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

by Emilia Ferguson

  “I suppose. And, thanks, milord.”

  “Not at all.”

  Brogan left the office with a warmth he had long forgotten how to feel cloaking him. He was going to attend a ball.

  As he passed the drawing room, he heard soft voices and looked in. There he could see Lady Marguerite standing at a table. Claudine was seated – he could see her long dark hair cascading down her back, the dark blue dress she wore bringing out the red highlights in its strands.

  “You think this is suitable?” Marguerite asked.

  “I think it's just right. Madrigals are still fashionable, though in an outmoded way...harking back to the past, I suppose.”

  “Indeed yes. Though, for dances, I had thought to include the roundelay...”

  Brogan smiled. They were planning for the ball. He headed up the hallway and toward his chamber. Having little to do, he decided to take a walk about the grounds.

  As he rounded the corner, the crisp air searing into his lungs, he found himself face-to-face with a gentleman in a gold-trimmed coat, his sandy hair catching the pale sunlight. He tensed. He couldn't like Dunstan South, no matter how hard he tried.

  “Greetings,” he mumbled and nodded.

  Lord South sniffed and nodded, then walked past.

  Brogan stared after him, incredulous and almost laughing. “Well...of all the...”

  He shook his head. He could find no words.

  He walked to the stables to check on his horse. Mistfell seemed well, though he knew he needed some exercise. He stroked his horse's muzzle.

  “Hey, boy. You're not too cheerful here either, are you?” he asked. “Well, in a week we'll be going home.”

  The ball was at the end of the week, and he would stay that long, but then he would have to find some way to return to the estate. He couldn't stay away and leave the place to his steward, Alexander, for any more time.

  He went up to his room, passing the drawing room again. It was silent now. He shook his head, smiling. He was looking forward to the ball.

  Claudine stood before the mirror. She smoothed her hands down her gown.

  “You look so beautiful,” her cousin said behind her. “I am so glad you chose the pink.”

  Claudine bit her lip. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I'm sure. You look radiant.”

  Claudine turned in front of the mirror, studying the effect carefully. She still wasn't sure about the color – it seemed to make her stand out too much. She had asked Prudence to arrange her hair up, leaving a few strands down, which framed her face. The dress had a wide skirt, slashed to show an underskirt of quilted silk. The color of the dress brought out red in her locks, throwing them into sharp contrast. Her blue-gray eyes shone.

  “You look lovely,” Marguerite said softly. She herself wore a soft blue that brought out her brown eyes. She looked pretty.

  “You look pretty,” Claudine murmured. “Truly, cousin.”

  Marguerite giggled. “You're sweet, cousin. Well, my daughter seemed unimpressed by it, though she wanted to touch the silk over and again.”

  Claudine chuckled. “I can imagine.”

  Arm-in-arm, they headed down to the ballroom.

  At the edge she paused, feeling nervous. She could hear soft music and the sound of guests already gathered there. Douglas stood at the door, greeting their neighbors as they arrived. He caught sight of Marguerite.

  “Ah, there you are. And our cousin! Oh, what a pair of beauties.”

  Claudine blushed. “Thank you, cousin.”

  She slipped in beside Marguerite, who squeezed her wrist.

  “Go and enjoy yourself, my cousin. I must attend to greeting guests.” She made a face.

  Claudine grinned and nodded. She knew all too well the tedium that could involve.

  Feeling somewhat shy – after all, she knew hardly anyone – she drifted to the back of the hall. The room had a checkerboard floor, the columns that held up the high ceiling freshly painted, though she sensed that, despite the renovations, this part of the house had stood for ages.

  She reached the back, near the table where refreshments had been laid out, and stood there, studying the room. Except for the fact that the fashions were a little old-fashioned, with some of the men still wearing the heavier periwig, and some of the women still wearing the stiff collars of an earlier time, it could have been a ball at home.

  Her eyes scanned the room, looking at faces. It occurred to her that she was looking for a particular guest.

  Claudine!

  She flushed, cheeks reddening with embarrassment. How could she even consider McRae? Especially now, when South was here. She was curious, that was all, she told herself sharply.

  She still found herself looking for him, eyes scanning the room.

  The quartet played a sweet, grave melody. She took a glass of cordial and sipped it, and then her breath caught in her throat.

  Tall, shirted, kilted, a new guest had arrived.

  She saw him look round the hall, scanning it. Then his gaze fastened on her. She blushed and curtseyed. He walked closer to her. He bowed.

  “Lady Claudine. Greetings.”

  She blushed, feeling his voice in every part of her. She smiled. “Laird McRae.”

  He took her hand and she flushed. “You are enjoying the evening?” she asked.

  “It seems a grand place,” he said, looking about.

  “Yes,” she nodded. “My cousins have a fine manor.”

  “Yes.”

  That stifled the conversation. Claudine looked up at him and found his eyes riveted on her face. She felt the heat in her cheeks increase.

  With his white shirt a little stretched over that muscled chest, his kilt banding the narrow waist, he looked remarkable. “You are not cold?” she asked.

  He chuckled. “In here? It's grandly warm.”

  She nodded, smiling. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  “Yes.”

  Again, she found it hard to find words to continue talking. His presence was so powerful, and had such an odd effect on her that it was hard to think straight. She coughed.

  “You like dancing?”

  “Aye,” he nodded. “It's very bonny.”

  Claudine smiled. At that moment, she noticed the quartet had stopped playing melodies, and seemed poised to begin something; a fact that had communicated itself to the rest of them.

  “Oh,” he nodded, noticing. “Shall we dance?”

  Claudine flushed. “I...” she looked around, wetting her lips. Dunstan South had not arrived yet, and she saw no reason why she should say no. She found herself nodding.

  “Grand,” he said.

  She surprised herself again by nodding and together they walked to the dance floor.

  Claudine felt dazed as she faced him. The music began: a roundelay. She stood where she was on the edge of the checked floor, waiting for the moment when she should begin.

  And one, and two, and...there.

  She stepped forward. The music lifted and fell and she found it was, after all, quite easy to step forward on the leading note and place her palm on his.

  And one, and two, and...

  The feeling of his hand's warmth tingled down her arm, shivering to her elbow. She looked up at him. His face was blank. She would have thought he was emotionless, save that his eyes burned.

  She swallowed hard, feeling the same intensity inside herself. The music wove around them, drawing them through the steps.

  She felt him step round her and then back, taking her hand and leading her behind the two dancers beside them, a graceful step forward and then another two.

  She was impressed. Somehow, she had not expected him to be so schooled in dancing. “You learned dancing at the manor?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I had to. My duties take me into all sorts of places.”

  Claudine smiled. “You are good.”

  She saw him look at his toes, embarrassed. “Lady Claudine is kind.”

  She laughed softly. “Not kin
d. Merely pointing out the completely obvious.”

  His eyes caught hers. He grinned. “So ye say.”

  “So I know.”

  They had to stop talking as another couple joined hands with them, the dance being performed partly in fours. Then with a few graceful steps she faced him again.

  “You dance grandly, too.”

  She blushed and looked at her own feet. “Thanks,” she murmured.

  She heard him chuckle. “I tell the truth,” he said.

  She smiled.

  The dance ended quietly, but she couldn't stop thinking of that exchange. It had been so light-hearted and playful. She couldn't quite believe how much she enjoyed his company.

  He is no brute, as I had thought him.

  She bit her lip, curtseying. “Thank you for the dance.”

  He nodded and smiled. “Thanks to you, milady.”

  He held her gaze as they walked off the dance floor.

  No sooner had she stepped off than she found herself beside Marguerite. Her cousin smiled at her cheerfully.

  “You were so right to select that roundelay, my dear cousin. Everyone has said how fashionable it was. I feel quite proud.”

  Claudine smiled and bowed her head in modesty. “My cousin is too kind.”

  “Nonsense,” Douglas said, joining them.

  Claudine found herself talking to her cousins, enjoying their company, but restless nonetheless. She looked around, eyes scanning for McRae.

  “Oh!” Marguerite said as another woman drifted over. “Hello, Joanna! I hadn't thought to see you here. How is your mama..?”

  As Marguerite and Douglas talked to their acquaintance, Claudine found herself wandering off. She looked about for a tall red-haired form, but couldn't spot him.

  “I wouldn't mind one of those,” she said to herself absently, perusing the trays of refreshments laid out for the guests to sample. She reached for a plate and put a small pie on it, which looked to contain some sort of preserve.

  “Milady. A pleasure to find you here alone for a moment.”

  Claudine spun around. “Lord South. I...Good evening.”

  He smiled. It did not reach his eyes. Those were cold. “It is a good evening, yes.”

  “Yes...” She trailed off, feeling uncomfortable. Why was he being so unfriendly? He had never so absolutely dropped his manners with her. “Milord, will you take refreshment?”

  “I had thought to take a dance,” he said. His eyes were bitter. “But it seems I must wait in line.”

  Claudine shook her head. “Milord...when you didn't arrive, I thought that...”

  He looked around. Then he stepped forward, moving her back from the crowd. “You seemed fairly eager when he asked, did you not? I would have thought you had better judgment. How can you disport yourself with a...” He ran out of words, shaking his head.

  “Milord!” Claudine stared at him in shock. “I did not...disport myself, as you say so crudely. This is a ball. I was dancing.”

  “Is that what you call it?” he asked bitterly. “Well, I suppose I should ask for the next dance, then. Such as it is.”

  Claudine gasped. “Lord South! I would ask you to remember yourself. You are most...out of sorts, tonight.”

  He nodded. “My apologies, milady.”

  Claudine raised a brow. That was far from sincere, she felt. All the same, she curtseyed. “Anyone can be out of sorts, milord.”

  He nodded and took her hand. “Well then. The next dance.”

  “Yes, milord. As you wish.”

  She danced with him, her heart aching as he led her round the floor. He was a good dancer, but there was no feeling in it. She felt as if she was a mannequin, being moved about the stage. She could barely wait for the final note.

  She dropped a curtsey. “Thank you, milord.”

  “And you.”

  As soon as she could, she hurried to the back of the room. One of the servants had opened a window, and it led out onto a covered alcove. Despite the cold, she drifted out. She looked out over the valley, looking up at the cold stars.

  “I am a fool.”

  She couldn't understand the surge of feelings in her heart. The stirrings of warmth for McRae, and the growing coldness to Dunstan South. He had seemed so courteous when they’d met at her father's home! So mannerly. She had liked him.

  I was attracted to him.

  She shivered. If she had stayed at home, she could so easily have married him. She would never have known about this other side.

  “But what can I do?”

  She had promised her father. Moreover, Dunstan South remembered all too keenly that her father had spoken very solemnly about his intent, though he had made nothing official.

  She felt her heart ache. She might not have any immediate demands on her, but her duty was clear. It pointed in a direction her heart did not wish to go.

  The pink silk or the blue. McRae or Dunstan. Herself or duty.

  Those were her choices. The only right choice seemed all too clear.

  “I don't know what to do.” She spoke aloud. The silence held no easy answers.

  “Milady?”

  She turned around to find McRae walking toward her.

  “Milady?” he said again. “You will catch cold.”

  She turned away, feeling confused. “It's not too cold,” she said softly.

  “It is,” he said. He had stopped just behind her, a note of concern making his voice ragged. “You should come in.”

  “I know.”

  Neither of them moved. They stood and looked at each other, the silence stretching between them. She reached up and tucked her hair behind one ear, a nervous gesture.

  “Milady, I...”

  Claudine frowned as he stopped speaking. What had he been about to say? “Yes?” she asked gently.

  “Milady, I wanted to ask ye what it is as bothers ye so. Ye look...distressed.”

  Claudine shook her head. She hadn't realized she'd been crying – a tear track marked her cheek. She sniffed. “It's nothing,” she said, turning away to look out over the wild scene beyond the terrace. Tall trees stretched up to a black sky, pricked out with stars. “It's just...” She sighed. “It's nothing.”

  “I don't mean to pry in something that's not my business,” he said gently. “But if there's aught bothering ye, and I can do something, I will.”

  Claudine turned and stared in surprise. Oddly, nobody else had ever offered to help her – nobody except Reid, and he was far away.

  “Milord, I...” She coughed, the words stuck in her throat. “Milord, thank you.”

  He shook his head, long red hair swinging about his face. He was surprisingly handsome, for all that he was rugged, or so she thought. She felt her cheeks grow warm.

  Just think of the reception if you said you'd chosen a fellow like him.

  She sighed. At least this fellow was a sympathizer to the cause! She had no idea of the true allegiance of South.

  “It's nothing,” he said, his own voice ragged now. “It's a tiny wee thing. Anyone would want tae help ye.”

  That struck her as amusing somehow. In her own world – so civilized and mannerly – she didn't know anyone who would offer help so lightly. “You think that,” she said gently. “I am glad such things are commonplace for someone.”

  “Lass, who has been cruel to ye?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Nobody. I'm not sad,” she insisted, though she couldn't help it – now that he had been so tender and gentle, she felt even more upset.

  He sighed. “Well, be that as it may, and it's not my place to press ye. But your cousins seem decent sorts. You could confide in them.”

  She nodded. “I could,” she added. She had no idea how Marguerite would receive her news, but she felt that, after all, she might not be too hostile to it – she had gone against the wishes of her own father in marrying Douglas, after all.

  “There, then,” he smiled. “Now, I'll leave ye in peace, but it's good to see ye smile.”


  She shook her head, blushing. “Sir. You care over-much.”

  “Mayhap,” he said. He smiled.

  She felt herself smile back, and then looked away, blushing. “I will stay here awhile,” she said gently. “And think a little.”

  “As you wish,” he shrugged. “But I am always here, milady, should ye want tae confide aught.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  When he had gone in, she shook her head sadly. It was difficult when the only person who wished to hear her words was the one person she could not risk telling!

  How could she confide in him when the one thing she wished to say was that she liked him?

  Smiling, she leaned against the rail and allowed herself the luxury of thoughts of him. When she went inside, into the lights of the ballroom, she was smiling.

  She had resolved nothing, but she had learned something. She liked McRae. She liked him very much.

  A WALK IN THE GARDENS

  “And I think if you put a bread poultice on, he'll run as clean as a whistle tomorrer,” Brogan said to Miller, the head stable-hand. His horse, Mistfell, had run too hard in the cold, and he'd strained his right hind leg. He breathed in the scents of hay and horse sweat, and felt, for the first time, truly at home.

  Brogan shook his head. His talk with Lady Claudine haunted him. He could not forget her tear-filled eyes, nor forget the fact that she had seemed not to dislike or mistrust him, unlike some of the attendees of the ball. He sighed and looked at the man beside him, liking the company.

  Out here, nobody can look down their nose, or think less of me.

  “Aye, milord. I reckon so,” Miller nodded slowly. “Ye ken horses well.”

  Brogan raised a brow. “I ken enough.”

  Miller's wheeze of laughter followed him out into the yard.

  The yard had been empty, but now, he saw, two figures crossed it. Douglas' voice carried over to where Brogan stood. He tensed, though he could not have said why, and paused in the shade of the wall.

  “It's a fine house,” Lady Claudine's soft voice replied.

  Brogan stayed where he was, watching her. His eyes lingered on her trim waist, the lustrous shine of her hair in the sunlight. It was a sunlit day, though the cold of winter bit into exposed flesh, making him shiver.