The Highlander's French Bride Read online

  “She is very beautiful and men often gawked at her in town,” she murmured.

  Kinnon nodded. “Aye. But inside that beautiful head, she is confused. When she was abducted years ago, everyone around her was horrified, telling her a ‘bad thing’ had been averted. She likely accepted that as a child, but as she became a young woman, she was torn between her feelings for this ‘bad thing’ and normal curiosity.”

  “Why did she not ask me?” Melisende asked, feelings of failure rolling over her.

  “Did she not?” he asked, curious.

  Melisende frowned, searching her memory. She sighed. “I once thought to speak with her, but the war interfered and I became too busy. She seemed a troubled child who needed to be protected, not a young woman trying to make sense of herself. It quite surprised me to see her grow up.”

  Kinnon pulled her close. “Ye wanted to save her. She had to want that, too.”

  His warmth enveloped her like a blanket and her sense of inadequacy fled. “I thought mayhap along the pilgrims’ path, I would find the answer—what I did wrong. Mayhap seek the answer from Saint Jacques, himself.”

  His hands moved comfortingly up and down her back. “Dearling, ye did nothing wrong.”

  Melisende sighed. “Why do I feel as though I did?”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Let us find out together.”

  They strolled back through the village and Kinnon led Melisende to the Hospitaller stables. He was troubled about Lucienne, but certain Melisende would eventually come to terms with her sense of failure. He was prepared to cosset her with love and comfort, giving her the time she needed. But for now, he needed to further his plans.

  “See if ye can convince yer beast to stay here with my horse. He’s a good sort and doesnae spook easily.” He motioned to a stall where a rangy dark chestnut stood.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I wish to visit the blacksmith and he willnae want his nags bolting at the sight of Jean-Baptiste.”

  “Oh.” Curiosity laced her voice. She opened the stall door and ushered Jean-Baptiste inside. Kinnon’s horse eyed him warily, but remained rooted calmly to the straw to one side of the spacious stall. The dog crossed the space hesitantly and briefly touched noses with the horse. He gave a grunt of satisfaction and closed the lower half-door of the stall.

  “Good. We will be back anon and take them out for a late evening jaunt.” He tugged on Melisende’s hand, thrilling to the sensation of her fingers twined with his.

  They crossed the village square again and Kinnon couldn’t help the joy swelling his chest. Melisende walked amicably beside him, mentioning a few points of interest along the way. He watched her as she spoke, the motion of her hands, the tilt of her head. He had forgotten how the sun brought out vivid shades of copper normally hidden in her hair. He drank in the sight of her, hardly hearing the words she spoke as he soaked up the sound of her voice, happy and content at the same time to be with her at last.

  Arriving at the blacksmith’s shed, Kinnon dragged his attention away from Melisende and stepped to a lad near the small corral behind the barn. “I need a sturdy mare or gelding with stamina and a soft mouth.”

  The lad flashed a look at Melisende and nodded his head. He hurried to the blacksmith, a large man behind a heavy apron, his forehead and neck glistening with sweat from the heat of the forge. The man eyed Kinnon and Melisende, then gave the lad his job with a jerk of his head. He watched the boy for a moment, then stepped to Kinnon.

  “You need un cheval?” His voice was guttural but placid.

  Kinnon tilted his head at Melisende. “For mademoiselle.”

  The blacksmith pursed his lips. “J’ai qu’il lui faut. Venez avec moi.”

  Kinnon and Melisende followed him, interested to see the horse. He opened a stall door at the rear of the shed and led forth a mare. Her ears pricked forward as she caught sight of Kinnon and Melisende. Her glistening coat was a bright mix of red and white hairs, her mane and tail flaxen.

  “Do ye like her?” Kinnon asked.

  “She is beautiful, n’est-ce pas?” Melisende murmured.

  “Tell me about the horse,” he directed the blacksmith.

  The man gave a half-French, half-English report on the mare’s bloodlines, naming a price that caused Kinnon to raise an eyebrow as the blacksmith turned her loose in the small corral. She paced the fence with fluid movements, head high. A warning bell went off in Kinnon’s head.

  He did not feel Melisende slip her hand from his, but saw her approach the corral from the corner of his eye. “Melisende—dinnae—!”

  She held out her palm for the horse to sniff. Nostrils wide, the mare flung her head over the top rail, ears pinned back. Melisende flipped her hand over, fingers curled into a fist, and rapped the mare on her nose. Startled, the horse jerked back, but instantly shoved her nose at Melisende’s hand, snuffling loudly.

  Kinnon flung the blacksmith a disgusted look and the man shrugged. “She bites.”

  Melisende spoke up. “I like her. I will call her Ange.”

  “Ange?” Kinnon asked as they led the mare—at a much reduced price—to the Hospitaller stable. “She isnae an angel. She is mayhap a witch or changeling—definitely fey.” He kept one eye on the now deceptively placid horse.

  Melisende laughed. “You did not need to purchase her. I told you I can walk.”

  “Meli, I will help ye with whatever ye need, but I wish to go with ye, and I would prefer to ride.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Wherever ye go, I want to be there with ye.”

  Melisende inhaled a sharp breath. “You wish to travel to Santiago with me?”

  “If that is where ye are going, then aye.”

  Chapter 26

  “I started the pilgrimage partly because I had nowhere else to go,” Melisende said, “and partly to see what God would say to me along the way. Lucienne’s behavior has left me rather shaken—and sad. Even after all this time.”

  “I dinnae know what God will tell ye. But I know I want us to find out together.”

  Warmth bloomed through Melisende, banishing her doubts like the sun after a storm. “I’d like that, beaucoup.”

  The sun’s long rays touched the back of the hills, spreading colors of gold and red across the sky. Nearby, the horses cropped the short grass, Kinnon’s gelding keeping a distance from Melisende’s meddlesome mare. Jean-Baptiste flopped on the ground next to Kinnon, and Melisende couldn’t remember a time she’d felt so content.

  “Kinnon?” She tilted her head at him, a question on her lips.

  His gaze told her he’d been watching her, and her cheeks heated, unused to his regard.

  “Aye, mo chridhe?” A flash of passion lit his eyes, the intensity of it startled her. Her heartbeat quickened, wondering what it would be like to feel his lips against hers, the warmth of his skin on hers, his hands… Abruptly, she realized her palms splayed at her waist, drifting upward with her thoughts.

  She shoved her hands down the sides of her skirt, embarrassment burning her skin—and a spot low in her belly that was both strange and appealing.

  She glanced at Kinnon again—completely forgetting what she’d wanted to say, unsure if he saw her hesitation and uncertain if he would scorn her for these feelings of need, of want in her. There was a flicker of understanding in his gaze and he took her hand, rubbing his thumb caressingly across her palm.

  “Many where I am from speak Gaelic, though many also speak English, or a form of it,” he said casually, his tone easing some of her concern. “Mo chridhe means my heart. That is what ye are, Melisende. The love of my heart.”

  Her thoughts were a whirlwind. “I do not know how to respond other than to say you stole my heart years ago.”

  “Then why the hesitation?”

  She bit her lip against a smile. “’Twas not because I did not understand your words, though it is true I’d not thought about the differences in our languages.” She took a breath to steel her
courage. “’Twas because of the look on your face—in your eyes.”

  He tilted his head at her. “What look?”

  “As though you wished to kiss me,” she whispered, the very depths of her exposed, for there was no taking the words back. Kinnon rose, pulling her to her feet with him, and gathered her in his arms.

  “I do.”

  His mouth descended, caressing her lips with gentle pressure that quickly built to an insistence, flaming a hunger in her she’d never known. She leaned against him, her breasts aching as they touched his chest. Her lips parted at his urging as though paired to his, and his tongue mated feverishly with hers.

  With the force of a sudden storm, she was no longer plain Melisende. Every fiber of her felt beautiful and desired. Her world was nothing more than the roughened velvet of his lips, the taste of ale on his breath, and the tender confines of his arms.

  She was loved.

  A discrete cough broke them apart as Jean-Baptiste shoved his nose between them. Rory stepped closer with an apologetic bob to his head. “’Twill be dark soon and if ye know yer plans, I can finalize them before the morn.”

  “We will leave with the pilgrims on the morrow,” Kinnon replied, his hands sliding reluctantly down Melisende’s arms to twine their fingers together.

  That was it! Memory struck with clarity. “Kinnon,” she murmured, not wishing to counter his order before his man. He lifted his eyebrows in question.

  “I do not wish to continue the pilgrimage,” she said.

  “What do ye wish, mo chridhe?” he asked. “Name it and it is yours.”

  Melisende flushed with the pleasure his words piled on top of his actions only a moment ago. “I would prefer to return to le Puy-en-Velay.”

  Kinnon canted his head, wishing to hear of her change of heart. “What of yer pilgrimage? Are ye settled on this?”

  She nodded. “I have wandered enough. There will be no more of an answer in Santiago de Compostela than anywhere else. Lucienne is her own person and makes her own decisions. I can no longer be responsible for them.” With a shrug she added, “Though if she consented to explain herself to me at some point in time, I would welcome the education.”

  Kinnon chuckled. “And I as well.” He nodded to his captain. “Get together what ye need for a return trip to Le Puy. M’lady wishes to return.”

  Rory spun smartly on his heel and strode away to complete his instructions. Kinnon lingered a moment longer, reveling in the feel of his legs compromised by her skirts, her breasts pressed against him, and the memory of her lips on his. He wanted more.

  “Marry me, Melisende. Here. Tonight. There are plenty of priests and holy men here.” He grinned at her. “We could have a new one for each word of our vows.”

  A laugh bubbled to her lips, and he fell in love all over again with the merriment in her eyes. He’d appreciated her serious side, calm and unbelievably practical, always the leavening to his frustrations. But to see her truly happy—this was the Melisende he wanted forever.

  “So sudden…” her voice trailed off, uncertain. But the happiness remained in the tilt of her lips and the shine of her eyes.

  “I dinnae wish things to be constrained between us on the trip back. I want to be able to touch ye without checking the propriety of it. We are still learning each other’s ways and I want the travel to be exciting and fun, not wishful and unfulfilled if we desire it.”

  “You truly want to marry me? It still feels like a dream. Only a few hours ago I had no idea we would ever meet again.”

  “Shall I kiss ye again to prove it?” he growled, half-teasing. “Or should I wrap ye up in nothing but me and my plaide beneath yon tree and show ye how much I mean it?”

  Her eyes rounded and her lips parted. “Oh,” she whispered, leaning against him, her face tilted up for his kiss. With a hoarse laugh, he lightly nibbled the tip of her nose.

  “Exactly,” he said, pointing out how close they were to consummating their relationship, vows or not.

  A light shudder ran through Melisende’s frame. “I would marry you this day, Kinnon, were it not for posting the banns.”

  “Aye, ’tis a problem,” Kinnon agreed ruefully. “And I would suppose ye’d like me to ask yer uncle for yer hand?”

  She paled. “We cannot post banns there. The soldiers know of me.”

  “Then what is yer need to return?”

  Her face fell, her eyes hollow. “I’d thought to make my peace with my oncle. We parted on harsh terms. And I wished to see the farm once more before I leave France.” She tried a bright smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “But ’tis merely a passing whim. There is no need to put you and your men in danger. We can leave for Scotland now.”

  Kinnon grunted. “While it may be closer to our new home from here, there is no reason we cannae say a farewell to yer home first. Ye have myself and twenty-one braw Scots at yer service, milady. The soldiers in Le Puy willnae run afoul of us.”

  She glanced at him anxiously. “Are you certain? It may also be that my oncle has had word of Lucienne. As different as we are, she is still my sister.”

  For some reason, he found the possibility of making contact with Lucienne distasteful, but there was nothing he would deny Melisende. “Dinnae fash, mo cridhe, if there is news of yer sister, we will find it.”

  She hugged him joyfully, then stepped back. “We depart in the morning?”

  “Would ye marry me before we leave if it was possible?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “How can we? There is no one here who knows us. Who would stand as witness for us before the priest?”

  “Mayhap the Hospitaller commander, D’Aramitz, would help. My men can vouch for me that I am not already married, and ye can answer the same.” He eyed her uncertainty. “If ’tis only the protocol that worries ye, we could enter a private marriage, without the priest. Then, when we are settled, we can speak our vows again at the church.”

  “My decision to marry you is firm, Kinnon. And happily so. Again, you have surprised me so many times today, my head is spinning.” She slid her palm down the length of his plaide draped from his shoulder to his waist. “Let us ask the priest what he suggests.”

  * * *

  Candlelight flickered in the chapel. Warmth, intimacy and the heavenly glow surrounded them as they stood before the priest. Outside the church doors, to the glimmer of torchlight, they had satisfied the priest’s formal charges. Earlier, he had been convinced to overlook the short notice, giving Kinnon and Melisende permission to wed. Part stemmed from the clink of coin slipped into the offering plate, and part due to the hungry look on the faces of the soon-to-be bride and groom. The tipping point came when Kinnon’s man, Rory, assured the priest the pair had been searching for each other for more than three years—since the siege of Châteauneuf-de-Randon. With a prayer for Bertrand uttered, the priest had welcomed Kinnon and Melisende with open arms.

  Now they stood side by side, fingers once again laced together. Rory and Hamish stood witness for Kinnon’s vows, and D’Aramitz accepted the responsibility for Melisende. In truth, his questioning of Kinnon of his motives for the abrupt wedding had lasted longer than had the priest. With a solemn look of promise, Kinnon faced his bride. Sweet spring flowers, woven into a crown by one of the women at the domerie, rested amid Melisende’s freshly-washed curls, tendrils escaping to frame her flushed face. Her gown, given to her by another lady who assisted the pilgrims, was a soft green, its belled sleeves lined in cream velvet against the coolness of the evening. He could scarcely believe the moment he waited for was at last here, and he spoke his pledge to her.

  “Je, Kinnon Macrory, donne mon corps a toy, Melisende de la Roche, en loyal mari.”

  “Et je le recoy,” she replied. “Je, Melisende de la Roche, donne mon corps a toy, Kinnon Macrory.”

  Happiness spiraled through him. “Et je le recoy.”

  I give my body to you in loyal matrimony.

  And I receive it.

  The priest beamed at th
em. Kinnon touched his lips to his bride’s in a totally unsatisfying kiss that impatiently promised more. Tucking Melisende against his side, he placed a small bag of coins in the priest’s hand.

  “The hour is late. Use this to prepare a feast for the pilgrims here, and think of us when ye eat it on the morrow.”

  Outside the church, a crowd gathered. A cheer went up as Kinnon and Melisende appeared in the doorway, and Melisende pulled back.

  “Dinnae give them a thought, mo cridhe,” Kinnon murmured, patting her hand reassuringly. They are already half-drunk and willnae follow us.”

  “How do you know this?” she asked as she stepped through the path opening before her.

  Kinnon grinned at her. “Rory has been plying them with wine for some time now. He is a good man.”

  Melisende returned his smile, relief smoothing the furrowed worry on her brow. “Where are we going?”

  “D’Aramitz spoke with a friend who is an innkeeper. He has a private room available for us.” He gave her arm a squeeze. “And ye thought all I did was pester the priest whilst I waited for the ladies to help ye prepare for the wedding?”

  Melisende’s fingers caressed the feather-soft wool of her gown. “They were très généreuses.”

  “They tried hard to match yer beauty, Melisende. If it pleases ye, then I am satisfied.”

  From the edge of the crowd, Hamish approached with Kinnon’s horse. A bolt of fabric draped the horse’s saddle and rump.

  “Ride pillion with me, and we will escape our followers,” Kinnon murmured in Melisende’s ear. He leapt aboard the horse, pulling Melisende up behind him as Hamish assisted, his hands forming a step for her slippered foot. She wrapped her arms about Kinnon’s waist as the people shouted and waved their mugs about in celebration, giggling as a robust man saluted her with his cup and drained the contents in one gulp.

  “Are ye settled?” he asked. Melisende nodded against his shoulder and he thumped his heels against his steed’s sides. The horse gathered his haunches beneath him and sprang past the last of the gathering, his hooves clattering loudly on the cobbled street.