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

by Ferguson, Emilia

  “The pleasure's all mine,” Marguerite said, matter-of-factly. “I hope you're a keen dancer – we have need of young people fond of the dance.”

  “Oh. Thank you,” Francine said. “I like to dance, yes.”

  “Well, then. That's settled.” Marguerite nodded briskly. “At least the Estmoor Village Quartet won't be lost on someone.”

  “I hope not, no,” Francine said. She couldn't help smiling. She instantly liked Marguerite. Henry's eyes were soft with care as he looked at his sister. They were very close, she realized.

  She felt someone almost walk into her back and apologized, then followed Douglas into the hall.

  “A nice pair,” Douglas said. He had stopped just at the bottom of the stairs, finding a quiet space. His voice sounded oddly tight and Francine looked up, frowning. He was staring at Marguerite where she stood at the doorway.

  “Yes,” she nodded, feeling herself want to smile. “They seem a very nice pair to me too.”

  “Yes.”

  Francine looked across at her brother again, noting that he looked slightly dazed. She bit back a grin and followed him down into the ballroom. Marguerite had evidently had quite an effect.

  “Milady.”

  Francine felt her heart sink as the tall figure in a kilt and white linen shirt, the shoulders taut over his chest, approached. “Milord McGuinness.”

  She dropped a low curtsey, taking the opportunity to look away. If he saw the look in her eyes, he would know at once how dismayed she was to see him.

  “Milady. A pleasant place, is this not?”

  “Yes,” she agreed, swallowing hard as he looked down at her. “Very pleasant.”

  Feeling his eyes on her suddenly reminded her of the watcher. She shivered. Had it been him? She frowned.

  “You have been busy of late?” she asked mildly. He had barely been seen at Duncliffe Manor, though he was their guest. Nevertheless, why would be choose to skulk in the woods when he could follow her about as much as he liked, encouraged by her father? It made no sense.

  “I have, milady. I crave your forgiveness,” he said in that slightly-accented voice of his. “I have been over-occupied with matters of my clan and have neglected your company.”

  “I have kept myself busy,” Francine said lightly.

  “Aye,” he said bitterly. “I know.”

  She met his gaze squarely. “That sounds almost like an accusation, sir,” she said. She giggled, taking the edge off, but she was not joking.

  “It does, and all,” Fraser agreed gravely. “I know what you've been about, milady. Just because you delayed me by a week does not mean you can dally with others. I take it sorely when what's mine is tampered with.”

  “Sir!” Francine stared at him, horror stiffening her spine. “I take it sorely when I am insulted. No one seeks to tamper with me. And I am not yours, mind you.” She finished softly.

  “You will be,” he said, taking her wrist in his hands. His touch on it was hard, the fingers tight, and she winced, wildly looking around for Douglas. She spotted his back where he stood, talking to a shorter woman in a dark blue dress.

  She stared at Fraser. “Let go of my hand,” she said.

  He let go. His face twisted with an unpleasant expression, but he nevertheless released his grip on her arm. She turned away and briskly walked up the ballroom, heading to the refreshment table. There were many people there and he could not risk being seen mishandling her by so many people.

  When she reached the refreshment table she leaned on it, sighing heavily. Her heart thudded wildly in her chest and her knees felt weak.

  I cannot let that man near me.

  She shivered. His eyes, when he looked at her, were possessive. They coldly devoured her. She felt as if she shrank when she was near him, becoming a shadow of herself. In addition, his fingers on her wrist, the way they tightened so cruelly, were so cold. He was not the sort of man who would care if he hurt her.

  “You can disown me if you will, Father,” she whispered boldly. “I will not marry him.”

  “Cordial, milady?” the footman asked her, pausing with his ladle over a bowl of dark red cherry cordial, drops running liquidly down the side.

  “Um...I thank you, yes.”

  Francine accepted a glass of cordial, sipping it delicately. It was thick and syrupy, the taste almost dusky with black-dark cherries. She felt it calm her nerves and looked around the ballroom for a glimpse of her brother.

  She spotted his dark-haired head in the midst of a small group. Tall and broad-shouldered, Douglas was easy to spot. So was Fraser. She thought she saw his tall, muscled form by the doorway and headed briskly in the other direction, toward where her brother stood.

  “Lady Francine!” Lady McGowan greeted her, smiling. “I am so pleased to see you. My! I am certain you're taller yet.”

  Francine smiled at the soft, pretty face. “It's lovely to see you.”

  “And Douglas!” Lady McGowan continued, rapturous. “He has certainly grown! Why, he's far taller than your father now, methinks. Unfortunate his leg pains him so – it would have been pleasant to have him here with us.”

  “Indeed,” Francine said, looking around swiftly. She spied a pale-haired head on the other side of the ballroom, in the midst of a group of dark-clad men. She felt a strong impatience, an earnest need to be there on the other side of the room.

  She glanced at Douglas, who was replying to a question from Lady McGowan. He noticed her gaze. “Do you think you could tell Lord Mullins that Father is unwell?”

  “Douglas!” Francine quickly masked her happy expression. “I would be happy to.”

  “Well, then,” he said, and with a slight inclination of his head, gave her the perfect excuse to go and join the group of dark-clad men with Henry. She wanted to kiss her brother. He was so kind!

  “Lord Mullins?” she said, approaching a stocky-built older man with a thick head of black locks. He looked much younger than his forty-eight years.

  “Yes? Oh! Lady Francine!” Her father's old friend beamed at her, face lighting up. “A pleasure to see you! Please convey my greetings to your father. Where is he, the wily old devil?”

  “He's not here tonight,” Francine explained. “His leg pains him.”

  “Too much riding. That's what it does. I tell him, but do you think he listens to me?” he shrugged, laughing.

  Francine grinned. “I can imagine he does not.”

  “You are right,” the man agreed, pulling a wry face. “You know Lord Henry, of course?” he asked as Henry leaned in, so close she could almost feel the warmth of him on her back.

  “I do, yes.” Francine curtseyed. When she looked up again, she was staring straight into Henry's blue eyes.

  “Milady,” he said. “You like our ballroom?”

  “Um, yes,” Francine said, licking dry lips. “It's, um, very modern.”

  “Yes! Marguerite insisted we take this house when she saw it. Not that we had much choice, mind. There were so few houses to let in this region, certainly none Father also liked...” he trailed off. “Sorry. I'm talking over-much.”

  “Nonsense,” Francine demurred, smiling at him brilliantly. “I never know what to say in conversations.”

  “Me neither!” Henry laughed, his handsome face made stunning with a smile. “I just say any old thing, which is the worst technique, I'm sure. One looks an utter fool.”

  “Only to people who don't do exactly the same thing,” Francine grinned brightly. “To the rest of us, you look like you're doing what we all do when we start a conversation.”

  Henry laughed. “I will remember that.”

  “Good. It helps.”

  He laughed. They had unconsciously moved away from the others in the group and were now standing side-by-side near the dance-floor. Francine looked around quickly, feeling nervous.

  “We might be in the way, here,” she suggested. “Maybe I should...”

  “I wonder if you'd like to see the new velvet drapes my sister
ordered?” he said hastily. Francine smiled. It was almost as if he wanted her to stay and talk for longer. “We have not modified the house in many ways, but she wished to improve the ballroom somewhat.”

  “It is very fine already,” Francine demurred. “Can it be improved?”

  “Well, you ought to see the drapes, then.” Henry nodded. “And then you'll see how even this place could be made better by the right eye.”

  Francine laughed. “This I must see.”

  “Indeed, you must.” Henry nodded again, and turned toward the rear door. “Follow me.”

  Feeling her heart fill with happiness that outweighed her nerves, Francine followed Henry as he moved across the hall. Behind them, the quartet was still playing incidental music, the dances not yet beginning.

  “Here,” Henry said. They were standing at the rear wall, near the outside door. The long windows looked out onto a terrace and these were covered with long, wine-colored curtains in finest velvet.

  “Feel them,” Henry suggested, holding out a length of the curtain between his hands.

  “Oh!” Francine smiled, running a finger down the dark red velvet. “It's so fine.”

  “It is,” Henry said gently. “I have never seen anything so fine.”

  He was looking into her eyes. Francine swallowed hard, feeling a blush flood her cheeks with red. “Oh, sir,” she said.

  He didn't say anything. Neither did she. His hand moved toward hers on the cloth and, very gently, his fingers closed over hers. Neither of them wore gloves. The warmth of his flesh on hers was sweetly exciting. She closed her eyes a moment as he tightened his grip, his fingers tracing her wrist in a way that made her heart dance.

  “Francine?”

  She desperately looked back over at the ballroom. What if Fraser were out there, watching them? He had been so threatening earlier and she felt most unsafe. “I wonder...”

  “You seem concerned,” Henry noted quietly. “Is aught amiss?”

  “I think I should go,” she said, feeling her heart start to thud desperately. “What if someone sees...?”

  “Someone would object?” Henry frowned. Then he sighed. “I suppose my own father would. The doors to the terrace are open, though, and it is quiet there?” He raised a hopeful brow.

  “I shouldn't,” Francine whispered. Then she looked into that gentle face and knew that her heart wanted to take this opportunity. Why should she not?

  On Friday I will be away with Arabella, beyond his reach, and Fraser's. What matters it if I speak with him now? I might never see him again.

  “I do not mean to press you into aught,” Henry said, and gently let go her hand.

  Francine swallowed. Her fingers felt the loss of his, as if a limb of her own had suddenly lost its feeling. His handsome face looked sorrowful, eyes hurt. She cleared her throat.

  “I can spend a minute or two?” she offered.

  His smile was exquisite. “Let's, then.”

  They walked onto the terrace.

  Outside, it was cool, in breathtaking contrast to the stuffy, crowded warmth indoors. Francine looked around, letting the dark-blue stillness settle on her soul. The sound, too, was in contrast – out here, all was silence. Francine drew her shawl around her shoulders and stared out over the peaceful garden.

  “It's quiet here,” Henry murmured, echoing her thoughts.

  “It is,” she said. He was standing right beside her and she shivered, feeling his presence. He leaned against the wall beside her, his arm right next to hers. She drew in a breath and tried to ignore the tide of feeling that flooded her.

  “It's an extensive garden,” she said.

  “Yes,” Henry nodded. He leaned in slightly and she caught her breath as his shoulder rested on her own. His arm was half an inch from hers on the wall and she stiffened, not wanting to let herself move her own arm the tiny distance that would press it to his flesh.

  “You must have been pleased to find it. It's rare to find so large a place so close to the city.” Estmoor was twenty minutes' ride at least closer to Edinburgh than was Duncliffe Manor.

  “I am sure,” Henry agreed. He leaned closer to her and this time Francine let her arm move perhaps a hair's breadth closer. He leaned sideways and his hand moved to hers. Her breath stopped for a few seconds.

  His hand enveloped hers, fingers closing gently around it. His thumb moved to her palm and she felt as if a fist tightened on her heart, so intense was the feeling of sweetness that shot through her. She let herself lean against him and they stood thus, staring out into the darkness, where water flowed, albeit distantly, lit with shards of starlight.

  “Henry,” she managed in a soft whisper. “I cannot. I...” she trailed off, feeling at once a desperate need to tell him of Fraser and a desperate need to keep the tale forever to herself.

  I will be gone soon. I need not tell him and spoil this moment. It is all I will have with him.

  His hand tensed on hers. He hung his head.

  “My lady, I am sorry.”

  “No,” Francine said, twisting to face him. “You did nothing amiss.” He stood, too, though he kept his grip on her hand. He raised it, cupping it in both his own. She sighed and felt her heart melt.

  Slowly, he raised her hand and kissed it. Her whole body melted, then, as his lips, tender and exploring, gently nibbled at her knuckle. She sighed and closed her eyes, letting the touch move down her arm like fire, racing to her brain.

  “Oh, sir,” she sighed. Her voice was tight and she cleared her throat, desperately. “Forgive me. I...”

  He let go and she turned away, hiding her face. Her cheeks burned and she blinked, knowing that her eyes were filling with tears. The intensity of the moment had been so great, as it was mixed with the pain of knowing she would likely never see him again.

  “Francine,” he whispered, using her name alone. His voice was ragged with feeling. She squeezed her eyes tight shut and turned away. His sweet voice was a torture, knowing that she would never be able to respond in kind.

  “Francine!” he called, as she walked across the terrace, heading blindly for the stairs. She had to get away – all the emotions were too much for her, all the sadness of knowing that she would not see him again. She walked briskly, the stone cold under her feet, lifting the wide skirt a little as she headed down the stairs.

  “I cannot,” she whispered to herself. “I cannot face him and tell him about Fraser.”

  She quickly walked down the path, heading for the dense darkness by a tall hedge. There she stopped, gasping, her chest heaving. Her corset was tight and the exertion and feelings together made it almost impossible to breathe.

  “I cannot,” she murmured again. Tears ran down her cheeks. She sniffed and made herself turn, to check that he was not following her. She saw him, face distressed, pale hair lit by the light from the ballroom behind him. He was clearly desperate to help, but didn't wish to intrude.

  Good. I should stay and wait until he's gone.

  Francine stepped back into the darkness, backing away to where a tall tree trailed whispering leaves over the path.

  It was as she neared the tree that a hand shot out from behind the trunk and grabbed her arm. She screamed.

  Someone twisted her around and something hard hit her on the head. Then, as she tried to scream again, everything went black.

  A RIDE AND A MEETING

  “Francine!” Henry yelled, horrified when he heard the scream. “No!”

  Without thinking, he ran down the stairs toward the hedge, heading for the sound of the scream. The cobbles of the path were slippery under his heeled boots, the tranquility of the garden suddenly shattered, full of danger.

  “Francine!” he yelled again, running to where he had heard her. He reached the tree. Her shawl was there, but he couldn't see her. He looked around and caught sight of a glimmer of silky fabric, just disappearing around the side of the hedge. “There!”

  He ran for the edge of the box-maze and almost slipped on the path,
then reached the flatter edge of the lawn. There he saw a man mounting a horse, Francine thrown across the horse's neck.

  “No!” He howled, and ran toward them. The man mounted and sped off across the lawns, heading for the back gate.

  Henry tried to run after, but knew it was useless. He was in court boots and the man was riding. There was no chance. Whirling around, he ran back to the hall.

  “Brother?” Marguerite asked, appearing at his side as he came in through the door, blinking in the sudden brilliance of the chandeliers. “What was that? Father thought he heard something?”

  “I can't stop to say now,” Henry said quickly, walking as fast as he could toward the side entry to the ballroom. “I have to go...now!”

  Marguerite frowned, but let him go. Henry noticed a tall, dark-haired man come to join her. Francine's brother. Good.

  Leaving his sister in suitable hands, he raced for the door.

  Outside on the front terrace, he looked around. A few coaches still stood outside, though most had either left to return after midnight or been taken to their own carriage yard. By the wall, he saw a horse, still saddled. He ran for it.

  “Milord?” The stable-hand who had been set to guard the horses and coaches, a youth perhaps ten years Henry's junior, stared up at him wide-eyed. “Where are you...?”

  “I need to borrow this horse, Brogan,” Henry said, suddenly remembering the stable-boy's name. “I'll bring it back.”

  “It's The MacNeith’s horse!” the boy yelled, astonished, after him. Henry was already heading on his way.

  Where would they have gone? He contemplated the various ways out of the garden and onto the road. There was only one route the brigand could have followed – out into the woods down the slope. He would have had to take it slowly and could not have got too far.

  “If I go through the woods, I can reach him and head him off.”

  Thinking aloud, doing the action even as he decided it, he swerved sharply off and headed into the woods.

  The place was lit with a gray half-light, making the pale bark of the birch-trees glow softly. Henry was relieved – without their soft illumination, he would never have seen where he was going.