A Highlander's Gifted Love (Blood 0f Duncliffe Series Book 9)

by Emilia Ferguson

  “You are?” he sounded surprised, and she wasn’t sure if she was complimented or if she wanted to slap him, again.

  Her eyes rose to his, a challenge.

  “What does that mean?”

  He chuckled, looking down at his hands. “Sorry, Miss – I mean, milady.”

  “Well?”

  Her eyes held his when he looked up, the challenge still there, deliberately. “I mean you don’t look like a lass of eight and twenty, milady.”

  “Oh.”

  It was her turn to blush. She felt a delicious slow flush spread through her from her stomach to her cheeks, making her redden.

  She looked up after a long, shy moment, and saw that he was red-cheeked as well. It made him look like a chastened child and she chuckled.

  “I suppose I can forgive you trespassing in my garden,” she said dryly.

  “Och, sorry for that,” he said, grinning.

  “You might have tried a friendlier introduction,” she commented, walking across to fetch the tray of bandages and water. “I almost threw a fit of nerves.”

  “Sorry, milady,” he said again, shy.

  “Well, it can’t be helped. I suppose I could have given a better impression, too.”

  “Your slap gave an excellent impression,” he said with a grin. “Firm, direct and honest.”

  Chlodie stared at him. She looked down at the tray, fumbling with the scissors Mattie had left as she cut into some cloth.

  “This is going to hurt,” she said when the silence had stretched awhile and she’d soaked a length of cloth in the hot water, ready to swab the wounds.

  “I’m ready, milady,” he said, and she noticed, as she laid the cloth over the first wound, how tense he was.

  “It really is going to hurt,” she added, as she reached for the second wound. They were not particularly deep – he must have been wearing a padded leather jerkin, at the least of it, which had shielded him from the worst wounding – but the second had festered, and the wound was sunken and brown round the edges, the air fouled.

  He hissed in a breath and she bit back a grin.

  “It’s the least you can do to me,” he said, panting as she looked up at him, face pained though a grin twisted his mouth.

  “Why?” she frowned, hiding her own grin as she busied herself with the linen bandaging on the tray. I need a nice long section to wind around the first, and…

  “Because we were about to steal horses.”

  She stared at him.

  “What?” she said, very softly.

  His brown eyes sparked, though his mouth turned down in contrition.

  “Horses,” he said. “Yours. We were here to steal. I’m sorry, milady,” he added, and this time he looked genuinely distraught. “We didn’t know who lived here.”

  “No,” she said, doing her best to sound strict, though the admission actually amused her. “You thought some poor old lord lived here on his own, I warrant, easy pickings for a strong young man like you.”

  She let a little acid creep into her voice then: after all, but for her, Father would live here alone, and then the horses really would have been stolen, after all. As for her, that would have been quite true.

  “I’m sorry, milady.” He hung his head. “We didn’t know any better.”

  “No,” she sighed, shaking her head. “I suppose you didn’t.”

  She contented herself with cutting bandages with undue savagery, working out her frustration on the linen. If it wasn’t for Father, she wouldn’t be here in the forest – she’d be in Edinburgh, going out into society, meeting people. How was she supposed to wed, when it was so isolated here that she only saw the cloth-merchants twice a year, and her father’s steward on weekly reports?

  When she looked up again, he met her gaze. His face was sad.

  “I really am sorry, milady.”

  She sighed. “I forgive you.”

  “Really?” he asked, brightening before she reached out and dabbed hot water on the last wound, making him hiss out a breath.

  “Yes, really,” she nodded. “And I think that wound will putrefy beyond all reason if you don’t stay here and let us send for a physician. It’s truly awful.”

  He looked at his own chest, mouth drooping with a sort of self-conscious discomfort.

  “Yes,” he said. “I suppose.”

  “You suppose you’ll be ready to risk staying here?” she asked, holding his eyes. “And seeing our physician? I promise that, whatever your loyalties, we will keep them secret.”

  “Thanks, milady.”

  She saw his shoulders slump. He looked so relieved that she wished she’d thought of that sooner. Poor man! How could he have sat here, fearing arrest? She would not, even if she supported the Hanoverian's fervently, think of turning away a man in need, or reporting him.

  It’s two men. They’ll be gone in a week and nobody will know aught.

  Oddly, as she reached for the bandage and started preparing to wind it round his chest, she felt sorry at the thought that, soon, the two men would leave.

  They’ve only just got here, Chlodie. You’re a fool.

  “You’ll need to sit forward – I need to wind this round you.” She kept her voice businesslike.

  “Oh.”

  She saw him turn pink again as he shifted in the seat, moving to the front edge so that she could lift the bandage over his head and put it round his chest, the cloth forming a “u” shape with the bend behind him.

  “You’ll need to remove the shirt.”

  He went from pink to white.

  Chlodie wanted to laugh – his expression was so shocked, she could have sworn she’d slapped him again. He couldn’t have looked more uncomfortable if she had.

  “My shirt…”

  She grinned. “I have seen a shirtless man before. I’m not as delicate as you seem to think.”

  He looked down. “It’s just…well…it’s strange, and…”

  She smiled. “It’s alright. You can risk showing me your wounds and tomorrow I promise I’ll have forgotten all about it. We can meet at breakfast as if for the first time.”

  “Really?” he sounded glad. His eyes shone.

  “Really,” she nodded, as he let the shirt fall and she wound the bandage, trying to ignore her surprise as she looked at the surprising beauty of his body.

  “You mean, I can make a polite introduction?” he asked, as she ran her fingers over the bandage, smoothing it, and flushed red as she felt the hard muscle below her fingers.

  Her eyes held his.

  “Yes,” she nodded, smiling. “Without grabbing hold of me.”

  “And without you needing to slap me,” he grinned.

  “Yes,” she said, looking down and winding another length of bandage over the wounds. “Without slapping.”

  “Good,” he chuckled, shifting in the chair as she wound the bandage round a third time, for reinforcing. “You’ve a strong hand.”

  She leaned back, laughing.

  “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

  “It is one.”

  Their eyes met again and they smiled. She felt her heart fill with warmth.

  “Now,” she said, tying off the linen and rinsing her hands in warm water. “I think that it would be best if you put your shirt on, and repair to the dining room. If I know her at all, Mattie will have laid our dinner out while we worked.”

  “Yours too?” He paled.

  “Mine too,” she nodded, standing. She had been heading to the door, but she turned around, when he spoke thus. “Is aught amiss, then?”

  “N…no, milady.” He looked down, ashamed. “I just reckon my manners aren’t up to it.”

  She smiled.

  “You’ve grabbed me, I’ve struck you. I think we’ve seen the worst that we have to offer anyone.”

  “I suppose, milady.”

  “Well, then,” she said, laughing as she leaned on the back of the embroidered wing-back. “If you spill soup at dinner, or blow on your fo
od to cool it, I reckon it won’t make anything worse.”

  “No,” he said, laughing again. “I suppose not.”

  “I’m going to go and change,” she said, looking at her feet as she did so, though she wasn’t exactly sure why the thought of dressing for dinner with him embarrassed her. “I’ll be down in ten minutes or so.”

  “Very good, milady.”

  She went out quickly, and then turned in the hallway, giving a backward glance through the open door. Her cheeks reddened again and she smiled.

  You don’t look like a lass of eight and twenty.

  She thought about it again, chuckling.

  “I’ll wager you don’t look like a lad of your age, either, Sir Thief,” she intoned, grinning. Though I have no idea of your age.

  The thought was odd. In some ways, she thought, as she hastened quickly to her bedchamber and shut the door, calling for Mattie, the closeness she felt for him was already very great. It seemed odd that she had no idea of his age. Or yet his name.

  “Stop your foolishness, Chlodie,” she chided herself in the mirror. “You’ve just met him. He’s a handsome rogue and you’d be more sensible to set the bailiffs on him than let him spend a night beneath your father’s roof. What would he say, seeing this scoundrel at dinner?”

  She sighed. Somehow, the excitement of the day had pushed thoughts of her father’s approval from her mind. She was used to running the household as if it were her own – she hadn’t stopped to consider that, in order to have guests, she at least needed his permission.

  “Well, these guests invited themselves.”

  She laughed, and turned to her wardrobe.

  “Mistress? You called?”

  “Ah! Mattie,” Chlodie turned to hear her maid appear. “I will change for dinner. The tan brocade, please?”

  “The master’s coming down?” Mattie asked, sounding surprised, as she reached into the wardrobe to find the dress Chlodie requested.

  “No,” Chlodie said.

  She bit her lip. Mattie’s brow went up. She looked surprised.

  “Oh?”

  “I’m dining alone, Mattie,” Chlodie said quickly. “I just want to respect the form, is all. It’s too long since I had dinner in company. I’ll lose all my manners if I don’t practice, after all!” She chuckled, making it sound light.

  “I suppose,” Mattie said.

  Chlodie leaned back and waited while her maid fussed about with her dress and petticoats, laying them out on the bed. She felt self-conscious. Who was Mattie to reprimand her? She wasn’t doing anything wrong!

  All the same, she had made it seem foolish that Chlodie was dressing up for dinner with a wounded soldier out of the forest.

  It’s not as if I’ve had a proper dinner since Father’s guests visited in springtime.

  She sighed. Visitors were seldom here, and yes, she was starved for company. The last person of her own age she’d seen was Lucas McGlasson, the son of her father’s friend from his days in the army. That was four months ago.

  If I don’t see new people sometimes, I’ll go mad.

  “Here we go, milady,” Mattie said. “I’m ready to dress you. If you’ll come here..?”

  Chlodie sighed, going to stand by the bedside with her arms out as Mattie reached up to undo the buttons behind her back and slowly take her dress down her body.

  “Thanks, Mattie,” she added, as her maid finished with her petticoats, adding on the extra ones that would make the skirt stand out on the fuller-skirted dinner gown.

  “Och, ‘tis nothing, milady,” Mattie reproached mildly as she arranged the petticoats and then reached for the rich-brocaded gown. “It’s rare enough I get to help you dress. It’s a grand thing that you’ve decided to revive it. Preparing for a thing’s sometimes sure to make it happen.”

  Chlodie smiled at Mattie, with her homespun wisdom. A girl of perhaps her own age, with a long narrow face and straight dark hair, Mattie was pretty in a wiry, solemn way. She appreciated her friendship and often confided in her. Strangely, though, this matter of the man was not something she wished to discuss.

  I cannot tell her about the Sight.

  Any mention of it made her own father angry, and for her to discuss it with a servant would disgrace her, and him, further.

  “There, milady!” Mattie exclaimed, as she finished. “All done, milady.”

  “Thanks, Mattie,” she said softly. She looked at herself in the mirror, a lass with big green-tinged pale eyes and pale red curls, her white skin offset by the brown dress. It hung in stiff folds from her waist, the skirt voluminous and the waist a narrow “v”. Her full bust was tight against the low, stiff bodice, and the sleeves were to her elbows, showing pale forearms with a soft curve to them.

  “I suppose I look alright,” she said, biting her lip critically.

  “Why, milady!” Mattie said, sounding shocked. “Pretty as a picture! Always are. You alright, milady?” she added, as Chlodie looked at her feet, feeling sad.

  “Um, I’m fine,” she managed. “Father’s still upstairs?”

  “He wants to eat in the study, like usual, milady,” Mattie explained. “His leg pains him, and he’ll not come down.”

  Chlodie felt guilty as she nodded, feeling relieved.

  She thanked Mattie, again, who blushed, then left, heading downstairs.

  In the dining room doorway, she paused and peered cautiously in. It was empty.

  She crossed the floor to the long, narrow table with its elegant spindly legs, and drew out a padded seat for herself – Mr. Brewer, the footman, was downstairs.

  He never comes up nowadays. It’s so rare we entertain.

  She looked down the table. It was laid out with a porcelain tureen, covered with a silver cover, two plates and their complement of knives and forks and spoons. She noticed soup spoons and plates laid out too, and was glad that Mrs. Brune had taken that dictate seriously. Her guest would be in need of something simple and fortifying.

  I judge he hasn’t had a decent meal in a week. For all that, he’s well-muscled.

  She flushed, recalling those big muscles on his chest and shoulder as she’d bandaged him. His waist was small and narrow and led to fine-boned hips, a faint tracing of muscle just visible, leading down his abdomen and into his trousers.

  She flushed.

  I am a wicked woman.

  “Milady?”

  A whispered word made her look up. Straight into brown eyes.

  She went red. Imagery of him almost nude disappeared, replaced by the clad reality that stood in the door before her now.

  Someone had, evidently, taken pity on him, for he was dressed now in a fine linen shirt and kilt with a tartan she didn’t recognize. Either that, or he’s practiced his thief skills on our household linen stocks.

  She almost laughed, but caught herself in time.

  “Sir,” she said softly, keeping her voice commendably level. “I am pleased to see you appareled for dinner. Do sit down.”

  “Thanks, milady,” he said. He drew out the chair on her left and sat in it, in breath-taking breach of custom. By rights, he should have taken the seat across the table from her, at the head. That would have put six feet at least of space between them, where now he was practically rubbing elbows with her. It was disconcerting.

  “Sir, you must be hungry,” she said, as she watched him reach for the tureen of soup himself – another breach. If he waited a moment, and perhaps poured them cordial to drink, Mrs. McCleary, the housekeeper, would come up and serve the dinner.

  “I am,”

  She sighed. He had opened the tureen, removing the silver lid, and reached for the silver ladle. Without any fuss, he had dished out a measure into his soup plate, and was looking at her expectantly.

  “Sir…”

  “Did I do something?”

  “Well, yes,” she said. “You poured your soup. Whereas it is customary, usually, to wait for the servants to serve us dinner?” She smiled, small and savage.

  �
��Um, yes,” he nodded. “Quite.”

  He leaned back uncomfortably, and she found a small smile quirking her lips. Leaned back like that, a contrite frown on his handsome features, he looked at once so handsome and confused that she felt her interest stir.

  “What is your name?” she asked.

  “Domnall,” he said. “I mean, Domnall, son of Grantham, Baron Dunning. At your service, milady.”

  He held out a hand. She took it. She nodded.

  “Domnall, son of Grantham,” she nodded again. “Welcome.”

  She tried to sound calmer than she felt, which wasn’t difficult – practically anything would have been calmer than she felt right now, with her heart racing and blood pulsing overly fast again.

  “I am Lady Chlodie,” she said. “As I think I told you earlier?”

  “Yes. Sorry, milady,” he added. “I kept forgetting to make introductions.”

  “Well, now you have,” she said, letting him off graciously. “So, Domnall, future Baron Dunning, welcome to Invermore House. I trust you’ll enjoy your brief stay before you go off to wherever you are headed.”

  “My thanks, milady,” he said, sounding uncomfortable. He stayed where he was, his face a tragic mask.

  “What?” she asked. He had laid the soup out and set the tureen aside, yet as yet everything remained untouched, as if he were waiting for something remarkable.

  “Well, you said we should wait.”

  “Oh, for…” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “I meant, it’s polite. But, since you’re starved, you don’t have to…oh!” she turned around, feeling the bell toll for the last remaining thread of her sanity as the housekeeper grinned. “Hello, Mrs. McCleary.”

  “Milady!” the woman bowed. “I’m here later than usual. Sorry, milady. First course, fish soup.”

  “Thank you,” Chlodie sighed. “If you could fetch the croutons? They’re in that dish, there.”

  “Och, of course, milady,” the housekeeper nodded, and lifted the tray from the sideboard, where Mattie had left a dish of crisply fried bread squares, about half an inch in size, for floating in the soup. They were a French invention, and delicious.

  “Thank you, Mrs. McCleary.”

  She let her soup spoon break the surface of the fragrant broth, and then looked up to where her guest sat. He was spooning broth, crunchy croutons and all, into his mouth, eating as heartily as a child would, heedless of manners.