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

  He looked down at his hands. He’d laced them together in front of him. The skin was lined with dirt and he rubbed at it, absently, wondering when he’d get a chance to wash again.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes?” He sat up suddenly. He blinked, head fuzzy from sleeping. He must have fallen asleep, he realized, and Bethann had woken him.

  “Sir?” Bethann repeated. “Something’s afoot.”

  Domnall turned to the door, where, proving Bethann right, the sound of footsteps echoed down the path. He sat up straight, heart pounding. How late was it? Was it morning already? Were they about to be dragged out and taken to the judge? What was happening?

  Somebody knocked on the door. Domnall tensed.

  “Hello?” a voice called.

  “Yes?” Domnall frowned. Why were they being treated with courtesy all of a sudden? What was happening?

  “My master, Lord Douglas of Duncliffe, sends you greetings. He bids you come up to the hall to explain yourselves.”

  This is it, Domnall thought sadly. This was when he’d be tried and sent to prison, or hard labor. He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head.

  If I have to be sentenced, I wish I was at least wearing proper shoes.

  He grinned lopsidedly at his own ridiculous thought. He was wearing worn boots, the same ones he’d been wearing through the months of marching. They were serviceable enough, though the soles were badly worn. If he had to die, he wanted to at least die with a pair of decent boots on his feet.

  “Sir?” Bethann frowned. Domnall realized he’d laughed, and shook his head, forcing himself to concentrate on the present moment.

  “Nothing, Bethann. The sooner we see this poxy magistrate, the sooner we can get some sleep.”

  “Aye,” Bethann whispered. “Yes, sir.”

  They headed up the stairs and across the courtyard.

  Their guard issued them into a drafty room. Big – at least three times the size of the hall at Domnall’s father’s manor – the room was bare. Inside, it was cold and dark. A fire burned in the vast hearth, throwing ruddy light from the embers over the floor. All else was in charcoal shades.

  “You wandered onto my land without permission,” a thin voice said into the silence. Domnall looked up as the form – black-clad and tall – of Douglas came down the steps into the hall. “And yet, when my men apprehended you, your first inclination was to throw yourself on my clemency. With the exception of your loyalty to each other, of course,” he said with some amusement. “Which is credible. Your stories, gentlemen? You may speak freely here,” he added, inclining his head towards the echoing darkness of the hall. “We are alone here.”

  “Sir, I…”

  “We were looking for Lowkirk town,” Bethann cut in.

  Domnall raised a brow. He saw a contemplative expression cross Douglas’ features, and the younger man nodded, poised. Domnall found himself feeling more than a little annoyed – Douglas was the perfect courtier, and he felt a little rough and ready in comparison.

  I’ll bet Lady Chlodie would melt at his perfect manners. She must think I’m a ruffian.

  He looked at the floor, surprised at himself for having such an incongruous thought now.

  The threat of death. It does funny things tae a man’s wits.

  “So,” Douglas said softly. “Two men, abroad in my woodlands at night, searching for Lowkirk. What sought you there?”

  “Um, sir, I…”

  “What were we looking for, Bethann?” Domnall translated helpfully into simpler words.

  “Oh! We were looking for shelter, sir.” Bethann said quickly.

  “Shelter,” the man said. “I see.”

  “We’re short on means, sir,” Domnall cut in mildly. “But we’re no thieves. We’re honest men.”

  “Wounded men, sir,” Bethann added.

  Domnall shot him a look. He had guessed Douglas to be far from stupid. If he knew they were homeless and wounded, it was as good as writing on their foreheads, “Jacobite soldiers”. He glared at Bethann, willing him to say nothing else. Bethann frowned.

  “Wounded men,” Douglas said softly. “Without shelter. Looking for Lowkirk. Am I right in assuming that you are coming from the west?”

  Domnall bit his lip as he saw Bethann give a fractional nod. The west was where Culloden was, related to here. He had guessed, then. There was no point to more concealment.

  “We’re Jacobite soldiers, sir.”

  He looked at his aggressor, feeling complete calm. It was as if a cool wind blew inside him, settling all the dust of discomfort. If he was going to die a traitor, he would die an honest one. He had lived, and loved. He’d met Chlodie. He was, almost, content with his life.

  “Sir! He…” Bethann began a protest, but Lord Douglas shook his head.

  “I wondered when you would do me the credit of realizing I’d guessed,” Douglas said. To Domnall’s amazement, the thin lips were quirked in a grin. “Now, gentlemen. I will have you know that, though Duncliffe has a policy of neutrality, we welcome all sorts here. You are welcome to stay and avail yourself of my hospitality, with the proviso that you are gone in three days. And that you speak of this to nobody. If you do, I will know you have done so, and it would be best for you if you had not. Do you understand?”

  “Sir…” Bethann spoke up again, but Domnall got in first.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  Douglas held his gaze. There was respect there in those black yes, and a sort of amusement. Domnall lowered his own gaze so that he looked at the floor. His lordship wore boots of Spanish leather, he noticed, with a fine design worked over the slight heel.

  He heard a soft laugh.

  “Well, then,” Douglas said. “Now that we are in agreement, I’ll have you know we have little by the way of ceremony here. I invite you to my parlor, where a meal has been laid out. You needn’t worry – my companions Alexander and Francis are retired to bed. You’ll not encounter them again during your stay. Apologies for the manner of your – um – apprehension. In these times, things must be secretive.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Domnall was amazed by how quickly his resentment had dissolved, replaced at once by a sort of acceptance. He thought he might like Douglas, if they had met in other circumstances. He followed the fellow from the hall and into the entrance way.

  “Now, my home is quite informal,” Douglas warned them as they reached the steps that led up to the next floor. “But I will command the utmost respect of my wife and daughter. Anyone traducing that will find themselves seeing another side of Duncliffe hospitality.”

  “Yes, sir,” Domnall said. “We would, of course, respect them.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Douglas nodded. “Pray, what is your name, sir?”

  “Lord Domnall, son of the Baron Dunning,” he said.

  Douglas raised a brow. “Welcome, Lord Domnall.” He held out a hand. “I am the earl of Duncliffe. I welcome you to my home.”

  Domnall swallowed hard. “Thank you, milord.”

  Beside him, Bethann’s eyes were huge. The fellow had evidently never come face-to-face with someone of a rank beyond that of baron’s son. The thought that he was in the presence of such illustrious gentry seemed to have silenced even him.

  “Thanks, sir,” he stammered.

  “This is Sergeant McCrae,” Domnall introduced him.

  “Greetings, Sergeant,” Douglas said politely. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to meet with my woodsmen. Make sure they keep an eye out for any…unwelcome followers…you may have had.”

  “Thanks, sir,” Domnall whispered, but the man was already gone, heading down the hallway to their left.

  He found himself alone on the bottom step with Bethann. His companion, for once, was silent.

  “Sir, I…” He said, seeming to find his voice again.

  “Whist, Bethann,” Domnall said, clapping him on the shoulder, conspiratorial. “If you get offered a dinner, the best thing to do is just eat.”


  Bethann’s smile was hesitant, but broad.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  Together they went upstairs.

  The sound of talking led them to the drawing room. Domnall paused in the doorway, tense and stiff. He peered around the side of the door and saw a woman with red hair – darker than Chlodie’s – leaning on a chair, a big smile on her face. Opposite her sat a woman with dark hair and a small child, perhaps three years old.

  “Why, Lady Amalie,” the red-haired woman was saying. “If only Chlodie were here! She’d soon set you to rights.”

  Domnall felt as if someone had hit him on the back of the head with a plow share. He had walked miles through the forest, been chased and nearly arrested for trespassing, and now here he was again, with word of Chlodie.

  He must have gasped, or made some noise, because the woman looked up and, quite unperturbed, she smiled.

  “Welcome to Duncliffe,” she said.

  UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTERS

  Chlodie looked out of the window. She felt a strange restlessness, as if she was seeking for something intangible; something that would not let her rest until she’d located it.

  “Milady? Looks like rain today, eh?”

  She whirled round to face Mattie, feeling annoyed. All she wanted was a moment of quiet and space to think! Could nobody even grant her that?

  “Yes,” she said tightly. “It does.”

  “Sorry, milady,” Mattie said, sounding upset. “I just reckoned it wasn’t the best day for riding, is all.”

  “If I need somebody to question my choices, I’ll find Father,” Chlodie said acidly, before really thinking about it. Then she shook her head, instantly embarrassed. “Sorry, Mattie,” she said. “I’m not myself today.”

  “Och, milady, dinnae fret,” Mattie said, patting her hand. Chlodie winced, but accepted the friendly gesture for what it was. “It’s this springtime weather. It’s like tae make a body miserable, so it is.”

  “Yes,” Chlodie whispered emptily. “It must be that.”

  She sat back down in the settee, feeling sad.

  What was wrong with her?

  She thought back over the last four days’ events. If anything, she should have been happy. Her father seemed to be responding well to Dr. Bates’ treatment, and he was more cheerful than she’d known him in a while. He had talked about riding, and even suggested they host a party at the manor, something that hadn’t happened in a year.

  By rights I should be so happy now. Whatever is ailing me?

  “Mattie?” she called.

  “Yes, milady?” Her voice echoed in the hallway, the thud of a broom indicating she was tidying the parlor.

  “Know you of any cure for downcast spirits? Some tea, perhaps?”

  “A tea?” Mattie came back in, shoving a curl of dark hair out of her eyes casually. “Um, I cannae say I ken sommat. But I ken who would. Mrs. Merrick, of Duncliffe. She’s the finest healer in these parts. It’s said she can cure broken hearts. If ye’re visiting her ladyship, ye could ask her about the healer. She works at Duncliffe, see..? Oversees their kitchen.”

  “Oh?” Chlodie was surprised at a stab of interest. She’d felt disinterested and off-color for the last four days – ever since, if she was honest with herself, the soldiers left.

  If Mrs. Merrick could cure my restlessness, I’d be glad. And a visit to Marguerite would be a diverting afternoon.

  “I might pay a visit there today,” Chlodie commented, considering. The more she thought about it, the better an idea it seemed. It had been far too long since she visited anyone.

  It might distract me from my thoughts.

  Suppressed ruthlessly, thoughts of Lieutenant Dunning still managed to find their way, now and again, into her awareness. She quashed them whenever she could, because it was ridiculous that she would entertain hopes and dreams about such a man.

  Father would be ashamed of me.

  At least, she reckoned, if she went riding and paid a visit to an old friend, she would find distraction and, finally, peace.

  If I stay here much longer, I really will go mad.

  Standing, she headed quickly to the door.

  “I’ll need to make arrangements, but I think I’ll ride to Duncliffe after luncheon,” she said to Mattie. “Thank you for your advice.”

  “It looks like rain, milady,” Mattie warned.

  “Oh, Mattie! I’ll take the coach, then,” Chlodie said, feeling her usual happiness return. “I think a day out is just what I need.”

  She whirled out of the door and up the hallway, cutting off any of dolorous Mattie’s protests.

  I really need to see something else besides these four walls.

  She walked briskly up the stairs towards her father’s office.

  “Father?”

  “Wait a moment, Chlodie…I’m just finishing…ah.” He set his quill pen aside and looked up at her, frowning.

  “Father,” Chlodie said, clearing her throat. She suddenly felt nervous, as she always did when facing her father. “I am planning a visit to Duncliffe, and…”

  “And leaving me all alone to make arrangements for the ball on Friday.”

  Chlodie felt instantly guilty. “No, Father,” she said quickly. “It’s not that. It’s…”

  “You must go, of course,” he said, folding the document and reaching for a candle. “I’ll manage perfectly adequately, though I’ve not been walking very well, of late.”

  “Father! Please!” Chlodie said, distressed.

  He looked up at her, steel-dark brow raised. She fell silent instantly.

  “You know how I feel about displays of childish emotion,” he said thinly. “And of course, you must go. There’s no need for you to stay chained to this house, just because I’m a miserable old wreckage.”

  “Father…” Chlodie felt her heart twist as if someone crushed it. This was unfair! She didn’t think of her father as a wreck. She didn’t…

  “Go, Chlodie,” he said tightly. “And when you come back, perhaps you’ll be more amenable to discussing my plans for your future.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  She turned her back as he pressed his seal into the wax, fastening the letter.

  Her tears running down her cheeks, feeling ashamed, she fled to her room and sat down heavily on the bed. The drapes were still half shut, Mattie not yet having cleaned the room. She covered her face in her hands, sobbing.

  “He’s right. I’m selfish. And childish. And…oh!”

  She sobbed, feeling the sobs start to choke her. It wasn’t fair. She didn’t mean to be selfish! She didn’t mean to only think of herself…

  “I’m a poor excuse for a daughter,” she reminded herself sadly. “And I should do better.”

  Her father was right – she was fanciful, she was strange. She had visions, saw things nobody else could see. She was far from the perfect society woman.

  If I have a scrap of good sense, I’ll try to be dutiful and do as I’m told. That much, at least, I can do.

  She shook her head. How could she think of deserting her poor father, leaving him in the midst of this big, empty house all alone? Especially with his plans to host a party. He needed her help! She was so selfish to be rushing off this way. As she dabbed her tears furiously with the handkerchief, she remembered, suddenly, another day of crying. Recalled a hand reaching, gently, to brush tears from her cheek, and the sweet, calming words he spoke.

  Any father would be proud of you.

  She shook her head, though the words soothed her.

  Maybe she wasn’t that bad. At least, there was one person in the world who thought she wasn’t terrible. She sniffed, feeling her heart ache with the sweet memory.

  “Well, since he said I could, mayhap I should go?”

  Chlodie found herself looking at her reflection, seeking counsel. Her green eyes regarded her, red-rimmed. They were swollen from tears, damp and with streaks of moisture tracking from their large surface down her cheeks. She sighed and wiped her ch
in and cheeks, reaching up to arrange her deconstructed hairstyle.

  She stood and settled herself at her dressing table, reaching for hairpins. She giggled, as her hairstyle collapsed completely, sending a cascade of red curls round her shoulders.

  “I wonder if I looked this disarrayed after the ride?”

  She smiled at her reflection, reckoning that she must look about the same as she did on that day when she’d encountered Lieutenant Dunning in the woods, when he’d rescued her.

  All in all, her appearance wasn’t that ugly, or so she reckoned.

  She recalled the way the lieutenant had looked at her, the soft soothing sound of his voice. The way he had stroked her back, and the sweet tender parting of her lips with his own.

  “Chlodie, stop it,” she told her reflection, though she couldn’t help noticing the twinkle in her green eyes.

  She muttered to herself as she rearranged her hair, telling herself she was far too old and too sensible to be losing her head about a handsome lieutenant she’d met twice. All the same, though, she knew she was not going to convince herself. She had fallen for him already, and there was very little she could do about that.

  “Except try and forget. And drink tea,” she reminded herself pointedly. It was the reason for her visit to Duncliffe, after all – to seek out this famous healer and get her advice. As well as some healing tisane to make her sleep, and forget.

  “And then I can go back to being a sensible, biddable daughter again.”

  She felt an odd flicker of defiance as she opened her wardrobe and laid out her traveling-gown – a fine creation of russet brocade with a v-cut bodice and long sleeves. She would get back to being biddable and sensible tomorrow. First, though, she was going to do something different.

  She laid her things out on the bed, and then pulled the bell, summoning Mattie.

  “Mattie?” she said, when her maid appeared. “After luncheon, be ready to help me dress? I’m going to Duncliffe.”

  Feeling a little flicker of joy at the thought of the look on her father’s face, she headed briskly down the hall to the front door, to organize the carriage.

  After luncheon, the day turned swiftly wet. The rain, which Mattie had been mentioning all morning, suddenly started to fall about an hour after they set out. Chlodie leaned back in the coach and felt a stab of guilt as she watched the cart horses trudge resolutely through the drizzle.