Love For A Reluctant Highland Lass (Blood of Duncliffe Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Read online

  “Yes,” Ettie said in a small voice.

  Merrick had resumed chopping the herbs, her back to her. Now, she turned around. “You want this?” she asked.

  Ettie looked at the floor again, surprised by the question. “I don't know, ma'am,” she said humbly. She was never humble with anyone except Merrick, for whom she felt unwavering regard. She stood, silent, waiting for Merrick to say something.

  “I think you know things are not as they seem,” Merrick said softly.

  Ettie frowned. Merrick had that still, distant expression she always wore when the Sight was on her. She felt her skin shiver. “Um, ma'am?” she asked, scared. “Things aren't...as they seem?”

  Merrick didn't really look at her, but cleared her throat. “This promotion will bring happiness, yes,” she continued. “But there is darkness there. Something...something I can't fully see. There are trials, and danger. Are you ready for that?” She fixed Ettie with a stare.

  Ettie swallowed hard. “I don't know?”

  Merrick smiled. The smile was not wholly kind. “I know you've seen things too,” she said. “Little sights. You know the darkness I speak of. Are ye ready for it?” Her voice was hard.

  Ettie swallowed. She hadn't seen anything in her visions about this. If she thought about it, she had felt a vague uneasiness once – as if there was a shadow in her future. Nothing more. She had been granted no vision of the darkness Merrick meant.

  “I haven't seen the darkness, no,” she said. “Am I ready for it? I will try.”

  Merrick nodded. This time, when she looked at her, she was gentle again, her eyes soft with rare caring. “That's good, lass,” she said softly. “That's all you can do. Try.”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  Merrick nodded. She gave her a gentle shove with the palm of her hand.

  “Well! There's no need tae seem gloomy! There's cause to celebrate! You're promoted! Hey! Laney! Miller! Get some tea on,” she called. “And see if you can find that jam I made. We're going tae celebrate.”

  Ettie went pink. No one had ever held a celebration for her. She felt overwhelmed by the idea, and wasn't sure she could stay in here a moment longer. She might cry, and shame herself.

  “I...excuse me. I'll tell the lad tae move my things.” She exited hastily, cheeks burning.

  Merrick's chuckle followed her out.

  In the courtyard, she clutched her shawl around her shoulders, and headed to the stables, breathing deeply. She put her head in, looking about nervously.

  Please let Arthur be here.

  Of all the men at the manor, the only one she trusted was Arthur Ridley, the head gardener. The rest were coarse, crude and cruel. She always avoided them. They reminded her of the men of Blackwood – leering, cruel, and dangerous. They were not to be trusted – rather, they were to be avoided at all costs.

  “Hello?” She waited a moment, and then called again. “Hello?”

  “Lass?” a voice answered.

  She closed her eyes when she heard him. Of all the people she really, absolutely, didn't want to see now, of course it was Camry Waite. She leaned back against the door and watched him look about the stable with a narrow-eyed stare.

  “Hello?” he called.

  She willed him not to see her. Willed him to go.

  However, he didn't. Instead, he walked further into the stable and reached a place by the door. “Oh,” he said, seeing her, where she stood, concealed in shadows. “You,” he added. “Come inside, you.”

  Ettie swallowed, hearing the taunting in his voice. “That's Lomond now,” she said. “Not just, you.” She lifted her chin and stared at him.

  “Lomond?” he asked. His eyes, which had mocked her, were abruptly hard.

  “Yes,” she said, swallowing to keep her voice level. “I'm special staff now. I just got promoted.”

  “Oh,” he said. He leaned on the wall, face blank. “Promoted tae what?”

  “Lady's maid,” Ettie said firmly.

  “You?” he laughed, unkindly. “Who'd promote a dog-toothed hag like you?”

  Ettie felt the words hit her heart like fists. She'd heard it all, and worse – no insult was new to her after the ones she'd had in Blackwood. No one's heart is hardened against cruelty, though, no matter how often it's heard. She felt something in her shrivel, but stared him down bravely.

  “It's not for you to know,” she said airily. “You just need to know I'm promoted. I'm here to find someone tae move my things to the lower room.”

  “Oh?” he sneered.

  She looked at him mildly. “Yes,” she said.

  He threw the rake he held on the floor, making her jump – loud noises were still frightening to her. His face twisted in an ugly rage.

  “Fine, I'll do it,” he hissed. “But don't think you'll bring that poncy way in here again. I'll show you.”

  “I have no intention of coming in here again, poncy or not,” Ettie said mildly. “So kindly see to it that my things are moved.”

  With that, she turned and walked out of the stables. She could feel his eyes boring into her back as she walked to the kitchens. She walked straight, and stiff, and didn't care what he thought.

  Her life was about to change. She was promoted.

  A MEETING OF HEARTS

  “Ettie?” Marguerite asked, frowning.

  “Yes?” Ettie swallowed hard. She looked at her employer's reflection in the mirror, from where she was brushing her hair. She'd been Marguerite's maid for a month now, after a month of training. None of the training had prepared her for being her ladyship's confidante as well as her maid.

  “Ettie, I had...bad news this morning.”

  “Yes, milady?” Ettie asked softly. She could see on Marguerite's sweet face that the news was worse than something mundane: Her mistress was about to cry.

  “Ettie, I'm afraid.”

  Ettie stared. Her mistress really was crying now. She covered her face in her hands. Thoughts flashed through her mind – it was Lord Douglas, milady's husband, away on the border. It was her daughter – some terrible illness had befallen her. It was her sister, Arabella.

  “What, milady?”

  “Oh, Ettie,” she sobbed.

  Ettie settled a gentle hand on her shoulder, feeling the soft silk of her day-gown under her fingers. She felt uncomfortable. In her limited experience, she had never had to comfort someone who cried. Nobody comforted people who cried in her world. “What be the matter, mistress?” she asked, confused.

  Her mistress cried more, seeming unable to hold it in. Then, sniffing, she turned and faced Ettie. “I...I need your help.”

  Ettie almost dropped the hairbrush she was holding. She stared at her mistress in shock. Nobody needed her help! Why would they? She was a nobody. What could she do? “Mistress, I'll do anything tae help.”

  Marguerite sniffed. She smiled gently. “Oh, Ettie, I'm sure you would, but...no. Wait. Forget I asked.” She reached into her pocket – worn under the gown and accessed through a slit in the skirt – and took out a handkerchief. She furtively dabbed at her cheeks.

  Ettie waited for her to finish fixing her appearance. Then she cleared her throat carefully. “Milady, I don't know what your need is of me. But whatever you need me to do, ask. I'll try.”

  Marguerite sniffed. She blinked back tears and looked up at her, smiling. “Oh, Ettie,” she said gently, patting her hand. “You're a fine friend.”

  It was Ettie's turn to swallow hard, choking back tears. A friend? She'd never had a friend before. Merrick was the closest thing she'd experienced to having a friend, and she was so aloof and distant: a counselor, but not a friend, not really.

  “I'll try to be,” she said.

  Marguerite nodded. She blew her nose surreptitiously and put her handkerchief into her pocket. Then she shifted round to look at Ettie. “I need to ask you to be me.”

  Ettie put the hairbrush down on the dressing-table, knowing she would drop it if she did not. Then she sat down on the floor. She stared. “M
ilady? You need what?”

  Marguerite cleared her throat. “I need to ask you to take my place in a meeting. One that could, ultimately, lead to my death. I can't let them know it's me.”

  Ettie frowned. Her heart thumped in her chest. “Your death, mistress?” she asked. “Who would want to kill you?”

  “My Uncle Rowell.”

  Ettie stared. “Why'd your uncle want to kill you?” She had little concept of what an uncle was – she had no family at all save her cold, indifferent mother – but she couldn't imagine someone wicked enough to hurt Marguerite! She would never have done harm to anybody.

  Marguerite sniffed. “He tried, once,” she said. “And now...We thought he'd gone to the Indies. Now I think he's back. And I think he may try again.”

  “Oh, mistress!” Ettie breathed. “That's awful. Why?”

  She smiled. “If I die, and Henry dies, Althorpe – my father's estate – is unquestionably his. It could never be mine, you understand, but it could be my son's – when he is born. So the urgency to kill me is doubled. And he's back in Scotland.”

  “How do ye ken?” Ettie asked. She had completely forgotten Marguerite was her mistress, or that she was – usually – afraid of people. She needed to know the story of Marguerite's uncle.

  “We have...reason to believe...that in the Indies he became involved with the merchant shipping trade. And now there is...an unidentified merchant...seeking to meet me. I think it's him. He doesn't know I'm mistress of Duncliffe. He left before I wed my Douglas. But if he sees me...”

  “He'll know,” Ettie deduced. “Which is why...”

  Marguerite nodded, smiling. “You are quick-minded, Ettie. Yes, exactly. Which is why I need someone else to pretend to be me.”

  “But why me?”

  Marguerite smiled. “Who else could I ask? Of all the staff, only you could pass as the mistress of Duncliffe – being the right age – none is as clever or quick-minded as you are. You're eager to learn. And, most importantly, I trust you. Only to you could I confide my secrets.”

  Ettie swallowed hard. “Thanks, milady,” she mumbled. Her cheeks were red and her throat was too tight for talking. Her mistress really meant that? That she could trust her? She sniffed.

  “Oh, Ettie!” Marguerite said gently. “Whatever is the matter? Look, I am selfish. I made you cry! You don't have to do this.”

  “It's not that,” Ettie interrupted, sniffing hard. “It's that...no one ever said they trust me.”

  Marguerite placed a hand on her shoulder, and then moved it, deliberately, to her chin. Made her face her.

  “Ettie, I don't know anything about your past. But I do know that you are a good girl. Gentle, kind, true. I don't know what manner of people you knew before, or what they said to you. But they were wrong.”

  That was too much for Ettie. Her heart felt as if it had been torn open, like curtains that had been shut all winter, now parting in spring's light. She sniffled.

  “Och, milady,” she said. She reached into her own pocket and furtively pulled out her own handkerchief, dabbing at her nose. She looked up, grinning shakily. “I'll try tae take yer place. But I reckon I've got a lot to learn.”

  With that, she blew her nose in a manner so unladylike, she winced in embarrassment.

  Marguerite nodded. “Well, I think we have a lot to do in the next two weeks. But I know we can do it. You're a clever girl and you try hard. We'll make you ready to play the part.”

  Ettie stared at her. “Two weeks, milady?” She was horrified. Her ladyship expected to transform her into a replica of herself, in all but looks, in two weeks?

  “Yes,” she said, smiling. She looked excited. “I think we can take on the challenge!”

  Ettie felt something stir in her heart. She realized that she was excited.

  Two weeks passed slowly. Every night at five of the clock – the end of her daily round of chores, outside of dressing Marguerite for dinner, they met. First was language: coaching the rough edges off Ettie's speech, training her out of the thick dialectic accent of the north, was hard. It took all of the first week even to start. Next was deportment.

  “Now, remember. Always sit up straight. Don't slouch. And if anyone passes you something, don't grab at it.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  They practiced walking around the room with a book on her head until her back was as rigid as Merrick's. Then they practiced manners and speech.

  After two weeks, Marguerite pretended to be her uncle, meeting Ettie. At the end of the terrifying five minutes, she deemed her fully-schooled.

  “Ettie Lomond, you are a marvel.”

  Ettie glowed. She looked at her feet. Tears sprang to her eyes and her heart clenched. No one had ever praised her before. “Thanks, milady.”

  Marguerite grinned and she blushed.

  “I mean, thank you.”

  They both laughed.

  Marguerite sat back, considering her. “Well, my uncle is coming tomorrow. So I think it's time we did something else.”

  “Else?”

  “It's time to find you something to wear.”

  Ettie stared. Her chest was filled with little shocks of excitement, like a spring, bubbling there. She swallowed hard. She'd get to wear something pretty? “Milady?” She couldn't stop staring at her.

  Marguerite laughed. “Of course you will! And I'm going to arrange your hair. But we'll get that done tomorrow.”

  Ettie gaped at her. Then, abruptly, shut her mouth. “Yes, milady.”

  Tomorrow evening finally arrived. She sat before Marguerite on the stool, and her mistress heated the curling-tongs in the fire. She started arranging her hair in ringlets.

  When it was done, and the papers taken out, Marguerite stared at herself in amazement. “That's really me?”

  Marguerite laughed. “Assuredly yes, Ettie. That is you. And you are beautiful.”

  Ettie gulped. She had never, ever, in her life, heard that term applied to herself. She looked at the person in the mirror, transfixed.

  Is that really me? It must be.

  The gown Marguerite had chosen was dark blue, as befitted a married woman for evening-wear. It was silk, and low-cut, the neckline trimmed with lace. The bodice ended in a stiff v-shape and the skirt opened to show an underskirt of paler blue silk. Elbow-length sleeves were finished with a simple trim of blue. The dark color accentuated the pale gray of her eyes. Her hair framed her long, oval-shaped face.

  That is me. I'm beautiful.

  Abruptly she turned around and hugged Marguerite. The woman giggled in surprise, and gently squeezed her back.

  “You'll mess up your hair,” she chided gently. “Now, down you go. You're doing me a great service. Be safe?”

  Ettie nodded, swallowing hard. “I'll try, milady.”

  Then, balancing in the heeled shoes below the gown – the one part of the training she still hadn't quite mastered was walking in those shoes – she went downstairs.

  At the ballroom, she turned right. A footman met her on the way down. She hadn't seen him before and let out a relieved breath. If it had been Glenfirth – the old footman – he would definitely have recognized her.

  “Milady?” the man asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Your guest is waiting in the antechamber.”

  “Thank you,” she said politely. Taking a deep breath, she turned left and went into the room.

  The antechamber was dark, lit only by the amber glow of coals in the grate.

  She stared. In front of the fire, just lit by its ruddy glow, stood a man.

  Tall, with dark hair and a stooped posture, it wasn't the man's clothes – shabby, but oddly elegant – or his manner that struck her. It was his eyes. Dark and intense, they held her gaze.

  She swallowed hard. If this was Marguerite's uncle, he was very much younger than her father was. This man looked no more than ten years older than her – mayhap not even that.

  Ettie lowered her eyes, realizing she was staring. “Good eve
ning.”

  The man cleared his throat. He seemed, in that moment, as uncomfortable as she felt.

  “Um, Lady Marguerite,” he said softly. “Good evening. I...I come begging your pardon. My master – Mr. Crae, honorable merchant – was unable to be here to meet you himself, due to matters of business. He sends his pardon, and me, to convey his venture to you.”

  He bowed low. Ettie, contemplating the top of his head, swallowed hard, feeling confused. How was she supposed to react?

  “Um...my pardon, sir. If you could convey my...um...regret...that I couldn't meet Mr. Crae in person, I would be obliged. And I wait to hear his message from you. Mr....?”

  “Er, Hale. Mr. Garrick Hale. At your service.” He bowed again.

  When he straightened, he looked at Ettie. She looked at him. They stood there, silent. Staring.

  Ettie licked her lips. The antechamber was furnished with a table, and four chairs. She waved to it. “Shall we sit, Mr. Hale?”

  He nodded. Hastily, he sprang into action, pulling back her chair. She sat, feeling as if she had strayed into a dream. No one had ever so much as stood back for her in a hallway, never mind drawn out a chair for her.

  She waited for him to sit down opposite her. His brow was damp with sweat, and he looked as mortified as she felt. She cleared her throat and pressed her hands together, then leaned her chin on them, as she had seen Marguerite do. “Mr. Hale,” she said carefully. “Shall we begin?”

  A CONNECTION IS MADE

  Garrick sat in the half-dark anteroom and wished, very much, that he could become invisible.

  I have faced down three felons in an alley in Queensferry, armed with a stave, and been less frightened than I am now.

  He swallowed hard. He was sweating, and his collar felt too tight for him. He stared at the woman opposite him.

  Why didn't Crae warn me this woman is so beautiful?

  This made his job so much harder. Garrick sighed.

  He had grown up fending for himself, since he was fourteen, on the streets of Glasgow. A run-in with a merchant captain had seen him working as a messenger for the merchant's guilds.

  In all that time, his experience with women was limited to furtive encounters in dark streets. He had never had the courage – or the resources – to try anything else. Or, more vitally, the time. He was never in one place long enough to consider courting a woman. He swallowed hard.