Shadowy Highland Romance: Blood of Duncliffe Series (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Ferguson, Emilia

  “I'll likely stay away,” he said.

  He saw a disappointed expression cross Lady Arabella's face, and felt his heart drop a little further.

  Arabella smiled though, almost immediately, nodding at him. “Well, then. You'll meet my sister at breakfast on Saturday then. And I'm sure you'll like her as well as we all do. She's very good company.”

  “I am sure she is,” he murmured sincerely.

  “You live far apart?” Genevieve asked Arabella.

  “About two days' ride. I sometimes ride there with Mirelle – she does so love to see her cousin.”

  “You have a daughter?” Genevieve inquired, one brow raised.

  “Yes! Mirelle is two years' old now, bless her. And as naughty as she looks innocent,” Arabella chuckled fondly. “A beautiful girl. You'll meet her tomorrow, perhaps? She's sleeping now.”

  “I would like that,” Genevieve nodded. “I am fond of children.”

  “Good,” Arabella smiled.

  The look on Genevieve's face was so gentle that Adair felt his own heart ache. She was so beautiful, and so good! He winced, taking this as yet another indication that he ought to be as far away from her as possible.

  I could only do her harm.

  “You have brothers and sisters, Lord Adair?”

  Adair stared at Lady Genevieve, struggling to believe that she had really just addressed him. All his words suddenly disappeared. He looked around at Arabella, who turned to her cousin, smiling tranquilly.

  “Lord Adair is the sole heir of Baron Hume,” she explained for him. “And no sisters either – yes?” she smiled warmly at Adair, who nodded.

  “Yes.”

  He looked at his plate, not at Genevieve, expecting to see scorn, or pity, in the twist of her lovely lips.

  I don't know which of the two would be harder to bear.

  He focused on his meal, and on the hall, listening to the scrape and clatter of cutlery and crockery around them. His plate finished, a serving-man carried it away quickly.

  “Ah!” Arabella looked up, clapping her hands. “The pudding!”

  The guests all exclaimed in delight as the serving-man came in with a vast silver dish with a round pudding, decorated with sprigs and set aflame. Adair risked a look at Genevieve, who was staring at it with wonderment. Her expression was so sweet that he felt his heart clench.

  “What is it?” she asked Arabella, who smiled.

  “It's our dessert,” she explained. “You've not had such a thing? My dear, you are in for a treat.”

  Lady Genevieve laughed in delight and Adair looked down at the table to avoid staring at her as she gave her dessert a delighted smile when it was put in front of her.

  “Mon dieu!” she said, swallowing a mouthful. Her eyes were wide, but it was an approving response, and she grinned, lips just parted, her cheeks flushed warmly. Adair felt his groin ache with longing and looked away, the response to reach out and touch her, to run his hand through those lustrous curls, almost overwhelming.

  “It's good?” Arabella inquired. Genevieve, mouth full, nodded.

  “Yes,” she said. “Absolutely delicious. What's in it?”

  As Arabella described what pudding consisted of and how it was made, Adair fought not to watch the woman opposite him. He gave up in the end and gazed at her, the blood pulsing in her pale throat, the sweet curve of her mouth, the flushed cheeks.

  “So,” she said, raising a brow at Arabella and Richard both. “This pudding, it is something special.”

  Arabella laughed, clearly complimented. She patted her cousin's hand. Adair stared at the pale-fine boned hand with its tapered fingers and wished his own was resting over it.

  “Nuts and apples,” a serving-man informed them, coming around with yet another platter, on which were nuts, apples and slices of cheese. Adair let the man refill his wine-glass and leaned back in his seat, considering if it was possible to get to know the exotic beauty.

  Whist, Adair, he told himself sharply. You know you'd never have the nerve. And to what end? You'll only bring her harm.

  He drank a little more, brooding on the thought.

  Beside him, Ascott engaged him in a conversation about the tobacco trade, a discussion that was largely one-sided and required Adair to only nod and make noises every so often.

  By the time the dinner was finally ended, Adair had finished his third goblet of wine and was gently starting to lose focus. He stood and leaned on the table, turning to Ascott for support.

  “You need help?” his friend whispered.

  “Nae...” Adair dismissed it, speaking the looser dialect of the servants who'd raised him. “It's nothing.”

  Ascott raised a brow, but left him to it. Adair waited until their hosts had left the table, heading out, before he followed them. An idea had been turning around in his mind ever since he considered how to address Genevieve. He felt distant and detached now. He'd try it.

  Ascott followed Lady Arabella and Richard, leaving Adair in the doorway, standing back for their guest. He reached into his pocket. This was it!

  Removing his lace-trimmed silk handkerchief, he dropped it on the ground. Then, as he stood back in the doorway, he let it fall and bent over, exclaiming:

  “Milady? I think this is yours?”

  Lady Genevieve turned. Slim brows went up.

  She reached for the handkerchief, frowning. Her tapered fingers touched his.

  Adair felt the sweet shock of the contact rip through him like flood-water. He looked into her brown eyes. She looked back, unwavering.

  In that moment, the whole hall could have disappeared. Nothing existed but that beautiful face, those two stunning eyes.

  She looked as surprised as he did. “It's not mine,” she murmured, distracted. “It's not got my monogram on it.”

  Adair nodded, knowing it didn't. He was surprised by two things – firstly, that she had monogrammed handkerchiefs, and secondly, that she spoke flawless English. He did too – one thing from his father, Baron Hume, who had at least provided him with that much education. However, it was unusual, even for a nobleman, much more for a noblewoman.

  “I see,” he said.

  He took the handkerchief back, replacing it in his pocket. She curtseyed and he bowed and it was only as she drifted into the hallway, looking back over her shoulder with a small, strange smile, that he realized he had spoken to her without thinking about it, and that it had been easy.

  He waited until she had mounted the stairs before following her up to the second floor. His heart was happy.

  In addition, tomorrow, he might see her again, at breakfast. He'd be sure to wake early.

  A CLOSER LOOK

  Genevieve rolled over, feeling the luxury of soft linen sheets, warm and smooth, below her. She stretched and enjoyed the sensation of being – for the first time in weeks, it seemed – truly comfortable and warm.

  A bird called outside the window and she sat up, stretching long arms overhead. The window showed a view over pine trees, wreathed in mist. She smiled contentedly. It was time to begin her day.

  Slipping out of bed, she reached for her robe, which Madame Ferriers had unpacked the night before and hung by her bedside. She slid the silk nightgown over her shoulders and looked about the pretty guest quarters.

  “My cousins are thoughtful.”

  The room was mainly white – the flocked wallpaper, the bed-cover and the headboard were all snowy-pale – and a small vase of late-flowering poppies had been placed on the table, the red and pale pink petals a small riot of color. Genevieve went to the door and stuck out her head, looking for a maid to help her dress.

  “Hello?”

  “Och, milady!” a woman replied, hurrying up the hallway toward the room. “By! Ye'll freeze yerself out here, ye ken...Get back in again and sit down. My mistress'll have me hide tanned if ye catch chill.”

  Genevieve blinked under this wash of strange dialect. The woman spoke Lowland Scots – Genevieve heard small similarities to English �
�� but the overall accent was thick, peppered with regional words she'd never heard before, and expressions she didn't know. She shook her head, feeling a little stunned.

  “Whist! Off ye go. There, now. Let me get yer things. I'm Camma,” she added, giving her a bright smile. “Mistress said I'm tae be yer maid.”

  “Oh,” Genevieve said, swallowing. “Good.”

  She sat down on the tapestry-worked stool by the dressing table, and waited while Camma returned from rummaging in the vast chestnut wardrobe.

  A maid in France – unless she was a personal confidante – would have been lucky to escape a beating for such forthright talk. It seemed rules here were slightly different, though, for loquacious Camma cheerfully kept up the dialogue as she set out her things.

  “Och, ye'll be freezing solid in these things...we have such awful winters here. Cold enough tae freeze the bollocks off...oh! Pardon me, milady,” she said, going red and covering her mouth. “Mistress'll have me hide.”

  Genevieve blinked, bewildered. She had no idea what had been said, save that it was presumably inappropriate. She just shrugged and turned toward the mirror, reaching for her comb. Her black curls were disarrayed and she knew a little about styling hair.

  “Whist, milady! Let me help. I'm just doing this.”

  Genevieve ignored the admonition, setting to work on her own hair with determination. When Camma finished setting out her pale pink day-dress with its wide panniered skirt, she came across to help her.

  “Ye're likely right. Ye surely know more of fashions than I do...I've not even been down to Edinburgh for, oh! Too long now...”

  As she rattled off her news about Edinburgh and the fashions there, Genevieve watched the reflected window and the gathering clouds there. She herself knew the Edinburgh fashions were hopelessly outdated compared to those of her homeland, but she wasn't about to say so.

  “And here we are! Now. On with the gown...”

  Settling the pink brocade over the petticoats and wicker under-skirt was something Camma was clearly not expert in, but the two of them together managed something tolerable. Genevieve glanced at herself in the mirror and felt her lip rise in a smile.

  Her hair was done up in a style that had been popular in her father's youth – she knew it from the portraits – and she winced, knowing anyone from home would think her hopelessly provincial.

  It doesn't matter up here. It's a different world.

  A thought flashed through her mind that there wasn't anyone she wished to look pretty for here, instantly followed by a reminder of the fellow from the dinner. She pushed it away impatiently.

  He's an odd sort.

  She turned briskly to Camma. “Where is breakfast?”

  “Och! Milady!” Camma joined her in the doorway. “Let me direct ye. It's up those stairs – see, on the left? – and then on your right, the second room. I'll go up with ye, if ye'd like..?”

  “No, thank you, Camma,” Genevieve said quietly. “I'd prefer to go alone.”

  Cheerful as it was, Genevieve wouldn't be entirely sorry to be free of Camma's chattering.

  I need to think.

  She went up the stairs, slowly. The house was quiet, and pale sunshine, filtered by mist, drifted through the upper windows and down the hallway. The stairs were railed with carved wooden rails and she leaned on them, heading to the top.

  Lord Adair.

  She thought about the name. Adair...Hume? Holme? She hadn't quite managed to recall his last name. All she knew was that he seemed exactly the sort of person she was meant to be looking for.

  A person who seems like an observer. Someone out of the ordinary. Someone acting differently than the others.

  That was what her father had asked her specifically to look out for, should she attend any gatherings with her cousins. Duncliffe was known to be a staunch fortress for the Jacobite cause, and, while her cousins no longer lived at their ancestral home, she was sure they had kept their adherence to the cause. Her father wanted her to find out the extent of preparations for the Stuart heir's arrival in Scotland, the strength of the Jacobites and those opposing them, and the state of the countryside. He also wanted her to look for spies.

  She shivered. She might already have located one.

  Come, now, she chided herself. She was probably being fanciful! How likely was it, after all, that she'd find a spy the first day she arrived. On the other hand, mayhap she'd been lucky. Maybe her father was right to suspect at least one – or more than one – in the Duncliffe household's retinue.

  The breakfast room was on her right now. She paused at the doorway, the sound of stirring tea and cutlery clinking china gently drifting out to her. Someone spoke in a low voice. Someone laughed.

  She glanced down once more at the pretty blush-pink brocade, assured herself she was ready, and headed into the room.

  Her cousin Arabella was there – she looked up and then stood, reaching out a hand to her. Ascott and Richard were there as well, and Lord Adair. She looked away quickly, feeling oddly disconcerted.

  “Genevieve! Come and join us! Here...you can sit by Richard here.” Arabella led her to the table.

  Genevieve let herself be shown to a place at the narrow, cloth-covered table. She nodded as a serving-man came forward to pour her a cup of tea.

  Tea! Worth its weight in gold almost, tea was an unexpected pleasure. Genevieve nodded her thanks and drank, savoring the sweet warmth.

  “You slept well?” Richard asked her, breaking in on her silence.

  “I did,” Genevieve nodded.

  “Good. The east wing gets sun early. I had hoped you wouldn't wake too soon...you've been traveling so many days.”

  “That's kind of you,” Genevieve nodded.

  She glanced across the table to where Adair sat on the edge of the group. He had a slice of bread and cheese on his plate and seemed to be absorbed in his breakfast. She raised a brow, feeling oddly nettled.

  You'd think the fellow could at least wish me good morning!

  She blinked, surprised. Ascott, opposite her, hadn't done more than smiled and nodded either. Yet she wasn't offended by his inattention. Why did she care about Adair, anyway?

  The fellow bothers me.

  That was it. He was a mystery. She was here to solve mysteries, which meant he had to have more of her attention. She studied him surreptitiously as she helped herself to a hard-boiled egg.

  “You must try porridge while you're here,” Arabella said, reaching for a slice of bread and buttering it as she spoke.

  “Porridge?” Richard chuckled. “It's hardly high cuisine...”

  “It is traditional,” Arabella pointed out, waving her butter-knife in his general direction. “And therefore interesting.”

  “Well, I'm glad it's interesting...for once, anyway.”

  “Richard...” Arabella sighed, laughing at him. “You like porridge.”

  “I do,” he agreed. “Got sick of the sight of it in the army, but I have to admit it's very warming.”

  “There,” Arabella said. “Warming and pleasant.”

  “I agree.”

  Genevieve took the opportunity while her cousins bantered to watch Adair more carefully. He finished a piece of bread and then reached for the tea, his eyes settling on her cousins with a wistful sweet expression. Genevieve frowned.

  Why is he looking at them like that? As if their love is at once the most precious, and the most fragile, thing he's known?

  It was an odd reaction. Genevieve might have looked at a piece of precious china that way, or a jewel from the Indies. It was an odd way to watch two people's teasing.

  “You'll join us riding, later?” Ascott asked her.

  “I plan to, yes,” she agreed, taking another slice of bread and buttering it carefully. She glanced back at Adair, but his head was bowed over his plate again, dark, glossy hair swinging across to obscure his fine-boned profile.

  He's actually handsome, in a wild way.

  Genevieve felt a delicious flush
of shock spread through her at that thought. Was she really looking at her cousin's house-guest that way? Especially a strange, taciturn man who barely talked to her?

  Stop it, Genevieve. It's the lack of sleep...it's affected you.

  She frowned, sipping her tea. She was sure it must be something like that – the days of travel, followed by the first decent rest she'd had in a while. She wasn't actually interested in Lord Adair, was she? He was the son of a minor noble and odd besides.

  No, it's the lack of sleep. And the thinner air.

  That had to be it.

  She glanced out of the window behind Ascott as she ate. Swathed in mist, the pine forest rose up the hillside she could see from here, the dark trees stark against the marbled gray. She sighed.

  “Scotland is beautiful, methinks.”

  “Oh!” Richard beamed, and Arabella clasped her hands, pleased.

  “You're a dear,” Arabella said fondly. “I'm so pleased you think so. I hope you get to see much more of it while you visit. Adair, Ascott? You must be sure to be very good at answering all Lady Genevieve's questions when you escort her out.”

  “Of course,” Ascott said, inclining his head in a low bow.

  “Escort me out?”

  “Yes! On the ride later,” Arabella explained breathlessly. “I can't go – I promised I would finish a gown for Mirelle, and Nurse Grosvenor is feeling too poorly to attend her.”

  “I regret I can't go either,” Richard said. “Steward came to me with inquiries about the barn...needs seeing to before winter arrives.”

  “Oh,” Genevieve said, feeling flustered. She had no desire to ride out accompanied by Ascott and Adair. The former was so courteous and attentive she felt she might shatter his world if she as much as rode full-gallop, while the latter was so rude and boorish she felt she might lose her temper.

  “I am sorry I cannot accompany you,” Arabella continued. “I have to stay, though, and with Francine arriving later...” She trailed off.

  “I understand,” Genevieve said, thinking hard. “In which case, it hardly seems fitting I should ride today. I would stay here and help with preparations, if I may?”