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

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Now,” his mother said as they moved on to stewed summer fruits, “I want to hear about Paris! Was it very beautiful?”

  Francis closed his eyes, thinking of the whitewashed houses, the vast extent of tiled roofs as seen from the turrets of the castle, the glitter of river water. “Paris is...indescribable.”

  Leona laughed. “I know! I saw it once, years ago...a delight beyond words.”

  There was nothing to add to that, so they all sat quietly a while.

  “Your journey was safe?” His father asked, interrupting his ruminations. He has been thinking about Claudine, wondering if she was enjoying the summer sunshine on the terrace, or if she was still taking luncheon in the solar.

  “Uh...yes, Father. Very safe.”

  He saw his father and his mother exchange glances. He realized he must have been acting a bit strangely – it was the third time during their talking that he'd been wandering in his thoughts, thinking of Claudine and not paying attention. He supposed they must be wondering what was on his mind.

  If only they knew.

  He couldn't help but smile a little at that thought – if they could read his thoughts they would likely be more concerned about him than they were now. He had been thinking of Claudine, in her bedchamber. Yes, he had also been imagining the whole scenario with her unclad, them on the bed together without a stitch of clothes between them, her pale, soft body pressing back beneath him...

  “Son?”

  He looked up at his mother. He sighed.

  “Sorry, Maman?”

  He still spoke in French, something that would take a while to flow out of him since returning from Paris where he spoke it of necessity all the time. In their household, they spoke Gaelic sometimes and the servants had even picked up a word or two. It was useful when one wanted to convey a message in secret, but mostly they kept to French.

  “I was just asking if you met anyone pleasant there? At the court, I mean?”

  Francis sighed. This was the difficult part. He wasn't sure what to say. He wanted to tell them all about Claudine, but he had his own misgivings – he was not quite up to her social standing and his parents would be quick to see it. In addition, he had his doubts they would consider his love for her as a serious suggestion. He had only been there a week!

  “I did,” he said, deciding to just go ahead and tell them. Let them think what they would. Sooner rather than later to make the suggestion. “I saw Gaspard there, of course. And...” he paused, looking at his hands, “Lady Claudine.”

  When he looked up, he was surprised that his mother's expression had softened.

  “What is she like, Son?”

  He cleared his throat. His father was smiling and he felt as if maybe they would support him in this after all.

  “She's a little younger than me,” he began hesitantly. “She's blonde and blue-eyed...like you, Mother,” he added. “And...beautiful.”

  He saw his father smile fondly. His mother laughed. “Well! She sounds like a good sort. Tell me more, Son?”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, she's the daughter of the duke of Pavot, and she's...a bit frail.”

  “Frail?” his mother wanted to know at once. As daughter of the Seer of Dunkeld, his mother was always quick to take interest in the health of others, though she herself was not a healer.

  “Well,” he paused, thinking about how to describe Claudine's malady. “She...she tires very quickly. And she can't walk, not far.”

  “Oh.” Leona nodded slowly. “Perhaps a stay in the country would be of benefit to her. It's something I've noted. The air in town is tired air – too many people breathing it, too many fires and middens and things to taint it.”

  Conn chuckled. “I think you should mention that one to your mother,” he commented. “All the physicians I know say too much fresh air is dangerous for you. But if you've observed something else, I'll take your word on it.”

  Leona nodded, smiling with contentment. “I'm glad you will.” She turned to Francis. “Do you think she would be allowed to visit us here? In the countryside?”

  Francis frowned. “I don't know.”

  “Why not?” his mother asked.

  Conn laughed. “You do read the poor young man the rule book. I'm sure he'll tell us slowly. In his own time.”

  Leona rolled her eyes at her husband, though she was still smiling fondly at him. “Conn, you stubborn...oh!” She grinned impishly. Then she turned back to her son. “Now, Son. Why ever not?”

  Francis sighed. Their interchange had given him a moment or two to think about it, but he still had no ready answer.

  “I think her family would not approve of me,” he said slowly. “I mean...Lady Claudine is the only daughter of the duke, and I rather think they want a duke's son for her.”

  Conn pursed his lips. “You're probably right, son,” he said softly. “But then, we cannot know that. You met her father?” He frowned.

  Francis shook his head slowly. Now that he thought about it, that was odd in itself. He had not so much as heard of the Duc du Pavot, the entire week. Whenever she went about the palace, she was with her maid, or uncle. Or both – but never her father. That seemed strange.

  “I wonder that the duke has not passed on,” he said carefully. “For I never saw him there.”

  He let a serving man refill his empty dish of stewed plums gratefully, and then turned to his mother.

  “I don't know, Son,” she said mildly. “Conn? Do you?”

  He shook his head. “I don't know. I do seem to recall something about du Pavot, mind. I can't think what it is now. But when I think of it, I'll be sure to tell you.” He smiled at Francis.

  “Thank you, Father,” he said.

  “Right. Now. If nobody minds, I think I'll ask Margerie to bring us some of that marzipan from the kitchens. I still feel as if I haven't had my fill.” Conn grinned.

  Leona laughed. “You two! You're so alike sometimes it scares me. Not that I'm averse to a little marzipan, mind you. I could round off a good luncheon with that.”

  They both smiled fondly at her.

  When luncheon was over, Francis went to his chambers, where Yves had arranged for his clothes chest and saddle-pack to be brought. He opened the saddle-pack, drawing out the roll of documents, one with a seal attached.

  “I should take these down to Father.”

  He went to his father's study, a small room at the end of the second floor. “Father?”

  “Come in, Son. Just checking the accounts before Yves comes in. Or he'll be casting his hawk's eye over them and see my mistakes. Good to have him back.”

  Francis laughed. “Good. Father? I had the documents verified. Here they are.”

  “Oh. Wonderful. Thank you, Son. If we could just keep them in this drawer here? Perfect. Next time old Malviers comes up with some creative story about his cattle straying, he'll get a surprise.” He chuckled.

  Francis, remembering Yves and his suggestion about Malviers and the cattle, laughed. “Quite so.”

  He felt reluctant to leave and lingered in the doorway, wanting to speak to his father.

  “What is it, Son?” his father asked.

  “Father? I wanted to tell you something. But I'm not sure how to start.”

  “You're in love with the Lady Claudine?” his father inquired.

  Francis stared at him. “H...how did you guess it?”

  His father chuckled. “I was in love too, once.”

  Francis nodded. “I know, Father. I see the love between you and Mother so much more clearly.”

  “Well,” Conn ran a hand through his hair, the same reddish paleness as his son's own. “If you feel halfway the same to how I feel about your mother, it couldn't be better.” he gave a contented sigh.

  This close, Francis could see the signs of his father's age – the carved wrinkles at the corner of his eyes from squinting into bright sunshine, the etched lines on his brow. There was gray in his hair and the skin of his cheek was looser than it might have onc
e been. However, the softness in his eyes and his tenderness when he spoke of Leona was moving.

  “I hope so,” he said.

  His father chuckled. “I know so. Now. What's so worrying?”

  Conn closed his eyes a moment. Where to begin? Her health. Her status. Her uncle. He sighed and lowered his saddle-weary body onto the cushioned stool across the desk from him.

  “It's her health, mainly,” he confessed. “Mayhap Maman is right – a time in the country might help her. I wish she could have it.”

  “You can always suggest it,” his father said gently. “It can't hurt.”

  He chuckled. “I suppose.”

  “Well, then. What else is it?”

  “It's...” he sighed. “Her family, mainly. Her uncle. I don't...I don't like the way she's so disheartened by what he says.”

  “What he says? About her?”

  Francis nodded. “Maybe I'm being fanciful. Maybe he simply wishes to protect her – he is her uncle, after all. Even so, it feels to me as if he seeks to demean her. Make her believe she's helpless without him.”

  His father sighed. “I don't know, Son. It could be. I mean, stranger things have happened. Mayhap the man just knows no other life than caring for his niece. He would want her to stay with him forever, then.”

  Francis raised a brow. “It could be that simple,” he agreed. All the same, it didn't ring entirely true. Something suggested to Francis that Claudine had not been under her uncle's care her whole life. Moreover, he seemed sinister somehow. Not in a way anyone could put a finger on, mind you, but...he shook his head. “I'm just being imaginative.”

  His father smiled. “Who's to say where these ideas come from? Myself, I'm not one to dismiss imagination. If I was, I'd probably be dead by now. Imagining you hear a horseman following you can sometimes save your life.”

  Francis laughed. “Maybe you're right. Maybe I shouldn't ignore that feeling.”

  “Mayhap,” his father agreed, nodding slowly. “In any case. What I'll do is find out about this Duc du Pavot. If anyone knows about the nobility, it'll be Yves. Speaking of whom, where is he, the scoundrel? Yves?”

  “Sir?” a voice echoed from the hallway.

  Conn laughed. “Come in here,” he called. “Go ahead and check my books. They're ready for it.”

  Yves raised a brow, his thin, clever face amused. “Well, sir. That sounds promising.”

  “Promising? You rascal,” Conn chuckled. “Well, we'll see. Any mistakes you spot you can take the difference out of the savings chest.”

  Francis blinked at the risky offer.

  Yves only smiled. “That helps me a great deal if you've noted down too much. I don't see how it helps me at all if you've written down too little.”

  They all laughed. Francis said his farewells and the laughter followed him out. It eased his soul, still plagued with so much worry. With so many questions too.

  Is Claudine safe? Would I see her again? What would her uncle do? None of those questions had easy answers. In fact, Francis wondered if they had answers at all. The thought made him feel abruptly sad and he headed up the darkening hallway to his rooms.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A SUDDEN ILLNESS

  A SUDDEN ILLNESS

  Claudine looked moodily out of the window onto the estate. She was in the turret room at the palace, sewing. Around her, she could hear the chatter and the laughter of the other young women who shared the space with her – all of them a friendly group now – but she couldn't share in their easy banter, their bright laughs.

  None of this makes sense anymore.

  Francis had left. He had taken a part of her with him. She knew it was a strange way to feel – he had been so briefly in her life – but he had brought such light and joy to it.

  “Milady?”

  Claudine looked up blankly to see Bernadette standing before her, a gentle frown on her brow.

  “Yes?”

  “Would you like to retire now?”

  Claudine nodded. “Yes, Bernadette.”

  She stretched, realizing that she had been sitting bent over her embroidery work for the entire afternoon. She hadn't moved for about three hours. Her neck and back pained her and her eyes were starting to squint.

  “You're finished for the day?” Fabienne, one of the ladies, asked softly.

  Claudine nodded. “Yes.”

  “Well, I think I am almost done myself.” Fabienne stifled a yawn. “I've been looking down at threads for far too long. I'll take a walk.”

  As the group all nodded their assent and stood, packing away their tapestry work in neat baskets, Claudine followed Bernadette out of the hall.

  When they reached their rooms, Bernadette whispered to her. “Be not so sad.”

  Claudine sighed and sat down on the bed. “I can't help it, Bernadette. It's all so...empty now. I don't know how to feel better.”

  Bernadette sighed. “I'm so sorry, my dear. Mayhap a ride in the countryside would cheer you?”

  Claudine frowned. It had been a while since she had attempted a ride – even walking down the stairs to the stables made her joints ache and her heart thump. “If you think I could?” she asked.

  “I don't know, milady,” Bernadette said. “Only you could know. We could go and sit on the terrace awhile, if you prefer?”

  Claudine nodded. “I would like that. The afternoon sun is so pleasant.”

  “Mm.” Bernadette nodded. “We should make sure to wear hats.”

  Claudine smiled. Trust Bernadette to think of something like that. She was always thinking ahead, considering what one would need to be comfortable. “Yes.”

  They donned head-dresses – Claudine wore a flowing satin scarf over a starched frame that held it out like two shimmering wings on either side of her face. Bernadette wore a similar one, only more modest.

  They headed out into the sunshine together.

  “Out for sun gazing, eh?”

  Claudine jumped. She hadn't expected to hear her uncle just then.

  “Uh, yes, Uncle. A good afternoon for it, I think?”

  “Mm,” he nodded. He pursed his lips, handsome face considering. “I am glad to see you looking so restored, my niece. It makes a change after the toll on your health of all that activity last week.”

  “Activity?” Claudine frowned. Her heart thumped and she felt Bernadette tense beside her. How did he know? Had he seen Francis leave her rooms?

  “I referred to the ball you attended,” he said smoothly. “And the number of times you watched the sword-skills practice in the yard.”

  “Oh.” Claudine felt herself relax a little.

  “You seemed intensely eager to follow the progress of our young nobles.” He raised a brow. “I was surprised.”

  Claudine blushed. “Well, Uncle. It seems sensible to take an interest in the force that could preserve one's life one day.”

  He huffed a sigh. “Well, your life is delicate, my dear. It takes much to preserve it. And I'm not sure involvement with a swordsman would match with that.”

  Claudine bristled. Was he suggesting that she was looking for partners by watching the fighting? She colored at the thought that she had been doing just that. “No, Uncle,” she murmured softly.

  “Exactly, my dear. I sometimes wonder if it would tax your health too much to marry at all.”

  Claudine's brow shot up. Why was he saying this now? What had he discovered?”

  Bernadette beside her went tense. “I think I trust the words of Father Jeremy in that respect,” she said quietly. “He made no such predictions.”

  Claudine saw her uncle's eyes widen and then narrow. Was it her imagination or did he wish her not to believe the old physician?

  “Your maid, it seems, interrupts us,” he said thinly.

  Claudine stared at him as if he'd slapped her. “Uncle, I'm sure Bernadette didn't mean...”

  “No matter,” he said, smiling gently. He was suddenly the sweet, protective uncle she had always known. “I sho
uld hurry along. I have an audience to attend at four of the clock. Enjoy the sunshine, Claudine.”

  Claudine swallowed. She suddenly felt very disloyal for her stab of resentment toward her uncle. What was she thinking? He cared for her when no one else did.

  “Thank you, Uncle,” she said.

  He smiled fondly and carried on down the hallway.

  When he had gone, Claudine and Bernadette looked at each other.

  “Well. I didn't like that talk much,” Bernadette said. Her gentle face wore a puzzled frown, mouth turned down in worry.

  Claudine shook her head. “Oh, Bernadette. Uncle meant no harm by what he said. He cares for me.”

  “Be that as it may,” Bernadette said ominously.

  Claudine looked out over the edge of the terrace, looking down into the courtyard where, only a few days prior, Francis was. She felt wistful and sad, but at the same time she felt a gentle pleasure in the memory.

  I so enjoyed watching him. The way he moved so gracefully, almost like a dancer, but savage. With that fast strike and lively motion and those big shoulders rippling under his tight linen tunic.

  She felt herself blush as she thought that. What had possessed her lately? She couldn't help noticing things about him: the strong muscles of his back, his well-developed calves, the way he tensed and flexed when he made his strikes with the sword. Those long arms, supple and heavy with muscle. That narrow waist.

  What am I thinking? Why is my poor body tingling all over at these thoughts?

  It was the strangest thing. Claudine frowned.

  “Thinking about something?” Bernadette asked gently.

  Claudine smiled. “Oh, nothing, Bernadette.” Then she paused. “Well, actually...”

  “Mm?” Bernadette frowned. “What is it, milady?”

  Claudine saw Bernadette's brown eyes instantly focus; always tender and mindful of her. She smiled.

  “Well, I feel a bit silly asking you this, but...” she trailed off, cheeks burning.