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

by Ferguson, Emilia

  “Yes.”

  He reached out to take her hand, unable to deny at least that much of closeness. He felt her fingers tighten on his. He felt his heart soften in his chest.

  Slowly, they walked down the white gravel of the path, back toward the manor.

  Under his hand, he could feel her skin, soft and warm, despite the coldness of the evening. He imagined himself beside her, holding that hand, feeling her touch on his bare skin, reaching out to run a hand down the velvety softness of her back...

  “It's cold,” she murmured softly. Her fingers tightened on his own.

  “I know,” he said. “We should go in.”

  “Yes.”

  They walked softly over the gravel, the only sound the crunch of the stones under their feet, filling the silence of the night.

  At the steps, they paused. He looked up at the light, reluctant, suddenly, to enter. He looked down at her sweetly-beautiful face, and found himself once again lost for words. “Milady...I...I can't tell you how much I...”

  “Genevieve,” she said, smiling into his face. “Please, Adair. Call me that.”

  “Genevieve,” he said, the word filled with such intensity of feeling he could barely bear it. “Genevieve. My dearest.”

  She tensed against him, as his arms enfolded her, and he let go a fraction, afraid he'd scared her. She reached up and gently touched his cheek. Looked into his eyes.

  Then she turned away. “Goodnight, Adair,” she said softly.

  “Goodnight.”

  He let go of her hand and she walked away from him, heading silently to the steps and then going up, one step at a time. He followed her up, more slowly, lagging behind.

  When he reached the bright interior of the hallway, he leaned against the wall, eyes closed, heart soaring.

  She called me Adair. And I called her Genevieve.

  He shook his head, unable to hide the vast grin that spread across his face. He had never felt this happy in all his life, he was sure of it.

  “Genevieve,” he whispered. “I am in love with you.”

  MOMENT OF DANGER

  Genevieve went up to her room, head drifting in a cloud of bliss. She had no idea what had just happened, except that it had happened, and that it was wonderful.

  “Adair Hume,” she said aloud, liking the way the words, foreign, sounded in her voice. Just saying his name made her heart skip, she realized. She giggled, sounding more free and light-hearted than she ever had, even as a child.

  “Adair Hume. Lord Adair.”

  She blushed. She drew the drape over the window, shutting out the blue enchantment of the night sky. Then she reached for her hair, loosening the pins that held some of the curls from her face. She was weary, though the clock said it was only ten.

  She summoned her maid, who helped her out of the dress and into her nightgown. She was quiet and Camma seemed to sense her mood, for she was unusually silent and headed out as soon as the task was accomplished, leaving her alone.

  The coverlet was warm, and someone had placed a closed pan of coals at the bottom of the bed, to heat it. Genevieve stretched, feeling sweetly relaxed.

  “What is the matter with me?”

  She giggled, rolling onto her side. She wished she could discuss this with someone. A confidante of some kind would have been a great help. As it was, she could only trust her own counsel on the matter.

  I am falling in love with Adair Hume.

  She knew it was ridiculous to admit to such a thing. However, was it not more ridiculous to hide from the truth of that? She sighed.

  “Papa would be displeased.”

  Worse than the thought of anger was the thought of upsetting him. Her father had already known so much sorrow; he so rarely smiled. She couldn't possibly return home with the news that she wished to wed someone – some almost-barbarian fellow – from the Highlands.

  He wouldn't agree to it – not unless she pressed him. And, she knew, if she did so, she would never see him again. She would leave France forever and live with Adair in his remote mountain home.

  Not that it would be a hardship to be with him, of course, she reasoned. Just that it would be impossible to think of leaving Papa all alone.

  Thoughts of her father made her feel restless. She hadn't completed her task yet – there was still the problem of the shadowy figure. She still had no idea who it really was.

  It could still be Adair, you know. Fine words don't have to mean anything.

  The voice of suspicion spoke in her mind, insidious and unpleasant. She turned over onto her other side, impatient with it. Once the governing voice of her life, she had little time for suspicion nowadays. There was, she was beginning to realize, another way of seeing the world.

  “Francine is right.”

  She moved further down under the covers, letting the sweet warmth from the coal-pan warm her toes, and feeling herself drift into a haze of sweet sleep.

  Her mind visited the moments with Adair in the garden, on the terrace, on the stairwell. She smiled, recalling every expression she could recall, each inflection of his voice, the quality of his touch.

  “Genevieve, you are behaving like a lovesick girl.”

  She grinned, chiding herself, and knowing it was true. Then again, she had never been a lovesick girl when she was the age to be one. She had always been solemn, sensible, watchful. Taking care of her silent, withdrawn father. She had never felt this wild joy.

  Was it not time to feel it, just this once?

  The sweet thought lit up her heart and she snuggled under the warm covers, letting her thoughts slowly wander and drift into sleep.

  * * *

  “Cousin?” Francine's voice broke into her happy reverie next morning. Genevieve blinked, looking up swiftly from her porridge plate.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “We were planning to go into the village for more embroidery thread,” Francine said. “Would you like to come with us?”

  “I...” Genevieve paused, frowning. Adair hadn't yet come down to breakfast, and she wanted to see him today; to spend time with him. Also, she had decided as she dressed that morning, she needed to spend more time on the task her father had set her. She needed to find, once and for all, the identity of the spy, unmask him, and gather intelligence for the troops.

  “We won't press you, Genevieve,” Arabella said gently. “It was just a thought, since you seem to so enjoy your tapestry-work...”

  “I do,” Genevieve nodded. “It was a kind thought. But I meant to write to my papa today. And perhaps to ride later,” she ended, thinking quickly of another reason to spend the day at the manor house.

  “Of course,” Francine nodded. “Well, Arabella and I will go into town and we'll see if there are any skeins you might fancy. Yellow, perhaps?”

  “Yes,” Genevieve said, distractedly. “I'd like a nice yellow, for the daffodils. And perhaps lilac, do you think?”

  “Well, then,” Arabella nodded. “That's settled. We'll see what we can do. Now, as a design for the drawing room, I was thinking perhaps something with a pattern of acanthus leaves...”

  As Arabella and Francine discussed subsequent embroidery projects, Genevieve let her eyes drift their focus and found herself thinking once again of the night before.

  She was recalling the sweetness of that kiss, her body's wanting, when the floor creaked and she looked up at the door.

  Black eyes held hers. Sweet longing ached in every line of the thin-lipped smile below.

  Her body caught fire at the mere sight of him. She swallowed hard, aware that the only vacant seat in the room was across from her. She looked at her plate. “Good morning,” she said.

  “It is, a lovely morning,” Adair replied.

  His voice was low and sweet and she felt as if the words reached out, a touch. She swallowed, reaching for her spoon.

  “You're feeling brave,” Richard commented, indicating the bowl of porridge on the table before her.

  She grinned. “I suppose I am.�
�� She had chosen to try porridge without really thinking about it. As it was, she caught Adair's approving eye on her and looked into the mass in the bowl.

  “It's nice with salt,” he said, passing her the salt-cellar.

  She took it and their fingers met, making a rush of feeling flow up from her tummy to her brain. “Thanks.”

  She reached for her spoon, sampling the porridge. Thick and rich, the salt and butter complimented a taste that was unlike anything she had sampled before. Oats, rich and delicious, she swallowed, smiling. “This is good.”

  Adair gave her a delighted grin. “I'm so pleased you think so,” he said softly.

  She flushed. What would it be like, she wondered, if he was in her land, sampling her country's fare? She would surely feel that proud, were he to approve it. “Thanks,” she said.

  His eyes on hers were soft and she held his gaze, and then dropped her own, sure everyone must notice the new softness between them.

  I don't really mind what they think.

  She finished her porridge in silence, aware of the man opposite her, feeling his closeness and his every gesture tingle on her skin, like it was raw.

  He pushed back his chair, smiling. “I think,” he said, “I will go riding soon.”

  Genevieve knew that, like the remark the previous evening, it was an invitation to join him. She felt her cheeks lift in a smile, even as she looked down demurely. She could feel eyes on her, watching her. She guessed one of the watchers was MacCleary.

  “I considered a ride today, too,” she made herself say. It sounded as if she read lines in a play, and she grinned, unable to hide her amusement at her hollow acting.

  “I hope you will find time to do so soon,” he pressed.

  She grinned again, more broadly. Then she frowned. “I think I have some duties to attend to first,” she supplied. She had to send the letter off before that afternoon, if she wished it to reach the coast in time to be sure of finding passage. Ships were infrequent now, the crossing dangerous in winter. She wanted to be sure one letter, at least, would reach her father before the spring.

  “Well, then,” he shrugged, eyes sparkling. “I suppose you could find time to ride after luncheon?”

  “I suppose I could,” she agreed, blushing scarlet.

  “That's good. It looks like a fine day.”

  “I think it will be,” she agreed. She found it hard to conceal the joy in her voice.

  Beside her, she felt Francine looking from her to Adair. She knew she was noticing their closeness, and she found she didn't mind. Francine was, of everyone besides her other cousin, least likely to find fault.

  The guests slowly drifted from the table, one after the other heading to some business of their own. Arabella stood, glancing to where Adair sat, reluctant to leave.

  “I'll go to the stables at ten of the clock,” he announced, talking to Richard, across the table from him. Genevieve knew that the words were all for her. She caught his eye, grinning. He nodded, fractionally.

  She walked quickly into the hallway, doing her best to conceal her enormous smile.

  Outside, the day was cloudy, but it had not yet rained, she noticed, looking sideways through the long windows as she went briskly up the steps. It was a fine day for a ride.

  “I'll go to the stables at ten of the clock,” she promised herself. That would give her just over an hour to write to her father.

  She reached her bedchamber, drew out the chair behind the writing desk and sat down, ready to gather her thoughts.

  Dear Papa, she wrote. I trust you are well. I hope Du Prise is taking good care of you and that he has cooked your favorite pie at least once. She smiled, the fondness for her father tightening around her heart like a fist. She could see it all so clearly – his office in the top floor of the chateau, the drawing room where they always took meals together, the small parlor where he sat, on cold days, knees covered with a woolen rug, watching the fire.

  She picked up her quill again and added more lines. I am in good health, and my cousins care for me most attentively. I have learned many new customs and tried many new things, and keep myself busy with tapestry, reading and riding.

  That was all the personal news she would put in the letter, at least for now. She put her head to one side, considering.

  I have also learned some other things about the local surroundings, she wrote. There are vast cliffs to the east of the house, affording a good view over the surrounding terrain, including the major paths from north to south. I have ridden part of the way myself, and have reason to believe it will take a morning's ride to reach it.

  There. That was all she'd found out thus far about the territory. Now for the other matter. She paused, laying the quill aside, thinking.

  I have reason to believe that other eyes than mine are gathering information. There. She couldn't very well write it more clearly than that. Not without making it obvious to anyone who intercepted her letter. I have yet to identify their owner, she thought before continuing. Have a care when considering this place for any uses, for I believe there may be information about it circulating elsewhere.

  She read the last line through again, concerned that it was far too obvious in its meaning: Don't use my cousins' home for any strategic operations. Someone is already keeping an eye on it.

  She decided she couldn't convey the message anymore obliquely and have it still clearly understood, so she left it as it was. She considered the closing paragraph, wanting to hide the message in a setting of ordinary talk.

  I find the air here most invigorating, and can recommend a trip to this land. It is certain to bestow its reviving powers on all its visitors, she wrote. Though the weather is a little desolate, I find it refreshing. I think I have not felt so truly alive in many years.

  She frowned, reading the last sentence. What would her father think? It sounded almost unappreciative of her beautiful home in France, she reckoned, and his care for her. She considered crossing it out, though it was profoundly true, making it impossible to deny. She amended it instead.

  I think I have not felt so truly alive in many years, save when I am in your much-missed company.

  It was not entirely true, though by no means false: she did love her father's company and missed it sorely. She reached for the sand, set in a little box on the desk to scatter over notes, for drying them, and carefully sprinkled a pinch across the ink, blowing it off.

  She folded the letter, but didn't seal it yet. She glanced at the clock. It was twenty-five minutes to ten.

  “That took longer than I thought,” she mused, surprised. She slid the letter under the sheaf of blank parchments and set aside her pen, deciding that she could always add to it when she came back. She might have more information, gathered on the ride, to add about the lay of the land.

  She went to the door and stuck out her head, summoning Camma. She appeared a minute or two later, face flushed.

  “Milady!” she said, fanning herself with one hand, as if she'd been running hard and overheated herself. “What can I do for ye?”

  “My riding-dress, please,” Genevieve said softly. “And my boots. I'm going out for a ride.”

  “Very good, milady.”

  By two minutes to ten she was already at the stables. She reached them, walking briskly round the side, worried lest she had come too late.

  “Mr. McLain?” she called in through the door. “Are you here? Can you saddle...oh.”

  She turned as a step sounded on the cobbles behind her, a soft footfall in a boot that was not a hobnailed workman's shoe.

  She found herself looking into the fine-boned, intense face of Adair.

  “Good morning, milady,” he said, grinning shyly. “Well-met.”

  She curtseyed, heart pounding fiercely in her chest. “Good morning,” she said. “I am pleased to have arrived on time.”

  “You were early,” he teased, eyes sparking. She pulled a face.

  “It is no crime to be early,” she responded, making hersel
f look away and into the stables, eyes searching for someone to help them saddle up.

  “Mayhap – though for the impatient waiter, it can cause its own torments,” he said, grinning.

  “Impatient waiter?” she frowned. “McLain? Are you here?” she added, turning to the open door of the stables. “We need to saddle two...”

  “I already had them saddled,” Adair grinned.

  Genevieve stared at him. He blushed.

  “How long have you been here?” she asked, astonished, as McLain appeared around the side of the barn, leading two horses, tacked up, with him.

  “Just ten minutes or so,” he said lightly. “Impatiently waiting...”

  Genevieve laughed aloud. “You are a dear,” she said, without really thinking.

  His face softened and he looked away, throat working. “Thanks,” he said. “So are you.”

  McLain, Genevieve noticed, had beaten a hasty retreat into the stables, pretending blissful unawareness. She wasn't sure whether to laugh or be grateful. She felt both. She grinned up at Adair, feeling her heart soar.

  So he had come down early to prepare for the ride. He wanted to see her so much that he was waiting impatiently.

  Heart singing, Genevieve took the reins of the smaller, more compact of the two horses, and led her to the mounting block. She stepped up into the side-saddle, glad for the hours of riding-practice that made it so effortless a motion.

  Beside her, Adair's brows rose with admiration and she flushed. He looked away, leading his own horse to the mounting block and getting into the saddle with, she noticed, a decided flourish.

  He's showing off, she realized, grinning. The thought made her throat tight with happiness.

  They rode together in silence toward the gates.

  “I was thinking,” Adair began as they reached the gate that led from the manor grounds into the woods.

  “Yes?” Genevieve said, her heart thudding. He looked earnest and, she realized, it was one of the few times he'd initiated conversation.

  “I was thinking that, maybe someday, I should visit France.” He said it casually, but the implications were huge. She stared at him, astonished.