The Highlander's French Bride Page 9

  He raised a hand to her breast and she countered by meeting it with the mug. He accepted it absently in his outstretched hand and took a long draught. With an exaggerated wiggle, she nestled her hip against Edward’s. He jumped. She smiled playfully and he took another pull at his drink. Quel idiot! To think I would accept him after the way he treated me? Bah!

  “Finish this and I will fetch another,” she murmured, fighting back the urge to slap the self-satisfied look from his face. Instead, she gently stroked a strand of greasy gray hair from the side of his face, then drew her fingertips down the length of the scar on his cheek.

  Edward jerked his chin toward her bodice. “Let’s have a bit more look, eh?”

  Melisende hid her grimace and pulled the neckline further off her shoulders, baring a bit more skin. She slanted a look at him. “More after breakfast?”

  Edward’s eyes lit and his darkened teeth showed beneath an eager grin. He tossed the rest of the wine back in a single gulp and held it out to her. She reached for it and he grabbed her wrist.

  “I want to see what you’ve been so eager to share with yer beau.”

  With a twisting movement, she broke his grip, unable to keep up the pretense. “I warned you about touching me,” she growled. She shoved away, rising to her feet in a fluid movement.

  Edward sneered. “I may be an old man, but I am still stronger than you and you have nowhere to go.”

  “I believe you are wrong on both accounts, monsieur.” She took a step back.

  Edward lurched forward, his movements awkward. “What do you mean?” His eyes grew wide, the centers almost obscuring the colored rims. “What did you give me?”

  “To clear up our misunderstanding earlier, I am a healer, monsieur, and quite knowledgeable about herbs and such. I added a mixture of hensbane, opium and hemlock to your wine a few moments ago. I believe your cirurgian gives this to his patients before he performs very painful, unpleasant procedures.”

  Edward clutched his throat, forcing himself to gag. Melisende’s lips tightened in a small, satisfied smile.

  “You will fall asleep and I will be on my way. Sometime tomorrow you will wake. With luck, your food and the rest of the wine will still be here, and you can refresh yourself and make the most of whatever situation you find yourself in. I will not give you another thought. Adieu, monsieur.”

  She pulled her gown back into place and knotted the neck closed. Crossing to the table, she retrieved her cloak and satchel, settling both over her shoulders. A moan and a thump rattled behind her as Edward slid to the floor. Returning to his side, she searched him, finding her dagger and several coins in an inner pocket of his coat. Pocketing the items, she strode to the door and escaped into an eerie stillness very different from the melee of the previous day. Her concern rose sharply as the hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

  The street was empty. Debris littered the ground. A rooster crowed nearby, snatching her attention. A baby’s cry slipped past on a faint breeze. So this is what the surrender of a town is like. I wonder what is left.

  * * *

  Kinnon found Lucienne eying him sleepily through half-closed eyes. “Go back to sleep, lass. I will see to the animals.”

  She stretched contentedly, then hopped from the bed. She sashayed to her room where she dressed, returning to Kinnon for help with her laces. He quickly obliged her, keeping his actions smooth and brotherly. Relieved to avoid a repeat of the previous evening, he stepped away from her and grabbed his walking staff.

  Kinnon hobbled to the barn, grinning at Lucienne’s antics as she set about milking the three nanny goats. By the time she finished, Kinnon was willing to give it a try, and the cows’ impatient low bellows hurried them into the large stall.

  The gaunt beasts turned their heads in unison as Kinnon and Lucienne entered, their liquid eyes gentle though they stamped their hind feet against the swell of their full udders.

  “You can milk Bibi, and I will take Jolie,” Lucienne informed him, plopping herself down on a small stool next to the rangy cow.

  Kinnon eyed Bibi dubiously. “She isnae verra big.” He opened and closed his hands as he compared them to the size of the dainty cow’s teats. “I dinnae wish to hurt her.”

  “Handle them as you would a woman’s breasts,” Lucienne replied, her forehead resting against Jolie’s flank as she rhythmically squirted the cow’s milk into the wooden pail.

  Kinnon’s face heated. Impertinent lass. Upending a bucket next to Bibi, he sat on the makeshift stool, knees sprawled apart as he tucked himself close to the cow. He stroked her flank. “Ye and I will get on fine, lass. I am a quick learner.”

  Bibi stomped a rear hoof and went back to chewing her cud.

  Kinnon splayed his palm against her udder. His eyebrows quirked upward in surprise. A bit hairy, but soft and warm. He settled himself to the task, mimicking Lucienne’s gentle squeeze from the udder downward, and was rewarded to see a stream of milk squirt into the bucket.

  For several long moments, the silence was broken only by the steady swish-swish of milk as he and Lucienne filled their buckets. By the time Bibi’s udder was depleted, Kinnon’s hands had cramped and his back ached from bending. But he held his bucket proudly for Lucienne to see.

  “My first time to milk a cow!” he announced. Bibi stretched her neck and bellowed. Her tail swung through the air, catching Kinnon on the cheek. “Bah!” He wiped his face, scowling at the brownish muck on the back of his hand. “Auld besom! Ye can wait until tonight for yer next milking.”

  Lucienne laughed. “Oh, Kinnon! They only get milked twice a day.” She scampered to his side, weaving around the cows’ bony rumps. She stroked the side of his face with her fingertips. “There. No harm done. We can scrub it better once we are back inside.”

  Just then, Jean-Baptiste came bounding into the stable, barking his head off. Lucienne turned to him in surprise. “What is it?”

  The dog leapt up, his paws on her shoulders, nearly knocking her to the ground. She staggered back a step against Bibi’s broad side. Kinnon grabbed at her arm, waving Jean-Baptiste away. “Ye beast! Have a care for the lass!”

  “And do not knock over the buckets, s’il vous plaît.”

  Both Lucienne and Kinnon looked up in surprise at the new voice.

  “Melisende!”

  * * *

  Kinnon stared at Melisende, calmed by her serene beauty, though she bore the marks of long travel. He thought the wisps of hair springing from her braid charming, the smudge of dirt on her cheekbone adorable—and stopped himself from wiping it away before the gesture was more than a thought. He wanted to settle her slightly askew cloak more comfortably about her shoulders, but managed to keep his hands at his sides.

  Shocked by his impulsive response to her, he stepped away, fumbling for his walking stick. Her gaze followed his movement.

  “Are you well, monsieur?” she asked, her voice low and rich, a sweet slide against his taut nerves.

  “A bit of a wound, but Lucienne has taken verra good care of me.”

  Lucienne ran to her sister, hugging her and skipping about in turn. “Oh, Melisende! I used the herbs and I even stitched his leg! My sewing looked very nice and even. I did as I have seen you do, and it worked!”

  Something within Kinnon lurched. I was her first patient? He released a whoosh of breath and the sisters glanced at him. He cleared his throat.

  “’Tis good to see ye home, Melisende. What can ye tell me of the battle?”

  “The battle is over. De Ros is to surrender the city tomorrow if reinforcements do not arrive.” She moved to his side. “I am sorry to say your commander has taken ill. Rumors are he will not live.”

  Bertrand dying? Kinnon shook his head. He is the Constable of France. He has fought in a hundred battles, survived capture three times over. It isnae possible. Memories of the man, hale and strong flashed through his mind. And then, only days ago, the unsettling feeling that Bertran was hiding an illness.

  “I mus
t go,” he said abruptly. “I must see for myself.”

  Melisende nodded. “I thank you for being here for my sister, no matter the circumstances. Had I known you were here, I would not have worried so much.”

  His gaze slid to Lucienne. “She saved my life. I am forever indebted.”

  Melisende looked from him to Lucienne’s smile. “It seems you have both helped each other. I am grateful.” She peered at him again. “Will you remain with your troops?”

  “Ye remember?”

  “Oui. I remember.” Her eyes searched his, found his soul. “You had doubts.”

  Kinnon nodded. “I still do. I had planned to take my leave of Bertrand and his army before this last battle.” He scrubbed his face. “I cannae believe…” His voice failed, unable to speak the words aloud.

  Melisende touched his arm lightly. “Go. Finish what you must. You will be welcome if you wish to finish convalescing here.” Turning, she disappeared through the door.

  Lucienne darted to Kinnon’s side and wrapped her arms about his waist. “Do not go, Kinnon! I will miss you.”

  “And I will miss you, lass. Ye saved my life, ye know.” He attempted to step away, but she clung to him. “Let me go, Lucie. I have a duty to complete.”

  Lucienne snuggled closer, humming lightly under her breath. It was clear she paid little attention to his words.

  Frustrated, Kinnon grasped her upper arms and pushed her gently back from him. “Are ye listening to me, Luci?”

  Twinkling lavender eyes met his. “I like it when you call me Lucie.” She sighed. “Oui, I am listening. You care more for your duty than you do me.”

  “Nae. I will return—for a short time. I do not know what my commander will ask of me.”

  Lucienne dropped her gaze and gave a tiny nod. “You will come back?”

  “Aye, lass. I will be back.”

  Her features lit with pleasure. “Will you bring me sweets?”

  Chapter 13

  The air was hot, dense. Kinnon wiped the back of his hand across his brow, cursing the mid-July weather. ’Tis nothing like Scotland, he groused. ’Tis time I was home.

  “Shite!” He scowled at a bird that took wing at the sound of his voice, feathers flashing blue in the sun, then continued in silence, rebuking himself for the noise when he had no other way to protect himself. Armed with only a dagger, he would be easy prey to any who came across him.

  He passed the camp’s first sentry without challenge, but was halted by the next and questioned. The sight of his walking staff and stiff, hobbling gait—along with his name, verified by an aide—won him entry into the camp, and he made his way through the sea of tents to Bertrand’s pavilion where he was obliged to cool his heels on a tree stump while a guard conferred with someone inside.

  All around him, the camp spoke of a ferocious battle past. Few men did not bear some wound, great or small, clothing stained or torn. While not disheartened, the mood was serious, lacking the normal jovial comments of men taking their ease around the numerous campfires. Instead, the creak of leather and the soft chime of metal reached his ears as men rode past. A sharp cry interjected a jarring note. Men hurried about the commander’s tent, hushed and somber.

  Kinnon sat on his make-shift seat as noblemen, knights and soldiers paraded past. Some were allowed entry to Bertrand’s tent, others milled about outside, talking quietly amongst themselves. He finally rose and stumped over to a small group of soldiers. They looked at him with worried eyes.

  “What can ye tell me of Bertrand?” Kinnon asked. The men shifted their feet, their gazes bouncing from one to the other until one man finally stepped forward.

  “He is fatigued, monsieur, and the heat has aggravated his fever.”

  Kinnon’s heart skipped a beat. “He has a competent cirurgian, aye?”

  “More than one. And they all despair of his life.”

  Though Melisende had warned him, the words still struck like a hammer to his chest. He nodded to the men drifting in and out of the tent. “Who are these lads?”

  “They are nobles and knights come to visit”—his voice dropped to a whisper—“one last time.”

  “Many men wish to speak to him, but the cirurgians only allow a few at a time. They cannot deny them, but they try not to tire our Bertrand more,” another added.

  Our Bertrand. Those two words spoke volumes to Kinnon. He will always be Our Bertrand to the people. No matter their rank, he is simply Bertrand.

  Kinnon reeled from the discouraging news, his heart connected to this great man who had treated him so well. Though Kinnon knew his commander had risen from less-than-auspicious beginnings and the nobles often despised him for it, today they vied for position at his side, verifying the soldier’s disheartening words.

  He glanced about the camp again, seeing its ugliness. Tattered women ghosted from tent to cook fire, scarcely heeded by the men they serviced. A glittering sword rested next to a disheveled soldier as he squatted in the dirt—likely not the sword’s true owner. Kinnon knew more riches lay hidden from sight, all taken as rightful spoils of war.

  He wondered about the villagers. What injuries and thefts had they endured at the hands of the English? Would they fare better at the hands of the French? He remembered Melisende’s memory of the shop keepers buying ‘protection’ from the very men who had once sworn to defend them—and what happened to those who refused such bullying tactics.

  How do men fail so easily in their duty? Why do they find a comfortable hook to hang their misdeeds on instead of refusing to go along with the evil deeds? What religion or government needs to be so insular as to drive out all who disagree? Can they not learn from those they serve?

  Bertrand had used harsh tactics from time to time to force a quick victory—better these few than an entire town. Kinnon shuddered. Perhaps—but surely not to those few. And yet, those remaining had always capitulated, saving many. He shook his head, his thoughts too deep, piling on his grief for his commander. He will be remembered as a great man—and he was. He has made a lasting impression on me, and for this past year, I would have laid down my life for his.

  An aide Kinnon recognized appeared in the tent’s doorway, peering about the groups of men huddling near. His eyes met Kinnon’s and he gestured at him. “Come. He wishes to speak to you.”

  Kinnon approached the tent with dread, his limbs drugged with apprehension. His throat was dry and he swallowed, working his mouth to gain moisture. He ducked his head beneath the tent’s overhang and blinked his eyes against the semi-darkness.

  Bertrand lay upon his camp bed, one man hovering near his head, others standing about, noticing Kinnon as he entered. Bertrand waved the man next to him away as the aide urged Kinnon to approach. Shooting Kinnon a warning glare from beneath his brow, the man left Bertrand’s side.

  “Come closer, Scotsman. I do not have much time.” The once-clear, commanding voice Kinnon would have recognized anywhere was gone, replaced by the death-rattle rasp of a man clearly only a short time from the grave.

  Kinnon stepped to the edge of the bed. “Ye willnae discount all the prayers of yer knights, now, will ye? They have to account for something.”

  Bertrand’s lips etched a tired smile. “Forty years of combat is apparently enough for this body. I am too weak to recover, despite their prayers.”

  Kinnon stared at the man who had become almost a father to him in the past months. His eyes searched the familiar face, now gray and lined with fatigue. His features, considered ugly by most who knew him, now added sunken eyes and new wrinkles—unflattering in the candle-lit tent. To Kinnon, all that mattered was that a great man was doomed to die—and soon.

  “I was told you were dead,” Bertrand murmured.

  “They were wrong,” Kinnon replied simply, loath to bring Hervé into the conversation.

  Bertrand was silent for a moment. “I have made most of my arrangements. De Ros will, according to our terms, surrender the town tomorrow. As for me, it is arranged for my heart to
be conveyed to the church of the Dominicans near my home.” He eyed Kinnon. “Did you know Thiephaine de Raguenel is buried there?” He sighed a thin wisp of breath and closed his eyes. “She was the wife of my youth, and though I spent little time with her, with her is where my heart longs to be.”

  Silence lengthened between them, and Kinnon, rocked by his commander’s acceptance of death, stood close, unable to move.

  A hand touched his arm as a voice murmured in his ear. “The priest is here for the last sacraments, monsieur. Please step away.”

  Kinnon stumped about on his wounded leg and saw the tent filled with men of all ranks. Their figures weaved and blurred and he wiped his eyes, surprised to find them wet with tears.

  Bertrand roused and for the next several moments, all was silent except for the low murmur of the priest’s words. After making his will, Bertrand called for his sword. He unsheathed it, considering its glittering length as he raised it before the gathered crowd, his face strained at the weight. “I have always had pure intentions in my duty with this sword. But at times, I wonder if I have failed in any way.” For long moments he perused the blade, then kissed the weapon and presented it with trembling hands to the Maréchal de Sancerre.

  “Return it to the king. Tell him I was ever his faithful servant, and if any faults were committed, I regret them deeply.”

  He embraced the maréchal who wept unabashedly. One by one, each man in the room approached Bertrand. He consoled them, reminding them to respect the Church, spare the ecclesiastics, and protect the poor, women and children.

  Kinnon’s eyes wandered the room, wondering which, indeed if not all, were guilty of disobeying Bertrand’s last words. Though they arenae his last words—for I have heard him say so time and again. Yet among us are the thieves, the blasphemers, and those who have abused women and children to get what they want.

  His gaze returned to Bertrand who now lay in silence, eyes on the crucifix in his hands. Time passed, but none moved away from the tent. Shadows drifted across the canvas, and at last Bertrand heaved a great sigh, and his hands relaxed their hold on this life.