“Oh, excuse me,” Henry murmured as he bumped into a woman.
The woman whipped around, hissing as if he had struck her, and the man beside her drew back, shooting Henry such a stern look of disapproval that he thought he might actually wither. He tensed, feeling his hands clench into fists by his sides.
“I meant no harm, sir.”
“Mind that you don't,” the man replied. His voice was cold and distinctly aloof.
Henry nodded and walked away. His hands were still tight and he felt a corresponding tightness in his chest, as if he would cry. He took a breath and made his fingers uncurl. He took in a deep breath, and then another. He made his mind repeat the same refrain that it always did when he found himself in situations like this one.
I am Henry Gracewell, and I mean no harm to anyone. I am English and a Jacobite both, and proud of it...
Someone interrupted his litany – an older man with a wide, friendly face. “Lord Henry.”
Henry looked up, recognizing Lord Cameron of Lochliel, a leader of the resistance. His eyes went round as the man inclined his head.
“A fine night, is it not?”
“Yes,” Henry nodded back politely, finding his voice at last. “Lord Cameron. Greetings.”
“Greetings to you, sir. And your fair sister.”
“My thanks.” Henry bowed and wandered off, feeling somewhat better. At least someone is being pleasant. Blessings on Lord Cameron and his legendary kindness!
In a room of openly hostile stares, the friendly greeting from one of the leaders of the resistance was a relief.
He noticed Marguerite, who had drifted to the edge of the room, her spice-red hair marking her as unique even in a gathering of Scotsmen. He went over to join them, his heart lighter than before.
“Henry!” Marguerite smiled. “There you are. I managed to find Lord Prester. He was just telling me about his crop-harvest.”
“Oh.” Henry smiled. Lord Prester was an ally of their father, and one of the only Scotsmen who openly spoke with them. Marguerite had evidently been coming to find him to include him in the friendly circle. He inclined his head gratefully to her. “Thank you. Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening, Lord Henry,” Lord Prester beamed. “As you can see--a fine gathering. My wife did insist I wear a coat, though the night seems unusually warm...”
“It's warm in here, for certain, husband. Though I think it's the press of people as does it,” Lady Prester commented, her heart-shaped, friendly face crinkling with a grin.
“Yes, Eugenie...I quite agree,” he murmured and nodded back.
Henry, watching them, feeling a pang. Old as they were, their love was a thing of true beauty. He wondered, not for the first time, if he would ever meet someone he loved as much as Lord Prester so clearly loved his wife.
I will be lucky to survive to four-and-twenty summers old, never mind find someone to love until we are gray!
He snorted to himself at the thought. His life was in danger here in Scotland, everyone imagining him an enemy.
Marguerite frowned, arching a pale brow over her golden eyes, making him realize he had snorted aloud.
“Um, sorry, sister,” Henry murmured. “I was just...I need some air. Her ladyship is right – it's awfully close here.”
“You see, Grant?” She beamed at her husband. “I'm not alone in thinking that.”
“No, dear. You're quite right.”
Henry moved toward the terrace, the affectionate banter ringing in his ears as he left, warming his heart.
Out on the terrace, he leaned heavily against the wall, drawing in great lungfuls of cool air. Mercy, but it was hot in there! It might be early autumn, but the weather was straight from summer's greatest heat. In addition, it was worse in there, with the group pressed so close, and the hostile atmosphere. Henry sighed.
At least out here, with the trees and the quiet, it feels safe.
The breeze sighed in the trees and Henry looked back at a ragged sunset, painting the trees in black shadow against the gold horizon. He shivered, the cool breeze catching him, working its way under his brocade coat.
He leaned back against the pillar and closed his eyes. The last year had worn heavily on him. At twenty-four, he should have been safely ensconced in England, learning the family accounts and investments, making ready to take over the vast landholdings in the north of England. Instead, with the unrest in Europe and the discontent in England, his father had aligned himself with this “new” cause – actually, an old cause, dating back almost thirty years, outside Henry's lifetime.
I don't rightly care who sits the throne, provided that they serve their people justly. Yet, here I am, suffering in exile for Father's rash whims!
He closed his eyes tightly, feeling his rage mix with sadness. How could his father take him, and even Marguerite, here, to this desolate land filled with hostile strangers? They could have had a comfortable existence, surrounded by those who loved them.
Mama would have had something to say against it.
Perhaps their father would have listened to Lady Hestony, their beautiful Mama, who had passed away two years after Marguerite's birth. However, as it was, her counsel was mute and so the family found themselves here, exiles in an unfriendly country.
So, thanks to his conviction that a Stuart king should sit the throne, I am here, among people who would as soon kill me as look at me, and both I and Marguerite are robbed of marriage prospects, isolated here.
He tried to stir himself into rage, but what he felt was really a deep sadness. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the trace of a tear track down his cheek. It was not simply this evening – it was months of such evenings, being disregarded and ignored, treated as less than human by other human beings.
I hate this.
He sniffed and reached for a handkerchief in his outer pocket. As he did so, he felt eyes upon him. He looked up.
Across the terrace, in the open doorway, her soft golden hair bound back in an intricate braid, was a girl. Her big eyes – mayhap gray, he couldn't tell from this distance – looked right into his.
As he watched, her soft mouth twitched into a gentle smile. Henry felt his heart melt. Then, as someone passed in front of her, crossing the room, he remembered where he was.
Henry! Pull yourself together.
He coughed and straightened, feeling shy. What would the girl think, seeing him staring?
She probably hadn't even been looking at him, he reasoned. Maybe she was just trying to decide whether or not to come outside.
Henry snorted. That must be it, he decided.
Hands at his sides, feeling awkward and a bit silly, he strode back into the hall. When he entered, he saw her again.
She was wearing a dress in soft pink, he noticed; a velvety fabric draped over an underskirt of quilted cream linen. Her hair was lightly powdered, as was the fashion, but mostly left with its natural golden softness. Her face was a long oval and her eyes were dark. He stared. She smiled.
“My lord?”
“My lady.”
Henry cleared a throat that had suddenly gone tight and bowed to her. She looked up at him. Her pale pink lips were parted in a little moue and he felt his whole body tighten with the first stab of longing. He wanted to feel those soft pink lips under his.
Henry! Stop it.
“You were taking the air? It is hot in here, isn't it?” the girl asked shyly.
“Um..?” Henry swallowed hard, trying to think of something to say. His throat was scratchy and he cleared it before he spoke. “Um...yes. Most warm,” he managed to say. She smiled.
“I had hoped they would open some of the windows in the gallery, but it seems they did not want to risk the candles going out.” She inclined her head toward the vast chandeliers above them, supporting dozens of candles that lit the room.
“Well, yes. You must be right,” Henry nodded. He bit his lip, feeling utterly foolish. What was it about this delicate, graceful creature with the big roun
d eyes that was making him behave so ridiculously?
“You have taken refreshment?” she asked.
“I haven't,” he managed to answer. He looked around, noticing that some people staring at them. Most were simply ignoring his presence. When he followed the girl, he noticed they still parted in a swathe before him, as if he was infectious.
“Milady?” he asked, suddenly feeling awful. If she associated with him, she would be tainted by whatever taint he carried. “You do know...Why are you talking to me?”
She stared at him, big eyes holding his gaze, untroubled. “I talk to you because I wish to,” she said innocently.
Henry closed his eyes. After an evening of being treated like vermin, this easy kindness was too much for him to bear. He swallowed hard. “I thank you, milady, for your kindness.” He blinked, knowing that he was almost moved to tears and hoping, very hard, not to let her see them.
“Kindness?” Her eyes went big. Then she laughed, very softly. “It is no kindness, sir. In fact, you could deem it selfishness, for you looked like interesting company. Now, come. I think they have two flavors of cordial, though you might wish for something stronger?”
Henry swallowed hard again, hiding a smile. “Thank you, milady.”
“Pish,” she said, dismissing it with a grin. With that, she led him to the table of refreshments and he found himself choosing something before he had rightly thought about it.
With a glass of blackberry cordial in one hand, a small pastry in the other, he found himself feeling more lighthearted than he had all week. Opposite him, the beautiful girl raised a glass of something pink to her lips and smiled at him.
“Cherry cordial,” she said and smiled. “My favorite. Cheers.”
Without thinking, he passed the glass over the bowl of water on the side-table, meant for guests to clean their hands. It was the toast of a Jacobite – passing the glass across water, to signify the King in Exile, now in France.
He looked into her sparkling eyes. She laughed. “Aye!” She nodded, theatrically. She repeated the gesture, and then clicked his glass with hers. “To the King over the Water, and to a merry night.”
“The king, and a merry night.”
As he drank, he realized that he was happier than he could remember being in months.
A BEGINNING OF THINGS
The man was taller than her, but it wasn't this that Francine noticed first. The first thing she noticed were his eyes. Blue, the color of summer skies, they shone with a hesitant, shy warmth.
“You know the toast,” he said. “The Jacobite one?”
“Yes,” she replied.
He said nothing, but coughed nervously and looked at his feet, as if too shy to answer.
Francine felt her cheeks warm with a blush as she looked up at the tall man. It was strange, the way he made her feel. There was a sweet tingle inside, heart fluttering as she looked into those warm blue eyes. She felt curious about him, and wanted to know more. “You have been long in Scotland?” she asked.
Henry smiled. “Is it my accent?” he asked.
She laughed. “It isn't – forgive me, milord, but your hair betrays you.” It was true – in a room where nearly everyone was either dark-haired or blessed with the rich, bright auburn of the Highlands, the paleness of this man's hair drew the eye. It marked him at once as someone from another land.
The man smiled, albeit a wry expression. “Oh, how I hate it sometimes. I have considered wig powder, or mayhap simply coloring the lot with extract of walnuts.”
“Oh pray don't do it,” Francine spoke passionately. “It would be a pity to hide that color.” Looking at the pale hair, the blue eyes, she felt genuine dismay. How could he think to deface such natural beauty?
“Thank you, milady.”
He was blushing, she noticed, and she swallowed hard, going red. Had she really spoken so candidly to him? What was she thinking? Some fine lady, you are.
“Forgive my boldness, sir,” she said. “I speak too hastily. It is something I should stop.”
“Pray, don't do it,” he said gently. “It would be a pity to hide that wit.”
Francine stared at him. Her heart flipped. She felt her cheeks redden at once. “Thank you, sir,” she stammered.
He thinks I'm witty? Really? She felt warmth shoot down to her toes and she swallowed hard, not sure how to react to this new situation.
“Well, it's true,” he said lightly. “Now, how does one go about dancing in this place?”
Francine grinned, taken by surprise at the question. “Very much as anywhere, I believe, sir,” she said, equally lighthearted. “On having discovered a dancing-partner, you proceed over there to the dance-floor and line up as you see those people doing.”
He laughed, and flashed her a grin. “Well, then,” he said. “Shall we try it? It seems very simple, after all.”
Francine stared at him, and then giggled. “Yes,” she said, feeling the joy that she so rarely felt nowadays – since Arabella's leaving – bubble to the surface. “Let's do that.”
They went across the ballroom to the dance-floor. As the gentleman moved to the other side and stood in the line, facing her, Francine realized two things. First, that she was there with the McGuinness in attendance, and should be paying him this attention. Second, that she did not even know this fellow's name.
He bowed and grinned at her from across the floor. She caught a look of bemusement on the face of the woman standing beside him as she looked from the man to Francine and back again. The look altered to one of flat distaste as she looked at the Englishman. Francine felt her whole body cringe, as if she'd been struck. Then she felt the stirring of rage. How dare that woman dismiss him, simply because he was a foreigner?
She faced him and gave him a radiant grin. He smiled back. The music began.
The dance was a sarabande – slow and gracious. Francine felt the music melt into her bones, making her flow with it as she stepped out onto the floor. The man beside her followed – the men alternated with women in the lines, the dance performed in fours.
Francine didn't listen too carefully to the music or count in her head, at least not the way she knew some women did. She loved music, and let the sweet rhythm of it carry her as she flowed past the man and then back, her hand on his. They hadn't touched hands before.
She flushed, feeling him take her hand in the dance. His grip was strong, but not harsh, and she blushed at the contact. It seemed as if it raced up her arm to her heart, making it beat faster.
She circled him and then took the hands of the man beside her, they moved two steps to the right, two steps back, and then she circled with her dancing-partner again. He looked into her eyes.
She blinked, feeling confused. She smiled at him and he smiled back. Her belly tightened with that same sweetness she had felt when she met him. They moved down the hall.
The music grew louder and more intense, the sweet melody weaving around them and making Francine's heart swell with feeling. She looked up at her dancing-partner, and noticed he had a soft smile on his face. She felt herself smile back, wondering what it was that caused his levity.
The music reached its height, and then filtered away in sweet, formal cadences. The lines of dancers had reached their original spots, Francine opposite the gentleman again. The dance was ending now, the dancers bowing to each other. He bowed low. She curtsied, dropping as low as she knew how.
When the rest of the dancers left the floor, Francine paused, feeling not quite ready to break the strange spell that seemed to have fallen over the dance-floor. She noticed he, too, had lagged behind. She blushed and looked up at him.
“Thank you for the dance,” he said.
“I thank you,” she said. She frowned and licked her dry lips, wanting to find courage to ask him something. “Pray, why did you smile?” she asked, unable to hold back the question any longer.
“You dance so beautifully,” he said. “I couldn't help it.”
Francine felt her whole bod
y blush. She grinned, looking down. “You are kind to me.”
“No,” he said, and when she looked up she saw he was smiling again. “I'm truthful.”
She felt her heart melt and smiled, and his eyes held hers. She blinked, shyly, and wet dry lips. “I...it was sweet music,” she said, feeling shy. “I love music.”
“I noticed,” he said. “Anyone who dances so must love music.”
She laughed. “Thank you, sir. You were skilled in the dance, too.”
It was his turn to look at the floor. He scuffed the stone with his toe, and they both watched it moving it over the black marble square. He looked up then, smiling. “Thank you, milady,” he said.
Francine nodded, her eyes moving past him for a moment, gazing into the hall, and then idly over the dancers. It was then that she spotted Douglas in the crowd. He was staring at her.
Her body tensed. He would have seen her dancing with a stranger. “I must go,” she said quickly. What would he do? What would he think?
“Wait,” the man said. His face was stricken. “What is your name?”
She swallowed hard, suddenly feeling weak with embarrassment. “Forgive me for not mentioning it. It is Francine, milord.”
She curtsied, eyes on her skirts and the floor. When she looked up, he was staring at her.
“Francine,” he breathed.
When he said nothing more, she chuckled, nervously. It would have been proper, at this point, for him to tell her his name. She did not know it either, though she wished to. She frowned.
“What?” he said. He grinned, a boyish grin that was irresistible for smiling back.
“Pray, what is your name?” she asked. The grin flowered on her face, irrepressibly.
He went pink. He laughed. “Forgive me! My lady. You must think me a prime fool. I am Henry. Henry Gracewell.”
Destiny Of A Highlander: Blood of Duncliffe Series (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 2
