“We can't without Bronan.”
Amalie was again grateful for her son's directness.
“He's your manservant, aye?” the doctor said, asking Alec.
“He's a soldier,” Alec said proudly. “He saved Mama and me from the fire. He rode with a shot-wound in his shoulder. I did too,” he added, proudly.
“So you did, lad,” the doctor agreed grimly, “So you did.”
The room reeked of surgical spirit and herbal salve when he'd finished his work. Amalie, feeling faint – she had never been one for the sight of blood, and it being her son's made matters even worse – followed her son out. In the hallway, she met Alec.
“He asked us to stay here,” she said.
“I think that's a fine suggestion,” Bronan agreed. “It means I can ride to the manor while you and Master Alec wait here.”
“Call me Alec,” her son said casually.
Amalie frowned. It was rare for her son to unbend on matters of his title, which he guarded like a protective amulet, even with his friends.
Bronan just nodded. “Well, then?” he frowned at Amalie.
“We'll wait here,” she said, hating saying it.
“Thanks, lass.”
Amalie looked into his eyes. His brown gaze held hers. He reached a hand out to her, but then let it fall, mutely, to his side. She bit her lip.
“Mr. Ludlow?” a voice called from the doctor's room. “I'm waiting to tend you.”
Bronan nodded to Amalie, who looked up at his eyes, sending him courage. He nodded back.
She closed her eyes, pained, and headed behind Alec down the hallway.
The doctor's wife, a small, white-haired, gentle-faced woman not dissimilar to the doctor, greeted her with concern.
“Whist, milady,” she said, alarmed. “Your dress! Come, sit by the fire. We'll get it mended and you can change into something simple while you wait. And would you care for tea? It's just the thing for driving off the chill.”
“Thank you,” Amalie said. She let herself and Alec be led into a small parlor room that smelled of spices, and sat before the fire. The doctor's wife disappeared to the kitchen. She looked at Alec.
“It seems we're staying here,” she said.
“Until Mr. Bronan returns,” he said lightly. He seemed unconcerned. In his mind, his self-christened Mr. Bronan seemed capable of anything.
“Yes,” Amalie echoed.
In her heart, she wasn't so certain. What would she do, if he didn't return? She would be stranded here in Dunradley, without anyone knowing where she was. Marguerite had departed for Gracewell Manor, and, unless she could somehow send a message to her there, Amalie would be left here alone. The ride through the woods was far too risky for her and Alec alone, especially with the raiders about.
She sipped her tea, silently, and tried not to think about it.
“Milady, you can go and change your dress in one of my chambers upstairs?” the doctor's wife said, returning suddenly.
“Thanks,” Amalie said, sincere. She had grown sick of the smell of smoke. It clung to everything.
Alec, dressed in a jerkin over his nightshirt – Amalie hadn't questioned where he got it from and he hadn't enlightened – nodded.
“You go up, Mama. I'll be quite fine.”
She smiled at him and quickly headed up the stairs.
The relief of getting out of the stained red velvet was overwhelming. She let it drop onto the chair with a shudder and drew on the new gown the woman had brought. Made of stiff white linen, it was minimal in the extreme compared to what she was accustomed to, but it was clean. More important, it smelled of starch. Not smoke.
Rejoicing inwardly, she turned to the mirror to rearrange her hair.
“I wonder at Bronan – he must think I look a sight,” she sighed. Her hair was loose and hung limply round her face, a streak of soot still marking her one cheek just faintly.
She combed out her hair with her fingers and washed her face in the ewer of water, scented faintly with herbs. It was such a relief to be clean!
When she went down to the parlor again, she felt much better. Her son stared.
“Mama! It suits you.”
She blushed. “Nonsense,” she said briskly. The dress was like something Brenna would have worn, but still, she felt a tug of joy in her tummy at the acknowledgment of the fact that, yes, it looked much better than the stained, disheveled velvet had done. It was a relief to be out of it.
What would Keith have said? He always liked velvet gowns.
She sighed and sat down. Her mind, were she to dwell on such thoughts, would easily go mad. She reached for the tea again and determined not to think about it.
“What will we do today?” Alec asked. “I mean, since we have to wait till Mr. Bronan returns.”
Amalie raised a brow. She hadn't thought about it. “I don't know. Perhaps we can...”
“Milady?” Bronan appeared in the doorway and she looked up, getting to her feet at once. He looked grave and exhausted, and she felt instantly worried for him.
“What?”
“The doctor said I can't ride until tomorrow. I have to find out,” he added, piteously.
“Good,” Amalie said, relieved. “And no, you don't. Someone else can find out.”
Bronan's brow went up, as if this was a possibility he'd never considered. Then he sat down, exhausted. “I suppose,” he agreed.
“Hurrah!” her son said. “Now we don't have to spend the day watching the doctor.”
Amalie and Bronan looked at him, astonished. They looked at each other. They laughed.
“Oh, Alec,” Amalie said, sinking down into the chair, shaking her head. “You do think of the most bizarre things.”
“What?” Alec said, grinning shyly. “It's not like there's anything else to do, is it?”
Bronan laughed. He reached across and fluffed the lad's hair in a gesture of affection that was so natural it only occurred to Amalie afterward that it was the first time she'd seen him make it. “Och, lad,” he said. “You're right. And, since we're here, we can go about replacing that jerkin we stole.”
Amalie looked from one to the other. Bronan went red. Alec looked at his hands and then up at her, wickedness grinning from his gaze.
“You...?” Amalie was lost for words.
They both laughed at her. “Sorry, Mama,” Alec said, contrite. “But I was cold.”
“Fine,” Amalie said, heart full of amusement. “As long as it's only once. I'm not having you thieving again.”
Bronan gave her an amused glance and she smiled, her cheeks warm with happiness. After all, there was joy to be found that day. In the doctor's small, warm parlor was glowing contentment.
MAKING PLANS
Bronan stretched his back, feeling the aches from the night before. He was outside in the yard, the fresh air ruffling his hair as the sun set, yellow and bright, on the distant hills. He looked away from the majesty of the spectacle and down at the grass where it ruffled against the stonework. He looked around the small, tidy garden, trying not to think too hard. The doctor had set him the task of gathering kindling for the fire. He had gathered armful-loads, and now sat on the step, thoughtfully.
He's a fine lad.
Of all the things that he had to think about, Alec was the least troublesome, so he concentrated on his thoughts regarding Amalie's son. It was easier, by far, than contemplating his thoughts of her.
If I had a son, I'd be proud if he was like that.
He shook his head wearily. The lad was cheeky, bright and interested, and when he stepped out from that sullen, withdrawn shell, he was a delight. He seemed to trust Bronan, too, which was both a joy and a burden.
I don't want to betray it.
He leaned back against the stone wall, feeling the cold of it press, welcome, against his back. He sighed. There was peace in the doctor's garden, in a world where peace was hard to find. He looked down at the tree by the gate, a green hedge making a boundary between the garden and
the street behind. The street itself was fringed with oak-trees, the leaves just turning.
He closed his eyes. He hadn't slept well that night, and very little of it had been the tension, or the pain in his shoulder – though they had not helped. Most of it had been thinking of Amalie.
If he had to liken his feelings about her to anything, they reminded him, absolutely, of when he'd been given a rifle. The thing had awed him – a machine that could fire bullets with the force and speed to lodge in the oak-wood of the door, or to kill a man. It had also filled him with cold fear.
He felt the same sort of fear of Amalie. Not of her, that was wrong. But of what would happen if he loved her.
She'd no' look at me.
The way she treated him was strange – there were times when it felt as if all barriers dissolved, when she looked at him in a way no other had. She seemed to touch his soul and he felt like nobody, before or since, had ever seen and known him as she did.
Then, abruptly, she would turn away. Sometimes, he thought, she looked at him with a speculative glance as if she was disapproving of him. At times like that, he remembered how afraid the rifle made him. It was a thing of indiscriminate maiming, just like she could be, if he let her loose within his heart.
Och, lad. Your head's stuffed with fancies.
He stood, frustrated with himself. It was the inaction, it was making him daft. He could curse the doctor for making him stay here! He should be riding, checking on the manor.
Impatient, he strode toward the trees. There was a spade there, and someone – he couldn't imagine it was the doctor, but perhaps it was – had been digging there. He took the spade and went to join in.
“Foolish lad,” he scolded himself relentlessly. “Thinking o' her that way.”
“Hello?”
He jumped. He'd been so intent on digging that he hadn't heard her approach. He left the spade buried in the soil and turned around to find himself looking down into her face. “Amalie!”
She looked up at him, her pale skin radiant. She had changed, and instead of the stained red velvet dress that clung to her curvy form, she was wearing a white dress, simple and starched. The color suited her, he realized breathlessly. Against the pale red of her hair it was striking. It also made her big brown eyes look huge.
“Sorry,” she said. “I startled you.”
“No,” he demurred, biting his lip. He suddenly felt so uncomfortable, worse than if Seyton had caught him stealing fruit. He felt his fingers lace together and forced them to unclasp. “You didn't. I was just digging.”
“I see,” she said. She looked down at the flowerbed, which had grown about a foot across since he started. He laughed.
It's plainly obvious you've been digging, you pillock.
He looked back down at his hands.
“Sorry,” she said again. “I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh?” His head jerked up. Her lips and cheeks were flushed red, and she seemed hesitant. He felt his heart almost stop upon contemplating her loveliness. Her hair lifted in the breeze, falling against her neck.
“Yes,” she said, looking at the tree by the gate. “I need to know what's going to happen.”
“Yes.” He nodded and swallowed through a tight throat. He knew why she was worried. One of the thoughts he'd been purposefully avoiding all afternoon was the thought of what they would do when they returned to the manor.
More specifically, what would they tell people? She had stayed the night alone with him, but for her son. Yes, it was clearly extenuating circumstances – he had been rescuing her from the raiders – but would people still gossip?
“I considered contacting Marguerite,” Amalie continued quietly. “If she and her daughter are with her brother, we can contact them there. The doctor would be able to find a messenger for us. The estate is not too far: a few days' ride.”
“We'd have to stay a few days,” he pointed out.
“We may have to anyway,” Amalie said quickly. “Alec is not fit for riding. And, whatever you say, neither are you.”
Bronan swallowed again, though this time from tenderness, not fear. The look she gave him held such a wealth of feeling. In its way, it felt as if she reached out to touch him. He tore his gaze away. This was going to drive him mad! “I want to come back with you.”
Amalie stared. “What?” She said it very softly.
He turned away. He expected to hear her shocked response. Maybe even derision. He waited, braced, for the bullet in the back that was her scorn. It didn't come.
“Bronan?” she said softly. “You mean...come to Duncliffe?”
She spoke carefully, so carefully that he turned again, finding the courage. He looked at her, then at her boots where they dented the grass. One of the laces was almost loose and the odd vulnerability of that made his heart ache.
“No,” he said, voice thick with feeling. “I mean, home. To Inverkeith.”
She said nothing. He wondered, for a while, if she had heard him. He risked looking at her face. Her eyes were wet with tears.
“Amalie!” he said. He went to her. He felt terrible. Without thinking about it, he took her hands in his, drew her close. He'd used her name and neither of them had noticed he shouldn't have. His heart ached. What was it that had upset her, so? What had he said? What did he do?
She looked up at him, wordlessly. A tear ran down her cheek, making a slow, damp line. He reached up and touched it. His hand stroked the softness of her hair.
She froze. Her eyes looked up into his. He tensed, too. It was so intimate, this moment, and yet it didn't feel wrong. It felt, in fact, impossibly good. His whole body ached for her as if he had been in the desert, lost and starving. He bent closer.
She leaned forward and before either of them could think about it, his lips moved and landed, softly, on hers.
He held her close and she leaned against him. Her body was sweet and soft and scented, and he could no longer resist drawing her firmly against him. His lips moved on hers, just gently mouthing her bottom lip.
She tensed. He froze. Her lips were so plush and warm, and the damp softness felt so good. He drew her closer to him, feeling his whole body respond to her sweet closeness, feeling the need for her rise up like a tide, threatening to drown him.
She froze again and this time leaned back. He let his arms fall to his sides, feeling guilty.
She looked up at him, brown eyes tender, still damp. Her expression looked as if she had seen something at once frightening and wondrous. He took a step back, feeling terrible.
“Bronan.”
She made his name a melody. He swallowed hard. It was all he could do not to step up and take her into a crushing embrace, holding her against him while he plied her mouth with kisses...the desire was so overwhelming that he had to ball his hands into fists. “Amalie,” he said. “Milady.”
“No,” she said tightly. “You can't call me that. You...I...” She shook her head, and she really was crying again, tears running down her cheeks. “Why is this so hard?”
He shook his head mutely, finally clearing his throat. “I don't know.”
The pretense of the last days was finally over. They were at least being honest.
Bronan looked over her shoulder, to where the wind ruffled the pine-trees, still dark green and bright. He swallowed hard.
“Bronan...you're a fine young man,” she said. “I just...”
“I ken, milady,” he said, throat tight. “It's on account of my birth, isn't it?”
“It isn't only that.” She colored. “I mean...it's...Bronan, I'm a mother. I'm too old for you.”
Bronan stared at her. Of all the things he'd expected she would say. Of all the things he'd steeled himself to hear – that was the absolute last thing he’d thought of. He was so shocked it felt like someone had again shot him. He had no idea what to say. “Milady!” he said. “You're not too old for me!”
She smiled, though she wasn't looking at him. “Bronan, I'm more than five years ol
der than you. I'm...”
“Five years!” he exploded. “Is that all? You'd think it was twenty-five, the way you carried on.”
She laughed – it wasn't a pleasant sound. “It's too old,” she said.
Bronan swallowed hard. He felt shocked. He strove to find some words, but they were all driven out of him, the same force as when the bullet had hit his shoulder. It was too much of a shock.
“Well, then,” he said after a long pause. He blinked, rapidly. He knew he was close to tears and knew, also, that he couldn't let them fall. Not in front of her. If she thought him a baby now, she would think worse if he cried!
“Well, then.”
She looked up and, to his surprise, her eyes were filled with tears.
“Milady!” he stepped forward again and, before he could think about it, he drew her into his embrace. Her hair smelled fresh, of flowers and warmth. He hugged her crushingly, holding that sweet body against his, pressing her to him as if he meant to make her part of him.
She leaned against him with a little sigh, and he drew her closer still. He bent down and placed his lips on hers.
The kiss was clinging, urgent. It tasted salty and he closed his eyes, feeling it a hallowed moment. He had kissed her, but now he must say farewell.
“Bronan...”
He stepped back, and he took her hand. She looked up at him, sorrow written on her face. He felt the same sorrow and knew it must show on him. “Milady, I know,” he said softly.
“What are we to do?” she asked.
He shrugged. He felt resigned. What could they do about it? “We need to write to your friend, like you said,” he said helplessly. “And then I suppose we have to wait.”
“Yes,” she said. She sounded as downcast as he did. “I suppose.”
“If it'll make things awkward,” he said slowly, “I'll find another place.”
“No!” she said quickly – so quickly it surprised him. “No, Bronan. You don't have to do that. We can leave things as they are. Alec has trusted you. You don't know how I'd do anything to preserve that.”
The Highlander’s Widow (Blood 0f Duncliffe Series Book 8) Page 9
