The Highlander's French Bride Page 5

  Lucienne shifted her skirts and tugged at the hem. The fabric did not tear and she frowned. “Melisende makes it look so easy,” she huffed. Setting the cloth between her teeth, she gave it a good jerk and tore a long strip from the bottom of her gown. She reached for his leg, and Kinnon set his teeth, but her touch was gentle as she wrapped the makeshift bandage about his thigh. “This may hurt,” she warned as she pulled it tight and knotted it.

  Kinnon’s head swam, and he swallowed hard. “Nae so bad,” he murmured as nausea swamped his stomach.

  Lucienne grabbed his arm again and half-rose, using her weight to pull him to his feet. “Come on!”

  He loomed over her and stumbled forward, but the enormous dog stepped between them, and Kinnon braced against the sturdy body. He found the dog’s thick leather collar and gripped it tightly. Squaring his jaw, he gave a small nod. “Lead on, fair lady.”

  She beamed at him. “I will get the goat.”

  Chapter 7

  “The town is under siege. No one is allowed in or out—by De Ros’s command.” Melisende heard the butcher’s words, the sympathy in his voice. She saw the empty look in his eyes. “Many men and women lay dead in the streets. Bertrand has attacked using all his forces, but De Ros is determined to resist. I have never seen its like.”

  “Is there no one you trust to smuggle me through the gates? A hidden path? Or a window from a house on the wall?” Urgency gripped her and she paced the floor.

  Cateline wrung her hands. “Melisende, it is madness to consider leaving. Alone in the streets—you would be murdered, or worse.”

  Melisende recognized their apologetic sympathy to her plight, though she disagreed with their plan of action. To them, the brigands and the English occupation of Châteauneuf-de-Randon was an inconvenience—albeit an occasionally frightening one—best dealt with by acquiescence, money and a blind eye. As with the occupation, they would stoically wait out the siege and pray for the best. For now, Melisende could see no other option. “I appreciate your wisdom, and ask you inform me as things change.”

  A hopeful smile lit Cateline’s face. “Of course, ma chère. We understand how upset you must be to think of your sister alone. But you must see the danger is in town, now.”

  Pier nodded vigorously. “All of the fighting is here, not in the fields. We are in the most danger, no matter which army takes the city. There will be looting and burning. Your sister is much safer where she is.”

  Melisende frowned. If he hoped to reassure her, his tactics were faulty at best. Instead of standing beside her husband, agreeing with his assessment that her home could be overrun at any time by an invading force, Cateline should be packing her bags. And urging Pier to find both herself and Melisende a way out of the beleaguered town.

  “Perhaps I could help around the shop—try to keep the place as normal as possible,” she said, needing some activity to keep her busy. Not that they could expect sales today. But it would help create an outlet for her building anxiety.

  “You could assist Mariette with her duties,” Cateline suggested.

  Not Melisende’s first choice, as she hardly wished to find herself closeted with the excitable maid. “Mayhap we could divide the duties. I would be happy to sweep and dust the shop, and she could attend the household chores.”

  Cateline clapped her hands. “A wonderful idea! Only God knows how long this will last.” She picked up her skirts and turned to the door. “Come. I will get you started.”

  Melisende followed, learning where the broom and dust cloths were kept. With a word of reassurance that she was managing not to worry too much, she took the broom and dust pan to the front room of the shop and closed the door behind her.

  In the morning light, the white-walled room appeared large and almost hauntingly empty. Pier had not changed the sign on the door to indicate they were open, and Melisende assumed it did not matter. Few, if any, people would be about the town today.

  She leaned against the wall at the edge of one of the two large windows at the front of the shop. Sometime during the night, Pier had secured the heavy wooden shutters against the possibility of damage, but the slats were old and time and weather had caused them to shrink, allowing her to see between the cracks. A group of soldiers hurried past, their boots thudding on the packed earth, the metal on their weapons glinting in the sun. Over the rooftops she could see a spiral of smoke, though she could not tell if the fire was deliberate or not. The dead soldier from the night before was gone, but a dark stain remained on the edge of the dusty street, though the door step appeared to have been washed clean.

  Her ears carefully sorted through the noises fouling the air. Orders shouted authoritatively. Curses flying about in a staccato manner. The neighs of horses, and the occasional squeal of a pig from the yard behind the shop could be heard. Thudding sounds she could not identify, but could imagine as stones or other heavy items colliding with the walls of the village.

  Mayhap I can find some way of escape while all attention is elsewhere. Abandoning Lucienne to an unknown fate gnawed at her, leaving her restless and uneasy. She peered across the narrow street, but saw no clear path to the outskirts of town. Soldiers appeared to cluster at every corner, and certainly they would not allow her to pass unchallenged. I will find a way. Things will quieten at dusk when hungry men care more for their stomachs than for someone such as myself, seeking a way out.

  She chewed her lower lip, trying to remember if there was a way past the soldier’s watchful eyes, and if, once beyond the walls, she could circle Bertrand’s encampment unseen. At least the house should be quiet once Pier and his wife have gone to bed. Mayhap I could leave before the moon is up. She glanced around the dimly lit, silent room. They will surely be abed early with no customers and naught else to do.

  She returned to her vigil. A pall of smoke lowered over the town, and the sun’s rays faded behind the thin curtain. Melisende pulled her shawl closer. Though it was early July and the summer’s heat was already apparent, fear’s chill carried all the way to her bones.

  Men hurried to the door, beating on the portal with force. “Ouvrez là-dedans! You are ordered to open the door!”

  Her body jerked in startled reaction as men, blackened with soot and dried blood, hammered on the stout door. Glaives and pole axes bristled from the tight group, but across their shoulders draped men who dangled helplessly, faces and bodies marked by the battle.

  The butcher appeared beside her, peering through the small glass in the door. With a muttered curse, he worked the bolt on the door and allowed it to open a few inches. “What do you want? The shop is closed today.”

  “We will be using your shop as an enfermerie for our injured. Stand aside.”

  Une enfermerie? Oh, sweet Mother of Jesus, please no!

  In horror, Melisende watched as soldiers filed past, depositing wounded men on hastily tossed cloaks and blankets on the floor. A table was pulled to the center of the room and a severely wounded man lay upon it.

  The leader faced Pier. “You are the butcher, oui?”

  Pier nodded reluctantly.

  “You will help treat these men. Our cirurgian will be here to tend the worst cases.” He regarded Pier sternly. “There will be guards posted. You will send word if more help is needed.”

  Eyes wide with disbelief, Melisende watched as the quiet shop became the guarded headquarters for the hated English wounded, and her chances of slipping away unnoticed dropped to near impossible.

  * * *

  Gentle hands pushed his shoulders forward, and Kinnon felt a cool liquid against his parched lips. Water, sweet as ambrosia, touched his tongue, and he gulped it eagerly.

  “Do not drink so fast, monsieur. The last time, it came right back up. Go easy.”

  To his dismay, the water was taken away, and he was lowered to the pillow. The last time? God’s teeth—how long have I been here? He opened his eyes, but everything around him appeared dim, hazy. A movement in one corner of the room caught his attention.
Tall and slender, the form moved with a simple, almost childlike grace. A darker form, reaching her waist, padded beside her, and Kinnon’s memory began to return.

  He was at Melisende’s farm, but the young woman in the room with him had golden hair tumbling to her waist, while Melisende’s dark hair was forever escaping from a tight braid or kerchief covering her head. Lucienne?

  He must have spoken aloud, for the figure turned toward him. She slipped to his side and knelt. “Do you need anything, monsieur?”

  “Water?” he croaked. At least, he intended to ask for water, but the sound that came from his throat was similar to the rasp of a dying crow. Lucienne must have understood, for she ran a cool palm over his forehead, then patted his cheek.

  “Oui, but do not gulp it. Drink slowly.” She picked up a mug from the low table beside the bed and held it to his lips, again cradling his head as he leaned forward.

  He tried to do as she instructed, but he was too parched, and he sucked the water down as fast as he could, coughing as he stopped for air. She laughed lightly and he was again struck by her delicate features, her lavender eyes, and the hair that billowed about her head like a golden aura.

  “Ye are an angel,” he murmured, and meant it. Not only for her beauty, but for the care she showed him.

  “And ye are still quite delirious,” she mocked him with a delighted smile.

  He considered the likelihood she was correct, and gave a mental shrug. “How long have I been here?”

  “Jean-Baptiste and I brought you here yesterday morning. ’Tis now mid-afternoon. Do you not remember?”

  Kinnon remembered. Perhaps too much he’d rather forget. The battle, though a surprise attack, was against seasoned, hardened troops with nothing to lose. They had fought back with a ferocity that surprised him, though his soldiers responded with a fierceness that had left few alive. This much he knew before a well-aimed blow to the back of his head had felled him like an oak tree. That and the blood loss from the wound to his thigh.

  He shifted on the bed and was rewarded with a shooting pain in his leg that exploded white-hot behind his eyes. He gasped, but grudgingly appreciated the knowledge that he kept his leg—for now at least.

  “Your leg!” Lucienne exclaimed, leaning over him as she pulled back the coverlet to examine his wound. Air touched his skin and he realized he was naked beneath the thin covering.

  “Saints-in-a-cave, lass! Have a care for my sensibilities and give me back my plaide—or at least my leine!” Heat flooded him to think this mere lass had unclothed and cared for him as he lay unconscious.

  Lucienne giggled. “Your ‘sensibilities’ were covered in blood and muck and needed cleaning. As were your leine and plaide, though I have washed and mended them and they will soon be dry.” She eyed his groin, and her eyebrows shot skyward. “I must say, you were much softer and smaller yesterday. I wondered how a man could mate with such a thing as that. But look at how it has grown!”

  “Shite!” Kinnon grabbed the coverlet and snatched it over himself, damning his cock for taking this opportunity to be interested in a pretty lass. The thin covering tented upward and he grabbed the pillow from beneath his head and plopped it over his straining cock. “Can ye find something better to do than stare at a man?” His voice was sharper than he intended, but Lucienne did not appear to take offense.

  “I am happy you are so much better, though fever could still take you. You are not out of danger yet, and will likely be rather weak for several days.” She gave his pillow a pat and rose to her feet. “Do not fear. I will care for you until you are mended.”

  Her fingertips trailed lightly down the length of the pillow and Kinnon swallowed a groan, wondering how he could have thought her an angel.

  It was some time before he drifted off to sleep, unsure if the pain in his leg or his groin was the culprit. When he next opened his eyes, his sight was clearer and candles lit the room. Lucienne must have been waiting for him to wake, for she laid her sewing aside and slipped from her chair beside the bed. She placed a cool palm on his brow and her look of concern blossomed into a smile.

  “You are doing well, monsieur. Would you like something to eat?”

  “I could eat the bark off a tree, my stomach is that empty, lass. But I would sell my soul for another cup of water.”

  Her laugh tinkled merrily. “I will fetch a mug and then be about a bit of dinner.”

  The gurgle of water as she poured it into the mug had him licking his cracked lips in anticipation. He struggled into a half-seated position, scarcely noticing his pillow had been replaced behind his head while he slept, and took the mug from her. She tilted her head quizzically, but he hid the tremble in his hands and managed to down the water with nary a drop spilled.

  The cool liquid sloshed around inside him and nausea took a short lap around his stomach, but settled nicely as savory smells began to permeate the room. His interest was high as she returned with a large, two-handled mug wrapped in a cloth against the heat steaming from the surface. Kinnon reached for it, taking it gingerly between his hands. Pulling it to his nose, he sniffed the contents.

  “I made a vegetable broth,” Lucienne announced.

  Kinnon gave her a puzzled look. “A what?”

  “A broth. Made from vegetables.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at the liquid. “And meat.”

  “Oh, no, monsieur. No meat.”

  “Ye expect me to get well eating plants?”

  She giggled, and he decided to try a sip—just to make her giggle again. He rolled the broth around in his mouth and found it flavorful, though not quite what he was used to. “It isnae bad, lass. I thank ye for yer help.”

  She waited patiently, hands folded in her lap, until he drank it down, then set the empty mug aside. “I must clean your wound, monsieur.”

  Kinnon frowned, not liking the thought of her slender hands mere inches from his cock. Or, perhaps his cock liked the idea far too much. “I can see to myself,” he told her firmly.

  “We can keep your mating parts covered if you wish.” She pursed her lips in a forlorn moue of disappointment, eyeing the area in question. “But I really would like to see it get big again.”

  Kinnon choked and she quickly helped him lean forward, pounding on his back to help clear his chest. “Give me the bloody bandage and hie yerself off!” He scowled at her, but she fisted her hands on her hips.

  “’Tis a large wound and you cannot care for it yourself.”

  “Are ye a healer?” he challenged her.

  “No.”

  “A mid-wife?”

  She began to look unsure. “No.”

  “A married woman?”

  She stomped a foot. “Of course not.”

  “Then I will thank ye to keep yer hands to yerself. My sincere thanks for yer help so far, but I will treat my own wound.”

  Lucienne wrinkled her nose at him and threw her hands in the air. “Fine. I will cook and clean and slave for you, and not lift a finger when your wound reopens and your life’s blood pours onto the bed linens—which I will uncomplainingly clean. Again.”

  Kinnon ignored her and leaned forward as far as he could, reaching for the bandage on his leg. To his consternation, he could not grasp the knot tied behind his knee. “Where is my damned dagger?”

  Without a word, Lucienne let it slip from her fingers to the bed beside him, where it landed with a soft thump. He swept it up and picked at the bandage at the top of his thigh, trying to find a loose enough spot to slide the tip of the dagger into.

  “Let me know if you cut yourself.”

  “Insolent wench,” he muttered, refusing to give in. Four minutes and three minor cuts later, he threw the dagger across the room, burying the tip into the doorframe with a decidedly louder thump. He clamped the bed linens firmly across his groin.

  “Fine. Ye may remove the bandage, but I will rewrap it.”

  With a sassy toss of her head, Lucienne leaned over him, her nimble fingers making short work
of the heavy knot. Kinnon held his breath as her fingertips skimmed his leg and she unwrapped the layers of bandaging. He peeked around her as she lightly touched the flesh around the wound. Even, black stitches marked the long trailing wound that traveled from his thigh at the top of his knee, up and around behind the thickest part of his leg near his groin.

  Much higher and we wouldnae be having this conversation or this problem. He gave a wry, pained grin at his injury, then jerked to attention as Lucienne prodded his thigh with a forefinger.

  “I believe the sword, or whatever weapon it was, struck deepest here, then slid down your leg as you turned away.” Her finger followed the curve of the gash, and he tensed at the prickling sensation that rushed straight to his groin. His cock grew heavy, pulsing with need.

  “Oh! Is that how it works?” Before he realized what she was about, Lucienne reached beneath the edge of the thin blanket and cupped his balls in one hand. “They are much harder now. This morning, they were quite soft.”

  Kinnon swatted her hand away. “Leave me some dignity, aye? ’Tis quite a normal reaction to having a hand near my private parts.”

  “Any hand? Even yours?”

  Kinnon broke out in a sweat. “Damn, lass. Dinnae ye know not to be so bold around a man who isnae yer husband? Ye could be in a world of trouble with yer forward ways.”

  She nodded, a solemn look on her face. “I know. Men stole me once when I was a child, but mon père saved me.” She tilted her head. “But you are too weak to do more than answer my questions. I have had a lot of questions lately. And I am no longer a child.”

  Chapter 8

  Kinnon stared at the woman-child before him, the images blurred between the sweet girl who had brought him literally back from the dead, and the willowy siren who dared inflame his blood with her touch and words.

  Her words. Hell’s afire! I willnae sate her curiosity! He glared at her, feeling at once like an auld man, not a tried youth eager for an easy toss. “’Tis unseemly for us to discuss this. Ye should take this up with yer husband on yer wedding night.” Lord help the poor bastard. He will be unable to walk for a fortnight.