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

by Ferguson, Emilia

  “She's here?” Francine stared at her in surprise. “You brought her with you?” Francine had been present at her niece’s birth, but had not seen her since. The thought of doing so filled her with joy.

  “We had to bring her.” Richard protested, squeezing water from his shirt-sleeves. “We couldn't possibly leave her in the north, all alone.”

  Francine laughed. “You came by coach, then?”

  “Part of the way,” Arabella said, rolling her eyes and laughing warmly as she glanced across at Richard, who went red.

  “Well, I suppose I should have known it was a bad idea,” he said glumly.

  Arabella and Francine both laughed. Francine wondered what the tale was behind the look.

  “I also didn't want to spend any longer cramped up in a coach,” Arabella demurred. “It wasn't just you.”

  “Yes, but I hired the horses,” Richard sighed.

  Arabella laughed. They had, it transpired, left the coach in favor of a ride. Which was why, Arabella noted, they were wet.

  “Mirelle and Barra are quite dry.”

  Francine grinned. “Well, that's something, at least. Where are they?”

  “I left them in the parlor.”

  “Oh!” Francine smiled, excitement bubbling up inside her. “Can I go and see them? Mirelle is so wonderful!”

  Arabella laughed. “Oh, Francine! Of course! And thank you.”

  “Well, she is,” Francine grinned. She hurried down the stairs toward the parlor.

  Barra, the maidservant, stood by the fire. On the chaise-lounge lay a bundle of fine sheepskin, topped with hair of pale auburn. As Francine watched, the bundle sat up and a small face appeared.

  “Oh...” Francine sighed, watching as her sister's small daughter rolled over and sat up. Her big green eyes caught Francine's own and the small face moved into a radiant smile.

  Francine's heart melted. “Mirelle,” she whispered, making the name a song. “Hello.”

  Mirelle frowned. The smile disappeared, and then hesitantly returned. She held out a splayed hand, a friendly gesture. Francine felt her heart melt and her face split with a smile.

  “She's been so good,” Barra observed dryly. “No fuss at all. Not even when the master and mistress went out of the carriage.”

  Francine chuckled. “Well, she is beautiful too,” she said, awed that someone so tiny could be so utterly wonderful.

  “Aye, she is and all,” Barra agreed mildly. “And mild-tempered, too. Mistress says she can't believe she's her own.”

  Francine laughed. “That is so like my sister, to say that.”

  Barra merely smiled. Francine stood still, contemplating her niece in wonder.

  “Wuh,” the child said happily, pointing at Francine.

  Francine beamed. “Wuh,” she agreed, lacing her hands over her heart. She couldn't quite believe her sister had even been in time for her wedding. Which was tomorrow.

  Francine stood in front of the mirror, waiting while Bertha placed the garland on her head. She stared at herself.

  A tall, pale-haired figure stared at her, wonderingly, in the clear reflection. Her body was encased from neck to feet in white silk, the skirt wide and divided to show an under-skirt of lace. Her shoes were pointy-toed and peeped out just below the skirt. The collar was high and trimmed with lace, making a small ruff behind her head, the neckline square. The bodice was decorated with ribbons, criss-crossed. Her hair was loose, as became a bride.

  It was her eyes that looked most different, she thought, wonderingly. Large and hazel, they shone.

  “You look beautiful.”

  Francine coughed to clear her throat. “Thank you, Bertha,” she managed.

  “Aye, you do an' all,” Bertha said softly. “Now, where did we put that posy...? Ah! There!” She went to the window and retrieved a bunch of cornflowers, interspersed with daisies.

  Francine breathed in the scent, breathed out the disbelief, and headed to the door. She was so happy, her mind floating in a haze of wonderment. This was her wedding day.

  At the foot of the stairs waited Arabella, Richard and Douglas. Her brother's eyes softened as he looked at her.

  “Sister. You look magnificent.”

  Francine swallowed, cheeks reddening fast. “Thank you, brother.” She felt as if she might start crying and held her breath as Douglas came to stand beside her. Arabella, in red, grinned at her. Francine felt her cheeks lift with smiling pleasant, but nervous, smile.

  They walked the short distance from Duncliffe to the chapel. Once the chapel of the castle, it was now a distinct building, small and trim.

  Francine kept her thoughts on the present, trying to shield her mind from the enormity of wonder that flowed in her. Only ten more steps to the chapel. The irises are still flowering, isn't that odd? Only eight more steps...

  Then she was inside and could look nowhere else. At the end of the aisle, tall, and dressed in a dark blue coat and breeches, stockinged in white, stood Henry.

  He turned and saw her and the look in his eyes – wonderment, tenderness and love shining from them, softening their brightness – made tears spring to her own.

  I will not cry, she told herself harshly. Look up at the ceiling, now. I will not cry.

  She sniffed, blinking her tears. Then she was standing beside Henry, feeling the warmth of his presence. Together they, with a sort of mutual amazement, said their vows.

  The ceremony was short, which surprised Francine. She had expected it would feel as if it took half an age. However, it seemed as if, far too quickly, the reading had ended. Then she turned to face Henry.

  “You may kiss.”

  Henry reached up and, so gently, reached for her face, cupping the back of her head in his hand as he drew her toward him. His lips touched hers so softly. Francine sighed and felt her body melt to his in a sweet, fleeting embrace.

  Then they were turning to face the assembly the organ was playing and they went down the aisle. They were man and wife.

  WEDDING NIGHT

  The gathering in the hall at Duncliffe was quiet – restrained laughter drifted down from one of the tables where the senior servants sat, and everywhere knives and forks clicked on cutlery.

  Henry swallowed a mouthful of fish, acutely aware of the presence by his side.

  Francine is my wife. I am wedded to Francine McGowan, the most beautiful and sweetest woman ever imagined.

  Henry still couldn't quite believe it. He felt a mix of awe and a wonderment that bordered on sheer terror. He reached for a glass and drank a little, hoping to steady himself.

  “Henry?” Francine said softly.

  “Yes, my sweetling?” Henry asked, feeling his heart thump as turned toward her.

  “Could you pass me the salt?”

  “Oh! Of course.” Henry felt a little silly as he reached for the elaborate silver salt-cellar and passed it to her, watching as she delicately scattered salt on the dish of grilled river-fish.

  She passed the salt to him and leaned back, seeming far more at ease than he was. He winced as he became acutely conscious of her leg beside his under the table.

  I have no idea what I'm doing.

  He was far from inexperienced, but the thought of what must come next was at once wonderful and frightening. The thought of being part of a wedding-night for so delicate and radiant a being was easily the most terrifying responsibility he could imagine. He wanted her terribly and, perhaps even more, he wished to do nothing that would discomfort or displease her.

  I will just have to hope she trusts me.

  Not sure whether that was a comforting thought or even a more terrifying burden of responsibility, Henry sighed.

  “More drink, Henry?” Richard asked, reaching for a silver pitcher on the table. He and Arabella sat opposite, Douglas and Marguerite beside them. The two were extremely quiet together.

  “Uh, no, Richard. Thank you,” he added.

  Richard raised a brow over those intense eyes and laughed. “As you wish.” />
  Henry smiled, blushing slightly. Richard Osborne was English, a fact which had endeared him to Henry insofar as they could understand each other. Not only that, but he was easy to like. Witty, open-hearted and friendly, Richard was someone he could easily call brother.

  Douglas, too.

  Henry glanced down the table. He couldn't help grinning inwardly and wondering if there was more than ready friendship between Douglas and Marguerite. The way he gazed at her was something with which he could sympathize. It was how he looked at Francine.

  At his side, he felt Francine shift in her seat and turned at once to look at her, feeling his heart melt. She was so beautiful! The candlelight seemed to glow on the paleness of her skin, and her neck seemed impossibly long in the square-necked gown.

  “Henry?” she whispered.

  “Yes?” Henry frowned, feeling his heart thump faster.

  “It is not far to Estmoor, is it?”

  “No,” Henry said, fighting to get the words out of a throat suddenly constricted. “It should be half an hour of time in the carriage, no more.”

  “Good,” she said softly. “I am a little tired in here...the heat...” She fanned herself.

  Henry nodded. While the day was cool, within the hall with the closeness of so many people, it was warmer than it would be outside.

  “I am sure we will leave soon,” Henry said softly.

  She smiled and he swallowed hard. They would finish the meal around four of the clock, and then depart. It would likely be an hour before they arrived home – with the ceremonies of casting coins for the cottagers, all the farewells and needing to wait for the guests to depart.

  Within the home, there would be more ceremonies – carrying the bride across the threshold, meeting the household – and then around six of the clock, they would go upstairs together. A few short hours more, that is all.

  Henry felt his whole body go tense. Longing mixed with nerves and tension to set his whole body on edge, sweetly so.

  At half an hour past three, the desserts were finally being passed around, and small glasses of brandy with it. Douglas stood, his chair scraping on the stone of the hall floor, and announced that the dinner was officially ended. His eye fell on Francine and Henry, a look of tenderness on his face.

  Well, at least he shortened it a little, Henry thought gratefully. The presence of the servants and the local village musicians had meant the day could descend into the ribald. Of all the things he didn't want, he absolutely didn't want that.

  He turned to face Francine. She was looking at the table, a pulse beating at her neck that clearly displayed her nerves. Henry realized she was also nervous and turned to face her, smiling reassuringly. Her face lit up.

  He stood and reached for her hand. She took it and stood, too. It was time to depart.

  The hall erupted into songs and dancing and the servants were soon taking to their feet, celebrating as the bridal pair left the room. Henry led Francine down the steps and to the waiting carriage. On the topmost step, Douglas, Marguerite, Richard and Arabella waited.

  “Here you are,” Henry said, nervously smiling at Francine as he held out a hand to help her into the coach.

  She blushed and gripped it, fingers warm on his.

  Henry helped Francine, then turned to scatter the handful of coin he carried to the throng of cottagers who gathered, hailing and calling out wishes of good fortune.

  Then he was alone with Francine. Going home.

  They arrived at Estmoor after a mostly-silent trip, during which he tried studiously to avoid staring at Francine and she tried, studiously, to avoid staring at him. He was almost relieved when they arrived, the tension that was building up inside him growing to fevered heights.

  At Estmoor, he helped her out, greeted his father, and then the household. Then, finally, he was carrying Francine over the threshold and into their home.

  When he had put her down, he turned to her. “Are you unhurt?” he whispered. He had been half-afraid to tighten his grip around her overmuch, lest she break.

  “I am safe,” she whispered, a spark of amusement lighting her eyes.

  Henry swallowed hard, unable to control his longing. With her face flushed pink, a pulse throbbing in her temple, she was so beautiful.

  He stood back to allow her up the stairs before him.

  Then, the sound of his heart thudding, almost deafening him to all else, he was entering the chamber that they would hitherto share.

  He closed the door behind them, and then turned to her.

  She was standing so close he could feel the warmth of her, even through the fine fabric of the gown. He stared into her eyes. He leaned forward.

  She leaned forward too and wordlessly he reached out and drew her toward him, hand sliding between her soft hair and the chiffon. He leaned forward to kiss her lips.

  “Oh...” She sighed and leaned against him, lips parting under his so sweetly that he felt his whole body tense with longing. He gently parted them and tasted her. She was sweet, like the marzipan for dessert. He enfolded her with his arms and drew her closer, his whole body craving her, wanting to be enveloped in her scent, her warmth, her softness.

  She sighed and leaned closer, and he gently stroked her hair, removing the garland. She looked up at him, their lips parting.

  “I love your hair,” he whispered, honestly. She blushed and laughed at him.

  “I do,” he insisted. She giggled. Her hand was on his other hand, holding it loosely.

  He stroked her hair and felt amazed at the floral-scented softness of it. He kissed her again; body alight with his longing. She sighed and leaned against him, the kiss intensified by her closeness, fuller and clinging.

  Gently, he stroked down her back, feeling the buttons of the gown. He felt her tense a little and drew in a breath, not wanting to frighten her. She was so beautiful, like snowdrops on a spring morning, and as breakable. He desperately didn't want to hurt or affright her.

  “Henry,” she whispered. She held him close now, her hands clasped against his back. He closed his eyes, overwhelmed with need. His breath was tight in his throat, his heart pounding.

  Gently, he leaned forward, his mouth on hers, bending her back slightly toward the plump-cushioned bed behind her. His hand undid the button of her gown.

  She sighed and leaned against him and he caught his breath as the button came undone, followed by the next one, and the next. Then, to his surprise, they tumbled back onto the bed.

  Francine sat down heavily.

  He sat down beside her, staring at her in sudden worry. She giggled.

  “Henry,” she said, smiling. She reached out and stroked his hair. “What is amiss?”

  He swallowed hard, his face going abruptly red. “I thought I'd scared you.”

  “Oh, Henry!” she smiled.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You are silly. I love you. How could you scare me?”

  Henry felt his whole heart melt. It was the first time she had said that. It was the most peculiar feeling, but one that he treasured. He stared at that beautiful face and sniffed, blinking back tears. “I love you, too.”

  They kissed again. This time, her lips parted eagerly and Henry felt his whole body melt as she lay back against the cushions, arms around him, body pressed to his, even as he drew her closer, longing for her.

  Francine lay back on the cushions and looked up at Henry. In his shirt, fine white linen yellow-tinged in the flame-light, he was truly stunning.

  He had taken off his boots and coat, and looked young and strangely vulnerable without them. He smiled at her, shyly. She smiled back. She languidly stretched where she lay and saw his eyes kindle with longing.

  “My sweetheart,” he whispered. “My Francine.”

  He finished unbuttoning her gown and drew it down to her waist, leaving her in the brief under-shift she wore. His expression as he stared at her pleased her and she smiled, feeling a slow glow spread through her body.

  He looked in
to her eyes and then gently drew the silk shift off her body, letting it pool on the floor. Then he reached for her under-shift and the lacings of her corset. “Yes?” he asked, eyes alight.

  “Yes.” She sighed, feeling slow wonderment ignite in her body as she leaned back on the bed, letting his hands move to the laces of her under-things, drawing them off her. She was shaking, she realized with surprise, but it was not cold. It was sweet anticipation.

  When he had taken off her clothes, he stepped back and looked down at her. She would have expected shyness, but she was not shy, rather, she felt a hesitant pride. He was gazing at her with such wonderment that she flushed, a smile playing over her mouth.

  “Francine,” he whispered. “You are so beautiful.”

  “You are handsome yourself,” she retorted. She smiled wider as he blushed.

  “Oh, you,” he dismissed. “You're just fond.”

  “No,” she said. “It's true. I promise.”

  He laughed, delighted, and as she lay back on the bed he started to undress. She watched him, belly clenched with a sweet pleasure as he shrugged off his shirt. He was naked under it, and her eyes took in the sweetness of his muscular body, admiring it and feeling her own response, which surprised her.

  He caught her gaze and smiled. She blushed. He came to kneel beside her on the bed.

  His lips met hers and as they did his hands stroked down her body, starting at her neck and ending at her waist and back. She sighed and pressed herself against him, the feeling of naked skin against her warm and so exciting. She leaned up and drew him to her, kissing more fully.

  He sighed and, eyes a little wild with longing, sat back and gently stroked her skin, cupping a breast. She closed her eyes as her whole body responded. Carefully, he leaned in and drew the nipple between his lips.

  She closed her eyes, a series of feelings so intense and complex she couldn't describe it surging through her and setting fire inside her.

  He frowned at her, a questioning glance. She nodded.

  “Oh, yes,” she murmured. He smiled. Gently, he bent down and drew in the other one. While he sucked, his fingers played with the other one, teasing and pulling it.