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

by Ferguson, Emilia

  Inside, she slid down the door and sat in front of it. In the grate, a fire burned fiercely, spreading glowing heat about the place. Genevieve went to the dressing table, dropping her jewelry on it, and then sat down on the bed, energy drained.

  “I'm so tired,” she whispered. She had no idea why, but she was tired and cold. Her whole body shivered and she drew her knees up, holding them to her chest, and rocking. She had never felt this exhausted.

  Someone knocked on the door and she jumped. No. Go away.

  “A bath, madam?” a strange, female voice called.

  “Yes,” she called back, making her voice loud enough to carry. “I want a bath.”

  The door opened and a cheery older face peered through, hair covered by a lace cap. The woman had a wooden bathtub with her. Another woman followed, carrying a bucket.

  Genevieve waited until they had gone and Camma appeared to help her unbutton her dress. Then, when she was finally alone, she slipped into the bath and lay there, letting the warm, scented water wash around her. She looked up at the white ceiling, molded with designs of leaves and flowers.

  “I don't know what to do,” she whispered.

  The fear of the evening mixed with her worries about Adair. She had no idea who he was or what he was doing there. She just knew that, somehow, since she had met him, her life had altered. She turned over, letting the warm, scented water sluice over her and wash the cold and tension from her body.

  Shadows and darkness.

  That was Adair all over. Francine had seen something, she was sure. And that something was all about Adair.

  “I don't think I want to know.”

  She could ask her cousin for an explanation, she was sure. However, she didn't want one. If someone was lurking in the shadows, preparing to do her harm, she didn't want to hear what would happen.

  I don't want to know if there's nothing I can do to change it.

  She was going to do her best to uncover who was responsible for the attack on her. If she couldn't stop them – if, in the end, Francine had prophesied a death – she didn't want to hear of it.

  “I will not die.”

  She rolled over and sat up, reaching for the towel. She wasn't going to give in to this. She was going to do her best to find out more.

  And she was starting tomorrow.

  First, she needed to sleep.

  She reached for a nightgown, slipping it over her head, breathing in the scent of strewing-herbs. Somehow, though it was a rich, familiar smell, it didn't seem as if it belonged to her. The Genevieve who had lived in the quiet chateau, who had expected a dull, predictable existence, was not the woman who shrugged on this scented nightgown and slid into bed. This was a different woman.

  And she was going to fight. Tomorrow.

  A CHINK OF LIGHT

  Adair looked around the room, feeling as if his heart was somewhere else. It was a strange feeling. Used to feeling emptiness where most people felt things, he hadn't expected this desolate experience.

  I just made her hate me worse.

  His heart ached just thinking it. He looked around the room, not wanting to go in but not wanting, either, to go upstairs to the room in the topmost wing of the house.

  I don't want to be in there alone.

  It was odd. For years, he'd made himself battle the dreams that woke him, sweating, at night. He'd had to face them alone, because there was no one else to help him. His father had hated him, and the rest of the house had shunned him too.

  Now he felt he couldn't face it alone anymore. Having had, for those brief moments, a glimpse of friendship, being without it seemed suddenly too hard to bear.

  He looked out across the room to where a small group gathered round Arabella. He saw the pale hair of Ascott and hesitated, not sure whether he should go and join them.

  I don't want to burden them with my dark mood.

  He turned away, but just as he did, his friend saw him. He left the group and came walking over to the door. Adair was about to go out, but he reached him before he could make a quiet exit.

  “Come on, Adair,” he said. “There's no use in staying over there. Come and join us.”

  “I can't, Ascott. Please.”

  Ascott sighed. A handsome fellow, his face twisted with regret. “I understand,” he said. “Well, then...at least let me keep you company there.”

  “You go and enjoy yourself,” Adair mumbled.

  “It's no fun without you,” Ascott said, though Adair was sure he was just saying it to comfort him. He headed up the dark hallway, half expecting his friend not to follow.

  “Fine. But it's cold out there,” Ascott warned. “We should get our things.”

  Adair turned and glared at his friend, and Ascott, used to his moods, sighed. “Fine. If you insist.”

  They went outside, in their evening coats, into the courtyard.

  The night had progressed further since he'd been out here with Genevieve, and the place was silent, painted in silver light. If anyone moved in the stables, he couldn't see.

  “They think I did it,” Adair said.

  Ascott frowned at him. “You'll have to tell me more,” he said at last.

  “Lady Genevieve, her cousins. None of them said so, but I know they think it's me. That I attacked her.”

  “Adair! No! They wouldn't.”

  “She does.” Adair said it in a small, bitter voice. He had no idea why he thought she thought that – nothing she had said or done suggested that – but he felt it all the same.

  Now it'll be just like it always is...she'll see me as wicked and ruinous, just like everyone else does.

  The misery was like a cloak – settling round his shoulders, holding him in.

  “You're talking bollocks, man,” Ascott snapped. Adair looked at the floor.

  Even the word bollocks wasn't without its memories of Genevieve, and memories of Genevieve brought with them their own pain. “Och, leave me be,” he said restlessly. “I'm going upstairs.”

  “You're being a fool,” Ascott called out after him.

  “Then I am one,” Adair murmured, brushing past a footman and heading into the hallway. He was about to go upstairs when the open door to the courtyard caught his attention.

  What did happen out there?

  If he could find out who had really been there, lying in wait for Genevieve, then he could tell her, and prove his innocence. And, at least, he would also know the source of threat to her.

  He headed out into the cold night.

  A search of the stables proved futile, as he had thought it would: whoever had launched that attack on Genevieve was long gone. He looked into the barn, the cold smell of damp wood and hay making him cough. There was nobody.

  “What did you expect?”

  He shrugged and headed back. As he turned the corner, a glimpse of white caught his eye. He tensed, and stood still.

  If that's them, they're fools to wear white. Come on, you scoundrel. Show yourself!

  Nothing happened. He stepped around the end of the building, turning sharply left, whence the white shape went. He jumped back.

  “Milady! Apologies.”

  Arabella's cousin – Frances? He couldn't remember her name – was there.

  “You don't have to be frightened.”

  Adair stared at her. He wanted to laugh. Frightened? Why would he be frightened of her? The word made him feel insulted.

  “Sorry, milady,” he said again, gruffly. “I thought you were someone else.”

  “You think many people are someone else. Including yourself.”

  Adair stared at her. She must be mad. That was the only logical explanation. He felt a prickle of discomfort. She was Arabella's cousin, and he wasn't about to be rude. But this was too much!

  “Well, maybe so,” he said. “If you'll excuse me, milady.”

  “Will you excuse yourself?”

  That was too much. Excuse myself! How could I, when I am so wicked, so foul...when all of the things that happened that
night were my fault? Excuse myself! The nerve!

  “Goodnight, milady,” he said in a small, cold voice. “It's cold out – don't stay too long.”

  “Goodnight.”

  He walked off and into the hallway. When he got inside, he was shaking. How dare she?

  “She's mad, Adair,” he murmured to himself as he went up to his chamber. “Just forget it.”

  He found his bedroom and went in, slamming the door. He sat down on the bed, hands clasped together, and tense with rage.

  “Excuse myself!” He spat the words, a vicious whisper. He hadn't heard anything that made him so furious for years. “How can I? That would be foolish. Genevieve hates me, Arabella thinks I'm rude now, and Father...” He closed his eyes. He wasn't going to think about that.

  Walking to the fireplace, he leaned heavily on the mantel, watching the flames as they danced and licked the logs. The reds and oranges wove together, making an intricate pattern that shimmered and twined like the steps of a woman dancing...like the light shining through a small, high window into the room of a little boy, years ago...

  “Damn it!” Adair hissed. He punched the mantel in frustration, and split his knuckle on the stiff marble. The blood ran down his hand in a thin track, warm and stinging.

  He sat down on the bed again, and this time he couldn't stop his tears. All those years of pain were suddenly raw inside him again; and the anger and hurt.

  “Damn it,” he whispered. “Damn all of it.”

  It was a long time before he stood and disrobed, shivering in the cooler air away from the fire. He reached for a robe and slid it on over his body, then climbed into bed. Thoughts of Genevieve came back to torment him – her sweet, curved body moving beside him in the dance, the way it felt to place his hand on her waist, the color of her eyes, meeting her gaze.

  “You know you've lost her now, Adair,” he told himself, shifting his weight so that he lay on his side.

  It was so tragic it was almost funny: the first person he'd met whom he thought he could trust, and to whom he was starting, tentatively, to reach out. Why was it that it had to be that person who was scared away from him for good?

  He knew he wasn't going to be able to sleep that night. All the same, he turned over again and lay on his other side, closer to the fire. He felt so cold!

  At some point of the night, his thoughts started to lose coherence, and he must have slept, for the next thing he knew was the pale light of morning, falling onto his face.

  “Morning, sir,” a manservant said from where he stood at the fireplace. Adair blinked. At Hume Hall, they had a dearth of servants, and he'd never woken up with someone stirring the fireplace before. He drew the covers to his chest, feeling discomforted.

  “It's a fine day, sir,” the man continued, opening the drapes. Adair nodded.

  “It seems to be,” he said. He was about to tell the fellow to leave him be, but decided that, since he was here, he might as well stay to help him dress. At home he dressed simply and could manage perfectly-adequately alone. Here, he still felt the need to put on at least a cravat.

  It's silly. Cravats aren't going to make an abductor look any more appealing.

  Moodily, he reached for his clothes.

  “You can fetch the brown day-suit?” he asked the man.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ten minutes later, his new cravat – a butter-yellow color – tied round his neck, a brown suit of fine wool, with knee-breeches tied above fine woolen hose – he headed down to breakfast.

  He hung back in the doorway of the breakfast room, not wanting to burst in before he knew who was in there. He could see Arabella's auburn hair, and Richard's darker head opposite her, and hear them engaged in low-voiced conversation. At the other end of the table sat two house-guests he didn't recall, and beside Richard was Genevieve.

  If only I could go and join her.

  The place opposite her was empty, but he didn't feel brave enough to take it. What would she do? Her black curls were loose and she wore a gray day-dress, decorated with lace. She was alluring and lovely and also terrifying. She was angry with him – he knew it.

  He stepped forward, and then stepped back, hesitating. As he did so, a footman appeared behind him, bearing a tray.

  “Whoops! Sorry, sir.”

  Adair stepped into the doorway to get out of the way, and found himself in the breakfast room, looking at the household. “Um, good morning.”

  Flushing red, he took the first seat he reached, which happened to be the one opposite Lady Genevieve. He looked at his plate, unfolded his napkin and put it on his knee.

  “You slept well?” she asked.

  Adair frowned. “I slept,” he said.

  This seemed to amuse her, because she chuckled, then looked down at her plate, a small smile on her lips. He had no idea what that was about, but the smile was encouraging, and he racked his brain for a reply. The obvious one presented itself. “You slept well?”

  The half-smile broadened, though the eyes above it were unsmiling. “It surprised me that I slept at all.”

  “Oh.”

  That put a stop to the conversation for a moment, and Adair reached for the salt to sprinkle on his porridge, not knowing what else to do or say.

  “You intend to join the ride this morning?” she asked.

  “I didn't hear of it,” he said, not looking up. The salt dissolved into the porridge and he added butter and stirred it.

  “Richard and Henry suggested a party of us ride to the cliffs today. They are apparently beautiful to see.”

  Us. Lady Genevieve is riding with the party?

  “I think I might join it, yes.”

  “Oh.”

  Again, that enigmatic look. Adair felt more confused. What had he done now? He sampled the porridge. It was scalding and he coughed, covering his mouth with the handkerchief.

  Opposite him, he heard Genevieve giggle.

  “Can I pass you the water?” she asked, handing him the pitcher. “I told Arabella the stuff looked vile to me, but it seems people here are fond of it.”

  “Porridge is the best way to start a morning,” Richard said firmly.

  “You didn't say that when you were in the army,” Arabella chided.

  “Well, there I didn't have the option to start a morning any other way.”

  They all laughed. Adair chuckled too. He liked Richard. It must have been nice, he thought, to be a soldier in Richard's regiment. To share such easy camaraderie as they must have done together.

  “So?” the voice opposite him asked. “You like porridge too?”

  “I think it has its dangers,” he said before he'd thought about it.

  “That's funny,” she said. She laughed. This time, there was real warmth in her eyes.

  Adair felt it like a physical glow, reaching out toward him. He smiled at her. She smiled back.

  Neither of them said anything. Adair felt as if a small candle had been lit inside his heart, filling him with hope.

  “The cliffs are something worth seeing?” she asked after a while.

  “Um, I reckon,” he said awkwardly. What could he say? They were cliffs. Tall, certainly, the dark gray of granite, reaching up toward the sky from the surrounding forest. How would they look to a foreigner, unused to the rugged Highland landscape? He had no idea.

  “Well, then,” she said, reaching for the salt-cellar with those tapering fingers. “I shall venture out to see them, I think.”

  “Good.”

  A silence fell between them then, but it was not the charged, angry silence that had been before. He looked up once or twice and caught her eyes on him, watchful. He wondered why she was studying him so carefully.

  “So! Ladies and gentlemen!” Richard said expansively. “How many of us will ride out after breakfast?”

  “I will,” Genevieve said quietly.

  “I too,” Adair nodded.

  “Very well. Brodgar? You're with us? Good. Henry? Good. Ascott? No?” Richard inquired.
r />   “I wish to stay behind today.”

  “Fine. Well, then. I count six of us in total,” he said, counting raised hands. “You will join us, Arabella?”

  “I intend to,” she nodded.

  “Well, then! Seven of us it is. I suggest we leave early...it looks like we might avoid the rain.”

  Murmurs of agreement sounded, and Adair nodded. The sky outside was gray and low, with the look of impending showers. He finished his porridge hurriedly – it had cooled enough to tackle it – and stood, pushing out his chair.

  It was time to head out for a ride. And Genevieve was going with them.

  MAKING A CHOICE

  The stairs leading up to the bed chambers were still partially dark, the clouds not letting in much light, as Genevieve walked up. On her left, Arabella climbed the staircase, more slowly.

  “Genevieve, shall we...Oh...” Arabella looked up at her, swaying backwards, her eyes unfocused. Genevieve grabbed her arm hastily, heart beating fast with worry.

  “Cousin. You feel lightheaded?”

  “A dizzy spell, that's all,” Arabella demurred. “I think it's the weather.”

  Genevieve touched her forehead and felt a feverish heat. “I think you're ailing of something, cousin,” she said. “Feel your forehead – it's quite hot with fever.”

  “Is it?” Arabella, pale gray in the face, reached up to feel Genevieve's forehead, then lightly touched her own. “Whist, I am. Oh, what a bother. I have so much to do today...”

  “Cousin, you need to rest,” Genevieve said automatically. “Please. Is there aught I can do to help you?”

  “Oh, you're a veritable angel.” Arabella smiled. “But I can't ask a guest to help me with the household tasks...”

  “You can ask me – I'm your cousin.”

  “You're a dear,” Arabella said, putting an arm around her fondly. “Well, if you could sit upstairs with Mirelle for me while I go to the kitchens to plan the menu for the week...Oh! But you wished to join the ride! I cannot...”

  “No matter,” Genevieve interrupted quickly. “I can spend the day here with you instead.”