Commanded by the French Duke (Harlequin Historical)

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘No. Don’t worry.’ Alinor grasped the iron pot from the nun’s astounded hands. ‘I’ll take this now.’

  ‘But...’ Sister Beatrice’s bottom lip sagged down ‘...aren’t you going to talk to him?’

  ‘Later!’ Alinor turned away abruptly, heading for the refectory door, clasping the pot against her belly like a shield. Scampering down the wooden stairs, she walked swiftly along the open-sided cloister, the morning sun warming her left cheek. She cursed her own stupidity. How foolish she had been, sleeping the night away at the Priory. Why, in Heaven’s name, had she not returned home last night to warn her stepmother? As Bianca’s brother, Guilhem would naturally ask about Claverstock; it was where his sister was supposed to be, about to marry Alinor’s stepbrother! And if Guilhem failed to gain directions to Claverstock from her, then it wouldn’t be long before someone else told him.

  Abandoning the porridge pot against the cloister wall, Alinor spun on her heel and began to run, linen veil flapping out. She had no time to change out of her nun’s garments; her only priority was to reach Claverstock before Guilhem did. Skin puckering with terror, her mind toiled frantically on a plan to leave the Priory as quickly and quietly as possible. The refectory was situated on the first floor of the west range; if Alinor cut through the storerooms on the ground floor, she could slip out towards the gatehouse unnoticed.

  She almost made it.

  A man came down the refectory stairs into the cloister to block her path. A blue surcoat clung to broad shoulders; silver embroidery winked and glittered in the sunlight. A slight breeze lifted strands of his hair, giving him a tousled look. Bright blue eyes, the colour of the sea, gleamed down at her as she skidded to a stop in front of him.

  He folded his arms slowly across his chest, a human bulwark barricading her path. ‘Where are you going?’ Guilhem’s voice was stern, but friendly.

  Alinor angled her neat head towards him. ‘Away from you,’ she muttered grumpily.

  He smiled, ignoring her rudeness. ‘I think you can help me.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Listen, the sisters tell me you know the way to Claverstock. I have asked the Prioress to give you leave to show me and she has granted her permission.’

  ‘Oh, God, why?’ she blurted out, without thinking. She clapped a hand over her mouth, as if to prevent further words from emerging. This whole situation was becoming worse and worse!

  Guilhem laughed at her reaction. ‘Because I am a knight with Prince Edward and therefore she trusts me? And because I was under the mistaken impression that most nuns like to help people?’ he added scathingly. ‘And, unfortunately for me, it seems that you are the only person who knows the way.’ His voice held the hint of a question. ‘Believe me, if there were anyone else, I would pick them instead.’

  Maeve appeared at the top of the refectory stairs, her tall reed-thin figure framed by the thick oak doorposts. ‘Ah, there you are.’ Her calm, melodic tones drifted down. ‘Can you take him, Alinor?’

  She dipped her head slowly in agreement. The strength sapped from her limbs; a debilitating weakness creeping across her body. Halfway between her mouth and her lungs, her breath snared. A horrible feeling of entrapment engulfed her, a tangled net from which she could not escape.

  ‘Follow me,’ said Guilhem. ‘My horse is this way.’

  * * *

  A long open-fronted barn served as a makeshift stable at the Priory; a thatched roof tilted down to a low stone wall at the back, rough-cut posts supporting the roof at the front. Horses crammed into the shelter, rumps against rumps, wheeling their heads around as Guilhem and Alinor approached. The barn sat in shadow; thick dew daubed the long grass alongside, strings of diamonds in the limpid light.

  Guilhem fetched his saddle and bridle from the storeroom and lowered them to the ground. Diving into the mass of horseflesh with the bridle swinging from his hand, he extracted his horse with ease, leading the glossy, black stallion out of the heaving, snorting mass.

  ‘Where’s yours?’ He fastened the bridle with deft fingers around the horse’s nose, settling the metal bit between the great yellow teeth, his eyebrow tipping upwards in question. The horse pawed at the cobbles with his great hooves, a hideous scraping sound, his forelocks feathered with an abundance of black hair. Alinor backed away, breath quickening in her lungs. Nausea trickled through her stomach, a faint queasiness. The fear hadn’t gone away, then. Maybe it never would. Unconsciously, she rubbed at her arm, the twisted flesh hiding beneath the long sleeve of her nun’s habit.

  ‘My...what?’ Her mind raced wildly. She had no intention of climbing on any horse! All she needed was to get ahead of him somehow so she could warn her stepmother, and give her time to think of a story to tell Guilhem about why Bianca wasn’t there.

  ‘Your horse, or donkey, or whatever it is that you sisters ride,’ he replied tersely. Alinor’s whole demeanour radiated such reluctance that it made him want to laugh. The delicate line of her jaw, her slender frame clad in that voluminous habit, belied a toughness of mind and spirit unusual in a woman. And yet she was a nun, trained to ignore all of life’s pleasures and pastimes. Maybe that was why she showed such fortitude of will. Her eyes burned, green chips of emerald glowing out from pale-cream skin, and he thought: what a waste.

  ‘I don’t have anything to ride.’ She raised one blonde eyebrow in his direction.

  He screwed his mouth into a wry smile, assessing her coolly. ‘Fine, then we’ll take one of these.’ Guilhem grabbed the mane of the nearest horse in the pack.

  Alinor’s heart plummeted. ‘Put the horse back, Guilhem, there’s no point. I cannot ride,’ she lied. ‘I’ve never learned.’

  Releasing the horse’s mane, he walked over to the spot where she stood. The sun, inching out from behind the Priory’s gable end, struck his hair into a mass of glistening strands, kindled flame. His big body stepped close, leaned over her, dominating her. ‘Cannot, Alinor, or will not? I don’t believe you. You seem to be able to do most things, so why do I think this is a stalling tactic to avoid showing me the way to Claverstock?’

  She shrugged, maintaining a blank, calm expression. ‘I’m telling the truth. I will walk to Claverstock and you can ride alongside.’

  ‘How far is it?’

  ‘Not above ten miles.’

  ‘Ten miles! That will take all day!’ He raked one hand through his hair, exasperated, then looked back at her. ‘There’s nothing for it. You’ll have to ride with me.’

  ‘But I can’t!’ Shock coursed through her veins. ‘It’s unseemly. The Prioress will never allow it!’ Wild-eyed, she glanced at Guilhem’s huge horse, chewing vigorously on his metal bit so it rattled between his teeth, shaking the long black fronds of his mane with impatience; the sickness in her stomach rolled, intensified. She hadn’t ridden since...since the accident and she doubted very much she would be able to do it again.

  ‘The Prioress will never know,’ he said calmly. ‘And I’m sure she will understand; you are helping me, after all.’

  ‘But...!’

  His arms circled her neat waist impatiently, swinging her light weight up into the space in front of the saddle. As her legs settled sideways over the horse and she squinted down over the bouncing mane, the smooth neck, her knuckles clenched white with fear, a sickening blackness prickling dangerously at the corners of her vision. Dizziness welled up, threatening to consume her; she fought against it, willing herself to remain upright; it’s only a horse, she told herself, it’s only a horse. She could not, would not, faint in front of this man! Her mind tacked back to that time before, her father’s stern tones commanding her to ride Minstrel; the flick of fear as she clambered aboard the huge destrier’s back. He had never forgiven her for not being born the strong, brave boy that he so desperately wanted. And she had wanted her father’s approval. To show him she was good as any boy.<
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  Holding on to Alinor’s waist, Guilhem watched as all colour drained from the maid’s cheeks, the healthy blush replaced by stark deathly white. Her long dark eyelashes shuttered down over her cheeks as she hunched forward, knuckles grey and stiff as they clenched into the horse’s mane.

  ‘Are you quite well?’ His low voice held suspicion. He wouldn’t be surprised if this was another of Alinor’s little acts to hold up the process of travelling to Claverstock.

  A surge of panic rose within her. ‘I can’t do this!’ she gasped out, wriggling frantically against his grip. ‘Let me off, now! Please don’t make me do this!’ Releasing the horse’s mane, she attempted to jump down, but his strong hold prevented her, wedging her firmly on the animal. Beneath his fingers, the muscles in her slim waist tightened, then released.

  ‘Let me off...now! I’m not riding!’ Her voice rose on a note of panic, shrill, desperate, her hands flying to his shoulders for support. ‘Please, let me down!’ Tears welled up in the corners of her ears; tears of panic, of alarm.

  ‘Alinor, stop this.’ He tried to keep the note of frustration out of his voice. God, he thought, it was amazing how women would behave when they didn’t want to do something! Her tears and panic appeared completely genuine, and yet, he knew how stubborn, how wilful this maid could be. Look how she had held her ground against the soldiers on the bridge. It seemed she would stop at nothing to achieve her own ends. ‘You are riding with me and that is final.’

  Chapter Six

  Sticking his booted foot into the metal stirrup that hung near Alinor’s dangling legs, Guilhem swung himself effortlessly into the saddle. Roped, muscular arms settled around her slender frame to gather up the reins that rested across the horse’s neck. Alinor was trembling, her white face a rigid mask, her mouth set in a tight line. Doubt niggled at him, a tiny thread. Had he misjudged her?

  ‘Stop this now, Alinor,’ he rapped out, jabbing his heels decisively into the horse’s rump. ‘You are not going to get your own way this time.’

  She lifted her reddened eyes towards him. Tears clung to her lashes like pearls. ‘You have no idea what you are talking about!’ she hissed, her right arm sweeping around to grab a bunch of his tunic as the horse lurched forward. Her clenched fist burrowed like a small knot against his biceps, honed plates of muscle.

  He ignored her. He was used to feminine dramatics; though he loved his family dearly, both his mother and his sister were not immune to emotional outbursts and fickle moods. And without his father’s calm presence around, dead of a fever some years back, they seemed more prone to them, somehow. He had to congratulate Alinor, though, for she was doing an extremely convincing job. Tapping his heels against the animal’s flanks, he steered the horse through the shadows of the deserted gatehouse. Beyond the Priory, the landscape stretched out over a flat expanse of water meadows that bordered a shallow river. A veil of mist hung low across the ground, drifting slowly upwards in the strengthening heat of the sun.

  ‘Which way?’

  Closing her eyes, her body like a wooden board as the horse moved forward, Alinor braced herself for the next onslaught of desperate panic. But to her surprise, a strange calmness cloaked her. Her muscles softened, losing their stiffness, the strain across her shoulders unclenching. Her horrible fear of the animal was beginning to inch away, by degrees.

  ‘Alinor!’ he barked at her. ‘Which way is it?’

  Pompous, arrogant oaf! The warmth of his skin through his sleeve percolated through her fingers. She snatched her hand away. ‘That way!’ She gestured roughly with a flick of her good arm. ‘Follow the track along the river.’

  He peered down at the top of her veil, tracing the fold of cloth to the point where it brushed her cheek, the skin imbued with a faint rose blush. He bent his head. What would it be like to kiss that skin, that soft silk? The smell of lavender lifted from her neck, the smell of summer, of long lazy afternoons. His heart lurched, oddly. ‘If I find out you’re about to lead me on a wild goose chase...’ he muttered sharply, wrenching away, staring into the distance with narrowed eyes. What was he thinking? The woman was not only a harridan in her own right, she was also untouchable, married to God, and here he was, thinking about kissing her!

  ‘I’m not!’ she responded, curtly. ‘Believe me, I have no wish to draw this out any longer than is necessary!’

  ‘Agreed,’ he responded, his tone mocking. Her tears were drying now; relief coursed through him at the return of her truculence. It was only natural to be frightened of horses if she had never ridden before. He was glad to see the tinge of colour seep back into her cheeks. ‘Now, lean against me and hang on with both hands, otherwise we’ll both be off.’

  He waited for her to secure her position; with a jab of annoyance he realised that she only held on with one hand on the horse’s mane, her other lying limply in her lap. ‘I said “both hands”, Alinor. Do you want to fall off?’

  ‘This is fine,’ she replied haughtily.

  ‘No, this is not fine,’ he growled at her. ‘For God’s sake, why are you making this so difficult?’ Grabbing her fingers, he raised her left arm forcibly, dragging her reluctant fingers up to his chest. ‘Hold on to me!’ he ordered.

  A sift of pain crossed her delicate features, quickly masked.

  He saw it. Deft fingers wrapped about her left wrist; he pulled up her sagging sleeve. Beneath, another sleeve, fixed to her arm with buttons. He ripped violently at the material, the round buttons scattering like tiny hailstones down to the cobbles, revealing Alinor’s slender forearm, the neat crook of her elbow. And on the inside of her forearm, her flesh, puckered and twisted, was laced with scars.

  ‘No!’ She tried to wrench her arm away, but his grip was unyielding.

  ‘What is this?’ he demanded. He stared at the ravaged skin, horrified at the damage, at the pain she must have endured. Guilt surged through him.

  ‘How dare you!’ she screeched at him, her green eyes round, aghast.

  ‘What is this?’ he said again. Beneath his thumb, the blood in her wrist pulsed, hot, racing. A blue trace of veins netted a little way up from her wrist, before disappearing into the scars, threads of purpling silver.

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Her voice was clipped, terse.

  ‘It doesn’t look like nothing. How did you get it?’

  She was silent for a moment. ‘Would you even believe me if I told you?’

  Her words stung. ‘Try me.’ A ruddy colour dusted the tops of his high cheekbones.

  ‘My father wanted me to ride his destrier. A warhorse. I fell off and broke my arm. This is the result. There—are you happy now?’

  The same father who had cursed the day she was born. God, what sort of childhood had she endured? She had probably been relieved to have been placed with the nuns. He shook his head, sticking one hand through his thick tawny hair. She had been telling the truth all along. Her fear of horses was genuine. ‘Look, Alinor—’ He searched for the words to apologise.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ she interrupted, her voice bitter. ‘It was a long time ago.’ The expression on her face was shuttered, closed, her eyes blank as she fixed her gaze on the graceful willows in the distance, her mind working quickly. She hated the fact that he’d seen her injury, but maybe, just maybe, it would work to her advantage. ‘Now do you see why I don’t want to ride? Will you let me down now?’

  Her chin jutted out defiantly, defining the haughty tilt of her mouth. Her fear had dissipated: Guilhem sensed it in the softness of her body against him. He was not about to let her walk. Or win, for that matter. ‘No, Alinor, we will ride.’ His voice was stern, a command. ‘Nothing is going to happen to you. My horse is safe and so are you.’

  * * *

  Damn him! Seething with resentment, Alinor fumed as Guilhem clamped her against him and urged the horse into a fast trot. She hated that her p
hysical weakness had been exposed and to him, of all people! Her weakened arm was something she had successfully hidden from most people and now this man, this man who had barrelled into her life with all the grace of a wild boar, had exposed it! Biting her lips, she frowned, acutely aware of how close his body was to hers, his inner thighs knocking into her with the horse’s movement. Heat rose in her cheeks; thank goodness he couldn’t see her face! The plated muscles of his chest bumped intimately against her shoulder. One solid arm wrapped around the slim column of her upper back, corded biceps burning through the thin weave of her habit. She tried to shift her position, to create some space between their bodies, but he tightened his grip as she attempted to pull away. A flicker of movement vibrated in her belly, blossoming, newborn. She needed to get away from him.

  As the rising heat from sun slowly lifted the early morning mist, they rode along the wide chalk path that meandered loosely alongside the river. As the mist vanished, the landscape began to be revealed: huge domed willows, branches trailing down into the river’s flow; gnarled, twisted alders poking out this way and that from the shallow banks. A sleek head with a whiskered nose broke the smooth surface of the water: an otter. Round-topped hills, interspersed with dry, narrow valleys, rose up on either side of the water meadows, the grass still lush and green despite the lateness of the year. Here and there, a few sheep grazed, white dots against the verdant pasture.

  For some miles, they moved swiftly at a bouncing canter, a gait which knocked Alinor continually backwards into Guilhem. But with one of his arms braced against her shoulder, the other secure around her belly, it was unlikely that she would fall off. Hating to admit it, she couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so safe. Since her mother’s death, since Wilhelma and her son had come to live at Claverstock, she was constantly on her guard, especially with Eustace. On several occasions he had walked into her chamber, unannounced, and she had taken to carrying the short knife in her belt as protection.