The Highlander's French Bride
The Highlander’s French Bride
The Highlander’s Bride Series (Book 5)
Cathy MacRae
www.cathymacraeauthor.com
The Highlander’s French Bride
AMAZON KDP EDITION
PUBLISHED BY
Short Dog Press
Copyright © 2015
All rights reserved
Amazon KDP Edition License Notes
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This ebook is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
To my readers, with a special thank-you to Liette.
Heir to a lairdship, Kinnon Macrory is driven to prove his worth by fighting the English on the battlefields of France. His dreams of heroic valor are destroyed by the realities of war—the atrocities visited by fellow soldiers on the very people he is sworn to protect. Three years in a French prison for a crime he did not commit leave Kinnon longing for the one thing of beauty in his war-torn life—a young woman of great kindness and wisdom named Melisende.
Melisende de la Roche struggles to stay one step ahead of soldiers who would imprison her for helping an injured Scotsman wrongly accused of treason. She finds refuge in her uncle’s shop—until a chance encounter sends her fleeing into the unknown once again, haunted by the beguiling friendship with the troubled young Scotsman she is certain she will never see again.
Determined to find the woman of his dreams, Kinnon returns to France, only to discover a trail of clues to Melisende’s whereabouts. Their reunion will open the doors to passion, but half-truths and lies from the past could destroy the one thing they both are willing to fight for—each other.
Books in the series
The Highlander’s Bride
The Highlander’s Accidental Bride (book 1)
The Highlander’s Reluctant Bride (book 2)
The Highlander’s Tempestuous Bride (book 3)
The Highlander’s Outlaw Bride (book 4)
The Highlander’s French Bride (book 5)
Each book can be read as a complete story on its own, but characters tend to show up in other books from time-to-time, so reading them in order is preferable, though not necessary.
A note about this book:
As I began my research for this book, I discovered I needed to tweak history just a bit. It was clear from earlier books in the series that this story would take place in France during the Hundred Years’ War. However, during the particular year this book was set, France and England were in an uneasy truce. But another storyline began to intertwine with Kinnon’s as I discovered a man named Bertrand du Guesclin, Constable of France. He was a resourceful figure, a man who had risen from somewhat less-than-noble beginnings to become the champion of the king, and the hero of the people. His story became integral to that of my hero.
Bertrand du Guesclin died in 1380 as described in this story, though my timeline has him passing several years earlier. My most sincere apologies to this great man for cutting his life shorter than it already was. May he rest in peace.
Chapter 1
1374, Châteauneuf-de-Randon, France
Kinnon Macrory stared into the face of death.
’Tis nae fair. After all the battles I have survived, to arrive at this. He would have sighed at the injustice of it, but he was, quite frankly, afraid to make an unnecessary move.
The black mask surrounded dark topaz eyes, a burnished coat, and a fine set of strong, glistening white teeth revealing themselves from beneath snarling black jowls. The Alaunt’s ears lay flat against his skull in warning, and his hair stood up along his neck and shoulders. As did Kinnon’s.
Shite.
He lifted his eyes carefully from the reddened hand laid across the dog’s neck. The slender fingers could have belonged to a nobleman’s daughter, but the nails were short and the skin rough. Amazing what the mind registers when death is imminent. Kinnon’s gaze wandered further. The owner of the hand wore a serviceable gown, patched areas meticulously sewn, sleeve cuff turned back on itself, almost hiding the frayed edges of her struggling circumstances. A smudged apron covered the front of the gown, the bucket of milk at her feet announcing her job before he had arrived—and come face-to-face with death.
“Do ye mind calling off yer beast?” He offered a winsome smile, splaying his hands at his sides, a small bag of coins in his left palm. The young woman stared at him, giving the bag only a brief glance.
He tried again. “Chien?”
The young woman’s gaze did not waver—clear, cold blue eyes bore into his. Wisps of dark hair curled damply against her temple, attesting to her work ethic and the warmth of the day. Her thin nose sat atop full, red lips that neither smiled nor frowned at him, her thoughts inscrutable.
The dog growled, a deep menacing sound originating from his enormous chest that warned Kinnon against making a further move—if he wanted to keep his throat intact.
Kinnon did.
His heartbeat kicked up. The impressive muscles in the dog’s forelegs rippled, his claws gripped the ground, his hindquarters bunched, ready to launch himself at the least provocation. Savage power quivered beneath the thin hand of a milkmaid Kinnon could have easily tossed over his shoulder without so much as a grunt of effort. Endless moments passed as he roundly cursed the man who had sent him to this farm on an errand better suited to one of the camp lackeys.
“Calme-toi, Jean-Baptiste,” the young woman murmured as the dog leaned forward.
“Jean-Baptiste?” Kinnon couldn’t help himself. “Ye call this beast John the Baptizer?”
The woman gave him a curious look, but the edge of her lips quivered, threatened to smile. “He has changed la religion of more than one man.”
Kinnon’s eyebrows shot upward and he shifted his weight against an alarmed ache in his loins. “Aye. I can believe that.”
He took measure of the enormous beast, its shoulder almost even with the woman’s waist, its possessiveness clear. With his mistress’s soft command, the dog settled, but his eyes did not waver, and his threat remained unmistakable. No pampered pet, Jean-Baptiste was all business. And today his business included eating soldiers.
“I was sent to ask ye for what supplies I could buy.” Kinnon gently flipped the small bag in his hand. The movement and clink of coin drew the woman’s attention.
“You brought coin?” She snorted and hefted the milk bucket in one slender hand. “Most simply take what they want.”
Kinnon moved automatically to take the burden from her but froze at the snarled response from the dog. His startled gaze darted to the milkmaid, gaging her next action. Cool blue eyes met his, and this time, the young woman smiled.
“Merci, but I can manage. If you would like to keep your
virilité intact, please take a step back. Jean-Baptiste and I do not like to be crowded.”
Kinnon let out his breath and took the required step back. “Aye. And I thank ye.”
She raised her eyebrows. “For what?”
“For not letting yer beast change my religion.”
The young woman jerked her chin, indicating for him to follow. Keeping a respectful distance, Kinnon trailed her.
“What is it you wish to purchase?” Her voice hitched as she swung the bucket onto the back of the small cart against the edge of the stone stable. Moss grew over the crumbling wall edges, softening the façade. Hay spilled into the yard, fresh and clean, its odor mingling with the sharp tang of manure.
“My commander sent me for chickens, eggs, beef—whatever ye can spare.” He gave her a sideways glance. “The coin would purchase material for a pretty gown for ye, or mayhap a bit of ribbon.”
The woman gave him a stern look. “I have no use for such luxuries. The English soldiers care nothing for our welfare, and our cupboards bear the brunt of their greed.”
Kinnon shook his head. “Bertrand wouldnae condone such behavior.”
Her face darkened. “His is not the only army in these parts, monsieur. The English have garrisoned here many years.”
“That would explain ye speaking English, though yer accent is quite lovely.” He gifted her a winsome grin.
“Your accent is strange. Neither Anglais nor Français. It is not one I recognize.”
“Nae English. Scots.”
She lifted fine eyebrows. “You are Scottish? Fighting here, on French soil? Have you no battles to fight in Scotland?”
Kinnon’s grin broadened.
“Och, aye. There are always skirmishes to whet one’s appetite. But as part of the Auld Alliance, we Scots are grateful for any chance to fight the bluidy English.”
Wiping her hands on her apron, the young woman nodded. “Do you have a wagon?”
“Aye. ’Tis in that copse of trees. Bluidy rocks around here make driving it a bit of a nuisance.”
“We will pick out what you need and load the cart. Jean-Baptiste can pull it to your wagon.” She led him into the stable.
Kinnon eyed the beast’s beefy shoulders. “A good use for his muscles.”
“He can take down an angry bull with a mere tug of his head. His ancestors were bred in the mountains and came with the Romans as war dogs. He fears nothing, yet cares for us with gentleness.”
“Us?”
She nodded. “My sister lives here as well. She is gathering eggs.”
Kinnon paused. “Mademoiselle, I have been too long at war, but even so, my ma would say my manners need polish. If we are to do business, I should introduce myself. My name is Kinnon Macrory.” He held out his hand.
“My name is Melisende. Let me see the color of your coin.”
* * *
“So, you met the lovely Melisende and Jean-Baptiste?” Bertrand chuckled and shoved a chunk of meat into his mouth.
“St. Andrew-on-a-spit, ye could have warned me about the beast. For a moment I thought I wouldnae live to tell the tale.” His gaze stole downward. “Or return in one piece.”
“Do not be alarmed, mon ami. You have nothing to fear as long as you keep your hands to yourself and do not irritate la mademoiselle. It is why I sent you and not some camp provisioner. Her farm is remote and mayhap less ravaged than others nearer the English garrison. It would behoove us to keep it that way.”
“Not kill the goose with the eggs, aye?”
“Exactement. I have neither time nor inclination to take up farming. Nor the men to spare.” Bertrand wiped his hands on a linen square and an aide hurried to clear the table. “Merci.” He waved to his empty trencher. “This is as good a meal as I have had in a time. Are you certain you do not care for any?”
“Thank ye, no. I only wished to see if there was anything else before I turned in. How is the garrison holding up?”
“I have not had conversation with De Ros in several days. He still believes we will tire of this and go away.”
“Even after yesterday’s skirmish?” Kinnon rubbed his chin, eyeing the boxes of provisions stacked to one side of the commander’s enormous tent. “Mayhap he will reconsider on an empty stomach.”
“We can wait him out, do not fear. After our losses in Poitiers, it became clear pitched battles with the English are not our best option.” He nodded his thanks to the aide who placed a small plate of cheeses at his elbow. Picking a soft white lump, he popped it in his mouth, clearly relishing the rich flavor. “I, on the other hand, have the means to enjoy the surrounding countryside as well as the delicacies De Ros tries to slip past us.”
“We Scots have been known to favor small skirmishes over large battles. Especially when it harries the English.”
Bertrand du Guesclin’s smile turned grim. “We lost several men in yesterday’s skirmish. And the mercenaries grow bored with lack of activity and plunder. But I feel something decisive will happen soon, mon ami. We must remain patient.”
Taking his leave of the commander, Kinnon stepped from the tent into the fading evening twilight. On the hillside stood the village, an English garrison on the border between French and English territory, ceded to Edward III by the Treaty of Brétigny. It was to reclaim French land for Charles V that Bertrand du Guesclin, l’Aigle de la Bretagne, had been recalled from Castile ten years earlier and made Constable of France.
L’Aigle de la Bretagne. The Eagle of Brittany. Kinnon cast his gaze at the extravagant tent, the interior lamps lit against the fading light, Bertrand’s figure a soft blur against the heavy fabric. Such an enigma, this man, his commander. Kinnon made his way through the guard and along the paths between tents, placed to provide no direct route to the commander’s pavilion. Entering his own tent, Kinnon scattered a few rocks and broken twigs at the entrance to alert him should anyone approach.
He placed his sword on the ground beside his pallet, then removed his sporran and unrolled his plaide from his waist, tossing the heavy fabric atop the bundle of furs. He reached into his sporran and began his nightly ritual. A bit of dented metal with the Macrory crest etched into its surface. Brody was a braw fighter. Laying it on the plaide, he reached for his next treasure. Jamie, my lad, may ye have a thousand drinks on my account. He sniffed the wine plug, but the deep aroma had faded. Frowning, he placed it beside the scrap of metal.
Gently he withdrew a tiny wooden carving. He lifted it to the final rays of sunlight casting their golden lines through the opening of his tent. The wood glowed amber and gold, giving the wee horse a mischievous glint to his eyes. One dainty leg was snapped at the knee, and its flowing tail had been abbreviated long ago. How fare ye, wee sister? I miss ye more than I could have imagined when I left home two years ago. With God’s grace, I will see ye again soon.
He set the statue amid the others, the burning tug of loss deep in his chest. Three of us set out looking for a grand adventure. He touched each relic. Two found foreign graves, God rest yer souls. His hand lingered on the tiny horse. What will be my fate?
Chapter 2
Clucking encouragingly to the two horses hitched to the wagon, Kinnon settled in for the long haul up the rugged mountainside. Would De Ros hold out against the French forces in this heat? Kinnon supposed not, since Bertrand’s army had successfully waylaid every bit of stores the British garrison attempted to slip past them. But there was one very interesting reason to hope the English commander would linger a bit longer. A lovely French mademoiselle named Melisende.
The wagon creaked and groaned as the team dragged it around boulders scattered randomly across the grassy hillside. Ye would think a man would at least have a respectable path to his home, Kinnon groused silently as a particularly hard bump tossed him on his seat. Bluidy rocks! He stared at the landscape around him, which looked like a giant had dropped an armload of stones—and forgotten to pick them up.
Up ahead—or at least it would be as soon as the wagon m
aneuvered around a particularly large boulder—lay Melisende’s home. Kinnon sat up straighter, looking forward to seeing the prickly woman again. It would be his third trip to her farm, and he was glad Bertrand insisted he make the trek each time.
Jean-Baptiste greeted him at the wooden gate as Kinnon leapt down from his seat and secured the horses in the shade of a sprawling tree. The enormous dog growled.
“Calme-toi, Jean-Baptiste.” The rich, melodic voice rose over the dog’s warning. Rounding the corner of the ramshackle shed, Melisende wiped the back of her hand across her brow. Her nod of welcome made Kinnon’s heart soar.
“He wagged his tail at me!” Kinnon declared, a broad grin on his face. He reached a hand toward the dog, eager to test their friendship.
“Monsieur!” Melisende’s voice rose in horror.
Kinnon eyed the glistening white fangs and weighed them against the slow wag of the dog’s tail. Thinking better of his actions, he shoved both hands behind his back. “Och, the wee laddie knows I mean no harm.”
“Knowing it and accepting friendship are two different concepts, monsieur,” Melisende observed dryly. She released the latch and opened the gate. Poking his head through the gap, Jean-Baptiste nosed Kinnon about, then licked his arm once.
“See? He likes me.”
A half-grin tilted her lips. “More likely he simply tastes you for future reference.”
“Och, then ’tis official. I am a tough lad and he has no wish to overly exert his jaws on my behalf. We will be friends.”