Soul Of A Highlander (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)(14)

Francis grinned. “Yes indeed, milady.”

Claudine noticed him hesitate at the door and was mildly surprised when he waved her ahead. She moved so slowly that she knew people often became impatient of her.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Francis looked genuinely surprised. “Of course,” he repeated, echoing her words.

Claudine walked along the hallway beside him shyly.

When they reached the top of the stairs she was out of breath. Francis stood back at the door that led to the battlements and Claudine leaned on the wall beside it, breathing heavily. She felt as if she had been walking all day, her head dizzy and her heart thudding. Wretched body!

“E...excuse me,” she whispered.

“There is nothing to excuse,” Francis said, surprising her. He looked earnestly into her eyes. “My lady, I understand your own impatience with yourself. But no one else has the right to be impatient. You walking faster is hard for you – as hard as it would be for me to change the color of my hair.”

Claudine bit her lip. There was such wistfulness, such pain, in his expression, even though he smiled.

“Lord Francis,” she said softly, “I like your hair. I trust you will not endeavor to change it.”

Francis blushed. Claudine smiled. They looked at each other in the close space of the tower's apex.

Claudine felt that same strange urge filling her again and looked down abruptly, trying to quell the feelings that were flooding her body, igniting her veins and making her want to lean in toward Francis and...

“Shall we go outside?” she asked quickly.

He cleared his throat, face red. “Yes. Of course. You first.”

Claudine sighed and lifted her foot, knowing that taking that step out onto the rampart was hard for her. She managed it, and stood against the wall outside, feeling the warmth on her skin as the sun warmed it.

She heard Francis alight beside her and together they stood and looked over the landscape. The roofs of Paris spread out before them – tile and thatch, miles of them stretching to the silver sparkle of river water. The sky was crystallized blue.

“Is it not beautiful?” Claudine whispered.

“So beautiful.” Francis' voice was thick with feeling. “I am sure there is no city to compare it to.”

Claudine felt her cheeks fill with a blush. She felt absurdly proud of Paris. It was the place she had spent half her life – every year in the summer her family came to court – first she and her father, then uncle.

The fact that Francis liked it made her feel proud.

“It is breathtaking,” she said.

“Indeed.”

They stood and watched the city awhile. Somewhere below them in the courtyard, men-at-arms practiced with sword and wooden staff, the sounds and shouts of their training lifting up from below on the warm air.

Francis leaned on the rail. Shyly, Claudine joined him. Her elbow was close to his, so close she could feel the warmth of his body through his linen tunic. She blushed.

Claudine! How can you even think of such things?

The closeness of Francis and the way he looked made her think all manner of wild thoughts. She found herself wondering what it might feel like if he kissed her. The thought was so deliciously wicked that she looked at her hands, trying to hide her smile.

“My lordship is here for long?” Claudine asked, deciding that distracting herself with conversation would be more advisable.

“Um...a week.”

“So long! I am surprised your family spares you.”

Francis laughed. “I'm sure they'd spare me longer. I think it's a relief to have me gone from underfoot.”

Claudine shook her head. “Lord Francis, why do you imagine people wish you elsewhere?”

She saw his eyes narrow and he blinked, quite surprised. “You know...I never thought about that question,” he admitted. “I suppose I...just came to think of myself as a nuisance.”

“Me too,” Claudine said, suddenly surprised by yet another similarity. “Ever since I turned nineteen and this...debility...crept over me, I've come to expect people would wish me gone. I am too slow, too cumbersome for company.” She bit her lip, looking down impatiently.

Francis surprised her by reaching out to her. Gently, he rested a hand on her shoulder, just under the soft curls of her hair. She felt as if her heart would leap out of the cage of her ribs in surprise.

“Sorry,” he murmured, mistaking her reaction for shock and gently removing his hand. Claudine felt the imprint of his fingers like the warmth of coals.

“No,” she murmured, her throat tight. “No need.”

“I just...” Francis looked down at her with utter bewilderment. “It seems so shocking that someone as beautiful would think themselves tiresome.”

Claudine looked up into his eyes. She stared. He thought she was beautiful? As long as she could remember, no one, except her father and her maidservant, had ever said that to her.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Francis reached out gently and before either of them had any idea of what was happening next, his lips moved over hers and he kissed her.

Claudine shut her eyes, feeling a shiver of amazement pass through her. She breathed in with amazement at the sweetness of the feeling. She would never have imagined that being kissed felt like this – the sweet softness of his mouth on hers, the way his tongue stroked along the parting of her lips.