The Highlander's French Bride Read online

  Shudders racked her slender body, and he tightened his hold, stroking her golden head sympathetically.

  “She—she always brings me sweets from—from the market,” Lucienne at last managed, her breath hitching with remnants of tears.

  “She is a grand sister, aye?”

  Her plaintive voice tore at his heart. “What if she never comes back?”

  What if Melisende doesnae return? What will happen to Lucienne? A fierce wave of protectiveness surged over him. She has no other family, no protector other than that misbegotten son of a devil and a pony. Where do I take her? Suddenly overwhelmed by the possibilities and implications, he absently continued to stroke her head while his mind sorted through his jumbled thoughts.

  I planned to return home after this mission. I still can—but with Lucienne? I cannae bring her with me like a puppy. An idea struck. Would the butcher and his wife take her in? His shoulders dropped. If they live?

  He shook his head. I dinnae have an answer for a question that is not yet real. I must see what I can discover about the village and the battle and Melisende. He glared at his injured leg and the staff leaning against the table. Shite. I can barely hobble about this small room and take care of my own needs. He felt Lucienne’s body relax against his in sleep and he ached to be able to tell her all was well when she woke.

  How can I possibly take care of her?

  Chapter 10

  Kinnon shifted in his seat to relieve some of the growing pain in his leg. Lucienne’s weight, though slight, had increased in the hour or so since she fell asleep against him. Shards of sharp pain mingled with the fuzziness of impending loss of feeling in the leg and he needed to move about to allay the sensation.

  With a sigh, Lucienne slid to wakefulness and drew away from him, uncoiling her body in a fluid movement as she slowly stretched her arms over her head. Her gown pulled tight across her lush breasts, and Kinnon hardened in response. Shite!

  He scowled, twisting away from her line of sight as he rose from the chair. Peering over his shoulder, he took in her tousled, slightly bewildered look. Her eyes rounded, dark purple with widened centers, as she stared at him.

  “You smell good.” Her voice, raspy with lingering sleep, tugged at his groin.

  “Ye need to be up and about,” he muttered, annoyed at her words and his lack of control where she was concerned. Lucienne’s face fell, and he instantly regretted his rudeness.

  “I felt safe. I have not slept well lately,” she murmured, averting her gaze. Her fingers twitched in her lap, a helpless gesture that compounded Kinnon’s remorse. “But you are right. There are still chores to be done, and they will not get done on their own.” She rose and bolted for the door.

  Her words, reminiscent of Melisende’s pragmatic approach, brought her sister to mind and Kinnon’s agitation grew. “I am sorry, Lucienne. This injury has me befuddled. I wish to be back with my unit and my words arenae kind. I dinnae mean to bark at ye.”

  She gathered a bucket, her hand on the door latch. “I will return shortly.”

  Jean-Baptiste lifted his head, ears pricked in her direction. Kinnon motioned to the beast. “Take the dog.”

  Lucienne slammed the door behind her and Jean-Baptiste whined, casting a worried look at Kinnon.

  “Dinnae look at me like that. Women are unpredictable. Ye best get used to it.”

  Not sure if the advice was for himself or the dog, Kinnon grabbed his walking staff and stomped over to the hearth. He prodded the embers back to life and set a pot of water to boil. A basket of eggs sat on the shelf by the door, and he hooked the handle over the end of his staff and slid the basket neatly over to him, guilt tugging relentlessly at him.

  “I could at least help by cooking a wee bit of supper whilst she attends the outside chores. Something other than that green soup.” He eyed the nearly empty shelves doubtfully. “Not even a bag of oats for a nice batch of bannocks.” He shrugged. “At least the hens are laying, though I am a wee bit tired of eggs and have no way to add a nice, fat hare to the meal.” He frowed at the dog, who gazed at him mournfully from his spot by the hearth. Ye are of no help.

  Looking about, he found a large bowl and began cracking eggs into it. Five? Six? He eyed the bright yellow globes, then glanced in the basket. One more ought to be enough, aye? He added another egg, then stirred the mass vigorously. Placing a pan in a corner of the hearth, he let it warm a few moments, then dumped the eggs inside. They firmed quickly, and he stirred the resulting mass, turning the mixture as it cooked.

  With a triumphant chortle, he poured the pile of steaming yellow eggs onto a platter, eying the results. “Mayhap that last egg was one too many,” he murmured. “I hope she is famished.”

  He divided the eggs, placing half on a second plate for Lucienne. He dragged the chairs back to their proper positions at the table and sat before his dinner, waiting for her return.

  Jean-Baptiste rose from his blanket, a low growl in his chest. Before Kinnon could do more than look at him in surprise, the dog launched himself at the door with a snarl, teeth and nails tearing at the ancient wood.

  * * *

  Melisende stirred groggily, glancing at the small window beneath the beamed ceiling. The light was faint, though she was disoriented, unsure if it was late evening or very early morning. She rose and splashed water from a pitcher on her face, relishing the coolness. Patting her skin dry with a piece of linen, she cautiously opened her door and peered out. Quiet darkness filled the hallway. It must be night—the patients are not stirring.

  Her stomach rumbled and she frowned. Mayhap there is something in the larder left from supper I can nibble on. She lit a candle and slipped noiselessly down the stair and into the kitchen. The embers on the hearth bathed the room in a warm glow, and she quickly discovered a basket of biscuits covered by a damp cloth and a chunk of cheese on a platter. Slicing a wedge of the yellow cheese, she popped it in her mouth, savoring the sharp, peppery flavor.

  In no particular hurry, her gaze traveled over the contents of the room. Dry goods lined the cabinets, but empty spaces bore witness to the inability to replace the goods while the battle raged. At least we are not responsible for feeding the wounded soldiers!

  A locked cabinet in the far corner of the room caught her eye. Picking up the candle, she crossed the floor and ran her fingers searchingly across the paneled doors. The hinges moved. Intrigued, she set the candle on the long table and pushed on one door, surprised when it opened to her touch. Someone must have forgotten to lock it. Curious, she eased the double doors open and gaped at the treasures inside.

  Her eyes quickly scanned the delicate writing on each small box. Chamomile, fennel, feverfew. Garlic, hensbane, lavender. Her eyebrows rose. Saffron? That is expensive—and unexpected. Few people risk the wrath of the church to have anything from the East these days. Oils in slender bottles also lined the shelves, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a mortar and pestle, a sieve and a set of measuring spoons.

  Yarrow, wormwood, spiderwort. She drew a fingertip across the list. Poppy! A tremor ran through her at the find. Opium, as well as all things from the East, had all but disappeared, as many people remembered only too well the impact of the Inquisition that charged these items as being from the devil—and, by association, the owner of such goods from the devil as well.

  But in some circles its uses were remembered, and Melisende knew its power. She pulled open the drawer, and the tiny black seeds gleamed in the candlelight. Fingers flying, she scooped a measure of the poppy seeds into the mortar and ground them into a fine powder. Tearing a small square of cloth from her underskirt, she bound the powder and wiped the residue from the mortar and pestle. If I can discover what the baby soldier likes, I can tempt him to drink this. It should not take long to put him asleep at his post.

  Not bothering to hide her satisfied smile, she closed the cabinet and crept up the stairs to her room. Hiding the square of fabric with the poppy seed powder beneath her pillow, she drifted off to
sleep.

  Pounding on her door jarred her to wakefulness. Her hand darted beneath her pillow, reassuring herself the small packet was still there. She swung her legs over the side of the narrow bed and reached for the door, opening it to the reddened face of Pier the butcher.

  Alarm rushed over her, but her gaze slid to the faces behind him. Cateline and Mariette bounced up and down, excitement rolling off them in palpable waves. Cateline tugged at her husband’s arm and he took a step back. She slipped in front of him, her face beaming.

  “De Ros has agreed to a surrender!” She clasped her hands over her breast. “Can you believe it?”

  Melisende darted her look back to Pier. “Are we free to exit the village?”

  “Non, but as soon as the surrender is complete, you will be free to go.”

  “I must get home.” She ran across the room and yanked her cloak from the peg next to the bed.

  Cateline grabbed her hands, forcing her to lower them. “You must not try to leave now! There will be chaos at the gates and soldiers looting what they can in the town before they are forced to leave. A young woman such as yourself would be in great danger!”

  Her eyes glowed, brimming with tears as she pleaded with Melisende. Seeing the woman’s distress, Melisende relented and placed her cloak back on the peg. “I will wait,” she reassured her. “A few more hours will make little difference.”

  Cateline eyed her doubtfully, then gave a slow nod. “You are a sweet girl. I could not bear to think of you harmed in any way.” She hugged Melisende, then shooed the others from the room and followed. Their voices and footsteps clattered down the stairs.

  Melisende stared at the empty doorway. What she says is true. Soldiers will be fleeing the village into the countryside. It is only a matter of time—mayhap hours—before they stumble across the farm—and Lucienne. I cannot wait. I must leave now.

  She pulled her cloak from its peg and rolled it tightly into a small bundle, which she tied with a short strip of cloth from her underskirt. Stepping to the bed, she retrieved the packet of ground poppy seeds from its hiding place beneath her pillow and shoved it inside her worn leather satchel. She slipped the strap over her head, the pouch snug against her side, and crept down the stairs. Pausing at the bottom, she peeked into the main room. Men hurried everywhere, strewing bandages and other filth as they went. Orders were shouted, the wounded cried out as their beds were exchanged for litters. Those who could walk in any form were shoved about, left to their own devices.

  Melisende edged into the room, but the disorganized evacuation continued unabated. She inched forward. An aide’s head swiveled in her direction.

  “You! Gather up this mess and put it in that box.” With a jerk of his head, he indicated a chest lying open on the floor, small packets scattered about and in danger of being trampled.

  Merde! I have no time for this. She made no move to do as she was commanded, cutting her wary gaze back to the aide.

  Tired, angry eyes met hers. “Do it, or I will see to it you meet your new master with stripes on your back.”

  Melisende bristled, but dared not reply. She glowered at the man and moved toward the chest, collecting packets in a fold of her skirt as she went. With a defiant gesture, she dumped the load into the chest, not bothering to sort them into the smaller open boxes inside. The aide shot her a disgusted look and a muttered curse and continued with his own business.

  Keeping an eye on him as she worked, her attention drifted to the packets in her hands. Chamomile, comfrey, feverfew, hensbane—hemlock! Casting a quick glance over her shoulder to the busy aide, she stuffed several packets into her leather pouch and hastily returned the remainder to the chest. With a heave, she righted the box and latched the lid.

  Just then, a pair of orderlies hustled by, a wounded man on a pallet between them. Stooping in an attempt to use them as a shield to protect her from the aide’s quick eye, Melisende gathered her skirts in one hand and hurried alongside. As soon as they were in the yard, she slipped to one side, hiding within the shadows of the recessed doorway. The scene before her nearly stilled her heart.

  Bodies lay everywhere, clogging the small yard. Several lay at odd angles, stacked against the far wall, flies buzzing their exposed flesh. A few men huddled near the gate, leaning together for physical support, their bodies sporting various bandages, their clothing dirty and torn.

  Another group, men on pallets on the churned ground, waited quietly, some accepting drinks from orderlies who moved among them. A few spoke softly among themselves as they waited their turn for evacuation.

  Her gaze slid to the last group, the men utterly silent save for an occasional weak cry. Motionless, they lay on the ground, bandages stained red, black and an ominous yellow-green. No orderlies moved among them, and none came to their aid.

  “They will be dead soon,” a voice murmured in her ear.

  Startled, she jerked away, facing the man standing beside her. It was Edward, the former guard at the back door. She uttered a small sigh of relief.

  “What will happen to them?” she asked.

  Edward jerked his bristled chin to the bodies stacked near the gate. “Many were given a draught of opium and now await their turn at the gate, though it is doubtful we will have time to bury them before your precious Bertrand takes over the village. They will become his problem soon.”

  Melisende shivered despite the rapidly warming day. “It will be very hot soon. Will they not put up an auvent to protect them from the sun?”

  Edward shrugged. “The heat will likely hasten their deaths. Poor beggars.”

  A sudden warm breeze blew through the yard from the direction of the gate, bringing with it the sickening odor of corruption. Flies swept upward in a dark cloud above the bodies, only to resume their explorations a moment later. Melisende covered her nose and mouth with a hand and turned away.

  Edward’s cackle reached her ears. “So you no longer fancy yourself a healer, then?”

  “I never did.” Her muffled reply hid her animosity to Edward’s callous disregard for the mortally injured men.

  He edged closer, his whisky-laden breath tainted with the odor of onions and rotted teeth. “I saw you tending those poor wounded soldiers. Tenderly wiping their faces and spooning broth into their mouths.”

  Melisende’s eyes flashed. “I also cleaned their English shit off the floor. Both jobs were simply compassionate gestures toward another human being,” she snarled. “The fact there was a knife more or less at my throat to do so weighed heavily on my actions.”

  “The fact that many were young helped, aye?”

  “And English,” she spat. “I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you leave.”

  Edward favored her with a curious look and moved a half-step away. “I see you have plans to leave as well. Hoping to reunite with your lover?”

  Melisende gripped her rolled cloak tighter. “Oui. No one will miss me in this confusion and I must see him.” She forced a wide-eyed look of worry past her scowl.

  “You will never get past the gate, confusion or not. And disgruntled soldiers in the street would be happy to take you as part of their loot.” Edward cocked his head. “I can help you.”

  “Why would you help me? I have no whisky to trade for your services.”

  Edward laughed. “Now that is a downright pity. But I need through that gate as well, and together we can make that happen.”

  She eyed him warily and he shrugged. “I am too old to be of much use in battle, but they will force me to toil in other ways until I drop dead. Not much chance of a pension in enemy land. I wish to live simply back in England—or in France until I can get home.” He straightened, giving her a hard look. “Aye or nay? We have no time before someone spots us and again puts us to work.”

  Melisende eyed the distance across the packed yard to the gate, mentally weighing her chances with Edward against returning through the house and shop to the front door. She turned to the grizzled man beside her. “How will we ac
complish this?”

  Edward grinned his gap-toothed leer. “Do exactly as I tell you.”

  Chapter 11

  Melisende unrolled her cloak and pulled it over her shoulders, carefully hiding the leather satchel beneath it at the small of her back. Instantly, the heat of the day settled over her.

  “Pull yer hood up, too. We don’t want one of these soldiers seeing yer pretty face and getting ideas, now, do we?”

  She glared at Edward, but did as he requested, hating the too-warm confines of the garment. Taking her firmly by the upper arm, he leaned close.

  “Stay next to me, but hang back a bit. Don’t appear too eager.” His whisper carried the hint of a conspiracy and a mild warning.

  Before she could decide this was a bad idea, he straightened and jerked her arm, giving her a scowl. “Step lively, girl. We are late.”

  Heads turned as they made their way across the yard, but no one moved to stop them. As they approached the gate, a wagon, its wooden bed splotched with great dark stains, pulled to a halt. A tall, thin man, his uniform a dizzying array of colors and randomly attached silver and gold braid, hopped down from his lofty perch.

  “Load ’em up, men! I haven’t got all day.” By pairs, soldiers grabbed the deceased men and heaved them into the wagon, uncaring of the solid thump of the bodies. The wagon driver halted one, snipping the trim from the dead man’s uniform with a small knife before allowing him to join the others. He shoved the stained bit into his pocket and intercepted Edward and Melisende as they edged to one side of the gate.

  He grinned broadly. “What do we have here? Most of my guests do not walk to the wagon themselves.”