“What happened to him?”
She shook her head, unable to take it in. He had been so carefree moments earlier. She couldn't fathom what had entered his head. And why were they stopping at the abbey? It had been his plan to reach the next town, at least.
“Something bothered him.”
She shook her head, going to the kitchen. She had never been in a kitchen alone – not with any sort of intent of using one. She stared at the oven, feeling utterly at sea. What does one do with it? She could see the logs piled inside, and could guess one was meant to make a fire, but when one was meant to cook on it, or how, she had no idea. She opened a cupboard.
Jars of preserves were left there, the oilcloth over the mouths of them annotated with the flavor and the year. She settled them on the shelf again, shaking her head at the level of care the monks had shown.
A wooden bowl held cheese, cured and salted, and another cupboard housed flour and a cake of something that smelled intensely yeasty. She closed the door and walked to the window. Where was Brogan?
“Hello?”
She was about to go outside to find him when he walked in. His face was tense, a frown on his brow. “Brogan? Were you...”
“I stabled the horses. Monks left us plenty of oats and hay.”
“Good. Good,” Claudine nodded, absently. “Brogan, were you...”
“I think we have enough here to make a supper of sorts. Not that I have ever made a supper afore in my life. You?”
“No,” Claudine said, as if he should have known that. “Brogan?”
“Aye?” He spun around from his perusal of the cupboards she had just checked.
“Tell me what is the matter.”
Brogan looked at her. He seemed about to speak, then he shook his head. He closed his eyes. His shoulders slumped. “Och, lass. Forgive me,” he said.
Claudine frowned. She really felt mystified. “Yes, I forgive you,” she said carefully. “At least, I'm sure I do, even if I don't know what you think you did.”
This made him laugh, a snort of mirth. “Well, if neither of us ken, then I reckon it's well enough,” he said cryptically. “Right, then. If you have any idea how to make supper out of what we have, I'll leave ye to it. I'm going to go and thank our hosts, and maybe ask them for a map that shows more of the region than yours did.”
“It isn't my...” Claudine said quickly, but he'd already gone.
She looked round the kitchen and sat down heavily.
“What is going on?”
She felt dazed and confused. She was also frightened. She was out here with a man who seemed quite capable of changing radically at any moment. Moreover, she was stuck in a kitchen with a random assortment of items and instructions to make supper. She had never cooked anything in her life.
“We have eggs,” she said, opening another cupboard and finding someone had thoughtfully placed eggs there. She drew one out and tapped it, listening to the sound it made. It seemed hard and solid.
“Right,” she said. “I reckon I can do something with these. We can eat the cheese, and mayhap some of those pickles...”
She found a pan and filled it with water, then set it on the stove. A flint and striker proved easy to use after the first few tries, and she was just bending to blow life into the fire when she heard a step on the floor.
“Lass?”
She turned around to find him standing in the kitchen, looking down at her bottom in a way that made her flush, shocked.
“What're you doing?”
Claudine got up hastily. “I'm making supper,” she said.
He chuckled. “You are, too, my goodness.”
Claudine reddened. She looked at the floor, feeling strangely proud. She'd filled the pan with water and the eggs floated there, the cheese reposing on a board beside the pot. A jar of pickles was open and laid out on a plate beside the cheese. She saw him take it all in and then his eyes returned to her face.
“Lass, you really are unusual,” he said.
Claudine reddened. “I trust that is not a bad thing.”
He chuckled. “Not at all, lass,” he said. “Not at all.”
He got the fire going and soon the eggs were boiling in the pan. He deemed them ready after twenty minutes and they rinsed and cracked them while he told her the monk's directions.
“He said to ride to Halford, and then we should be able to cut across country here...” He pointed to the spot on the map. “And you say your brother is stationed here, on the border?”
“Yes,” Claudine said, nodding. She felt mute, as if all her words were stuck tight in her throat, unable to dislodge.
What happened? Why were you so distant? Why are you helping? What will you do?
So many questions, but she couldn't find the words for a single one.
Later, when they had finished assembling supper – he added bread and more cheese from their provisions – they sat and ate and talked.
Claudine tensed with surprise as his hand reached for hers, enfolding it. She found she could barely breathe. Then all her breath came out in a rush as he gently squeezed it.
“Lass,” he said. “I'm sorry.”
Claudine frowned. She still had no idea what he was sorry for. All she knew was that her hand felt as if she had soaked it in warm balm, every bone and muscle in it tingling at the sweetness of his touch.
“Will you take the room upstairs?” he asked.
“I...” Claudine trailed off. It hadn't occurred to her there might only be room for one person.
“There's room down here, by the parlor,” he suggested. “I'll be fine, lass.”
Claudine frowned. “If you say so...” She trailed off, feeling quite confused.
“I'll be fine, lass,” he said.
He squeezed her hand, and then let go. Feeling utterly confused, and tired, Claudine finished her supper and then went upstairs to rest. She hadn't expected to fall asleep so quickly, but she was wearier than she’d thought and soon found herself drifting off to sleep.
NEW THOUGHTS
When Claudine had gone upstairs to bed, Brogan sat for a long while by the fire. He looked into the depths, thinking. None of what was happening made sense.
I didn't want to tell her about the men.
He had seen the soldiers again. He was sure they were trailing them now. Five this time, skirting the woods. They daren't come too close to the abbey, since the monks would certainly invite them in to rest, and then they would come face-to-face with him and Claudine, who they followed.
“It is her, isn't it?” he asked the shadows. Nothing gave so much as a hint of answer. He sighed.
What was he supposed to think? Too many strange things had happened since Claudine arrived. First, Dunstan South arriving – given his relation to her father, it wasn't all that odd – but then this. Second, her whole flight from the manor seemed a little odd, but coupled with the fact that soldiers were following them, it seemed suspicious.
She was meant to lead me away.
He didn't want to think it. He fought the thought whenever it occurred. However, the more he tried to ignore it, the more it seemed likely.
“If that's so, Brogan, how is she communicating with them, eh? Answer me that.”
He sighed. He had never seen her so much as acknowledge the men's presence. Except once. And then, that time, had she been afraid?
“I don't know.”
He clenched his fist, feeling awash. He had no idea how to tell if she was telling the truth, or if he was willingly allowing himself to be fooled by her. It seemed quite possible that he was. In many ways, her interest in him seemed too good to be true.
And why, though, would they be leading me to the border?
That was the part that made no sense. If Claudine was meant to isolate him from the folk at Duncliffe Manor, she had already done that. The Borderers could have easily killed him by now, a dozen times. All she would have had to do was whistle, and they could shoot him as he went to the stables. Or even now,
as he sat before the fire.
He tensed, then relaxed. If someone was going to kill him in cold blood, it would have been easy for them to do it as he returned from the abbey. If they did it here, they'd have to break a window or a door, and he couldn't see them risking waking the monks like that.
He didn't want to be angry with her. If she was putting his life in danger, even if she was leading him to murder somewhere in the forest, he couldn't hate her.
“I am in love with her.”
He hadn't been able to admit that, even to himself, but he knew it to be true. He really was in love with her. In addition, he knew it was foolish, but he couldn't help it. From that first banquet, he realized, when she had scorned him and then relented, sharing a joke together, he'd fallen.
He sighed and stood and went through to the parlor. The fire had burned down to red coals in the grate in the kitchen, and it would continue to burn there, warming the house.
The parlor was equipped with a chaise-lounge, old but clean. He lay down on it, covering himself with his cloak.
As he curled up to sleep, he found himself thinking about Claudine, asleep in the bed. She would be wearing a petticoat, he guessed, dark hair down. He felt his whole body tense just thinking of it.
He fell asleep before he'd expected to, thoughts of her filling him.
The next morning, he woke up to a peculiar sound. High-pitched and tormenting, it sounded as if all the residents of purgatory had moved into the kitchen and were wailing in chorus.
He leaped out of bed and ran through to the kitchen, heedless of the fact that he was in his trews without a kilt. Once there, he stared.
Claudine was at the stove, a kettle hissing and whistling before her. She stared at him, horror mixing with amusement on her face. “Brogan...”
He felt rooted to the spot. He stared. “I...sorry...the noise,” he said. He turned and ran.
He heard another strange noise coming out of the kitchen – stifled mirth.
He sighed, running out of words. In a range of possible responses, why did he have to pick the most dramatic, and easily the most embarrassing? He reached for his kilt and wrapped it on, fastening it with a belt and then adjusting it, cheeks red.
“She's going to be laughing about that all day.”
Sure enough, as he went into the kitchen, he noticed brightness in her eyes. She swallowed hard.
“I made you some eggs, Brogan.”
“Thanks,” he said.
Without meeting her eye, he drew out a seat by the kitchen table and sat down. She had made four boiled eggs and laid out some cheese and bread – she must have found it in the saddle-packs by the door.
“You were busy,” he said, reaching for his cup. To his amazement, it was filled with hot tea. He hadn't even known there were tea leaves in the kitchen! He looked at the table, amazed.
When he risked a glance up, she was glowing.
“Well, I did think it was only fair I did something,” she said.
He shook his head. “You didn't have to.”
“Well, I probably didn't have to” she said. “But I wanted to. And isn't that perfectly allowed?”
Brogan coughed, embarrassed. “You didn't have to, no,” he said. “But I'm glad you did. Thanks.”
He looked at her. She was sitting there, looking at him archly. Her hair was loose – she had stopped arranging it a long time ago on their journey. It tumbled loose down her back. She was wearing the dusty pink riding dress she had been wearing the morning he rode away with her. It had a tear on one sleeve, he noticed. He thought she looked even more beautiful than that first night he saw her in the manor.
Her eyes met his. She gave him an amused glance. Embarrassed, he looked away. He coughed. “We should get ready to leave.”
Claudine frowned at him, but then nodded. “I suppose.”
Brogan shifted in his seat. He felt tormented. He wanted so much to stay...if he was honest, he wanted to carry her upstairs to the bedchamber and undress her slowly, kissing every inch of her. “Och, lass. We have some forty miles tae travel yet.”
Claudine nodded. “I know.”
“Well, then,” he said, stretching, not looking at her. “We'd best get going.” He stood, pushing in his chair.
“I know,” Claudine said carefully. She looked out of the window and he thought she seemed sad.
“I'll go and get the horses ready,” he said quickly. Damn it! Why did she have to make him feel as if she wanted him as much as he wanted her? It wasn't fair.
All I am is a means to an end – I have to get her safely to her brother. That's all.
He scolded himself and headed out to the stables.
Whether she was in league with Hanoverian soldiers, he wasn't going to ponder. He could defend himself against two of them, he reckoned. The five together? He knew he didn't have a chance. He would have to outwit them somehow, if it came to it.
“For the moment, I'm just going to enjoy the ride.”
He had a duty to do.
“Whist,” he said as his horse nudged him with his nose, snuffing at him interestedly. “I ken it's cold and you'd rather stay in here. But we'll no' go far today. I promise. Thirty miles?”
His horse snuffed at him and he nodded, stroking the long muzzle. He didn't want to do this any more than, it seemed, his horse wished to. “I wish I'd never gone to Duncliffe.”
He sighed. He knew he didn't want that – not really. He was glad he'd met Claudine. Torment or not, she had showed him a brighter, lively world. For that, he was grateful.
Pretense or not, I cannot help but like her.
He sighed. She was an unusual lass. He knew no other high-born woman, even in the most backward clans, who would have woken early and made breakfast. He wasn't sure he himself would have known how – not with such a good result.
“Whist, she's a rare one.”
His horse snuffed in agreement and he finished tacking up, and then headed out into the small garden, crowded with herbs. He crossed it, leaving the horses to graze the monks' flowerbeds, and headed inside.
“Claudine?”
No answer.
Brogan's heart thudded with a sense of threat. His first thought was that she'd gone off to inform on them. He looked round the cottage sharply, as if half-afraid that the soldiers were there, waiting to take him away.
“Claudine?” he called, feeling silly.
No answer.
He felt another worry then – what if she was hurt? Maybe a relapse of whatever illness had plagued her at Duncliffe? Alarmed, he ran upstairs. “Claudine?”
She appeared on the landing, haggard-looking but well. “Brogan,” she said tiredly. “Sorry. My courses...”
“Oh.” Brogan flushed red. He hadn't even thought of that. He stepped back, flushed with apology. “Och, lass. I'm sorry. You...can you ride?”
Claudine shrugged. “I'll have to,” she said.
Brogan felt his stomach tie itself in knots of embarrassment. He didn't know anything about women, or their courses. How would he? He hadn't even had a sister or a cousin to share his growing up. He had no idea if it was dangerous for her to ride or not.
“Och...I wish ye didn't have to ride,” he murmured.
She came and stood beside him and, to his surprise, put a gentle hand on his arm. “It's alright, Brogan,” she said gently. “I'll be fine.”
Brogan looked into her pale eyes. He felt such tenderness as he'd never felt before. “I hope so,” he said slowly.
She chuckled. “I certainly will! All women have to face such things, and if it was deadly, I reckon we'd have a lot more fatalities...”
She trailed off. Brogan shifted uncomfortably.
“Well, I brought the horses up,” he said. “I reckon we ought to go.”
“Yes,” she said. “I'll be down in a moment.”
“Thanks, lass,” he said quietly.
While he waited for her, he marveled at his own reaction. How could he be so stupid? How could he have assume
d that she would sell him to the soldiers?
He shook his head.
“How am I supposed to know what's true?”
“Brogan?”
She came out of the cottage. He watched her, looking about for him.
“Brogan?”
He was surprised to see she seemed worried at not being able to find him. He felt a flush of pleasure, seeing that. He stepped out from round the side of his horse and she saw him.
“Oh. There you are.” She smiled at him. “I couldn't see you.”
“I wouldn't go, lass,” he said gently. “Need a hand?” He couldn't see a suitable mounting-block anywhere.
She flushed. “Thanks.”
He stood by her horse and, as she stepped up, lifted her, hands in her waist. She tensed and he drew in a breath. Besides that kiss, it was the most intimate they had ever been.
She settled into the saddle and looked down at him. He held her gaze. Her hand moved to his shoulder and he tensed, barely wanting to risk moving, lest he make her affright and remove her hand. He didn't want this moment to end. She didn't move, though, and her gaze held his.
Slowly he started to breathe again. He laid a hand over her fingers, where her other hand rested on the pommel of the saddle. They stood like that, gazing into each other's eyes.
“Come on, you,” a voice called in the distance. “Hey! Biter...”
Brogan and Claudine turned and watched a young monk trying, in frustration, to lead a sheepdog to the pasture where the abbey's flocks grazed. He bit back a smile. When he looked at Claudine's face, he saw she was smiling too.
“Come on,” he said softly. “Let's go.”
She nodded and he moved, reluctantly, and turned to his horse. He mounted, grunting as he stepped into the saddle. His legs were starting to hurt from the long days' riding. Together, with a fond backward glance at the abbey precincts where they'd spent a night, they rode away.
The morning was cloudy, the promise of snow hanging in the air. Brogan breathed out a cloud of steam and wondered at the sense of what they were doing. It was still five-and-thirty miles’ ride to the border, and they would be riding in the worst weather.
The Highlander’s Runaway (Blood of Duncliffe Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 14
