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

by Ferguson, Emilia

  “The white, or the brown?” he asked his manservant, who appeared, unruffled, to help him change into his fresh clothing.

  “I think the brown is more distinguished, sir.”

  Henry frowned. Was it? He was unaccountably nervous. What would the earl think of him? He'd never even seen the man, but Francine's allusions suggested he was utterly unfeeling. How was he supposed to thaw the heart of a man like that?

  “You think so?” Henry stared at himself, the brown coat under his chin. It was true – it did seem to bring out the color of his eyes, and offset his chiseled features. The white was, well, a little white.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Well, then. The brown, then. Let's finish as quickly as possible.”

  As he dressed, he sympathized with Marguerite, suddenly. Faced with someone whose first impression could utterly change the course of his life, he knew why she set such store by her appearance. It occurred to him to wonder if women always felt like that, as if their whole lives could be made or broken by what men thought of them.

  “We live in a peculiar world.”

  “Yes, sir,” his man agreed. “We do.”

  Henry sighed. This habit of saying his thoughts aloud was getting rather wearing. He waited until the man had finished tying his cravat, and then turned before the mirror.

  “That looks better,” he decided. The mirror showed a tall, confident-looking fellow in brown coat and knee-breeches, stockinged in white, his blonde hair shining.

  “Yes, indeed, sir.”

  Henry merely smiled. He nodded his thanks to Prestwick, gathered his tricorne hat off the table by the door, picked up his riding things and hurried downstairs.

  He had a very important meeting to attend.

  One that was going, he hoped, to change his life completely.

  “Francine,” he said aloud as he rode out of the estate and into the country. “I am almost there.”

  He found that he couldn't stop smiling.

  JOYOUS NEWS

  The house was quiet. Francine walked down the hallway, scared to breathe and break the eerie quietude that had fallen on the place. What was happening?

  “Father?” she called out. She was about ten paces from his office, and the door was open, yet he did not answer.

  Her first horrified thought was that Douglas and he had argued and her father had been taken off by an apoplectic fit. What would she do if the shock killed him? “Father?”

  “Daughter?”

  Francine swallowed hard. She had no idea how she was going to face him alone. She had never realized until now just how scared she was of him.

  “Yes?”

  “Douglas told me the news,” he said dully. She hadn't got to the door yet, and he spoke the same way as he would have if she'd been in front of him. Dismissive, flat. Emotionless.

  Francine swallowed hard. “Yes?”

  She came and stood in the doorway, aware that her hands were laced together and her head hung as if in penitence. She couldn't help the fact that, whenever she saw him, it was as if she was five years old and he was reprimanding her for some transgression.

  “I gave my consent,” he said flatly. “You can wed him.”

  Francine looked up. She knew she must have an expression more like horror on her face – utter disbelief ran through her, rooting her in place. “What?” she cleared her throat. “Father? I mean...”

  So many questions. What about Henry being English? What about the reputation of their family as Jacobites? What about McGuinness?

  “You can marry him. Now go, and have done. I have made up my mind and I won't change it again.”

  Francine frowned. “But...Father!”

  Again, so many questions. Are you angry? Why are you angry? What reason would I have to change my mind?

  “No argument, daughter. I have made my decision. Now leave me – I am weary and have things to do.”

  Francine stared at him. He had already turned away, though, bending over his work. Francine walked briskly from the room, heading downstairs.

  She blinked, the sadness over her father's implacable indifference mixed with the wild, rising wonder at the thought of marrying Henry. “I need to sit down.”

  She walked up to the room that had been a turret room, turned left and settled down in the parlor. She leaned back on the seat and closed her eyes, all the emotion rendering her exhausted.

  “I will wed Henry.”

  She smiled. She forgot about the unhappiness her father's coldness caused, and basked in the growing, glowing warmth inside. She would marry Henry and they would live somewhere, just the two of them, getting to know each other, learning each other's ways, being happy.

  It was true that they didn't know each other all that well yet, but they would come to know each other better. Moreover, the trust had been there from the first. The trust and the tenderness. That would make it so much easier to know each other more.

  “Francine?”

  A voice broke in on her reverie. She turned to the door. Her stare was incredulous. “Henry?”

  It couldn't be. It absolutely wasn't. How could it be?

  She had the pleasure of seeing his face split with a grin, blue eyes shining.

  “Yes, it's me,” he said.

  His voice was soft and so warm it felt like winter firelight. She let it wash through her and felt the flush pink at her cheeks. She glowed. “Henry! You're here? How? Where..?”

  She was on her feet, her hands were in his and his eyes held hers, and he was laughing. She squeezed his hands he drew her toward him and they embraced.

  “I had to come today,” Henry said. “I had to see you. I had to ask you...to find out if you would accept me.”

  “If I would?” Francine laughed, and he laughed too and they embraced. “Oh, Henry. I do.”

  He smiled and gently took her hands, holding her gaze. “You're sure?” he asked. He sounded so uncertain that she had to laugh.

  “Henry, I'm sure. I truly am.”

  She looked into his eyes and soon they were laughing again. Then she blinked, feeling tears starting there. She looked down. He reached out and tipped her head back, very gently, looking into her eyes.

  “Don't cry,” he said gently. “Why are you crying?”

  She sniffed. “It's just so sudden,” she said. “I'm so happy.”

  He laughed. “Oh, you silly sweetling! Don't cry for being happy. I'm happy too.”

  He laughed, she sniffed, and he held her close, wrapping his arms around her. Francine leaned against his chest and for the first time in her life, felt completely and absolutely safe.

  Later, he moved back, gently, his fingers gripped on hers. She looked into his eyes – so blue and beautiful – and stared into their depths the way she had always wished to do.

  “I'm so happy,” he said, simply. He blinked, too, and she suspected that she saw a tear in the corner of his eye, but couldn't be sure.

  “I am so, so happy,” Francine whispered back.

  They kissed. His lips met hers and she parted them under the slow, sweet questing of his tongue. It slid into her mouth, exploring it gently, and she leaned against his chest, her mouth open to his explorations. Her body shivered, he drew her closer and she felt herself suffused with a longing so sweet and intense she thought she would drown in its blissful warmth.

  He must have felt it too, for he made a low growl in his throat and drew her closer, his arms wrapping her tight against his chest so that she could not have moved if she wanted to. He was strong and his chest was firm on hers. She sighed, eyes closed, and gave herself up to the bliss.

  After what felt like an age, he drew back and she opened her eyes to find herself staring into the blueness of his own. She sighed and nestled closer, his arms around her and hers around him as he looked into her face with such an intense expression that she almost smiled. She knew she was looking at him the same way and knew that it was beautiful.

  “My dearest Francine,” he said. He stroked her
hair back from her face. Francine smiled and kissed his fingers. He laughed.

  “My Henry,” she said.

  They must have stood there for a full minute, her staring into his eyes, him gazing steadily back. Then he sighed, smiling.

  “My dearest, I should go. There are...matters I must settle.”

  “Yes,” Francine said softly. “I know.” She, too, had matters to settle. She needed to find Douglas and ask him what he'd done – how he had managed to procure such a happy result for her.

  “Well, then,” Henry smiled. “I trust I will see you soon? Tomorrow, mayhap?”

  “Yes, Henry,” Francine smiled, enjoying the simple wonder of using his name. She wanted to say it over and over, now. “I will see you tomorrow.”

  “Good.”

  He smiled at her, a shy, fragile smile, and put on his hat, then turned away, pausing to wave in the doorway. She smiled and waved back, feeling utter wonderment flood her body. She was so in love with Henry.

  She couldn't stop smiling.

  “Francine Amabel Duncliffe,” she said to herself, grinning. “You need to do something.”

  She needed to find Douglas.

  Still grinning at nothing in particular, she headed down the stairs to find him.

  The day was a cool autumnal day, but the sun was shining, a fact which seemed to perfectly reflect her happiness. She smiled and headed out across the courtyard.

  “Morning, milady,” Alec, one of the groundsmen, greeted her with a big gap-toothed grin. “A good mornin' to ye!”

  “It is a wonderful morning, Alec,” Francine agreed, smiling. “Is Lord Douglas about?”

  “The young master went riding,” Alec said, frowning. “He was at the stables about an hour past. Maybe he's back now.”

  “Thank you, Alec. I'll check.”

  Francine headed across the courtyard to the stables. She would just check if Mr. McGinty was there or not. She entered, breathing in the sweet scent of hay and the dustier scent of horses, their warmth welcome on the crisp morning.

  She paused at Mr. McGinty's stall, but he wasn't there. Storm-swift flattened his ears at her and she clicked her tongue, calming him. He snorted.

  She smiled. If Mr. McGinty was out, it meant her brother was still riding. Taking a last look around the stables – her own horse, Damson, snorted at her.

  “I'll ride soon,” she promised. It would be good – she needed the time and space to think, as much as her horse needed the time and space to exercise.

  Now, she needed to find Douglas. She headed out into the courtyard. As she crossed it, she heard feet approaching. She tensed.

  “Francine?”

  “Fraser?” she exclaimed. She stared, horrified.

  “Aye, it's me,” he said. His voice was grim. He strode out from around the side of the storehouse, blocking her way back to the manor. “You know me, do you? I'm surprised: Sometimes I'd think I was invisible, for all the mind you pay.”

  “Fraser, I don't wish to speak to you. Please, leave me alone.”

  She looked around the courtyard. She was alone here, concealed by the high wall of the stables. Alec couldn't see them here, nor could the guard at the gate. She was trapped.

  “Aye, I know. You don't want anything tae do with me, do you?” he said flatly. “Well, I'll have you know that you and your father have taken matters too far. Nobody makes a contract with me and then breaks it. You will both pay for this.”

  He was holding her wrist, his grip hard on her arm. She struggled, trying to break it. He held on.

  “Fraser, I...stop it!” she protested hotly.

  He laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound. “You think you can dally with me, and then run off with another man, eh? Well, you and he will both pay for this – I've not forgotten. Nor will you.”

  “Fraser, you're being ridiculous. I...let me go!” she said, and wrenched her arm to the side.

  This time, he let go. He smiled at her, though his eyes were hard. The look made her shiver.

  “Go,” he said. “I'll not be far.”

  “Stop it,” she hissed, blinking back tears. “Leave me alone or I'll call the groundsmen. I will.”

  His eyes widened and then narrowed. “You're a fool,” he said. However, he let her arm go. As she watched him, he backed away. He went around the stables, heading for the stand of oak trees behind. When he had disappeared through them and out of the gate, she let herself move. She slumped forward, feeling weak with relief. She sniffed, and had to stifle a choking sob that escaped her.

  “Cruel man,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. She didn't want to cry out here, but she couldn't help it. The shock of seeing him now after all the joy of earlier was too much for her. She sniffed, and stifled a sob.

  Someone crossed the flagstones quietly behind her. She whipped around, but it was only one of the stable-hands passing toward the stables. She saw him glance in her direction and turned away, walking briskly toward the manor. She didn't want him to see her cry.

  “I need to find Douglas,” she told herself as she went in through the high, arched door. She paused in the hallway and drew in a shaky breath. Then she went toward the stairs, back straight.

  “Milady?” her maidservant appeared at the top of the stairs, frowning. “You are well?”

  “Yes, Bertha, I'm well. Is my brother returned from his ride?”

  “I think he's returned, milady. You'll find him closeted with the master.”

  “Oh.” Francine felt her hand clench into a fist. She felt frustrated. If he was with their father, then she would likely not see Douglas till after luncheon. She had wanted to at least thank him for the wonderful result he had achieved in talking to her father.

  She sighed and leaned back, all thoughts of Fraser leaving her, washed away by the sweet tide of wonderment that was her news. She had to tell someone.

  Deciding instantly, she headed down the stairs to the servants' corridor.

  “You have news,” Merrick said. Her dark eyes were calm.

  “Yes,” Francine said, and she felt fresh tears spring to her eyes, but these were happy tears. “Oh, Merrick,” she said.

  “I know, lass,” Merrick said gently. She only called her that when she wanted to convey affection. “I know.”

  “I am so happy, Merrick,” Francine said, sniffing. She sank into a chair gratefully, feeling safe simply to be, at last. “I am so very happy.”

  “I'm so glad, lass,” Merrick smiled. She remained standing, and Francine noticed a strange smile play over her features.

  “What?” she asked, frowning.

  “Nothing,” Merrick dismissed it lightly. “Well? You have decided when this is to take place?”

  “As soon as possible,” Francine said instantly. “We need to settle matters fast – to keep tongues from wagging.”

  “Indeed,” Merrick said. She was quiet for a while, in contemplation. Then, abruptly, the smile returned.

  “What?” Francine asked, feeling her own mouth stretch with a grin.

  “Well,” Merrick smiled, “it'll all work out very well. Your sister will be here tomorrow.”

  A WEDDING AT DUNCLIFFE

  Francine stood in the drawing-room, the day before her wedding. She had dressed in cream, her hair informal, and felt a fretful nervousness of anticipation. She shifted from foot to foot, hearing voices below. Douglas spoke, followed by the lower voice of her father. Then she heard steps, coming upstairs. She drew in a steadying breath.

  “Sister!” Douglas sounded lighthearted with excitement. “Look! See who's here!”

  “Douglas?” she called. Then, as someone entered, her voice stopped.

  Arabella. With her beautiful red hair loose about her shoulders, wearing red velvet, Arabella seemed to outshine the lanterns in the room. She had always been breathtaking, and after almost a year of absence, seeing her sister made Arabella simply stare. She faced her and the two of them stared at each other.

  Then, wordlessly, she ran to her, and the
y embraced. Her arms slid around her sister's waist and she clung to her, too surprised and delighted for words. Her sister still smelled of herbs, an intense, wild fragrance that mixed with the scent of rain and damp that was in her hair from riding.

  “Arabella,” she said, leaning back to study her. Her hands clasped her sister's wrists and she just stared. The moment was almost tangible; it was so full of feeling.

  “Francine,” Arabella said. “Sister, I am so happy.”

  “Me, too,” Francine said, feeling fresh tears, happy ones. She sniffed again, noisily. Arabella smiled. She, too, looked about to cry.

  “Hello!” a voice called behind them, disrupting the moment. It was a strong, cheerful voice. “I say! It's strange to be back in these halls! Oh! Hello, sister!” the man greeted her, coming to a halt in front of her.

  Francine stared at Richard, her brother-in-law. Tall, with black hair and piercing blue eyes, Richard Osborne was the man her sister had married, an Englishman and an officer in the Borderers. Due to a regrettable incident between their father – or more precisely his Jacobite circle – and Richard, the earl tended to avoid him.

  “Richard,” she said, smiling. “Welcome to Duncliffe.”

  “I say!” Richard exclaimed, and bowed low over her hand. “A fine looking family you are, if I may say so.”

  Arabella laughed and Francine blushed. “Richard,” she sighed, “you are incorrigible”

  She had met her sister's husband a few times before, and each time she met him she had liked him. He seemed a fine sort, kind and strong.

  “He is, isn't he?” Arabella laughed. “We had a good ride,” she added, shaking out her hair. “The weather held until ten minutes or so from Duncliffe.” Her eyes wandered to Richard, some sort of shared amusement between them.

  “And then the skies opened,” Richard said dramatically, going to the fire. He held his hands out over it, grinning as he warmed them. “And proceeded to shower us with a week's rain in ten minutes.”

  “That's terrible,” Francine replied. “How is Mirelle?” Mirelle was her sister's year-old child.

  “She's downstairs with her nursemaid,” Arabella said.