”

  Francis loved her voice – low and melodious, it stirred his loins and seemed to vibrate in his bones. He breathed in, noticing the air around her smelled of lavender and roses.

  “I would have fought much better for knowing you were watching me,” he admitted. “In fact, I hope that you didn't see my earlier performance...it was a sorry sight at times.”

  Claudine giggled. “Lord Francis. You are too hard on yourself. You had to test your opponent, gauging his defense, before you could shine. I understand that.”

  Francis stared at her. “My lady?” she knew more about sword fighting than many of his male opponents! “That's very insightful. How did you know that?”

  He had the pleasure of seeing Claudine blush. “I have watched many jousts, my lord,” she said softly. “It's not difficult to get some knowledge of how they work.”

  “Beautiful and intelligent,” Francis thought aloud. He only realized he'd spoken it a moment later. He felt shocked at his own candidness and then, when she blushed, he felt pleased.

  To his astonishment, her sky blue eyes suddenly swam with tears.

  “My lady!” Francis felt his heart clench in sympathy. “What did I say?”

  She shook her head. “I...oh, Francis. I just...People always tell me how much I lack,” she sighed. “I'm weak, and small, and too frail to even walk far. You're the first person who says such lovely things.”

  She smiled up at him sorrowfully and Francis looked at his hands, composing himself before he spoke. He felt angry. How could such a beautiful, wise person be so demeaned?

  “I only speak the truth, my lady,” he said harshly.

  She sniffed. “Well, mayhap you see a nicer truth than most.”

  Francis sighed. “No. I see the truth as it is. Everyone else is seeing nonsense.”

  She giggled. “You do have a very definite view on the world, my lord.”

  “I have an outsider's view,” he said, and his own sadness colored those words.

  He tensed in surprise as he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. Hardly daring to breathe, he made himself stand still and feel the sweet touch of her fingers on his skin. It made his skin tingle and his loins start to throb suddenly.

  “Don't say that,” she said softly. “You're as French as I am.”

  He grinned down at her fondly. “Thanks, milady. But truly, I'm not.”

  “Well, I think it doesn't matter then,” she said. “I don't mind if you're French or not-quite-French. I like you as you are.”

  Francis looked down into her face. Big blue eyes downcast, her skin had flushed as she said those words. He reached down and gently lifted her chin, looking into those sweet blue eyes. When he tried to speak, he found his voice was choked.

  “My lady. I'm honored. I like you too.”

  Claudine smiled up at him shyly. He leaned down and suddenly he couldn't stand back anymore. His arms wrapped round her and held her to his chest and he felt his fingers clutch the sweet flesh of her body, drawing her against him. His tongue thrust between her plush lips and his loins tensed in response. He explored the sweet warmth of her mouth, reveling in its taste.

  Gasping, blinded with passion, they broke the kiss. She looked up at him, her full bosom heaving with the depths of her feelings.

  “My lady,” he murmured. His voice was ragged. He had to clench his fists, fighting to control the passion that surged through him. Wild imagery ran through his mind. He wanted to take her in his arms and throw her onto his bed and pulse inside her, filling her with his passionate need.

  “Oh, Francis,” she gasped. She looked up at him, something between shock and delight on her sweet face. Francis felt his loins throbbing again and reached down to kiss her, drawing her sweet, scented softness against his aching loins.

  They kissed again and Francis shook with the intensity of it. He had hoped to quell his ardor but instead he seemed to be making it worse. He stepped back away from her, leaving her leaning against the railings, her lips parted in a soft moue that made him want her even more.

  “I should go,” he murmured. “Before...” he trailed off. Before I do something stupid. Something we'd both regret.

  “I suppose,” she said softly.

  He made himself walk away from her, even though every part of him wanted to stay beside her, drinking in the scent and softness of her.

  As he walked backwards, eyes fixed on her, he felt someone walk into him. He whipped round, horrified, but not before Claudine had cried out in alarm.

  “Uncle Lucas!”

  Francis saw her expression change from happiness to mortification. He turned round to face the man behind him, feeling his heart sink into his boots. Why him, of all people?

  “Sir...” he began, feeling his own face warm with a blush.

  “Good afternoon,” Uncle Lucas said mildly. “Lord Francis. A surprise to see you here. Were you out practicing?”

  Francis swallowed hard. “Yes, I was. Sorry, sir,” he added, though he had no idea why or what he was sorry about. “I was just going.”

  “Mm,” he commented. “I noticed. Walking backward does seem a little awkward a way of getting about.”

  Francis felt stung, but didn't know exactly why or what to say. On the surface, Uncle Lucas was just joking, making light of the fact that Francis had walked into him. It felt deeper, though, more insidious.

  It feels as if he wants to keep me away from Claudine.

  “Niece,” he was saying, addressing her as if Francis wasn't there. “I was just looking for you. Are you going to attend the dinner tonight? In honor of Lady Gertrude's newborn daughter?”

  “I...” Claudine stammered. She glanced at Francis, throat working. She seemed almost scared. “I think so, yes,” she murmured.

  “Good. In which case, if you could advise me on what would be an appropriate gift for Lady Gertrude? I am no expert in such matters?”

  “Of course, Uncle,” Claudine stammered. “I made a little coat for her, and I thought mayhap you could give a little wristlet of silver?”

  “A good idea,” he mused, chewing his lip.

  “I think no one else I know of is giving such a gift,” Claudine continued. Francis had the feeling that he was unwelcome and slipped quietly away.

  Well, that was a surprise.

  He shook himself, trying to shake the feeling of unease that filled him. What was it about Uncle Lucas that bothered him so much? The man was perfectly decent, but he seemed dangerous somehow. He sighed.

  I need some company.

  Glancing at the sundial down below, he guessed it to be around five of the clock. He headed inside to find someone to talk to.

  He peered in round the door of one of the two solars – this one was in use by the knights and lords, the other by the king and his family. It seemed empty and he walked away.

  “Francis!” a familiar voice called out.

  “Gaspard,” Francis nodded. The man was seated in a darker part of the hall and Francis could barely see him there.

  “Come and join me,” he gestured at the tables and benches. “I'm in need of some good company.”

  “As am I, Gaspard,” Francis sighed. He ran a hand through his hair – still damp with the sweat of earlier – and collapsed onto a bench, weary and confused.

  “Long day?” Gaspard asked. He reached into the center of the table and poured himself more ale. He raised a brow at Francis who shrugged and nodded, holding out a pewter beaker for a drink. Gaspard poured it.

  “Thanks,” Francis said. “It has been a long day.” He took a big mouthful of the ale and leaned back, feeling weary.

  “What happened?” Gaspard asked. “Besides beating me, that is?” he added. His brown eyes crinkled with a grin, long-boned face friendly in the flickering firelight. On this side of the castle the sunlight had alrea
dy started to retreat, and the fires were lit against the cool of the coming night.

  “It's hard to say,” Francis explained. Gaspard chuckled.

  “How can that be?” he asked playfully. “Either it happened, or it didn't. Can't have it both ways.”

  “It's...what would you say if someone you cared about seemed to be being...influenced?” he asked. The ale was taking its effect on his head and he felt as if the space had narrowed, leaving him and Gaspard and his worries alone together.

  “Influenced.” Gaspard leaned back on his chair, frowning. “As in, manipulated?”

  Francis frowned. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose so.”

  “Well,” Gaspard sighed. “I'd tell them what I think. Make them see it – or at least make them aware of it. Can't see how else to change that. Why?”

  “What if you think that person wouldn't believe it?”

  “You mean, if your friend has a friend, and that friend is influencing your friend?”

  Francis laughed. “Sounds complex, but yes. Exactly that.”

  Gaspard pursed his lips. A few years older than Francis, he had a handsome face – craggy brow, long nose, full lips. He was brooding and quiet, and that made people reluctant to approach him. Francis had always liked him. They'd met when Francis was eighteen and the duke had visited Annecy for hunting gatherings. Gaspard and Francis had both been on the edges, both watching the rest – and it was that watchful insight he still valued most. It was what made him talk to him now.

  “Well,” Gaspard said at length. “I think in that case, a gentle approach would work. Wait until the friend has done something obvious. Then gently tell your friend. He'll surely see it?” he asked.

  Francis frowned. “I don't know if she'll be pleased with me for telling her.”

  “Ah.” Gaspard frowned again. “She's a female friend?”

  “Mm,” Francis drained his glass, feeling a bit impatient. “What's it matter?” Why would it make any difference? The circumstances are the same.