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

by Ferguson, Emilia

  She shifted in her place on the wall, letting Lord Adair rest his elbows on it beside her. He too stared out into the night. If her rude greeting upset him, he gave no sign.

  “You spend a lot of time alone with your thoughts,” he said, his voice low and musical in the cold night air.

  Genevieve drew her cloak tighter about her shoulders, shivering, though the good wool kept out the cold. “You have watched me carefully, to notice that,” she said guardedly.

  He chuckled softly. “I didn't need to watch all that carefully, milady,” he said. “You are a thinker. Which is good. And...I will go, if I am bothering you. I know sometimes how one needs to be alone. With some thoughts.”

  “Yes,” Genevieve whispered. In that moment, she felt as if he'd touched her heart. She leaned on the railing, a hand's width away from him, and regarded him steadily.

  Light and shadow played on his face, making the angles of his cheekbones and chin sharper, gaunter. She could see into his eyes, and read no malice there, only a friendly interest, and care.

  She felt her stomach twist with a mix of anticipation and irritation. All these questions! Why could she not, finally, know their answers? Was this man a spy, or wasn't he? Had he arranged for her to be attacked and followed, or had he not? Was he interrogating her?

  Listen, Francine said in her memory. Listen to your heart.

  She took a slow breath and looked at him, and listened to the guidance she had for so long ignored.

  Compassion was there, a tender ache, as she looked at him. He shifted on the rail, and turned to face her. His smile, wry and crooked, lit sweet warmth in her heart. She cleared her throat.

  “I want to trust you,” she said.

  He stared at her. His eyes were round and dark, as if she'd suddenly spoken French, using words he didn't understand. He was silent for so long that she truly thought he hadn't understood, and was about to turn away when his hand moved, as if involuntarily, and rested beside her own.

  “I want to trust you, too.”

  She looked into his eyes. They shone, and if she had a mind to, she could imagine tears stood there. She drew a shaky breath as her own throat tightened, in sympathy to his. “I am glad,” she said.

  She looked down at the rail. Her fingers were thin and pale beside his, which were knotted, the veins cording their backs, the joints prominent, as of a man who rode, or fought, or climbed. She moved her hands closer to his, and her breath caught as the side of her hand pressed against his. He didn't move.

  They stood there, their hands touching, and looked out into the night.

  “I know...I know you don't like me,” Adair said softly. “Or at least, you distrust me still. But – and please forgive me, milady – I would like to do aught to change that. If I can.”

  She stared at him. “Who said I didn't like you?”

  She blushed. What was she thinking? The words as well as shouted that she did like him. She looked down at their hands. His own moved, pressing closer. She didn't move her own.

  When she looked up, he was staring at her again. Again, her face was tender with a smile.

  “I'm not sure what to think of that,” he said. His voice was warm. “But the answer is, I assumed you didn't. Which was, perhaps, wrong?”

  She squinted at him. “Don't push it,” she said gruffly. “I might have been forced to an admission, but I'll not be repeating it.”

  He laughed. “Fair enough, milady.”

  They leaned there on the rail, hands pressed together, not talking.

  Genevieve felt something in her chest move and shift and settle into place, as if some part of her had been dislocated all these years, and now was finally aligned. She felt peaceful. And happy.

  Beside her, Adair leaned against the rail, looking down into the garden below. She glanced sideways at him, studying his profile. The wind ruffled his hair and she felt again that sweet tingle that he had inspired in her since the beginning; a strange longing for something indefinable, which her body nonetheless seemed to seek.

  She cleared her throat. “It's cold out here,” she said.

  “Mm,” he acknowledged. He leaned closer toward her, his shoulder pressing hers. She drew in a shaky breath. She should, she knew, have moved away. However, it felt wonderful. She twisted and looked up into his gaunt, wary face.

  His gaze held hers. He leaned a little closer. Suddenly, it seemed as if her body's longing had words, and she knew precisely what they said. She leaned up, just as he leaned down.

  Their lips met. Softness, warmth, and sweetness – these enveloped her senses as his mouth parted, ever so slightly, and his lip nipped at her own. She sighed as she leaned against him and his arms, so naturally, opened for her, holding her against his chest. His lips moved on hers, exploring and tasting. She leaned back and let them, her whole body igniting with a rush of sensation as his tongue gently pushed between her lips.

  She closed her eyes, feeling her own tongue brush his as he tasted her. His lips pressed to hers, and he lapped at her gently, his mouth warm and tender, moving slowly on hers.

  She pressed her body to his, feeling a throbbing ache inside her as his tongue explored her, and she knew she wanted more...did not know what it was she craved, but her body was crying out for it, filled with longing.

  He leaned back, gasping raggedly. “Milady,” he whispered shyly. “That was...I...forgive me,” he stammered, leaning against the rail. He looked out into the night. The wind ruffled a lock of black hair to fall, softly, over one eye.

  Genevieve fought the urge to brush it back. He looked more vulnerable even than usual, like that. Boyish, as if the years had stripped away and she saw a younger, more tender self of his. Her body was cooling down now, slowly, though she still felt that sweet intensity of hunger.

  “You have nothing for which to be forgiven,” she whispered softly. At the same moment, she reached out to brush away the forelock from his eye. He stared up at her.

  She had no idea what it was that she had said, but he blinked, his eyes damp. She looked down, not wanting him to feel embarrassed as he swallowed hard, looking down into the garden.

  At length he spoke. “Th...Thank you, milady,” he whispered.

  Genevieve frowned. She had no idea what it was he thanked her for, but she was touched – intensely – at his words. “Thank you, too.”

  He looked at her, a mix of surprise and passion. He reached out and gently, so gently, stroked her hair, tucking a curl behind her ear.

  “We should go in,” she whispered. Her voice caught in her throat, the last part of it a croak. He nodded.

  “We should.”

  Neither of them moved. Around them, the wind moved, ruffling her skirt, touching cool fingers to her brow. She didn't feel it.

  They stood there for what could have been eternity, or perhaps only a few seconds: Genevieve had no idea. All she knew was that she could have stared into those black eyes for an eternity. She shivered. “We really should go in,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  This time, he shifted on the wall, turning to face her. She had stepped back a little, so they looked at each other directly. She swallowed and looked away, unsure what to do or say.

  “It's getting cold,” she said. She turned and walked, slowly, to the doors. He followed.

  In the silent dark of the library, she waited while he shut the door behind them and bolted it, drawing the curtain over the darkness beyond the windows. Then she headed to the door, lit up with soft light from the hallway.

  She heard his steps following her, but didn't dare look around again, knowing that, if she did, the flush in her cheeks would betray her secret the moment she entered the dining room. As it was, she glanced briefly at her reflection, checking her hair was not disheveled. Then she went quickly into the golden candlelight of the dining room.

  “Ah, cousin! There you are!” Arabella smiled as she slipped into her place, beside Francine. “I was just considering whether or not to hold back the soup. McNo
well, you can bring it out now.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  The head serving-man led the rest around the table, placing bowls of fragrant soup before them all. As Genevieve took a sample, she felt her heart flutter, and looked up. Adair was there, drawing out his chair to sit opposite her. His face glowed. He was smiling.

  MATTERS TO UNRAVEL

  Adair tried to school his face to neutral, to keep his eyes from wandering to her, but it was hard. He twisted his fingers together where they lay on his lap, and then jumped as the person next to him said something.

  He frowned at Richard. He hadn't heard a word – he'd been lost in thoughts of Genevieve's scent as he held her close – wild and fragrant – the feel of her body on his, her lips parting under his...

  “I said, could you pass me that jug, please?” Richard asked. He looked at him with a slightly confused expression, as if trying to fathom what exactly had happened to him. He nodded.

  “Sorry. Of course.”

  Embarrassed, he reached for his soup-ladle quickly, and then dropped it, with a clatter, onto the floor.

  Someone down the table snorted. He heard it clearly. He looked pointedly in the direction of the sound and found himself looking at MacCleary. He felt a cool frost creep through his veins, studying the man. How dare he? He held his gaze. MacCleary stared at him, disinterestedly, and then dropped his gaze, reaching for his soup.

  How dare he? First, he thinks he can talk to Genevieve like that, and then he thinks he can scorn me...

  He flushed. He knew he was considering MacCleary a rival. He wouldn't have expected such a thing of himself. He looked down into his soup.

  You're not some lovesick teenager. Stop behaving as if you were fifteen and could battle others with no consequence.

  He had never felt this way about anyone before, not even when he was fifteen years old. He was no stranger to things between a man and woman, but all his liaisons had been conducted shamefully, with the surety that his partner only favored him because he was the laird's son. He sighed.

  This was so different. It was like nothing he'd ever felt – or thought was possible to feel. He swallowed hard, trying to keep a hold on his tumult of feelings.

  He looked up again and felt MacCleary's flat, arrogant stare on him. He held the man's gaze, making him turn away.

  That one is trouble.

  He could comport himself like a gentleman as much as he pleased – if someone sought a fight with him, what was he supposed to do?

  He saw the fellow's eyes flicker to Genevieve and his hand tightened involuntarily. If anyone touched her against her wishes, he would...

  He dropped his spoon soundlessly onto the tablecloth, shocked at the dark anger that consumed him. He had sworn never to commit an act of violence, or even to give himself the opportunity to do so. Now, seeing that suave, smooth fellow cast a proprietary glance at Genevieve, he was sure that he would have to be held back.

  He looked away, feeling ashamed. Reached for a glass of cordial and took a steadying sip. It was good cordial – dark and intense, with just the right balance of sweetness and rich flavor. He set it down appreciatively.

  Across the table, Genevieve grinned at him, lighting his soul.

  “You favor my cousin's cordial?”

  “I do,” he nodded. “It's very well-made.”

  “It is,” she admitted. She was still grinning at him and he shifted uncomfortably, wondering what amused her.

  “What?” he asked, risking a direct question.

  “Sorry,” she smiled. “You have cordial on your nose.”

  She reached over with a napkin and dabbed at it. He blinked, the intimate touch in this public place almost unbearably sweet. She laid the napkin on her knee again, and then looked up at him, grinning.

  “Sorry,” she said again. “I just couldn't help noticing. And smiling.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said, echoing her words of earlier. They still burned like a sweet fire inside him.

  Nothing to be sorry for. There is nothing to forgive.

  “Well, I didn't mean to draw attention to it,” Genevieve grinned. “The cordial, I mean. It was rude of me, I suppose.”

  “It might have been ruder to pretend you hadn't seen it,” he smiled. “I would have felt a complete fool, spending the whole evening with a bright red nose.”

  They both laughed. At the end of the table, he saw Ascott give him a wondering glance.

  He must be wondering what has happened to me! I wonder myself, a little.

  He had never felt like this, not as long as he could remember.

  He reached for his spoon again and sipped at the delicious soup. It was flavored with herbs, delicate and subtle. He had never eaten as well as he did at Arabella and Richard's home, he realized. It felt almost as if his senses were awake, now, letting him fully appreciate things for the first time. He reached for a roll from the basket between them just as Genevieve did, and their fingers touched.

  She blushed and looked down. He smiled. He felt again as if there were only the two of them in the room, sharing an intimacy about which nobody else knew.

  He flushed, thinking of it. He caught her eye and saw a bright joy spark there. He wondered what she was thinking. A moment later, she cleared her throat.

  “Arabella said the rose garden is beautiful at night.”

  He felt his eyebrow shift upward in surprise. Was that meant to be what it sounded like? An invitation to join her in the gardens after the meal?

  “I can imagine it is,” he whispered back.

  “Imagination only goes so far,” she said archly.

  Adair stared at her in surprise. He had never expected this side of her existed! He should have noticed it before – arch, wry, teasing. He would never have expected it to be directed at himself. “Um, yes,” he nodded, feeling his heart thudding in his chest. “I would like to confirm it.”

  “Me too,” she said. Her eyes caught his and held. He felt his body swamped with longing.

  He coughed, looking at his plate. He was sure his thoughts were written all over his face, and wasn't sure he wanted all of Arabella and Richard's guests to see, written in capitals, his longing.

  He reached for his soup, finishing it in silence.

  Course followed course – grilled fish, followed by the main course, a pie, along with a stew of carrots, which everyone praised. Fresh vegetables were a rarity. Adair enjoyed his meal, though it was alloyed with impatience – he wanted to leave and go outside. With her.

  “I think we can declare that a fine victory,” Richard said, turning to Arabella when the last of the dinner had been cleared away, “of ingenuity and artifice over some humble ingredients.”

  Arabella blushed, making a face at him. “Richard, you do talk lovely nonsense.”

  As people complimented the meal, and Arabella – whose idea it was, though Mrs. Webster made it – flushed cheerily, Adair glanced around the room.

  He looked to his left, to Richard, pushing back his chair. “I think I'll go up,” he said.

  Richard raised a brow. “As you wish, Adair,” he nodded, informally. “I think we'll move to the drawing room for cards in a moment. So if you wish to play later...”

  “I'll come up,” Adair agreed. He stood and shot a glance across the table. Opposite him, Genevieve's eye met his and then she looked down swiftly.

  He walked out through the back doors, wondering if she had understood his meaning.

  He headed through the front door and out into the cold, fragrant night. Gathering his cloak around him, he breathed out a foggy exhale, wondering about the wisdom of this. It was a risk, to meet her here. And it's cold.

  “I'll just go round the garden once, and then, if she doesn't come out in ten minutes, I'll go inside.”

  Ten minutes would be more than enough to judge whether or not she had understood and wished to come and join him here. Fretting, he walked down the path, wincing as the cold bit into the back of his neck.

/>   He was in the arbor, with the silhouettes of rosebushes around him, when he heard a crunch of a footfall on gravel. He turned around.

  Touched with moonlight, she was there. He drew in a breath at the beauty of the spectacle.

  “Milady,” he whispered. His voice caught in his throat. He watched her walk down the pathway, steps as light as if she danced there. Then she was before him.

  “Adair,” she whispered.

  She used his name alone, no title between them. If he wanted confirmation of her feelings, he could not have asked for more. He reached out and then she was in his arms, body pressed to his.

  He drew in a ragged breath, and then kissed her, his lips descending on hers, aching and passionate. He pressed his lips to hers, his tongue darting between them. She sighed, a small sound, and leaned against him, her body soft and fragrant and pressed to his.

  He felt his longing intensify, breathing in and smelling the sweet, fragrant scent of her. He tightened his arms around her and let his tongue taste the sweet wild taste of her.

  Her lips, soft and tender, parted beneath his. He let his tongue gently explore her mouth, feeling his intense longing gather and slow, turning into a slow-burning passion.

  She made a small sound and her arms tightened on him and he felt his body – aroused almost beyond his control – tense and press against hers, wanting more.

  He leaned back, gasping breathlessly. If he kept this up a second longer he would press her to the bench and start to undress her, despite the cold, and then there would be nothing he could do to prevent going all the way to dishonor her. He tensed, his fist tight at his sides. “Lady Genevieve,” he murmured. “I mustn't.”

  She looked up at him breathlessly. Her lips were still parted, her eyes soft with longing. He clenched his hands tightly and fought with his longing.

  “We shouldn't,” he whispered, hoping she would understand without his needing to explain.

  “I know.”

  She looked down at her hands, half-opened at her sides. She stood there, her breath rising and falling slowly, and then she looked up at him. Her eyes were soft. “We should go in,” she whispered.