Soul Of A Highlander (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)(3)

“You are funny,” she said.

Francis blinked. He wasn't sure if that was supposed to be a compliment, but he hoped so.

“Thank you, milady.”

Lady Ettie rolled her eyes toward her companion, a shorter lady with dark curls and dark eyes. She smiled at Ettie.

“Go on, Ettie!” she said. “Dance with him.”

Ettie giggled and let Francis lead her toward the dance floor.

Breathe deeply. Walk. Don't fall over your feet.

Francis felt desperately awkward on the dance floor. He had grown to be taller than his companions, broader in the shoulder with pale auburn hair. His face was a long, fine-boned oval shape with his father's strong brow and jawline. With full lips like his mother, and wide, hawkish eyes, he had an undeniably handsome face. It just didn't look like anyone else. Which was still a problem.

They don't tend to like me.

He bowed to Ettie and let her lead him into the dance. It was a Pavane, slow and stately. He acquitted himself reasonably well, which surprised him. However, when Lady Ettie bowed, she disappeared back into the hall again, blushing and smiling, and looking for her companion.

Francis sighed. Why am I so hopeless with girls?

He had no idea.

I suppose I'm not that bad looking, he thought self-consciously. The thought reassured him, especially this evening. The day before he went to Court in Paris for the first time ever. He rolled tense, thick-muscled shoulders under his linen tunic and turned to face his mother.

“Remember, you are from the house of Dunkeld and Lochlann. Great estates in Scotland,” his mother said encouragingly. “You have a lot to be proud of.”

“Yes, Mother. I know. But I am also an eighth French.” It was important to him, that eighth. It made him feel like he belonged here when people insisted on staring or calling him “foreigner”.

His mother sighed. “Perhaps,” she said. “I suppose that is important at court. Where, I remind you, in case you've forgotten, you will be going tomorrow.”

Francis felt himself sadden.

“Mother, I doubt anyone at the court will even notice I'm there. It's not like Annecy is such a big estate after all.”

His mother raised a brow. Those sky blue eyes looked frosty with hurt. “It's not small either, Francis,” she said coolly. “You don't need to make us out to be insignificant.”

Francis felt instantly guilty. “I'm sorry, Maman,” he said gently. “I know. I spoke out-of-turn. I was just worried. I've never been to court before.”

His mother grinned, her anger evaporating. “I've only been twice, son. I know it's a daunting prospect. However, I trust that you'll enjoy it. It's very...diverting. And there are many more opportunities there.”

Francis nodded slowly. He knew what sort of opportunities his mother meant. Opportunities to gain renown. To connect with important people. Most importantly, opportunities to find a prospective bride.

“I hope I'll enjoy it,” he said cautiously. “And take advantage of the...diversions...on offer.”

His mother smiled. “I'm sure you will son. Now. I trust you're all packed and ready to go already. But I do have something to give you. It's upstairs on your bed.”

“Oh?”

His mother grinned. Strikingly lovely, when she smiled like that she lost the look of age and could have been no older than he himself. “Yes. I made it.”

After the ball, when Francis was exhausted and strangely disheartened, he found it. She had sewn it herself, he guessed from the perfect, neat stitching. Her gift to him was a doublet, quilted and padded in the latest fashion. It was a rich green silk, the color of gray-green fields under winter sky. It was stylish and exactly what he needed on his quest to be acceptable to the critical French nobles.

“Mother!” he said, voice raw. She wasn't there, but he couldn't help it. He felt his throat tighten for a moment. She did understand! He hadn't known she cared so much about how he felt or how hard it was, potentially, for him to mingle in this land.

He sighed and climbed into bed. Memories of the ball drifted round his head. Ettie, giggling and saying how tall he was. Disappearing after the dance.

Will I ever be halfway acceptable?

He had no idea. With big muscles and admirable skills at the tournament and practice ground, he was exactly what a young man was supposed to be. Somehow, though, it never carried over very well.

It must just be because I'm different.

He wore the doublet the next morning, when he was to leave for court. When he appeared for breakfast in the solar, his mother smiled.

“You found it.”

“I love it!”

Francis chuckled fondly, kissing his mother's golden hair. Scented with rose-water, glossy in the daylight, he could barely see the strands of white he knew were there.

“Oh, well! Don't you look handsome in it?” His mother grinned at him, stepping back so she could admire him from across the room. “You cut a fine figure, son. Look at yourself.”

She gestured to the mirror and Francis walked across to look shyly into it.

A lean, handsome face stared back. His pale auburn hair slightly curling, the face was endowed with green eyes with heavy eyelids like his mother's, which gave him a hooded gaze like one of his father's hawks. His full lips were peach-red and his neck firm and muscled below a strong jaw.