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

  No wonder I'm tired.

  Through all the madness, one thought hadn't occurred to her before, but it did now: Why did Bronan help us?

  He had offered an explanation – the lady of the house had enough help from her servants, and getting the three guests out of the way was more help to her. All the same, it wasn't plausible. Helping her son, she could understand. However, he'd come to find her.

  Whist, Amalie.

  She clucked her tongue in self-impatience and got out of bed. It was important to set off as soon as possible.

  As she drew up the covers and walked – slowly and awkwardly in the half-dark – to the window, she heard her son sigh and shift on the pallet.

  “Mama!” He caught sight of her and sat up. “The inn. I remember now. Coming through the fire with Bronan.”

  “Yes,” Amalie replied, throwing open the casement. Made of individual panes of thick glass set in lead, it swung open to the street, letting in the fresh, crisp air. She turned back to the room.

  Her son was sitting up in bed, hair tousled. His big brown eyes held questions.

  “He said he'd tell me about his being shot. He got shot, too,” he informed her succinctly. “Do you think he'll remember he promised?”

  “I think so,” Amalie said. “He seems like a man who keeps his promises.”

  “Oh,” her son said, taking the pronouncement as fact. “Well, when are we having breakfast? I'm hungry.”

  Amalie smiled ruefully. “You're always hungry.”

  “I am!” He grinned, sliding so that his legs dangled over the bed. He'd grown that springtime, shooting up until he was almost as tall as Amalie, but skinny still, like the boy he yet was. “Mrs. Bute at home said I'd grow to be a big strong fellow.”

  Amalie turned away, reaching for her stockings and shoes. She'd slept in her petticoats, taking off only the top layer. The red velvet was stained with soot in some places, she noticed sadly, and it reeked of acrid smoke.

  “I'm sure you will,” she said absently, sitting on the bed to pull on her stockings. It felt odd to do something so intimate in front of her son, but he wasn't watching, intent instead on finding his boots under the bed. “I should check your shoulder, to see if the dressing needs replacing.”

  “Maybe Mr. Bronan can do that,” he said, retrieving a boot and turning to face her, holding it in his hand. “He's a soldier and he knows these things.”

  Amalie bit her cheeks to stop the wry grin that threatened to spread across her face. It was a sentiment tinged with sadness – a gentle sorrow at her son's dismissal. She was sure she could bandage wounds as well as Bronan. “I'm sure he knows,” she said.

  The trust her son had shown in the soldier amazed her. Since his father's death, he'd grown reclusive to the point that she'd despaired of him. He trusted only McFlannan and some of the former staff.

  “And he knows about riding, too,” Alec continued, matter-of-fact, sitting down on the floor to pull on his boots, carefree as a tinker's son. “You must have seen how well he rode yesterday, and with a gunshot wound in his shoulder!”

  “I did,” Amalie agreed. She felt her heart twist, seeing the awe on the youth's face. She tied on her outdoor shoe, and then pulled on the other. Her legs were sore when she stood in the heeled boots, and she realized again what a toll the ride had taken on her muscles.

  My son is right – Bronan had an even harder ride than I.

  She wondered how he felt. He had slept across the hallway from them – her mind, weary and exhausted as it was, had not been able to resist straying to think of him there just before she fell again to sleep.

  Stop it, Amalie, she warned her errant mind. That's none of your business.

  Whatever her son thought of him – and, to her amazement, he seemed to have taken a shine to the soldier – he was not for her, in any sense. He was from another world. What would her husband think if she was entertaining thoughts of a man so far below his status he'd likely never even have met him?

  No. It's not worth thinking about.

  “Mama?”

  She blinked, reverie broken, and found herself looking into her son's eyes. He was looking at her quizzically, as if she'd done something peculiar. “Let's go down to breakfast,” she said, reaching for the red dress.

  Her son shrugged and turned away, as if he'd been about to ask but thought better of it. With a swift motion, taking a breath and holding it to avoid the worst of the noxious smoke-smell, she pulled it down over her petticoats. Then she went to join her son at the door.

  “Let's go down,” she repeated.

  They headed down the narrow, creaking stairs.

  The sound from the taproom made her hang back nervously. The raucous, harsh laughter hit her like a wall, and she felt the way a wild thing must, hearing humankind. Her son seemed as hesitant as she was. He turned to look up at her, uncertainly.

  “Let's go in,” she said.

  They walked through the room, weaving between the tables to get to the vacant one at the back.

  As they entered, the room fell silent. Amalie kept her back straight, though she felt as if the silent stares were blows, rained down upon her. She was wearing a dress that reeked of smoke, her red hair was loose and poorly-brushed, the knots undone hastily with fingertips. She was pale and shaky from lack of sleep and she was sure she looked a fright. She followed her son and they sat down at the table.

  Conversation resumed around them, albeit quieter. Amalie caught whispers and knew that she was being discussed. Her skin crawled. She tried to ignore it, but she wanted to shudder the way her horse did, sensing flies. Her whole body was alert to the curious looks.

  “Mama, those people are rude,” her son said loudly. “They keep staring.”

  “Shh, sweetling,” Amalie said urgently. Her son stared at her, round-eyed.

  “But they are,” he persisted. “You taught me never to stare that way! And so did Mrs. Brockley. Nobody should stare. It's rude.”

  Amalie felt her cheeks burn. She wanted to say something, to stop his monologue of derision before the whole taproom turned on them, but she knew he was right. She heard the room around them go silent and tense, waiting for the baying as if hounds scented blood.

  Suddenly, she heard someone laugh.

  “Eh, lads! The boy has gumption, aye?”

  A general chorus of laughter went round the room. People nodded. An old farmer, mouth dark with missing teeth, grinned at him, amused.

  Amalie felt herself relax.

  “Mama?” Alec continued. “What happened? Why are they laughing at us?”

  “Shh, lad,” she said, this time a little more emphatic. “I'll tell you later. Now, eat your breakfast. We've a long ride ahead.”

  She looked down at her plate. The innkeeper had furnished the table with bread and a pitcher of milk, but he hadn't appeared to offer them anything warm yet. She was wondering if he was going to, or if this was all they were going to get today. Perhaps they were too late? She was wondering, desperately, where Bronan had got to.

  As she swallowed some bread, making herself eat despite the tension and the desperate need to flee the room, she heard footsteps on the stone flooring.

  “Milady!” Bronan appeared, round-eyed. “I was in the stables, changing horses. We should go while it's morning.”

  Amalie felt so relieved to see him that she felt weak. With the relief came anger. Where had he been? How could he desert them, unthinkingly? “Where were you?”

  She realized she must have spoken more harshly than she meant to, for his eyes widened. She looked away, feeling guilty. “Forgive me,” she muttered. “I was distressed.”

  “Milady, of course!” Bronan's eyes met hers, and she saw the pain in them. She felt mortified. “I would have come down with you. I went to your chambers, but you weren't there...” He trailed off, looking at his plate.

  “I understand,” she said softly. “But I couldn't simply wait for you to arrive. We need to leave – I myself appreciate the urgen
cy.”

  “Yes, milady,” he said, sounding downcast. She reached for the milk-jug, a distraction. She fought the strange – surpassing strange – urge to reach across and lay her hand on his. She used to do that with Keith.

  “You said you'd tell me about getting shot,” Alec said, breaking the tension.

  Amalie sighed, relieved. She looked at Bronan, who laughed. His eyes crinkled at the corners, showing the first sign of crow's feet. Amalie smiled to see his mood lightened.

  “Aye,” he nodded. “You finish your porridge. Och! Why've we no porridge yet?” he said, evidently just noticing the absence of anything except bread and the milk-jug.

  Amalie said nothing. She had been too subdued to risk confronting the innkeeper: anything to avoid more of a scene. However, it seemed Bronan had no such qualms.

  “Oi! Mister,” he called, putting up his hand. “Why've we no victuals, save bread?”

  The innkeeper's eyes went wide. He looked at the table. He looked almost fearful. “Och! You're right, sir,” he nodded. “Barra? Bring this table some porridge!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Begging yer pardon, sir, milady,” he said and bowed, looking worried. “I'll go to fetch some cheese.”

  “And can you bring tea?” Bronan wanted to know.

  “Of course, young master.”

  Amalie looked at Bronan, her lips turned up smilingly.

  “What?” he whispered to her, while Alec was distracted, reaching for the milk-jug.

  “You're quite adept at handing out orders,” she whispered back, giving him an ironic grin.

  “Thanks.” He blushed, looking at his plate. “Comes with the job, I reckon,” he explained further. “I had to take some lads out sometimes, patrol the borders. Keep out thieves – that sort of thing.”

  “I see,” Amalie said softly. She looked out over the crowd, trying not to focus her attention directly on Bronan.

  “I reckon I was a pretty bad patrol leader,” he said, grinning.

  “Why?”

  “Allus distracted by beautiful lasses.”

  He was smiling at her and she felt her face flush. She cleared her throat, shy. When she looked up again, Alec was giving them both a bemused stare.

  “What?” he said when she raised a brow.

  “You looked like you wanted to ask something,” she said, feeling her cheeks flush.

  “No,” Alec said, matter-of-fact. “I was watching that man in the doorway. The one with the sacks of flour.”

  “Oh.” Amalie turned around. He was right – the miller had evidently just arrived, and was standing in the hallway, two big sacks leaning against one leg, leaking white powder onto the floor and redolent with fresh-milled wheat. When she looked back at Alec, he had turned away and was instead smiling down at his plate.

  She frowned. Maybe he wasn't as oblivious as she was being led to believe. The thought made her feel embarrassed. What sort of example was she setting, carrying on like this with a commoner? She ought to behave better!

  “You'd better finish with that bread,” she said instead. “The innkeeper's just arrived with the porridge. And tea.”

  “Yes, milady!” The man looked relieved. He grinned at her and put the pot down on the table. Then he reached across for cups and set them down, one before each of them. In the meanwhile, the woman, Barra, had appeared with a vast bowl of steaming, fragrant porridge and a jug of thick cream.

  “There you are, master,” she said, winking at Alec. Alec flushed. Barra was young – perhaps eighteen – and the smile she'd given Alec was a special one. Amalie hid a smile.

  When Alec shot her a glance, she bit her cheeks, keeping the grin from showing. If he could do her the courtesy of not noticing, so could she. “That smells good,” she said neutrally. She reached for the big spoon and the bowl beside her place.

  As they ate, contentedly, she couldn't help sneaking glances at Bronan. He leaned over his bowl of porridge, eating with enjoyment but with surprisingly good manners. She knew she was staring, but he was a singularly handsome fellow and she found it hard not to just admire him. He looked up and their eyes met.

  She smiled and he beamed. Heat flowed through her and she looked at her porridge, shyly.

  “When are we going back?”

  Amalie frowned as her son asked the question that had – she had to admit – been also on her mind. She looked at Bronan. Bronan leaned back, looking uncomfortable.

  “It depends on what happened,” Bronan said carefully. “If the house is all as it should be, well, then, we could go back today.”

  “How will we know?” Amalie asked.

  “I was trying to ask around earlier,” Bronan explained. “But nobody seems to know. I might need to ride there, to see.”

  “You're not going alone.”

  Amalie tensed, realizing the words had shot out without her intending. She looked at her plate, feeling embarrassed. She coughed. “I mean,” she explained carefully, “that it would be best if we all went. I can't stay here alone. And Alec needs his wound seen to.”

  “You can do it,” Alec said candidly.

  Bronan smiled lopsidedly. “Wish I could, lad,” he said. “But I've not a clue about healin'. And mine needs tending too,” he added, rolling the shoulder.

  Amalie, feeling guilty, glanced down at it. The bandage was soiled, a yellowish fluid leaking onto it. She felt ashamed of herself. “Of course,” she said. “Well, before we do anything, should we not go into this village, and find a physician?” She jerked her head at the doorway, indicating the road that led into the rest of the village. Dunradley or whatever he’d said.

  “Um, that's a good plan,” Bronan said, raising a brow.

  “Thanks,” Amalie said. “I get them, occasionally.”

  They shared a grin. Amalie felt a flood of happiness, seeing him grin.

  “Well, if we're going to go,” Alec spoke into the moment, “we ought to go soon. It's ten o' clock already.”

  Amalie looked around, amused. It was as if, in that moment, her son was the adult and she the teenaged one. She nodded. “Well, son, you're right,” she agreed. “So I'd best drink my tea.”

  “Yes,” Alec sounded indignant. “You should. Me too.”

  Amalie did grin then, feeling a sudden gratitude for the lad. He had been affected by his father's death – part of him growing up so fast, the other part retreating into sullenness. In this moment, she saw a glimpse of what he would be when both parts grew back together: the cheeky boy, merged with the mature adult.

  He's a fine lad.

  She recalled Bronan's words.

  They finished breakfast, settled the account with the innkeeper, and headed to the stables.

  “It's a fine morning,” Amalie commented, wincing as she mounted. She was riding a white mare, and seated side-saddle. All the same, it hurt to sit on horseback again. It was only as she turned to face Bronan that she recalled he'd organized new mounts for all of them. He'd even thought to find a colt for Alec.

  “It's a fine morning.”

  She looked away as he replied, genially. She was moved by his care for them – for all of them.

  “You organized a saddle for me,” she said softly.

  “Least I could do, milady. And besides, you're paying for it,” he added, his cheek lifting in that wicked smile she already enjoyed so much.

  “Yes,” she laughed. “I am. Alec!” she called, as her son rode off the path. “What's so interesting over there?”

  “A bird, Mama!” he called. “It was singing and it was one I've never heard before. Mr. McFlannan was teaching me about bird-calls. He said it's part of wood-craft, to recognize them and what they mean.”

  “Aye,” Bronan replied, as Amalie frowned, baffled. “It's a fine way to tell if there's someone hiding somewhere. Listen for the birds – they make special calls when they're alarmed.”

  “That's what McFlannan said!” Alec said, triumphantly. “Mr. Bronan! You know the alarm calls too?”

  “Some of them,�
� Bronan acknowledged. “The one you want to listen for is the jackdaw. And the thrush.”

  “He said also the finch,” Alec countered. “He said that when you...”

  They rode on ahead together, and Amalie followed, catching strains of their conversation. Watching Alec ride with Bronan, chattering like a stoat, made her heart break. He was more natural with the man than he'd been with anyone for years. She would have given anything for Bronan to be able to come back with them, to at least be able to be her lad's companion.

  He's too old for it, but Alec needs older companions.

  The death of his father, when he was ten, had forced a part of him too soon into maturity. He was quickly disillusioned by children his own age, preferring the company of the old woodsmen and crafters around the manor house.

  She watched the sunshine glint on Alec's animated grin, watched Bronan reach across and gently touch his shoulder, checking for heat in the wound. Her heart wrenched with a pang of longing. If only he could stay!

  Bronan turned and saw her. He grinned. “Almost there,” he called cheerfully. “The village is just a half-mile from the inn. Not long to go.”

  “I know I'm slow,” Amalie countered, riding up. “But I shan't linger too long. Just enjoying the sunshine.”

  “It's so warm!” Alec agreed, eyes shining. “It's like summer.”

  “Yes,” Amalie agreed.

  They continued.

  At the village, they asked directions to the physician's house. The physician – an old, wizened fellow called Dr. Morris – took one look at Alec's shoulder and pronounced him unfit to ride.

  “It's reprehensible,” he muttered, as he dabbed at the wound. He shot a glare at Amalie, who flinched. “Absolutely out of the question.”

  “I would not have taken Alec on a horse if there had been any other choice,” Amalie said tightly.

  “Our house was on fire!” Alec explained, eyes huge. Amalie forgave the exaggeration, feeling relieved as the doctor nodded.

  “That's as it may be, lad,” he said. “But you're not to ride again. Milady? Stay here. At least until someone can send a coach for the pair of you,” the doctor suggested.

  Amalie frowned. She hadn't mentioned they were traveling with Bronan, who had stayed in the ante-room, waiting his turn, insisting Alec went first.