The Highlander’s Trust_Blood of Duncliffe Series_A Medieval Scottish Romance Story

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Don't be too sure,” Arabella said, white-lipped. “I don't trust him.”

  Richard chuckled grimly. “Nor do I, milady. But still, I think it's safe to say you did well.”

  They rode on as they talked, the woods misty and still gloomy, despite the day's advancement.

  “All the same,” Arabella said. She glanced at the man again, and swallowed hard. The last thing she wished to do was give him any excuse at all to pay any mind to her.

  I would rather he quietly forgot I existed. Not that I think that's likely, mind.

  Again, the major stopped and turned to face them.

  “Almost there,” he said. “Just about halfway. When we get there, you should report to Sergeant Brigway. He'll send you to the women's encampment.” he smiled at Arabella.

  “Don't,” Richard hissed as they rode on.

  She frowned.

  “Brigway is his man,” he whispered. “He'll have spoken to him before he reaches you. If he comes to seek you out, don't go with him.”

  Arabella swallowed hard. “You think he...” She couldn't bring herself to even state what she thought he meant.

  “I want to believe I'm wrong,” Richard said flatly. “But the man's wicked.”

  Arabella said nothing. She just looked down. Her fingers where white where they clutched the reins, the forest floor a good five and a half feet away. She swallowed, wishing she could just rest here in the forest. Just stay out here in the cold and the mist and never see or speak to anyone again.

  I have no home now.

  Her father had betrayed more than just the army. He had betrayed her trust, too. Her belief in him. She felt tears prick her eyes.

  Stupid fool I am, she sniffed. I shouldn't have believed him.

  She glanced sideways to where Richard rode beside her. His profile calm and handsome, he seemed so remote and cold, but so upright, like a knightly figure from a childhood fairy tale. He wouldn't betray anyone, she thought fiercely. Would he?

  She shook her head, feeling foolish. How would she know? She had only just met him!

  Her mind turned to more immediate worries. Where was she to go? How would she reach home again?

  “When we reach the camp,” she whispered to Richard, who rode close by. “What must I do?”

  “Come with me,” he murmured back. “I'll give you coin and directions. Mayhap Stower can guide you back? He's my man.”

  “Oh.” She swallowed. “Would he know I'm...” Her words stopped. Would he know I am an enemy. That was what she wanted to say. The daughter of a man who had your men killed? The daughter of a murderer?

  “He'll not know you're Scots unless I tell him,” he smiled. “You speak our tongue like a native. I would ask how, but that's none of my business.” He grinned.

  “I would ask how you came to speak passing Scots,” she quipped, smiling despite herself. His grin worked through her like balm on sore limbs, making her heart warm with its merriment. “But I'm sure it'll be a long story to tell?”

  He laughed, showing white teeth. “Well, probably not,” he said. “I picked it up the usual way, on campaign. A word here, a word there. And a cleric taught all of us a little. Just to get by, when we're encamped here.”

  “Oh,” she raised a brow. “You learn quickly.”

  “Slowly,” he countered. “I've been billeted in Scotland for years.”

  “Why?” she asked, despite herself.

  He laughed. “As a native to this place, you have limited faith in its charms it seems?”

  She laughed too. “Well, I suppose I don't notice them anymore. I wonder that you're here simply for the local charm?”

  His face went serious then, and she wondered why. He said nothing for a long time, just looked down at his hands. She saw him flex the knuckles, noting the scuff and scarring on the skin.

  “I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I didn't mean to say aught amiss...”

  “You didn't,” he said. He looked into her eyes and she looked back, and suddenly it was difficult to breathe. Their sorrow and their joy mixed, tore at her, a bitter sweetness in the gaze that met her own. He cleared his throat, seeming about to say something, and she flushed with warmth.

  “We're stopping at the brook, for the horses,” a shout broke their silence.

  Richard jumped. “Oh, no. We should go,” he added, looking round. “We can't fall too far behind. He'll suspect something.”

  “True.” Arabella nodded, looking over to where Rowell had halted his horse in a space between two tall trees, his face an inquiring stare.

  “You two sharing secrets?” he called back as they rode up. Arabella paled.

  “The lieutenant was giving me directions,” she said. “To the village nearest the encampment.”

  “Oh! Capital,” he smiled. “A helpful lieutenant, eh?” he gave Richard an inquiring stare. “Just be careful what sort of information you give out, Lieutenant,” he said. His voice lost all its humor. Arabella tensed.

  He suspects something.

  As it happened, he couldn't have been more incorrect – she was not a spy, and nor was Richard dealing double with both sides. However, the fact was, he suspected something. He also wanted to have some reason to harm her.

  I don't know why, but I sense that.

  She shivered again as she dismounted, and looked to where the major had also. His red coat bright against the dark green of the trees by the brook, Major Rowell stared at her. His smile was slow and predatory as he stared at her, eyes lingering on the low bodice of her dress. She looked at her hands, not knowing what else to do, her throat tight with fear, tension and shame.

  “So, milady,” he said, stressing the word. “I never did ask how you came to meet our lieutenant here.”

  She frowned. Glanced at Richard, but he was stolidly leading his horse to the waters, not looking round.

  “Well, as we said,” she said. “I was at the massacre we told of. I was...” she paused, reaching back in her mind to the story they'd discussed earlier, grappling for the name. “I was with fellows from Hal's platoon,” she said. “We'd been invited to the, um, gathering.” She bit her lip, waiting for the man to find the raw edges where the story didn't quite match up.

  If I am wife to an English soldier, how can I be lady of Duncliffe? If I was at the massacre with the English, why am I alive?

  “Oh?” he frowned. “I suppose your presence made it somewhat easier for the group to be assimilated?”

  “Um, yes,” Arabella nodded. She looked round, desperate to get Richard's attention.

  “So,” Rowell said softly, taking a step forward. “I suppose that is why, when the men were all killed, you were spared, yes? That and, of course, that nobody would waste so bonny a lass.”

  His hand reached up for her hair and Arabella looked round wildly, searching for an escape.

  “Sir,” she said, taking a step back. “Sir. Please...” Her heart thumped and she was, quite plainly, frightened. Here in the woods with no one to stop him except Richard, who was a good twenty paces away and not likely to fight his own commanding officer, there was no stopping him.

  He smiled. “You needn't fear me,” he whispered. “I assure you, I am no brute, though my countrymen are.”

  Arabella looked round again. “Sir, your countrymen come in two variants.” She stepped back again, desperate for escape. “Those who would assist a woman in distress and those who would take advantage of that distress for themselves.”

  He chuckled lightly. “You imply something, I think,” he said. “I will not ask what, though I suspect you are frightened of me?”

  She bit her lip, not wanting to betray the fact that she was, indeed, afraid of him. She was still backing away when she heard a step on the grass. Someone spoke.

  “You intended to water the horses?” Richard asked. His voice was hard, though he had not raised it. He didn't need to. His fist was clenched, his other hand relaxed where it hung at the hilt of his sword. Arabella could read the tension in every li
ne of him – the readiness for action.

  “Well, quite,” Major Rowell said smoothly. “I was about to do so, when you came up so forwardly.”

  “I wanted to caution you to haste,” Richard said, blinking mildly. “These woods are full of vagabonds and outlaws, as you said. I thought I heard someone in the thicket there.”

  “Very good, Lieutenant,” he said tightly. “We'll move on as soon as the horses have drunk their fill.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Arabella raised a brow – the trace of sarcasm there was so slim she would barely have noticed it – but it was there to hear, and evidently the major heard it too.

  “I'll be back shortly,” he said tightly.

  He headed off, leaving them alone.

  “When we get to the town,” Richard whispered, “ride back along the road. Go west. Stop in the trees at the Forest-edge Inn. Say to Mrs. Brewster I sent you,” he said. “I've got coin for the stay, if you need it.”

  “Thank you,” Arabella whispered. She swallowed hard. She wasn't used to taking aid of any sort, and was about to say “My father will see you recompensed,” when she stiffened.

  I will never rely on my father for his recompense again.

  Her heart was tight with betrayal and hurt. She never wanted to so much as set eyes on the man again, much less ask for anything. She swallowed hard, thinking of her siblings. She wouldn't want to leave without seeing them again, or she wouldn't be returning home.

  “Here,” Richard whispered as he handed her a small leather purse. “Remember. As soon as we reach the town, ride west. Don't follow him anywhere. I don't trust him.”

  “Yes,” Arabella whispered again. “I will remember.”

  They mounted and left shortly after.

  As they neared the town, it seemed like a brooding silence seemed to fall over their group. Even Major Rowell, who had previously been so talkative, was silent now. Arabella looked around. It was not long now, before she would reach the turnoff. They were almost there.

  Ride west. Don't look back.

  “We should reach Grayling soon, shouldn't we, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes, Lieutenant. Another ten minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The road changed soon after, going from leaf-strewn forest pathway to cobbled road. Arabella tensed. She looked at Richard, and his handsome head nodded. Ride west.

  “So,” the major was saying, in the middle of some earnest discussion, “I was saying that the suppression of native traditions ought to be encouraged. If these gatherings persist, who knows how many of them will turn to massacres? No – take away your enemy's identity and you disarm him.”

  Arabella stared at him. She was focused on her ride, but she was still horrified by what she heard. She was about to answer when Richard spoke first.

  “These people are not our enemy, Major,” he said tightly. “Jacobites are our enemy. Not Scotsmen.”

  “Oh?” the major gave a bitter chuckle. “Well, seems they're much the same thing. Scrape a Scotsman and you'll see the Jacobite underneath. Mark my words, Lieutenant. We'll not have shrift of this nonsense until we've subdued the lot. Now let's see...we're almost ready to go down into the town, are we not..?” he reached into his pocket for something, and Arabella felt Richard's urgent-eyed stare.

  Now, he seemed to be saying. While his attention is split.

  She swallowed, her heart thumping in her chest. She looked round. There, on her left, she could just see the start of the path- -way west. She glanced at the major, who was riding slowly forward, seemingly consulting a compass.

  “So,” he was saying, “I heard from Chedfield that there was a small hamlet not far from the town? If we need produce for the horses, and for victualing, I suggest we replenish ourselves there, not so?”

  “Sir, you mean to requisition their goods?” Richard sounded horrified.

  “Why not?” he shrugged. “Loyal servants of the Crown? What is theirs is for the army.”

  “Sir, I...” Richard sounded outraged as he spoke. “We already levy taxes here. You think the locals will learn to love us anymore if we take also their livelihood?”

  He chuckled. “We don't want the locals to admire us, sir,” he said. “Well, mayhap some of them, but...” he trailed off and reached for the compass again, turning left slowly.

  Arabella seized her moment. She leaned forward, shifting the direction of her horse. They were already at the edge of the path. Now they stepped off and to her right, merging with the shadows, heading along down the road toward the hills.

  “...and so I say that we should...” she heard Rowell's voice, getting fainter, now, as she rode at a slow walk down the pathway into the trees. She held her breath, counting to ten until they were out of earshot. Then she rode quickly.

  Breath heaving in her chest, lungs straining, heart pounding, she rode. She felt her hair loosen from the vestige of an up-do, felt her skirts billow on the breeze as she leaned forward, and heard the wind hiss past her ears. She rode.

  “Bloody perdition! What in the name of everything wretched is that?” someone shouted.

  A shot rattled through the leaves above her head – Arabella almost smelled the stench of a musket ball as she rode. She stifled a scream at the wind of its passing. So close! It rattled through the leaves and must have found a target somewhere, though it missed her and her horse and she rode on.

  “Home,” she whispered. “We're riding home.”

  She didn't know if she said it for herself or for her horse, or both of them. However, as she went through the darkening, whispering trees, the pursuers falling away as she left the town with its billet further and further behind her, she repeated it endlessly.

  Home. We're riding home. Back home.

  As the path lengthened, the morning brightened, and she felt exhausted, nearing the inn, Arabella kept on saying it. It didn't convince her anymore, though, with every repetition. She had no home, so where was she going? What would happen when she reached Duncliffe again?

  It didn't matter, she told herself harshly. All that mattered now was that she was safe, and alone. As far away from the unpleasant, unkind major with the predatory gaze as possible as well.

  GATHERING INFORMATION

  “Dash it, Richard,” the voice said, breaking his concentration where he sat on a bench in the mess tent, mending his coat.

  “What?” Richard asked, feeling his jaw set tight as he recognized the voice. Major Rowell.

  “That strumpet just disappearing in the woods like that?”

  Richard went white. He almost stabbed the needle he sewed with in his hand, he got such a shock. He set it aside and stared.

  “Say that again,” he said quietly. “Lady Arabella is no strumpet, and you'll rue it if you call her that again.”

  He saw the major's brow rise and thought he detected nerves there, before the man's expression changed to mild surprise. He felt his own heart thump, knowing himself a fool for having betrayed his feelings. He leaned against the wall, heart thumping, and swallowed hard.

  “I detect a note of admiration in your voice, eh?” he chuckled. “Lass got to you.”

  The fuss when he discovered her missing suggested she'd got to the major too, Richard thought to himself. Very disturbingly. “Lady Arabella warrants our protection,” was all he said.

  “And I suppose that's why she went haring off into the woodlands like a flock of wolves chased at her heels?” he asked. “Because she was so solicitous of our protection?” he chuckled. “I think she'll manage very well alone. And you're a fool.”

  Richard swallowed, hearing a harshness in his voice. “Why, sir?” he said tightly. The insult made his blood boil, but this was his immediate superior. He couldn't very well attack him.

  “You think to trust such a doxy as her?” the man said. “Richard, she's like as not a spy. Mark my words. I should have them scouring the woods for her. Just in case you told her something stupid, eh? Like our marching orders for next week? You w
ouldn't have mentioned anything, would you?”

  “Sir,” Richard swallowed hard again. “I take it you think I am a fool. However, I am not so foolish. No, I told her nothing. I felt pity for her plight, but I would not betray my king for aught.”

  “Oh, good,” Major Rowell sounded as if he thought it amusing. “Well, I trust that to be true. Only time will tell. Now, are your men in marching order?”

  “They will be,” Richard nodded, not raising his eyes from his sewing. His blood had stained the cloth a little from where he'd stabbed his finger with the needle, but it had stopped flowing now and the blotch would wash out. “I've set them to repairing their supplies.”

  “I note you are an example to them,” the major said, amused. “In which case, be sure you don't set an example of being over-friendly with the locals.”

  His hard stare met Richard as he looked up and he felt his breath catch in his throat. What was the man suggesting?

  “Yes, sir,” he said hoarsely.

  The major chuckled as he left.

  As soon as he'd gone, Richard leaned against the wall with his eyes closed. He let out a slow breath. What was he going to do?

  Of all the news the major brought with him, the most important was that Arabella had escaped. If he had any word of her from any of the other troops, it would probably have shown in his voice. Richard didn't believe the man would sound so annoyed if he'd managed his own way.

  He sighed. Arabella was clearly safe from the English troopers then. Then again, they were far from the only dangers in these woods. He felt his hands clench into fists and consciously relaxed them. What was he thinking? He could barely concentrate or do his duty, and all for worrying about Lady Arabella – someone he hardly knew.

  I just wish I knew if she was safe.

  He sat up, making himself open his eyes and focus on the spare coat on his knee. He heard someone step onto the tiles.

  “Sir?”

  He sighed. “Yes, Stower?”

  He found himself looking up into the red-cheeked, earnest face of Roderick Stower, his ensign.

  “Sir? The men are ready. We've done like you said, and mended our kit. Now they want to know if we should march north? The major's getting the other lot all lined up and ready.”