The Highlander’s Widow (Blood 0f Duncliffe Series Book 8) Read online

  “I understand,” he said tightly. “Well then. For the boy, we'll leave things as they are.”

  “For the boy.”

  They both knew that wasn't true. Bronan looked into her eyes and shrugged again, helplessly. “Well, I suppose I should find the doctor and ask if he needs anything else done around the place.” He looked over at the house. “Might as well make myself useful, eh?”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “I suppose.”

  She looked around the garden, uncomfortably. “Bronan, I...You're a wonderful man, and...”

  “Don't,” he said, feeling like his heart might actually break. If she said a goodbye, it would be impossible not to cry. If he cried, he'd not stop before he'd made a fool of himself.

  “Well, then,” she shrugged. “I should go inside. My son is resting, but I promised to teach him his lessons. These things mustn't stop, just because he's wounded.”

  “No,” Bronan said stiffly. “I suppose.”

  She looked at him helplessly and then headed back up to the house.

  Bronan closed his eyes. He felt drained. He felt a tear streak down his cheek, bringing to his lips the salty taste of tears. He blinked, impatiently. “No point in crying,” he whispered to himself. “Never helped anything.”

  He sniffed and, biting his lip, waited for a minute until he thought he could speak without betraying his sorrow. Then, when he was ready, he went back up to the kitchen.

  “Feeling well?” the doctor's wife said as he entered. She was sitting at the counter, shelling peas, not looking up.

  The scent of stew washed over him, making his stomach clench and growl. He sniffed. “Yes,” he managed to say, keeping his voice level. “I suppose. Your man did a fine job fixing me.”

  She did look up then, her spectacles a little frosty with steam. Grinning, she nodded. “Aye, he's a fine doctor. I'm glad he's done a good job. If only he could manage to remember everything else! Then we wouldn't keep having our goat wandering into the street and getting lost.” She started to laugh.

  Bronan felt a smile lift his lips. “Your goat?” he asked.

  “Aye. Bonnie's her name. She's up to all sorts! We had trouble when she got into the baker's place and ate all his greens. Tam keeps saying he'll mend the gate, but does he remember?” She chuckled.

  “The gate?” Bronan felt his heart lift. “Will you show me?”

  The old lady beamed, blue eyes lost in a network of wrinkles. “You'll fix it? By! That's a fine job, lad! Yon lady's lucky to have you about, eh?”

  Bronan swallowed as she chuckled. Of all things he wanted to think about, that was the last of them. “Mayhap,” he said softly. His throat ached and he knew that, if he thought about it much longer, he'd cry again, which would disgrace him. “Mayhap.”

  He followed the doctor's wife into the garden.

  Ten minutes later, armed with the doctor's tool-set, he cut wood. He pulled out old nails, sawed a beam. Undid the hinges, heaved the gate off and beat nails in to hold the new beam. As he worked, he swore under his breath. He sweated and cursed and cried. He felt no better when the gate was repaired.

  As the doctor's wife exclaimed, happily, about the improvements, he stood by, impassive. The wind blew through the leaves of the hedge and he felt as if it might as well blow through him, too: he was empty.

  Amalie was lost to him, it seemed. What more could touch him?

  AN UNEXPECTED DISCOVERY

  The wind ruffled the trees. It was twilight, the sun sinking almost an hour ago behind the hills. The evening was chilly and the breeze carried the first breath of winter. Amalie didn't notice.

  Pulling her shawl – borrowed from a cupboard in her bedroom – round her, she withstood the cold. She looked over the bleak, bluish fields.

  She swore. Tears running down her cheeks, she let out all the words of pain and torment she'd been holding back all day that day. “Damn!” she said, whispering it angrily. “Damn.”

  She wasn't angry – she was inconsolable. However, anger hurt less than sorrow, as she knew well from Keith's death. For that reason, she swore and cried and tried to turn the ice-capped mountain inside her into rage. “Damn.”

  She felt better. Reaching into the pocket of her gown – concealed inside the waistband – she drew out her handkerchief. She dabbed methodically at the tears that stained her cheeks sniffed again.

  Bronan. You dear fool.

  If he'd raged at her, she'd have accepted it. He would at least have seemed like he was hurt. But that quiet calm?

  He likely agrees with me.

  That hurt. She realized she had hoped, foolishly perhaps, for a contradiction. She had wanted him to argue, to say that she was not too old, that he would cleave to her regardless, more emphatically than the simple contradiction he’d offered. That he thought she was a fool to think like that. But no.

  No. He was happy to accept it.

  That wasn't quite true, and she knew it. He had looked upset. He'd kissed her, he'd even argued. There hadn't been much heart in it though.

  I want to make myself think he doesn't care.

  She turned back to the house, sorrowing. A light burned in an upper story of the house, gold against the blue. A merry, welcoming place, it seemed to draw her in. It was the simplest dwelling she'd ever stayed in – two rooms and a kitchen below, three rooms above – but she supposed that, by village standards, it was quite luxurious. Oddly welcoming, too, for all its simplicity.

  Alec likes it here.

  She shook her head. That had been a source of real surprise – how quickly her son had accommodated to life on the run, as it were. Sullen and uncooperative at home, in this place, in this lifestyle, he came into his own. She recalled him laughing and joking with Bronan over dinner that night.

  It's not just the cottage. It's him.

  She sighed. It pained her to think it, but she knew that Bronan's company was as meaningful to her son as it was to her. And now what?

  Now he will go to the estate he works at and I will go to Inverkeith and stay there. And we'll never see him more.

  It was better thus.

  “Milady?”

  She turned as Mrs. Morris, voice urgent, called her name. “Yes?”

  “Milady? It's Alec. He's most distracted. Said he had to talk to ye.”

  Amalie ran toward the gate, where the woman stood with the lamp, blinking owlishly behind her spectacles. “I'm coming.”

  Together they briskly walked back to the house.

  As Amalie came in, she heard Alec's voice. Peevish and high, it sounded like the Alec of Inverkeith – caged and frustrated. She winced.

  “No, I won't!” he said crossly. “And you can't make me.”

  “Alec?” Amalie came in briskly. “What is it, son? Doctor?”

  The doctor, who had been sitting on the settle opposite Alec, shrugged. He stood up, wincing as his back ached. “It wasn't meant badly,” the doctor said, apologetically to Amalie. “I just told him he couldn't go!” He shrugged and took the opportunity to retreat to the back of the room.

  “Alec?” Amalie turned to her son. Hands clasped, he was pale in a way that told her he was at the end of his tether. “What is it?”

  “He said Bronan is going!” Alec stormed. “And that I can't go with him. I won't stay!”

  “Alec...” Amalie felt her heart twist. Her son had pushed back his chair and gone toward the door, his expression set. He looked at his most stubborn. He had all the determination of his father, turned inward into corrosive rage.

  “I'm not letting you stop me,” he warned. “I'm a soldier now. You can't tell me what to do.”

  Amalie felt despair. “I don't want to tell you anything, Alec,” she said softly. “I just want you to talk to me. I know you can go if you want to. But, Alec...”

  “What?” He threw the remark over his shoulder, turning in the doorway. He had that sullen, haughty look that was meant to hide his hurt.

  “Let's go upstairs?” she suggested, looking round to
where the doctor and his wife sat in the room next door, just visible through the entrance. She didn't want them overhearing her confession. She wasn't even sure how she would tell Alec.

  Alec threw her a belittling glance. He nodded, though. “Fine.”

  Feeling some of her tension dissolve, Amalie followed Alec up the stairs toward the bedchamber. He went in and sat down on the bed, hands on his thighs, looking down.

  “Alec?” she asked as she closed the door behind them. “What is it?”

  “Bronan came and found me. He said I mustn't tell anyone, but he was going to go back to Duncliffe on his own, to find out news. He said he couldn't let you wait here for a letter that might never come.”

  “He said that?” Amalie was hurt. Did he really think something so tragic had happened to her friend? Why hadn't he told her?

  “Yes, Mama,” her son said softly. “He said I couldn't come with him. But I want to go,” he pleaded. “I'm a man now. Father would want me to be brave.”

  “Yes,” Amalie said, her throat closing up at the boy's perception of his father. Why did he think Keith would want him risking his life? She shook her head wearily. “But he'd also worry for the danger, lad.”

  “I'm not a lad,” he shot back.

  Amalie closed her eyes, desperate. “No,” she made herself agree. “No, you're not. You're fifteen and in two years' time you'll be laird of Inverkeith, like your father was. But now you're injured. Even your father would have stayed abed, for a shot-wound!”

  “I don't believe you.”

  “Alec...” Amalie despaired. She had seen him go from his sullen shell to a bright, happy child again, full of potential. Now Bronan threatened to go, and sent him right back into his own darkness. It was really her fault.

  I shouldn't have told him to go. If I hadn't, he'd be waiting here with us, and Alec would be as he had been yesterday. Bright and peaceful, and self-assured.

  She shook her head. “Is Bronan still busy outside?” she asked. Mrs. Morris had told her a long story about him mending the gate.

  “No,” Alec said. “He's in his room. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn't listen. He doesn't care either. He just wants to leave me also.”

  Amalie wanted to cry. It was the worst thing that could have happened. Suddenly, Bronan had taken the place of his father and was, again, deserting him without reason. “Alec, he doesn't...”

  “Don't speak to me like that. I'm not a child,” he spat.

  Amalie swallowed. Alec had turned his back to her. As she watched, he went to the door. He cradled his left arm, his shoulder clearly paining.

  “Alec...” she called out. “Where are you going?”

  “I'm going outside. If Bronan doesn't care either, then maybe the doctor won't mind if I finish grooming the horses. It doesn't matter if my shoulder never heals.”

  “Alec!” Amalie was hurt. “Don't say that. Please?”

  “Don't act like you care,” Alec shot back. “I know you don't. You never did. And nobody does.”

  Amalie said nothing. She only waited, mutely, while her son went down the hallway, boots ringing out on the wooden planks. She listened as he ran downstairs and then outside, the door slamming closed.

  When he'd gone, she covered her eyes with her hand. She was too upset to cry. She felt empty. What could she do?

  I need to talk to him.

  She didn't mean Alec. She knew her son well enough to know that, after an hour in the stables, talking to the horses, he'd be calmer. McFlannan had found that out, introducing the boy to riding and woodcraft. She wished he was here now. Of everyone, he could talk sense to the lad. He wasn't about to hear it, coming from her.

  Taking in a breath, she went to the door. She glanced at her reflection, not wanting to look too disheveled when she talked to Bronan. She was pale, but her hair looked neat-enough, and her lips were dark against the pallor of her skin.

  “It'll do,” she sniffed. She didn't know why it mattered. He didn't really care about her, did he?

  She shook her head. Knowing she was being selfish – Alec's needs should matter more than her wounded femininity – she headed to the room. “Bronan?” she called.

  She tensed as she listened for his reply. It was completely unheard-of, what she did: she was a gentlewoman, and here she was, knocking on the door of a peasant, and a man! It was shocking. She drew a steadying in-breath. She was doing it for her son. Only that.

  “Hello?”

  She called again, listening with her ear against the wood. She waited. Then she sighed. If he was in there, he had no interest in coming out. Or he was asleep. She might as well not bother him. She walked slowly down the hallway. Then she stopped, as someone called her.

  “Hello?”

  She froze. His voice was so tender it sent shivers down her body. She turned. “Bronan,” she said tiredly. “I had to speak to you.”

  “Speak then,” he said softly. “Lady Amalie...what is it?” he asked. “You look terrible.”

  She laughed. “Thanks,” she said, her mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “Next time I want to feel better, I'll come and find you. You know right well how to compliment a lass.”

  He laughed, too. She looked into his eyes. His expression looked much as she felt – sad, but with a wry amusement.

  “Oh, Bronan,” she said softly. “What fools we are, eh?”

  “What's that, milady?”

  She sighed. “Nothing, Bronan. I...” She gathered her thoughts. “My son is distraught.”

  “Lad wants to ride again,” Bronan shrugged. “I understand his anger.”

  “It's not the riding, Bronan,” she spat, feeling angry now. “It's you! Can't you see?” she asked pleadingly. “He needs you!”

  Bronan looked at the ground. “I know,” he said.

  Amalie looked at him. “You know? Then how can...”

  “Amalie!” he said. He said it softly, but she could hear the forcefulness in the sound of it. “How can I not go? I can't stay here! Not after...” He shook his head and looked away from her.

  “I know,” she said softly. “Bronan, we can't go on like this.”

  “No,” he said. “We can't.”

  Amalie sighed. It was all very well to say it, but what were they to do? Her feelings and his feelings changed nothing. He was still a twenty-nine-year old soldier, and she was still the widow of an earl. There was still a gulf between them. She swallowed hard. “Bronan, you know I can't...”

  “I know,” he said.

  Suddenly, the space between them was not so large, and he had stepped closer, taking her hand. She tensed, and then sighed. His fingers gripping hers felt so reassuring, so strong. She wanted to let him grip her hands, let him draw her against his muscled, lean body. Let him press his lips to her skin, kissing her in that way that left her breathless, and reeling.

  I have never felt anything like that.

  She knew she should feel guilty, thinking that. It was true: her love for Alec's father had been courtly, a thing of diplomacy and tenderness, mutual respect. It had been exquisite, the way an intricate courtly dance was exquisite. This was something else. This new love smelled of wild honeysuckle and grass, cut in sunshine. It was wild and magical and untamed. She had no idea where it would lead. That was the joy of it.

  “Oh, Amalie.”

  Suddenly he was upon her. His arms went round her and he drew her to his chest. She tensed, feeling as if she should resist it, but she didn't want to.

  His lips pressed onto hers and she sighed, feeling them part under his questing tongue. He tasted good and she drew him into her embrace, stroking her hands soothingly down his back.

  “Amalie,” he growled. He looked down at her, his face twisted in longing.

  She felt the expression kindle the same longing, right within her. She drew him toward her and they kissed again.

  She could feel his body responding as urgently as her own. She pressed against his body and pressed her lips to his and knew that she was aching to
hold him closer, to feel his skin on hers, to feel his body press hers down and enter her, slowly.

  He looked down at her again and when he leaned against the door of his bedchamber, drawing her in across the threshold, she did nothing to protest. He closed the door behind them.

  A NIGHT TO REMEMBER

  Amalie tensed as Bronan's fingers lingered on the buttons at the neck of her dress. She could feel his body against hers and the stirrings of her own longing were like sweet fire in her belly. All the same, though, she felt wrong.

  “Bronan...” she whispered.

  He looked down at her, tenderly. He smiled.

  She felt her misgivings dissolve. This was something new. It was not treachery to Keith. He would not want her to be sorrowing. She had to believe that. Her body was singing, tingling, alive in ways it had not been for years. She could not stop this adventure.

  “Amalie.”

  Bronan made her name a song, a whisper – a wonder. She sighed and felt her body dissolve under his as he pushed her down toward the bed. With a little gasp, she fell back onto it. He lay down beside her. His eyes held hers.

  “I don't deserve you,” he whispered.

  Amalie frowned. She giggled, the idea so preposterous to her that she couldn't hold back her laugh. “Bronan!” she said. “What a thing to say!”

  He frowned at her, and laughed, too, bemused. “What?” he asked.

  “Of course you deserve me!” She chuckled. “I thought I didn't deserve you!”

  Now he really looked puzzled. His handsome face, all creased with a frown, made her heart ache: he looked even more handsome confused than he did usually, she realized with wonder. She felt a wash of protective love. “Oh, Bronan,” she said.

  He grinned. Shaking his head, he leaned down toward her. His lips tasted hers.

  Amalie sighed and drew him closer, wrapping her arms around him. He responded eagerly, his body pressing to her as he sighed with sweet urgency. She could feel his arousal through the trews he wore and she smiled to herself, feeling pleased that she could make him feel that way about her.

  He leaned back, sighing. He looked down at her again. His eyes were grave. “Amalie,” he whispered breathlessly. “I want you so much! I just...” He paused. “Not if you don't want me to.”