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

by Emilia Ferguson

  He looked at her, mouth quirked in a derisive expression. “You might not find them so,” he said. “But myself?” He spat. “I wouldn't stable my horse in most places I have been in thus far.”

  Claudine stared at him, horrified. She had never considered Dunstan a bigot before. Discovering this side of him made her blood run cold. “You may keep your own views on the country, Lord South,” she said firmly. “But do not assume they are mine. And kindly do not insult my cousins. I would not wish them offended by someone who came here because of me.”

  He grunted. It could have been surprise; it could have been derisive. Claudine did not stay to find out. Whirling around, she headed right, toward the parlor.

  Inside, she leaned against the wall beside the door and closed her eyes. The scent of breakfast washed thinly across the cool air toward her, and she inhaled, stomach lurching a little at the scent. She felt almost too shocked to eat.

  “Of all the rude, barbarous, coarse...”

  “Milady wishes tea?” McLean, the head footman, asked, coming forward with a porcelain teapot.

  Claudine nodded. She hadn't seen him in there earlier. “Yes, McLean. That would be welcome.”

  “Of course, milady. I can fetch more bread?”

  Claudine shook her head, looking at the table, set with pastries, eggs, milk and butter, and a plate of bread and jam. “I am well-cared for.”

  “As you would, milady.”

  He poured her tea and retired discreetly, leaving her alone there. Claudine reached for the cup and drank the scalding beverage in one big gulp, feeling it spread welcoming warmth through her limbs. She sighed.

  “I had no idea the man was so beastly.”

  She could think of no other word for it. To be so demeaning of another sort of people, simply because they were different – it was narrow, base and ugly. Beastly in the truest sense of the word.

  She lifted a pastry off the tray where they'd been left, covered with a checked cloth to slow them cooling. They were warm, flaky and fresh from the oven. She gratefully bit into one, closed her eyes and thought.

  Father made me make no promise to him.

  She was glad for that at least.

  After breakfast – another pastry and a cup or two of the tea, which was still very hot – she headed to the window, feeling sleepy. There, she looked down into the garden.

  The garden on this side of the house was made on a small slope, leading down toward the tall wall that surrounded the manor. A green lawn was planted there, in which stood a tall tree and, against the wall, a flowerbed had been dug, hosting irises. More grew around a stone bench set against the manor wall, green now and without flowers, fronted by a magnificent, flourishing chrysanthemum.

  She stared. On the bench sat a person with red hair. She hadn't noticed him there before. It was McRae, she realized. What was he doing?

  He seemed to be bent over something, his back sloped forward protectively. It was some delicate work he did, for she could see he was being very careful.

  She leaned forward. Her eyes widened in surprise. There, standing on the lawn, was Alexandra.

  As she watched she saw Brogan bend down and lift the small child to his knee. He sat there, rocking gently. Then he stood and carried her around the garden. She saw him pointing to things, naming them, clearly, for she could see the child watching his lips, almost as if to imitate the sounds that he had made.

  His strong arms were tight around the little form, holding her as carefully as if she were made of crystal-glass. She felt her heart leap, seeing that. His big form bent over carefully and he cradled her, his strong hand wrapped around her tiny form like it was infinitely precious.

  Seeing such a big, rugged fellow show such care made Claudine want to cry. She wasn't sure why, exactly, save that Laird McRae seemed a mighty warrior, and to see him care so for a child moved her strongly.

  “You had breakfast, cousin?” Marguerite asked quietly behind her.

  Claudine jumped. “I did, dearest cousin.”

  “It seems I have a far more attentive nurse for my Alexandra than ever Mattie was.”

  Claudine nodded. She had a lump in her throat. “Yes,” she agreed.

  “I would never have guessed the fellow was so attentive to children,” Marguerite continued, not seeming to notice the profound effect the vision outside the window had affected on Claudine.

  “Nor I.”

  “Well, I suppose there are surprising sides to everyone, yes?” Marguerite continued blithely. “He does look rather a brute, doesn't he? But so gentle. Who would guess?”

  “Indeed,” Claudine said softly.

  Marguerite grinned. “Well, cousin! I thought we should have a party here later in the month. It seems we are destined to have many guests! Would you like to choose some fabric for a gown? We have time enough to make something new.”

  Claudine nodded. “I would like that.”

  She had brought only the essentials with her: two day-gowns, two gowns more suitable for evening, a riding dress and one for walking in the country. There was nothing there really suitable for a ball.

  “Well, then! With all haste to the sewing room. You can look through my fabrics there – I have a veritable treasure-trove all stored up! And, should you find nothing there that takes your fancy...well, we can go to Whitcroft or one of the bigger towns and see what we can find! We have the time.”

  “Thank you, cousin,” Claudine said softly. “You're most kind.”

  “Nonsense, dearest Claudine! You have no inkling what it is for me to have you here for Christmas.”

  Claudine smiled a little sadly. It would be strange to have that celebration here in a foreign land. All the same, she felt more at home here, almost, than she ever had at Estridge Manor. She would miss Reid. Other than that, she would miss nothing at all.

  She followed her cousin up to the attic.

  “Ah. Now, here we are,” Marguerite exclaimed. “It's quite cramped, but pretty. And we have the fine smell of strewing-herbs in our noses...Mrs. Merrick knows ever so much about the best herbs for preserving cloth.”

  Claudine frowned. She had forgotten about the mysterious Mrs. Merrick, the seer. Impulsively, she decided to find out more about her. “Marguerite?”

  “And here we have some fine brocade I thought we...Oh! Yes? What is it, cousin? You saw something you fancy?” Marguerite asked.

  “Um, you mentioned a Mrs. Merrick? She is a healer in these parts?”

  “Oh! Merrick! Yes. I did, didn't I?” Marguerite asked, dusting off her hands on the front of her white gown. “You wish to ask her something?”

  “I would like to meet her, if I may,” Claudine replied.

  “Oh! My dear. Of course. Well, why don’t we look through these fabrics first? After that, I spend an hour with Alexandra in the nursery, and mayhap Frances can escort you down. I would come myself, but...” She shrugged, an apology.

  “Of course, cousin,” Claudine nodded. “You have some very fine brocade here...”

  “You're very kind,” Marguerite said warmly. “I do try to keep up with the latest fashions, but you understand it can be hard here in the North.”

  “Well, you manage very well. Everything here could be as at home in Dorset, certainly.”

  Claudine ran her hand down different bolts of fabric. She found a brocade of white, picked out in gold. She studied it, frowning. Too bold, perhaps. She wanted something more subtle.

  “Ah! Cousin! What think you of this?” Marguerite asked, producing a fabric of a blue that was close to gray; fine and light. “It's more suitable for summer, mayhap, but the silk is such a singular color...it would match your eyes!”

  “It is beautiful,” Claudine agreed, running her hands down the fine, soft fabric. “But...”

  Her cousin had exposed another bale of cloth as she pulled the blue aside – it was silk too, likewise light and matte, but this one was of a damask red that was almost pink. It was subtle and mysterious and she instantly imagined
the dress that she would make of it.

  “I like that,” she said, reaching for it tentatively.

  “That?” Marguerite wrinkled her brow. “Oh, cousin! Are you sure? It's been up here so long I barely recall buying it! Are you certain?”

  “I'm not sure yet,” Claudine demurred. “But there is something about the color...” She reached for it again, unrolling a section.

  It would suit her, she knew – the reddish shade would complement her hair and draw out the gray-blue of her eyes. All at once, she imagined the expression on McRae's face, seeing her in it. She blushed.

  Claudine, stop it! What are you thinking?

  She pushed aside the fabric, reaching for the blue-gray shade her cousin suggested – it was plainer, more likely to make her blend into the crowd.

  “I see you're undecided!” Marguerite said, smiling. “Well, I shan't press a choice. I...Oh! Is that the time? Frances! Bless my soul! I had no idea. Excuse me, cousin,” she said, making a wry face. “I must attend to the duties of the nursery.”

  “Of course, cousin,” Claudine nodded, letting her hand run wistfully down the red fabric again. She turned away.

  “Frances?” Her cousin was saying, already heading down the narrow stairwell. “Could you take my cousin down to the kitchens? She would like to talk to Mrs. Merrick.”

  Frances gave Claudine an odd look, but nodded. “Of course, milady.”

  “Splendid. If you need anything, don't hesitate to find me, dearest cousin. I'll be with Alexandra.”

  “Thank you,” Claudine murmured. She followed Frances downstairs.

  The servant's corridor was cold, and she wished she'd thought to bring a shawl with her. They walked down and turned right, and reached an open door.

  “Begging your pardon, milady, but mind yer head. The roof be low here.”

  “Thank you,” Claudine said softly, and ducked to enter the low doorway. Here, the stairs headed down into a room redolent with cooking, the heat from the fires striking her like a wall as she entered.

  “There you are, Frances,” a voice came from the dark. “You can leave the things here and then head up. I'll need time alone now.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Merrick.”

  The usually calm Frances looked almost nervous as she left a tray of dishes on the sideboard and hurried out. The room was dark, and everything was wrought in silhouette by the ruddy glow from the fire. Claudine's eyes adjusted, showing her a tall, angular figure before the fire.

  “You came to ask about a choice,” a voice said from the dark.

  Claudine shivered.

  Her mind had, indeed, been turning a few decisions over and over. The gray cloth or the red? McRae or Dunstan South? She hadn't known until then which choice it was that she sought to make.

  “Yes,” she said solemnly. In that moment, she was a supplicant, and the tall, dark form the holder of secrets. Any thought of roles, or the fact that this was a manor kitchen, disappeared from her mind.

  “You know which you will take,” Merrick said again. This time, she turned around. Dark eyes, strangely gentle, regarded Claudine. She felt as if those eyes saw through her to the wounds she hid, even from herself, and gently probed them.

  I feel as if she knows me, better than I know myself.

  “I do?” Claudine asked.

  Merrick laughed. “Stop hiding, lass,” she said. “You hide from others, and you hide from yourself. The rest of us see you, even though you think you blend away.”

  Claudine stared. All her life, she had felt overlooked, as if all she needed to do to disappear was close her eyes. Friends like Amelia and Laurie always seemed so much more noticeable than she was, with her blue-gray eyes, brown hair and quiet ways. “I don't hide,” she said softly.

  “Hah,” Merrick said. It was scorn, but it did not seem unkind. “You conceal yourself in so many ways. But mostly from yourself. Tell yourself the truth, lass, if you tell no one else.”

  Claudine shifted in her seat. “I do tell the truth...” She trailed off as Merrick snorted.

  “You tell what you think is the truth. And aye, that's all the best of us can say, I reckon. But to yourself? You can do better. There's one here – a man – that you think on, yes?”

  Claudine blushed. “Yes.” The instant Merrick said it, a face filled her thoughts. Rugged, but gentle, with those pale brown eyes that held her gaze so tenderly.

  “You wonder why he is so silent. That one has stories, aye. Been hurt. Learned to keep his silence. Not so different, the two of you.”

  “I don't keep silent.”

  “Hah,” Merrick chuckled, though she didn't sound that amused. “You silence the only voice that matters. The one that tells you how you feel.”

  Claudine frowned. She had come to ask Merrick about her mother's condition, not expecting a pitiless dissection! She shifted in her seat, feeling a mix of shyness and resentment at being so probed.

  “I wanted to ask you about a certain condition...” Claudine said carefully. “My mother has been ill for many years. It is a wasting illness of some sort, the doctors say, and she...” She sniffed, not realizing until that moment how much pain and worry it caused her. Suddenly, she could not get out the words. An image of her mother, so pale, her limbs listless, filled her vision. She wanted, very suddenly, to cry.

  “Your mother can get well,” Merrick said with absolute certainty. “There's no reason to think she cannot. Now. Tell me this...you have many brothers? Sisters?”

  “No,” Claudine shook her head. “Just me and Reid. But there were others...”

  She closed her eyes tight, recalling the many miscarriages that had continued into her own girlhood. The hushed voices, the doctors. The smell of blood. So much blood.

  “As I reckoned,” Merrick nodded briskly. “Now, your mother needs sea and sun, all very well. But more than that, she needs the pickled limes they give the sailors. That will revitalize her blood. That, and meat. Liver, if you can make her eat it. Black pudding. I ken, it has an awful smell to it sometimes. But it will make her strong. A broth of meat-bones...every day. That will restore her strength.”

  Claudine nodded. She half-wished she had a stylus and parchment, to write it down. Liver. Broth. Black pudding. There was something else...Ah! Limes.

  “Thank you,” Claudine said humbly.

  “Nothing tae thank me for, lass,” Merrick said gently. She turned to look into Claudine's eyes, holding her gaze. Her own eyes were so dark they could be black, like her hair. Her face was lined, and Claudine guessed her to be in her forties, though age was meaningless, applied to her.

  “Listen to your heart, lass,” Merrick said gently. “Ye spend so much time listening to all the chatter going on in there.” She touched her hair, the softest touch. “And ye forget all about what's in there.” She pointed to her chest.

  Claudine nodded, swallowing hard. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I'll try.”

  “You can do better than that,” Merrick said. She pushed back her chair, a wry grin on her face. “If you try, you're already listening to the head.”

  She stood and walked away to the other side of the kitchen. “Trust your heart,” she said firmly. “There. That's all the advice you'll get from me.”

  “In the future...” Claudine began, but Merrick had already gone to the sink, rolling up her sleeves.

  “The future is all in fog, lass. Shine a light on it.”

  Claudine shivered again, but knew she was not going to get any more information from Merrick. With those cryptic words in her ears, she headed up the stairs and into the hallway.

  The servant's corridor was still cold, but she barely felt it. She walked blindly back to the hallway.

  That was almost too much for me.

  She shook her head, sifting through the information she'd been given. Besides the cure for her mama – which seemed sensible, though she couldn't explain why – none of it made sense.

  Shine a light. Trust. Tell the truth to yourself.

  �
�If I'd known she was going to do that, I wouldn't have gone down.”

  She shivered. The clock by the door showed only fifteen minutes had passed, but she felt as drained as if she'd been in there a lifetime.

  “Claudine?” a voice called from above. She looked up to see Douglas coming down the stairs. He looked worried. When he saw her, he smiled. “Ah! There you are. We were just looking for you. Would you care to join us for a walk down to the pond?”

  “I would like that, yes,” Claudine murmured.

  “We'll go down with our new guest. He had an interest in the forests here.”

  Claudine shivered, and then bit her lip. She didn't much want to see Dunstan right now.

  However, what could she do? Her father had chosen. She trusted his judgment. There was nothing else that she could do, after all, but trust him.

  Shaking her head at herself, trying to make sense of all that she had heard, she hurried up the stairs to change into her walking clothes. It looked to be cold outside.

  A BALL AND A NEW UNDERSTANDING

  “So,” Douglas said to Brogan, as he stared out of the high window overlooking the courtyard.

  “Yes?” Brogan frowned. He had been watching Lady Marguerite and her cousin crossing the cobbled surface, returning from the gardens. They were laughing together and he thought he had never seen anyone so beautiful.

  “You'll join us, then?” Douglas asked.

  “Uh, milord? Oh. Oh, yes.”

  Douglas chuckled. “Sorry. I did change subjects hastily – we've talked too long of strategy to start talking about parties.”

  Brogan chuckled too. “Milord, I think the best way to end a talk of strategy is by planning a party. It's just the way to restore good temper.”

  Douglas smiled his gentle smile. “I suppose that's true. But I am glad you'll stay on awhile and join us. The winter is far too cold yet for gadding about.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Brogan nodded to his host. He felt a happy flood of feeling and was surprised. He was excited for the ball.

  “Well, then,” Douglas said awkwardly. “I suppose I should take word to Lady Marguerite, and then get back to work.”