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

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Douglas! Wait, dearest!” Marguerite called, laughing. She was wearing a pale creamy yellow that brought out the color of her hair. Like Claudine's, it was arranged piled up on her head, presumably to keep it from getting knotty.

  “I wouldn't dream of leaving without you!” Douglas called, riding back to the door.

  Marguerite giggled. “I should hope not,” she said, smiling. “Dearest? Should we lend Snow-shadow to Cousin Claudine?”

  “I think she's a perfect match,” Douglas nodded. “Callum? Fetch my wife's hunting mount.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  Brogan watched as a gray-dapple horse was fetched for Lady Claudine. She stepped up at the mounting post gracefully, and sat sidesaddle. She looked up from the reins and caught his eye on her. She smiled. He looked away.

  Och, if ye want tae make a bad impression, Brogan, ye ken well how.

  He shook his head at himself. Still blushing furiously, he rode off toward the gate. Lady Marguerite and Douglas followed close behind. He joined the Sumpters where they waited, already mounted up, on the track.

  “A merry party, Douglas!” Lord Sumpter called back. “Shall we head to the waterfall?”

  “To the fields, Hugh,” Douglas called back. “I want to give our horses a run.”

  “As you will, then!”

  Brogan bit his lip as Hugh Sumpter shot off down the track. He had been hoping the fellow was a disgraceful rider, but as it was, he rode with an easy competence.

  “You like riding?” he heard a voice behind him say.

  “Aye,” he said, too embarrassed to turn around. Lady Claudine drew up beside him on the track. “I do, very much.”

  “I also,” she nodded.

  He was surprised by the fact that she was being friendly. He squinted at her in surprise, but it seemed as if she was in earnest. “You ride a lot, in England?”

  “A little,” she agreed. “Though it's not considered seemly for ladies to join the hunt.”

  “Don't ken why not,” he said huffily. “There's nothing indecent about riding.”

  She giggled. “I suppose not. Are the customs so free here, then?”

  He shook his head. “No...Not really. In some ways, I reckon, lasses have it harder here than in England.”

  “Oh?” she frowned.

  He felt nervous. “Aye. I reckon – and here I just guess, milady – that English society is more...modern?”

  She giggled. “Well, rest assured, in many ways it is. Though I think there is nowhere on this good Earth modern enough to accord us the same rights our menfolk have.”

  “No,” Brogan nodded solemnly. “You're right.”

  She gave him an odd look. He wasn't quite sure how to interpret it. She could have been mocking him, but it seemed too understanding for that – as if, in that moment, they shared a truth.

  “You have ridden here before?” she asked instead.

  “Aye,” he nodded. “I rode this way on my way tae Duncliffe.”

  She giggled. This time, the laugh sounded teasing. He looked at the ground, embarrassed.

  “I haven't ridden here any other time,” he explained, aware that he looked even more foolish saying that.

  “What do you think of the new tricorne hat?”

  Brogan blinked at her. “Tricorne, milady?”

  Claudine laughed. “Three corners?”

  “A three-cornered hat?” He shook his head. “Why, milady?”

  She had been about to titter at his ignorance, but the smile she gave him had real warmth in it. “A good question.”

  Brogan looked at his hands, feeling embarrassed. Talking to her made him feel as if someone had shot his knee with a musket ball and expected him to dance. It felt awkward and painful, and also made him feel hampered and lumbering, graceless. “Och, milady,” he said, looking down. “We should keep up.”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “We should.”

  He waited for her to speed off and then followed behind more slowly.

  “A bad day?” Douglas asked, riding up beside him.

  “Why would it be?” Brogan challenged.

  Douglas shrugged. “No reason really.” He pointed to the left. “We'll take the short way, I reckon. I think it would be foolish to challenge the weather much.”

  “I think it might rain later,” Marguerite agreed. She was riding a little behind them, though she sat her Spanish side-saddle with confidence. She seemed every bit as at ease on horseback as her cousin.

  Who was, Brogan had to admit, watching her with something like pain in her heart, regrettably competent.

  Her long dark hair piled up regally on her head, she rode with queenly poise, her slim body twisted in the side-saddle to hold the reins. Her pale dress clung to her body at the waist, flaring out to make a graceful setting for her slender form. He felt an intense stab of feeling flow through him as he watched her ride.

  I never saw someone so beautiful.

  The lasses he knew in the Highlands – with the notable exception of Benoite, who had been highborn, the daughter of a duke – tended to be quieter and less confident than these two Englishwomen.

  It was that confidence that drew his eye, he realized – the way both Benoite then and Claudine now effortlessly owned every space they entered. That was what attracted him.

  “You jest, sir,” her voice said, distantly, followed by a giggle.

  “I assure you, I am in earnest,” Lord Hugh replied. Brogan watched as he bowed to her on horseback.

  He wasn't the only one attracted, clearly. Sumpter had noticed Claudine too, though he was married. It didn't stop a man from noticing beauty, after all! He saw how Sumpter's glance fixed on her and felt a stab of jealous anger when she nodded to him, smiling.

  What does she see in that ponce?

  He shook his head. He was being ridiculous.

  Whatever she thought of anyone else, it wasn't going to make her like him more. He might as well forget all about her and stop being so stupidly jealous.

  Och, stop being gloomy. It's a sunny day. That should be enough for ye.

  He shook his head and leaned forward on his horse, encouraging him to quicken the pace. He was going to forget about Lady Claudine and her disturbing presence for a while, and focus on more important things. Such as the impending war.

  “You'll stand with us, won't you?” Douglas asked from beside his elbow, surprising him.

  “Och, aye,” Brogan nodded gruffly. “Of course I will. You have my word.”

  “Good,” Douglas nodded. “Because war is coming, Brogan. We must be able to trust one another.”

  Aye, thought Brogan, the warning ringing in his ears. We must...but can we?

  He was not so sure of Lady Claudine. He would be vigilant.

  UNEXPECTED VISITOR

  “Just do something simple, please, Prudence. I'm tired tonight.”

  “Yes, miss,” Prudence nodded where she stood behind Claudine, hairbrush in her hand. The candles flickered over the silk-covered walls, the fine material glowing warmly in the light.

  I don't need to look pretty tonight.

  She surprised herself with her odd defiance. Looking her best was something she usually wanted to do, but after that odd encounter with McRae in the excursion, she had no desire to impress him.

  He wouldn't notice me anyway.

  She shook her head at herself. Why did she feel so moody when she thought of him! It was strange. “Sorry,” she added, realizing that she'd moved her head as Prudence strove to pin some hair in place.

  “Never you mind, milady,” Prudence said firmly. “I'll get it settled. They're rum folks here, yes?”

  “The Scots?” Claudine asked, shifting in her seat so she could see Prudence better.

  “Yes, milady. Not your cousins, of course...they seem good folks. But, well...it seems they're a difficult lot to me.”

  “The other servants are unfriendly?” Claudine asked. She felt guilty for stranding her maid in a foreign world. It seemed most of the ser
vants spoke Lowland Scots, however, which was close enough to English for them to all communicate fairly.

  “Not exactly,” Prudence said carefully. “It's just; well...they're rum folks. Different. And the men wear skirts! It's not right, milady.”

  Claudine chuckled, feeling her spirits lift. Somehow, the fact that the native kilt scandalized Prudence made McRae seem much less fearsome.

  “Well, it is unusual,” she said carefully.

  “It's wicked! I'm sure it's sinful...just can't recall why.”

  Claudine giggled. “It must be a very small sin,” she said fairly.

  “Sins be sins, milady,” Prudence said. Then she grinned. “Showing a leg like that...it's enough tae tempt a body.”

  Claudine shifted in her seat and stared at her, mouth open. Then she laughed. “Prudence!”

  “What?” Prudence was blushing red now. She laughed too. “It's only natural to look...isn't it, milady?”

  Claudine went red. She schooled her face neutral. “I haven't noticed,” she said carefully.

  “I reckon so, milady,” Prudence said softly.

  As her maid finished dressing her hair, Claudine found her mind wandering back to that afternoon. She recalled with a small smile how she'd talked to McRae. He was, in his own odd way, not ugly. At least, he wasn't as ugly as he ought to be, with that long red hair and that beard...

  Stop it, Claudine. He's a wild man from the hills and you're not to even think that way – Prudence is free to dream, if she wishes! You are not.

  She schooled her face to neutral again, watching Prudence arrange her hair.

  “There we are, milady! By, you look a picture.”

  Claudine frowned at her reflection critically. With her brown hair arranged on her head, stray locks left at the sides in ringlets, she wasn't sure she looked a picture, as Prudence put it. She felt she looked acceptable, at least.

  That was all she wished to look. She bit her lip and reached for her necklace, settling it about her neck. It hung just below her collarbone, exposed by the low square neck of the gown.

  “I'll go down now.”

  “Very good, milady.”

  She reached for a vial of scent, splashed a little on her neck, behind her ears, and then headed downstairs. As she went down the hallway, she caught sight of a tall figure walking toward the dining room.

  Her heart thudded. She didn't, she told herself, want to bump into him. All the same, part of her fluttered with anticipation and she found herself walking down the hall toward the door.

  “Ah, there you are!” Marguerite said, appearing at the top of the steps from downstairs. “I was just resting my legs...it was a tiring ride, and they are somewhat sore.”

  “We did ride far,” Claudine nodded. She did not feel all that tired. She glanced down at her own legs, encased beneath her blue silk skirts, and then her eye drifted to the bare legs, encased in socks, of the fellow in the doorway.

  Calves strong and shaped by hours of riding were there, stretching the wool sock and matching wide thighs at a well-shaped knee. She flushed.

  Claudine! You shouldn't think such things.

  She remembered Prudence's words – that it was leading one into temptation, to dress so. She shook her head and bit her lip.

  “Come! We have a fine dinner ahead of us,” Marguerite said with some pride. “I had the salmon sent up from the riverside...it's a particular delicacy in these parts. I am sure you will come to love it, even as I did.”

  “I almost certainly shall,” Claudine nodded, standing aside so her cousin could enter the room ahead of her. Opposite her, McRae did the same. His eye caught hers.

  “Good evening, milady.”

  “Good evening, Laird McRae.”

  She dropped a low curtsey, head bowed. She found herself looking at the brogues he wore, and looked up quickly. When she did so, she caught a slight twinkle in those dark eyes. Her own gaze narrowed. What was he thinking?

  “Ah, cousin!” Douglas greeted her from across the room. “We are so pleased to have you join us. I understand we have had a fine dinner prepared.”

  “Oh, Douglas! It's not so terribly unusual that you get fed, is it?” Marguerite grinned, flapping a fond hand at him.

  “My sweetling, apologies. I am fed fit to bursting every night.”

  Claudine laughed. Her cousin giggled and sat down beside her, opposite Douglas, leaving the place beside Douglas for their guest.

  Claudine felt him sit down, his legs opposite hers below the table. She looked at her hands where they lay against the blue-and-white fabric of her gown, not risking a glance.

  “Wine, milady?” a footman asked, pausing at her shoulder.

  “Um, yes, please,” Claudine nodded. As she did, she looked up, finding herself staring straight into the brown eyes opposite.

  Laird McRae was looking at her, a look of tenderness on his face. She felt surprised, and stared at him, trying to understand that look.

  Why is he looking at me like that?

  Claudine fussed with her hair, a blush flooding her cheeks. Her heart melted a little. She had never been stared at quite like that before.

  I didn't think I was pretty.

  As far as she was concerned, her face was too long and her cheekbones too prominent, her eyes too wide and her nose too long. Society favored the snub-nosed, pretty features of girls like Lady Amelia. She herself was plain – or at least she thought so.

  However, if she was so plain, what was this fellow doing looking at her like that? It was utterly confusing.

  “Cousin? You like the bedchamber we found for you?” Marguerite asked earnestly from beside her, reaching for a tray of turnips, lavished with butter.

  “Uh...yes. Thank you. It's charming,” Claudine said dazedly. She reached for a piece of bread, setting it on her smaller plate.

  Opposite her, Laird McRae coughed, and then reached for the plate of bread after her.

  Perdition take him!

  She felt quite annoyed with him. Why was he being so strange? In some ways, he seemed to avoid looking at her, as if he was afraid some terrible English contagion would pass from her to him. Then in other ways he looked at her like...however that was...with such a wealth of admiration in his eyes. It was distressing.

  “You enjoyed the ride with the Sumpters?”

  “They seem a nice family,” she said neutrally. Lord Sumpter had seemed a little too friendly to her, but she didn't mention the fact. His wife and daughter had both seemed charming.

  “They are!” Lady Marguerite agreed. “I trust they will not want to leave the estate too often, though – the snow will keep us all in our homes.”

  “I imagine that,” Claudine nodded, looking out of the window opposite. The drapes showed a patch of black sky, with no stars. The clouds had gathered, evidently, and snow would soon be falling on the nearby hills.

  “I trust that you will stay here?” Douglas asked their other guest.

  No, Claudine willed him to say. She was surprised by that. Her feelings for this man confused her utterly.

  “Och, milord. I hesitate tae impose on yer hospitality, yet...” he said awkwardly.

  “Nonsense, Laird McRae!” Marguerite said firmly. “You are our ally and our friend. Of course you shall stay here as long as you like.”

  “Thank ye, milady. Ye're most kind.”

  Dash it, Claudine thought, surprised again by the vehemence of her thoughts. She found she enjoyed this hatred of him that she stoked within. It was a passionate feeling, one which made her want to smile.

  He looked up and she caught his gaze upon her. Her cheeks flushed.

  I don't like you, she thought fiercely, looking into his eyes. In a month I'll be gone from here, with Father in England, and I'll never think of you again. I'm sure that thought would relieve you.

  He frowned, though his mouth showed a slight smile. She realized she'd stared and looked down at her soup, feeling embarrassed.

  “Ye slept well, milady?”


  Claudine colored. The thought of discussing something even so prosaic as sleeping made her flush with embarrassment.

  “I did,” she said, reaching for the plate of vegetables. Fresh vegetables were a rarity in cities, but here in the remote countryside they were abundant and plentiful. She helped herself to them with relish.

  “Ye like turnips?”

  She scowled at him, and then schooled her face to blankness. “I think our hosts have a fine cook at the manor.”

  “They do indeed.”

  Beside him, Douglas nodded. “We do. Will you pass that on to Merrick, sweetling?”

  “Of course,” Marguerite nodded. “I would be pleased to.”

  “That is the cook?” Claudine asked, reaching for her cutlery, resplendently shone silverware, where it lay by the plate.

  “She is. Merrick is...special in the household,” Marguerite said carefully.

  “How so?”

  “She was my nurse, when I was a boy,” Douglas explained. “And she has...special abilities, which are much-sought in the district.”

  “She's a healer, and a seer,” Marguerite, less-reservedly, explained.

  “A healer?” Claudine asked, interested. Of course, since her and Reid's mama was taken ill, she herself had taken an interest in such things. Anything she could learn would be of benefit.

  “Exactly, yes. She was of such help when Alexandra had a fever, three months hence...” her cousin said.

  “Well, I would be pleased to meet her then,” Claudine said, dabbing at her lips with a napkin, delicately. The vegetables were good, fragrant and delicate.

  “Well, we can arrange that tomorrow,” Marguerite agreed, nodding firmly. “McRae? You will be with Douglas, surveying the fort?”

  “I will, milady,” McRae's resonant voice affirmed. Claudine felt her heart sink somewhat.

  “You'll join us for luncheon, though?”

  “I reckon so, milady,” McRae confirmed, nodding his head. “Douglas?”

  “We had thought to set out before luncheon...” Douglas began carefully. “Though I reckon we could...”

  At that moment, a footman entered, interrupting the peaceful talk. His step was hasty, agitated. “Milord,” he said carefully. “There's a visitor downstairs.”