“I think my uncle has given me no time, and you a very bad impression of me,” she replied.
“Your family should have beaten sense into ye,” he cried. “No wonder your poor husband came to an early death.”
Adeline slapped him.
She hadn’t meant to, but he had his face an inch from hers, his body looming over her in a threatening way, and her hand came up, seeming of its own volition.
He caught her wrist. His face darkened. She gasped.
“You little…” His breath was caught in his throat. His face twisted in rage. He tightened his grip on her wrist, making her fingers lose their feeling.
Adeline let out a shaky breath. “I didn’t mean it…”
“I dinnae care what ye meant, or what ye thought ye were doing!” He pushed her away, and his face was purple with indignation, big bloodshot eyes wide. “I ne’er thought such a shrewish, wicked, ill-behaved…”
Adeline closed her ears at the tirade broadened into a slew of abusive words. She felt as if she had suddenly lost touch with the world. Her senses were all damped, swathed and shrouded as if in wool padding and she could barely hear and see. Her spirit was miles away, soaring in another place, where she could not feel anything. She could see him, but his rantings were coming over miles of distance, his gesturing like some sort of peculiar dance.
“…and I reckon your uncle should be thanking me!” he finished, as her mind came slowly back into focus. His chest was heaving, as if he found it difficult to breathe.
Adeline just looked at him.
“Are you quite finished yet?” she whispered. Her lips were tight and her voice sounded like it came from the other side of the country.
He said nothing, just stared at her. He was breathing heavily, and he stared at her, once, as if surprised to find her still standing.
“You are finished, then,” she said.
He drew another breath, and parted his lips, as if about to say something.
Adeline turned and, stiff-backed, walked quietly from the room. She had no interest in hearing any more from him. She walked quickly and quietly down the corridor, making herself not run.
When she reached her bedchamber, Adeline pushed open the door and, shutting it behind her, went and sat on the bed. She started shaking.
I can’t believe he said that. I cannot stay here. I have to run.
It was hard to think – hard, even, to breathe.
She sat and gazed at the fireplace, at the walls with their faint tracery of acanthus leaves on the paper. One part of her was empty, but the other half was striving to get to action. Thoughts raced through her mind, wild plans. Her heart thumped and she carried on shivering. She felt so cold!
She went and sat by the fire, extending her hands to the warm coals. Her fingers were blue-tinged, as if her blood had drained from shock. She was so cold!
After a while, her body stopped shivering. The part of her mind that was frozen with terror and the other, racing part, caught up with each other. She nodded to herself, resolved.
“I need to pack.”
She couldn’t stay here. It didn’t matter what her uncle thought, or whatsoever plans he had made. She could not remain here, and let that man marry her! If that happened, she would never get away.
“I will find sanctuary somewhere else.”
As her mind returned from that distant place it had gone during the tirade, she started to make preparations. She could take shelter in the town. No – not there. It was too close, and the first place he would think to look. Whoever offered her shelter there would be at the mercy of her uncle, who would be sure to see they paid the price. No, there was only one place she could go.
She went to her dressing table, taking out the small purse of money she kept there, for travel and emergencies. She slipped it into the pocket of her gown, concealed in the hem. Fingers trembling, she went to her dressing table. Taking her hairbrush and powder, she packed them into a drawstring bag and then changed her shoes, pulling on her riding boots. She opened her wardrobe and took out her riding dress and cloak.
“Barra?” she called.
She went to the door, opening it a crack. The hallway was quiet, all the servants seeming to have retreated in the wake of McGuide’s temper.
“Barra?” she called again. No answer.
She considered ringing the bell. Then she changed her mind.
Better for the servants if none of them know I am gone.
Unbuttoning her own dress was hard – the buttons were behind her back, and she had to almost bend double to reach the last few – but she did. Then, shivering, she stepped into her riding habit.
Packing her day dress into a small leather packing case, she took one last glance round the room. She had her jewelry, which she could trade if she was desperate. She had her riding boots, a comb, and a change of clothes. She was ready.
As she went silently down the hallway, her only regret was that she could not tell her son where she had gone.
Passing the drawing room, she paused. Her son’s desk was by the window, the blotter and the pen laid out in a leather case. Taking up the pen, she dipped it in the ink and scrawled a message on the blotter.
Gone to Stoneshead.
Then she turned and, taking one last glance at the room that had always been her favorite, and thinking, for some odd reason, of Alexander, she left.
ARRIVAL AT DUNCLIFFE
The morning was cold. Alexander stood shivering in the blue light, the mist still clinging to the trees. He breathed out, noticing that his breath plumed in the frosty air. His hands were tucked under his arms, but his fingers still felt freezing. He could not, he noticed, any longer feel his toes.
“Hurry up, ye wee scalawag,” he whispered, as if the farmer who drove the produce cart could hear him.
He leaned against the wall and tried to focus on something else.
Around him, the forest was slowly coming awake. The end of the garden was swallowed in the mist, but he could see the faint gold of sunlight start to touch the distant trees, and hear birdsong.
“Come on! It must be five of the clock! What’s wrong wi’ ye?” he urged. The farmers, as he recalled them, would have woken with the dawn. That had been, he reckoned, a whole hour ago.
Shivering, he counted in his head, as a distraction.
He had reached five and fifty, and was getting desperate, when he heard the crunch and clop of hoofs and wheels, striking gravel. The cart! It must be in the driveway.
He leaned back, withdrawing into the shadow.
As he heard the cart get closer, he got ready for action.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Brewer,” the carter greeted the cook, who was waiting at the gate of the kitchen garden. “I got cabbages and turnips fer ye, by the dozen.” Alexander watched them from the shadow of a nearby tree.
“Ta, Mr. Blackwood,” she said, nodding. She looked tired, Alexander thought, though she was smiling. Her face was pale against the black of her wool dress. “Bring them in, then. Need someone tae help ye?”
“I’ll manage,” the farmer grunted, struggling under armloads of cabbages. His footsteps crunched slowly over the gravel. His horse stepped forward, snorting.
At that moment, Alexander stepped around the corner.
“Looks like ye need a hand?” he queried. “I’m a journeyman. I’ll carry the load, in exchange for a ride tae Duncliffe?”
The farmer gave him a skeptical eye, but the cook nodded.
“He’s safe, Mr. Blackwood,” she cautioned. “Mistress had him on tae do repairs. She said he’d need a trip to Duncliffe, aye.”
Thanks, he thought wordlessly to Adeline.
After helping the farmer unload the cart, he went around the back, to wait.
“I’ll no’ take ye wi’out a fare,” the driver said, slitting his eyes at him. A short man, with a luxuriant mustache, he had a wary, mistrusting mien.
“I have sixpence,” Alexander said, feeling in the purse he wore over the kilt. He could
feel the coin there. He held it out.
“Thanks,” the driver said. He put the coin in his palm, spat on it, and held out his hand, the traditional method of sealing an agreement. Alexander shook it, stifling a smile as his hand squelched a little on the spit-wet coin. He wondered, vividly, what Adeline would make of this. The handshake itself had seemed foreign enough.
I wish I could ask her what she thinks.
He dismissed the thought, not wanting to make himself feel sad. He found his heart hurt, thinking of leaving her.
Come off it, lad, he told himself harshly. Lass wouldn’t look twice at you. Ugly brute like you? She’d rather run away.
He grinned wryly and swung up into the cart. The driver, sitting up ahead, shook the harness and the cart rolled slowly into the brightening morn.
As the day brightened, Alexander watched the woods turn first gold, then green, and started to enjoy himself. The driver was taciturn, or silent. The horse plodded on and seemed altogether more lively company than the farmer who drove him. They shared an apple mid-morning and stopped to let the horse rest. Alexander crunched the juicy fruit and tried to think of something to say.
“You go to Duncliffe often?”
“Aye.”
“Is it like Dunrade?”
“No.”
That finished the conversation for the moment. Alexander finished the apple, and leaned back on the wooden boards. The cart rattled and jolted over stones and somewhere a lark called.
The day had reached a golden afternoon by the time they slowed on a rise. They were in the heart of the forest, but they had emerged briefly from the trees and were looking down at a valley. A big hill rose opposite, clad in greenness. The lazy afternoon light shone golden on it, making a haze above it.
Alexander stared. The vale was so peaceful he felt as if he could step into it and feel his spirits ease. Under him, the cart swayed a little as the horse shifted position. A board creaked. A sparrow called, the sound gentle in the quiet.
“Come on,” the farmer said, sounding more cheered than he had all morning. “Let’s go downhill.”
The cart rolled forward, the horse walked slowly down. They headed on to Duncliffe.
“That’s it?”
Alexander stared. A tower stood out just at the summit of the road, its turret pointing up above the tree line against the turquoise sky.
“Aye,” the farmer said, leisurely, as if he’d seen the magnificent thing a thousand times and was unmoved by it. “That’s the manor.”
Absolutely silent, Alexander stared as they rolled up the slope towards the place. Obscured by pine and oak trees, the castle – for he was sure that it was no less than that – was visible only in the tower, and the top of a gray stone fortification. As they rolled up, he saw a gate, and a man beside it.
“Blackwood, aye?” the man said.
“Aye. Here with the goods. Take word to Mrs. Merrick of my arrival,” he said.
“And him?” the man looked pointedly at Alexander. He was dressed in a blue and green tartan, and Alexander guessed him to be part of the household guard of the earl of Duncliffe. As it was, though, all his attention was focused on the courtyard beyond. Eyes round, he counted the windows. He could see sixteen, all paned in glass.
By! He thought. What a grand place.
The gate opened, and the cart rolled onto the flagstones. Alexander saw the farmer jump down and make his way slowly over the paving stones. He swung himself lithely down, only vaguely aware of having done so. His mind was all elsewhere.
He found himself standing before a tall building.
The place looked ancient. It was made of gray stone, the color of the surrounding rocks in the valley. He could see a big window up ahead, and another room with perhaps five windows, which looked as if it had once been open archways on one side. The place had an air of distant grandness, and he wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see some ancient king stride across the grounds.
“Hello?”
A woman had come down the steps. He guessed her to be Adeline’s age – she had a warm, friendly face and brown eyes that crinkled at the edges. She was wearing a white dress. The thing that struck him was her hair – red and abundant, it fell round her shoulders in an abundant mass of curls.
“Milady,” he said, suddenly embarrassed. “I…I’ve come from Dunrade. From Lady Adeline.”
“Yes?” the gentlewoman’s brown creased in a frown. “Adeline is well, is she?” she asked. This close, he could smell lavender and rose bouquets.
“Um, yes,” he nodded. “Well, in a manner of speaking. I’ll explain,” he said, desperately unsure of himself. He looked down at his feet. Aware of what a ludicrous figure he was presenting – he was dressed in borrowed clothes, bandaged and badly in need of a brush – he took a steady breath.
“Well, any explaining will go easier on a full stomach”, the woman said briskly. “Go to the kitchens and Mrs. Merrick will give you a pint of ale and something hearty for breakfast.”
“Thanks, milady,” Alexander said. He hadn’t eaten much besides the apple, and he realized now how desperately hungry he felt. He went to join the farmer at the kitchens.
“You brought too many turnips,” a woman was saying, dryly. “If I could, I’d give you a dozen of ours to take back.”
Alexander paused. Tall and imposing, the woman who spoke had hair as black as Adeline’s. She was strong faced and had a proud posture, but none of those things accounted for the tight-lipped terror with which the farmer seemed to face her. That, Alexander thought, was on account of her eyes.
Black, level and peaceable, they nevertheless had a flinty quality, as if they missed nothing. He also thought, quailing as she turned that gaze on him, they seemed to stare into you and see each part of you, from birth to the unforeseen time of your death, and everything between. Feeling scoured by that acidic gaze, he swallowed hard and shifted uncomfortably.
“You can come in and get some bannocks,” she said. Her voice was low and resonant. “And while you’re there, you can tell me about that wound of yours. It needs salving.”
Alexander felt his hair stand on end, but remained silent. He looked for his companion, Mr. Blackwood, but the farmer had retreated silently behind his cart.
Arms stiff at his side, Alexander followed Mrs. Merrick into the kitchen.
“I come from…”
“You come from further afield than you say,” Mrs. Merrick said, without turning around from where she stirred a bubbling pot over the hearth. “And you carry more wounding than that you’ve got under that bandaging. Sit down, lad. And don’t tell me you don’t like potatoes.”
Alexander felt his hair stand on end. Scraping back a chair, he sat down as he was told to.
“Mrs. Merrick,” he said, as she turned back to the table. She had a plate of oat bannocks in one hand, and she put it on the table next to his place. It was dark in there, the only light coming from the fire, which burned under a dark kettle.
“Aye,” she said, by way of acknowledgment of her name. “And you? You go by many names, none of which are the one you were given at birth. Now, before you go any whiter in the face, take some ale and bannocks. There’s stew of potatoes and leeks on the boil, for the next course.”
Alexander stared at her, not sure if he had heard correctly. She knew everything about him, it seemed, down to the predilection for potatoes! It was uncanny. Shivering, he knew that she was a seer – one of the people old folks talked about, in whispers, but he’d never actually thought to meet.
“You know my story,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. “So, then, tell me this – what must I do now?”
“Ha,” Merrick said flatly. “You dinnae get out of it so easily, lad.” She stood and, going to the fire, poured water from the kettle into a teapot. She turned back to the table, letting the tea steep. “You ken what ye must do. The answer is in your heart already. Ye have only tae listen to it.”
Alexander paused. He hadn’t thought about
it, but she was correct. He knew what he wished to do – if Adeline needed him, then, without question, he would go. Would he murder for her? He had been a soldier for half his life and he’d killed because commanders ordered it. This was entirely different. He would kill, and die, for her, unthinkingly.
“Well, then?” Merrick asked, reaching for a china cup. It had a crack in it, he noticed, the edges brown with tea stains. She poured herself a cup, then another which she passed to him. The silence was broken only by the sound of the stew, bubbling in the pot. “You know your answers, lad,” she said. “I cannae grant them. Only your heart knows.”
He nodded. Then he cleared his throat. “Mrs. Merrick?” he said. “When you spoke of my wounding…”
She smiled, a surprisingly gentle expression. “Lad, the wound to the heart of ye is mending. Let it mend.”
Alexander swallowed. The wound was Brenna – he knew that, without having to confirm it. The pain of her death ate at him, and he knew he would never recover from it – that there would never be a day he didn’t think of her, with fondness, and miss her. All the same, he knew that he was starting to like life again. He nodded, slowly.
“Aye,” he said. “It is.”
“The wound is healing, but there’s another one, and that one’s deeper. And I don’t mean the shot wound, either. That’s healing well. No, lad. Go back. Only by going back will you go forward. You have to stand, where you were made to crawl.”
Alexander stopped with his cup half-raised to his lips. Slowly, he set it down. Her words filled him with rage, and pain. Nobody had made him crawl! What did she think he was? Some low-down, weak, dependent…
Some fellow who was so rotten with drink that his own servant had to help him from bed?
He swallowed hard.
The Highlander's Brave Baroness (Blood 0f Duncliffe Series Book 10) Page 9
