The Highlander’s Widow (Blood 0f Duncliffe Series Book 8) Page 14

  Amalie sniffed and looked away, tears soundless as they traced their way down her soft face. Then she turned and smiled at him. “I'll come for you, as soon as I can. I promise.”

  “Then I promise I will be there when you call, milady. I'll not go far. To Duncliffe, mayhap.”

  “Yes,” she whispered hastily. “Wait there. I will send word. Now go. Please? They're coming.”

  Bronan nodded. He, too, could hear the footsteps heading up the hallway. He looked round and then, swallowing hard, turned away.

  He saw nothing as he walked down the steps, past the guards who had just entered the hallway, to the door. His vision was blinded by his tears.

  FACING THE THREAT

  Amalie looked at the window where the light hazed round the brickwork. Taking a steadying breath, she let her gaze travel just downward, to where her uncle stood, back to the light.

  “As you say,” she said softly, “it is a sensible plan.”

  She tried not to make her feelings too obvious, casting her eyes demurely downwards at the floor. Inside, she was a tingling mix of feelings: rage, anxiety, and something else simmering just below the surface.

  Before her, Uncle Randall smiled. It was a bland expression, a look of satisfied triumph. She wanted to slap him. Her eye caught a flicker of motion and she looked to her right, where Alec stood.

  Her son was very still – too still. The motion that she had caught was the way he'd balled his fists at his sides. He felt like the hillside did, before the storm broke. Lightning, waiting for a chance to uncoil.

  She moved, trying to catch his eye. He looked in her direction and she smiled, reassuring. He raised a brow.

  It's our secret, son, she warned. Don't let on.

  He looked mildly at his uncle, seeming to understand her instruction.

  “I hope your plans to escort me to Astley are unchanged, Uncle?” he asked swiftly. “I have a need to learn of the place, and its organization.”

  Uncle Randall smiled again. This time, the handsome, lined features arranged themselves into a look of amusement and gratification. “Yes, Alec, my lad. I haven't forgotten. You're eager to lay a hand on the place, eh?” He chuckled, patronizing. “Not able to wait till I'm dead, eh?”

  Amalie saw Alec look at the ground. She felt the rage in him about to crystallize. She gave the duke a hard stare. He raised a brow. Handsome, with his gray beard trimmed into a neat cut, his hair longer than it must have been in his youth, but glossy still, and luxuriant, he should have been an appealing man. He would have been, if it were not for his way of revealing a person's tenderest spots and using them to weaken them.

  In Alec's case, that was his father's death. Any mention of inheritance, or passing, would raise a thought of that. Amalie could see the damage Uncle Randall's barb had already done, and felt growing rage. Stop it, Amalie. For this to work you have to act as if you trust him.

  “Uncle?” she tried for a pleasing tone. It came out forced. She coughed.

  “Mm?”

  “I am looking forward to my betrothal. If you could discuss it with my son and I? So that we might best plan according to the trip you wish to make to your home?”

  “Ah! An eager bride, I see.”

  Amalie stared at him. If he could only know how huge a choice it was for her to let herself truly love again! His conspiratorial grin made her think he understood her motivation for her choice. It sickened her.

  “I am eager to carry out your instruction,” she said tightly. “Now. If we may know your plans, to best prepare for them? I remind you I will have to organize my attire.”

  “Ah! The dress. Women, eh?” Her uncle beamed at Alec, as if inviting him to likewise diminish his mother. “Well, I see I must divulge my plans to you. Very well. Come to my desk? I must see the documents from my steward, to see when I am needed at Queensferry.”

  “You are traveling, Uncle?” Amalie asked, hoping she had not sounded too eager.

  “No, alas,” he said and chuckled mildly. “These times are far too dangerous for travel, fair niece. I merely meet with traders, to discuss the profits to be made in rope trading. And whether I am making any, to date.”

  “I see.”

  “You trade in rope, Uncle?” Alec asked. He sounded genuinely interested, and Amalie raised a brow. She had no idea her son had an interest in commerce. She should speak to Mr. Guilder, his tutor, about that.

  “You make it sound like I'm a merchant,” he said lightly, though Amalie saw the steel in those blue eyes and knew he meant it. “Well, to be correct, I pay men to buy boats to deal in it for me. In return, they give me a share. A fair venture?”

  “I'm sure it is,” Amalie said carefully. She could imagine how fair her uncle was likely to be. The man had all the concept of fairness as an eagle did, stooping on its prey.

  He laughed. “Ah, niece! What rosy views you have on everything. It's good to see a woman not jaded by the world.”

  Amalie just looked at his desk, avoiding contact with those piercing, hard eyes.

  “Now,” he said, in another tone of voice entirely. “I will be traveling in November. The last chance for my captains to arrive before the shipping-lanes close. So that will mean your wedding must needs be before that, niece.”

  “September or October?” Amalie stared at him. That meant within the next four weeks. “Uncle!” She was horrified.

  “Well?” He grinned. “What's that? Whence is that eagerness I saw in you previous, eh? Anxious?”

  Amalie felt her hands make fists. “I am not anxious, as you say so mildly. I am merely thinking of the particulars.”

  “Have no fear, niece!” He beamed reassuringly. “I will organize everything. The dress, the feast, the baron's travels. With the seamstresses at Astley, it'll take a week, no matter what extravagant fancies your mind has dreamed up.”

  “This is not my first wedding,” Amalie said tightly. “I think extravagant fancies would be an exaggeration.”

  “Ah, yes. Remiss of me.”

  Amalie had to hold the side of her coat to stop her hand jerking up to slap him.

  Beside her, Alec made big eyes.

  Don't let him see hurt. He looks for it. He had said it earlier, and, it seemed, reminded her of it again now.

  Amalie nodded, fractionally. She knew that her son's worry was justified. She turned back. “I am grateful for your skills in making preparations on my behalf,” she said, not without a stab of irony. “And I assure you that I am willing to comply in all things. I ask only one thing. May I have leave to visit my friend Marguerite? She lives near a chapel where women go to pray.”

  “A child?” He beamed. His eyes, though, searched through her. She knew what he was thinking.

  A child of mine would be the heir before you. Another boy, perhaps, to thrust you into the dark again.

  “There is no end to the powers that be, sir,” she said carefully.

  “Well, quite,” he said, uncomfortable. “Well, go then, my niece, and say your prayers. Mayhap they will have effect, and then I'll be back to a mere dukedom. Eh?”

  Amalie held his gaze. In that moment, it seemed as if he let slip the mask. Let her see the naked ambition that was almost longing, the strength of which might drive a man insane.

  “The future is a mystery,” she said.

  This time, her uncle dropped his gaze. She felt a stir of triumph. “Alec?”

  He looked up at her. She could see his eyes were soft, and knew he was smiling. Her heart sang.

  “Yes? Mama, what is it?”

  “I think your uncle might have need of time to plan. Shall we go up to the gallery?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “Only as far as the back stairs,” her uncle called as they crossed the sunlit floor of the study. “I am not yet willing to risk you being out of sight. For your own safety, that is.”

  “For our own safety,” Amalie echoed.

  Wordless, she and Alec went from the room.

  Outside, they went at a
measured, even pace, to the gallery. Then, as soon as it seemed as if the guardsmen had become weary of watching them regard pictures of his ancestors, they went out.

  Without needing to discuss, they headed to the small parlor. The drawing-room and parlor proper were outside the region Uncle permitted them to go. For our own safety, of course.

  Amalie leaned against the door and looked at Alec.

  “We did it.”

  She sighed. “I think so, Alec. He doesn't suspect.”

  “Don't be too sure of him,” her son countered. “Uncle Randall's a sly one. I wish he was here.”

  Amalie knew who he was: Bronan. She sighed. “He's like as not with Marguerite and Douglas by now. I hope they're ready for this.”

  “Marguerite is a good friend, Mama,” Alec counseled, sounding like he was a thirty-five year old, too. “She will be ready to help you, come what may.”

  “I don't want to take conflict to her door.”

  “You won't, Mama. Duncliffe is also strong.”

  “Yes,” Amalie agreed and nodded slowly. How strong it was right now, she had no notion: they didn't even know if Marguerite was staying at Gracewell instead.

  She looked down at her hands, feeling weary. Worry could drive a being mad, if they let it. She would have to stop it. Sometimes, the only thing to do was trust. Trust yourself.

  The words moved through her mind like ripples in silver lake-water. She tensed, feeling a sudden chill.

  You will walk through darkness. Remember where the light is.

  She frowned. She had no idea what that meant. All she knew was that she had to trust.

  Alec was at the window, looking out. She went to join him. Standing with her hands resting loosely on his shoulders, she felt suddenly stronger. With Bronan and Alec, I can do anything.

  She kissed her son's soft hair. “Your father would be so proud of you.”

  Alec turned and looked into her eyes. “Thank you, Mama,” he said distinctly. “I'm proud of me, too. That matters to me more, now.”

  Amalie raised a brow. Slowly, she nodded. Her son had grown up. He no longer needed her, or Keith, to determine his destiny. He had his own road that he wished to pursue, apart from them.

  “Well, I'm glad, son,” she said, surprising herself. She had thought to feel bereft, on a day like this one. Instead, all she felt was gladness, and pride.

  “When this is finished, do you think we might go north?” Alec asked, surprising her. “I have a notion the riding's good there. And I'd like to climb cliffs.”

  “Alec!” Amalie started laughing. Bronan came from the north – or so he had told her, once, in the silence of their bedchamber. He must have told Alec likewise. If this was her son's way of suggesting he knew of their secret rendezvous, she appreciated it.

  “What?”

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “I think we might go north, after that.”

  He looked up at her, a slant-eyed grin.

  “What?” It was her turn to ask it now.

  “Well, I think we might stay there quite a time,” Alec said smugly. “So I think I might ask Uncle for a horse, as a present. It doesn't hurt to be prepared for riding.”

  Amalie and Alec laughed. The afternoon was a rare sunlit-gold, and in that small, quiet room there was happiness.

  In the evening, Amalie sat alone. They had to prepare. Her uncle had said that she could have a week to go to Duncliffe, starting on Friday. That gave her two days to prepare. She had little time.

  She looked round her bedchamber, trying not to think of the nights she'd spent, so recently, with Bronan. Or even those before that, with Keith.

  I am richly blessed, to have known two such great loves in life.

  She looked at her hands. Yes, she was blessed.

  “Milady?” A knock at the door drew her to her feet. She stood, searching for a way around the bed to the door, for it had gone dark with dusk and she'd not lit a lamp.

  “Ah, Mercy,” she said and smiled at her maid, who looked at her with a worried frown. Her maidservant was a good companion too, and she seemed not to like Uncle Randall's dealings any more than Amalie herself did: especially not the guardsmen who lurked like silent shadows, following her everywhere. “What is it?”

  “A guard outside the window, milady. Heard him. He were talking to another fellow. Said they're going to Duncliffe first, to make sure the place is secure.”

  “What?” Amalie stared at her, horrified. No! If they see Bronan, they might do him harm. If that happened, I'd be the one who caused it.

  “It be true, milady.”

  “Well, then,” Amalie said firmly. “There's nothing else for it. We shall have to leave tomorrow. They can accompany us. Summon Lennox, and tell him to make sure the coach is readied, if you please?”

  “Yes, milady.”

  They were leaving tomorrow.

  MEETING AND PLANNING

  “Milady?” Bronan called from the turret where he'd climbed up to oversee the track.

  Down below, he heard Marguerite's voice drift up. “Yes, Bronan? What can you see?”

  “It looks good, milady. A good repair. You'll not see anyone getting over this wall that way.”

  “Good!” Marguerite called back, her voice lighter. “I must say, it's a good thing for us that you came back!”

  Bronan smiled down at her, feeling a little sorrowful. He wished he hadn't had to – if Amalie was not in dire need he would not have left her. Nevertheless, he had to agree that she was right – having him with her would be more dangerous than her being there alone.

  I don't like it, but I must agree. “Well, I'm glad it helps, milady.”

  “Now, come down! It might be warm yet, but that wind is chilly and you'll get a fever on you. And then Prudence and Merrick would never forgive me.”

  Bronan chuckled. “For your sake then, milady, I'll come in.”

  “Do that,” she chided. “Come in and take some ale. It's in the parlor. When Douglas gets back, he'll be pleased to hear of how you helped me. And he'll want to take you riding in the woods, too...So you should be well.”

  Bronan smiled. For all her lofty status, Marguerite was a motherly sort, someone whom he could imagine, in another life, overseeing a dairy as a farmer's spouse. She was organized, efficient and no-nonsense. And, he thought, as she grinned at him, she has a wicked sense of humor. Douglas of Duncliffe was fortunate in his partner.

  But not like me.

  He felt his heart ache. Amalie, he thought sadly. Wherever you are, be safe.

  And hurry back to me.

  “Bronan?”

  “Coming, Countess.”

  He jumped down the last level of steps and headed off behind her to the manor.

  Inside, the parlor was almost overly-hot, the fire roaring, mulled ale and cakes set on the table. The child, Alexandra, now three years old, played on the hearth, minded by her nursemaid. Bronan and Marguerite sat at the table together, talking merrily, if banally-enough.

  “And I think that the crops are doing well,” Marguerite continued, reaching for a cake. “I hope that the earl will be here by the time the harvest arrives. I've little notion myself of how it should be apportioned. But, I have guidance.” She shrugged.

  “Yes?” Bronan asked, knowing he should be paying attention and knowing, also, that he couldn't. His mind was restless today, full of distraction. It was why he'd gone up on the wall in the first place. Surveying the damage to the outer fence was a pretense – his real reason was to see if there was any traffic on the distant road.

  There's no reason to expect a message, lad. He chided himself, knowing that he was foolish to suppose that Amalie could get word to him so readily. She was under house-arrest – her uncle could say in as many ways as he chose that it was for her protection, but they both knew the truth of it. He was trying to make sure she couldn't do anything to disrupt his plans.

  Which was precisely what she sought to do. “I just hope she can get here.”

  “What?”
Marguerite looked up.

  Bronan blinked, feeling shy. “Apologies, milady,” he said. “I am out of sorts.”

  “Should I get Prudence or Mrs. Merrick to look at your shoulder?” Marguerite was instantly alarmed. “My dear fellow! I won't have it that you die on my doorstep. It simply isn't done.”

  Bronan laughed at her concerned expression. “Don't fret, milady,” he said. “I am far from death. You think we could risk sending a message?”

  This last was a reference to Inverkeith, and Amalie. He had outlined the story to Marguerite, not filling in the desperate nature of it, but only the necessary. Amalie was being coerced into leaving Inverkeith, something she did not wish to do. If possible, he was asking Marguerite to shelter her. Hide her, if that was what was needed, until further notice.

  “Of course,” she'd said then. Now, she frowned. “I think it would be unwise,” she said carefully. “Any message from us, however bland, would have to be justified extremely well. And we don't know if she's already made provision to visit here. If I invite her, it'll look as if there's something planned.”

  “Yes,” Bronan nodded slowly. He leaned back in the chair, feeling worried. He would much have preferred to do something, however risky. This waiting would drive him mad. Inspired by an idea, he sat up. “Milady?”

  “Yes?” Marguerite turned to face him, a spiced cake in one hand. “What, Bronan?”

  He smiled. “I thought I might ride along the road some way,” he said. “It would be good to assess the fire's damage.”

  “Oh, you're a dear,” Marguerite exclaimed. “Amalie is lucky to have you with her.”

  “Thanks,” he said, sincere.

  Marguerite smiled. If her comment was meant to let him know she knew, her eyes held no hint of it. She looked mild and not in the least conspiratorial. “Well, then,” was all she said.

  Riding through the woods, Bronan felt his spirits ease somewhat. He felt the wind ruffling his hair, grown longer now since he first trimmed it for the army, and the sounds of birds singing in the boughs above his head lifted his spirits.