Douglas was unruffled, though Claudine saw a muscle jump in his jaw, betraying his concern. “That is a strange thing,” he murmured. “What manner of visitor? Is he alone?”
“He is alone, milord. He left his card. I have it here.”
“Ah,” Douglas nodded, reaching across the table to take it. His brows rose as he read it.
“What, dearest?” Marguerite asked. Her pretty face seemed distressed.
“This is a name I’ve never heard before. Do you know it?”
Marguerite took the card in delicate fingertips. Her brows rose, face confused.
Claudine felt her heart beat wildly. It was danger! It was the Hanoverians – they had found her cousins and sent a force against them!
She saw Laird McRae shift and knew he shared her thoughts. “Who is it, cousin?” she asked. “What does it say?”
“It says Baron South. Dunstan, Baron South.”
Claudine felt her jaw drop. “Dunstan South?” She had been reaching for the card, but now her hand fell, limply, to her side.
Dunstan South had followed her to Scotland.
A DISQUIETING EVENING
“You know him, cousin?”
Brogan felt his heart sink, looking across at Claudine, who nodded. Her expression could have been one of distress, but he could see her breath had quickened, her skin flushed on those high cheekbones he admired so.
She likes this baron.
He felt sudden sadness even as he chided himself for being so foolish. She barely noticed him! Why would she be any more-inclined to admire him simply because he had no rival here?
“Well, is he someone you would wish us to invite here?” Douglas asked gently.
“Yes, cousin,” Claudine replied softly. She was looking at the table and Brogan watched her, trying to interpret her response. Was she eager to see this fellow? Or was that expression one of reserve? He couldn't fathom her reaction.
“You are certain, Claudine?” Marguerite asked.
“I am,” she said. Her voice was harsh.
Brogan glanced at his host, who looked worried. Douglas nodded.
“Well, then. Send him in, McLean,” he said to his footman. “We've more than enough victuals for an extra mouth or two.”
“Very good, milord.”
As the footman left, Brogan tried to find inner calm. It had deserted him. He looked at the fireplace opposite, watching the orange and yellow flames twining round each other in the grate. He wondered who this nobleman from England was, and how milady knew him.
He must be a rival – he had to be.
“Milord Duncliffe? Milady? I present his lordship, the Baron South.”
Brogan stared. A tall man, with sandy hair and a well-formed, handsome face, stood there. The fellow was wearing a white suit, trimmed with gold brocade, and boots in the latest style, designed for riding. He was muscular and graceful, and he bowed low to his newfound acquaintances.
“Milord Duncliffe. Milady. I am honored with your hospitality.”
He spoke English, with an accent like Lady Claudine's, which instantly told him it was of superior quality.
“Milord South. You are welcome at our table. Please, make yourself at ease,” Douglas said carefully. “I understand you have met our guest?”
“Lady Claudine? Yes. She is a friend of mine.” He looked directly at Claudine and bowed.
Brogan shivered. He was looking at Claudine with a proprietary air, the smile on his thin lips assured and confident. He clearly felt he had some claim on her.
“Hello, Lord South,” she said, low-voiced.
Brogan's heart sank. She was looking at her hands, linked in her lap, but he could see a pulse jump at her throat. She was clearly pleased to see this fellow.
He looked across at the fellow, who confirmed his suspicions by walking around the table to take a seat beside Claudine, a possessive hand reaching for hers as he sat.
McRae wanted to look away, but he didn't move quickly enough. He found himself meeting a challenging gaze.
His eyes locked with the pale brown ones of Lord South. Almost ocher in color, they sparked, challenging him.
“Um, Milord South,” Marguerite said opposite, moving quickly. “I would like to introduce Laird McRae. He is a good friend of ours, and our guest.”
Brogan turned to her, acknowledging her help in defusing the situation. Opposite him, Lord South nodded stiffly.
“Milord, an honor.”
Brogan heard in the flat impassivity of that tone that the fellow meant no such thing, but he inclined his head likewise, deciding to be polite. It would not do to make a scene here, before their host. “Indeed, Lord South.”
He nodded to him and then reached for his ale, deciding the best policy would be to ignore him. Opposite him, Lord South seemed to take it as an insult, for he heard him draw in a sharp breath, but he did nothing.
“Lord South, you must tell me of your travels here! How came you so fast to Scotland?”
“I rode swiftly, milady.”
Brogan felt a sharp pang of dislike for the fellow as Lady Claudine exclaimed, surprised. “You must have!”
“I could not linger on the journey,” he said. “I had to reach here.”
Brogan looked away, feeling his belly sour. It was typical, he thought sadly. Just when he thought that he had finally met someone he liked, and just when she seemed to be taking an interest, someone better – more sophisticated, more appealing – hove close.
Then it would only be a matter of time, he was certain, until Lady Claudine decided. Why would she settle for him when she could have Dunstan, Baron South?
Anyone would think the fellow charming.
Brogan regarded him coolly while they ate. With that upright mien and that thin mouth, his strong, handsome features and muscled grace, any woman would fall for Dunstan.
I reckon he's just the sort to have the lasses swooning. Not that I would ken it, mind. But I can reckon any lass would like him.
“You are worried for your troops?” Marguerite asked.
“Not especially, no, milady,” he said grimly. He was worried, but it was not for his men, Brogan knew. It was for himself.
He knew it was ridiculous, but he'd let himself care more about Claudine than he realized. Though he barely knew her at all, he'd come to enjoy the banter and the teasing, however cruel it was. He liked her. Why was it that he seemed fated to lose everyone he liked?
“Stop it, Brogan.”
“What was that?” Douglas asked, reaching for the dish of potatoes. “I trust you are ready to inspect the walls?”
“I am, milord,” Brogan nodded, helping himself to some of the boiled vegetables. He really should compose himself. It wasn't the time or the place to let himself get distracted by trivialities.
I'm not going to let myself think of this as more than that. Not now.
“You will spend the whole day out?” a voice asked opposite.
He looked across at Claudine, his heart sinking. “Yes,” he said.
He knew it was rude not to answer her more fully, but he couldn't talk to her in more than monosyllables at present. He couldn't stop thinking of how she talked to South so eagerly.
Of course she did, he told himself angrily. She knew him far better than she knew Brogan, for certain.
“You have important business at the fort?”
Brogan swallowed hard. He glanced at South, who seemed to be listening intently. His hair prickled on his head. What was the fellow doing here? Was it not odd that the moment serious resistance was planned, this Englishman drifted to their doorstep?
“Perhaps, milady. I simply go to survey it with Milord Douglas. It borders both our lands. 'Tis only fair we both upkeep it.”
“Of course, of course,” she nodded. She looked at her meal.
Brogan nodded. He reached for his cutlery, but, though the food was excellent, he found he could not focus on it. He kept hearing her voice, listening for fond intonations as she spoke to him.
“I will stay as long as I'm permitted,” he said. He glanced at Douglas, who nodded.
“You can be at your ease here, Baron South,” Douglas said. “We welcome any guests who wish to spend the winter. The passes back to your homeland will soon become blocked.”
“I would find lodging in the city, were it necessary.”
Brogan felt that comment like a slap. How little the fellow knew of Highland manners! To suggest his host might not be able to support him was a mighty insult.
He saw Douglas take a deep breath. Beside Lord South, Marguerite shifted in her seat, pale face distressed.
“Milord South meant no insult, I assure you,” Claudine said clearly. “I am sure he meant only that, were his presence unwelcome, he would go.”
“That is what I meant.”
Brogan looked at the fellow carefully, hearing the harshness in his tone. He frowned. He could see distaste in every line of that lean, handsome face, the eyes narrowed, mouth tight in a grim line.
He is angry with her for exposing his rudeness.
He felt his blood heat, catching the resentful glance Lord South directed at Lady Claudine. The fellow was trouble. He didn't like him at all.
And, he told himself firmly, his jealousy had nothing to do with it.
He reached for a tankard of ale, swilling it down angrily. Lady Marguerite regarded him tenderly.
“You are certain you will be ready to go out tomorrow?” she asked. “You have barely settled in here, after all, and we rode far today...” She trailed off as he nodded gruffly.
“I am ready, milady.”
She nodded. “As you wish.”
Brogan shifted uncomfortably, hating himself for the dark mood into which he had sunk. He was unable to alter it, however. He tried, but every time he did so, he heard Lady Claudine say something to Lord South, or heard his curt reply.
He took another sip of ale, knowing that he would be more sensible to leave it aside. If he drank too much, he would likely lose any residue of manners he had, and then he really would do something unable to be excused.
“You will bring some men with you tomorrow?” Douglas asked.
“Aye, milord.”
“Good. I plan to take Wexley myself. He's my chief craftsman – he will know what repairs are best needed.”
“A sound plan,” Brogan nodded. He allowed himself to be drawn into discussion with Douglas – focus on the world of armaments and fortifications would distract him from his worries.
“We are able to present a good defense,” Douglas agreed, reaching for more bread. Brogan nodded.
He caught a look on Dunstan's face as he looked up, and he felt his stomach clench. He didn't like the fact that this fellow had appeared so suddenly. He was too smooth, too alert. He didn't like the fact that Douglas was discussing things here.
“Milord,” he said, leaning over, brow raised.
“What is it, friend?” Douglas asked warmly.
Brogan looked across the table, trying to indicate, without saying, the presence who had just settled across the table. Douglas frowned.
“You think we should retire early?” he asked, clearly misunderstanding. “Lord South must have tired himself, riding so far.”
“We should retire early,” Brogan nodded. “Or, at least, if you wish, milord?”
“You're right. My dearest? Should...” Douglas began, turning to Lady Marguerite.
“Of course. You're right, of course,” she nodded, grasping his question instantly. “Would you like to retire, Lord South?” Marguerite asked the man who sat beside her. “We can send for the coffee and cheeses early, if you'd prefer it?”
“Thank you, milady. I am tired.”
That thought filled Brogan with weary relief. The sooner Lord South was safely elsewhere, the happier he'd be. The last thing anyone needed was someone overhearing all their plans!
“Well, then,” Marguerite nodded. “Mattie? Send word to Merrick to send in the cheeses, please?”
“Very good, milady.”
Brogan leaned back, feeling more relaxed than he had for most of the evening.
He watched carefully as Lord South stood, pushed in his chair and said goodnight to their hosts. Then he turned back to Brogan. Their eyes held. Brogan tensed at the level of animosity he read in the depths of those ocher-colored eyes.
“Rest well, Laird McRae.”
“I shall. I wish you likewise good rest, Lord South.”
The man held his gaze a long, hard while. Then he turned away.
“Goodnight, Lady Claudine.”
“Goodnight, Lord South.”
Brogan watched his back until he left the hall.
When he had gone, Claudine leaned back in her chair. She looked weary, eyes closed. Brogan frowned. Was she upset the fellow had left? She didn't look distressed, though, just infinitely exhausted, like all the vitality had drained from her. Her pale cheeks seemed paler, her dark hair in stark contrast where it touched her chin.
I don't know what to think about all this.
He looked to his left, to where Lord Douglas was talking to a servant, instructing him to bring wine with the cheese. He, too, looked strained.
I underestimate him – I reckon he's as aware of the threat as I am.
“We really should bring up another cask of ale,” Lady Marguerite was saying to Douglas. She seemed on edge as well, moving things about on the table, stirring restlessly.
“We should, dearest. I'll see to it tomorrow,” Lord Douglas said wearily. “I think I might retire to bed early myself. That ride was longer than I thought.”
“Of course, my dearest,” Marguerite nodded.
Douglas smiled at her fondly. Brogan looked away. The love between the pair of them seemed fit to melt his heart. He wished he could ask them how they had met, how a love so rare and beautiful had flourished.
Mayhap such a thing was never meant for me.
He sighed, shaking his head wearily. He had no idea why he was in such low spirits, except that he was facing, once again, the loss of someone who had touched him like Benoite had done.
“You will retire to bed early also?” Marguerite asked, reaching across the table for a piece of cheese from the platter.
“I think so, yes, milady,” he nodded. “I too am weary after the ride.”
“Of course. Douglas?”
“Yes, my dearest?”
“Do tell McLean to fetch the other staff to tidy up? I think we would all like to go to bed.”
“Very well, my dearest.”
Brogan leaned back, taking a last sip of his drink while the servants were summoned and moved, unobtrusive, through the room – collecting dishes and jugs, clearing up the table.
“So,” Lady Marguerite said brightly. “We will see you tomorrow then. You'll join us for breakfast?”
“I would be happy to, milady,” Brogan nodded.
If nothing else, he wanted to keep an eye on their new guest. He didn't like his presence in this house, and didn't trust it, or him either. Not one little bit.
A MATTER OF CHOICE
Claudine slipped down the stairs toward the breakfast room. She had woken late and decided to delay her breakfast until ten o' clock, at which time she reckoned everyone else had departed.
The thought of seeing Dunstan and McRae together bothered her immensely.
It had been awfully tense the previous evening. She had no idea why each of the two men had taken such an instant and violent dislike to the other. However, the atmosphere of anger and disdain between them was unbearable. Another meal like that and she would plead illness, taking meals alone up in the bedchamber.
A footfall on the stairs made her tense. She withdrew into the shadow of the wall, upset she had chosen to wear her green gown, which would stand out rather obviously from the shadow.
“I need to see if...Ah! Milady Claudine,” Dunstan said, seeing her at once. He bowed low. He was alone, Claudine notic
ed instantly, feeling her hair rise with some strange sense of threat.
Must have been talking to himself.
She looked up into his face. His eyes, which were usually hard to read, were even more so now. She studied those inscrutable brown depths and shivered again.
There is something I don't like about this man.
She had felt misgivings when her father first suggested him, but had pushed them aside as girlish fancies. Now she wasn't so sure. The instant aggression he had displayed with Laird McRae had bothered her, alerting her to that quality of violence he held, poorly-hidden, below the courteous, smooth-mannered surface.
“Milord South. You slept well?”
“Excellently, milady.” He bowed. “I trust milady did the same then?”
“I slept well,” Claudine said, dropping a low curtsey. She kept her eyes on the floor, not trusting herself to meet his gaze.
“You took breakfast then?”
“I have not yet,” Claudine said. She tensed, worried he might offer to come and sit with her. The last thing she wished for was his company. She desperately wanted time alone to think.
“Ah. Well, I dined earlier, with the others. I believe I am going on a ride later. Will you join us?”
“I am not certain I will,” Claudine said carefully. “I am feeling a little weary, I'm afraid.”
“It's the air in this cursed place,” Dunstan said. “Cold and barren – probably full of ill humors too.”
Claudine frowned. “Why would it be?”
“I think the natives are none too wholesome in their cleanness,” he said, sniffing.
Claudine went red. “Have a care, sir! My cousin married a native of this place.”
“Lord Douglas is well enough,” he allowed casually. “The fellow seems quite civil. But the rest? Primitive.”
That was too much for Claudine. She might have joked about the outmoded ways, but she had met with nothing but kindness and hospitality here – more so than she had found in her own home sometimes! “The ways here might be different, Milord South,” she said tightly. “But that does not make them inferior. Not necessarily.”
The Highlander’s Runaway (Blood of Duncliffe Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 5
