“Oh?”
His voice trembled and she was surprised by the joy that leapt into his eyes, and the look of hope.
He really is interested in me.
She shivered and sat down in the chair across from him. A cold luncheon had been set out – some cheeses, bread and hard-boiled eggs. She ignored it, focusing on him. “Lord Adair, I need to know why you are here.”
His brows shot up. It was hard to read the expression on his face. Fear? Guilt? It was masked too quickly for her to identify it.
“I'm here with my friend Ascott. On our yearly holiday,” he said. He looked at the plate, avoiding her gaze.
“Yes, but you usually come for the hunting,” Genevieve pressed. “Why are you here now?”
“I didn't wish to join the hunt,” he mumbled. “I'm not...I don't like killing. Not for sport.”
You like killing for other things? Like your duty to your king? The reply flashed into Genevieve's mind. She was treading on a knife-blade here, where a step in either direction could mean her death. Her palms started to sweat. She squeezed her hands into fists, steadying herself.
“I see,” she said smoothly. “But it seems a little odd to make the journey in the depths of winter. You must have had some special reason for wanting to be here now.”
“Ask Ascott,” he mumbled. “He suggested we come now, before Christmas.”
Ascott. Was he part of this? She tried to recall what she'd noticed about the man who'd attacked her, about the pursuing rider. Whoever it was, he was tall and thickly-muscled. Ascott seemed to her of slighter build. She filed the information away, reminding herself to check.
“Well, I'll ask him,” she promised grimly. Damn the man! Why did he have to be so handsome? Interrogating him felt unnatural. It fought her natural urge to want to talk to him.
The silence stretched between them for a long moment, uncomfortably. Her heart ached. He sat there over his plate, not eating; not moving. His posture was slumped.
“Genevieve?” he said, looking up finally. His eyes were wary, like a hunted animal. “Why?”
“Why what?” she made herself say callously. Inside, her heart was weeping for the need to be so cruel. She didn't wish to be.
“Why are you asking me all this?”
“You can't be unaware of the state of our countries,” she said quickly. That was clever, Genevieve. You might as well have asked him to stab you in the back.
His eyes, holding her gaze, were utterly bewildered. “Our countries?”
“I'm French,” she reminded him grimly. French, when the Jacobite heir is in France, and our own ruler strikes at Britain by making Scotland war with England.
“Yes,” he said, still sounding confused. “You're French.”
Genevieve fought the urge to roll her eyes. If he was acting, it was monstrously transparent. Surely nobody could be so utterly unaware when it came to politics? He's trying to make you reveal yourself. Be careful.
“And so I wonder at your interest in me,” she said quickly. It was like a game of chess, played on oiled marble, where any slip would mean her death. She took a steadying breath.
Opposite her, his gaze still held hers. He looked bewildered, and upset. She tensed, waiting for his reply.
“You ask me...to discuss that?” His voice was the merest whisper, forced through a tight throat. Genevieve felt her heart ache.
I wish I could believe you! I want to believe you want me, as I do you. Oh, if this is an act, it is a cruel one!
“You understand that it concerns me,” she made herself say. Inside she was thinking: Papa, be proud of me. She was trying so hard, making such an effort to gain the information that he sought. It felt as if every word stabbed into her own heart, aching there.
“I understand,” he muttered. His voice was raw, like an open wound. He pushed back his chair, standing. “I...excuse me, Lady Genevieve.”
Genevieve said nothing. She watched him leave. He hastily walked away, unseeing. She bit her lip, holding back her tears.
If they had to send someone against her, why did it have to be someone who had crept into her heart?
She looked down at her hands, her pale fingers knotted together, tense and tight. She worked them loose, stroking at a pattern of leaves on the pink brocade of her under-skirt. Her mind was in turmoil, piecing together the information she had gathered.
Adair is hiding something.
That much was patently obvious. He was hiding something – his whole manner, from the endearing shyness to the blatant pretense at ignorance confirmed that. The most probable something for him to be concealing was his identity as a spy.
She looked up as a step sounded in the hallway. She spun round, heart thudding. Memories of the attack, of the follower, flowed through her and she stood, ready to attack or run. Her eyes focused on Francine.
Dressed in pale yellow, blonde curls loose around her, Francine raised a brow. “Sorry, Cousin,” she said softly. “I didn't mean to scare you. I was just coming in to take a little of the ginger-cake. I'm always hungry round this time.”
Genevieve let out a long sigh. “Sorry,” she said, chuckling at herself. “I am just jumpy. Please, take something. I'll have a slice too. I'm hungry too.”
Francine grinned and sat down beside her, reaching for the loaf of gingerbread, off which she cut a generous slice, slathering it with butter. She passed the knife to Genevieve, and leaned back with a sigh. “That's better. Nothing like Mrs. Webster's ginger loaf.”
“I agree,” Genevieve said, after taking an exploratory bite. It was delicious. She felt her courage returning to her as she ate, and turned to face her cousin, a question on her lips.
“Francine...I need to ask you about what you told me. At the ball, when we were alone.”
“I told you something?” Francine's pretty face creased with concern. “Oh! I do remember now. Was it something about light?”
“Light, and shadows,” Genevieve said grimly. “I need to know what it meant.”
Francine pushed her plate aside and reached over to take Genevieve's hand. She regarded her steadily, those pale blue eyes unwavering. “You know I have the Sight,” she said. It was a statement, not a question.
Genevieve nodded. “I understand so, yes.”
“Good. Then you need to know that, well, I don't always remember what I see, or what I say. If you tell me, it might be that we can understand it. It might be that no one will understand it, until it has already come to pass. That's the way of such visions. They're glimpses, not statements.”
“I understand,” Genevieve said, licking dry lips. She felt a flutter of nerves in her tummy, but decided to persist. “You told me that there was a shadow behind me. That I wouldn't see the shadow behind me, nor the light ahead. Not unless...” She trailed off, thinking back to that evening. Not unless what? She couldn't remember anymore.
“A shadow could be many things,” Francine said, pouring some tea from a pot Genevieve hadn't noticed on the table. “A challenge, a threat...a past sorrow.”
Genevieve saw those blue eyes stare into hers, in a way that felt as if they touched her mind, probing at her hidden memories. She looked down at her hands, surprised by the lump that rose in her throat. “I have those, yes,” she said, voice thick with held-back tears. She cleared her throat.
“I think you have turned your back on those, too,” Francine murmured. “But that is another matter. We spoke of shadows, and light. And what might make you not see them.”
“Yes,” Genevieve agreed. She nibbled at the ginger cake, though her appetite was blunted by her worry. The prophecy was as daunting now as it had been those days ago when it was freshly-given.
“I think there are a few things you do not wish to see,” Genevieve said gently. “And some of those may be shadows, and some of them light. I do not know. Only you can know that. And you'll only know which is which if you use your heart.”
“My heart.”
Genevieve was surprised by the ang
er she felt. What good would that do? Her heart could be broken. She knew that. It was better by far to build walls around it, to forget its existence. Her heart had never done her any good, only brought her pain. Like it is doing now.
She said nothing. Her cousin continued, albeit gently. “You forget, I think, that we are born with no compass, no maps. But we are, because we have a heart. How do we know our way in the world, without that? How do we know where we should go? Without it, we are lost.”
Genevieve looked at her hands, not wanting to show her feelings. At once she felt a black anger rise up in her, fueled by years of hurt, of crying in the dark at night where nobody could see her tears. On the other hand, she felt a wild joy, and hope.
Maybe that is why I have so often felt lost in this life.
Her life before coming to Scotland had seemed almost purposeless – she had let her father's choices drive its course, attending parties with him, meeting his acquaintances, building a social circle that he would approve. Learning accomplishments because other ladies learned them. Only riding had truly spoken to her, and dance.
I love those things. They make me feel such joy.
Opposite her, Francine said nothing. She didn't move either; simply sat and watched the fire where it flickered and burned, comfortably, in the grate.
“Thank you, cousin,” Genevieve said raggedly. She didn't feel much closer to understanding the prophecy, but she felt lighter, somehow. As if somewhere inside her a vast boulder had shifted, letting in a glow of sunshine.
“Don't thank me,” Francine grinned, amusement on her face. “You certainly won't when I ask you to mind Stewart for me while we go to buy thread.”
Genevieve laughed and fondly squeezed her cousin's hand. “I would be pleased to mind him,” she said gently. “He's a beautiful child.”
“He's a small fiend,” Francine demurred. “And I would only inflict his company on people I trust.”
Genevieve laughed, knowing the fondness behind Francine's comment – it shone out of every line of her gentle smile. “I'm very glad we talked, cousin,” she said sincerely. She reached for her tea and drank it, glad it was still warm. Her heart felt lighter. It was good to have a companion she could trust.
“I am too,” Francine said, pushing back her chair, about to leave. “If you find out anything more about the light, or shadow, or want to talk to me, you know I am always eager to talk.”
“Thank you,” Genevieve said, feelingly.
“Now,” her cousin added, standing, “I think I had best see what Stewart is doing to torment Mrs. Webster. I know he's only just past one year of age, but since he started walking, there's no holding him back.”
Genevieve laughed. “I will see you at dinner, cousin.”
“Until dinner, then.”
When her cousin had left, Genevieve sat alone, staring into her tea, her mind swarming with thoughts. She had so many things to consider now, and didn't quite know where to start.
Chief among the things she had to question was this matter of a shadow.
It could be many things. A challenge. A threat. A past sorrow.
“What about a person? A real shadow, cast behind me by someone lurking, wanting to harm me?”
She sighed. If she had any sense at all, she would report to Richard the shadowy follower she'd spied in the woods. If nothing else, the fellow could be a vagabond, someone lurking to attack traders and travelers, and Richard would do well to alert the groundsmen and woodsmen of his presence.
“That's what I'll do,” she decided firmly. For the moment, she would try and put all the other thoughts aside, and address the danger, one problem at a time. First, the rider. Then, she would make sure she never went anywhere alone – either she would stay with her cousins, or take Camma as a companion, just to be sure.
That was the only safe way to proceed.
If I am never alone, that means I will never have time to speak alone with Adair. And I am only here for two months! And he perhaps for much less time than me.
She was surprised by the ache in her heart when she thought of that. She ruthlessly ignored it. What good was that? It was better if she didn't speak alone to Adair anyway.
She was here to gather information, and find a spy – if there was one. And she was very close to doing that. What did affairs of her heart matter in all that? Adair, she was sure, wasn't about to have his own heart broken just for the loss of her company.
She pushed back her chair and headed upstairs toward her chamber.
IN THE DARK
Adair sat in his chamber, looking up at the night beyond the window. Only a single star showed there, almost lost in the textured velvet of the sky.
What good is that small light in all that darkness?
He sighed and looked away, toward the fire. His heart ached.
He had passed Genevieve a few times in the hallway since their talk at lunch, and she had been cold and distant, like a figurine of glass. He couldn't understand what had happened.
“Well, you should be used to it. What did you expect? That someone would notice you? Would care about you?”
He laced his fingers together and looked into the fire, watching the way the flames twisted and danced. His heart burned with a sour, old anger.
Who would look at me, would treat me kindly? Father always said I was worthless, a troublemaker. Father always said that if...if it wasn't for me, if I didn't exist, none of that would have happened.
He felt his hands twist into his hair, palms covering his face, as he tried, unsuccessfully as ever, to block out the visions. People running through the flames, screams filling the air. The blackened pillars, burning, burning...
“No!” he yelled, throwing out one arm. It knocked the spindly wooden chair beside the bed and it crashed over, startling him. He bent down to right it and found himself sobbing, leaning on the chair.
“I didn't mean it,” he sobbed. “I didn't do it. I never meant it. It wasn't my fault...”
The tears racked his body, and poured down his face, running into the collar of his shirt and he didn't stop them. Sometimes it happened that the memories were too hard to fight. He had learned not to resist that, to let them flow. If he kept them held in too long, the tears would turn to rage, and the rage to violence.
He cried, then, for the small boy who had tried to say those things, to explain. Who had been shunned, and hated, and ignored. He cried for the utter futility of explaining.
At length, the tears stopped, as they usually did. He leaned back, sniffed, and blew his nose. Let his head rest on the bed a moment, exhausted by the emotion. “Come on,” he told himself. “You'll look a sight, going to dinner.”
He sniffed. He didn't know if he should go down for dinner, or if he should simply stay where he was. Downstairs was Arabella, Richard, and Genevieve.
He absolutely couldn't face her now.
She had, he realized, rinsing his face in the bowl on the night-stand, become a light in his darkness. Like that single star that twinkled bright against the velvet of the night. And now that she had turned away...? He sniffed sorrowfully.
“Now I'm in the darkness again. I should damn well be used to it,” he sighed, reaching for the flannel to dry his face. A knock sounded at the door.
“Ascott?” he called. His voice was weak and he cleared his throat again. “Ascott? Is that you?”
“Yes, it's me,” his friend's voice came through the thick wood of the door. “Are you going to join us for dinner? Richard said we'd play cards afterwards and...”
“Damn the cards,” Adair interrupted savagely. “I don't want company tonight.”
His friend went silent. Adair instantly regretted his words. He went to the door and opened it. Ascott looked back at him, his face schooled into a tense smile, his eyes worried.
“Look, I'm sorry,” Adair said gruffly. “You know how it is. I'm in bad spirits.” He turned away sourly.
“Well, in that case, maybe we could ask for something to be b
rought up to the parlor? Just a platter of something, and a flask of ale? We could even play dice,” Ascott offered, one brow raised, a hopeful smile on his lips.
Adair felt his heart weep. He sometimes wished Ascott would go away, or simply stop being his friend. He didn't want someone to reach out to him in the darkness and coax him out, to offer to make it easier for him to avoid everybody else, to be so unflaggingly tolerant of his ways!
“I can go down,” Adair said gruffly. “I just don't want to play cards.”
“Fine,” Ascott smiled, blue eyes clearing. “Then we don't have to play cards. I'm sick of piquet anyway. Cribbage is much more fun.”
Adair smiled. Trust his friend to evade the point willfully. It wasn't the card game, and he was sure Ascott knew that. It was the company.
“Well, mayhap you can teach them that instead,” he said gruffly.
“Mayhap I can,” Ascott offered. “I am sure Lady Genevieve knows the latest games in France...”
He trailed off as Adair whirled around savagely. “Don't talk to me about her,” he spat. Then he sighed, the anger going out of him. “Sorry. I just...don't mention her. Please?”
Ascott looked surprised, and Adair could see him trying to figure out what had happened. He had no desire to have his friend prying into his business. He turned away, going to the fire.
“I'll come down later,” he said, keeping his back turned to Ascott.
“Fine,” Ascott agreed bitterly. “I'll go up to the gallery for a while, and then join the party for dinner.”
Adair could hear the hurt in his voice, though he strove to hide it. He looked at his hands, yet another blow resounding in his heart.
I am an awful person. I just cause hurt and sorrow wherever I am. I shouldn't even try.
He let out a long sigh. He would stay up here until dinner was halfway done, then join the company late and excuse himself early. If he pleaded that he felt feverish, they wouldn't question it. Richard might guess there was more to it than that, or Arabella – she was especially perceptive of his moods – but nobody else would notice.
Especially not Genevieve.
Shadowy Highland Romance: Blood of Duncliffe Series (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 11
