The Highlander's French Bride Page 2

Melisende motioned him through the gate, latching it firmly behind him. “What is it you wish for today, monsieur? We have eggs and milk and cheese, and a few early vegetables from the garden.” She strode toward a stone building on the other side of the small yard, Jean-Baptiste at her heels.

  Kinnon hurried to catch up, eying the swish of Melisende’s skirts as he ignored her question. “What about us, mademoiselle? Are we friends?”

  She stopped and turned, her bewitching blue eyes piercing his soul. Kinnon slid to a halt.

  “I mean no disrespect. I am not looking for a woman to toss. Merely a friend to talk to.”

  “Why me?” One fine brow stretched upward. “And why not?”

  Kinnon gave her a startled look. “I wouldnae show ye such disrespect. Ye are not a camp follower or a loose woman who shows herself to be looking for such a liaison. Ye are bonnie and smart. I may like what I see, but it doesnae mean I will touch ye.”

  “Surely you have friends among the soldiers to talk with, oui?”

  “Oui, but they talk only of war and killing, and I tire of it.”

  “Vraiment?” Her clear blue eyes perused him. “I would think such a man as yourself would be committed to war.”

  Kinnon felt warmth steal up his neck and settle low in his stomach. St. Andrew’s spare balls! The lass has made me blush! He rubbed his jaw vigorously with his thumb, hoping the flush did not show on his face. Part of him wanted to flex the muscles in his arms and suck in his belly, made lean and firm from constant activity. But the military actions that had fleshed him from brash lad to hardened man were ever on his mind. He paused.

  Melisende tilted her head. “Is something wrong?” She stepped close and placed a hand on his forearm. “What has happened?”

  There was a pull in her touch, an element that held them together. Do I need a woman this much? Kinnon shook his head. His cock was interested, but not demanding. She touched him in a way he could not define. His heart told him to trust her.

  “I am not sure I was meant to be a soldier.”

  Her hand fell away and her half-smile returned. “You appear to be one very much.”

  “Knowing how to use a sword and dagger is verra important. Knowing how to take a life to save one, even more so. Making a profession of it? I dinnae know any more.”

  She picked up her skirts and motioned for him to follow with a jerk of her head. “Come with me, monsieur.”

  Surprised, Kinnon followed her from the yard. She wound past the eastern side of the old stone manor house to a small copse of trees. Only a few yards distant, the draping limbs provided a sense of privacy. Two large rocks lolled at the base of the tree trunks, and the land fell away beneath them in a startling manner.

  Melisende stepped gingerly onto one of the rocks. A dark line on the stone writhed slowly. Kinnon’s belly tensed in revulsion.

  “Wait!” He darted forward, but she was faster.

  “It is only a couleuvre lisse, Kinnon. A smooth grass snake,” she said as she swept the snake off the rock and took her seat. She patted the stone beside her in invitation.

  He cautiously surveyed the second large rock, a shudder rippling his shoulders. “I dinnae care how smooth the beastie is, I dinnae like it.”

  “Do you not have snakes in Scotland?” She tilted her head, interest rounding the cat-like slant to her eyes.

  Kinnon shrugged. “There is the wee adder. They are verra difficult to find, but can cause a nasty wound if ye handle it.” He gave Melisende a pointed look.

  “I did not pick it up. I merely pushed it on its way.” She waved him closer with her hand. “Come and sit. The couleuvre lisse will not hurt you and often eats very young snakes. Possibly even vipers. For this I will tolerate his presence.”

  Jean-Baptiste nosed about the clumps of tall grass then settled beside Melisende with a sigh. She rubbed the base of the dog’s ears and he leaned into the caress, tongue lolling comically from one side of his massive jowls.

  Kinnon took a last cautionary glance around, then sat on the rock. Warmed by the early summer sun, it was a comforting place to be. He stared into the distance at the trees and rocks that dotted the grassy hillside. “I dinnae like the snakes I have found here.”

  “Somehow I do not think you refer only to the slithering kind.”

  “Man or beast, there is a darkness to their souls.”

  “A deep thought, mon ami.”

  Kinnon dropped his gaze. “I dinnae mean to sound so morbid.”

  “Mayhap more mélancolique than morbid. It seems there is much on your mind.”

  “How do I explain to you the horror of war from my viewpoint? You have seen first-hand the predations of the conquering force. As terrible as it may seem, starvation is a lesser evil.”

  Melisende nodded. “It is true. They have, for the most part, left us alone here. But it was not always such.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We lived in a large town where m’père was a goldsmith. It is there I learned to speak Anglais—as well as Spanish and Latin. I had no gift for creating beautiful things, but I was quick with numbers and did his accounting.”

  She paused, but Kinnon instinctively knew the rest of her story. It was all too common, and part of the reason his faith in his commander had become shaky.

  “Ye dinnae have to tell me,” he reassured her softly. “I believe I understand.”

  “Non, you do not. But I will make it brief. My father was Jewish, and we belonged to that community. Soldiers, one of the grandes companies, came to our town. They swaggered in, offering ‘protection’ for all who would pay them. My father would not.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and Kinnon saw the pain lurking in their depths. He wanted to comfort her, but even a chaste, well-meant pat to her hand could be misconstrued by her ever-vigilant protector. Jean-Baptiste yawned, showing strong, white teeth. Kinnon let the moment pass.

  “Predictably, we were harassed. Small things at first, but the actions quickly became violent when it became clear my father would not bend. Others counseled he strike a bargain with them, but he would not.”

  Melisende’s hands clenched, then she spread her palms flat against the stone, fingers stretched toward Kinnon as though seeking solace, and this time he did not hesitate. With an eye to Jean-Baptiste, Kinnon gently curled his fingers around hers. With a slow, deliberate move, he edged close, the folds of his plaide touching the shadow of her skirt. Jean-Baptiste lowered his massive jowls to his paws, topaz eyes glittering with warning.

  Melisende’s voice lowered. “We were warned, Lucienne and I. Warned to stay strictly at home, to not admit strange men to the shop. But we ran a business and saw many strange men every day, and as careful as we were, Lucienne was taken. She was only fourteen.”

  Melisende gave Kinnon’s hand a squeeze. “Father caught them before they got too far. His rage startled them, and Lucienne escaped and ran home. We huddled together, waiting for the outcome. M’mère ran about the house flinging belongings into bagages, Lucienne shook in my arms, crying—I was terrified.”

  “How long ago, lass?”

  “Three years. Father did not return that night, and m’mère did not wait past morning. We stole away before dawn and made our way here.”

  “Why here?”

  “Mon grand-père owned this farm. It was once famous for its cheese, though much of the secret of it died with him.”

  Kinnon glanced around at the tumble-down buildings. Three cows grazed nearby, their hip bones tenting russet hide, their pendulous udders dangling. A small herd of goats scampered over the rocks, their peculiar scent mingling with that of the fresh grass. Kinnon’s shoulder tilted toward Melisende. A low growl rumbled from Jean-Baptiste. Kinnon resumed a respectful distance.

  “Ye dinnae have yon protector then?”

  Melisende gave the dog a fond smile. “Non. He was born here a few weeks after we arrived. I was terribly lonely and spent much of my time with the animals. It was easier than watching m’mère slowly k
ill herself as she grieved m’père. I missed him very much, also.”

  “How long has it been just ye and yer sister?”

  “A couple of years. Grand-père passed not long after we arrived and m’mère did not live to see the anniversary of his death. We have struggled but managed to survive despite the English garrison in the village. Keeping the farm going is hard work, and feeding extra mouths that pass through the farm and contribute neither coin nor effort has beggared us.”

  “Do ye ever think to leave here?”

  Melisende shook her head decisively. “Non. The city was fascinating for me, but I can never take Lucienne back. To even mention it sends her into tears.”

  “A braw young man and a passel of bairns would help.”

  Melisende laughed. Kinnon watched, fascinated, as her clear blue eyes danced with merriment. She tossed her head, red-gold lights winking in her nearly black hair. “Spoken like a man! What need do I have of a man who will demand I fix his meals, clean his clothes and dance to his tune? Lucienne and I manage to keep our bellies fed and the house warm in the winter. We have need of no one else in our lives.”

  “Is that so? Ye dinnae want a man’s arms around ye when nights are long? When ye have something in yer heart ye wish to share? Someone who cares for ye more than himself?”

  Lines of weariness returned to her face, and Kinnon knew an emptiness dwelt deep in her soul whether she denied it or not. A similar pang of loss echoed in his gut. He directed his attention back to grass and cows, pastoral and mundane—as far from heartbreak as he could get in a land torn with violence and pain.

  Chapter 3

  Melisende stole a glance at the man beside her. His dark brown hair sparkled with gold in the afternoon sun, and his broad shoulders and muscular frame bespoke his rigorous lifestyle. As he was a soldier, she had been prepared to hate him on sight, but his manners and accent both attracted and amused her. Ever the gallant, his winsome ways even threatened to put Jean-Baptiste at ease.

  He appeared every inch the dedicated soldier, from his well-muscled poise and grace, to his array of bristling armaments—yet he had doubts. A curious combination.

  “You said you came to fight the Anglais—and yet?” She allowed her question to dangle, luring him to answer.

  Kinnon’s head ducked and his gaze drifted to a blade of grass he twirled between his thumb and forefinger. “’Tis only fair I say my piece, aye?”

  She shrugged. “That is something only you can decide.”

  He gave her one of his heart-shattering grins. “I like ye, Melisende. Ye are a rare woman.”

  “Vraiment?” She would rather hear his story, but his declaration piqued her interest.

  “Och, most women would be dying of curiosity to hear a soldier’s quandary. They seem to have a yen for talking and gossip. But ye allow me my own time.” His midnight blue eyes narrowed as he perused her and her heart fluttered. “I like the way yer hair is neither black nor brown, and how yer eyes pierce my heart.”

  Her brows lifted in amusement at his clumsy wordage. “And what do my eyes perceive now, monsieur?”

  His gaze fell and he tossed the piece of grass away. “They see my lack of words to tell ye how much I admire ye.”

  She allowed a small smile. “Would you care to try again?”

  “Mayhap yer first question would be easier.”

  Acknowledging his discomfort with an accepting nod, his change of subject tugged at her heart. Do I wish to hear more from him? What can he say that will not one day break my heart? That my hair is like an autumn night, rich with hidden ambers and gold? Or my eyes are the blue of a clear spring morning? It would be foolishness beyond measure to listen to such—oh, so foolish. She stared at him, surprised at herself, aware of his closeness—equally aware of how far away he would soon be, through either travel or death. Either just as final, just as distant.

  He drew his legs up, dangling his hands over his knees. “There were three of us at Scaurness, my home—Brody, Jamie and me. Brody was ever spoiling for a fight, and a more loyal friend there never was. We were inseparable as lads growing up and got into our share of scraps and trouble. And then there was Jamie. He showed up one day almost three years ago and never left. He could best us on the practice field, then drink us under the table with never an ache nor complaint the next day.”

  Kinnon’s voice faded and he gazed into the distance, lost in thought. Melisende allowed him his reflection, then nudged him gently. “The three of you came to France together?”

  “Aye. ’Twill be two years ago this summer. We were eighteen to twenty summers old, and between the three of us, we thought we knew everything. We had won a few skirmishes against pirates along the coast at home and wanted real adventure.”

  Melisende smiled indulgently. “And you wanted to fight the Anglais?”

  He flashed her a dazzling grin. “Of course we did. I believe ’tis one of the more notable pastimes for many Scots.”

  “But the Traité de Brétigny was signed more than twenty years ago. We are not officially at war with England.”

  Kinnon snorted. “France is always at war with England. And the Auld Alliance is older than yer treaty with England.” He waved a hand dismissively in the air. “The treaty left many soldiers without a means to make a living, and they prey upon the villages and countryside. Many of them are English.”

  “And you wish to right this terrible wrong?”

  His eyes glittered as he met her gaze. “Do ye not? After what ye and yer family endured, would ye not fight to end this?”

  Melisende shook her head. “I have done what I can to give Lucienne a good life away from the predations of such men. We accommodate their demands for food and go about our business of living.”

  “Would ye not fight? What if they demanded Lucienne instead of food?”

  Her chest tightened. “It is for that reason I do not allow her to show herself when others are here. It is enough for her to have endured the rough handling, the terror of abduction. Today she is a sweet young woman of seventeen who has not aged emotionally much beyond that day three years ago. But she is my sister and I love her dearly. She is my life. I do what I can to protect her.”

  “Ye cannae close yerselves off from the rest of the world,” Kinnon argued. “What if one day men decide to visit this remote hillside and demand its best wares? Ye cannae depend on yer rock-strewn path to keep people away forever. ’Tis an arse-beater, but not impassable. How will ye protect yerself? How can two women alone survive the realities of war?”

  A black curtain fell, shutting out the scenes her mind could not see again. Wave after wave of noise struck her as forcibly as blows from a fist and she fought her rising panic. Slowly the screams faded and the darkness lifted. Bright sunlight rippled through the undulating leaves and birdsong chirped its summer song.

  She spoke slowly. “I know that what we have here is a façade, that there are those who could tear our lives apart. I know how fragile life is, how careful we must be. But believe me, if danger travels up that trail, I will not hesitate. I would kill again.”

  * * *

  Kinnon fingered the supple leather reins as the horses wound their way down the hillside. A barrel rattled against the wood of the wagon as the wheels jarred against scattered stones.

  I would kill—again.

  Conversation had pretty much wound down after that, a cloud of unease settling between them. Kinnon didn’t blame her for any actions she’d been forced to commit by arrogant, randy soldiers. Outrage at Melisende’s and Lucienne’s treatment, however, had him even more at odds with the life he currently led than ever before.

  What gives a man the right to take what doesnae belong to him? Food, clothing or another person’s life—to take things without recompense, to brutally disregard another’s rights—the reality of it ate away at his soul.

  The wagon settled from the rock-strewn path onto the main road and Kinnon clucked his tongue, encouraging the horses to greater speed. Thei
r harness jingled as they picked up the pace, hooves beating a tattoo on the packed dirt. Kinnon nodded at the guard on the edge of the camp and drove past without challenge. Skillfully, he maneuvered his team around the sea of tents scattered across the field. All about him lay the spoils of war—horses, weapons, food, clothing—not to mention the items tucked away in the soldiers’ tents. Items they had neither bought nor bartered for.

  A woman darted across the narrow space between the tents in front of him. Stifling a curse, Kinnon hauled on the reins, sending the wagon wheels into a slide that bit into the soft soil. She glanced up, her eyes wide and startled beneath the shawl she wore over her hair. Kinnon shook his head. She was young, too young. Yet he recognized her as one of the women who serviced the tents, moving from protector to protector, scarcely lingering beyond a few days in any one place.

  “Shite-in-a-basket!” This time he didn’t bother muffling his words. Sure, the men took what was offered, but what calamity had befallen her that this was her only option to survive? He thought about Melisende and Lucienne. Victims of the actions of men who decided a young girl’s life was of no consequence beyond their immediate pleasure, they now resided in near-poverty, one overworked, the other unlikely to lead a normal life.

  He dragged the team to a halt near his commander’s tent and a page ran to the wagon, a hand on the horses’ reins. Two others hurried to unload the eggs, milk and vegetables destined for Bertrand’s table.

  “A nice haul, Scot,” Bertrand’s aide-de-camp noted, quill and parchment in hand as he watched the items being unloaded. “It appears you made it beneath her skirts this time.”

  Kinnon’s arm cocked back and he let his fist fly. It landed with a satisfying crack along the man’s jaw, dropping him to the ground. The sting radiated along Kinnon’s knuckles, but he ignored the throb as he stepped over the man and stalked to his own tent.

  Rage roiled through his veins as he quickly shoved his belongings into his bag. There was very little to pack beyond an extra leine, a shaving kit he used when the mood struck him, a small square of linen with a leather box of needles and thread tucked inside, a flint and steel, and a wooden bowl he had carved months earlier. His possessions were few. Only his glaive and axe were stored with his horse’s tack. The rest of his weapons never left his presence.