Commanded by the French Duke (Harlequin Historical)

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘Should I be worried?’ he murmured, as Alinor slapped the wet steaming cloth against the bleeding line of his wound, scrubbing vigorously.

  ‘Not at all,’ she replied brusquely. Bright flags of colour burned her cheeks, exaggerated by the leaping flames of the fire. A burning log fell sideways, sending up a shower of sparks. ‘I’m perfectly capable.’ But her fingers shook as she dipped them into foul-smelling unguent.

  ‘Capable, but maybe not very forgiving.’

  ‘Can you blame me? You carried me forcibly off that bridge. You wouldn’t listen when I told you I could carry Edith.’ Alinor shrugged her shoulders. ‘This may hurt.’ Pressing her palm to his shoulder, she smeared the thick paste across the wound. His bulging shoulder muscle moulded into her skin like warm marble: solid, strong. Her breath punched out, a short little gasp. She had tended to men before, certainly, but never a man like this, so...so beautiful. She smacked the earthenware pot of unguent down on the table with such violence that a faint crack appeared from base to top. Remember who he is: a knight, tough and uncompromising, without an ounce of softness in his body. But even as these thoughts ran through her mind, she knew she lied to herself. Beneath that harsh exterior was the man who had stayed by her side after Edward and his soldiers had left, the man who had carried Edith, with infinite gentleness, up the spiral staircase.

  ‘I listened when you told me your father cursed you the day you were born.’

  Her mouth dropped open. ‘Please, don’t speak of it. I meant nothing by it.’ The words gushed out of her, tripping over each other.

  He watched the stricken expression slip across her face. ‘If you say so,’ he said. There was no conviction in his tone.

  Wiping her hands briskly on a cloth, she unrolled a length of bandage. ‘You need to sit forward, with your arm held out,’ Alinor ordered, cursing her own outspokenness. He had goaded her into blurting such a thing aloud and now his eyes were on her, on her face, scorching, bold. Curious.

  ‘I thought all nuns had their heads shaved,’ he said suddenly. His gaze was pinned to a spot beside her ear.

  ‘Wh-what?’ Alinor paused, the bandage hanging in the air, a flimsy barrier between them. She reeled back as he touched a single lock of hair sneaking out from beneath her wimple. Pure, white-gold hair. Hell’s teeth! Why hadn’t she checked on her appearance before she came in here? Furiously, she tucked the offending hair back beneath her wimple.

  ‘Why isn’t your head shaved?’ Guilhem persisted. Her hair had been like silk: supple, vibrant. An unexpected longing gripped him; he wanted to rip the veil from her head, unwind that tightly wrapped wimple. What was the rest of her hair like? Was it long, curling, falling to her slender hips? He shook his head slightly, ridding himself of the tempting thought. He needed to stop indulging in these idle fantasies; he was intrigued, that was all.

  ‘Stretch your arm out.’ Impatient to finish the task, to run away from his probing questions, Alinor’s voice was terse, strained. Dutifully, he extended his arm and she began to wrap the cloth around, beneath his armpit, over his shoulder, round and round.

  ‘Why not?’ Guilhem asked again.

  ‘I choose not to.’

  ‘And your God gives you that choice, does he? He seems particularly lenient.’

  ‘He is.’ She lowered her gaze to his shoulder, pretending to concentrate on finishing the task. Why was he asking so many questions?

  ‘You’re talking nonsense and you know it.’

  Panic flashed across her delicate features. Ripping the end of the bandage into two halves, she tied it savagely into a knot. ‘Look, we do things differently in this country; you’re not used to our ways.’

  He picked up his shirt, pulled it over his naked torso. ‘Religion works the same in both our countries; don’t try and fob me off. What are you hiding?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Alinor bit out. Apart from a poor, frightened girl in the cellars, but Bianca was none of his concern. ‘I’ve finished,’ she announced, swiftly gathering up the spare bandages, the unguent, clutching the bowl of water to her chest. The water slopped against her gown, splashing dark spots. ‘I suggest you get some rest, like your men.’ She glared pointedly at the curled bodies huddled in front of the fire, wrapped in their cloaks, her tone dismissive.

  He tilted his chin, the brindled slash of his brow arching upwards. ‘And stop bothering you.’

  ‘And stop bothering me.’ Alinor turned her back on him, flouncing away.

  * * *

  She returned to the large table in the middle of the infirmary, popping the unused bandages back into the shallow wicker baskets, looking around the beds to see if anyone else needed her help. Every nerve-ending in her body seemed alert, highly strung, as if bracing themselves for some further onslaught; at any moment, she half-expected Guilhem to step beside her, asking more questions.

  ‘Everything all right over there?’ Maeve appeared at her side, tilting her head towards the fireplace. ‘I had to find the Prince something to eat, but he’s happy now; I’ve left him in the kitchens.’

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ Alinor reassured her. ‘I think most of them will sleep now.’

  ‘Do you want to fetch some food for him?’ She pointed at Guilhem, sprawled back in the chair, staring into the flames.

  ‘No, I do not,’ Alinor replied, scuffing at a mark on the floor with her leather boot. ‘I’m sorry to say this, but he’s not very pleasant. He’s doing everything in his power to annoy me.’ A bandage slipped from her grasp, unwinding down to the flagstones; she began to roll it up again, her movements precise and controlled, as if by performing the task perfectly she could take control of her thoughts and stop thinking about him.

  ‘The Prince told me to look after him. Apparently he’s his right-hand man, the Duc d’Attalens.’

  Alinor jerked her head up, staring into Maeve’s pale, lined features. ‘Who?’

  ‘The Duc d’Attalens? I think I’ve pronounced his name correctly. Goodness, Alinor, you’ve become quite pale. Are you quite well?’

  Alinor stared over at the man by the fire. Guilhem, Duc d’Attalens. Bianca’s brother.

  Chapter Five

  How was it even remotely possible that the maid who huddled in the darkened cellar was related to such an inconsiderate oaf? Muttering something about fetching some food from the kitchens, Alinor stepped slowly towards the door, resisting the temptation to run out at full speed.

  Grabbing a lighted torch, she plunged out into the night, striding purposefully towards the storehouse, the narrow doorway in the corner, the constricting stairs. Racing along the cellar corridor, her heart thudded half in terror, half in excitement. Bianca’s brother was here! If that was the case, then the girl’s predicament was solved; Guilhem could cross the Channel with her and escort her home. Who better, who safer, to take her than her own brother?

  Bianca had been asleep, rolled up on the flagstones in the blanket. Now, blinking in the spitting light of the torch, she sat up, her loose hair cascading into her lap. ‘What in Heaven’s name are you gabbling on about, Alinor?’ She rounded her eyes in puzzlement. ‘What do you mean, ‘he’s here’?’

  ‘Your brother,’ Alinor gasped out. ‘It’s your brother, Guilhem! Upstairs!’

  Bianca frowned. ‘No, you must be mistaken. Guilhem isn’t in this country. He’s fighting in France, in Gascony with Prince Edward. ‘

  Alinor forced herself to calm down, to slow her racing blood. Slinging the torch into an iron bracket, she took Bianca’s slim hands between her own. ‘Bianca, believe me, or at least, believe the Prioress who told me. Guilhem is sitting in our infirmary before the fire, with a wound to his shoulder.’

  Bianca arched one eyebrow, her expression sceptical. ‘What does he look like, then?’ Her tone was challenging, brimming with disbelief.

  ‘Look like?
Well, he’s...tall and well built.’ Sensation licked over her, warm, treacherous. ‘And...and his hair is exactly the same colour as yours...a tawny colour. His eyes are blue, a deep, deep blue, with long black eyelashes.’ Alinor chewed on a nail. ‘And he asks too many questions for my liking. He’s too interested, too curious.’

  ‘Oh, sweet Heaven.’ A pallid greyness washed Bianca’s face. ‘He’s really there, isn’t he?’

  ‘He is.’ This was not the reaction Alinor had been expecting from Bianca. Why wasn’t she pleased? ‘What’s the matter? I thought you’d be so happy to find out that he was here...’

  ‘You haven’t told him about me, have you?’ Bianca plucked at Alinor’s sleeve, openly agitated.

  ‘Of course not,’ Alinor replied promptly. ‘But don’t you see, Bianca, he’s the solution to our problem; he can take you across the Channel and take you home.’

  Bianca slumped to one side, her eyes wide and frightened. ‘Guilhem is the last person I want to see. He cannot know I am here. He would make me go back. He would make me go back to Eustace and force me to marry him.’

  ‘Surely he wouldn’t do that, if he knew what my stepmother tried to do.’

  ‘He wouldn’t believe me, or us. He would say we’re making it up, that we were being hysterical.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure we—’

  ‘Alinor, stop it!’ Bianca’s voice was sharp, rattling out on a thread of anxiety. ‘My mother told me that it was Guilhem who finally convinced her that marriage to Eustace was the best thing for me. With our father gone, she needed his approval, despite my own misgivings. Do you think I wanted to leave my home? I never wanted to come to England!’ She sobbed, burying her face into her palms. ‘I saw the letter Guilhem wrote to our mother from Gascony, giving his consent.’ She hunched her shoulders forward into her chest. ‘My mother was flattered that the Queen had arranged it for us, it was seen as a “good” marriage, uniting France with England, strengthening the ties between the two countries. I never wanted it. But what choice did I have when my brother had written the letter insisting that I go through with it?’

  ‘Oh, Bianca, I’m so sorry,’ Alinor whispered, dropping down beside her, hugging her. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’ The cellar air clung to her skin, a slick of chill perspiration.

  Bianca lifted her face. Tears tracked down her wan cheeks, glistening in the torchlight. ‘I’m sorry, Alinor, you’ll have to think of something else. Someone else. There is no way I am going anywhere with Guilhem.’

  * * *

  Something was banging away incessantly inside his head. Loud. Insistent. Hitching up into a seated position, Guilhem scrubbed at his face, trying to rub away the last vestiges of sleep, to clear the fog from his brain, and squinted towards the narrow window. Outside, it was still dark; the clanging noise continued. Throwing back the covers, he strode barefoot over to the window, linen undergarments clinging to his brawny thighs, and peered out into the blackness. The church bell tolling sonorously, summoning the nuns to early prayers. Veiled figures filed across the courtyard, heads bowed. Was she there, among them? His breath snagged. Alinor. She resented every last bit of his presence, and yet, the more hostile she was towards him, the more he was drawn to her. A woman who had taken her vows. An innocent. He should know better. And yet he couldn’t forget the tempting jut of her hip as she brushed past him in that voluminous sack of a gown, the silken perfection of her skin when he had touched her face yesterday. The images tormented him. His gaze ran back and forth along the line of pale-coloured veils and swinging rosaries, but he failed to spot her. Disappointment carved through him; he frowned at the odd sensation.

  He threw himself back on to the bed, bouncing against the sweet-smelling sheets, still warm from the press of his body. The ropes beneath the mattress creaked and strained with the movement. It seemed that the nuns spared no expense when it came to treating their guests. Although the room was small and sparsely furnished, the mattress was stuffed with horsehair, covered with sheets of woven flax and topped with feather pillows and furs. He stretched his long legs to the end of the bed, relishing the silken touch of the linen against his muscled limbs. After all those months of relentless fighting alongside Edward in Gascony at the behest of the King of France, desperate to reclaim his lands from the English, and after those awful months in captivity, this was sheer luxury. It reminded him of his home: his mother, the lady of the manor, bustling about, firing off orders to the servants, making sure that everyone had everything they needed: food, warmth, a bed for the night. It reminded him of the happy, vibrant presence of his sister.

  He closed his eyes, disquiet spiralling through him. After his release he had been reluctant to return home, the prospect of normal life jarring strongly with the ugly emotions coursing through him. He had wanted to fight, and fight hard, hoping to scour away the debilitating guilt that dragged him down like a lead-weighted cloak. He had known nothing of his mother’s plans for Bianca, although she claimed to have sent a message to him, which he had never received. By the time Guilhem had finally returned home to inform his mother he was travelling to England with Prince Edward, Bianca had already made the treacherous journey to England herself. He had been so taken aback, annoyed even, by the way his mother had so easily acquiesced to the Queen’s request. She had seen it as a wonderful match for her daughter. All he could do now was visit his sister and make sure that she was happy. He could do that at least.

  * * *

  ‘Fetch the rest of the bowls, please,’ Alinor asked one of the novices, as she placed one dish after another along the vast length of the refectory table, the stack of earthenware teetering precariously against her chest. Her left arm ached incessantly today; she was having trouble carrying the crockery. Sunshine streamed down from the high windows, gleaming against the pewter mugs and spoons, brightening the glossy wood of the table. Ornate candlesticks studded its length, bundles of wax set in cold, hard dribbles spilling out from around the unlit wicks.

  ‘How many?’ asked the young nun.

  ‘As many as you can find,’ Alinor said, reaching the end of the table. ‘We have to feed a lot of soldiers.’

  ‘Thank you, Alinor, for staying to help.’ Maeve emerged through a curtained opening in the corner of the refectory. ‘I’m not sure how we would have coped without your capable hands. It isn’t every day we receive such an influx of people.’

  ‘You would have managed without me, Maeve,’ Alinor assured her.

  ‘Well, I am grateful.’ Maeve narrowed her keen eyes, studying Alinor’s face. ‘But you look tired, my dear. Did you manage to sleep last night?’

  ‘Not much,’ Alinor replied truthfully. She had spent the night in the nuns’ dormitory, tossing and turning in a pallet bed, worrying about Bianca, chased by a pair of sparkling blue eyes through her fitful night. What if Guilhem should find out that Bianca was hiding right beneath them?

  ‘Ah, here they come now.’ The Prioress glanced up at the main door. Soldiers began to file in, slotting themselves along the rickety wooden benches. The sisters moved amongst them in pairs, one holding a vast tureen of honeyed porridge, whilst the other ladled out the cooked oats. Steam rose, mingling with the shafts of sunlight. The men talked in low voices, murmuring their thanks, keeping their eyes lowered respectfully. ‘At least it looks like they know how to behave themselves, thank the Lord,’ Maeve added.

  Alinor’s heart sank as she spotted Guilhem, his tall, muscular frame covered by a close-fitting blue surcoat falling to mid-thigh, calf-length leather boots on his legs secured with criss-crossed laces. Beneath his surcoat, he wore a fine wool under-tunic, of which only the sleeves were visible. The material hugged his thick arms, emphasising the brawny curve of his biceps, the muscled sinew of his forearm. His hair shone like a bronze coin. Alinor swallowed hastily, turned away. ‘At least some of them do,’ she responded, waspishly.

  Maeve
noted the burn of colour sweep Alinor’s cheeks. ‘Has something happened?’ Her voice sharpened.

  ‘No, no,’ Alinor replied vehemently. She grimaced at the floor, blood racing through her veins. How to explain the relentless beat of her heart that skipped and lurched at the smallest glimpse of Guilhem?

  ‘I shouldn’t worry, my dear.’ Maeve placed one hand on Alinor’s shoulder, placating her. ‘They’re leaving this morning. The Prince spoke to me last night. He’s planning to stay at the Queen’s palace at Knighton for a couple of days’ rest and recuperation. It’s only a few miles north from here. Some of the men are in no condition to fight.’

  ‘Thank God.’ Alinor smoothed her hands down the front of her apron; her palms were sweating.

  ‘Alinor?’ Sister Beatrice scurried up to her, lugging an empty cauldron of porridge between her two plump hands. ‘You live at Claverstock, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, you know I do.’ Alinor smiled at her. ‘Here, let me take that, it’s too heavy for you.’ She reached out for the cauldron, but Sister Beatrice shook her head, hanging on to the iron handles.

  ‘No, I’ll take it to the kitchens. You need to go and talk to him.’ She nodded significantly over to the refectory table, her veil gathering lumpily behind her neck.

  ‘Talk to whom?’ A cold wash of panic shot through Alinor’s veins. ‘Who is asking you about Claverstock?’ Her voice heightened, a shrill note.

  ‘Him, that one over there, the handsome one with the blue tunic. Sitting next to the Prince.’

  ‘What did you say to him?’ Alinor blurted out, words juddering.

  Beatrice laughed. ‘Nothing really. He was asking if I knew the way to Claverstock, and I said I would ask you.’

  ‘You didn’t say that I lived there?’

  ‘No, no, of course not!’ Beatrice rounded her eyes at Alinor’s reaction. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked in a small voice, then clamped her lips together, a dull flush washing over her dumpy cheeks. ‘Have I done something wrong?’