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

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Prudence? Run for gruel. She's going to be hungry!”

  Amidst all of it, Brogan smiled at her. She looked into his eyes. She smiled back.

  Neither said a word. If she was shocked to find him there, she gave no sign. Rather, she seemed almost pleased to have him there first when she recovered. He held her hand, stroking the skin gently as he had for the past two nights while she lay unconscious in her fever.

  “I want to know what happened next,” she whispered.

  He stared at her. “What? Sorry, milady,” he added, blushing red at his ill manners. “I beg your pardon..?”

  “The story. You were telling me. Something about a dragon? Did he face it?”

  Brogan stared. How long had she been awake? He would never have told her that story – a child's story, one his own maid had told him years ago, when he was a bairn! He hadn't known she could hear him.

  “Uh...he did, milady,” he said shyly. “And...But it's a silly tale.”

  “It isn't silly,” she said firmly. “Tell me.”

  So he told all of it. Prudence came back with the broth and held it under her chin, feeding mouthful by slow mouthful to her, while he told the tale. The prince faced the dragon, who told him he was the outcast son of the king, and then, to his astonishment, turned into a beautiful princess.

  “And then, with the curse of the evil uncle broken finally, the two of them returned home at last, to live in his father's castle for all their prosperous lives.”

  He finished the tale and her eyes held his, soft and tender.

  “I liked that tale,” she whispered. Her hand tensed in his.

  Brogan sighed. He felt like his heart had been flooded with oil, warm and shining, spreading delicious heat through every part of him. He smiled. “It's a silly tale.”

  “No, it isn't,” she said. “It was beautiful.”

  Brogan smiled, not knowing when he'd felt so much tenderness fill his heart. “As milady says.”

  He couldn't think of anything to say after that and, neither, it seemed, could she. They sat together and watched the sun rise.

  RECOVERY

  Claudine lay in bed, drowsily. She watched as Frances laid her small-clothes out on a rack by the fireplace to dry. Her limbs felt as if they were weighted down with lead, but she was, at last, free from the knifing pain in her temples and the shivering heat of fever.

  “I think we could go round the garden today?” a low voice asked.

  “Aye, milord. As you say.” Frances' answer was hushed and gentle.

  Claudine smiled as she moved her head to take in the sight of her strange nursemaid. Brogan, Laird McRae, sat on a stool by the fire, within easy calling distance of her. She had no idea why Prudence and Frances had let him in, but Prudence had told her, in hushed tones, that he had barely left her side.

  “How long have I been ill?” she had asked Prudence.

  “About five days, milady. Not so long, now. Don't fret.”

  “And...and my cousins are not too distressed?” she had asked next, imagining how tense and worried Marguerite would be.

  “Aw, no, milady. They called once. Was hard getting them a moment without the dragon here though.”

  “Dragon?” Claudine had frowned.

  Prudence laughed. “Him. The McRae, as they call him. Huh,” she added, chuckling at local customs.

  “The McRae?” Claudine had stared at her. “Laird McRae? Brogan?”

  Prudence had nodded gleefully. “Aye. That's the one. Him. Big fellow. Red hair. He's barely left your side.”

  Claudine stared at her, dumbstruck. So Brogan had sat with her! She had thought, once, that she'd woken to find him at her bedside. Her mind had been full of tangled stories of a dragon, and a prince, and love. She had felt him help her to sit up, and then she'd slept again.

  It really happened!

  She lay back now, on the pillows, and watched him, amused. He was talking to Frances in a low voice, speaking the tongue of the Highlands, sibilant and melodic.

  She watched him, smiling at the way the sun shone on his auburn curls. His face was in profile, and she found herself staring at that proud nose, the jutting chin. Rugged, but handsome. Very handsome.

  She blushed.

  As if he sensed her scrutiny, he turned and saw her looking. He smiled.

  “Lass. We were just sayin' you're much mended now. Would ye care for a turn about the grounds?”

  Claudine frowned. “Can I walk, do you think?”

  “Slowly, milady,” Frances cautioned. “But I'm certain ye can walk.”

  Claudine nodded. She bit her lip. It seemed like a long time since she'd been in this bed. She shifted on the pillow and sat up. “I can try.”

  Brogan was at her side instantly, his big hand reaching to support her. She felt the touch of his fingertips on the bare skin of her neck and tensed, the feeling sending a peal of tingling down her body to end somewhere in her toes.

  “Whist,” Frances said, as if noticing that it was inappropriate. “Come now. Wait outside, until milady Claudine has clothes.”

  Claudine grinned, hearing herself talked about between them. Evidently they had developed a sound working relationship while she was ill. She saw Brogan step back, hands upraised, as if in surrender.

  “Very well. I'll wait outside,” he said gruffly and nodded. He looked at Claudine, his eyes lingering tenderly on her face in a way that made her stomach crimp. Then he turned away.

  “Och, milady!” Frances said. “There now. Swing your legs over to this side of the bed, and we'll soon have you walking again.”

  Claudine nodded. It took a few tries to get her up on her feet – she was alarmed by how weak she had become after five days of the fever and thin gruel – but she managed.

  Clinging to the bed, she walked five paces to the seat by the window and then sat down heavily. “Whew,” she said. “I feel quite exhausted.” She shook her head, amazed.

  “It's tae be expected, milady. Mayhap it's for the best if ye don't try walking...”

  Claudine shook her head, teeth clamping her lower lip determinedly. “I'll try.”

  Walking in the garden meant seeing Brogan again. She was going to try. The thought occurred to her that walking anywhere outside this room meant bumping into Dunstan South, too. She felt a sudden anger at that thought.

  Why should I hide from him?

  No, she was going out.

  By noon, after getting dressed and walking the length of the room several times, she felt almost ready to walk. She felt weak and achy, but she was ready to go.

  She bit back her disappointment. She had so hoped Brogan would return, but he had disappeared before she got dressed and hadn't yet come back to take her for the walk that he had promised.

  “Thank you, Prudence,” she whispered, hanging onto her maid's arm as she walked down the hallway.

  “It's nothing, milady,” Prudence said. “I've a mind to step outdoors myself.”

  “Oh?” Claudine smiled. She had noticed a glance pass between Prudence and Westfield, one of the footmen, on more than one occasion, and something about the way Prudence said that suggested that she wasn't planning solitary rambles. She hid a grin.

  So Prudence had met someone she was interested in? Good for her!

  “Milady?” Frances called, coming up the hallway. “Here is someone as wishes tae accompany ye.”

  Claudine blushed. Her heart leapt. It was him! “Milord McRae,” she said, low-voiced. “You are kind.”

  He was wearing a new shirt and cravat, though he had on the same blue and green tartan kilt and plaid as usual. His hair was brushed and he looked like he'd made a good deal of effort in his appearance. She hid a smile. He was very handsome, even when tousled. All neat and combed, the effect was striking.

  “Nonsense,” he said. His voice was oddly tight. “It's no kindness.”

  He bent his arm and she placed her hand in his elbow, and together they walked out to the garden.

  It was cold out
side. Claudine pulled her cloak tight about her, feeling the chill of the breeze, though they walked on the sheltered eastern side of the garden.

  “We can turn back?” Brogan offered, though they had barely set out. The wind ruffled the grass about them, the air fresh and cool and winter-crisp.

  “No – not yet.” It was a relief to be outside.

  Brogan nodded. He stood still while she caught her breath, and they walked slowly toward a bench below a pine tree. Claudine could feel his hand at her elbow, and, closer, the press of his muscled upper arm at her shoulder. She could smell the warm, spicy scent of him. Her heart thumped.

  “I want to thank you for...”

  “If you need to...”

  They spoke together. Claudine bit her lip, concealing her smile. “You speak first, sir.”

  “I was going to say...if you need aught, even if ye just need tae talk, ye ken ye can always call me. I'm always here.”

  Claudine stared at him. His handsome face was still, but his eyes glowed with sincerity. She swallowed hard. “I...I wanted to thank you,” she said carefully. “I am already very much in your debt.”

  His hand tightened on her wrist, and he drew her around to look into his eyes. “No,” he said. His expression was intense, his grip hard. She gasped and he loosened it instantly. “Milady, speak not of debt between us. There is no debt when there is such feeling.”

  He mumbled the last words so that she had to strain to hear them, and when she did, she stared at him in astonishment. Truly? He meant that? She swallowed hard, her heart struggling to grasp the enormity of that.

  “Oh, sir,” she whispered. She couldn't quite believe what she'd just heard. Did he really mean that? This solemn, silent presence she had mocked so pitilessly when first they met? Did he...care for her? She stared at him.

  Why else would he have seen you through this illness? He didn't do that for his own gain.

  Claudine shook her head, utterly stunned. He really did care for her! And she?

  How do I feel?

  She looked up at his face. He was looking down at her. The garden was dark, the light clouded, already stretching toward evening. Even so, his eyes glowed there, an intensity of feeling she could barely fathom written in their depths.

  Claudine swallowed hard. “Sir, I...I am indebted, truly. I know you told me not to use that word, but I cannot think of any other way to tell you my appreciation.”

  Perdition! Why was her voice so shaky? She bit her lip and made herself hold his gaze, without blinking. Why did she feel so close to tears? It must be some effect of recovery.

  “There is a way,” he said. He leaned forward, and Claudine's heart almost stopped as she felt her own body respond to that action, leaning up against him so that their lips were close.

  She could feel his hands, tight and warm on hers, and his breath touched her lips. She could smell the warm spice-musk scent of him. Her heart thudded like a drumbeat.

  “Milady!” a voice called. Frances.

  Claudine whipped around, cheeks flooding with color. What had she been thinking? She was a woman already promised! And to another man, at that. “Yes, Frances?”

  “Milady? It's time to return to the house. Master was asking for ye.”

  Claudine looked up at Laird McRae. His eyes were downcast and she could hear his breath. She turned quickly away and, letting go his hands, turned and walked as quickly as she could, back to the house.

  “Milady!” Frances stood aside, letting her pass quickly into the lamplit brightness of the hallway. She shut the door behind her, reaching for her cloak, fussing about her protectively. “Come inside with ye! I were worried sick! It's cold out there! And you not fully well.”

  “I'm fine,” Claudine whispered. Her eyes closed, she leaned against the wall for support. Her heart ached. She was a maelstrom of confusing, confused emotions. Laird McRae!

  I don't love him. I'm not even interested in him. I barely know him.

  She bit her lip, willing herself to be more sensible.

  He cares about you. He nursed you. He feels for you what you feel for him – and you do feel for him.

  “No,” she whispered.

  Her mind fed her another image, one of her father, blue eyes bright and imploring, sitting at his desk, peruke covering his thinning hair. He took her hands. “It's all for the cause,” he said in her vision. “All for the cause.”

  He let her hands go. The vision dissolved. Claudine found herself in a hallway, beside Frances, who looked at her with a worried frown.

  “Och, milady. Look. Here's Milady Marguerite. Do ye need help tae get upstairs, now?”

  Claudine opened her eyes and saw that yes, indeed, her cousins – both of them – were there before her. Douglas reached out a hand and took hers, worry on his handsome face.

  “Do you need assistance?” he asked carefully. “Doctor Barnewell was most insistent that you are not over-excited in these days.”

  “I can manage,” Claudine whispered. “I just need to sit quietly awhile.”

  “Of course, Claudine. Come into the parlor. It's the warmest room of the house. I'll send for tea for you? Some cakes, mayhap? There's barely any of you left!”

  Claudine smiled fondly at her cousin. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice ragged. “But I'd just like to sit quietly alone awhile.”

  “Of course. As you wish. Frances? Send for McLean and tell him nobody's to go into the parlor. Not for anything, even to stoke the fire.”

  Her voice trailed off as Claudine slowly mounted the stairs. Her legs felt like lead, but she knew she could make it up, one step at a time. She reached the top and there collapsed into the scented, warm sanctuary of the parlor. All she could think about was what had just happened, there in the garden, her body tingling and throbbing with the feelings that coursed through her then.

  She must have dozed awhile there, for she woke feeling a little stronger. It was dark outside, the room painted in drifting shadows of blue and gray. She stood and stumbled toward the door. The fire had burned down, now just a ruddy glow.

  Out in the hallway, she called out for Frances. Footsteps hurried up. Her heart sank.

  “Lady Claudine!” Dunstan South bowed low. He looked up at her, handsome face tense. “I have been so worried! I called a coach, insisting on taking you away from this...this...” He waved a hand at the manor as if lost for words at such barbarity.

  “I am much recovered,” Claudine said in a small, tight voice. “And received easily as good attendance as I would anywhere in England.”

  “Huh,” Dunstan snorted. “Well, you are recovered. And that's a thing to be thankful for. Now. You are coming with me. Tomorrow, at dawn. I insist upon it. Damn it, woman! You almost died here! How much more proof do you want that you are only safe with me?”

  Claudine shrank back, alarmed. He took her wrist and grabbed it, his fingers bruising the tender skin. She pulled away, a mix of revulsion and fear filling her.

  “Dunstan, leave me,” she said. She leaned against the wall, trying to reassemble her strength. “I will need a week to recover, at least, before I can travel anywhere.” She thought quickly, trying to give herself time. It shocked her to consider that this was the man her father had wished her to marry. Her only thought was to escape him.

  “Huh,” he said bitterly. “I don't believe that, not after what I saw – you plead illness, but you're well enough to walk in the gardens with that brute.”

  “Brute?” Claudine gaped.

  “I saw you,” he hissed. “I watched from the window. You think you can claim ignorance, but I saw you. I wonder that you didn't act this whole time.”

  “Dunstan!” Claudine was hurt. “Cannot you see how sick I have been? I can barely walk...” She trailed off, leaning against the wall for support.

  “A pretty scheme,” he sneered. “Well, don't think it'll fool me. I know the sort of woman you are, and I intend to move quickly. Who knows what might happen if I don't take you back to England. No, we'
re leaving tomorrow morning. Make no mistake about it.”

  “My cousins will not...”

  “Your cousins will say nothing against me,” he said. “I think I have a shrewd idea of what goes on in this house, and, believe me, your cousins will not risk me informing the Brigadier-general about their Jacobite views.”

  “My cousins are no Jacobites...” Claudine was horrified. Quite apart from the serious accusations he sought to put at Marguerite's door, her father trusted this man! He himself was involved in the plotting, to a greater degree. Why had he ever thought he could trust Lord South?

  “Yes, I know...your father is tainted with those views himself. But I am sure his views would change, given strong reason. And your brother is already half changing sides.”

  “Reid wouldn't...” Claudine whispered.

  “After two years in the Borderers? You think him so immune to persuasion that he wouldn't at least consider changing sides?”

  “Reid is an honest man.”

  “Honesty?” Dunstan snorted. “What does that mean? Scruples are for sale, Claudine. And whoever has the right coin buys them. The same for your father. I will wed you, and the dowry he has promised will come with you to Southfields, my home. There. What say you to that, now? Come.”

  “No,” Claudine said, wrenching away with the last of her strength. Her wrist twisted from his grasp – he had forgotten to grip it tightly – and she walked, as quickly as she could, up the hallway. She heard him follow her.

  “Claudine! I warn you...”

  “Frances,” Claudine called out, nearing her chamber. “Frances?”

  “Milady!” Frances opened the door, a pillowcase in one hand, a worried frown on her brow. “Och, there you are. Come inside and rest now. It's time for that tincture. I was just about to come and find you...”

  Claudine listened to her gentle remonstrance as she sank down onto the bed. She felt so weary. However, she had to act.

  Dunstan is not the sort of man to say things lightly. If he means to take me away tomorrow, he will do so. I have to move quickly.

  Her mind ran with thoughts. What could she do? She had to run away. Douglas and Marguerite would help her.