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

by Ferguson, Emilia

  But then, no one I know actively denied such things existed, either.

  Even her own father had denied that her mother possessed uncanny gifts. She hadn't asked him directly, but some things he said seemed to confirm the whispers the servants shared, about small incidents when her late mother had seemed to know things about what would happen, about them.

  “What did all that mean?” she asked aloud.

  She shook her head. Recalled the words. You won't see the shadow behind you. Nor the light ahead.

  Her eye instinctively went to the corner, where Adair stood, moodily, by the refreshments table. In black, with his dark hair falling across one cheek, tall and brooding, he was clearly a shadow. That must be what Francine meant.

  He seemed to sense her looking, for he turned and stared straight at her. She looked away moodily. The musicians started to play.

  Genevieve moved to the other side of the room, clearing a space for those who wanted to dance. Five couples took to the floor – Arabella and Richard first, with Francine and Henry.

  The music started--a gavotte. Genevieve watched the dance and leaned against the wall, her thoughts too many and too confused to let her rest.

  My cousin has the gift of the Sight. She has just warned me of something dangerous. What should I do?

  Her first inclination was to dismiss it, but somehow that felt silly. Any warning was worth heeding. She glanced at the dancing couples, where Arabella leaned sweetly against Richard in a slower part, their love evident in every line of how her body melted into his.

  I'll ask Arabella about this.

  She would know – and maybe understand – the nature of her sister's words. If anyone could make sense of this, beside Francine herself, it was Arabella. Genevieve resolved to talk to her as soon as the dance ended.

  The music slowed and reached its cadence, then stopped. The dancers bowed and curtseyed. Someone clapped, applauding their partner. Someone else nearby was talking, though not loud enough for Genevieve to follow the words.

  She glanced, heart thumping, across the room to the refreshments table. Lord Adair had disappeared. Where was he?

  “Would you care to dance?”

  Genevieve's head whipped around in surprise, her long dark curls following the motion. Found herself looking straight into the face of Adair. “Yes,” she said.

  As the words left her mouth, she felt staggered with surprise. Why had she said yes? The last thing she intended to do was get close to this man! However, that was the first word that crossed her mind. Moreover, now she couldn't retract it.

  He bowed low. He looked, if anything, as surprised as she was.

  “Thank you, milady.”

  Still feeling slightly numb with shock. Genevieve followed Adair out to the dance floor.

  The music started up. It was a sarabande, slow and sweet. Genevieve felt her heart melt as the chords of the first cadence swelled around her. Music! It was what had been so lacking in her world. She listened to the notes and looked across the space of emptiness between her and Adair.

  He bowed. She curtsied.

  The music – dreamy and intense – drew her forward toward him, almost without her awareness. She found herself reaching up to lay her open palm on his.

  The hand under hers was warm. She looked up into his eyes. His face was tense – she never really saw him relax – and he wasn't looking at her.

  What a strange man!

  She felt confused – if he wasn't even going to look at her, why was he dancing with her? It seemed an odd way to conduct himself!

  Still, the music had hold of her and she drifted past him, walking round to face him again, and then taking his hand in her own. They joined the other couples in a line, briefly, and then wove past each other in the intricate steps.

  Genevieve loved dancing – it was one of the lessons she’d really enjoyed as a girl, and the love had never left her. She felt the sweet music carry her round and past him and then back again, and then in a brief passage with another man – the dance was done in fours – and back.

  When she looked up at him, she was surprised by the expression on Adair's face. He was looking straight at her, and his face had softened into a mix of longing and wonderment that made her breath tighten in her throat.

  He isn't so aloof.

  She was surprised by the little tingle of pleasure that sent through her. She hadn't realized how his enigmatic silences, his cold glances, had bothered her. It made her happy, noting the little chink in his defenses.

  The dance led her round him again, then back to face him, taking both his hands in her own. She looked into his eyes.

  Wells of black sorrow met her there – an expression so intense and so pained that it felt like a blow to the ribs. Genevieve looked down at her feet, feeling badly thrown.

  What happened to this man? Why is he so hurt?

  She had never seen anyone with such a depth of pain in their eyes.

  The music rose and fell, increasing in intensity, a sign that it was about to end soon. Genevieve stepped forward, taking her position in the line where she'd begun. The music came to a sweet, slow finale. She curtseyed. He bowed.

  The rest of the couples drifted off, laughing and chatting. Genevieve stayed where she was. She felt as if she had stepped into another world – a place where there was only silence, and her heartbeat, and his eyes.

  Opposite her, it seemed as if Adair was feeling the same way. He was standing staring across at her. She held his gaze, and it could have been only the two of them in the whole ballroom – in the whole world.

  The floor cleared and the musicians paused, tuning. The sound of a violin tuning up brought Genevieve's awareness to the present. She was standing on a deserted dance floor, opposite a man who was almost a stranger to her. She shook herself sharply.

  “Thank you, milady,” Adair said, walking forward.

  “Thank you,” she stammered. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but the intensity of his expression and the pain in his eyes together conspired to overwhelm her.

  Stammering an excuse, Genevieve fled to the doors, and to the silence of the courtyard.

  Nothing makes sense anymore.

  She had come from a life where everything was ordered, her future set out ahead: marry a minor baron, settle down, have a family. It wasn't necessarily exciting, but it was stable. Here, where voices whispered in the dark and people prophesied and men carried a world of wounding in their eyes, and a world of hope, nothing was certain.

  “I can't do this, Papa.”

  She built an image in her mind of that angular, comforting face. Her father's solemn eyes – gray-brown and big-lidded – looked down at her, his thin mouth half-twisted in a grin that spoke as much of sorrow.

  Papa, I don't know why you sent me here. There isn't anyone – besides Arabella – I trust. How am I supposed to find a spy? It could be anyone! And it's scaring me.

  She leaned on the cold stone of the wall behind her, looking up at the sky. Silver and remote, the stars twinkled down. Genevieve blinked, feeling her vision blur with unexpected tears.

  She wondered, sometimes, why her Mama had died and left them both alone – her and Papa. It was unfair! Why hadn't she stayed? So radiant and full of life, she could have done more to avoid dying.

  “It's not a selfish thought. It's true. Mama, you could have stayed.”

  Genevieve bit her lip, not wanting to cry. Her governess had told her it was wicked to resent her mama's passing – that she should rejoice at her mother being with Christ in Heaven.

  I don't want her to be in Heaven. I want her here, with me.

  Genevieve sniffed, hating herself for the tears that streaked her face.

  “This is silly,” she sniffed. She reached into the pocket of her dress – concealed in the hem beside the v-cut waist, it held a handkerchief. She dabbed at her face with it, sniffing in earnest.

  Genevieve Paysanne. Stop it.

  She sniffed again and looked around the c
ourtyard. It was dark, except for the slits of bright light that marked the high windows of the ballroom, sending splashes of gold light onto the cobbles far below. The yard was small, and had one gate that she could see, to her right. The left corner of the place was concealed in shadow.

  She saw a movement in the door and looked up sharply. The form of a man had come out. Tall, dressed in black, hair cut evenly on the jaw-line, she knew that man.

  No. I am not prepared to talk to Adair now.

  Impatient and a little scared, she headed sharply left, toward the stables. She just wanted some peace and quiet, alone. She reached the darkened stable-front and stood there, breathing heavily. Behind her, she noticed that Adair was wandering about, seeming lost.

  Good, she thought, with a little stab of vicious pleasure. How dare he seek her out like that? And what for anyway? Her suspicion rose again, making her heart thump. He had reason to suspect her as a spy, just as she did him. If he did, he would act fast, and ruthlessly.

  Where is he? She looked up again, but he had gone.

  She moved back a pace, approaching the dark hay-barn that fronted the stable-yard. Here, it would be easier to hide.

  That was when someone reached from the darkness and grabbed her from behind.

  A MOMENT IN THE DARK

  Genevieve screamed. A hand clamped over her mouth, smelling of damp and loam. She struggled to escape, but the grip on her shoulder tightened and she realized she had no chance of escaping it.

  Genevieve, you fool! It's him. And now you're sure to be tortured, to find out what you know...

  She knew a little of the life of spies – her father had worked with them before, and told her something of it – and knew she'd not be shown mercy. It wouldn't matter if she was a woman – women had been tortured before, to reveal what they knew.

  She screamed again, but it was futile to try. The man dragged her backwards, toward the barn. Genevieve did the only thing she could think of doing – made her body go heavy. She hung forward in his arms, limp and unwieldy as a sack of meal.

  Behind her, the fellow grunted and strained. His hand slipped on her mouth, just fractionally, and she seized the moment and screamed.

  This time, someone heard her.

  A roar of rage split the darkness, and the sound of a resounding thump. The hand on her shoulder slackened and fell away, followed by the hand over her mouth. She found herself falling backwards, unstoppably, and collapsed on the cobbles. She heard the sound of feet, this time running away.

  “Milady!” a voice she knew breathed in horror. “Are you unhurt?”

  Genevieve stared up, blinking. She felt dazed, surprised and frightened. Now, she was also confused. There, in the brighter patch of light from the window, stood Adair.

  “I think so,” she whispered. She drew in a small, shuddering breath of shock. Her hands hurt from where she'd braced to stop her fall, and one ankle ached where it had hit a cobble, coming down hard. Her back was jarred and her head hurt, and her heart was racing.

  “Here,” he said gently. He held out a hand and took hers, trying to pull her upright. She winced and gritted her teeth, not wanting to take weight on her ankle. Then she stood. And fell forward.

  He reached out and steadied her. She ended up against his chest, one arm holding her.

  The scent of him was warm – something like musk, mixed with the warmth of clean hay. She leaned there a moment, feeling oddly safe.

  This man could just as easily have been the one attacking you.

  She stiffened at that thought and stood. Her ankle burned. She looked into his face.

  Luminous, dark, lit with the stars' light, his eyes met hers, and held them. She found herself lost again in their strange depths.

  “You can walk?” he asked.

  Genevieve tensed, feeling the return of the affront. What? Was he offended by her leaning against him? She stood.

  “I can do my best,” she said tightly.

  He stood back, mute, as she took two limping steps on her ankle. Curse the thing, it had started to swell. She must have cracked it, or twisted it.

  “Let me help you,” he whispered.

  “I'm...fine,” she ground out. Another step. And another. Why had she gone so far from the ballroom? She was shivering, though it wasn't cold. The anger was wearing off, replaced now with fright.

  “You've hurt your ankle,” he observed softly. He stood beside her and, without asking, slipped an arm around her waist. Holding her up, he helped her to walk slowly toward the door.

  Genevieve was surprised that, leaning against him, some of the tension evaporated. She felt oddly calm.

  “Did you see who attacked you?” he asked.

  “I didn't,” she said.

  Some small part of her was still annoyed that it had to be him – of all people – who had rescued her. It was humiliating enough to be abducted from a ball – never mind be rescued by the one person she hoped not to look weak in front of.

  “Sorry,” he murmured. “I understand you're in shock.”

  “I'm not in shock,” she managed. Dash it, why would she not stop shivering?

  He didn't contradict her, but didn't move away either as he led her, slowly and inexorably, toward the light.

  “Milady!” a man she didn't know said, as they went through the door. “Is aught amiss?” he glanced at Adair, who stiffened, standing back.

  “I fell,” Genevieve said. “Lord Adair is helping me.”

  She felt Adair relax somewhat, though he still stood, bristling, by her side. She twisted to glance up at him and noticed he was looking at the other man with ill-concealed rage.

  It's almost as if he's protective toward me.

  She frowned. It was a most peculiar thing. She tried to step forward, but the weight on her ankle was too painful to bear and her leg crumpled under her. The other man – she thought his name was MacCleary, but she couldn't remember his first name, or title – reached out.

  “Here. Let me assist you.”

  He stepped up to stand beside her and led her into the hall, leaving Adair behind them.

  In the doorway, Genevieve blinked, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. All the light and the noise, the people standing about, some of them turning to stare at her, were suddenly too much. “I wish to be alone,” she whispered to MacCleary, who nodded.

  “My lady, I will escort you to your chamber. Though your wound is grave, and I think it would be best if...”

  “Cousin!” Arabella appeared at her side, her lovely face twisted with distress. “Oh! What happened, cousin? You have hurt yourself..?”

  “The lady damaged her leg in a fall,” MacCleary explained redundantly.

  “I got a fright outside,” Genevieve whispered. “Oh, Arabella...” Seeing her cousin's concerned face made it suddenly too hard to continue being brave. She was alone. She was hurt. She was frightened, in a country and a culture far removed from anything she had ever known.

  Arabella's rose-scented embraced enfolded her and she leaned on her cousin's shoulder and wept.

  “There, there,” Arabella said soothingly. “Brewer, pull that curtain back, will you? Give us some peace.”

  At the edge of her vision, Genevieve noticed a velvet curtain move, leaving and Arabella, with the silent MacCleary, in the anteroom at the front of the ballroom, alone.

  “MacCleary, fetch Richard and tell him to send someone up to Genevieve's room, please? We need a fire going in there.”

  “Yes, Lady Arabella.”

  Genevieve felt his jacket brush past her and then she was alone with Arabella. She held onto her cousin, feeling terribly sleepy.

  “Come, now. I'm going to help you to your room. Can you walk? Or should we send Brewer to fetch a stretcher?”

  “I can manage,” Genevieve said hastily. “It's just my ankle...”

  “Of course. Come on. We'll get you to your room and mayhap send for a bath. There's nothing like a bath, eh, to wash away all the aches and pains...”

 
; As Arabella chattered comforting nonsense in her ear, Genevieve felt herself relax somewhat. The shivering abated. She took slow, uncertain steps out of the ballroom and into the hallway.

  “Adair?” Arabella said, turning to him. “Will you help us? Lady Genevieve needs help up the stairs. I need to have a bath run...”

  “No...” Genevieve whispered, but her cousin was already disengaging herself, heading up the hallway to summon a maid. That left her balancing as best she could on the wounded ankle. Alone with a man who may or may not be an enemy, she realized as she saw Adair still hovering in the background.

  He came on the scene too soon.

  How likely was it that he'd been in league with her assailant? He'd seen her go outside, he'd come out just as she screamed! If she hadn't managed to scream, would he and his accomplice have dragged her through the gate?

  “Come, milady. Let me help.”

  Genevieve tried to move away from him, but he gently looped his arm through hers and together they walked slowly up the steps. She was tense, not wanting to go anywhere alone with him, taking her time up the staircase. One step, then another. If I take enough time, Arabella will get here. Or Camma. Whoever it was, it didn't matter, as long as she was not alone with this fellow.

  “I know you got a shock,” the voice she'd come to fear said slowly. “It can take a while for things like that to...wear off. A long time.”

  “I suppose,” Genevieve said tightly. She looked up at him suspiciously. How would you know? she wanted to ask. Is it because you give people shocks often?

  “If you have trouble sleeping, or...if you need to talk, tell me.”

  Genevieve stopped instantly. She turned and stared up at him. Her ankle throbbed dully, but she ignored it. “You want me to talk to you?”

  “Yes,” he said. He sounded unsure, as if her sudden anger was bewildering.

  “I think I will manage perfectly alone,” she said.

  Then, drawing herself up to her full height, she gritted her teeth and walked the last five paces to her room.