Duchess of Mine (6 page)

D
uncan’s eyes widened slightly,
perhaps was a bit shocked, maybe even confused. But he stayed
still. Fleur was wedged between the horse and him and didn’t mind
in the least. Looking up, she smiled as he tightened his hold of
her. Her breasts pressed against his iron chest and part of her
stomach against his. That’s when she realized she was almost on her
toes, not quite touching the ground. Because if she did, she wasn’t
sure their bodies would link like this. He was so tall. A foot
taller than her, maybe more. But what impressed her the most was
his build, so broad and powerful. Her breasts felt achingly heavy,
and her nipples contracted.

His breath became shaky, and his face was so
close, his lips only a few inches from hers.

“Duncan? That ye lad?”

At that, he released her and almost jumped
back. He looked over the horse in the direction of the female voice
calling.

“Aye.” He stepped around the mount and with a
wave, gestured for Fleur to walk ahead.

As she did so, he spoke over her head. “Ma,
ye have a visitor.”

Circling around the horse, Fleur saw a woman
on the porch of the house and stopped dead in her tracks. Duncan
stepped into her, held her by her hips, but even his magical touch
didn’t stir her from staring at the woman. Holding a shawl tight
around her thin shoulders, she looked so much like Rachel, Fleur
could hardly believe it. She huffed with recognition, but the woman
had far more gray in her hair than Rachel had. Further, it was tied
neatly in a chignon at the nape of her neck, and Rachel would never
hold her wavy dark hair back like that. Still, the hair was very
similar—wavy dark brown tresses mixed with distinguished gray
silver. This woman was much paler than Rachel and held just a few
more wrinkles. But her eyes danced just like Rachel’s as Fleur
returned to walking and drew closer.

The woman smiled. “My, aren’t ye the bonniest
sight I’ve ever seen.”

That was almost identical to what Rachel had
said when they’d met the first time at a Cornell faculty mixer.
“My, aren’t you the prettiest nerd I’ve ever seen.” Booze and over
educated people were never a good mix, Fleur had thought, but then
she’d met Rachel, and all she wanted to do was hug her and stay.
And now in this time, an overwhelming need to cling to the woman
before her urged Fleur on.

She embraced Duncan’s mother and whispered,
“No, you are.”

The woman laughed, again, almost identical to
Rachel’s chuckle. But she knew this woman was not her friend. Fleur
could feel the difference, this woman was a bit tougher, a bit
harder around the edges, but every bit as maternal and
nurturing.

Fleur released Duncan’s mother, but they
still clung to each other’s arms. The woman searched Fleur’s eyes,
then her face, smiling with moisture beginning to pool in her
eyes.

“Ma, this is Lady Fleur Anpao. Lady Anpao
this is my mother, Helen Cameron.”

Fleur wondered why Duncan had a different
last name, but couldn’t think of a way to ask such a personal
question.

Helen released her hold of Fleur and placed
tiny fingertips against her lips for a moment. “A lady.”

Fleur tried to shake her head, but Duncan
whispered in her ear, “Don’t. She’s always wanted to meet a fine
lady like ye.”

The compliment was enough to humble Fleur
down to her bones. She peeked over her shoulder as Duncan
straightened, his face devoid of any emotion, save one. He looked
just a bit surprised. At the way she’d reacted when meeting his
mother? She was shocked by it too, but she felt such a connection
to Helen, almost as instantaneous and strong as when she’d met
Rachel.

She extended a hand and Helen reached for it.
While holding hands, they both curtsied and giggled.

“What brings the lady to my humble home?”

Although Helen had used the third person,
Fleur understood that she was asking her, not Duncan. As Helen
released her, Fleur said, “I—I wanted to talk to you about
Virginia.”

“Where my younger boys are.”

Fleur looked up at Duncan again who gave a
short nod. She nodded too then.

“Ye’re an American lady, eh? Oh, how grand is
this, Duncan, my lad?”

“Aye, Ma. ‘Tis grand. May we visit
inside?”

“Oh, my manners.” Helen curtsied again, while
Fleur reflected on Helen’s beautiful accent and how it had sounded
as though Helen had said, “Och, me mannors.”

Duncan opened the big black door and placed
his warm fingertips against the small of Fleur’s back, giving her
enough pressure to indicate she was to step through the door while
he held it. But she almost couldn’t walk. Her thighs felt wave
after wave of heat, luscious and carnal, crash through her at that
slight, probably innocent touch. She recovered fast and smiled at
him as she passed. But from her periphery, she saw his eyes turn a
tad glassy. Maybe it wasn’t such an innocent touch?

The house was floor to ceiling whitewashed
wood and thoroughly clean, smelling slightly of herbs, which Fleur
saw there were bunches hanging from the white beams at the top of
the house. A small, pale blue, lumpy couch sat in front of a huge
fireplace to the right of the abode and rocking chairs of varying
sizes were placed around the couch. To the other side of the
residence stood a long wooden table, also whitewashed with many
chairs alongside it. Seven in all, and they sat so still, so vacant
that Fleur palpably felt the impact of Duncan’s missing brothers,
as if a piece of her heart had been slivered off.

Helen removed a long, half-finished knitted
blanket, still with long wooden needles on one end, from the couch
and waved toward the seat. “Can I offer ye a beverage, my
lady?”

Fleur was about to sit, but said, “Water? May
I have water? But I don’t want to be a burden. I can get it
myself.”

“I’ll get the water,” Duncan said. He turned
to his mother. “Would ye care for tea instead?”

“Nay, I’ll have water too, like the
lady.”

Duncan nodded and strode away, then Fleur and
Helen sat on opposite sides of the couch, staring at each other.
However, Fleur noticed that Helen seemed exhausted as she sat.

“I really don’t want to be a burden. Perhaps
we should visit at a time of your choosing?”

Helen shook her head vehemently. “Nay, this
is a perfect time. I was just knitting. I don’t ken why. Mayhap
this will keep Duncan warm.” She looked at the knitting in a vacant
rocking chair.

Fleur couldn’t help but appreciate the design
and thickness of the soon-to-be blanket, then nodded with an
enthusiastic smile.

“Is the lady from the Virginian colony?”

“Fleur, please call me Fleur, if that’s all
right?”

Helen’s blanched face bloomed with a slight
pink hue as she smiled. “Fleur? Are ye French as well?”

Fleur thought about telling the story of how
her father, a French Canadian man, had fallen in love with her
beautiful mother, but their love was not meant to be. However, that
was a lot of information, so she just smiled for an answer.

“I would be honored to call ye Fleur, ifnye
call me Helen?”

Fleur nodded again with a wide grin. Then she
recalled the question. “And, no, I’m sorry. I’m not from Virginia,
but I’ve been there. It is a beautiful colony—lush with green,
green trees. And the flowers that grow there are phenomenal.
They’re so big and beautiful.”

Helen sighed and nodded. “I’m so glad to hear
it. Did—did Duncan tell ye how my boys were taken from me?”

Fleur shook her head. “No, ma’am.”

Then Helen looked down, her shoulders caving
in, making her thin frame seem so much smaller. That was when Fleur
smelled Helen. At first, all she could scent was herbs, but it was
when Helen shrunk from the pain of losing her boys that Fleur got a
whiff of something that smelled slightly sour. Something amiss. And
instantly Fleur thought she recognized the odor but couldn’t place
it.

“They—they—being from the American colonies,
did ye hear much about our revolution? Do ye ken of Cromwell?”

Fleur’s mind raced back to her undergraduate
classes and the few history courses she had taken. Odd tidbits that
shaped Western culture during the seventeenth century flew through
her mind. The Thirty Years’ War, Cromwell and a parliamentary
revolution that hadn’t lasted—Oh! Shit, Fleur thought. She was in
the middle of Scotland during the British revolution. Cromwell was
still in power. The king had been executed or would be. Oh my God,
what a crazy time to be in Britain. And, Jesus, she was smack dab
in the middle of the rebels. The Scots—well, not all of them, but
many—did not take kindly to Parliamentary rule.

“You know, I’ve heard a little of what’s
going on, but I’m not exactly current.”

Helen nodded and kept looking down at the
pastel couch. “My sons fought against Cromwell. Well, Duncan
didn’t. He was still in Sweden, weren’t ye, lad?”

Fleur hadn’t realized that Duncan had
returned, but he held two thick pottery-style cups and gradually
walked closer. His pace was sluggish, yet simultaneously jerky, as
if he wanted to be anywhere but here.

“Aye,” he said eventually, then softly, “I’m
sorry, Ma.”

Helen shook her head, never looking up.
“’Tisn’t yer fault. Cromwell,” she said the name as if it were a
curse, “took ‘em, took my sons. Cromwell’s New Model Army killed my
Douglas, the second to the youngest. He was just nine and ten.”

Fleur scooted across the couch and held onto
Helen’s hands. “I’m so sorry.” Fleur had known loss, but the loss
of one’s own child...that had to be the hardest death to deal with.
Not remembering her mother, because she’d died hours after Fleur
had been born, she’d been raised by Na. And dealing with her
grandmother’s death had been difficult—not only had Fleur lost her
grandma but the only mother figure in her life too. Yet to lose a
child...God, that must have hurt. And Helen had lost her others to
the war. Were they prisoners?

“What did Cromwell do with your other boys?”
Fleur found herself asking.

Helen looked up. “Shipped ‘em off to America.
Duncan found out they were sent to Virginia, then he heard news how
they were indentured servants, being sold to the rice kings down
there. Do ye ken the rice kings?”

Before Fleur could shake her head, Duncan
said, “Ma, I told ye, they aren’ real kings. They just have a lo’
o’ money, so they’re called kings.”

“Right, right,” Helen nodded. Then she looked
up at Fleur, her hazel eyes grown misty. “Do ye happen to ken one
of them?”

Fleur shook her head. “I’m sorry, no.”

Helen shrugged. “Just as well.” She smiled
then in a wholly mischievous way. “My boys ran away from their
plantation master, they did. They ran into” —she turned toward
Duncan slightly— “tell her their name again.”

Fleur glanced up at Duncan. All the planes of
his face were tense, the look in his eyes was hard and distant. His
shoulders seemed to hunch powerfully, as if he were ready to
strike. He shook his head. “Not sure how to say it. Something akin
to Yama—er, Yamasay, mayhap.”

“Yamasee?” Fleur asked.

Duncan’s eyes widened. He didn’t nod, but he
seemed as though he wanted to.

Well, that was a coincidence. She’d studied
the Yamasee, a tribe mainly in South Carolina, but in 1653 it
wouldn’t be called that. It was still considered the Virginia
colony. South Carolina was a special colony in that many slaves and
indentured servants ran away to the tribes there. The result was
fascinating to research as a genealogist. Yes, genealogy held the
promise of answers that historians begged for and had proof of
people who loved and lived together, instead of the long-thought of
feuding. Both might be historically accurate, but it was thanks to
genealogy that finally the fighting was no longer the focus.

Fleur looked at Helen who smiled at her,
seeming to silently beg for good news.

“I think your boys will be fine in Virginia.”
Fleur tried to grin herself.

She looked up and over at Duncan who finally
moved the last few inches to place the thick brown cups on a nearby
small table that held tallow and beeswax candles.

“If ye ladies will excuse me,” he said and
then hurriedly left through a part of the house that Fleur couldn’t
see from where she was sitting.

After hearing a door slam shut, Fleur glanced
back at Helen.

“He blames himself for the loss of my younger
sons, carries too much guilt for any one man.”

“Why? He was in Sweden? Why was he in
Sweden?”

Helen glanced up with a proud smile. “Makin’
money for me. Can ye believe a grown son like that would keep
sendin’ me his money? But he did. I think he sent me near every
cent too. He’s such a good lad.”

Fleur smiled.

Then Helen leaned closer. “Ye’re the answer
to my prayers, aren’t ye?”

Fleur blinked. “Excuse me?’

Helen leaned away, but had a small
all-too-clever grin on her beautiful face. “’Tis my Duncan. He
keeps blamin’ himself for all of this. He wanted to go to America
and find my sons and get them back here. But to what, I says? To
Scotland torn apart from war and this supposed revolution? Nay, as
much as I miss my lads, they need to be in a land where they can
prosper.”

“And Duncan?” Fleur asked before she could
properly censor the question.

Helen smiled ruefully. “Duncan, if he will
ever let go of this blame, will prosper no matter where he lands.
But I asked him to stay with me. I ken he wants to go, find his
brothers, then return to being a mercenary, making the fine money
he did, so I could have the grandest house in Durness, mayhap in
all of MacKay country. But I asked him to stay, for I’m...well, I
need him to stay for a bit. And now ye’re here, so he’ll stay as
long as ye do. Will ye being staying with me in my house? I’d be
honored if ye did. Oh, but I should go find my Duncan to help me
get the house ready for ye.”