Destiny Of A Highlander: Blood of Duncliffe Series (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Ferguson, Emilia

  The way she danced was so light and graceful! He stared, watching her drift between the others as if she was water, and they marble. She moved with such lightness that he just stared, watching her dance. He almost missed a step and a woman glared at him, making him notice he had planted himself in her path, almost in the middle of the dance-floor, simply watching Francine as she moved so gracefully.

  “I'm sorry,” he murmured. She was already gone though, and he hurried to hold out his hand to Francine. She took his and they stepped into the next phase of the dance.

  Side by side, arms resting on each other's shoulders, they moved back to the edge of the dance-floor as the other couples moved along the row, then took their turn, hands joined, stepping through the intricate movements until the dance ended.

  It ends too quickly.

  Henry stared as Francine curtseyed, a low, deep one, then looked up at him, eyes shining, face flushed.

  “My lady,” he murmured, in wonder.

  She blushed. “Well, Lord Henry. That was a lovely dance.”

  “It was,” he nodded. The couples had left the floor now, some clapping in congratulations, others simply smiling or waiting for the next dance to begin.

  He leaned back and then forward, a nervous habit, as he wondered whether it would be proper to ask her to dance with him again.

  “My lord,” she said softly. “I...I should go.”

  “Oh.” Henry felt a stab of misery as she said that. He didn't want her to go! Not yet. They had barely even started speaking! Though he had been here for two hours already, it felt like the evening was only just beginning.

  “I must attend to my family duties.”

  “Oh.” Henry swallowed hard, feeling bereft as she curtseyed, and then turned to go. Her hand was close to his and it seemed she reached for his fingertips even as he reached for her hand. As they met, her fingers in his, he felt his heart settle, a strange sweetness filling it he had never known before. “Goodnight, Lady Francine.”

  “Goodnight, Lord Henry.”

  As she drifted away across the ballroom, fast lost in the milling, dense crowd, Henry felt his heart melt with warmth. He had never met anyone who made him feel like she did. All he knew was that he hoped he would see her again, and soon.

  She was a light in the darkness of his exile.

  IN CONFIDENCE

  I couldn't stay there any longer. Francine walked out of the ballroom and into the carriage, and she felt her heart beat faster. She knew that what she had done was something her father – had he seen her – would never condone. As it was, he had left with Lord Canmure about an hour into the ball, to see to the stocks he was collecting at his home.

  She had to leave now – if she didn't, she would dance with Henry all evening. She smiled a little sadly, thinking that and knowing that she could not indulge her joy in him more.

  “Thank you,” she said, accepting the hand the footman offered to help her into the coach. It was not late – it was just past ten of the clock, the dinner just ended – but she felt weary and realized the need to leave.

  If she had stayed, she might risk talking to the Englishman again. In addition, if Fraser saw her...she wasn't going to contemplate what would happen then.

  She sat down and looked as Douglas took the seat opposite her. He leaned back and closed his eyes, seeming as weary as she felt.

  “I'm glad we decided to go,” he commented, eyes still closed. “I don't know why – maybe the air was just close in there, but I feel weary. I didn't want to leave so early, but I had to.”

  “I, too,” Francine nodded, stifling a yawn. She was tired – a sort of drained exhaustion that came, she was sure, at least partly from how tense she had been.

  If Fraser saw me with Henry, I am as good as disgraced.

  Fraser would not stand for her displaying interest in another man. Always jealous, it would be worse now she had questioned his suitability with her request for a week. She had noticed his attitude become more threatening and needier at once. If he saw her speak to Henry, she wasn't sure what he would do. However, she was fairly sure it would be something unpleasant.

  “You danced beautifully, sister,” Douglas commented. “I saw you in the sarabande.”

  Horror flooded her. “Douglas! I was...”

  He put a finger at his lips. Slowly, he grinned. “I won't say anything to anyone,” he said. “I promise.”

  Francine felt her heart spark with pleasure. “Douglas!” she smiled, feeling a sudden urge to laugh. “You saw me and Henry? You won't...”

  “I won't tell anyone, sister,” Douglas agreed. “Father was gone by then and Fraser...I think he was too busy arguing with Lord Arthur about horse-racing even to think about anything else in the room. You're safe.”

  Francine felt cold as the relief washed through her. She leaned back, if anything more exhausted than she had been before. “Douglas, you know I wouldn't...”

  “I know you wouldn't do anything improper,” he replied, seeming to read her thoughts. “Francine, you're my big sister. I wouldn't doubt you for the world. But be careful of Fraser. And Father. You know they wouldn't approve.”

  “I know,” Francine sighed. “It's just that...he's different, Douglas.” She sighed. Talking about Henry made her feel good inside – warm and happy. She wanted to talk about Henry: How she felt when she looked at him, how well he danced, and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled and how it made her feel.

  Perdition, Francine! She was surprised at herself. Why am I thinking like this?

  Is this how Arabella had felt, when she met her Richard? Perhaps it was.

  The thought made her feel warm inside. She had often wondered how one felt when one met someone who...well, who mattered. Henry was the first person who had made her feel this lovely and she wasn't about to let it stop. “I will be careful, Douglas,” she promised.

  “Good,” Douglas nodded. Then he smiled. “As if I am in any space at all to counsel you, sister! I'm the one talking to Deborah Whitshore.”

  “You are?” Francine smiled. Deborah was the daughter of a disgraced Scots lord, one who had started out a Jacobite, but had since moderated his views. If their father knew, it would be imminently worse than his anger at her for sidestepping Fraser McGuinness' intent.

  Douglas chuckled dryly. “He didn't see me. I made sure of that.”

  “Good.” Francine nodded somberly. She felt a stab of anger at the unfairness of that. Why should Douglas hide his affection, any more than she must? It was wrong.

  Douglas sighed. “I do wish he went North more.”

  “Me too.” She paused. “Douglas?”

  “Mm?” Douglas was almost asleep. He shook himself, one eye blinking at her in the darkness of the coach. “What is it, sister?” He stretched, stifling a yawn. “Something bothersome?”

  “Fraser – he didn't see me, did he? You’re sure?” The thought made her heart clench again with sudden fear.

  “No. I'm almost certain not.”

  “Whew.” She leaned back, letting out a long sigh of relief. The thought of him having an excuse for his cruelty had been almost too much for her.

  “If Fraser so much as raises an eyebrow to you without your wishing it, he'll answer to me.”

  Francine felt her heart melt at Douglas' hard words. “Oh, Douglas, no. I can't risk you like that...”

  She trailed off as he chuckled, harshly. “I couldn't let that fellow hurt you.”

  “Oh, Douglas,” was all she said. In her head, she kept the greater worry that, if Fraser and Douglas were to fight, Douglas would be badly injured. Fraser was many things, but strong like an ox and stubborn with it was chief among his traits. If he wanted to do someone an injury, he would.

  She was not going to have him hurt sweet Douglas. Not on her account. “I hope we will not have to concern ourselves with him.”

  “He concerns himself with us,” Douglas said softly. “Whether we want him to or no.”

  “I know
,” Francine replied.

  That was just the trouble. Fraser was no fool for all his bluff, brutish ways. He could see the advantage in allying himself with a powerful earl – one who was fully intending to become more powerful when the new king was on the throne.

  Father needs the clansmen if he is to bring a proper force of men to the field.

  The two of them together had much to gain, and it seemed she was the only one with aught to lose.

  What loss, she thought sadly, looking down at her hands. They were pale in the darkness of the carriage, the skin standing out against the pale pink of her gown. She would lose her life – at least the happiness of it – her future and her chance to feel the joy that Henry made her feel.

  Moreover, having felt that once, she was not about to give it up.

  Not yet, anyhow. Not without an attempt to change things. There had to be another way.

  She leaned back, closing her eyes. She wished she could see her own future. She had glimpses, now and again, for Douglas, visions of a woman with spice red hair who may or may not be Deborah. However, for herself...nothing. Not so much as a whisper. Only the merest trace of a shadow, a sense of something uncertain, something that was not definite – not yet.

  She leaned back, closed her eyes, and let the rocking of the coach against the cobbles lull her to sleep.

  The next morning, the manor was quiet. Francine rose, uncertain of the time, and called for Bertha to help her dress. In a red brocade gown, she finally went up to the solar for breakfast. “Douglas?” she whispered.

  “He's gone,” Douglas said.

  Francine let out a long, shaky sigh. He meant their father, she guessed. His trips out hunting, or up North, were moments of sweet respite for both of them. “When?”

  “At first light this morning. I heard him leave – the hoof-beats in the courtyard. I think he must not have slept.” He huffed a disbelieving laugh.

  “Oh.”

  Francine lowered herself into the seat opposite, feeling a bubble of joy rising slowly in her heart. Without her father there, she always felt freer.

  She reached for a bread-roll and a slice of cheese and relished the peace and quiet in the castle.

  “Milady? A pitcher of milk?”

  “Oh! Yes please.” Francine smiled at Mallory Mullins, who had come up from the kitchen. The older woman's eyes twinkled.

  “Master's not in. Be back tomorrer mornin',” she observed cheerily.

  Francine nodded, smiling. It was remarkable, but even the servants were happy when her father quit the castle. She was far from alone in finding his dictatorial presence oppressive. “I believe so,” Francine nodded, trying to sound mild.

  “More eggs?” Mrs. Mullins asked.

  Douglas nodded. “Yes. Let's have three or four more, shall we? We need a full table. Is Lord Fraser joining us later?”

  “Methinks the McGuinness is gone riding,” Mrs. Mullins observed. “So it's the two of you alone for breakfast.”

  “Oh.”

  Francine looked at her plate, wanting very badly to grin. She bit her cheeks and waited for Mrs. Mullins to leave the room. Then she smiled at Douglas. “Whew.”

  Douglas nodded, smiling back. “Indeed, sister. A reprieve from both of them, it appears. Shall we ride later?”

  “Why not?” Francine asked, grinning. “I could do with a ride. It would be nice to be in the fresh air.”

  “Yes.”

  After breakfast, they readied themselves for riding. Francine wore her best riding-habit – the white one with the lace trim, a white bonnet perched neatly on her hair – and headed down to the drive. As she stood on the white gravel, waiting for Douglas, a hand descended on her wrist.

  “Milady,” a voice growled.

  Francine spun around, horrified, as she found herself looking into Fraser's hard face. “Fraser!” she managed to say. “I...thought you were out riding?”

  “Aye,” he nodded grimly. “And I came back. It seems you're busy going your own way, eh?”

  The bitterness in the tone made Francine look at him, confused. “I'm going out riding, Fraser,” she said carefully, trying to maintain her composure. “I often do, at this time.”

  “Aye. Well, mind you're back for dinner. I don't like the thought of a woman out there alone, left to her own devices. Who knows who you might run into, eh?”

  “Fraser,” she said tightly. “I don't know what you're saying, but...ow! You're hurting me. Let go of my arm.”

  “You think I don't see you, eh?” he spat. “Well, walls have ears. And I listen and all. You’d do well to remember that.”

  He twisted her arm, drawing her toward him. Francine knew it was fruitless to try and break that grip – she couldn't fight him and knew it would make matters worse if she tried. Worse than the pain in her wrist was the fear that flooded her. He knew. He had seen her, or heard her, talking to Henry.

  “Fraser! I...”

  “McGuinness! I would advise you to stop that. Now.”

  Francine felt relief flood her as she heard feet on the stone stairs. Douglas.

  She saw Fraser's eyes narrow in rage, and then he released her. He stepped away. “I was just having a word with Lady Francine,” he said tightly.

  “A word, yes,” Douglas said levelly. “As I recall, there is no need to speak with your hands.”

  Fraser looked down at his hand, then at Francine's arm. The prints of his fingers were clearly visible there, red imprints that were impossible to hide. Francine saw him swallow. “I...I only meant to have a word, Lord Douglas,” he said. “I'll be going now.”

  “See that you do,” Douglas said tightly. “And then there's no harm done.”

  Fraser went red. Francine saw his throat work as if he would reply. Whatever angry words rose to his lips, he had sufficient sense to keep them to himself. She saw the effort he made to conceal his rage, his hand clenching as if he would strangle someone. Then he moved on.

  She waited until his footsteps had died away on the gravel. “Whew,” she sighed, turning to Douglas. Her whole body was suddenly achingly tired, as if she had spent all day riding. “Thank you.”

  “It was nothing,” Douglas said. His voice was hard.

  Francine turned to look at him. He clenched the handle of the riding-whip tightly and a bitter, haunted look held his face. It was an expression much older than his nineteen years.

  “I'm just glad he went,” Francine murmured. She did not want to see her brother hurt, and he would be if he fought with Fraser. He clearly wanted to do so.

  “I, too, am glad,” Douglas murmured. Francine saw his fingers unclench on the whip he held, and he let out a steadying breath. Suddenly, she saw a glimpse of Douglas, in some time ahead, dressed in rich clothes, a year or two older. She saw the same intensity on his face, and hurt and pain coiled up inside him. His expression was one of anguish, and sorrow. Then the vision cleared.

  “Douglas,” she murmured, “don't be angry. You should leave here, rather than stay here and let it anger you.”

  Douglas looked into her eyes. She could see the sadness there, and a sort of bitterness, too. He laughed. “What can I do? I am Father's son.”

  Yes, Francine thought sadly. You are. And you hate how he suppresses you. I don't want to see that get worse.

  “Shall we ride?” she asked, walking across the gravel to join him.

  “Yes,” he said softly. “Let's ride.”

  Francine blinked to clear her vision, but the older, bitter Douglas had gone, leaving her in the present, heading toward the stables.

  It was cold in the manor – the first sign of winter creeping into an autumn that had been sunny. Francine shivered and drew her shawl about her shoulders, heading downstairs. The hallway the servants used was dark and dank, the walls plastered crudely, the floor bare. All the same, it was a stairway she had grown used to using during childhood. It was, after all, the fastest way to the kitchens. She needed now, as then, to speak to Merrick.

  “Milady
?” Mrs. Mallory, the assistant cook, frowned at her.

  “I need to speak with Mrs. Merrick? Is she here?”

  “Aye, lass, I am.”

  Francine felt relieved as the tall, black-eyed woman appeared from where she'd been working at the fireplace. Dressed in brown homespun, she nevertheless radiated a cool authority that had absolutely nothing to do with her position.

  She was the cook at Duncliffe, and this was admittedly her domain. However, the authority Merrick carried had nothing at all to do with the petty assignments of human authority. Merrick was wise, and it was her wisdom that lent that air of meaningfulness to everything she did.

  “Sit down, lass,” Merrick said. “What is it troubles you?”

  Francine hadn't mentioned being troubled, but it didn't surprise her that Merrick knew that. They had a bond, she and this wise older woman. In addition, it wasn't simply that. Merrick saw things sometimes – glimpses of the future, a sense of how things were or would be – just like Francine.

  “I had a vision, Merrick.”

  “Tell me.”

  Francine looked up. Her eyes drifted to Mrs. Mallory, who was standing at the stove, apparently not listening to anything they said.

  “If she's listening I'll make sure pennies big as pigeons rain down from the skies,” Merrick said, reflectively, “and that the old moat gets filled up with Malmsey wine.”

  Francine frowned, wondering why her friend and mentor was talking nonsense. Merrick grinned, humorlessly.

  “Mrs. Mallory didn't react. So she's not listening.”

  Francine tried not to laugh. “You're right. That was clever.”

  Merrick just smiled. “Tell me?”

  Francine cleared her throat. “I had a vision. I saw me,” she said, not sure how to continue. Her visions had almost always been of someone else – Arabella, maybe, or Douglas. Bertha once, when the girl was almost injured in a storm that brought down the sheds.

  “You did?” Merrick asked, waiting.

  “I did,” Francine swallowed. “I was...somewhere on the moorlands. Up on a hill. The vale was filled with mist and I couldn't see. My way was blocked. It wasn't that I couldn't go onward. Rather, I was supposed to go on. I needed to go on. But I couldn't see.”