The Highlander’s Widow (Blood 0f Duncliffe Series Book 8) Page 12

They continued.

  When they neared the gate, it became obvious something was afoot. Bronan slowed his horse from the gentle trot at which they'd been riding to a walk. He stared.

  The gate reared up from the woodlands, tall as two men standing on each other's shoulders. The wall was almost as tall again, gray stone and imposing. Alec was staring at it, a happy grin on his face. Beside him, Amalie was unworried, though her serene face had a slight frown at the brow, pensive. Bronan turned to her. “The troops we saw. They're here...”

  “They're my uncle's,” she said succinctly. “His household troops.”

  “Oh.”

  Again, he felt stupid. He glanced sideways at her, but she said nothing. He looked at Alec, who had a happy smile on his face.

  “Great-uncle came early,” he said, turning to Amalie. “I wonder if he remembered my present.”

  Amalie laughed. Bronan could hear the tension in it, though she was clearly trying to hide it from the lad.

  “Mayhap, Alec. It'd be unlike him to forget. Do you want to go ahead, find out?”

  Alec's eyes shone. The lad looked elated and Bronan realized how important the contact with his father, however remote, had become. He looked at Amalie, who nodded.

  “Off you go, then, Alec. I'll rest here awhile. I'm tired.”

  Alec looked torn. Bronan nodded. “I'll wait here with your mama awhile, lad,” he encouraged. “You go and see your uncle. He'll be wondering where you are now.”

  “Thanks!” Alec shouted over his shoulder, speeding off. “Don't wait too long, Mama! You know how Great-uncle likes seeing us.”

  Bronan glanced at Amalie, whose face was tense. She looked less pleased about this than Alec's cheerful tone merited. He frowned. She clearly isn't happy to see him.

  “Amalie?”

  “I'm fine,” she whispered. Her voice was emotionless, her face stiffened. “I'm just tired. I want to be prepared for seeing the Duke of Astley.”

  Bronan frowned. Her uncle was a duke, and not just any duke – the duke of Astley, one of the most powerful men in Scotland. He shivered. As far as he knew, the duke – a distant, hard man by all accounts – had never wed or had any progeny. That meant Alec was the heir of Astley, too.

  And he looks to me for assurance.

  He shivered. The whole situation was so peculiar that if he thought about it he'd go daft. So he resolved not to think about it. “Milady?”

  “Yes?”

  She had that strained, tense look again, the one she'd had throughout their flight from the manor. He shivered. What was it about this fellow that scared her? He resolved to try and find out.

  “Can I ride ahead?” he asked, jerking his head at the guards, who milled at the gate. Mayhap it was them, rather than her relatives, who worried her.

  “No, no,” she said, waving a hand at him. “Please, just stay a moment? I'll be ready in a minute.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  He waited, watching the men milling in the yard, his own heart thumping with his fresh alertness.

  “I'm ready, now,” she said.

  They rode up. It seemed nobody saw them. Bronan was about to dismount and clear the way, feeling a sudden anger – how dare they ignore Lady Amalie! – when a man noticed.

  “Greetings, milady,” he murmured.

  “Stand back!” another, hearing him, announced. “Stand back for the countess!”

  There was a silent ripple through the men and they rode off the path, clearing a way between them. Bronan, beside her, went red. All this welcome? And here I ride, beside her, nameless.

  He felt his flush intensify.

  Amalie turned to him. She raised a brow. He saw her eyes spark, the way they did for him only. It made him glow. He sat straight and rode behind her. Maybe he didn't need to feel so shamed, after all! They headed to the castle.

  At the door, she dropped to the ground, a neat dismount. A stable-hand ran up to take the bridle. “Milady!” he said and touched his forehead. “Welcome back home.”

  “Thank you, McNeith,” she nodded. “Where is his lordship?”

  “Master Alec, milady? He's just come in. I took his horse not ten minutes ago.”

  “No. Not my son. I meant the duke.”

  “Oh.” The man's face fell, confirming Bronan's suspicions that he was a hard fellow. The man jerked his head at the door. “Within, milady. He arrived just before you. He'll be pleased he hadn't so long to wait to see you...”

  “Thank you, McNeith,” she said softly. “Take me to him.”

  This last she said to a fellow Bronan saw approaching. He was dressed in black and stooped, a clerk, Bronan thought, or a steward. He saw the man see him, and he nodded, not sure how to greet him.

  “Ah. Mr. Greerson,” she said and nodded. “Meet Bronan Ludlow.”

  Bronan saw the fellow frown, and then nod.

  “Greetings, Mr. Ludlow,” the steward said. “Milady. Your uncle awaits within. He's in the council chamber.”

  “Thank you,” she nodded. “Bronan? If you'll find Alec? I think he's in his bedchamber. I'll be up directly.”

  Bronan nodded. He saw the steward – he presumed he was the steward – give him another long look, as if he was very disturbed by what he saw. He shrugged and, red with blushing, headed off into the building.

  Inside, it was cavernous and surprisingly cold, though light streamed in through a high window above the door. Shivering, Bronan headed to the stairs. He went up slowly, wondering where the bedchambers were. He knew he should have asked before he went in – he had just been too eager to get away from the silent, appraising Greerson.

  “I'd love to give him a word about minding his own business,” he murmured.

  He headed up the stairs and stopped at the top.

  Up here, the place looked less like a grim fortress. There was wallpaper on the walls and the floor was polished wood. Paintings hung here and there and it seemed more like the restrained luxury of Duncliffe, if a little smaller. He swallowed hard and headed down the hallway.

  Smaller! It's about three times the size o' my father's whole house. And this is just the hallway.

  “Sir!” A woman cried out. She covered her mouth with her hand in shock. “How did you get up here?”

  “Sorry, Miss,” he said, feeling awkward. The woman wore a dark gown in coarse stuff, and he guessed her to be some sort of servant. “I reckon I'm lost. Her ladyship sent me to find Master Alec?”

  “Oh.” She relaxed. He guessed she must think him some sort of tutor. She nodded. “He's in his chamber. They just arrived – you're very lucky! He's this way,” she added, pointing. “Had you an appointment?”

  “I was expected, yes. Thanks,” he said and nodded as he headed down the hallway. “Is he ready to receive visitors?”

  “Oh, yes,” the maid nodded. “I reckon so. He's in fine spirits! It's grand!”

  Bronan smiled to hear how pleased she was. He should have guessed the lad inspired care in people – despite his awkward ways. He himself couldn't help but love him, and he'd only met him a little over a week ago. He shook his head. Life was peculiar.

  He headed up to find Alec.

  A knock at the door and a long pause thereafter suggested that Alec wasn't in. Bronan studied the painted wood and the intricate-looking lock and decided that, whoever the earl of Inverkeith had been, he was certainly wealthy. He took a steadying breath and knocked again. “Hello?”

  He was about to give up when the door opened. He took a breath, readying himself to deal with the future Duke of Astley, when he found himself looking down into a frightened face. The boy's cheeks were red and he'd clearly been crying. Bronan stared, shocked.

  “Lad!” he said, forgetting for a minute about how intimidated he was supposed to feel. “What happened?”

  “It's Great-uncle,” he said miserably. “He said Mama will have to leave!”

  A DESPERATE MOMENT

  The sun flooded the turret-room, bathing it in rare warmth. Amalie barely noti
ced. She stared into the fire, feeling as if her world had just ended.

  “I can't do this.” She said it to the silence, which was better by far than saying it to her uncle by-marriage. He wouldn't have listened. Worse – he would have fixed her with that cold stare, the one that brooked no quibbling. She could see no easy way out of this.

  If he had come a month ago, she would have considered his suggestion. She would, even, have thought it well-intentioned. Now, she saw it as anathema.

  I cannot marry anyone. Not now.

  He wanted her to marry Baron Almure.

  “I love Bronan Ludlow.” Said aloud, she knew it was ridiculous. Baron Almure was rich and well-placed, a minor noble, admittedly, but prosperous. His standing was low compared to the mighty duke, or even to her husband – or a countess. However, as her great-uncle took pains to remind her, she was little better than a country gentleman's daughter before Keith had raised her up by marrying her.

  “That's not even true,” she whispered softly.

  Her father – Lord Brooklow – was a baron himself, if impoverished – and the estate of Inverkeith had benefited from the union between them.

  Uncle only says that to make you do what he wants.

  She sighed. She knew that, but her uncle was one of those people who could say something in such a way that it poisoned your mind, slowly. She couldn't dislodge the contemptuous way he'd said it – it made her feel like she was a peddler, muddy and not really presentable.

  What can I do?

  She had fled up here to this room – her sewing room, her sanctuary – to make plans. However, as yet, she couldn't think of anything. The horror had frozen her inside.

  Worse was that he'd told Alec.

  Could he at least not have informed my son?

  That was worse because it meant Alec now expected her to wed the baron. For Alec, it would be advantageous, she could see that. Baron Almure was legendarily wealthy and, what was more, he'd remained aloof throughout the conflict – unlike Keith. That meant that, by the time reprisals were being made, Alec would have a new father, palatable to the Hanoverian.

  And the estates of Inverkeith, and, by extension, Uncle's Astley too, will be blameless.

  She sighed. She could see how Uncle Randall had worked it all out. What could she do about it?

  It would be best for Alec.

  She was torn. She had no idea what to do. Her heart felt as if it had been left outside in snowfall – cold and empty and numb. I should talk to Alec.

  She stood and went to the door. As she did, it opened.

  “Amalie!”

  Bronan stormed in and enfolded her in a hug. Amalie leaned against him, feeling her whole body finally relax. In the frightening world in which she found herself suddenly, he was safety.

  She breathed in the scent of him and felt her heart lift. She clung to him. “Bronan,” she whispered. “You have to help me.”

  “Whist, lass,” he said softly. He stroked her hair. “What is it? What happened?”

  “He's...” Suddenly, Amalie couldn't breathe. She leaned against him and sobbed, the tears uncontrollable. It felt as if she hadn't cried in years and the tears were not for her alone, but for so many things: Alec, and how he'd withdrawn from her. Her own sorrow. Keith.

  “Shh, lass,” Bronan breathed. “It's all well. You'll be fine.”

  “N...no,” she stammered. “I won't. Bronan, you don't know. He's...he's cruel.”

  “Who, lass?”

  Bronan had tensed, suddenly. Amalie looked up at him, worried. His expression was stormy. She felt moved that the thought of someone cruel in her life would affect him thus. “My uncle,” she said. “Uncle Randall.”

  “He's cruel?” Bronan asked it softly, but his expression was stiff like stone. “What happened, lass? What did he do?”

  “He's...he's making me marry Baron Almure. I...don't...can't...”

  She started crying again, and through her tears she saw Bronan's expression change. From hard and battle-ready, it became hesitant.

  “Baron Almure?” he asked.

  “Y...yes,” Amalie replied. “But, Bronan. I can't! I don't...” She shook her head, unable to put her heart's words into speech. She felt sickly wrong about this, as if, somehow, her uncle had seen her happy and wished to rob her. She knew that was arrant fancy, but it felt so wicked!

  “Lass, he can't make you. No one can.”

  “I know,” she murmured. “But...but you see, there's Alec. I want to do what's best for him. And he adores his uncle.”

  “That's where you're wrong.”

  Amalie stared. “What?”

  Bronan had sunk down so that he sat on the small table where she used to rest her work-basket while she sewed. She looked down at him as he stroked her wrist, fingers tight over her own.

  “Alec doesn't agree with his uncle on this.”

  Amalie frowned. “You think that? Why?” She felt confused. “You asked him about it?”

  “Not exactly,” Bronan smiled. “And he didn't tell me. Not exactly. He just said you were in danger of...of going away.”

  “Yes,” Amalie whispered. A strange thought occurred to her. Wild, but insistent. If she went to Almure Hall, then Alec would be alone here. Without her to guide him, his uncle could tell him anything, even seize control of Inverkeith in her absence. There would be nobody to stop him ruling here as he chose. Alec would be at his mercy.

  Nonsense, Amalie, she chided. Uncle Randall is no monster. He'd not hurt Alec – he needs him, besides aught else.

  It was true. Alec was the sole heir to Inverkeith, and Astley. He was like a son to the duke. He would not harm his own best interests. And his best interests were now to get her wed.

  “Bronan, I can't do this. It's...horrible.” She shuddered, though it was not cold. It felt as if an icy wind blew through the chamber, bringing her no good.

  “Hush, lass,” Bronan said gently. She was reminded of his gentle touch, the sweet words he whispered, when they were alone. Her heart grew stronger. With him beside her, nothing could go wrong for her. “You won't have to do it. We'll find a way.”

  Amalie nodded insistently. “Yes,” she said, feeling courage grow within her. “We'll find a way.”

  She looked at Bronan. With his reddish hair touched by the bright sunshine, he looked unstoppable.

  Reassured, she looked around the chamber. Here, no one could hear them plan. It was a safe place. She could meet with him here, and they would discuss matters. They could run away, and take Alec with them. It was risky, but it was better, by far, then doing as he said. If she went to Marguerite, mayhap they could think of something. Douglas had relatives all over the country – maybe they could head somewhere further south? Mayhap even escape to France, where she had distant relatives. That way, they would be safe.

  Alec is still the heir. It should not matter what I do – his uncle cannot disinherit him.

  She shivered. That was true, more or less. She knew there was little that a powerful, wealthy man could not do, given enough corrupt law-makers he could bribe. If Uncle Randall chose, he could make the documents of inheritance disappear, or say exactly what he chose them to.

  “Alec should stay here,” she said softly.

  Bronan frowned. “Is it safe?”

  Amalie sniffed. “I don't know,” she admitted. “But I trust two people – McNeith, and McFlannan. They are devoted to the boy. They'll take care to see him safe.”

  “If you say so,” Bronan said, dubious.

  “Well, I believe it to be true,” Amalie said carefully. “And beyond that, what more can I do? Where is my son?”

  “He's in his chambers,” Bronan said. “At least, he was when I last saw him.”

  “Will you tell him where I am?” she said carefully. “I don't...think I want to leave.”

  Bronan nodded. “I understand, Amalie,” he said carefully. “I will find him.”

  “Thanks,” she whispered.

  He smiled, reassuring, and he
aded out of the door. It shut behind him with a click and she sank, wearily, into the chair. She closed her eyes. She felt as if she'd been awake for days – drained, sore and exhausted. “Help him to help us,” she whispered to the silence.

  The healer's words came back to her. You will walk in darkness. Remember the light.

  She wondered what that meant. All she knew now was that she had to speak to Alec. If he wished her to do as Uncle Randall wished, she would comply. But only then. If there was the smallest chance that she could benefit her son, and save herself, she would take it. She had to hope.

  She waited, tense and alert, for Bronan to return, with her son.

  “Mama?”

  A knock at the door brought her to her feet. “Alec!”

  She opened the door and he stepped inside. He opened his arms as she did and they stood, mother and son, locked in silence.

  After a long time, she leaned back and looked into his face. He was pale, and his big brown eyes held fear below the calm exterior. She brushed his hair back from his brow. He didn't balk at the motherly gesture, as he'd recently started doing.

  “Mama? What's going to happen?”

  Amalie frowned. “I don't know, son. I think we should decide together. It is a question of your inheritance, too.”

  “My inheritance?” Alec frowned. “How, Mama? When I'm eighteen, I'll have Inverkeith and then, when Uncle passes on, I'll be the duke. That's not something that changes.”

  “No,” Amalie said, reassuring. “It shouldn't be. But son...this is an important decision I must make. It could affect many things...”

  “I don't want you to marry him.”

  Amalie let out a sigh she hadn't been aware she'd been holding back. “You mean that?” she asked.

  “Mother!” he sounded horrified. “You think I'd wish you to marry that...that...he looks like a horse!”

  Amalie laughed. “Alec!” She couldn't hold it back. Her fear and apprehension dissolved into weary laughter. “A horse! Of all the things...Alec! You make me laugh!”

  Alec shared a shy grin. “Well, what? He has those big eyes, all wide apart like a horse. And a long nose...and a horse's smile. I don't like him, Mama.”