She chuckled to herself, the irony not escaping her. Her father probably had put as much thought into both the gown and the man.
“And I'll be stuck with it.”
She didn't want to let it happen. However, who else was there? All of the staunch Jacobites her father invited to the house never really appealed. All of them seemed either feverish with fanaticism in supporting the Cause, or too full of lassitude to be fevered about anything. How was one supposed to make a choice, in any case? What made a good husband?
Arabella sighed. She looked at herself in the mirror. The surface showed her a pale oval face, the paleness of the skin enhanced by long red locks – dark red like chestnut shells. Her eyes were hazel, in sharp contrast with the hair, and her face had a sweet, solemn look, resulting from the big eyelids and the small chin.
I know what I look like, she thought, sighing. But what would a man I fancied look like?
She blushed as she recalled the afternoon those days ago when she had seen that soldier in the woods. Now, he had caught her eye. She already knew then that anyone she wished to wed would likely have to look like he had, to catch her interest.
I am not going to think of that man, ever again, she told herself sternly. I will never see him again. He was an English spy. She couldn't risk thinking of him. What if someone found out what she'd done? No, better to forget.
She reached firmly for her brush and turning to call Matty, her maid. She needed help with her hair.
“Oh, milady. You look as pretty as a picture. Now, let's arrange it in that new style, eh?”
“The one with the raised sides?”
“Aye, milady! With such hair as yours, the more you can show it off the better. Now, there we are...if I just put a pin in the side here, and another there...”
Arabella listened to her maid chatting to herself as she arranged her hair. When it was done – a simple style, fashionable at Court, that raised the sides and left the curls loose – she headed downstairs.
The faint sound of conversation grew louder as she walked down the elaborate, vaulted hallways toward the great hall. Built on ancient lines, Duncliffe manor still had a vast, vaulted hall in the center. The hall had been furnished in recent years with a checkerboard floor and a carved gallery for the musicians. Otherwise, it was still a vaulted, dark space of a style of centuries before.
Arabella felt her pulse flutter as she peeped in through the door, a wall of faces and bodies clad in tartan meeting her. She took a steadying breath. As she had expected, the hall was full of her father's Jacobite acquaintances. This meant she had been right about his intent for tonight.
She was meant to meet someone.
Her body was tense and her heart was thudding with uneasy anticipation, her gaze wandering. Which was why she didn't notice him, not at first – not before she was standing face to face with him, looking into his blue eyes. She knew, then, that it was the one man it couldn't possibly be: the man from the woods.
AN EVENING OF UNEXPECTED THINGS
It was her.
Richard stared. In a dress of dark green velvet that made her curves a splendid vista, her hair shining in the candlelight, it was her. The girl from the woodlands.
His eyes feasted on the pale skin of her throat, the sweet curves of her waist, her dark lips.
She is so beautiful.
He felt as if he'd woken from a dream, to discover it wasn't a dream, but real. He felt the urge to pinch himself, but even that was something he was too numb to do. He stood rooted to the spot before the door. To his surprise, she seemed as shocked as he was. She stared at him with those huge brown eyes widening.
“Milady,” he said, bowing low.
He used the title without thought. There was no doubt in his mind that she was a lady. He had known that from the moment he saw her, only before he had thought of her in his imagination of a lady, not a flesh-and-blood person. In this hall of grim-faced soldiers and dour nobles, she shone like a lamp in a dark sconce.
“You,” she breathed. Her cheeks flamed in distress. She curtsied, eyes down. “I mean...greetings, milord.”
He smiled. “I'm no lord, milady,” he explained. “I'm just an officer.”
“Officer?” she frowned.
He nodded, indicating the clothes he wore – all the officers of the Borderers had worn full uniforms. They were here by invitation – and it was a general one, issued to them in their capacity in the armed forces, so they had all decided to dress the part.
Most presentable garments we have, anyhow.
“Yes,” he agreed. “An English officer.”
He looked round, sensing eyes on him. The ballroom was crowded, but it wasn't hard to pinpoint the watcher. He found himself staring into the black gaze of a youth some years his junior. For all the fellow's youthfulness, the gaze was vengeful. He swallowed. His skin prickled. Whoever this was, they didn't approve of him being here. Or of his talking to the lady.
“Um, I should go,” he said to her then.
“Probably,” she said frankly.
He laughed. My, but she was frank.
“Well, then,” he said, indicating the door with his head. “I shall go over there. Closer to the escape route. Let me just say not all your countrymen are as friendly as whoever hosts this ball.” He indicated the watcher with a tilt of the chin.
To his surprise, her eyebrows shot up. She seemed amused. “Friendly?” she said, as if the word were foreign. They spoke English, but had started in Scots.
Richard licked dry lips. “Er, yes. That thing when, you know, you extend the hand of friendship.”
He said it without thought, his usual response. Their eyes met. She couldn't move quickly enough to conceal the twinkle in them. He had amused her, a fact which surprised him.
“I was not lacking for the definition, sir,” she said quietly, though she smiled. “Rather, I was surprised to hear the earl of Duncliffe described with such an epithet.”
“Um, that's bothersome,” Richard managed.
“Bothersome?” she frowned.
“If he's unfriendly, I'm dead.” He didn't bother to conceal his fear.
She looked up at him, brown eyes cold. “Well, murder's a harsh thing to accuse my father of.”
“Your...father?” he squeaked.
She nodded. “Yes. I'm the daughter of the earl of Duncliffe.” Her big eyes studied his face as if he must be daft not to know that.
“Um. Oh,” Richard managed. “I'm...sorry,” he said.
She laughed. “Well, that's not quite what people usually say when I say that. But no matter. Apology accepted.”
He let out a slow breath.
“Whew. Well, I didn't mean any offense. I simply didn't know. In which case, I thank your father for his kindness in having us invited.”
She raised a brow. “Well, Father's kindness is a matter of opinion. Now, have you taken any refreshments yet?”
Richard raised a brow too. As an English Hanoverian meeting a lord of hitherto unknown allegiance, he had a baseless, but real, terror about being poisoned. Men had died for being either one of those, and he was both together – a foreigner, and on the wrong side.
“Um, I dined before I came,” he stuttered. He knew how rude that sounded, but he took the risk of rudeness rather than the risk of possible poison.
To his astonishment, she chuckled.
“My lord, if we'd laced the wine with belladonna or monkshood, we'd all be rolling about on the floor by now, in our death throes. I am drinking it, as are all my family. It's wine.” She raised her glass.
“My lady, forgive me for my foolishness,” he murmured. “I am...not in a place where I feel at my ease.” His gaze roved round the room a little wildly. Crowded, with the sound of music at the far end, at least half the guests were prominently wearing tartan. It was a statement, and he felt it. They might as well have waved it in his face, saying: “You don't belong here. We're proud Scotsmen.”
She raised a brow. “Well, nor am I
feeling much at ease, sir,” she said. “So there I sympathize.”
“You're in your home,” Richard countered. “So how is it that you're still feeling ill at ease?”
She shot him a look. This was the first time he could have considered her eyes icy.
“Just because it's my home, doesn't mean I am at home in it,” she said tightly.
Richard nodded. That, he could sympathize with. “I'm sorry, milady. I felt like an outcast in my father's hall too. It's why I'm here so far north.”
She nodded.
“Well, now you know,” she said. “I am a little of an outcast here, too.”
He nodded. He felt as if he'd met a kindred spirit.
They both looked at each other. He seemed to drown in that dark gaze. It was ridiculous, since they'd only just met. However, Richard felt, staring into her eyes, as if part of him had been searching for her for half a lifetime.
She stared up, her lips a little parted, those eyes enormous. Then, as if becoming aware of his sudden closeness, and how he leaned toward her, she coughed and looked away.
“I should go,” she said.
Richard nodded. “I, too. I can see my fellow officers over there by the table. They all look a bit fidgety. I should go and join them.”
“Yes, milord.”
He shot her a look. “Lieutenant Osborne,” he corrected. “Or Richard. I'm no lord.”
The moment he'd said his name, he felt himself go as pink as she did. It was a strange intimacy, giving her his name.
She nodded, and he saw that slim throat work as she swallowed.
“Yes,” she said. “Well, um, Lieutenant. You should go.”
“Exactly.”
He couldn't move. He felt as if part of him wanted to stand here and gaze at her forever, his eyes drinking in the sweetness of her, his mind drowning in the gentle sound her voice made. He stared at her, letting his eyes feast on her body, and drown in the sheer beauty of her face.
“Well,” she said with a little shrug that was almost impatient. “You, then, should go to your kind. I, to mine.”
“Good evening, then, milady,” he said, bowing low. “I am pleased to have met you.”
“Good evening,” she said.
She dropped an elegant curtsy, and then walked away.
It felt, to him as if she made the gesture deliberately, to show him how she was not part of his world. He saw her go to join the dark-haired youth who'd glared at him. He wanted to sigh.
Of course that was a kinsman of hers, he thought glumly. That just had to happen – the youth already hated him. That in itself spoke volumes for how Richard would be received if were to show an interest in Arabella. It wasn't as if he could doubt the relationship – the youth looked exactly like her.
Richard stepped back, reluctant to join his soldiers at the table. He wasn't ready yet for their crude discussions, and the slant they would put on any interaction with a lady. He anticipated that, for even though the men who'd come with him were all officers, many of them wouldn't be above mocking him for paying interest to Arabella.
“I'll go and stand somewhere else,” he told himself glumly. He felt so out of place here.
Instead of joining his fellows, he found a place where he could watch her instead, noting how she spoke to the youth in whispers.
As he watched, she looked over in his direction once. Somehow, he guessed the conversation was about him. He bit his lip, not wanting to have been the cause of any family altercations. He saw her lean in and whisper something to the youth, putting a gentle hand on his arm. He wondered if she'd told him not to attack anyone. He sighed. For that he could be grateful.
Arabella left her young kinsman, heading to a man with reddish hair. With a long, narrow-jawed face not dissimilar to her own, he guessed he was the earl of Duncliffe, though he wasn't about to ask. He stood and watched her, keeping an eye on the man, and deduced that yes, he must be sire to Arabella.
He smiled, letting the name fill him. He liked the sound of that name – it suited her, with a wonderful freedom to its sound. She was like that name, he realized, she was wild, untamed and beautiful. He had never met anyone like her.
Moreover, I'll never meet anyone like her again, that's for certain.
All the women he'd ever met were pleased with the confinement his society offered them. A canary in a cage may choose a safe cage over a perilous freedom. However, those women he had met had no idea they were caged. This woman, on the other hand, had no idea cages existed. She had lived with the perils of freedom all her life – else how was it that she disliked her own father so? – and would never choose to give them up.
She was a challenge. She was beautiful and free. In addition, he thought, watching her disappear into the ranks of her family, she is so far beyond me that I might as well never have met her.
The only good thing about it is that I have now seen how beautiful a wild and untamed woman can be. Though I'm not sure if that's a good thing or bad one.
He was deeply moved by her, but he would never see her again. What sort of a story could be written out of that? He had no idea. He just hoped it was a happy one.
He walked closer to the edge of the hall. It was just as well he had, because in that moment the shots rang out.
A MOMENT OF PERIL
“What is happening?” Arabella shouted.
“Arabella, you know. Stay out of it.” Her father spoke from behind her, a tone of command.
“Father?” Arabella stared at him, horrified. “No! You cannot tell me you authorized this!”
She felt sick. Here she had been, promising the Englishman that her father would respect a truce, that there was no way he would ambush guests at dinner, breaking all the guest laws. However, no, her father had made her a liar even then. She looked at him, cheeks burning with rage.
Her father raised a brow. “I can't very well stop it, can I?” he asked grimly. “I didn't authorize it, I assure you. However, if Roger MacDowell, earl of Strathmore, chooses to shoot guests in my own hall, what must I do? Stand in front of him with my arms out?”
Arabella stared at him as if he'd struck her. “Mayhap, yes,” she whispered. It was unthinkable, to let guests be shot in your own hall, and do nothing! She felt ashamed of what she'd said. Luckily, he didn't seem to have heard it. She swallowed.
She looked where her father had indicated, and saw that he was right. There, indeed, was the earl, armed with a carbine, shooting at an English soldier. As she watched, he used up his bullet, and then used the gun itself to club a man. The man fell, blood on his white shirt. All around, the soldiers were being assaulted or quietly removed. She felt a complete horror.
The Englishman! Where was he?
She looked round the hall again, frantically. Spied a head of dark hair at the back.
He was near the rear door, the fighting breaking out in front of him as officers of both sides started to swing fists and draw weapons. Why are there weapons here?, she thought, distracted. No one bore weapons to a gathering! This was insanity.
“Douglas!” she yelled. Three heads turned, one of which was her brother.
He was in the corner by the door, and far too far away to help her. To his credit, he was struggling with a Scotsman himself, trying to make the man lay down his arms. She paused to throw him a mute but loving glance and ran on.
I cannot let them harm him. I cannot let them kill him. I promised he'd be safe. She tried to recall the soldier's name. He was a lieutenant. Asborne or Ashdowne or...
“Richard!” she screamed.
He turned toward her just as the Scotsman before him made a fist, aiming for his head. She saw Richard counter the blow, though his own strike lacked force. She noticed why – his arm bled freely from a cut in the shoulder. She felt her stomach twist. She wouldn't let the man kill him. She saw the Scotsman reach into his belt, drawing a short dirk – a sword-like dagger, designed for stabbing. She saw the blade flash and her heart twisted desperately.
�
�Aaah!” she yelled, throwing herself at the Scot. She grabbed the first thing at hand – a wooden chair – and struck him hard, using all the force she could muster.
She saw him twist round, wild-eyed, and stare at her in horror. “Lassie!” he yelled.
Arabella threw the chair, shocked at how much of her strength it took to move the heavy wooden object even so far. It skidded across the floor and made the Scotsman stumble. That brief inattention was all Richard needed. He turned to the door and opened it.
“Run!” he yelled.
As the nearby English soldiers – the few who were still able to – strove to reach the door, following his imperative command, Richard stood back.
“Go!” Arabella screamed at him. She hadn't dared this danger, dared the wrath of her own father, to save any besides him! What was he thinking of? Go!
She saw him pause there, letting others pass him. It seemed like the whole hall was empty, with only them left alive in it. His eyes met hers across the gap of running, chasing men. She felt the world stop.
This could be the end of everything, time standing still.
Then, suddenly, as a man ran toward her, shouting incoherently, the world exploded again into color, brightness, and action. Richard sprang out. He grabbed her wrist and ran with her, heading for the door.
They passed through.
Outside, the night was cold, and wild. The scent of dew was overpowering in her nostrils, mixed with the scent of earth and, faintly, of damp loam and blood. She looked round. The courtyard was a patchwork of shadows, fire and motion; men running this way and that way, screaming and yelling as they fought, pursued, and attacked.
She was rooted to the spot by her shock. As she watched, she saw a soldier chasing a kilted man, the two of them running toward the stables. Closer to, a man whooped as he fell on another, a shield in one hand, a dagger in the other. She heard the man scream and winced, trying to shut out the sounds of terror and pain. It was a nightmare. It was carnage. It was Duncliffe, which had been her home.
The Highlander’s Trust_Blood of Duncliffe Series_A Medieval Scottish Romance Story Page 3
