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

by Ferguson, Emilia

  “Yes,” Henry murmured, “it is.”

  He headed to his bedchamber to change, then downstairs and out into the garden.

  His mood didn't lift as he rode across the estate, heading north toward the forested hillsides. He felt his temper sour, if anything, the more he thought about his father's mild request. If it wasn't bad enough to drag he and Marguerite away across the countryside, following his ideas! To put strictures on whom they could and couldn't marry was far worse.

  Not only that – to make it so obvious that I am being cruel even to entertain the notion. It's not fair.

  The wind whipped through his hair as he rode and he felt his fingers tighten on the reins as his horse stumbled on the uneven ground, forcing him to bring his attention back to the present moment. He leaned backward a little, letting his horse slow from the pace they'd been going, and went more slowly up the hillside.

  The air smelled of rain, and Henry breathed it in, knowing how foolish he had been to come out now. It was certain he was going to get soaked, and probably sick.

  I don't care. I've had enough of people telling me what to do with my life.

  He knew it was ridiculous – he had only met Lady Francine two days ago, and danced with her once. Nevertheless, it was not simply that – it was the principle of it. It seemed typical of his father to rob his happiness before it was properly born. Love his father as he did – and he did love him, with a broad devotion – he couldn't help but notice how often he dampened his joy.

  At least he hasn't managed to do the same to Marguerite. That would be tragic.

  Marguerite was irrepressible, and her happiness was a candle in the gray world in which Henry found himself.

  Francine is another candle – a warm, bright light.

  He sighed, feeling his heart twist painfully. His eyes narrowed as he looked across the field. He was high up here – high enough to have a wide view of the plain below, and someone, on a wheaten horse, riding.

  The rider was leaning over the horse's neck, back straight, posture well-schooled. They were wearing white, too, and a white hat, which, as he watched, slipped slightly and let loose a coil of hair – pale hair.

  He stared. He hadn't noticed at first, but the rider was inarguably female, dressed in a long white dress, and she was riding with a fluid grace that made him recall the ball, the evening before. It was Francine.

  She was riding so fast he had to go to join her. Something seemed amiss.

  Taking a deep breath, heart thudding in his chest, he headed down the hillside to join her.

  A SENSE OF DANGER

  Francine rode hard. It was partly to escape the sense of confinement and frustration she felt. More importantly, it was to throw off that awful, disconcerting sense that someone was watching her. All that morning, she had sensed someone, just on the edge of her vision. She'd caught movement out of the corner of her eye when she'd been picking herbs, but when she'd looked, there had been nothing.

  I can't stay in the manor any longer. If I do, I might go mad.

  Out here it was raining, a slow autumnal rain. It was cold, too, and the breeze made the rain seem colder, the droplets icy where they dampened her face. Francine didn't mind. The wind whipped her hair, drawing her bonnet back off her head, setting her curls tumbledown about her shoulders. She smiled, the wind cold on her cheeks. She felt the wind tousle her hair and with it felt the fierce warmth of freedom.

  Her horse veered to avoid a small tree and Francine threw her weight left, slowing them in the turn, and that was when she saw the shadow. A rider, coming hard toward them.

  No!

  Her first thought was utter panic. Fraser!

  She knew in that moment what she thought was the identity of the watcher and then, as horror made her sit up, rigid, in the saddle, knew how completely she feared him.

  “Stop!” she yelled as the rider came closer, almost upon them. Her fear was no longer simply for Fraser, but for the very real possibility that the other horse was going to run into them. She closed her eyes and leaned back, hating herself for sawing on the reins. Damson reared sharply, making Francine's jaws click, and stopped.

  Francine leaned forward, sobbing air into her lungs, her whole body shaking.

  “Francine!” someone shouted her name, horror shrilling the voice. It was a voice she knew. She stared and found herself looking straight into a pair of blue eyes.

  “Henry?”

  She said his name without his title, and only thought to notice afterward. He had called her by her name alone also, she realized then. She felt a slow flush creep into her face, outdoing the fear and exhaustion.

  “My lady,” he said, awkwardly adding the epithet too late. He drew off his hat, holding it against his chest. “I saw you riding. I apologize for the near-collision. You ride...excellently.”

  Francine blushed. “My thanks, sir,” she said. “But I must ask you, what were you doing? It's about to rain. And why such haste? You almost hit me.”

  “I know,” he said. He sounded contrite and Francine immediately regretted her harsh tone. “I just...I was up there and I saw it was you. And I wanted to talk.”

  Francine stared up at him as he finished clumsily, head hanging. She felt a sweet warmth rise into her chest. He had wanted to talk to her? Did he, then, feel something like the way she did? She frowned, hiding her joy.

  “I...I am glad, sir,” she managed to say. “It is a strange day for a ride, though.”

  “Yes,” he chuckled. “It is. I wished to be outdoors. Might I ask why you are out riding too?”

  Francine swallowed. The responses she could give came to her mind at once. I was angry. I was distressed. I was scared. Someone is following me.

  “I needed to be alone,” she said.

  To her surprise, he smiled. His blue eyes were close to the color of cornflowers, she noticed – at least, they seemed that way, so intense, when he smiled.

  “I was out for much the same reason,” he said. “My father...” he trailed off, frowning.

  “Yes?” Francine asked quietly.

  “My father can be awkward sometimes,” he said. He looked uncomfortable.

  “I know,” Francine said softly. “Mine, too.”

  “Yours too?” he asked.

  She nodded. Their eyes met.

  Francine felt as if his eyes reached out to her, touching something inside her that nothing else could touch. She found that her chest hurt and took in a breath, steadying herself.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “He...doesn't think about us, his children. He never has. I feel trapped, sometimes. Like I need an escape. When I feel that way, I come out here. I feel...free here.” She waved a hand across the field, running out of words.

  Why am I talking to him like this? she wondered. He is a stranger! Yet, somehow, it feels so easy to talk to him – as easy as if I was talking to Arabella, or myself.

  When she met his gaze again, he was looking at her with such an expression of sweetness it made her heart ache.

  “I know how you feel,” he said. “I just never thought to meet anyone who would understand so well.”

  Francine swallowed. “Nor I.”

  His eyes held hers and she found herself unable to conceal her smile. She beamed at him and the answering grin was a thing of radiant beauty out here in the rain. They stared at each other, grinning, until he laughed awkwardly.

  “We're getting wet.” The observation was made mildly.

  Francine laughed. “Yes, I suppose we are. We ought to move.”

  “We have a warm fire at Estmoor – and it's close, too: twenty minutes’ ride,” he offered.

  Francine stared at him. “It would not be proper for me to go with you.”

  Her heart ached as she said it. She wished to go, she realized. More than she had ever wanted anything. However, she could not. Of course she could not.

  “Of course,” Henry replied. He sounded sad. “I was wrong to ask that of you.”

  “No,” she said so
ftly. “It wasn't wrong. But...I cannot.” She sighed. She knew she should tell him what troubled her: I am to be married to a man I despise, simply to serve my father's will. How could she tell him – or anyone else – that? To say it was to make it inevitable. In addition, she still planned to avoid it.

  “I understand,” he said.

  They looked at each other. Henry swallowed hard, then, to her surprise, rode forward. He was a hand's breadth away now, their horses snorting with affront and interest as they rubbed noses.

  “My lady,” he said softly. “I...forgive me, but...”

  With that, he reached out and gently took her hand. Francine stared at him in utter disbelief, her whole body thrilling with the sweet shock. His fingers tightened round her own. His hand was warm, the grip on her fingers strong, the muscle of them evident as they gripped tighter through the thin leather of her glove. This close, she could smell the scents of damp leather and spicy pomade, mixed with the gentle warmth of his skin. Her body ached in a way she'd never experienced before.

  “Sir..?”

  “Forgive me.”

  He let go then, slowly, reluctantly. Francine let out a long sigh as he turned his horse and rode away. She watched as he went five paces, and then turned around, looking back. She raised her hand in salutation. He waved back.

  As his horse carried him away along the hillside, Francine blinked, feeling her eyes full of tears. Angrily, she cuffed at them. Why am I weeping?

  She turned her horse, apologizing for the force with which she did so as she protested, neighing loudly. “Sorry, Damson,” Francine sniffed. “It's not you. It's me. I am such a fool.”

  Why, when she was faced with the prospect of marriage to Fraser, did she have to make things harder for herself? Now it was not simply a matter of avoiding Fraser McGuinness, but also a matter of addressing this strange, sweet longing she felt inside her every time she was close to Henry.

  Why, oh why, could she not feel that way for Fraser? It would have been so much easier if she could simply transfer her affections from Henry to him. However, it was impossible. The merest thought of Fraser made her shiver.

  She wiped a trail of rain out of her eyes and rode toward the tree-line. As she went into it, ducking under the low boughs of a pine-tree, she stiffened. There it was again – that sense of being watched.

  “Who goes there?” she called.

  No answer.

  There was no sound, only the sudden snap of a twig, as if someone rode through the brush. She tensed. “Who is it?”

  No one answered.

  All the same, the tension was more than she could bear. There was someone out there; she could feel it. It was the same sense she'd had in the manor, crossing the courtyard. In fact, it was the same sense as when she'd left on this ride.

  “Fine,” she said loudly. “Stay hidden if you will. Why must I care?”

  She faced the glade bravely, but no one emerged. Then, shivering, she turned away abruptly.

  “Come on, Damson,” she said gently. “Let's go home.”

  They rode.

  As they went back along the path, the sense of being watched lessened. By the time they were nearing the foot of the incline where Duncliffe was built, she was almost entirely certain she'd imagined it all. Why would anyone be out in the woodlands watching her?

  “It's the worrying, Francine,” she said. “It's disturbing your mind.”

  A bit of lavender in the tea – that would help lessen her worries, ease her mind. Some extra sleep wouldn't hurt, either – she had attended too many parties recently and was tired.

  “Come on, Damson,” she said, patting her horse's neck. “It's time we were back.”

  They rode up the path and into the courtyard.

  Later, in her bedchamber, a warm towel around her shoulders, sitting on the bed in her under-shift, Francine let her mind wander back to that moment when Henry had taken her hand.

  Her tummy tingled as she recalled the way it had felt, the pressure on her fingertips, the sweetness of his smile as he gazed into her eyes.

  “Oh, Henry!” she chided. “Why did you have to be born in England, and so unwelcome here?”

  If it were not for that, she could perhaps even have convinced her father of his suitability. She sighed.

  No, I couldn't. Father wants McGuinness as his ally. I couldn't make him accept another in his place, whatever I said.

  She heard a knock at the door, and looked up quickly, heart pounding. “Yes?”

  “Milady?” Bertha said. “Can I fetch you aught? A warm drink, mayhap?”

  “Oh! Bertha,” Francine said, relieved as the familiar sweet face appeared around the door. “Yes, please. A dish of tea.”

  “Very good, milady.”

  “And, Bertha?” she said, as the door started to close again.

  “Yes, milady?”

  “Could you fetch me fresh ink? I'm running out.”

  “Of course, milady.”

  Bertha carefully closed the door behind her, leaving Francine alone. She lay back on the bed, composing a letter in her mind. When Bertha had left the tea and ink, she added some lavender to the brew from a bunch on her desk, and then settled down behind the desk to compose a letter.

  Dearest Arabella, she wrote. I find myself in sore need of your counsel. I would dearly love to visit you, but circumstances hold me at Duncliffe presently. I feel a sense of danger here, something I cannot yet understand.

  She stopped and crossed that out, the part about the danger, not wanting to alarm her sister.

  I wish that I had your reassuring presence by my side as I traverse these difficulties. If I find myself sore pressed here, I may seek leave to visit you a while. I trust it would not be an encumbrance, were I to arrive on Friday and visit for a fortnight, though I ask if you could let me know at once? Yours always, Francine.

  She frowned at the letter, wondering if she would, in all good conscience, simply leave here and visit her sister. It was perhaps wrong simply to flee the situation, but what could she do? As it was, the letter would take two days to be delivered, and her sister's reply two days to return. That would mean she could only safely begin her journey on the last day of the week she'd asked for.

  Nevertheless, it was worth it. If I go north, I can avoid ever having to confront Fraser again.

  And, she thought, scattering sand over the letter to dry the ink, she would avoid the watcher, whoever it was, Fraser or no. She wished she knew their identity.

  Whoever's stare it was, the weight of it was more than a simple interested gaze. More intrusive, more cruel, or so it felt. Shivering again, though she was no longer particularly cold, she sealed the letter. Wrapping her nightgown around her shoulders, she went to the door.

  “Bertha?” she called into the hallway.

  “Yes, milady?” Bertha's chambers were beside hers, and it seemed she was in them, for she appeared almost at once.

  “If you could give this letter to Mr. Hume? I would like him to deliver it to the mail-coach.”

  “Very good, milady.”

  As soon as Bertha had gone, Francine dried her hair with the linen towel, took off the nightgown, and clambered into bed. It was six of the clock, and she'd had no dinner, but she was wearied by the cold and tension. She lay back against the pillow, eyes closed. Soon afterward, she was asleep.

  She woke to pitch darkness, cold and weary, and sat bolt upright. All her hair was standing on end. Something was moving in her chamber.

  She froze with horror, too stiff to move a muscle. She wanted to cry out, but her throat was too tight. Slowly, her eyes accustomed to the dark. She noticed it was simply the curtain, billowing in the breeze.

  “Francine,” she sighed, as she made herself get out of bed to close her windows. “You are truly worried about this, aren't you?” She closed the window, drew the thick brocaded drapes and got back into bed.

  Though it was only the wind, the incident had made her realize something. She truly felt in danger here.
She had to leave. It was just as well she had written to Arabella. She needed to get away from here. And soon.

  PLANNING A BALL

  Henry sat at his desk, trying to compose a letter to William, a good friend in London. The house was quiet and, with the planned ball in two days' time, he found himself at a loose end, with no one to talk to presently. Father was working on the accounts, Marguerite a one-woman workhouse of activity, planning for the ball.

  “Henry?”

  He looked up. He found himself looking at Marguerite, who called him from the door. “Yes?” he asked, frowning.

  “Henry?” she said again. “Do come upstairs! I need your advice.” Her heart-shaped face was full of excitement, her red hair bright against the rainy sky outside.

  “Oh?” Henry frowned. He stood and winced as his legs took his weight – he had been sitting almost all afternoon and they had stiffened. “You do?”

  “Yes!” Marguerite enthused. “I trust you haven't forgotten the ball we're hosting? I need your advice on what to wear.”

  “Oh?” Henry frowned again, feeling a first tremor of panic. It wasn't simply the prospect of advising his sister on her clothing, but the thought of the ball itself.

  Who has Father invited?

  If Father had any intention of pursuing his plan of marrying him to an Englishwoman, the ball would likely have rather limited attendance. Either he would have to invite more guests than simply the three or four English families living near to Edinburgh, or he would have to organize a simpler evening. A whist party, perhaps.

  “We have a large guest list?” Henry asked interestedly as he followed Marguerite up the stairs.

  “The usual, brother. The Marwells and Andovers, and I think the Stanfords. I think he's invited the local gentlefolk too – we have room for fifty guests. It was hard work getting Mrs. Camberley in the kitchen to find victuals for fifty, I tell you!” she explained. “She said we could seat thirty and I had a long task persuading her that this was to be a grand event, not simply a house-party for a few close friends.”

  The local gentlefolk. Francine?