The Highlander’s Widow (Blood 0f Duncliffe Series Book 8)
Page 20
She heard her son give an excited shout at half an hour past five. It was just after the next tolling of the bell and she was starting to feel desperation.
“Here!” he called. “I've found something by Uncle! A page.”
“Oh?” Amalie was on her feet instantly, coming around the desk to stand behind it where he sat, comfortably, in his father's chair. She leaned over and read over his shoulder.
“To Mr. Bates, of Bates and Partners, the sum of five pounds sterling,” she read. She felt her nerves tingle with excitement. This was the sort of thing she needed. She grinned. “Well done, Alec!” she said. “You found it! Thank you.”
Alec beamed up at her. “I'd say thanks, if I knew what I'd found.”
Amalie chuckled. “A way out,” she said. “But keep going, Alec. We need to find what else this says. And quickly. We don't have much time.”
“There's three pages like it,” Alec said firmly. “I'll start on the back, you start on the front. We'll stop when we meet up.”
“Good idea.”
Silence drifted slowly back as they read through the pages together.
As they reached the middle, Amalie stared. Her whole body tensed with excitement. They had it!
“Mama..?”
“Here it is!” Amalie said, underlining what she'd read with a pointing fingertip. “This is what we're looking for.”
“It is?” Alec frowned. Then he read the name there. His eyes went round. “Oh, yes,” he nodded. He beamed. “Well done, Mama!”
She blushed. Felt tears pricking her eyes. “Thanks,” she said.
They embraced. Then, quickly, they rearranged the study. Amalie took the book, hugging it to her chest like a talisman. They went back to the parlor together.
They were ready to confront her uncle.
RELEASE AND RESOLUTION
Bronan leaned against the wall, waiting. He heard the bell toll the hour of six and waited, wondering why the ringing lasted so long.
“Amalie would be able to tell me,” he thought, grinning. She knew all this sort of thing. It was another side to her – the competent, knowledgeable countess – and he was glad to be getting to know it, too. He felt as if he would never stop finding out new things, as if she was a book he'd be reading forever and never reach the end of the story.
“What I want now is dinner.” He sighed. He was waiting for that for two reasons. The first one, though, was because he was hungry. He'd been in here since midday, with almost no luncheon. He was hungry. The second one was the chamber-pot.
He glanced at it sideways. A clumsy thing, made of china, he wondered where it had resided in the fortress before someone thought to provide it for the captive. Even if they planned to starve him up here, they would likely wish to come and change the pot. It was the one moment of advantage.
He leaned back against the wall and waited.
Soon enough, he heard footsteps, coming up the stairs. He tensed. Moving swiftly to the corner by the door, he lifted the pot. He stood there, blending with the shadows. Facing the entrance and lined up carefully with where the door would open, when it swung.
“His lordship said...hey! Where are you? What on...?”
This last the guardsman shouted because, at that exact moment, Bronan had hurled the china bowl at him. Heavy and clumsy, it took the fellow in the chest, doubling him over. As Bronan had hoped it would, it threw him off-balance and he tumbled down the stairs. He heard the pot shatter on the stones.
A guard yelled. The sound of someone stumbling echoed up the stairs and Bronan ran to the door, seizing his moment. He stepped through.
Down in the stairwell was chaos. The fallen guardsman tried to stand, groggily, blocking the way of the second, who sought to pass him in his effort to reach the door, and Bronan. Shattered china, sharp and deadly, lay on the top step. Bronan bent over, picked up a hefty piece, wickedly-curved, and then ran downwards.
Yelling a cry of inarticulate rage, he threw himself at the two men, who were trying to pass each other on the stairs. He cannoned into them and then stumbled as they fell, just managing to catch himself on the rope strung along the wall as a banister. His piece of china dropped from his hand, cracking in two. He bent and lifted the smaller half, more pointed. Then he ran on downwards.
The two guards he'd run into lay in a tangled heap on the bottom step. One of them – the one on his back – was still. The second was trying to stand. Bronan charged him, grimly wielding his piece of china with all the pitiless skill of his dagger.
A third man, clearly alerted by the cries, had appeared in the hallway, and a fourth. Seizing the staff of the guardsman, Bronan advanced on them.
“Amalie!” he yelled as the third man swung a sword. Bronan struck down on his knuckles with his staff, and the man's grip faltered, meaning that the sword slipped from his hands and fell with an impact that clashed. “Where is she, you miserable blackguard?”
He shouted more insults, incoherent. He fought with the guardsman who faced him, feeling clumsy and unwieldy. He was tired, and armed with a staff, which was best-suited to cracking skulls, not fending off the blows of another sword.
“Amalie!” he shouted. “Amalie!”
The hallway was filled with the sound of blades, of groans, and of running feet and his yelling.
“Amalie!”
“What is the meaning of this?”
Suddenly, everything was quiet. The tall, gaunt shape of Amalie's uncle filled the hallway. He looked furious. “I demand you to seize that man,” he shouted at the guards, angrily. “What in perdition's name is he doing out here? Can you not even keep an eye on a girl, a child and a witless fool?”
The guards each took his arms. Bronan, the fight going out of him, exhausted, let the staff fall from his fingers.
“Well?” Uncle Randall said, looking at the men. “I had hoped to do this quietly, with as little advertisement as possible. But, since I am pressed, kill him, here and now. Go on,” he added, as none of the guards moved.
“Sir?” one of the guards said, hesitant.
“What, Gowan?” he asked. “I gave you an order? Are you not my sworn guard? Then do as I bid you! Kill him.”
“No!”
Bronan, watching the man before him raise his sword, slowly, the sunlight on the blade transfixing him, looked up quickly.
Uncle Randall swung around. “Niece!” he said, alarm showing briefly on his features. It was replaced quickly by a mild anger. “Why are you here? Begone! And take that son of yours with you,” he added, waving a dismissive hand at Alec, who stood behind his mother. The lad had grown taller, Bronan noticed, detached. He was as tall as Amalie, or almost. He caught his eye and nodded. If he was going to die, now, slaughtered in this sumptuous hallway, he might as well die seeing the people he loved one last time.
“No,” Amalie said again. “Put down your sword!” she ordered crisply. “This man gives no orders here. I am the dowager countess. My son is the earl of Inverkeith.” She indicated Alec, who looked down.
“Niece, stop your muttering,” the duke said, dismissive. “You know it is in my control until your son comes of age. Now, for perdition's sake...” He gestured to the guard.
“No,” Amalie said and stood in front of him, placing herself between the guard and Bronan. Alec stood behind her, his hand on her shoulder.
“Niece,” her uncle said, sounding dangerous. He bent over her and Bronan tensed, fearing for her. “I have been tolerant. But this is beyond all toleration. You will find out what happens to those who disobey me.”
“You give no orders here,” Amalie said. “You are a double-dealer. A traitor.”
This time, the duke went white. Bronan saw his eyes narrow cruelly.
“What are you accusing me of, niece?” he said, very quietly. “Be careful. I am in command here, and my men are armed.”
“You are a traitor,” Amalie said, unworried. “You were dealing with the English, and the French. And Scots, too. During this rebellion.”
The duke looked at her, then around the room. He looked, Bronan thought, like a man in a corner. A man in a corner was dangerous.
“We have the papers, uncle,” Alec said.
“Where?” the duke hissed.
“We have had them sent to the abbey,” Amalie said calmly. “Whence you cannot go to destroy them. And, should you ever set foot in my home or on this land again, we will ensure that they are delivered to everyone.”
“You...” Her uncle looked from her to Bronan and then back again, expression a blend of hate, and rage and worry. “You...”
“We did it, uncle,” Alec said. “And I think it would benefit you if you called your men off Bronan? And then left. As soon as possible. You can take your men as escort, but we will provide riders to ensure they leave our land. If they don't, it may go less easily for you than you would like.”
“You...” The duke's jaw worked. He flushed a dark red. Then he turned away. “Men? Leave him. And go down to the stables. We're leaving here.”
Bronan stayed where he was until the men had gone. Clattering and clashing down the steps, they slowly left the hallway. When the last footsteps echoed on the stairs, Bronan felt his legs lose strength. He sank down to his knees.
“Bronan!”
Amalie ran to him. He stood and embraced her, his arms tight round her waist. He kissed her, then, arm resting lightly on her shoulder, went to Alec. “Well done, lad,” he said, and ruffled his hair.
“It was Mama’s idea,” Alec said quickly. “I didn't do anything.”
“He found it,” Amalie said, looking up at Bronan. “And you escaped.”
“Just about,” Bronan, said, grinning wryly. “Amalie,” he breathed again and kissed her. Then, as his legs buckled again and he almost fell, he looked up at Alec.
“What?” Alec asked.
“What is it?” Amalie asked, her face tight with alarm. “Is it your wounds..?”
“Can we have dinner, do you think?” Bronan asked, grinning lopsidedly. “I'm starving.”
Alec roared with laughter and came to stand beside him. “Yes,” he said, smiling at Bronan, and his mother, who smiled back, through happy tears. “Let's go.”
Together, arm in arm, weary and rejoicing, and free, they headed to the dining-room.
It was a merry meal they had together in their own home, at last.
EPILOGUE
The wind blew past the windows, howling. Amalie shifted in her chair, watching the flakes of snow, driven against the panes. It must be cold out there, she thought, shivering. In here, a fire blazing in the grate of the small parlor, everything was warm.
Opposite her, Bronan walked from the window. He came and sat down opposite, reaching for her hand. He held it, and then leaned forward, gently drawing her into a kiss.
Afterward, the sweet taste of his lips still tasting hers, Amalie leaned back on the chair, sighing. “It's a cold winter,” she murmured. Her sewing lay in the basket beside her, already half-done. It was getting dark now though, and stitching was hard when there wasn't enough light. She'd set it aside, as she usually did about an hour before dinner.
“Yes, it's cold,” Bronan nodded. “I'm glad I got the repairs done on that fence.”
“Yes,” Amalie agreed, knowing he meant the fence around the byres. “It's much better that it was done in summer, before this settled in. And the weight of the snow will make it all the more imperative that it's stronger now.”
“Yes.”
Bronan nodded and looked down at his clasped hands. Over the last few months, he'd grown into the role of managing the castle. The steward, McNeith, still managed the accounts, but Bronan managed the estate. Already, Amalie thought, the tenants and farmers must see a marked improvement. His knowledge of farming and caring for the land was proving priceless.
“I wonder how long it will last,” Bronan mused, turning to look over his shoulder at the whirling flakes that drifted past the window, big and quick.
“I wonder, too,” Amalie mused. “It's January now, so likely by mid-February things will settle to springtime.”
“Good,” Bronan nodded. “Then we need to plan.”
“Yes,” Amalie nodded sleepily. The heat from the fire was making her drowsy, as it often did. She watched the flames flickering, orange and ocher, and wondered about the men below stairs.
“Mrs. Halkirk in the kitchen said the fellows are eating well,” Bronan said, grinning. He seemed as if he'd read her thoughts.
“Good,” Amalie nodded slowly. “I'm glad to hear it.”
She drew her shawl around her, thinking of how cold it would be in the forests and on moorlands. She and Bronan had discussed their plan a long while, and had decided that they would open the fortress as a shelter for any soldiers, of both sides, left homeless and struggling to return to their lands through the forest.
They had twelve of them now, all staying in the ballroom and taking their meals in the hall. She had visited them earlier, and she knew Bronan spent a lot of time with them, and Alec, who was already getting comfortable in the role of earl.
It reminded her of something else. “Will we be ready, do you think?” she asked.
Bronan took her hands. “When springtime comes? Yes, dearest.”
Amalie smiled fondly, squeezing his fingers with her own, warmly. “Good. I don't think we can wait any longer.”
“No,” Bronan chuckled. “Or Alec can't.”
“No,” Amalie agreed. “Certainly true.”
They chuckled fondly. Amalie thought of her son. Taller by a head, almost, since this time last year, and seeming to grow visibly every day, Alec was calm, mature and balanced. He was the joy of her life, and of Bronan's own.
“When we go north,” Amalie continued on the same theme of discussion, “he won't stay with us all springtime.”
“No,” Bronan agreed, smiling. “He cannot miss out on his administrative duties that long.”
“Well, no,” Amalie agreed. “But he is still a lad. He definitely has some fun in him yet.”
“Yes,” Bronan nodded.
That was why they had purchased the horse. They had agreed to it together, a fine black hunting-stallion who had cost them the rent of several cottages. However, it was all worth it, or would be, when they saw the look in his eyes.
It was what he’d always wanted, Amalie thought, smiling fondly. A place in the north, where he can relax, and ride. And a horse of his own.
She smiled and looked at Bronan fondly. With his handsome face lit with the flame-light, he was strong, wise and kind. Every inch the man she loved.
She closed her eyes. Thoughts of Alec, with his slender, serious face, swirled. He was so like his father, Keith, and getting more so every day, but with a quiet solidity Keith – lively and impulsive – had never had.
His father would be so proud of him.
She felt her heart fill with happiness, thinking that. Then she turned and looked at Bronan, and she smiled. “My dearest?” she said. “I am so happy we are here, at last, together.”
“And I am too, my dearest,” Bronan said softly. “With all my heart.”
They kissed.
Love, Amalie thought, eyes closed, heart open, was the light in the darkness. Like the starlight shining on the water, led us back through the tangled woodlands of fear, into our selves, down that corridor we had left so long untraveled. And out again, to freedom. Forever.
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ALSO BY EMILIA FERGUSON
* * *
Lairds of Dunkeld Series
Book 1 Link -> Heart Of A Highlander
Book 2 Link -> The Highlander’s Challenge
Book 3 Link -> The Highland Hero
Book 4 Link - > The Cursed Highlander
Book 5 Link - >
The Highlander’s Dilemma
Book 6 Link -> The Highlander’s Awakening
Book 7 Link -> The Highland Secret Agent
Book 8 Link -> A Highlander’s Terror
Book 9 Link -> Soul Of A Highlander
Book 10 Link -> Courage Of A Highlander
* * *
Blood of Duncliffe Series
Book 1 Link -> The Highlander’s Trust
Book 2 Link -> Destiny Of A Highlander
Book 3 Link -> Highland Love Prevails
Book 4 Link -> Love For A Reluctant Highland Lass
Book 5 Link -> Shadowy Highland Romance
Book 6 Link -> The Highlander’s Runaway
Book 7 Link -> The Highlander’s Healer
Book 8 Link -> The Highlander’s Widow
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Acknowledgement
Thank you for taking your time and energy to read “The Highlander’s Widow”. Without your continuous support, I would not have written this book.
Wherever you are, I appreciate you from the bottom of my heart. I also want to thank my wonderful Facebook fans, my advance copy reviewers and beta readers in advance for making this series a success.
~ Emilia
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Publisher’s Notes
Copyright © 2017, 2018, 2019 by EMILIA FERGUSON