She bit back a smile.
“I hope we have a hearty second course prepared?” she asked the housekeeper. “Or I would recommend more of the broth. It seems we have a hungry mouth to feed.”
She smiled and Domnall looked up.
“Did I do something amiss?”
She laughed.
“No,” she said, as Mrs. McCleary, laughing too, left the room. “I just sent to the kitchen for more soup. You really are hungry, it seems.”
“Yes.”
His eyes held hers. A grin, tentative and hesitant, crossed his face. That muscled, handsome face was suddenly boyish and playful, and she had to smile back.
“Well, I reckon we will manage to fill you up. The main course is grilled plaice, and we’ll have raisin pudding for dessert.”
“Och, milady!” the grin that spread across his face was broad and relieved looking. “That sounds fine.”
She looked at her hands, feeling a glow of pleasure spread through her.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Dinner progressed. Domnall polished off two dishes of soup, and then went through two grilled fish. By the time the pudding arrived, he was leaning back in his chair, looking green.
“Milady, you’ll have tae forgive me, but it’s been an age since I ate so well.” He reached down and loosened the tightly-belted kilt, looking distraught.
“I understand,” she said, though her cheeks burned at the innocent gesture. “I would have guessed you’ve been on the move for a week?”
“Yes,” he said. Then a frown crossed his face. “That’s a remarkable guess.”
“I can tell these things,” Chlodie demurred, realizing she had brought the topic of conversation dangerously close to the Sight. “You had the look of a man who’s not eaten nor slept well a week.”
“Thanks,” he chuckled. “I think.”
Their eyes held again. He smiled, the warmth lighting his eyes. She felt suddenly aware of how close he was, and felt a little flutter in her insides.
“You were with the army,” she said, trying to break the tension and disrupt the strange, wonderful wildfire that spread through her body as she looked at him. “Yes..?”
“I was,” he nodded. “With Murray, on the field. At Culloden. You ken?”
“I do,” she nodded, looking at the table. It was a great sorrow. The Rebellion had been crushed there, in a day long, bloody encounter that had left thousands of dead. The effect that it would have on the country was still being decided, but Chlodie knew the reprisals would be brutal, and crushing.
They will wish for us never to rise like that again.
The thought had dampened the mood in the room. Somewhere, the fire crackled. The silence stretched. Chlodie breathed in the scent of spiced fish and tried to bring her mind to a gentler topic to discuss.
“We were with Murray. I was with the McLachlan’s regiment, as an officer.”
“What sort of officer?” she asked, instantly intrigued.
“Lieutenant,” he said. He reddened, shy.
“Oh!” she sounded impressed. “That’s a fine thing, Lieutenant,” she said.
“Thanks, milady.”
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, looking at his cutlery. She realized he didn’t feel much pride for his role in the war. Too much of killing, she guessed. After a while, no soldier thought of it as glorious.
Father talked of that, too.
“You must be pleased it’s over.”
“Well, it isn’t,” he sighed. “Or, not really. I’m not home yet, milady.” He grinned, sorrowfully.
“No,” she said, feeling her own heart clench with sadness for him. As well as regret. She was soon to lose this company. She looked at her lap, where a linen napkin covered the brown brocade, feeling sad.
“Pudding, milady,” Mrs. McCleary said, appearing in the room with a tray. Chlodie breathed in the fine spiced scent of raisin pudding, the sweet clinging smell of custard with it.
“Grand,” she nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. McCleary,” she added, as the woman took away her soiled dishes and placed a steaming plate of fragrant pudding before her.
“Och, milady,” the woman blushed.
When she’d gone, Domnall sampled the pudding. His eyes closed, blissful.
“Och, milady,” he sighed. “I’ve not had such since I left my homestead, a year ago.”
Chlodie blushed. She looked at the table. Somehow, his candid enjoyment felt like a compliment. She felt her stomach tingle, watching him lick custard off the spoon.
“I’m glad,” she said.
She ate her own pudding. The silence stretched between them.
“Milady…” he said after the dishes had been cleared away, and still they hadn’t spoken.
“Yes?” she whispered softly.
“Um, you seemed sad, earlier,” he said. “When we talked about the fight. I hope that…”
“No,” she said, cutting off his inquiry. “I wasn’t upset about that – not personally. Just saddened by the loss of life.”
“Aye,” he nodded.
The silence stretched longer.
“I thought that mayhap…” he paused, leaning sideways and easing a pain in his leg. “I thought mayhap you’d lost someone. A man.”
“Oh.” She went red. Her eyes ducked down to the table again. He thought she’d been married? To a soldier for the rebellion?
“I mean…if you have a man at the war…”
“No,” she said.
Their eyes met. The relief that blossomed there, briefly, was touching.
Chlodie felt her lips twist with a smile.
“No,” she said, lighter now. “I have no man at the war. I am unmarried.”
“Oh.”
The silence that stretched between them could have been cut with a knife.
“Quiet, aren’t we?” Mrs. McCleary murmured, as she appeared again, to clean up the dishes, and Chlodie blushed, while Domnall, opposite, smiled.
PLANS AND VISIONS
Chlodie leaned against her bedroom door. Her hands were clenched in the skirt of brown brocade, fingers twisting the fabric. She closed her eyes.
“I do not care for Domnall.” She bit her lip, forcing herself to think it. “I cannot, since I only just met him.”
She sighed.
She knew it was foolish, but from the moment she’d seen him, she had felt strange feelings awakening in her. The moment she’d seen him in the vision, her heart had responded. Seeing him now, she felt nothing less. The feeling of his strong arms, tightening round her body, the way his brown eyes danced with amusement and danger when he touched her.
She went to the mirror, whose silvered surface was already dark, lit only fitfully by the glowing embers of the hearth fire. Her pale gaze met the reflected one.
“You only just met the man. He means nothing. He’ll go away soon.”
She felt her stomach tighten with anxious thoughts. She shook her head.
It isn’t quite true. That I only just met him. I saw him in the vision.
Her meeting of Domnall wasn’t quite as new as all that – if she counted the vision a week hence, she’d known of his existence for seven days.
“Why?”
She sat down heavily on her bed, feeling her feet pinched by the tight, heeled evening shoes. She hadn’t worn full evening clothes for four months now, and they felt restrictive. She unbuckled them, wincing as the blood flowed back to her toes, slowly.
It didn’t make sense.
The Sight had plagued her all her life, since she was perhaps eleven years old. She’d had her first experience of it then, slipping into that strange state when her friend Fran was there. She’d predicted the girl’s fall into a lake, but nobody had listened to her. After it had happened – Fran had thankfully survived the incident – her father had come to her sternly.
“You’re not to do that again, Chlodie,” he’d said.
“I didn’t do it, Father.”
“No arguing,” he sa
id. “Lord Hume has heard rumors that you’re a witch. If we hear enough of those, it could mean danger. Even in these more enlightened times. Even here. You cannot do such things.”
“I didn’t mean to…”
“No buts, Chlodie,” he said, anger cracking his tone, desperation mixed in. “I forbid it. If you wish to practice this foolishness, you’ll have to do it alone. I cannot allow you into society if you play these dangerous games.”
“It wasn’t a game…” Chlodie had begun crying.
“I’ll hear no more of this.”
That had been the last word on the topic. Sixteen years ago. Chlodie, terrified of the incident, had been left with no way to receive help, to ask for explanation of the incidents that left her drained and pained for weeks. She could ask for no guidance, seek no counsel about the disturbing visions which came on her, the incidents that were revealed without warning.
When Mrs. McCleary’s daughter fell off the roof, when Squire Northland’s horse bolted, when the stream came down in flood and swept through the field, taking the fence away…nobody would heed.
She sighed.
Mrs. McCleary had heeded her, and brought her to the only guidance she’d received – that of Mrs. Cambrooke, a village woman with a similar gift.
“You dinnae have to change what you see – it’s given ye to know, and sometimes that’s enough.”
“Enough to do what, though?” Chlodie asked, sorrowing.
“Enough to change things, in a way.”
That had been all the answer Chlodie had received. Even now, over seventeen years later, she had no idea what it meant, or how she could change things.
“All I can do is see them.”
It was frustrating.
The arrival of Lord Domnall had made things even more frustrating. Not only was she utterly unsure whether she ought to have assisted him – he was, after all, a self-confessed horse thief – but the vision of him confused her. Not even to mention the mix of wild, elated feelings that rushed through her as soon as she so much as heard his name.
“You’re foolish, Chlodie.”
It was the lack of visitors, was all. Seeing another person would be enough to excite her. That must be it.
I can’t be attracted to this…this bluff ruffian.
She bit back a grin. Of all the things she would have imagined, a tall, hale, hard-eating soldier was the last thing she’d have considered appealing. At least, that was what she would have thought. Now, she wasn’t too sure.
“Come on, Chlodie,” she sighed. “It’s time for bed.”
There wasn’t any good to be done by sitting about moping about things, she reasoned. She was just deciding whether or not to call for Mattie to bring her up a tisane from the kitchen to help her sleep, when someone called.
“Milady? Lord Invermore. He wants to talk tae you.”
“Mattie?” Chlodie shot to her feet and opened the door to the soft tap of knocking. “Father wants to see me? Where..?”
“He’s in the study yet, milady,” Mattie explained. “Shall I tell him you’ll be up soon, then?”
“I’ll go now,” Chlodie said swiftly, swallowing hard.
She headed briskly up the steps, heart thumping.
He can’t have heard about Domnall already. He’s only been in the house an hour or two, at most. He can’t know.
She felt her fingers curling into fists and forced herself to relax, knowing she was tense and trying not to be.
He won’t be angry. He himself would shelter soldiers, if he knew.
He might, she reflected, if they hadn’t been caught trying to steal his horse. He would have had them sent to the jail, which was what she should have done.
“Come on, Chlodie,” she scolded herself. “Be strong.”
Taking a deep breath, she headed up the stairs to his office.
“Daughter?”
His voice, thin and wavering, reached her. She swallowed again and went in through the partway open door.
“Father. I’m here.”
She looked round the room, noticing the window was closed, against the draft, but the fire was lower than it ought to be, making the room cool. She headed to the fireplace automatically, stoking the coals firmly.
“Leave that,” her father said, voice like a dry wind, rustling fallen leaves. “I want to talk to you.”
Here we go, Chlodie thought, swallowing hard. He’s going to tell me to make them leave.
She went to his desk, pulling out the wooden, straight-backed chair opposite. He sat in the padded leather-bound one behind, his thin face wearied.
“Daughter,” he sighed. “You should have asked my leave to admit guests. I did warn you of this the last time. You know,” he shook his head, a faint admonition.
“I know,” Chlodie said, sighing. “But then it was Lady Amalie and her son…”
“No matter,” he said loftily, gesturing with his hand, airily. “I know full well who it was. You saved them. Doubtless you’ve saved this blackguard and his serving-man as well. But still.” He shook his head, emphasizing his point. “It’s all very well for you to spend your time playing host to strays and waifs. If you were more often in society, you could do your proper duty by me. Settle down. Have a family. Give me heirs, to leave this place to.”
“Yes, Father.”
Inside, she felt furious. It was unfair! It was his illness that kept her here! If she was in the forest, playing host to waifs and strays – she was sure Lady Amalie would have something to say about that description if she’d heard it – she had only come here because of him. Stayed here, isolated and sad, because of him.
“You see…It is not appropriate, daughter, for a lass of mine to stay here and rot in the countryside. You’re like as not to lose your sense, out here…No wonder you find it acceptable to welcome scum from the woods into my household.”
“They’re not scum!” she protested, feeling her temper fray. “Lord Domnall is a lieutenant in the Jacobite Forces. He’s the son of a baron! He’s…”
“He’s made an impression, yes,” her father interrupted, wearily. He leaned back, exhausted.
“Father…”
“Enough, Chlodie,” he sighed. “I won’t hear any more about it. You have three days. If he isn’t healed and gone by then, I will call the bailiffs and tell them insurgents are using my grounds as a hideaway.”
“Father!” she covered her mouth with her hand, horrified.
“What can I do?” he shrugged, and this time she saw the desperation in his eyes. “The Jacobite cause was defeated, Chlodie! Those of us who took no part in fighting can only ensure we do not incriminate ourselves now. Have you any idea of what the reprisals could be like? No. You’re too young. Young and ignorant.” He sighed. Shook his head.
“Father…”
“No matter,” he looked up at her, and this time there was compassion in his gaze. “I forget, sometimes, your youth. You’re so like your mother it pains me to see you, sometimes. She would have known so much better how to speak with you. I regret…well, no matter,” he leaned back, eyes half-closed. “I cannot change the past. But please, Chlodie. Take care? I have no wish to see our home taken from over us.”
“No, Father,” Chlodie nodded, feeling exhausted. “Nor I.”
“Well, then,” he said, and took her hands, unexpectedly. The pleading look was back in his eyes again, and Chlodie held her breath, feeling the pain of that expression. “Three days, Chlodie. Then, get them hence – promise?”
“I promise, Father,” she whispered, feeling tears start to run down her cheeks. “I promise.”
“Good.”
She left the room soon after, face wet, head aching. She reached her room and collapsed on the bed. Looked up at the ceiling, weary. She was empty even of tears.
“What good is the Sight, if it cannot change anything?” she asked sadly.
She had a vision of Domnall, the day he was wounded. It didn’t stop it. He was here, and, she wondered, she had h
elped him, mayhap because of the fact that she had recognized him from the Sight.
Or perhaps, she reflected, fairly, I would have helped him anyway.
I am mad enough to play host to waifs and strays.
The comment made her feel ashamed. What if her father was right? What if she really was foolish, to allow guests to stay, to assist people in need whenever they crossed her path. What if she had even been foolish to allow Lady Amalie, and…
“Lady Amalie!”
She rocketed up, feeling sudden excitement. Lady Amalie! Of course! She had a fine manor, a day’s ride from here, close to the large homestead of Duncliffe. If anyone could help her, it was Amalie.
“I’ll ride there and ask her if she can care for Domnall. She and her man are Jacobites anyway. It would do them no more harm to help them out.”
She frowned. The solution, though sensible on paper, brought its own problems.
She wasn’t entirely sure that it would be harmless for her friend to host them, but it was certainly worth the thought. Her friend was close-knit with the earl of Duncliffe and his wife, Lady Marguerite. If she took them there, then the powerful – and neutral – Earl could surely help them reach their homeland.
“It’s worth a try.”
Feeling better than she had since leaving her father’s office, Chlodie went to the door to call Mattie to help her dress for bedtime.
In bed, she leaned back on the soft pillows and closed her eyes, feeling restless. She had asked Mattie to find accommodation in the guest quarters for Lord Domnall, which meant he was asleep on the lower story. She tried not to think about the fact that between her room and his there was only twenty paces and a flight of stairs.
She felt her cheeks heat up, remembering the feel of his chest under her hands, when she’d swabbed the wounds. His body was hard with months of marching and exercise, his skin warm with health. If it wasn’t for his wounding, he would have been stronger than anything she could imagine. As it was, she could see how it had robbed his strength.
She smiled, thinking of the look in his eye as she had helped to bandage him.
A Highlander's Gifted Love (Blood 0f Duncliffe Series Book 9) Page 4
