The Highlander’s Runaway (Blood of Duncliffe Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Aye, milady!” Prudence said, nodding. “A right freezing morning it is, too. Should I send up a tray of breakfast?”

  “I'll go down,” Claudine said decidedly. She wanted to sit with her cousins and talk – she had so much to discuss with them.

  “Very good, milady,” Prudence nodded. “Now, I'll just set out your gown...will you have the white day-dress, or the navy?”

  “The white, Prudence,” Claudine decided. “No...The navy.”

  Prudence raised a brow, already poised with the white one in her hand. It was the one Claudine usually favored – a simple dress of good brocade, with a neckline reasonably modest and trimmed with lace edging. The navy, by contrast, had a ruffled under-skirt and a low neckline, trimmed in blue chiffon. It was very becoming, utterly striking.

  I am choosing it to make a good impression on my cousins. She told herself that firmly.

  “Oh, milady!” Prudence said, staring at her when she was dressed, her hair loose about her shoulders. “You look fine.”

  Claudine blushed and looked away sharply, feeling shy. “Thanks,” she whispered.

  “You're the prettiest thing in this house, and don't make any mistake,” Prudence said loyally.

  Claudine grinned. “I must deny that, or be a very rude cousin,” she said. “But thanks, Prudence.”

  “No thanking me – 'tis true!” Prudence said firmly.

  Claudine giggled and grinned at her again as she headed out.

  I am glad to have her with me.

  Prudence had been a reassuring companion on this long trip. A kind, easygoing person, Prudence was about Claudine's age, and quite pretty, though Claudine had never really noticed that before. It was unfair of her to bring her out of England, she realized. It was around about now that Prudence must be thinking of settling and making a life of her own. How could she expect to do that in the cold North?

  I must speak to her later, Claudine decided, heading down the corridor. She owed her companion that at least.

  “Good morning,” she said, pausing shyly in the doorway of the breakfast room. A long table was laid with a white cloth, and the drapes were all drawn back from the pointed-arch windows, letting pale sunlight wash the scene. A delicious smell wafted from the table, and the fire cracked merrily in the grate across the room.

  “Cousin!” Douglas greeted her, standing. Marguerite smiled and nodded at her.

  “Join us. We have only just sat down ourselves. Mercy! I didn't expect you here so early this morning.”

  “I slept well,” Claudine said sincerely. “I thank you for the excellent accommodation.”

  “Upon my word!” Marguerite chuckled. “You are so appreciative. It's the least I can do, cousin. Now, sit down, do, and tell us if there's aught you'd like to eat that isn't here. We have eggs, cheese, bread, bannocks...there's a crock of porridge there, though I doubt you've had much chance to get a taste for it. Here in the north it's very popular. I have mine with a little butter...”

  Claudine nodded, listening to Marguerite chatter with some excitement about the virtues of Scottish breakfast foods. She felt a real fondness for her cousin, who, it seemed, had changed little since their girlhood years. Douglas was looking at her with such fondness in his eyes that Marguerite felt her throat tight with emotion.

  I wonder if I will ever know love like that.

  “Milady?” a voice said behind her – she recognized Frances. “Should I send up more eggs?”

  “Oh! Yes. We have another guest. And I am sure Laird McRae will join us shortly, if he hasn't already gone down to the men?”

  “I'll bring mair eggs, milady.”

  “Thank you. Splendid!”

  At the mention of Laird McRae, Claudine was surprised to feel her belly clench with some unease. She looked around at Douglas, who nodded.

  “Our friend usually rises earlier than we. He's very efficient.” Douglas grinned.

  “I can imagine,” Claudine said, looking at her hands. She had no idea why, but the very mention of the fellow disconcerted her. She was pleased when the maid appeared, changing the flow of the conversation.

  “Fresh eggs, milady, partly boiled.”

  “Splendid!” Marguerite said, nodding. “Do try an egg, Claudine? They're very good. And after breakfast, mayhap you can join me in a turn about the grounds. It would be so good to take the fresh air and hear from you about our old home.”

  “Of course,” Claudine nodded, reaching for a boiled egg, still hot from preparation. “I would like that.”

  She set to with the egg, cracking the shell with a spoon, while the other two talked in low, fond voices about the doings of neighbors and friends.

  “You must meet my sister, Francine, while you are here,” Douglas said, reaching for a slice of bread. “She visits us fairly often – the wife of your cousin Henry. I am certain they would be overjoyed to see you.”

  “I would like to meet them,” Claudine agreed.

  “We must not overwhelm Claudine with too many new acquaintances, my dearest,” Marguerite cautioned fondly. “I am sure our houseguests are more than an onslaught enough.”

  “An onslaught?” a voice echoed from the hallway behind. Claudine stiffened, recognizing the harsh tones, the thick accent. “Who's an onslaught, then?”

  “I was just saying that too many new faces can be exhausting when you're in a new land,” Marguerite said mildly. “Good morning, Laird McRae. We thought you had risen before us?”

  “I was awake earlier, yes, milady,” McRae said, drawing out a chair to settle beside Claudine.

  She tensed, but there was no reason for him not to sit there.

  “You took a walk about the grounds, perhaps?” Marguerite asked, reaching for the teapot in the center of the table.

  Claudine felt relieved, seeing it. At least one English custom was well-entrenched! She waited for her cousin to finish before gratefully taking it and pouring hot tea.

  Beside her, McRae nodded firmly. “Aye, I did that, milady. As is my habit, early o' a morning. You slept well, milady?”

  Claudine blinked in surprise as he turned to her politely. He was talking to her! “Yes,” she said softly. “I did. Very well.”

  “Grand,” he said emphatically. “This is a fine land, as you'll find for yersel', as ye explore it. We have every good thing here, don't we, Lord Douglas?”

  “We have good farmland here,” Douglas agreed softly. “Highland cattle are quite famous, even in your country?” he asked Claudine.

  “Shamefully, yes,” Claudine agreed. “To drive them so many miles for slaughter is a cruel practice.”

  “I agree,” Marguerite said, dabbing her lips with a handkerchief. “Let us talk of happier topics! You will stay long?”

  “We have not yet decided, my father and me,” Claudine said quietly. She had no idea how long her father might deem it necessary for her to shelter here. It could be months before he decided it was safe enough for her to return home!

  I will be left adrift in this place, cut off from all I hold dear.

  She felt her heart sink at the prospect. Though her cousins had welcomed her graciously and made sure everything was to her liking, some things were beyond anyone's power. Nobody could make this place into an English manor, set in rolling fields and rose-arbors, with oak forests surrounding it!

  “Och, this is a changing time, aye,” the man beside her observed, reaching for a bannock, which he began to butter generously. “No man can say what the morrer will bring.”

  “Quite so, Laird McRae,” Douglas said carefully. “We do live in...Challenging times.”

  Claudine hid a smile behind her napkin, using it to dab her lips carefully. She caught Douglas' eye and he looked at his plate, but not before she saw a slight sparkle there. Her hosts trod so carefully around the boorishness of their other guest! It was quite amusing.

  I must speak to Marguerite about him – find out her thoughts on the topic.

  She wasn't sure if her cousin was ready to t
rust her with her true opinion, but she could sense some reserve there. It seemed neither Marguerite nor Douglas were enchanted by the fellow's rough manners.

  “Milady?” the maid said, appearing again behind her chair. “I brought fresh milk. And a plate of apples. Miss Alexandra is awake and asking for her porridge.”

  “Take it up to her, please,” Marguerite said instantly. “I'll come and read to her after breakfast.”

  “Very good, milady.”

  Claudine was mildly surprised that Marguerite took so much time with her own daughter – she and Reid had been raised solely by the servants, with occasional visits from their parents, more frequently as they grew.

  Her cousin, she reminded herself, lived in a strange land with odd customs. She had much to learn.

  “You like to ride, cousin?” Douglas asked, surprising her.

  “Um, yes,” she nodded. “I like to ride.”

  “Well, we would be pleased to ride out with you as far as the fields yonder. It is warmer today, and best to use the fair weather while it holds.”

  “Indeed, yes,” Claudine nodded fervently. “I have been too long in a coach.”

  “I understand,” Marguerite nodded feelingly. “Well, then. After breakfast, we shall take a ride. You will join us, Laird McRae? We have invited our other neighbors, the Sumpters.”

  Claudine tensed. Part of her willed him to say no. Another, more surprising, part of her hoped he would agree. If nothing else, it would be amusing to observe him in company.

  “Yes, milady. I'd be glad tae join.”

  Claudine grinned, concealing the grin behind a napkin again. It might, she reflected, be fun to see this boorish fellow hold his own in genteel company.

  It was certainly a diversion from her worries for her father, her cousins and war.

  “We'll ride as soon as I've had a message from the Sumpters,” Douglas said, making Brogan reach for his spoon and eat with renewed vigor. That gave them little time to prepare.

  “I have one dress with me. I hope it's suitable?” Claudine asked, startling him. He noticed she was talking to Marguerite.

  “I'm sure it will be, cousin. The fashions here in Scotland are a little behind England, but I'm sure it won't shock our neighbors to see something modish!”

  Beside him, Claudine giggled. Brogan felt his stomach tingle with the sound. He looked at her, a sidelong glance. With her brown hair curled but left loose, stray strands of it lying against the cream-white skin of her neck, she was as exquisite as a piece of precious porcelain.

  “Well, I'm glad they won't be frightened by modern fashions,” she said, grinning again. “I think that customs here are very varied?”

  Brogan blinked, finding himself staring into her face. She was looking at him expectantly, and he realized, belatedly, that the question had been addressed to him.

  “Uh...” He paused, stuttering. Think! You look like an utter fool, just sitting there with an open mouth! “Um, yes, milady. We have many ways of dressing here in Scotland. Not all of us follow the fashions.”

  “That is clear,” she said and nodded.

  Brogan went red. Was that a gibe? He squinted at her, noticing her eyes were dancing with humor. She was laughing at him! He shifted uncomfortably.

  “The Highlanders tend to use traditional attire,” Marguerite explained.

  At her cousin's voice, Lady Claudine softened, nodding. “Yes, it seems interesting,” she said.

  He felt proud. Interesting! Well, it certainly was interesting! Highland clans had been wearing kilts for at least a few hundred years. He was about to launch into what he knew of the garment when Douglas, across from him, spoke out.

  “Ah! Mattie. You have news?”

  “Yer neighbors sent a card, milord,” she said, bobbing her head respectfully. “I have it here.”

  “Oh, splendid,” Douglas nodded. “That was fast. Well, then. They accept. Everyone for a ride?”

  As everyone murmured their agreement, and Lady Marguerite pushed back her chair, ready to head upstairs to change into her riding gown, Brogan looked around to speak to Claudine.

  “I could tell ye a thing or two about the kilt,” he said quickly. “If ye're interested.”

  “I'll see you on the ride, probably,” Claudine nodded. “You can tell me then.”

  Thus speaking, she hastily withdrew. Brogan looked after her, shaking his head.

  She doesnae seem all too interested. Och, well.

  He surprised himself by feeling rather hurt. Benoite had chosen against him and, it seemed, Claudine had no more interest in him than she did in the maid who served her tea in the morning. He was being foolish, thinking she would pass the time of day with him.

  “Laird McRae?”

  “I'm coming,” Brogan replied morosely. “Gi' me a minute, milord. Just finishing me tea.”

  Douglas smiled at him in a way that seemed sympathetic. Brogan reached for a second cup of tea, feeling irritable. He didn't like the thought that Douglas was feeling sorry for him.

  I might have nae luck with women, but I'm naebody's fool.

  He finished his tea, wiped his mouth with his hand and headed out.

  In the hallway, he paused, watching Lady Claudine and her cousin walk up the steps together. They were arm in arm, laughing about something. He felt that tingle in his belly as he heard her laugh again.

  She was so beautiful! It was hard not to let his mind wander to thoughts of her that were...not things he should be thinking about his host's relative. The blue gown she wore suited her to perfection, the low-cut neck showing her pale cleavage in a way that made his blood flare.

  Brogan, stop it! She's not interested.

  He shook his head and dragged himself morosely to his bedchamber.

  The fire was burning low in the grate there. He stirred it with the poker, surprised that in a house as well-catered and sumptuous as this, he had the only room with a fire that smoked and a window that let in the night air from certain angles.

  “It's my rotten luck.” He sighed, checking his reflection in the long mirror. He was wearing his kilt, in which he would also ride. He didn't need to change his clothes for riding. He might put on a coat with it, but that was the only change he needed to make.

  She probably thinks it's outlandish.

  He shook his head, feeling in a sour mood. He had barely spoken with her, but he had the sense that Lady Claudine was amused by him.

  “Och, well.”

  He shook his head and splashed his face using the pitcher of water on the dresser nearby, and then reached for his comb.

  His hair was almost to his shoulders, lustrous and curling. It was, he reckoned, one of his best features. In a time where long hair was still fashionable, he had no need for a wig, but could simply appear with his own hair loose. Lord Douglas, he noticed, wore his hair short, in the fashion of military men.

  Lord Douglas had been with the army, he recalled distantly, at least for a year before he met Lady Marguerite. He didn't know the details – his neighbors were still largely strangers to him. However, he did know that at one time the family at Duncliffe had ardently supported the Jacobite cause.

  Which makes it odd that they receive an Englishwoman with no questions asked.

  He sighed. The woman was a relative and, aside from being a little judgmental and transparent in her views, she had done no harm.

  “It's not her fault she doesnae like you,” he moodily told his reflection.

  Lady Benoite hadn't liked his looks anymore than she did.

  He sighed again and headed out into the hallway, resolutely walking down the stairs. Out in the courtyard, people were gathered. He could hear light laughter as two women talked, and then the lower, chestier laugh of a man. He stared through the door.

  Out in the bright sunshine, two women were standing, one in white and the other in yellow. They were laughing together, both sharing some joke with a tall man with chin-length pale hair, who grinned at them.

  His gaze trav
eled to Brogan, and his brow went up. He looked away, making a comment to the servant who brought his horse. “Where's the earl?”

  “He's coming down, Lord Sumpter.”

  “Very good.”

  Brogan tensed. These people were the neighbors then. He wasn't sure he would like them much. The way the fellow's stare had lingered on him briefly, then dismissed, didn't seem appealing.

  “Laird McRae!” a voice said behind him. He whipped around, grateful to see Douglas.

  “Och, milord Duncliffe. There ye are. These fellers just arrived.”

  “These are the Sumpters. Come and be introduced. This is Hugh and his wife Ambeal, and their daughter Joanna.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Brogan said humbly.

  The man's eyes drifted over Brogan and he felt the amusement there. He felt anger build inside him. Just because he chose to dress in the manner of his ancestors did not mean he was a country bumpkin!

  I ken mair of wood-craft and soldiering than ye'll dream exists, ye ponce.

  He felt like challenging that smooth-cheeked lordling to a race across country, or simply leaving him in the nearby woods and seeing if he could find his way out. He knew he was being foolish.

  I'm as much at sea in their world.

  “Milord? Your horse.”

  “Och, thanks,” he mumbled and nodded to the stable boy.

  The boy gave him a startled stare, as if he'd never heard someone be polite before. Then he headed off to the stables.

  “Milord Douglas?” he called, swinging into the saddle. “Are we off?”

  “We will be. Marguerite and her cousin are coming now.”

  He nodded, feeling his heart beat faster. He let his horse walk in a circle, reining him back. He restrained himself from showing off by cantering across the yard and to the gate, but barely. As he was about to do it, he heard a laugh.

  Lady Claudine was on the doorstep. Dressed in a white riding dress, her long hair arranged in an up-style that left her long pale neck bare, she was striking.

  Brogan felt his heart beat faster and an unfortunate twitch in his loins. He looked down, grateful that his plaid afforded some cover of the area. He looked at his hands, holding the reins.