“Soon, we'll be going back to Inverkeith.”
He had to believe that.
A sound in the bushes made him tense. He looked around, feeling his hackles rise. A twig cracked, then another. The sound of steps, coming closer, made him stop.
Drawing back into the shadows, he waited.
Two guards rode past.
Bronan stared. The men wore green and blue, the plaids shimmering with the color even in the shadow of the forest. It seemed familiar and he remembered why.
It was the tartan of Astley. Of Amalie's uncle.
Leaning back, drawing his horse completely off the road, he waited in the shadows of the trees. More hoof-beats echoed along the track-way, coming closer.
Wait, Bronan. Let them pass. Then follow afterward.
If Uncle Randall had sent troops to Duncliffe, it meant only one thing: Discovery.
Lingering in the trees, he watched the russet path. Two riders were approaching. He heard the sound of hoof-beats, getting stronger. He waited.
Suddenly, they appeared.
He stared.
Amalie!
It was her. Red hair shone in the sunlight, making a bright sheen on the russet velvet of the riding-cloak she wore. Her dress was cream and full-skirted, and she sat her horse side-saddle, her feet lost in the thick, cream-colored fabric of the train.
Beside her, looking just as clean, and as remote, rode her son.
Alec!
Bronan resisted the urge to gesture to them – he felt such joy in seeing them both. He saw her eyes move over the shadows where he stood, but it seemed he must be well-concealed, for she simply raised a brow and looked away. He saw Alec's gaze also stray away.
They rode past. He waited a while longer, not feeling quite right to move yet. It seemed altogether too unlike Uncle Randall to send them out so lightly-guarded. He waited longer.
As he had suspected, about two minutes later, came the other guards.
He counted to ten after they had passed. Then to sixty. When no other guards had appeared, even after he reached two-hundred, he grunted. That must have been the lot of them, he guessed.
Shifting in the saddle, he nudged his horse forward, back onto the pathway.
Keeping a slow pace, merging with the shadows at the edges of the path, they headed, slowly, upwards to Duncliffe.
The sun was just starting to stretch the shadows to the hills when he reached the place. It must have been around two of the clock in the afternoon, he guessed. His stomach rumbled ominously, reminding him he had not eaten luncheon.
Dismounting, leaving his horse standing at the bottom of the coppice on the grounds – he would not put it past Astley's guardsmen to count the horses in the stables and watch for changes – he slipped up the slight incline toward the kitchens.
The door for deliveries was open. He slipped in the same way the sacks of flour and grain would go, and, dusting his trews, headed toward the kitchen proper. Leaning against the wall, he listened for news. If Amalie and the guards were staying, this is where he'd likely hear first.
The sound, steady and regular, of someone cutting onions drifted up to him. Click, click. Thud. With it was the sound of someone's voice.
“...and I dinnae ken how she thinks we must do it.”
“You ken Lady Marguerite. She's hospitable and decent. Like we all are meant to be.”
There was a reproach in the last words, and Bronan bit his cheeks to keep from smiling. Lady Marguerite had at least one truly loyal supporter.
“Aye, I ken, Mrs. Merrick,” the first voice said, quieter. “But still. A whole banquet! And four hours to prepare it...we'll never do it on time.”
“If you hush and keep on topping those beans we might just.”
Bronan smiled. Inside, he felt a bubble of happiness. That was just what he needed to know! For tonight, at least, Amalie was definitely staying. Why else would Marguerite be putting on a fine banquet? Cheered, he headed out.
Next task, he decided, was finding her. Looking at the manor, he decided the best way to get in without alerting the guards was the trader's door. Clinging to the shadow of the wall, he headed right. Then, he knocked on the small entrance.
After a full two minutes, it opened. A head stared out. The hard face was that of Mr. McNeith, the steward here.
He cleared his throat. McNeith got in first. “Business, sirrah? We are busy here.”
“Um, I'm a carpenter,” Bronan lied, which wasn't wholly untrue. If he had stayed at home, not run away, he would have been a cartwright by now, working with wood to repair coaches and carts. He bent the truth only a little.
“We do not require your service, Mr....?” McNeith said tightly. He was closing the door.
“You do!” Bronan stuck out his foot, a common way to jam a closing door. McNeith looked at him blandly.
“You do need my service,” Bronan carried on, a blustery edge to his voice now. “I was told that Lady Marguerite requested it specifically. The coach was damaged last time she went to Inverkeith.”
The steward looked at him askance, as if he knew he lied. Bronan could see him studying him, and knew, too, that he was trying to place where he knew him from. He hastily looked down, so the shadows of the late afternoon masked his face.
“I'll tell her of the matter. She will not take kindly to disturbances.”
“Fine.”
The man shot him a distasteful glance. When he'd gone, Bronan let out a sigh of laughter.
By! If I was the king of Scotland I'd no' act as pompous as he.
He waited, fretting, for almost ten minutes. Then, just as he thought he'd made a bad decision and that the guards had seen him and would shoot him where he stood, the door creaked.
McNeith appeared, looking decidedly more ruffled than when he'd first opened it. “Her ladyship requests you come inside. It seems she has some, um, plans she wants you to have. I suppose you should wait here,” he added tartly, showing him the ante-room. Bronan could almost hear the rider: I don't think people of your kind are meant to go there.
He looked round the small room, eyes taking in the fine stone mantelpiece, the ocher-colored tapestry-work that decorated the couch. He was amused by the steward's keen discomfort.
A minute later, he heard footsteps. Amalie appeared.
“Amalie!” His heart soared. He had not thought her ladyship would be so kind as to send her! He opened his arms and she shut the door, and then leaned against it and he embraced her.
He pressed his lips to hers and he felt his whole body ache as he remembered, anew, how much he'd ached for her. He had to regulate his breathing, make himself focus on where he was and the imperatives. His whole self ached to undress her here and now and throw her to the couch, taking her with all the pent up ache of his passions.
Instead, he stood back and focused on her face. “What news?”
“I'm here with Uncle's guardsmen,” she said. “They found out about our plans – or they suspected. He wanted to send them on ahead, to check the place. I intercepted them. Or, rather, Mercy overheard, and informed on them for me.” She let out a long sigh. “It seems we are watched over, after all.”
“Yes,” Bronan agreed and nodded slowly. “It seems so.”
His delight at seeing her again kept all trace of sorrow from his mind. He stood back and drank in the sight of her, eyes lingering at that curvaceous bust, her sweet waistline.
“Bronan,” she said, her voice rich with amusement. “I wanted you too, longed for you. But right now, we must plan.”
“Yes,” he said, going red. How was it that she guessed so easily at his thoughts? Was he that transparent to her? He blushed. “Yes, certainly.”
She laughed. “Well then. After planning, we might have time for a little...diversion.”
His face lit up. “You reckon?”
She grinned. “I'm here a week.”
“A week!” He couldn't believe it! How had she managed it? He shook his head, amazed. “You wonder!”
<
br /> She chuckled. “It wasn't me alone,” she said. “Luck played a role. And Alec. He's a fine lad.”
“Yes. A fine son.”
He saw Amalie's face light up, and felt joy at having said aught that made her look so happy. “What?” he whispered, reaching out to stroke her hair. They sat down on the couch together, her body close to his in the quietness.
“I am glad you think him a fine son,” she said. Her eyes held the rest of her words, and more. I am glad you think of him like a son. He is part of my family. As are you.
“Oh, Amalie.” Reaching for her, he wrapped her in his arms. Wordless, they clung together. A long moment later, content just to hold each other, they kissed.
Bronan closed his eyes, tasting her sweetness fill his mouth, feeling his whole body ache with longing as he felt his tongue probe her warm mouth. “Oh, Amalie,” he whispered. “I am so glad you're here.”
“I'm glad you're here, too, Bronan.”
They sat for a long time, just sharing silence.
After what seemed like infinity, but could have been a minute or two, she stood. “I should go, Bronan,” she said softly. “See you later?”
Bronan sat up straighter and she laughed.
“Come to me in secret, Bronan,” she said. “I'm on the third floor. The apricot suite.”
“Yes, milady,” he nodded, committing the name to memory. He would be there as soon as dinner was finished.
The darkness was intense as Bronan slipped down the hallway. He had taken dinner in the kitchen with the servants, it being too dangerous for him to appear above with the guests. The guards would see him – Amalie had said they were on patrol in the entrance-way – and besides, it would have looked too suspicious, the carter appearing at the table with the household. The servants’ gossip would have swiftly reached the guards.
Heart thumping, belly full of stew, tingling with anticipation, he tiptoed to the chambers. “Hello?”
His voice was a breathless whisper as he scratched on the oak wood door. He waited.
“It's open.”
Turning the handle, he fell inside.
She was on the bed. He leaned on the door, letting it swing closed silently behind him. His eyes feasted on her where she sat, a contented smile on her face, looking up toward him. He was transfixed, not wanting to ever move, to ever stop looking, yet aching to run and ply her soft lips with kisses.
Taking a step forward, he went toward the bed.
Laughing, she reached out to him.
Feeling happiness surge through him like a bright wave, he took her in his arms. His lips tasted hers.
Laughing, they collapsed onto the bed together.
Bronan let his fingers stray down the soft skin of her neck, gently touching at the place where her gown, tight and well-fitting, met her chest. It was a low bodice, her breasts straining at the well-fitted fabric, the sweet curve of them begging for kissing.
Bronan felt his whole body ache and reached behind her, fingers unclasping it.
She smiled and stretched so that he could reach behind her, and then giggled as he unfastened the buttons that held her gown closed, his lips busy with kisses down her neck as he did so.
When she was naked, he sat back and admired her. He would, he thought, never grow tired of feasting his eyes on the sweet forms of her body. She was like a vista that was ever changing, beguiling him anew each time.
He undressed hastily and gently pushed her down onto the bed. She smiled at him.
Feeling his heart thump, knowing he had not the right to ask, but knowing he wished to, he gently rolled sideways, so that he lay beside her. Wrapping his arms round her, he drew her to him and gently pushed himself inside her as they kissed.
Her eyes flew open with surprise, and, surpassing his wildest dreams, she smiled in pleasure and pressed closer, those soft breasts flattening against his naked warmth.
They moved together and he closed his eyes, knowing that he had never felt such sweetness, such rightness. She was making little gasps and he felt each sound tear through him, fanning the flames of his longing. She sounded as if she was in agony, small sobs reaching ever higher pitch, but he knew she was pleasured, for her mouth twisted in a small smile that made him feel like the most privileged person on earth.
He was starting to lose awareness of everything else, feeling only the sweet sensation of his manhood, pushed inside her, the way her body cushioned and warmed it, feeling so right. He moved back and pushed in again, his longing growing, straining, overtaking all else.
He cried out and, wordless, collapsed against her.
They lay like that, perspiration cool on their skin, heartbeats united.
The next morning, while it was still dark, he kissed her cheek and tiptoed from the room.
“Goodnight, my dearest,” she whispered.
“Goodnight, my dearest.”
He dressed silently and took the dark hall, gray with day's first light, toward his room and there, happy and drained of energy, slept silently until the day was started.
A RISKY VENTURE
Amalie watched the sunlight spread across the woodlands, the haze around the autumn trees rich and radiating. She leaned back in the plush chair and watched it, blowing steam off her tea. She felt content.
Amalie, you can't afford to rest now.
She sighed and put the teacup aside with a click into the saucer. She knew that the situation was dire. Any hope she had of a peaceful morning to contemplate the sweet earlier night was impossible. Still, she thought grudgingly, she might take just this little time to enjoy her memories.
She heard a step in the hallway. The door opened.
“Milady?”
“Ah! Brenna.” She greeted the maid, raising a brow in inquiry.
“I brought your breakfast, milady,” the maid explained, looking over to the fireplace. “And I thought I'd come and stoke the fire, and tidy up next door.”
Amalie nodded. “Thank you. Is Marguerite awake?” She stood and went to the window, looking out while the maid unpacked the tray of breakfast-things onto her table.
“She is, milady. In the breakfast room. It seems we had a rumpus last night.”
“Oh?” Amalie frowned. There had been a disturbance? Her heart thudded, alarmed.
“Aye, milady!” The maid was bent over now, fluffing out the cushions on the chaise-lounge. The apricot suite had its own boudoir, which was why Marguerite always gave it to Amalie to use, knowing she appreciated such things.
“What happened?” Amalie asked, feeling alarmed.
“Well! A carter came here yesterday and, well, it seems he made some trouble with McNeith. Difficult sort, him.” She made a face. “Anyhow. As it happened, McNeith was right. He went down to the stables, and there's naught been done! And the carter, well...he's not tae be discovered. Strange, since he was here yesterday evening.”
“He was?” Amalie frowned. She had guessed, by now, the identity of the carter. Part of her wanted to laugh. Another part of her was simply worried. What happened? Where is Bronan now? What was happening?
“Well, I saw him! Fine-looking lad,” the maid flushed. Amalie laughed, amused.
“He was?” she couldn't help but inquire, finding it a grand thing to see Bronan through her maid's eyes.
“Yes, milady. Brown eyes and big shoulders on him, like a bear! Though you'd reckon he must have gone for a soldier, for he held himself like he'd an injury.”
“Oh?” Amalie felt her heart beat worriedly. The maidservant was shrewd, sharp-eyed, and if the servants were gossiping about the mysterious man, it wouldn't take long before the word got to the guards. What would they do?
“He was,” she nodded briskly. She was cleaning the fireplace now, brushing the grate. She looked up at Amalie, eyes wide. “And they do say he was frightfully blustery with McNeith, yesterday afternoon. Difficult sort,” she sniffed again. “I don't blame the lad. In any case, he's gone. And the stable-hands are out scouring the woods for him.”
<
br /> “Why?” Amalie asked quickly. This was bad. If they had sent a group out to find him, for whatever reason, it was certain the guards would know. Where had he got to?
“He left his horse,” she shrugged, as if it was obvious.
“Oh.” Amalie felt weak with relief. She leaned on the wall, slowly. Then she frowned. “Just the stable-hands?”
The maid gave her an odd look. “Aye, milady.” She frowned. “Who else would they send? It's not like the lad stole aught.”
“No, I understand,” Amalie said lightly, not wanting to give offense “I was just curious, is all. Is the countess upstairs?”
“Aye, milady,” she nodded. “You can breakfast with her too, if you like – I just took the things up now and there's more than enough for the three of you.”
“I'll do that,” Amalie nodded, needing to discuss this with Marguerite. Taking a last look round the room, regretting the breakfast that was already laid out, she turned away.
“I'd swear someone's been wearing boots in here,” the maid complained, scraping at a mark on the stone surround of the fire. “There's mud on it. But nobody could have got in without you hearing,” she dismissed the comment instantly. “It's these strange happenings, milady. It makes my mind restless.”
“Yes,” Amalie said lightly. “Very strange.”
Heart thumping, stomach a knot of amusement mixed with worry and with fear, she headed from the room.
Upstairs, she went straight to the breakfast-room. She could hear a child's merry laugh, and Marguerite's soothing voice. “Marguerite,” she said, drawing out a chair and sitting down. “I need to talk.”
“Of course, Amalie,” Marguerite said calmly. “And in case you're wondering, he's hiding in the attic.”
“What?” Amalie stared at her friend. Those pale brown eyes met hers, holding a message, and a warning.
Silence. We are overheard. Do not mention his name.
Amalie nodded. She looked down at the table.
“Nothing, dearest,” Marguerite said mildly. “I just said there was quite a panic. Last night, I mean. But it's all calm now. Isn't it, my sweetness..?”
The child grinned, showing a neat row of baby teeth. She turned to Amalie. “I can eat all by myself,” she declared.
The Highlander’s Widow (Blood 0f Duncliffe Series Book 8) Page 15
