Commanded by the French Duke (Harlequin Historical)

by Meriel Fuller

  The constant slanting rain made it difficult to see, but she had travelled this route a hundred times, the village lying mid-way between Claverstock Castle and the Priory. Despite the rain, the moon shed a greyish light from behind the thin cloud, enough light for them to be able to pick out the track rising to the ridge. They plodded upwards, through the shelter of the trees, until they emerged at the top, the white chalk of the track shining eastwards.

  Up here, the wind was fiercer, catching at her hood, at the ends of her cloak, blowing the fabric about wildly. Her palfrey’s mane blew up straight in the breeze as she pressed her right knee into the mare’s rounded side, urging the animal to turn on to the track. The rain splattered against her cheeks, sluiced across her chin.

  ‘We need to keep going!’ Guilhem appeared beside her, one side of his cloak thrown over his shoulder; it wrapped around his neck like a makeshift scarf emphasising the lean, raw toughness of his jaw. He shook his head, wet droplets spinning out from his thick hair. ‘Let’s pick up the pace,’ he said, kicking his heels into the destrier’s flanks, taking off down the track.

  Alinor was thrown back as her own horse sprang excitedly to follow Guilhem’s as it cantered off, hooves flying up in the darkness; she clutched at the reins, hoping, praying that she would stay in her seat. Had he forgotten that she only had one good arm to ride with? Her leg muscles clenched and strained with the effort of staying in the saddle, her whole body hunching forward so she could keep her balance. Her hood collapsed back on her shoulders, veil spinning out, unravelling out behind her like a white wing. She clung on desperately, teeth gritted as she focused on Guilhem’s broad outline. Finally, he reined his animal in at a point where the pathway forked, one track leading down into the valley, one track remaining on the high level.

  Her palfrey skidded to a halt beside him and she dropped the reins instantly, flexing the tight fingers of her right hand. Every muscle ached, her weak arm throbbed painfully even though it had done nothing, and she wanted to cry.

  ‘Which way?’ he shouted at her. The roar of the wind threatened to take his words away. The rain coursed down thickly, washing across the sculptured contours of his face.

  She hunkered down miserably, wet cloak dragging like a stone against her shoulders. Water seeped down her neck, creeping with icy fingers down her spine. Her veil clung to her cheek like a limp rag, her circlet digging uncomfortably into her forehead, cold metal against damp, warm skin.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, taking in the forlorn wilt of her figure, the bowed head. She looked like a wraith, he thought suddenly, pressed down into her saddle, slim shoulders pulled down by her sodden clothes.

  Her eyes sparked at him, furiously. ‘You shouldn’t have taken off like that! I can’t ride as fast as you! I’m not one of your soldiers!’

  No, she was not. She was fragile and beautiful and he should have taken more care with her. A pang of guilt seared through him; her weak arm lay across the saddle in front of her, chiding him. He had forgotten. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘my only thought was to get out of this rain as fast as possible.’ He cocked his head on one side. ‘You did well though, keeping up. You’re a good horsewoman.’

  Alinor lifted her head, raised her shoulders, her heart warming at his apology, his compliments. She schooled her features into a stern, blank mask, careful not to show how much his words affected her. ‘You’d better follow me,’ she said, steering her horse towards the track leading down from the ridge.

  * * *

  Ralph’s cottage was one of the larger homes in the village. The grubby lime-washed walls showed up pale in the gloom, the wattle and daub bumpy, pitted. The rain cascaded down relentlessly from the thatched roof, pooling into a sea of mud beneath. Round pillows of moss clung to the straw thatch, given it a spotty, uneven look. The external shutters were closed; no smoke rose from the inverted V-shaped chimney.

  ‘Whose house is this?’ said Guilhem, springing down from his horse and looping the reins over the low picket fence that ran around the property. A row of browning foxgloves, seed-heads spent and crinkled after the long, dry summer, sagged crazily under the continual onslaught of the rain.

  Alinor sat on her horse, a miserable, cold lump. Her clothes were so saturated and heavy with water that she wondered if she could even move. ‘It belongs to Ralph.’ She shivered, teeth knocking together violently.

  ‘The man who was with you on the cart at the river.’

  She raised her eyebrows, diamond raindrops clinging to her lashes. ‘I’m surprised you remember. You only saw him briefly.’

  ‘I remember,’ he said, his voice husky. I remember you. How could he forget her luminous, angry face, the shining blade waggling precariously near his chest, the hurled-out Latin curses? He would never forget.

  Summoning up every last reserve of strength, Alinor kicked her right foot out of the stirrup, leaning her weight on the horse’s neck so she could swing her leg around. Clutching at the saddle with her good hand, she managed to slide haphazardly down until her slippers touched the ground, then disappeared into thick, gooey mud. Puddles swilled around her ankles, soaking her stockings.

  Guilhem came around to her side of the horse. ‘Why didn’t you wait for me?’ he asked. ‘I would have helped you dismount.’ He reached out his hand; she seized his fingers gratefully, pulling her feet out from the mud with a dismal sucking sound. He tied her horse to the fence as they walked through. Her clothes trailed in the mud: her cloak, the flowing hem on her gown. She blinked continually, trying to keep the rain out of her eyes as she blundered forward.

  The edge of the thatch overhung the low lintel, lengths of straw poking out, a haphazard fringe. Ducking his head, Guilhem thumped on the door with a heavy fist.

  ‘Shh!’ Alinor moved in front of him, nudging him aside. ‘Don’t wake the children!’ Raising the wooden latch, she pushed the cottage door inwards. ‘Ralph?’ she called softly. ‘Ralph, are you there? It’s me, Alinor.’ There was a grunt, then the sound of someone moving, a rustle of a straw. A man in a loose shirt, unfastened at the collar, appeared in the small gap. Ralph.

  ‘Lady Alinor?’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’ He peered out in the gloom, eyes resting on Guilhem’s tall figure, standing close behind Alinor. A hostile scowl crossed his face. ‘And what’s he doing here?’

  ‘I can explain everything,’ Alinor stuttered out. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably, her jaw wobbling violently with the movement. Shivers ricocheted up and down her spine. Gripping her arms across her stomach, she attempted to still her quaking body. She couldn’t seem to concentrate on why she was here, her mind flying off in all directions, flitting chaotically.

  ‘Are you all right, mistress?’ Ralph asked suddenly, eyeing Alinor’s wet, pale face.

  ‘No, she’s not,’ Guilhem said, his voice booming in her ear. ‘Light a fire, Ralph. And fetch some spare clothes. For a start, we can take this off.’ His hands came across her shoulders to undo the cloak at her neck, lifting the rain-soaked garment away. His knuckles brushed her damp chin. ‘God, this material weighs a ton! How on earth did you manage to stay on the horse wearing this?’ His hands cupped her shoulders, testing the fabric of her gown. ‘You’re wet through, Alinor, you need to change.’ His voice was a low rumble, authoritative.

  Shivering, she stumbled into the cottage. Her slippers squelched noisily across the earth floor. Bertha, Ralph’s wife, appeared, holding a pile of dry clothes. Her face was flushed, embarrassed. ‘This is all I have, mistress, not quite what you’re used to.’

  ‘Thank you Bertha,’ she murmured gratefully. ‘You know all that doesn’t matter to me. I am so sorry for disturbing you at such a late hour.’

  ‘I’ll wait outside,’ said Guilhem, his broad frame dominating the cramped interior of the cottage. There were only two rooms on the ground floor: one for the animals, the cow and the goats, and
one for the humans, a fireplace set into the back wall over which they cooked, a rickety table and a set of chairs where they ate. A ladder led up to a higher level, where the whole family slept and where the children slept now. Turning smartly on his heel, Guilhem disappeared outside.

  ‘I’ll go, too,’ Ralph said.

  Alinor touched his arm. ‘Ralph,’ she whispered urgently, her eyes lifting meaningfully towards the door through which Guilhem had recently departed. ‘I need your help. I need to talk to you...alone. Without him.’

  He nodded. ‘Later,’ he said.

  * * *

  Bertha lifted off Alinor’s silver circlet, removing her veil and wimple at the same time, placing them on the table in a sodden, wet heap. Her deft fingers worked at the knot on Alinor’s girdle, releasing the plaited cord, unbuckling her separate knife belt so that her long, sleeveless tunic could be removed. Next came her underdress, Alinor lifting her arms so the gown could be pulled over her head. The rings on the leather lace around her neck chinked together: a metallic, ringing sound.

  ‘I’ll drape these over the stools in front of the fire, mistress, so they can dry.’ Bertha handed her a rough linen towel. ‘Here, my lady, use this.’

  Although her hair was heavy with water and cold against her scalp, her plaits were still pinned into place at the nape of her neck. They would dry eventually. She rubbed the towel briskly around her neck and shoulders, realising with relief that her linen chemise was not as soaked through as her outer garments. Removing her mud-splashed stockings and slippers, she ran the towel up and down her chill legs and feet. Bertha poked the still-glowing ashes and stoked up the fire with more wood.

  ‘I’m sorry about all this,’ Alinor said, the warmth beginning to return to her body. ‘I really didn’t know where else to go.’

  Bertha came towards her, a short plump little woman, her brown eyes kind, concerned. She placed a hand on Alinor’s forearm. ‘Think nothing of it, my lady. It’s a pleasure to be able to do something for you for a change. You have done so much for us, for the village.’ She cocked her head, almost as if she were about to ask another question, then took in Alinor’s pale exhausted face and clamped her lips tight shut.

  Alinor picked up the simple gown that Bertha had brought for her and slipped it over her head, using her own girdle to gather the dress in at the waist. She fastened the leather knife belt securely. Her wimple and veil steamed gently before the fire, so she left her face and neck uncovered. She was simply too tired to care.

  ‘Are you ready yet?’ Guilhem rapped on the door from outside. ‘It’s horrible out here!’

  ‘Yes,’ Bertha called out. ‘You can come back in now!’

  As Alinor sat down on one of the low, three-legged stools by the fire, her hand flew suddenly to the leather lace at her throat, to her mother’s ring. To Bianca’s ring! Shock trickled through her. It wasn’t there! The leather lace must have fallen off, or become loose somehow when she was changing. As Guilhem came back into the cottage, she was scanning the ground, frantically, searching for a glimmer of silver.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ he said, pleased to see a delicate flush back in the creamy alabaster of her cheeks. ‘Have you lost something?’ The pure gold of her hair, darkened to burnished bronze by the rain, was bound into plaits coiled neatly at the back of her head. A single droplet of water, glistening, ran down her bare neck, travelling over her graceful collarbone and disappearing beneath the rough fabric of her gown.

  ‘No, it’s nothing really,’ she muttered hurriedly, eyes pinned to the earth floor. ‘I’ll find it in a moment.’

  ‘Is this it?’ he said, swooping down and picking up the leather lace wrapped around the foot of a stool. As he straightened up, the necklace hung down from his lean fingers, the two rings clicking together, spinning slowly, glimmering treacherously in the firelight.

  ‘Yes, thank you!’ she gasped, relieved, grabbing hurriedly for the lace. ‘It must have fallen from my neck when I took my gown off.’

  ‘I see.’ Guilhem seized one of the rings between his fingers, staring closely at it. ‘Alinor,’ he said slowly, reading the letters on the inside of the ring, ‘this ring belongs to my sister.’

  ‘How could it be?’ she cried out, unable to keep the edge of desperation from her voice. ‘That’s impossible!’

  Guilhem came close to her, almost stepping on her bare toes, and bent down so that his gaze, fierce and penetrating, met hers, and she stumbled back from the sheer force of it, knocking clumsily into the stool. He gripped her shoulders, face set in a ruthless mask. ‘Is it?’ he ground out.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Yes, of course it is!’ Alinor declared hotly. Fear slopped through her, a rolling viscous tide of sickening nausea. Her palms were clammy. How long could she keep this up for? How long could she keep lying to him so that Bianca could be free? ‘I’ve never met your sister!’

  Guilhem moved closer, the rings dangling ominously from the lace around his fingers, and she backed away until her hips and spine pressed back into the cold cottage wall. ‘Tell me where you got this ring,’ he said, his voice low, threatening, as he hulked over her, trapping her in the corner.

  ‘Er...I think that maybe you should leave?’ Ralph said, eyeing Guilhem’s broad back doubtfully, the lethal sword hanging from his belt. Bertha huddled at his side, lines of worry carved into her face.

  Guilhem turned, his eyes glinting, rapier sharp. ‘Get up there, both of you, now!’ He jabbed his finger towards the ladder. Mouths gaping in shock, they scuttled up the makeshift rungs to the sleeping platform, dragging their wide-eyed children away from the open edge and into the shadows at the back.

  ‘Tell me how you got this ring.’ His eyes were on her again.

  Alinor’s tongue moved woodenly against the roof of her mouth. ‘I found it,’ she replied, tipping her chin in the air, trying to inject a shred of confidence into her voice.

  A muscle contracted in his jaw, a tiny movement below the sculptured hollow of his cheek. ‘Stop lying to me,’ Guilhem said. ‘I will have the truth eventually, one way or the other.’

  ‘If you kill me, I won’t be able to tell you anything!’ she thrust back at him. Her eyes were huge, sparkling, green shards of light.

  ‘Oh, I’m not going to kill you, Alinor, don’t worry. There are far better ways of extracting information than that.’

  What in Heaven’s name was he talking about? Some kind of torture? Her breath emerged in short, truncated gasps as he loomed over her, big and tall and dangerous, his handsome face inches from her own. His breath sifted across her face, warming her cheek, stirring the damp fronds of hair curling around her earlobe. A vibrant masculine scent rolled from his skin; he smelt of rain, soil, an earthy sweetness. Her heart leaped, not with fright, but with something else, a peculiar skipping excitement, an exquisite anticipation of what might happen. What was the matter with her? He was quite obviously about to throttle her, yet she was not afraid. She wanted him to be close to her, welcomed it.

  He leaned into her, solid thighs pressing against hers, hard muscle against pliable curves. She couldn’t concentrate, her mind dancing off in all directions; she should be battling at his shoulders with her fists, trying to free herself, but all she wanted to do was sink into his arms and crush her body to his. Her conscious brain instructed her to resist, to push him away, but her heart sang at his closeness; she wanted more, so much more of him.

  His mouth scuffed against hers, a butterfly touch, light, sensual. ‘Tell me where you got the ring,’ he murmured.

  Shock raced through her at his intimate caress. ‘You can’t do this!’ she managed to choke out against his lips, astounded. Liquid heat tracked through her body, pooling in her belly, in the very core of her, gathering, building.

  ‘Oh, yes, I can,’ Guilhem replied, his mouth sketching the delicate cus
hion of her cheek. ‘I will keep going until you tell me what you know.’ His skilful hands moved up the slim flanks of her waist, stalling beneath her armpits. He rubbed his thumbs along the side of her breasts, slowly, carefully, testing the full roundness of her bosom, grazing the nipples.

  She gasped with pleasure, staggering back against the rough cob wall. Sweet Jesu, what was happening? He was supposed to be punishing her and yet her body had turned into a quivering mass beneath his hands. He was no doubt experienced in the ways of lovemaking; she was an innocent. And up above them, Ralph, Bertha and their children, listening to everything. Her face suffused with colour at the thought, her senses reeling with embarrassment. Breathing heavily, she shoved at Guilhem’s chest, a ridge of unyielding muscle beneath her fingers. ‘Stop this!’ she panted, her belly flip-flopping insanely. ‘You must stop!

  He wrenched his lips away at her cry, desire spinning in the blue depths of his eyes. Blood hurtled through his veins. The curving neckline of her borrowed dress gaped dangerously, revealing the fragile arc of her collarbone; a pulse beat frantically in the shadowed hollow of her throat. Her skin was luminous, with a pearl-like sheen. Distracted, he stuck one hand through his thick hair, sending the strands skywards.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen. The moment his lips had touched hers a strange recklessness had possessed him, driving away the main reason for kissing her, forcing it to skitter, as if a dog snapped at its heels. His intention had been to threaten, to pressurise her into telling him the truth about Bianca. But instead, he had only succeeded in desiring her more, wanting her. He stepped away, face stricken, troubled.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured, his voice hoarse. He folded his arms across his chest, puckering the fine blue wool of his tunic. He backed away into the middle of the chamber, as if to prevent himself from touching her again. ‘I just want to know that Bianca is safe,’ he said. To Alinor’s surprise, his voice trembled slightly. ‘Tell me that, at least. Please.’