Soul Of A Highlander (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)(10)

“Sorry, sir,” she said. “I was just wondering if you had seen my uncle?”

Francis opened his mouth. “Your uncle?” he asked, realizing he wouldn't know if he had or not.

“Yes. Only...he usually sits in that place.”

“Oh!” Francis blushed red. “I'm so sorry...I...I just can't get anything right here, can I?” He smiled sadly. He half stood up.

“No, stay,” she said. She gave him a smile. Her blue eyes were sad. “I feel like that too, sometimes,” she said lightly.

“You do?” Francis was surprised.

She looked at her hands. She seemed embarrassed about something. “Yes,” she whispered.

“Why?” Francis blurted. “I mean,” he added quickly, “why would someone like you feel like that? You seem like you fit in here – or at least, if you stand out, it's a good way.”

Francis had the pleasure of seeing the girl blush. She went a sweet, soft shade of pink, the color of the rose petals that decorated the table. Francis stared, feeling sweet warmth suffuse him, too, only this warmth was inside, making him feel suddenly happy. She was so beautiful, from the tapered ends of her fingers to the soft sheen of her skin. The sweet smile on those pink, moist lips made his whole body tingle with desire.

“Thank you, sir,” she murmured. “I...” she sighed. “I'm not like everyone else. I can't walk very well, you see. Or dance.” Her sweet mouth turned down into a hard, sad line.

“Oh!” Francis was surprised. He felt his jaw drop and then closed his mouth. Poor girl! “I see. That's...that must be hard.”

She was still looking at her hands. She looked up shyly. “I am used to it,” she said, with that same twist of bitterness in her voice. That resignation. It struck a chord in his own heart: a similar tone was something he might have used when discussing his own family.

“It must make it difficult to come to...such things,” Francis said, not sure what else to say.

She chuckled. “Not really. I just sit and watch the others dance. Not hard at all.” She said it lightly though Francis could hear the bitterness in her tone. It saddened her, he could tell, not to be able to walk and run and dance like the rest of them. He noticed how sad she looked and felt a need to reach out to her.

“I'm so sorry to hear that,” he said gently.

His hands touched hers before he'd thought about it. He jumped and withdrew them instantly, but the contact had been made. Smooth and soft, with skin like satin, Francis drew in a sharp breath and wished he could keep holding them. She was so lovely!

She smiled. Her hands moved back too, but it seemed with the same slow reluctance as his own. He shook his head.

“I'm sorry, milady. I have no matters.” he grinned lopsidedly.

She shook her head. “No, sir. You have manners. More than those who pretend to feel sorry for me and then whisper behind their hands.”

Her voice was harsh and cold. Francis felt his own heart clench with empathy for her. How could anyone treat such a gentle, beautiful girl in that way? It filled him with anger.

“My lady,” he said gently. “There are some savage people out there. They might be all genteel on the outside, but inside they're full of bitterness and violence.”

The girl's blue eyes looked up into his face. Francis felt his heart melt as she stared at him in wonder.

“You think that?”

“I know that,” Francis said boldly. “Fancy someone saying aught against you? You're ...lovely.”

She stared at him, those moist lips parted in a sweet expression of surprise.

Francis bit his lip, blushing bright red. “Sorry, milady,” he said quickly. “I spoke out of turn. Forgive me?”

The lady – he still didn't know her name, he realized shyly, shook her head. “Nothing to forgive,” she said softly. “And...Thank you.”

Francis stared into her blue eyes and felt a curious sensation, as if he was at once rooted to the spot and falling, tumbling and spiraling into those soft spring-sky depths.

“No,” he murmured, voice ragged with feeling. “There is nothing to forgive.”

Their eyes locked. They were still looking at each other when someone cleared their throat behind them.

“Excuse me,” a man's low, cultured voice said melodiously, making Francis jump with some surprise. The lady looked up, hands flying up to her face in shock.

“Uncle! Oh, forgive me. I...If you could take the place across from me?” she said.

“Well, this is irregular,” her uncle said, frowning. Francis studied him quickly, taking in a compact, handsome man in mid-forties. “But yes, of course I shall,” he said, smiling quite gracefully.

Francis felt embarrassed and half-stood, not wanting to cause a scene, but the older Frenchman waved him to his seat politely.

“No, young man. You were there before me. No reason for me not to move elsewhere.”

“I'm sorry,” Francis murmured, but he only laughed.

“I'm not fixed to the floor, I can move as well as any man,” he said lightly.

Francis saw a look of pain cross the young lady's face and realized the words must have hurt her. He felt an instant wariness against this uncle of hers, polite and affable though he seemed.