A Highlander's Gifted Love (Blood 0f Duncliffe Series Book 9) Page 2

  “Sir!” he said after a long moment. “Look!”

  “What?” Domnall growled. This being Bethann, he could be pointing out a squirrel or an enemy sniper, with the same amount of genuine agitation.

  “Lights, sir! We found something.”

  Domnall whipped round. To his surprise, Domnall was correct. Through the pine trees and almost bare oak trees, a faint light shone.

  “A house,” he whispered.

  “A big one, too, sir,” Bethann agreed.

  “How do you know?” he asked acidly.

  “See the way the lights shivering with the breeze? The window’s hidden by leaves. So, it’s high enough to be behind a tree, sir. See?”

  Bethann explained it patiently. He might find it hard to add beyond five without the aid of counting stones, but Bethann was wise in ways that were unexpected by him.

  Domnall nodded.

  “You’re right,” he admitted. “A big house.”

  “Let’s go, sir?”

  “Yes. But slow,” Domnall cautioned.

  Bethann frowned, but nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Caution was essential, Domnall knew. The house in the woods might well belong to a supporter of the Hanoverian cause – at least half the Scottish noblemen were on the side of England in this fight, and of the half on their own side, some had changed their minds remarkably recently. They would not be sure of a welcome.

  Even here, in the Highlands, we’re facing enemies.

  Domnall shivered and drew his cloak about him. The rebellion had torn the country apart. The plain tan color of Dunning, his cloak nevertheless would mark him out as a rebel to anyone who cared to list the names of families loyal to the Jacobite rebellion.

  All we need is to find a Hanoverian here, and we might as well stay here and die. Save him the trouble.

  Grunting as he felt his wound pull, Domnall swung himself forward on the crutch and followed the lesser officer into the darkness.

  “Stop,” he whispered.

  “What?” Bethann called, turning. “Whist,” he added, swearing as he managed to walk into the wall.

  “I said, stop,” Domnall whispered, amused at his expense. “We’re here.”

  “Oh.” Bethann nodded. “Yes.”

  He looked up. They stared up at the house together.

  Tall, imposing, with the walls soaring up to a lavender springtime sky, the house stood seemingly in the middle of the forest. It was smaller than Domnall would have imagined – compact and solid, with three stories but only four rooms, at most, per level he guessed.

  “What now, sir?”

  “Stables,” Domnall said briskly. “We’ll take their horses, then continue on.”

  “Steal horses, sir?” Bethann stared, as if he’d suggested they swore at the Pope. “We can’t just do…”

  “Yes,” Domnall said briskly. “We can.”

  “Why not go in and ask, sir?” Bethann asked. He was already following Domnall around the corner, heading with a new purpose in his step to where he guessed the path led to the stable yard.

  “Oh, for…” Domnall closed his eyes briskly. “If they’re Hanoverian's?” he asked, employing simple rhetoric. “What would you say?”

  “I’d tell them, um…ah,” he nodded. “You’re right, sir. Let’s go.”

  Domnall closed his eyes again and nodded. “Quite. Fast in, fast out.”

  Bethann nodded. Together they headed to the stables.

  As he opened the door, quietly, Domnall wondered why it was that he knew exactly how to do this. The son of Baron Dunning, he really ought to have been a worse horse thief. As it was, he thought, it seemed to come naturally. He reached up to stroke his hand down the nose of a beautiful black stallion.

  “Whist, lad,” he whispered gently as he rested a hand on the door frame. “Easy.”

  He opened the gate, and then froze.

  “Wait,” he whispered to Bethann. The fellow was already down the path, his hand on the gate of a stall, reaching inside.

  Bethann stopped. Domnall looked around.

  His hair stood on end. He’d heard someone outside.

  “Wait,” he reiterated. “I’m going outside.”

  “Sir…” Bethann began, but Domnall cut him off, walking with surprising grace down the gap between the stalls and back out again through the half-open door.

  Outside, the yard was moonlight. A pale disc lit a lavender dusk. The wind was rising, blowing fitfully through tall pines.

  Domnall leaved against the stone wall and listened. His eyes strained round the yard. He saw it again. A shadow, moving.

  Keep to the wall, Domnall. The light will blend you with the shadows, keeping your own shade hidden.

  Walking slowly and carefully on the balls of his feet, weariness dissolved, he tiptoed round the long way towards where the shadow stretched on the flagstones.

  A youth, he judged the shadow – tall and slender. It wavered a little as the wind blew the shapes of trees across it, making it hard to make out completely. Whoever cast the shadow, he guessed, was standing just by the gate. Grinning to himself, he pressed his back to the wall and tiptoed quietly round.

  The shadow moved, swaying closer. He grabbed out.

  A scream shattered the quiet, and was abruptly cut off.

  “Whist, lad,” he whispered harshly into the waiting ear. “Hold your peace. You’ll no’ get harmed if you just stay quiet.”

  The figure struggled and he clamped his hand tighter over the mouth, and then moved it fractionally as he felt the person struggle to breathe.

  The body of the youth was tall and lithe, and surprisingly soft. The buttocks, in particular, seemed quite large and, well, feminine, and then he realized what he should have noticed before, something about that slender form when the woman who he’d been grasping so tight against him turned around, as he released her.

  She lifted her hand and slapped him, hard.

  “You fool,” she said.

  ENCOUNTER AT DINNERTIME

  Chlodie stared up at the man she had just caught – rather, the man who’d just caught her. The feeling of the strong, brawny arms pressed around her receded, abruptly, and she found herself staring into a face.

  Stilling her beating heart, breathing slowly, she looked up at the man, forcing herself to calm contemplation, the way she did when recovering from the Sight.

  “Who are you?”

  He grinned, nervously. A handsome face, it seemed oddly familiar. He said nothing. The persistent twinkle in his eye – a reaction quite odd for a thief, and one who she’d caught red-handed on her grounds – that made her wonder if she’d known him somewhere before.

  She studied him carefully.

  The face looking at her was graced with a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and long dark eyes. The brow rose steadily above them, quite philosophical-looking, to meet a fine hairline of lustrous auburn hair that had grown from its military cut to perhaps an inch in length. The shoulders were broad and the arms, she knew, were strong. He had a tall frame and long legs and his shirt was torn in places on his right, where she could see, showing through the gaps, a glint of bandage.

  “You!”

  The man blinked. He frowned, too.

  As his face shifted into surprise and disbelief, he looked exactly as he had in the vision. He was wearing the same brown cloak, she noticed absently, its soft color serving only to add more strangeness to the already-incredible situation.

  “Milady?” he asked.

  His cheeks were very red, and she could almost see the pattern of her fingers where she’d slapped him. Given his injury, she felt bad instantly.

  “Sorry,” she stammered. “I just…what are you doing here?”

  “Good question,” he chuckled.

  Nice smile, she thought. Then at once, her heart hardened.

  “I warn you,” she said, straightening her back, “we don’t welcome scoundrels here. My father’s in that house and he’ll take it out of your hide, whatever ill-intended
thing you’re doing here.”

  “No ill-intent,” he said, with a sickly attempt at a grin.

  Chlodie frowned.

  “I don’t believe you,” she said.

  “Dunning! What am I supposed to do?”

  “Shut up, Bethann,” the fellow yelled, twisting round abruptly as a squat, fair-haired fellow appeared in the doorway. He caught sight of Chlodie, his eyes widened and then he turned to the tall redhead, grinning.

  “Whist, sir,” he said, nodding approvingly. “You found a fine lass, you did.”

  “Shut up, Bethann,” the fellow growled, and this time there was real malice in his voice. “Get back inside. Wait for me. Please?” he added, the fight suddenly going out of him as he collapsed, unexpectedly, against the door lintel.

  “Sir?” Chlodie said, alarmed.

  She watched, completely confused as the second man – who’d frightened her somewhat, though she couldn’t have said exactly why – disappeared, and the tall man sank to the ground.

  “My wounding, milady,” he said, grinning through strangely bloodless lips. “It’s festering awful.”

  “Your wounding…Oh!”

  Suddenly, Chlodie went red. Of course! He was the man in the vision! She knew that! How could she have failed to remember that he would, if he was that man in her vision, be wounded? She shook her head, alarmed at her lack of good sense.

  “You’ve been wounded a long while,” she said, making it a statement rather than a question. She thought back to the vision, which had been more than a week ago now, she was certain. “You need help.”

  “Aye, milady,” he said, sounding finished. “You’re right, there.”

  “Well, tell your…companion,” she said slowly, unsure if that was the right word for the manically-grinning youth, “to wait in the stables. I’ll get the doctor.”

  “No…need,” he said, his pale face grinning up at her. She could see how pale he was now, his lips almost bloodless, even in the late blue light of dusk. “If you have bandages, I can do…the job…myself.” His voice wheezed.

  “Don’t be stupid,” she snapped briskly. “You’ll let me fetch the physician and he can do it for you. You need help. And he’s only half an hour’s hard ride away,” she added, flushing as she realized how candidly she’d spoken.

  The fellow stared up at her, horrified. All at once, his vision cleared. He grinned.

  “You’re a rare one, milady.”

  “That’s as may be,” she said, annoyed at how her cheeks flushed as she heard the raw admiration in his lilting, even voice. “But you’re coming inside.”

  “Yes,” he added solemnly. “Thank ye.”

  “You can thank me,” Chlodie said, grinning acidly, “when it’s done. Now come on.”

  “Aye, sir,” he said, grinning back. She flashed him an annoyed glance.

  Standing, she noted, he was even taller than he’d seemed when he’d been crouching over to grab her. He had white teeth and his eyes really were very dark.

  His body was finely built, she noticed, cheeks flaming, the densely-built muscles only slightly lessened by the week of fevered pain. She reached out to touch him, realizing that the slight brightness in his eyes and the flush of his face was probably fever.

  It’s not because he’s looking at you, Chlodie. So, don’t even think it.

  She sighed, reaching up, matter-of-fact, to touch his brow. It seemed cool, but she wasn’t taking any chances. If he’d been striding around in the woods with three open wounds for the best part of two weeks, he was likely to be feverish.

  “Come on, let’s get you inside.”

  Humbly nodding, he followed her indoors.

  His companion – for want of a better word – stayed where he was. That, at least, Chlodie thought as she shut the door behind them, was a blessing.

  “Go upstairs,” she said, keeping her voice level. Having him inside her home made her suddenly nervous, though she could not have said why. The kitchen staff were a door or two away, her father’s study at the top of the house. She could call for help at any second and have three strapping youths at her back. A wounded Highlander was no match for three strapping youths.

  Was he?

  Looking up at that strong, handsome face, she wasn’t too sure. He grinned and she shivered, though whether from fear or something else, she wasn’t sure.

  “Yes, lass,” he said softly.

  “And don’t try any of that,” she hissed, warning him. “I’m Lady Chlodie, daughter of Baron Invermore, and I’ll have you remember that.”

  “Yes, milady,” he replied evenly.

  He looked so contrite, like a schoolboy caught in some wrongdoing, that Chlodie bit back a smile.

  “Go on upstairs,” she added gently. “Are you hungry? I can have cook send up dinner.”

  She glanced at the clock in the hallway – it was seven of the clock, and past dinnertime.

  The look on his face spoke volumes.

  “Dinner?” he said, sounding as if she had promised him the throne of Scotland, all for himself. “Now there’s a rare wonder.”

  “Fine,” she said brusquely, trying to hide the flame of pleasure that seeing his joy had lit inside her. “Now get yourself away.”

  “Yes, milady.” He hobbled slowly up the stairs.

  Chlodie, shaking her head silently, went down the hallway to the kitchens. As she passed the mirror, she consulted her reflection, silently.

  What do you think you’re doing, lass?

  Her reflection, all green eyes and fair hair with a touch of cherry-red, predictably, said nothing. She sighed and headed past.

  “Mrs. Brune?”

  “Yes, milady?”

  “Can you put some broth on, for starters? We’ve got a guest. He’s injured,” she added, when the cook frowned up at her.

  “A guest?” the cook asked. “Milady! You could have told me,” she reproached.

  “He’s just arrived,” Chlodie said, non-noncommittally. She realized she hadn’t wanted to say, “unexpected”.

  I knew he was coming.

  She shook her head. It was crazy. However, the Sight had clearly been of this man.

  Tall, strong, bold. As well as injured, with three knife wounds to the side of his chest. Just as he had been in the vision. It was him.

  Shaking her head again, she went upstairs. To the drawing room.

  “Dinner is on its way.”

  She saw him move, though he said nothing. He was sitting on the settee before the fire, the glow of it red on his soft skin. His shirt was unbuttoned, she realized, with a sudden bright red flare of blood in her cheeks. She stared.

  The pale skin of his chest was exposed down to his ribs, and she could see, just visible on the right, a wound that was an ugly purplish shade. She breathed in, slowly.

  He saw her looking and his eyes twinkled, as if grinning. Then he nodded.

  “It’s bad, so?”

  “It’s quite bad,” she nodded, swallowing. She couldn’t have said whether it was the effect of the man alone or the effect of the sight of that wound that had done it, but the blood pulsed in her temples and her heart throbbed.

  “Well, then,” he shrugged. “Reckon I was a fool to refuse your physician.” He shrugged again.

  “I know you didn’t want to risk discovery,” she nodded. She shuddered, too. As a supporter of the Jacobite Cause, the man would meet with scant care. It would be quite likely that he would return home jobless, or homeless. She couldn’t quite guess his origin. A trader’s son, perhaps, she assessed. Well-fed and cared for, grown up strong and strapping and bold. Again, hotly, she blushed.

  “Well, thank ye, lass,” he nodded. “I mean, milady.” It was his turn to blush, now, and to her surprise he did so, spectacularly.

  “Well, then,” she said, swallowing hard. “As we won’t get the doctor up here, and it’s a good ten miles to the nearest household where we might ask after a healer, there’s only one thing for it. I’ll do it.”

 
“I can tend meself, milady,” he said, defensive. Though, looking closer, she could see there wasn’t much determination. He needed some help.

  “I will do it,” she insisted. “Mattie can fetch me water. Mattie?”

  “Yes, milady?” the maid arrived a minute after her call, flushed from running.

  “Fetch water for me, please?” she said, indicating the wounded man with a thrust of her head. “And clean bandages. I need plenty, too.”

  Mattie, to give her fair due, didn’t stare. She looked once, eyes huge, and then nodded.

  “Aye, milady.”

  Chlodie felt herself sigh with relief. She hadn’t realized how much she’d minded about what people might think. Even the cook’s casual dismay about the guest had worried her, she’d realized. She felt embarrassed for the means of their encounter and foolish for trusting him enough to bring him indoors, against all she knew would be her father’s wishes.

  He’d not want me to leave him to his pain.

  She knew her father was far from ungenerous, and, being ill himself, he would certainly not turn away a sickly person, or an injured one, but he would have agreed there were protocols to follow.

  And letting an unknown, half-naked man into the drawing room is not in any of those.

  When Mattie returned, Chlodie had moved across to sit opposite her patient. He looked up at her self-consciously.

  It was strange, but it felt almost as if some kind of power emanated from him and into her as their eyes met – a faint tingle, almost like a touch. Chlodie shivered. She looked at her hands, but the warmth that spread through her made her smile. Behind them, Mattie came in and left, the bowl and pitcher clinking on a tray. Chlodie didn’t turn.

  “You needn’t be shy,” she managed to say, though her own stomach tingled with something like shyness as she looked at him. “I’ve bandaged wounds before.”

  “You have?” he said, sounding surprised. “You’re a rare lass.”

  She raised a brow. “I’m not a lass, sir,” she said, emphasizing the title on purpose. “I am eight and twenty years old, which places me as far from “lass” as you can care to imagine.”

  Her age was a sore point for her – one which she had discussed with her father, who seemed to see it as a source of pain that she’d never married.