The Highlander’s Widow (Blood 0f Duncliffe Series Book 8) Page 4

  Amalie laughed despite herself. “You poor lad! How young were you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  They both laughed. He grinned, wry. “I reckon I was a wicked lad.”

  “You likely were.”

  They shared a smile.

  Amalie leaned back in the chair. She felt a glow inside her like the warm glow of the firelight. She hadn't laughed like this in a long time. She sighed. “You've had an interesting life, in your twenty-nine years.”

  He stared. “Who told you my age?”

  She laughed, pleased she'd managed to surprise him so much. “You did.”

  “When?”

  “You said you were thirteen, sixteen years ago.”

  “Oh, yes.” He leaned back, sighing. He looked pleased to know how she'd known it. “So I did. I forgot.”

  “I should leave you,” she said softly, as a wave of exhaustion suddenly flooded her. It was late – if she looked at the window, a faint glow of light showed there. It must be four o' clock, at least. “You need sleep, to heal properly.” She stood, noting how her legs ached. She was tired.

  “Aye,” he said, and his grin was sad, as if he would miss her. “I reckon. Milady?”

  “Yes?” she asked, turning back from the doorway.

  “Thanks for sitting with me. I feel much better.”

  His grin sparked in the darkness, a thing of absolute sweetness.

  She shook her head. “It was nothing,” she said softly. She wanted to add, and I feel better too. She didn't though.

  Turning away, she headed quickly through the door. “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, milady.”

  When she got back to her bedroom, she realized that her cheeks were wet.

  She shook her head, harshly. It was late, she thought. She had been more distressed than she realized, by Alec's wounding. Additionally, her sorrow for Keith was ever-present, like a dark mantle, wrapping her close.

  Oddly though, the image that hovered in front of her eyes as she collapsed, exhausted, into bed, was the injured soldier's smile. And his voice, whispering goodnight.

  WAKING AND HEALING

  Light flickered on his eyelids, pale and insistent. Bronan opened his eyes. He groaned.

  “Och, it hurts.”

  He sat up, wincing. His shoulder burned as if someone had held a poker to it. His whole body felt bruised, like he'd had a beating yesterday worse than anything Master Selton at the manse had handed out during their training. Moreover, his head thudded, mouth dry and sour.

  Memory came back and he rolled over, trying to sit up and stand. A voice stopped him.

  “I don't think so, lad. Not yet. You'll be in bed a week yet.”

  He blinked. His eyes fell on the tall woman with the cap over her pale hair. Her blue eyes twinkled.

  “Sorry, lad,” she said wryly. “But I'm a healer. I know gunshot wounds and how long they take to mend. It'll be best if you rest now, if you want to use your arm properly again.”

  He sighed. “It's so long!” he said, leaning back heavily on the pillows and looking up, frustrated. “I cannae stay in bed a week! I'll go mad.”

  The woman chuckled. She was young, he noticed, about his own age. Her eyes were soft blue and amused. All the same, he felt a strange resistance to her.

  Not like the angel from last night.

  His stomach glowed warmly. He recalled her words. You must have been a wicked lad. You've lived a lot, in your twenty-nine years.

  A shy pride filled him.

  “Easy, lad. It'll be over before you know it,” the woman continued.

  She'd moved to a table by the window, where she bent over a tray he hadn't noticed. He smelled something baked and his stomach lurched. “I hope so,” he said, gloom returning. A week in bed! How was he to bear it?

  I need to get back. Find out what happened at the manse.

  His thoughts went back, guiltily, to Laird McLeary. He openly supported the Jacobites. What will happen to him, now the rebellion is crushed?

  “I need to go home.”

  He tried to sit up again, but the woman appeared at his side again, grinning.

  “Lad, I know it's hard. My man's as stubborn as you, and he had the same wound when I met him first. I know it's best for you, though. And besides – you're not going anywhere without some victuals.”

  Bronan could, at least, agree with that. He caught the odors of bread and onions, porridge and tea. His mouth watered, insistently. “I could do with breakfast,” he admitted.

  She grinned. “Spoken like a soldier,” she agreed. “Now then. I know it's hard to take your dinner on a tray, but you needn't fret – nobody'll know.” She winked, bending to fluff up the pillow.

  He sighed. The woman's brisk cheerfulness should have reassured him, but, oddly, it abraded him like sand polishing stone. He thought regretfully of the angel's soulful quiet. He let the healer put a tray on his knee, the scent of food almost overwhelming him as she took the cover off the dishes. He was famished.

  “Now then, lad. You eat and drink and I'll come back in a few minutes and take the tray away. I'll be in the next room with my other patient, if you need me.”

  “Thank you, missus,” he said politely. He realized how impolite he'd been – she had saved him. “And...Thanks. For everything.”

  She chuckled. “It's my calling. And call me Prudence.”

  “Yes, Prudence.”

  Her laugh lingered as she left, heading next door.

  He waited for a second, and then ate ravenously. He was so hungry that he ate with his hands, finishing the slices of bread and onions, dripping in delicious gravy, and then turning to the porridge. That he ate with a spoon, feeling his stomach ache uncomfortably as it contracted, unused to so much at once.

  “Whew.”

  He leaned back, looking at the ceiling. He was tired, suddenly, and he could have laughed at how quickly he was exhausted. As a lad he'd run for a whole mile without pause. Hell, yesterday he could have done it – no, before that: two days ago, before the wound that had brought him here.

  Damn it.

  He winced and frowned. No, he amended silently. If he hadn't been shot at, he wouldn't have been wounded. And then he wouldn't have ended up here. Wouldn't have met the angel.

  Lady Amalie.

  He shrugged, and winced, as his shoulder ached. Lady Amalie! She was a countess, probably. Something far ahead of a carter's son, for certain. My friend is the countess, he recalled her saying.

  “Friends with a countess.” He shook his head, grinning. For a lad who'd left his home at thirteen, a runaway whose laird was the only family he cared to remember, he'd no chance.

  She'd like as not look at a servant before she looked at me.

  The thought hurt, but he thought it anyway. Biting his lip, he made himself forget about that magical evening. He had been half-asleep, he reminded himself, lost in whatever strange concoction the healer'd used to make him sleep. He wouldn't have been so familiar with her ladyship, else.

  But she was not unfriendly.

  He shook his head, sighing. The countess had been distraught, worried about her son. She had confided in him because of her distress. No other reason.

  Bronan, get up. You'll not get better by moping about here.

  Not wanting to disturb the healer, who was busy with Lady Amalie's son, he set the tray carefully on the side table and then swung his legs out of the bed and stood.

  Pain shot through his shoulder as he shifted position. His vision darkened. He swayed on his feet. His back rested against the wall and he felt steadier there. He closed his eyes slowly.

  Och, Bronan. You're a right mess.

  He shook his head, chuckling sorrowfully. Two days ago, he'd been the fittest man in the laird's service. Now, he felt as if a wind would blow him over.

  It's no' bloody fair.

  Shaking his head, he made himself stand. He was being ridiculous. Moping about his injury wasn't going to make things improve much. Besides, without
the wound, he wouldn't be here.

  And the place has its benefits.

  He grinned. Breakfast was one thing. He hadn't eaten so well in months, not since heading west to take part in the rebellion. And Lady Amalie.

  I get to see her, at least.

  He sighed. Oddly, the memory that she was here somewhere, in the building, made him feel happier. He stood up, heading for the door.

  “Oh!”

  As he stumbled toward it, he walked into someone, heading the opposite way.

  His eyes fell on a fall of blood-dark hair. His cheeks reddened as he recognized the tender smile. “Milady!” He shot upright, head whirling as the pain stabbed. He sat down on the bed with a thump. His face burned.

  Somewhere, he heard a chuckle.

  “I didn't mean to startle you.”

  Bronan groaned. “Sorry, milady. I'm jumpy. Happens, for soldiers.”

  It wasn't quite true – he wasn't – but it covered his shame.

  “I understand,” she said, though he could see amusement in her eyes, mixed with concern. “My home was often full of soldiers.”

  “Your man's a soldier?” he asked, recalling, albeit belatedly, that if she had a son, she was married.

  “Was.”

  Bronan saw her gentle mouth tighten. He felt a pang of sorrow. He wondered what had happened, to make her suddenly look sad.

  “It's a warm day,” she said, avoiding his gaze.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “It looks it.”

  Someone – the healer, Prudence, he reckoned – had opened the curtains, letting in sunlight. He looked around, feeling a faint glow mix with the worry for her.

  He knew it was best not to ask about her sorrow – whatever it was, she didn't wish to talk about it, clearly.

  “I was about to go for a walk,” she said.

  “It looks a nice day,” he agreed. “I wish I could, too.”

  “You can't?” she asked quickly.

  He blushed. “The healer said I shouldn't...bad for my shoulder.” He looked at the floor, almost embarrassed that he had been so persuaded. “I wish I could.”

  His wistfulness was there in his voice, though he did his best to hide it.

  “Well? If I came with you, and you went slowly?” Lady Amalie said, a warmth spreading through her features. “Who would know?”

  Bronan felt himself glow. “You'd do that?” he asked.

  “Well, I'm a little unsteady on my feet this morning, too,” she said slowly. “I'd prefer not to take a fall also.”

  “Of course,” he said quickly. He stood up, feeling awkward. “If milady would let me accompany her? I'd be honored.” How did one talk to ladies? He realized he'd no idea. Laird McLeary had no wife, and he'd never had to develop the talent.

  She grinned. It was quite breathtaking.

  “You needn't say that,” she said. She smiled. “I'd be happy to have your company.”

  He swallowed hard. “It is an honor, milady.”

  Still chuckling, she smiled at him. “I'm pleased you think so,” she said. He frowned. Though she smiled, he could hear sadness in her voice.

  It's none of your business, Bronan. He held his tongue, though he was prickling with questions.

  “Well?” Lady Amalie turned in the doorway. Her eyes were dark brown, he noticed, and they glowed softly. “If you come outside, I shan't tell.”

  Bronan laughed. He had no idea how old she was – he knew she had a teenage son, but she looked so young! In that moment, she could be eighteen years old. Her smile was bright and merry as a child's. “Well, milady, if you won't...”

  “Your secret is safe, I promise.”

  He laughed and together, laughing, they headed from the room into the hallway.

  Downstairs, he followed her down another long hall, his head spinning as he walked through a house more luxurious than anything he'd ever imagined. The manse had been his hallmark of elegance, but compared to this house, it was almost threadbare.

  She walks about like she owns it, too. Which, I reckon, she might as well. Her own home is likely as fine.

  He walked behind her, watching as she briskly walked past doorways that hinted rich interiors, her footsteps soft on the fine stone floor.

  “Durrell?” she said, as an elderly man in a dark suit appeared in the doorway.

  He bowed. “Yes, milady?”

  “I'm going out for a walk. If you could tell Lady Marguerite? I don't know where she is.”

  “She's with her daughter, milady. I'll tell her as soon as she comes down for tea.”

  “Thank you.”

  Bronan watched as she headed past again, setting a brisk pace toward the front door. They went through an elegant entrance-way that was almost as large as the cottage he'd been raised in – or it seemed like it – and then out vast oak doors into the courtyard.

  The sunlight, pale and warming, glinted on her hair, turning it from blood-dark to liquid fire. He watched her turn, the light dancing on those fine tresses, and caught his breath.

  “What, Bronan?” She frowned, shielding her eyes from the light.

  “N...nothing, milady.”

  She grinned. “You looked like you'd got a shock! I suppose it is bright out here, for autumn.”

  “Yes, milady. Quite bright.”

  Bronan swallowed hard, realizing that his feelings showed plainly on his face. He felt his cheeks redden with embarrassment. He hadn't meant to stare like that. He couldn't help it.

  She's the most beautiful person I've ever seen.

  He watched her, slowing his pace so that he could watch her from a little distance. Her hair fell to her waist, left loose and uncurled, despite the fashion he'd noticed for curls. She was slender, but with curves that stirred something in him.

  He swallowed hard again, feeling his loins respond as he studied her curved waist, her hips and full bust. He felt a physical ache to touch her, the feeling so intense it was like a pain in him.

  Whist, Bronan.

  He looked at the stone under his feet, hands clenching barely-consciously as he tried to fight down the urge.

  “What's happening?” she asked, concerned, and he looked up, straight into her eyes. She had crossed the few paces between them and stood close. So close. He could see every eyelash and the damp patch on her lip where she'd bitten it.

  “Nothing,” he stammered. His loins, which had responded earlier, jolted at the sight of her plump, moist lips. He felt a longing to feel them against his mouth, to probe that warm dampness with his tongue. She was so beautiful, and she stirred an ache he hadn't known he had within him.

  “I thought your shoulder pained you,” she said, face clearing with relief. “It's too bright out here, isn't it? Would you like to go back?”

  “No, milady,” he stammered again. Not for anything, no. He was here alone with her. He might never have such an opportunity again. There wasn't anything he could think of that could persuade him to go back now.

  “Well, then,” she said, turning away. “Shall we go past the stables? There's a path there that leads to the orchard. It's such a nice day out here; we could take a nice walk.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  He lingered as she went ahead, giving himself a chance to watch her walking. She moved with a swaying grace, those plump hips rolling sweetly as she lithely walked across the path. She was a woman in her prime – curvaceous, graceful. Stunning.

  Whist, Bronan. He chided himself again. What was he thinking? This woman was so high above him he would, like as not, never have seen her, save for a war and a shot and a headlong race through the woodlands.

  Strange, the things that are good fortune.

  He would never have thought that his salvation could come in a wound. Nevertheless, it had. Now that he'd met the Lady Amalie, he determined not to leave her service. He might be so far below her as to be invisible, but she'd saved his life. He would happily polish horse-tack in her stables all his life, if he could only be nearby.

  “Bronan?�
��

  “Coming.”

  He quickly hid his grin and feeling awkward, but happy, he rushed to join her. She was standing at the entrance to a garden. He went to join her.

  “The orchard is here, through this row of poplars,” she explained. “Douglas, Earl of Duncliffe, put them in to keep the wind out of the plum trees.”

  “He grows plums here?” Bronan was impressed. It was cold here in the north, and he was surprised that his lordship had much luck with summertime fruits. “Apples would be better.”

  “You're right,” Amalie said, smiling warmly. “You do know your trees! Impressive.”

  Bronan felt himself go red. He let his fingers twine round each other, looking at them. His whole body blushed. “Th...thanks,” he managed to say. He grinned at her. Her smile was dazzling.

  “Well, it is!” She giggled. “You're not a farmer, but a soldier. How is it that you know about fruit-tree growing?”

  “Um, Mr. McGowan,” he said, feeling silly again. “He was the woodsman where I...where I worked.” He looked at his shoes again, embarrassed.

  Well, Bronan, well done. She's going to ask you about your work, and you'll tell her more about yourself and then she's going to be polite and distant and never talk to you again.

  “You mentioned something about that,” she nodded. “You were thirteen?”

  “Um, yes, milady.”

  “And Mr. McGowan taught you wood-craft?”

  “He taught me lots,” he said, chuckling. “About the most I learned from anyone. Master Selton said I had a thick head.” He grinned.

  “Well, you have a resistant one. Or you'd like have been a lot worse off after the scar you showed me.”

  “Oh, that?” He chuckled again, remembering their conversation with a sudden flush. “Well, Master Selton hoped it would get the message through my thick skull.”

  “You're not thick-headed,” she said.

  Her brown eyes were serious. She was closer than he'd thought. She looked almost indignant, as if she was vexed by his critical sentiment. He could smell the scent of her – cinnamon, mixed with roses.

  He felt as if he was drowning in her gaze. It was as intimate as if he touched her. He wished he could – wished he could reach out and take her hand and draw her into his embrace. He ached to draw her close and feel the sweet softness of her body pressed against him.