The Highlander’s Dilemma

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Will the young master be staying for the night?” the innkeeper's wife asked courteously. “We have some good rooms free upstairs.”

  “I won't be stopping, Mistress,” he said politely.

  “Oh.’Tis a pity, that. For we do have a good inn here, and like to host all manner of travelers.”

  Conn nodded wearily. “Thank ye,” he said, and sank into a seat by the window. He stared out at the view across the valley, feeling his heartbeat slow and return to normal. He only stopped shaking when the warm stew arrived.

  That was close.

  Now that he was here, in the cheerful dining hall of the inn, filling up slowly with yeomen farmers and craftsmen and merchants, did he feel peaceful.

  I could have died on the road.

  The first thought that occurred to him was that, if he had died, he would not see Leona again. He leaned on the table, head supported by his hands, and let out a shaky exhale.

  I can't not see her again.

  The close encounter with death had made him realize how deeply he loved her. How much he had to see her again. He was not going to give up.

  His cloak was rent where the dagger-point had grazed his ribs, and he could feel that it had left a mark there, though far from dangerous. All the same, it had been a brush with death. And it had reminded him of how very dearly he wanted to live.

  I will go to France if I can. I will not let them take Leona from me. I cannot deny how much I love her.

  The memories of her flowed into him as he sat in the warm inn’s dining room: her smile and the way her blue eyes slanted wickedly when she teased him. Her liveliness. Her infuriating and wonderful way of always being right, no matter whether or not she was. He missed her so much! She had only been gone for two weeks, but already he felt as if a part of him had died in her absence.

  He was still shaken by the encounter on the road, but it had taught him something: how very much Leona meant to him. And how very much he refused to give her up.

  He loved her too much for that.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A NEW PLACE

  A NEW PLACE

  The hall stretched out below bluish shafts of sun. The floor was marble, inlaid with different kinds in a pattern that made interlocking circles on the floor, each patterned in black and gray and white.

  Leona, standing alone in the hall, whirled around in a dance-step, arms spread wide, slipper-clad feet light and sliding a little on the polished surface. She laughed in delight.

  “Oh, Uncle!” she exclaimed. “It's wonderful.”

  Her uncle, standing in the doorway, smiled. “You are a vision,” he said, voice loud with fervor.

  Leona blushed and looked up at him, still smiling. “Oh, Uncle. You are so kind.”

  He pursed his lips, so like Leona's own. “Nonsense,” he declared. “Well, I am pleased you like it.”

  “I love it!”

  Leona was wearing the gown her uncle had ordered made. Its blue-purple folds shimmered as she turned, and she ran her hands down it, wondering at the soft feel of it. It was smooth as water, light as a breath of air. She twirled in place again, letting the wind catch it and draw the skirts out, whirling around her ankles.

  She heard her uncle clap his hands, and stopped, self-conscious, the skirt flowing around her legs with the residue of her motion.

  “Bravo,” he said, smiling. “You are a picture, my niece. One that should delight the whole of Paris. Never mind my lowly house here in the countryside.”

  “Lowly house!” Leona chided him gently, laughing. The place was a palace; at least as far as she was concerned. She had never seen such beauty in her life. Every room was sumptuously decorated, yet with a sense of restraint and style such as she had never seen before. It was wonderful; a treasure cave for the senses. She would never tire of living here.

  It was her uncle's turn to blush. He smiled. “I am glad it meets your approval.”

  Leona smiled again, feeling her heart light up in her chest. She loved the way her uncle was always so gracious about everything, so well-mannered. He spoke to her as if she mattered, never a harsh word or a missed opportunity for gentility.

  “It's all beautiful, Uncle,” she said fondly.

  “Well, I'm glad you like this old ballroom,” he smiled. “I have to modernize it one day. As it is, the servants took an age to clean it. The cobwebs! It was atrocious.” He shook his head, smiling. “It is good to have occasion to use it more.”

  Leona smiled. “I'm glad. Will we have many guests?”

  “Oh, perhaps fifty,” her uncle demurred. “There's little room for more in here; and besides, that is as many of the local gentry as there are. We would have to call in people from as far afield as Calais!”

  Leona smiled, seeing him looking so happy. The prospect of a party seemed to have made him almost as happy as it made her. It was nice to be able to put a smile on someone's face simply by being.

  “Well, fifty is enough, Uncle,” she said lightly.

  He laughed. “Fifty is too few to show you off, my dear! You shall be the belle of the ball.”

  Leona smiled, feeling happy with the praise. “Thank you,” she said. She curtseyed. In the days she had been here, her uncle had ensured that she take lessons on deportment. A woman had been found to coach her in court etiquette, the wife of Leblanc. She was a hard-faced, stern woman with barely a word of praise for anyone, though she seemed to take pleasure in Leona's swift progress and had even smiled at her most recent attempts to curtsey, a fact which added to her confidence somewhat.

  “Ah! But you have natural grace, my dear,” her uncle said.

  Leona smiled. “I cannot thank you enough for all this, Uncle,” she said, a lump in her throat as she made a gesture that took in at once the hall, the shoes, the dress.

  “Bah! It's nothing,” he said dismissively, and then grinned. “And the amazement of all my guests will be more than enough.”

  Leona smiled. In her heart she felt a little queasy at that thought. All the guests. They would all be looking at her. Why?

  He wants to find me a husband.

  The words had all been there, the meaning subtle but nonetheless obvious. Her uncle intended to have her wed and settled. Why he took such a keen interest in this, she had no idea: only his own offspring would be able to inherit the manor and the title, count of Annecy. Though she descended from the late count, a son of hers would not be eligible anyway.

  I think, having no daughter, he looks on me as his own.

  It was at once a pleasure and a responsibility of sorts. And she did not want to marry.

  I already know the only man for me, she insisted. Conn McNeil. He is the only man I want.

  Nevertheless, she could not very well say that to Uncle. He had arranged all this for her.

  And I can at least look at the others. There's no harm in looking, is there?

  She bit back a wicked grin. She had always allowed herself to look at the young men at parties at her home: she had flirted just enough to make Conn cross, then, feeling remorseful, had relented and danced all night with him.

  Conn knew I didn't mean it.

  He had always forgiven her, just as she forgave his dances with the servant girls, or the odd times he had partnered ladies who were houseguests of theirs at the time. They knew each other.

  “I'm going to go and see if Madame Blois in the kitchen has finished.”

  “And I should go and practice my curtsies and deportment with Madame Leblanc,” Leona said, making a wry face.

  Her Uncle Marc laughed. “Well, my dear, if you are anything to go by, the woman's teaching is incomparable.”

  Leona beamed. “Thank you, Uncle.”

  “I suspect it relies mostly on the skill of her student, though,” he added, winking.

  “Oh, Uncle.”

  Leona giggled and he smiled and turned, waving farewell with a slim hand as he headed down to the kitchens.

  I am so lucky!

  Leona danced lightly
up the stairs to the gallery, where she would practice for the evening.

  When the party began, Leona stood in the hall beside her uncle, greeting the guests. They were all dressed somberly to mark the passing of Leona's grandfather, but still there was an air of suppressed excitement as the hall slowly filled with chattering, elegant people.

  “...and Lady Eustace, may I present my niece, Lady Leona?”

  “Charmed,” the woman said, curtseying.

  Leona looked up at her, admiring the gold-yellow gown she wore, the curly hairstyle and the scent of rosewater that flowed from her, cooling the evening air with the scent of dusky evening. She curtseyed low. “Enchanted, my lady.”

  Leona greeted each of the guests in turn, proud that her French was now almost natural. It was without trace of an accent, where before, she had stood out as being noticeably different. She was starting to absorb something of this place and felt proud about it.

  Her uncle tensed beside her. Leona, who was protective of the older man, noticed it, though it was subtle.

  “And Leona, my niece, may I present the Comte of Cleremont, Guy Ferrand?”

  Leona swallowed hard. She found herself looking at a man who could have been cast in stone. Chiseled features, sculpted and perfect, he had all the cold beauty of a statue. His eyes were blank. Black and level, they seemed devoid of illumination, as if they sucked the light from the room and made it darker. She shivered.

  “Enchanted, my lord,” she said in a low voice. She curtseyed, lowering her eyes as she did so. She did not like to look at that cold face long.

  “...Guy, may I present my niece, the beautiful Lady Leona?”

  “Enchanted.”

  His voice was cold, too; like oil on winter paths. Smooth and refined and dangerous. Empty of warmth.

  “Leona! The count lives near to us and is fond of the hunt,” her uncle informed her eagerly. He seemed to Leona overly eager, as if making a point.

  She looked into those warm dark eyes and nodded. “That is good,” she said. “I trust you will join us on hunts in autumn, milord?”

  She said it to the man because it seemed expected. She was surprised when his lips lifted in a thin smile.

  “Most assuredly so,” he nodded. “I am fond of the hunt. As are you?”

  Leona licked her lips nervously. She had accompanied the hunt once or twice, but only as a spectator. Though many ladies hunted with hawks, she disliked the practice and had not done so before now. “I...have not much experience thereof, sir.”

  Her uncle beamed. “Perfect! We'll remedy that, eh?” he smiled at the count widely.

  “We shall.”

  He was moving on then, going to stand with a group around a tall, gray-haired lady in a dark green dress. Leona felt surprising relief, as if all the air had drained out of her.

  I do not like him!

  She glanced up at her uncle, but he was moving to the next guest, seemingly unaware of the panic he had set off in his niece.

  Why does he want me to meet that man?

  She glanced sideways to where the count stood with the largish group around the woman, the set of his shoulders statuesque and upright.

  He is as if made of stone. Inside as well as his appearance.

  As she watched, he bowed stiffly and moved to another lot of people. She felt relief as he disappeared into the darker reaches of the lofty hall. Though her uncle had torches placed in all the brackets, the room still had a frosty gloom about the edges that matched him.

  I hope that is the last of him, she thought.

  Her uncle turned to her and introduced another lady – Lady Bellgarde – a tall lady in a deep mauve dress with pale hair. She was with another lady, Lady Beaumont; and, though they had different titles, she guessed they were sisters. Lady Beaumont was tall with dark hair and an enchanting smile.

  After the guests had been welcomed, Leona found herself drawn to the group around the sisters. It was lively and lighthearted and she felt comfortable there, just on the edges, included by making the occasional comment, but not the prime focus. She still needed time to gain confidence here.

  “And it is enchanting to meet Lady Leona,” the dark-haired lady said with a friendly look.

  “Thank you,” Leona murmured, smiling. “I am glad to meet you and your sister, my lady.”

  “Oh, charming!” she said, smiling. She had a fan with her that she waved airily to keep cool, and Leona found herself wishing she had one. She looked most elegant!

  She was just looking round the ballroom, wondering where Uncle had gone off to, when she heard someone clear their throat behind her.

  “My lady?”

  She stiffened. “Yes, Comte de Cleremont?”

  He smiled. “Please, my lady. Call me Lord Ferrand. It is more intimate.”

  Leona breathed in through her nose as if drowning. She felt like it: stifled, swamped, unable to move. “Yes, my lord,” she said tightly.

  “Good,” he smiled. “And I shall call you Lady Leona. It is fitting. No?”

  Leona nodded, smiling brightly in an attempt to cover her own tremulous fear. “It is.”

  “You dance, my lady?”

  Leona felt cornered. What to say? “Yes, my lord.”

  “Good. Would you honor me with a measure? I believe the sarabande is playing now.”

  “Oh,” Leona nodded. The sarabande was the slow movement of the dance, one she was good at. She curtseyed, smiling tightly. “Honored.”

  “I am honored,” he said, low-voiced.

  Leona shuddered as she let him lead her onto the inlaid dance floor. She faced him and made herself look into those cold eyes. Raised her right palm, as all the other couples had. They touched palms, gazing into each other’s eyes as they did so. Leona forced herself to look at him as was polite.

  He scares me.

  She knew she was probably being ridiculous, but there was something repellant about him. He made her think of someone lately dead: soulless, cold.

  “You have been in France long?” he asked as they passed each other in the dance.

  “Three weeks,” Leona declared as she passed him again, stepping lightly backward in the intricate steps of the dance.

  “Oh. You speak excellent French for one from afar,” he complimented.

  “Oh,” Leona bit her lip, counting in her head as the dance became complex. “Thank you, milord.”

  “Your family ensured you were tutored?”

  “My mother taught me,” Leona said bluntly. Thinking of her mother moved her. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing it away.

  “Herself?”

  The count smiled, lips moving up thinly, as if amused. Leona felt her cheeks flame. A noblewoman being taught by her own mother was surely something unusual. She had probably just embarrassed herself. “A little,” Leona demurred. “After all, she is the one with French blood.”

  “I see,” the count mused. “Not your father, then?”

  “No,” Leona said shakily. “My mother is the Count of Annecy's daughter.”

  “Oh. He had no male issue, then?”

  “No,” Leona said, frowning. He knew that, surely? Or why would her uncle have inherited when his brother passed? This man confused her entirely.

  “Quite,” he said. His voice was tranquil, but his eyes had narrowed, looked searching.

  What is he planning?

  “You will stay in the country long?” he inquired when they next passed in the dance.

  Leona, stepping back to avoid Lady Bellmonte's skirt, which trailed on the floor behind her, nodded. “At least two months more, my lord.”

  “Wonderful,” he said lightly.

  Leona tensed. “I believe autumn is a beautiful season,” she said, changing the subject quickly. “I would regret missing it.”

  “It is beautiful,” the count said softly. “And a good time for marriage, I'm informed.”

  “Oh?” Leona swallowed hard. Why was he talking about marriage? Part of her knew, of course, though the rest
refused belief.

  “A time of tranquility. Of repose. Of abundance at the harvest time,” he added.

  “True,” Leona said, looking fixedly away from him.

  “I intend to have an autumn matrimony myself,” he said firmly.

  “Oh,” Leona said lightly. “A capital notion.”

  He looked into her eyes and Leona felt herself shake.

  When will this dance end; oh, please!

  She glanced around her, but the rest of the couples seemed oblivious to her turmoil. They were dancing, gliding, and unaware of anything but the sublime music from the musicians and the slow steps of the dance. No one could see her plight. No one could help her out of this mess that seemed to be enveloping her.

  “Yes, milady,” he said softly. “A...capital notion.”

  At last, she heard the ending tones of the dance, a lilting cadence in a grave tone. She curtseyed, sweepingly. He bowed.

  “Enchanted, my lady,” he said as they stepped back off the dance floor once more. He kissed her hand.

  Leona closed her eyes, feeling those cold, hard lips on the back of her hand, gliding smoothly over her joints. She looked at the spot on the wall she could see over his head, ignoring him.

  When he stood, releasing her hand, his eyes locked on hers, she felt as if she was signing a death warrant.

  This man intended to wed her.

  It felt as if someone had announced her own death. When she glanced around and saw her uncle, she knew that, happy and jovial as he looked, he had planned it too.

  However, her heart was set on one man; and on he only. Conn. Where are you now? Come to me!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  RIDE IN THE COUNTRYSIDE

  RIDE IN THE COUNTRYSIDE

  “And if you want to go riding, my lady, you only have to say...”

  Leona stood on the hill overlooking the woodlands that made up much of his estate. She turned to hear her uncle's footsteps approaching behind her.

  “Thank you, Uncle. You have been so kind,” she said and smiled.

  “Nonsense,” he said briskly. “You are like a daughter to me. In fact, I have it in my mind to make you my daughter by law.”