Soul Of A Highlander (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)(26)

“I should go,” he murmured. “Before...” he trailed off. Before I do something stupid. Something we'd both regret.

“I suppose,” she said softly.

He made himself walk away from her, even though every part of him wanted to stay beside her, drinking in the scent and softness of her.

As he walked backwards, eyes fixed on her, he felt someone walk into him. He whipped round, horrified, but not before Claudine had cried out in alarm.

“Uncle Lucas!”

Francis saw her expression change from happiness to mortification. He turned round to face the man behind him, feeling his heart sink into his boots. Why him, of all people?

“Sir...” he began, feeling his own face warm with a blush.

“Good afternoon,” Uncle Lucas said mildly. “Lord Francis. A surprise to see you here. Were you out practicing?”

Francis swallowed hard. “Yes, I was. Sorry, sir,” he added, though he had no idea why or what he was sorry about. “I was just going.”

“Mm,” he commented. “I noticed. Walking backward does seem a little awkward a way of getting about.”

Francis felt stung, but didn't know exactly why or what to say. On the surface, Uncle Lucas was just joking, making light of the fact that Francis had walked into him. It felt deeper, though, more insidious.

It feels as if he wants to keep me away from Claudine.

“Niece,” he was saying, addressing her as if Francis wasn't there. “I was just looking for you. Are you going to attend the dinner tonight? In honor of Lady Gertrude's newborn daughter?”

“I...” Claudine stammered. She glanced at Francis, throat working. She seemed almost scared. “I think so, yes,” she murmured.

“Good. In which case, if you could advise me on what would be an appropriate gift for Lady Gertrude? I am no expert in such matters?”

“Of course, Uncle,” Claudine stammered. “I made a little coat for her, and I thought mayhap you could give a little wristlet of silver?”

“A good idea,” he mused, chewing his lip.

“I think no one else I know of is giving such a gift,” Claudine continued. Francis had the feeling that he was unwelcome and slipped quietly away.

Well, that was a surprise.

He shook himself, trying to shake the feeling of unease that filled him. What was it about Uncle Lucas that bothered him so much? The man was perfectly decent, but he seemed dangerous somehow. He sighed.

I need some company.

Glancing at the sundial down below, he guessed it to be around five of the clock. He headed inside to find someone to talk to.

He peered in round the door of one of the two solars – this one was in use by the knights and lords, the other by the king and his family. It seemed empty and he walked away.

“Francis!” a familiar voice called out.

“Gaspard,” Francis nodded. The man was seated in a darker part of the hall and Francis could barely see him there.

“Come and join me,” he gestured at the tables and benches. “I'm in need of some good company.”

“As am I, Gaspard,” Francis sighed. He ran a hand through his hair – still damp with the sweat of earlier – and collapsed onto a bench, weary and confused.

“Long day?” Gaspard asked. He reached into the center of the table and poured himself more ale. He raised a brow at Francis who shrugged and nodded, holding out a pewter beaker for a drink. Gaspard poured it.

“Thanks,” Francis said. “It has been a long day.” He took a big mouthful of the ale and leaned back, feeling weary.

“What happened?” Gaspard asked. “Besides beating me, that is?” he added. His brown eyes crinkled with a grin, long-boned face friendly in the flickering firelight. On this side of the castle the sunlight had already started to retreat, and the fires were lit against the cool of the coming night.

“It's hard to say,” Francis explained. Gaspard chuckled.

“How can that be?” he asked playfully. “Either it happened, or it didn't. Can't have it both ways.”

“It's...what would you say if someone you cared about seemed to be being...influenced?” he asked. The ale was taking its effect on his head and he felt as if the space had narrowed, leaving him and Gaspard and his worries alone together.

“Influenced.” Gaspard leaned back on his chair, frowning. “As in, manipulated?”

Francis frowned. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose so.”

“Well,” Gaspard sighed. “I'd tell them what I think. Make them see it – or at least make them aware of it. Can't see how else to change that. Why?”

“What if you think that person wouldn't believe it?”

“You mean, if your friend has a friend, and that friend is influencing your friend?”

Francis laughed. “Sounds complex, but yes. Exactly that.”

Gaspard pursed his lips. A few years older than Francis, he had a handsome face – craggy brow, long nose, full lips. He was brooding and quiet, and that made people reluctant to approach him. Francis had always liked him. They'd met when Francis was eighteen and the duke had visited Annecy for hunting gatherings. Gaspard and Francis had both been on the edges, both watching the rest – and it was that watchful insight he still valued most. It was what made him talk to him now.