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

by Ferguson, Emilia

  I think, now, that I made the wrong choice. I should have run away. In many ways, it would have been so much easier – and so much less of a pain within her heart.

  A REVEALING INCIDENT

  “Francine,” Henry said under his breath. He smiled. Now that he was on the road, on the way to see her, he found he could not stop thinking about her. “I'm almost there.”

  The countryside was warmly familiar now, and Henry rode up through the dense woodlands, noticing as they thinned out and he neared the edges of the tree-line. He just had another half an hour, at most, before he reached the manor.

  Twenty minutes later he was in the stables, throwing the reins to the stable-hand. “See that he gets mash,” he called as he walked briskly out into the drive. “He did fine work today.”

  The sunlight, gilding a break in the clouds, shone down and warmed his face. He felt like whistling, or singing. He was back.

  “Lennox!” he said cheerily as he marched up the hallway, coat already off and on his arm. “Where's my wife?”

  “She's upstairs in the drawing-room, sir,” the steward said mildly. “Your father needed to see you.”

  “Oh?” Henry frowned. “Perdition, Lennox! I want to see my wife. I'll only be a moment, and then I'll go to Father.”

  “Very good, Lord Henry.”

  Henry left his tricorne hat and coat with the man and headed briskly up the stairs, taking them two at a time. “Francine?” he called, scarcely able to conceal his enthused mood. “Francine? My dearest?”

  “Henry?”

  He entered the drawing-room and simply stared. Backlit by the sunlight, her face a picture of surprise, his wife sat in a white dress, looking breathtaking. “Francine!”

  He ran to her and they kissed. Then, sighing, he heavily sat down opposite.

  “My dearest! I must run...Father needs to talk to me about these perfidious accounts. But it's wonderful to see you! How have you been? Well, I hope.”

  “Very well, Henry,” Francine said softly.

  He frowned. She might have just attested to her wellness, but there was clearly something wrong. She wasn't herself. He could sense it. “Dearest?” he frowned. “Are you weary?”

  “A little, Henry,” she said softly.

  “Oh.” Henry felt guilty. Here he was, swarming into the house like a conquering force, and his wife was tired and likely poorly. “Well, then,” he said, standing, briskly. “I think I should go and speak to Father. He will be eager to hear of these accounts.”

  “Yes,” Francine said. “Of course, Henry.”

  “Very well.” he stood, still feeling that there was something not quite right in his world at the moment. “I'll only be half an hour at the very most. Then I want to see you. We have two whole days to make up for.”

  Francine nodded, and offered a wan smile. “Yes,” she said lightly. “See you soon.”

  “Yes!” he said firmly. “I insist so.”

  Then, before she could make any response, he hurried from the room and up the stairs.

  “What is wrong here?” he frowned. The sooner he finished his business with his father, the better. Then he could talk to Francine, this time properly.

  Francine. Thoughts of her, which he'd suppressed during the time they were apart, returned now, in full force. Her body, soft, pale, and cool to the touch; her face, when he touched her in certain sweet ways that made her grit her teeth almost as if in pain, and the sweet way she reached for him when he knelt before her on the bed.

  I want her so.

  “Son?” a voice called from the office.

  “Sir?” he greeted his father formally. “I have returned, with news of our account. Should I speak now, or…?”

  “I asked to see you at once, Henry,” his father said gently. “I had news from Welling.”

  Welling was their London accountant. Henry frowned. “Father?”

  “It seems our investments in shipping are doing well. You have, it seems, an acute sense of these things. Much as it surprises me, you are admittedly a fine head at business.”

  “Oh?” Henry grinned. “Thank you, Father. I think,” he added. He laughed. Trust his father to pay him so back-handed a compliment as that!

  “Well, then,” his father said. “Shall we settle down to business? Melling is here.”

  “He is?” Henry said, his face split with a delighted grin. Hubert Melling was like an uncle, his father's dearest friend. “Is he staying?” He was already pushing back his chair to go and find him.

  “He has lodgings in Kinefirth,” he said. “But I think we'll invite him this evening. A bit of a supper party, eh? What think you?”

  “Yes, sir. An excellent idea.”

  They discussed their business, and then Henry went upstairs. “Francine?” he called at the door of the parlor.

  “Oh! Henry,” Francine smiled. His loins ached as she smiled at him like that, her pale lips parted.

  He went to her and bent to kiss her. “Francine,” he whispered. “I missed you.”

  His arms wrapped around her and drew her to him, pressing her against his chest. He almost groaned aloud, feeling her breasts press against him, their soft warmth making his loins ache. “Do you have a moment to spare..?”

  She smiled, though he thought that somewhere in her eyes, sadness lurked.

  “I do,” she said.

  “Well, then,” he said. “Let's away.”

  They headed downstairs to their bedchamber.

  She stood and let him undress her, his hands deft at the buttons. Then he stood in front of her, simply staring at her sweet face. He kissed her, his tongue probing her mouth.

  “Francine,” he said, as they broke the kiss. He led her to the bed.

  She lay down and he joined her, she still in her under-shift, he still dressed in shirt and knee-breeches. She smiled and ran a hand down the side of his face. Her eyes were soft, distant.

  “I missed you.”

  “Oh,” he said, kissing her hand, his body igniting with fresh longing as he smelled the sweet, lavender-and-rose scent of her. “I missed you, too.”

  As he kissed her and slowly worked the under-dress off her body, he thought he could detect a strange aloofness in her manner, almost as if part of her was elsewhere, distracted from their activities.

  He sighed. He had been away too long, that was all. He had missed her and forgotten their ways together. Well, there was time to remedy that.

  He leaned back, surveying her lovely form. The gentle swell of her breasts was pale, skin shadowed and highlighted gently by the fire's light. Her long legs were relaxed, her waist gracefully contoured in the play of light and shade.

  He reached for her, stroking her skin. How he had missed her softness! She was beautiful. “You're beautiful,” he whispered.

  She smiled. “Thank you, Henry. You too.”

  He smiled into her eyes. Then, remembering he was still clad, he grinned. “Give me a moment,” he asked.

  She nodded and he stood quickly, undoing his shirt and breeches rather hastily.

  Joining her on the bed, he drew her into his arms, gritting his teeth to hold back the groan of pleasure as he felt her cool, soft skin against his naked flesh. He drew her into his arms and pressed himself against her, relishing the way it felt to be so close to her.

  They kissed and he moved lower, lining up his body for entry. He could feel the parting of her thighs and the need became all-consuming. He knelt up and she rolled over, looking up at him.

  “Yes?” he whispered, questioning softly.

  “Yes.”

  He parted her thighs gently and entered her. The sweet release of being inside was almost a physical pain. He pulled out and pushed in again, trying hard not to cry out, knowing that he was so close, and that it was just a few times more, the pressure inside him overwhelming as he moved again and again, building and building and building...

  He cried out, gritting his teeth in wonder as the feeling crashed through him, huge, weighty, and
unstoppable. Groaning, he collapsed onto her.

  When he became aware of where he was, he rolled off her, stroking her hair. “Sorry that was so quick,” he said, grinning in apology.

  She smiled, this time a kind smile. “We have more time,” she promised.

  “Good,” he grinned. “I am in sore need of it. I missed you terribly.”

  “I, too.”

  Even as he rolled over, drowsy, as he always was after climax, he still couldn't help the nagging feeling that something wasn't right. All the same, he was tired and contented and the thought faded as he drifted off to rest.

  “You think Father planned this sufficiently?” he asked later. He was standing before the mirror, trying in vain to emulate the French means of knotting a cravat.

  “I don't know,” Francine said softly. “I think so.”

  He meant the supper party. It seemed, uncharacteristically of his father, to have been something decided fairly arbitrarily. He knew his father – a week of planning in the least usually went into every party they had, and that was before he even told Marguerite and asked her opinion.

  “I hope we have enough provisions for this.”

  “I, too.”

  Henry turned away from the mirror and back to the dressing table. Francine was wearing a dark blue velvet gown, her hair curled and piled in a fashion he hadn't seen before. She wore pearls and looked beautiful.

  “My lovely wife,” he said. “You'll be the center of attention.”

  “Mayhap,” she said softly. She sounded cool.

  “Well, then,” Henry said, choosing to ignore the strands of discomfort that seemed to hang, intangibly, in the air. “Shall we depart?”

  “Indeed, Henry.”

  They headed down the stairs to the dining-hall.

  “Lord Henry and his wife, the Lady Francine,” Lennox announced them. Henry's heart swelled. He was so proud to be attending a party with his wife. He knew all eyes would hang on her.

  “Francine!” Marguerite came bustling over to join them. “What think you? I chose the red-and-yellow figured china...I thought it went well with the centerpiece.”

  Henry laughed. He'd scarcely seen his sister all day, and here she was, all lovely in bright yellow, consulting about the décor again. “Hello, Marguerite,” he said. “You two have been keeping busy while I've been away?” Their friendship seemed to have developed finely, which was something that made him very glad.

  “Oh, yes, Henry,” Marguerite breathed. “We had ever so good a time yesterday! Everyone was here! The Andovers and the Macelys and...Well, everyone. Francine felt ill, but...”

  “Ill?” Henry was instantly concerned. “Francine? What..?”

  “I'm fine,” Francine said tightly. “It was just weariness.”

  “Oh.” Henry nodded. Again, there was that strange uneasiness. He looked about the room, determined to be cheerful. The guests were standing about in colorful groups, chatting brightly about this and that. He spotted a group he knew, some of whom were local nobles.

  “Look,” he said, turning to Francine. “There's Lord Canmure. Shall we join him?” She might feel more at ease with people she knows.

  “Of course,” Francine said lightly. They went across to join them.

  “Henry!” the man – a merry-faced Scotsman with a thick local accent – greeted him, shaking his hand warmly. “Let me introduce you. This is Dunnock, and this fellow here is Bell. And the lovely ladies are...”

  As he rattled off the names, Henry found himself focused on Lord Dunnock. He was sure he knew him from somewhere. His mind ran down the list of people in his father's circle and he frowned. The fellow was a local lord, but also a firm supporter of the Borderers. He was openly Hanoverian. Why had Father invited him? That was odd.

  “My lord,” he greeted him stiffly, realizing he was staring.

  “Lord Henry.”

  They started to talk, and the evening wore on. Henry found himself feeling impatient for supper to begin. He looked up, suddenly realizing that Lord Dunnock had been talking to him.

  “And I think it's a fine thing, dinnae ye? A fine thing.”

  Henry frowned. “Sorry, sir? You think what is a fine thing?” Sometimes the thick accent still eluded him.

  “The Borderers! Isn't it's a fine thing that they should foray further afield, eh? This war abroad should test their fettle!”

  Henry frowned. “Abroad, sir?”

  “Aye! In Holland! Or ken ye nae of it?” He raised a brow.

  “You think it wise to send the Borderers abroad, to fight wars outside Scotland.” He made it a statement. It wasn't even worth questioning. The man must be mad!

  “Aye,” Dunnock continued, firmly. “What say ye? I say it's time for this lot to do its service, same as any other.”

  “Except that they're not the same as any other,” Henry said tightly. “They were recruited within Scotland, to serve only our interests, not those of the English king.”

  “Eh?” Dunnock blinked, as if he hadn't heard aright. “Well, what matters it?”

  “It matters a great deal,” Henry said. He could feel his face flushing and knew his hands had balled into fists.

  “Henry,” his wife's voice whispered urgently. “Henry?”

  However, he would not be shaken. He would not stand here and let this man spout this utter nonsense in his presence! His blood boiled. “You, sir,” he said tightly, “are a fool.”

  “Henry...” a voice whispered. Francine touched his arm and he rolled his shoulder, firmly shaking off her hand.

  “You called me a fool,” Dunnock said.

  “Aye, I did,” Henry said levelly.

  “You think I won't answer to that?”

  Henry shrugged. He saw the older man's face darken. At that moment, he knew he had probably taken matters overly far. He swallowed hard. He heard Francine take a step back, her heeled shoes clicking on the stone floor. He kept his eyes from her.

  “You want to fight me, boy?” the man said.

  Henry bridled. How dare he insult him like that? “Don't mind if I do,” he said lightly.

  The man held his gaze. Henry could see the muscles tense in his shoulders and the need to do violence fairly crisped the air around him. Neither of them moved. The guests nearest them stared.

  “Dinner is served,” Lennox announced. Heads turned and the tension broke.

  The older man gave Henry a meaningful glare and turned away, going to join his companions. Henry felt the tension drain from him.

  “Henry...” Francine began.

  “Don't,” he said harshly. Then, when her face fell, he lowered his voice. “Please. Just forget?”

  She stared at him. He saw something shift in her eyes, like frost, moving across water. Then she too turned away.

  He stood where he was, at the edge of the bright-lit room, feeling dreadful.

  Now he had done it. He'd insulted a guest, brought all kinds of adverse attention on himself, and almost caused a fight. Worse, though, was what he'd done at the end of all of it. He'd made Francine angry with him.

  “Are you coming to the table?” a voice spoke behind him. He sighed and turned around.

  “Marguerite.” His voice was flat. “I can't really, can I?”

  “Nonsense,” she said briskly. “I put you up the other end of the table anyway, near Father and me. Dunnock's at the end of the second table. You'll barely see each other.”

  Henry smiled, in spite of himself. He couldn't be angry for long – not with Marguerite around. Her unfailing ability to see only the immediate and practical was soothing sometimes, like salve on a wound. “Well, then,” he said. “I suppose I would feel better with something in my stomach.”

  “Yes,” Marguerite said matter-of-factly. “You would.”

  Henry went to join the rest. He sat opposite Francine, who talked and listened politely to the conversation, and looked away each time he tried to meet her gaze.

  He tried to eat, but, despite the day's ride and planni
ng, he found he had no appetite. He knew he had done something terrible. He just had no idea what it was. In addition, no idea at all how he would make it right.

  FACING DIFFERENCES

  Upstairs, Francine leaned against the door of the wardrobe, heart thumping in the darkness. She was shivering. It was not cold in the bedchamber, but her whole body felt as if it had been frozen inside.

  Henry is so passionate about the cause. I never knew that before.

  The more she thought about it, the more it fitted together. She had thought him a disinterested bystander, drawn here by his father's conviction, not his own. Now she found he was immersed in the cause, after all? She closed her eyes. She should have known that.

  You chose the wrong way.

  It was ridiculous. She loved Henry – she knew she did. Still, these doubts glared at her from the recess of her mind, as if accusing her for her misjudgment.

  She had sat all evening with people who were utterly unlike her – her quiet, considering father-in-law, slow and methodical, the Andovers somewhere down the table, looking disapprovingly at her, and the inevitable Penning, who seemed to have decided she was a resource more valuable than the books in the little-used library upstairs.

  I hate living like this.

  “Francine?”

  She shrank back, unsure whether she wanted to come out or stay hidden. If she stayed there, perhaps she could just forget everything: Henry, her choice, the whole world. She wrapped her arms around herself, shrinking back against the wardrobe. It felt safe in the darkness.

  “Francine!” he breathed. She looked up and he was standing in the doorway, looking at her. His eyes were round with surprise. “Sweetheart. What are you doing here?”

  “Henry,” she said quietly. She walked past him into the bedroom.

  “What?” he said. “Dearest? Please...what is it?”

  “Nothing,” she said quietly. She had no idea what to say, how to tell him that she thought perhaps he was more passionate about Jacobitism and the right of kings than he was over her.