by Cathy MacRae
Lucienne cocked her head to the side. “I have seen the cows and goats mated, and everything seems to go well. But why do men seem to crave it? That is why the bad men kidnapped me, though I was only fourteen at the time. I heard Maman whisper of it, and she cried over me for a long time. And the next day, we came here.” She shrugged. “But none of them hurt me except where their grip left marks on my arms.” Absently, she rubbed her upper arms, as though to erase a persistent memory.
Kinnon’s heart jolted to be reminded of the reason for this confusing young woman. “Poor lass. I will reassure ye things work quite well if both parties are fully willing. And ’tis fine for the wife to enjoy it, too,” he added, to be sure she understood the marital issue.
Lucienne gave a satisfied nod. “That is good. I hate not knowing things. Here is your bandage and a pot of a healing salve. Knot the cloth tightly.”
With that abrupt change of topic, she dropped a length of clean fabric on the bed beside him. She grabbed a cloak from a peg by the door and spoke to him over her shoulder as she draped the worn fabric about her. “I must feed and milk the animals and check on the goat that strayed yesterday. Jean-Baptiste will be with me, but we will not be far. Please rest.”
The door snicked shut behind her. Still reeling from the conversation he’d just had with the lass, Kinnon stared at the portal for long moments before turning his gaze to the small pot beside him. He propped himself on one elbow and removed the lid. A not-unpleasant aroma drifted out and he surveyed his long, neatly stitched wound.
Evenly spaced black thread held the edges together. She may not be a healer, but she is a mighty fine seamstress. But I am glad I wasnae awake when she plied her needle—he counted—thirty-five times! And the cleaning of it! He shuddered. No wonder Hervé thought my leg had been almost hacked off. Ruthless bastard.
His mind wandered to the battle. In the last memory he had of it, he was unsure if they had routed the brigands or not. The fighting had been fierce, and by now, nearly two days had passed. Time did not sit still, even to allow someone to recuperate from a vicious wound. Had Bertrand been successful in taking the town from De Ros? Did the battle still rage? Would the English be scouring the area for enemy soldiers? Kinnon felt the urge to be up and about, discovering information that could potentially save his—and Lucienne’s—lives.
He quickly slathered some of the salve on his leg, pleased to note no redness and very little pain at the site, though moving the leg was troublesome. He wrapped his leg with the clean linen strips, knotting them firmly. Swinging his legs to the side of the bed, he paused as dizziness rocked through him and a roaring filled his ears. He grabbed at the bedframe, the coverlet, the small table—anything to keep from pitching forward into the black hole that opened to receive him. Pain exploded in his head and he crumpled to the floor.
* * *
Melisende drew a weary hand across her forehead, pushing damp tendrils of hair away from her face. Around her feet lay the detritus of war—bloody bandages, ruined clothing, dirt and other nameless muck. She shoved at the pile with her broom, pushing it into a dust bin before carting it off to a larger container to be taken away later by one of the soldiers.
Wounded men lay on every available surface. Their low moans tore at her heart. She had learned much herb lore in the year before her grandfather died, but had no desire to come under closer scrutiny by the English than she already was by offering her healing services. Even with the guards at every entrance, she had not given up on her plan to escape. It was just the formulation of it that defied her at every turn. She had made tentative friends with the grizzled warrior who kept watch at the back door at dusk. Perhaps because he reminded her of her grandfather, possibly because he did not eye her like so much feminine flesh to be consumed as the others did. But most likely because she apparently reminded him of his granddaughter, and her newest plan hinged on his sympathy.
The past two evenings, she stood at the door, partly hidden in the shadows, until it was time to lock up for the night. Each time, she dragged reluctantly inside, a wistful, worried look on her face that she’d practiced only hours before. The second night, he had asked whom she waited for. Surprised at her own talent for storytelling, Melisende spun a sad tale of the weaver’s son, to whom she was engaged and had not seen since the siege began.
The soldier, whom she’d discovered was named Edward, had listened, then shooed her inside with a sympathetic smile and encouraging word. Today, she had scoured the butcher’s pantry for a small flask and poured a measure of whisky into it. A few hours remained until she could put her plan into effect.
The guards changed shifts and Edward took his accustomed seat at the rear door of the butcher’s shop. Melisende watched anxiously as another soldier seated himself next to the older man, leaning his weapon against the doorframe as though he intended to remain there indefinitely.
The moon rose, and the two men remained deep in talk. Merde! If I do not start soon, I will not make it far before sunrise. The second man rose abruptly, gathered his weapon and strolled through the small yard, disappearing into the shadows. Long, agonizing minutes stretched before Melisende decided he had moved to another post. Picking up the flask, she crept down the dark stairs.
Edward jerked to his feet, his sword en garde. “Who is it?” he challenged.
Melisende hurried the last few steps through the door. “It is I, Melisende. I trust I did not startle you?”
Edward’s roughened skin flushed unevenly around a knotted scar on his cheek. “No, mademoiselle. Your presence is a vision of an angel to these old eyes. ’Haps you hope to see your beau tonight?”
Melisende ambled closer, trailing a finger over the doorframe. Edward’s gaze followed the caressing movements of her hand, his old eyes widening.
“I miss him beaucoup, and I am fearful something terrible has happened to him. Would you be so kind as to let me go to his home and see? It is not far, and I would not think to be gone long. But my heart pounds in my chest to know nothing all these days!”
She gently placed her palm on her bosom in emphasis. Edward swallowed hard as his eyes followed her hand’s movement. He stared owlishly as her deep breaths moved her chest up and down. Suddenly he cleared his throat.
“I am under orders to allow no one to leave without permission from the captain.” He shrugged. “I can do nothing.”
“That is a shame, for I brought you a gift to keep you warm tonight whilst you waited for me.” With the hint of a seductive smile, she pulled the flask from her skirt pocket. Glancing about her, she offered it to him. “It is fine whisky from my master’s own stock. Guaranteed to warm your belly.”
Edward laughed. “Cheeky girl! I thought you wanted to seduce me, but this is more to an old man’s liking!”
Melisende waved a hand airily. “A simple toss is but a moment of fleeting pleasure. Pouf! and it is gone. But a full flask—ah, that is another thing, surely.”
“Your beau is a lucky man. I am too old to appreciate more than what these eyes can see, but the whisky is much prized.”
“Then we are agreed? I may look for him?”
“You may go to the end of the way, but no further. I cannot allow you to go beyond that point. It is against orders.”
How long before he is more attentive to the whisky than to me? She fumed silently, but it was a chance she could not forfeit. “Thank you for your understanding. I will stay within sight.”
With a nod, Edward stepped aside, allowing her to pass. She slipped silently to the end of the path and gaped at a scene she scarcely recognized. Overturned wagons piled haphazardly in the street. A man who would never seek the services of the cirurgian sprawled across a pile of broken wooden crates. Here, the smoke hung heavy in the air and Melisende pulled a corner of her cloak over her nose. The normal night sounds of laughter and of neighbors calling to one another were replaced by coarse shouting, punctuated by an occasional scream. She shuddered to realize she placed the cirurgian’s whereab
outs by the source of the agonized cries.
She chanced a quick look over her shoulder. Edward’s attention fell directly on her, the flask of whisky apparently untouched at his side. She turned back to the street, stealing a look at Edward from time to time, hoping, praying for a moment of inattention that would allow her to slip away. Each time, she caught his speculative gaze. Finally, she made her way back to the shop.
Edward eyed her over the flask as he took a deep swig. He downed the contents in three large gulps then handed it to her, wiping the back of his hand across his moist mouth. “’Tis not bad. Mayhap another round would be in order any time you wish to catch sight of your beau.”
Insolent swine! He thinks to make me pay for the privilege of merely walking to the end of the way? No wonder he did not allow me out of his sight. No doubt he thinks this an easy way to procure a nightly draught of whisky.
Blinking quickly to cover the anger she knew showed on her face, she smoothed her scowl into a pout. “I worry about him so much. Thank you for your kindness. Mayhap I will see him one day soon. It is all this heart longs for.”
“An agreement, then,” the old soldier noted, a smirk on his face as Melisende passed him and entered the butcher’s shop.
With a touch of black henbane, opium poppy and hemlock if any can be found, she vowed. The cirurgian is not the only one who can mix herbs, mon ami.
Chapter 9
Battle raged in the village. Injured men poured into the makeshift enfermerie set up in the butcher’s shop’s front and storage rooms, even spilling into the small barn behind the building. Soldiers came and went, the surgeon did what he could to treat the terrible wounds, and Edward was replaced as the night guard for the rear door.
Be damned! Melisende eyed the eager young man at Edward’s old station. Spine stiff and eyes averted from her, he appeared anxious to carry out his job with the utmost precision. He also looked scarcely old enough to shave.
Melisende stormed up the stairs and slammed the flask of whisky down on the small table in her room. Milk would be a more appropriate bribe for le jeune homme. Frustration knotted her chest. Fatigue made her head swim and she bit her lip to keep tears at bay. With a thump she collapsed onto the edge of the bed, head in her hands as she scrounged furiously for a new plan. She discarded one after another before she lay back on the coverlet, beseeching God to care for her little sister.
Her mind somewhat eased, or at least temporarily resigned, her thoughts turned to Kinnon. I wonder where he is. Would he have been with the main attack four days ago? He seemed to be part of the Eagle’s close command. Would he serve at the rear, closer to Bertrand? She hoped he was not part of the common soldiery pounding the village walls.
Where will he go when this is over? Will he return to Scotland or remain with Bertrand’s army? Again she wondered if he was bound to a woman back home. A stab of jealousy surprised her. I have no rights to him, she admonished herself. A curiosity came over her. But if I did, what would that be like?
Her lids closed and she imagined his eyes, the way they crinkled at the corners when he laughed. Only a bit lower, his lips—chiseled and manly, a day’s growth of whiskers framing them—moved as he spoke. The memory of his voice warmed her and she smiled.
I am not sure I was meant to be a soldier, he had told her.
She recalled his friends, who had boldly sailed to France to rid the countryside of soldiers—mostly English—who preyed upon the helpless. Kinnon was the only one left. The life of a soldier. So short, so unpredictable. She gripped the bedclothes in her fists, fighting a surge of despair.
Why must there be war? Why must good men die? Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and she shook her head, denying the emotion. I am tired, nothing more. There have always been wars. Large ones, small ones, diseases, accidental death. I have experienced all of it and more. Why should it matter now?
But his last words burned in her heart and she shook to remember them.
Do ye not want a man’s arms around ye when nights are long? When ye have something in yer heart ye wish to share? Someone who cares for ye more than himself?
God help me, I am so lonely. I love my sister, but you have opened something in me I wished to keep closed. Damn you, Kinnon-Macrory-from-Scotland! Damn, damn, damn!
* * *
“You are a foolish man, monsieur,” the soft voice chided, and Kinnon struggled to open his eyes. He wasn’t sure he disagreed with her. Light burst before him, but a head moved in front of the source, blocking the glare. Lavender eyes glowed in a sweet face framed in golden curls.
“I am a lucky man,” he replied, his voice hoarse and scarcely above a whisper.
“Oui. You are lucky you did not cause your wound to reopen when you crashed to the floor.” A soothing hand stroked his cheek.
“Nae, I am lucky to be cared for by such a sweet lass.”
Tinkling laughter filled his ears. “Monsieur, I believe you injured your head when you fell. Can you tell me your name?”
Kinnon closed his eyes, screwing his forehead up in concentration. “I am Kinnon.”
“Très bien. And who am I?”
He had to open his eyes again, and this time the lavender eyes sparkled, her pink lips tilted in merriment. For a moment he basked in her smile. “You are Lucienne.”
“Oui. And now you need rest. Would you care for a drink before I leave you to your dreams?”
He reached for her, surprised at the tremor in his arm. “Dinnae leave me. Tell me what happened.”
“I am no healer, but I know you lost a lot of blood the other day. I would guess you jumped to your feet to prove you are not injured as much as you really are, and your body is not yet ready for such actions.”
Kinnon scowled. Of course. He had been impatient to be about his business, and he’d blacked out as soon as his feet hit the floor. “My leg…” He silently begged her reassurance.
“Again, you are in luck, monsieur. For if you had reopened the wound, I am not sure I would have been able to help you.”
He sobered. Like it or not, it looked as though he would be taking orders from this wee lass for at least the next several days. The necessity to rest and heal warred with the need to discover the outcome of the battle, report to his commander, and protect this young woman from harm. He stifled a growl of discontent.
Her delicate hand again stroked his cheek, and he sighed. Perhaps a day or two of her care would not go amiss.
For two days he submitted to Lucienne’s ministrations. She fed him and included him in her conversations as she went about her work inside the house. He drew the line at her help with changing the bandage and personal care, though he had to admit to the need for assistance with the chamber pot. To his relief, she treated him benignly, with no hint of her earlier fascination with his body or its reactions—responses he tried somewhat unsuccessfully to keep at bay, for her gentle touch laid unbidden heat beneath his skin, and her fragrance raised his cock to attention.
He sought the mundane to keep his wayward body under control. He couldn’t help but worry about her, but Jean-Baptiste followed her when she went outside to tend the animals and garden or check on the cheeses. The dog curled unconcernedly on a rug beside the hearth when inside, apparently accepting Kinnon’s presence—or perhaps simply ignoring him as being no threat in his present condition.
Slowly, his strength returned, and after the fourth day he was able to move about the little house with the aid of a stout branch Lucienne cut for him. He spent endless hours stripping the bark and carving designs in the wood, as well as smoothing the fork in one end to fit beneath his arm for extra support.
“What is in the pot, lass?” he asked, leaning on the staff as he peered into the simmering crock Lucienne stirred with a wooden spoon.
“A lot of those green things from the garden you say you do not like,” Lucienne replied sassily. She waved the spoon under his nose. “That potage you turn that oh-so-cute nose at is the very food that brought you
back from the brink of death.”
An eyebrow shot upward. I have a cute nose? The audacity of the chit! “I thought ’twas ye who rescued me from an early meeting with Auld Cluitie.”
“With whom?” She set the spoon down and wiped her hands on her apron, puzzlement on her face.
“Auld Cluitie—auld Nick.” He searched for the translation. “Auld Satan.”
Lucienne’s eyes widened. “Satan? Oh, non, monsieur. You have been very honorable to my sister and me. You are un saint.”
Kinnon chortled. “I can think of no one who shares your kind opinion of myself. But I will show a wee bit of saintliness by not arguing with ye.” He hobbled to the table and sank heavily onto a chair. “Come sit with me and tell me something.”
She perched on the edge of the chair next to his, hands folded in her lap, eyeing him expectantly. “What is it you wish me to tell you? A story?” She canted her head and leaned toward him eagerly.
“Nae. I wish to know what is happening in the village. Have ye seen or heard anything?”
Worry banished Lucienne’s sunny smile and her eyes darkened. “I have neither heard nor seen anything, monsieur. It is my hope Melisende made it to the village before the fighting began, but I have no way of knowing. It has been almost five days since I heard from her.” Her voice hiccupped. “I miss her.”
“Och, dinnae fash.” Kinnon patted her knee awkwardly as she dipped her head. “I am sure she is simply waiting for the best, safest time to return home.”
Lucienne hunched her shoulders and gave a short nod. “She always stays with the butcher and his wife. She says it is safer there, and they are well known to her.”
“There! You see? They will take good care of her.” He chucked her under the chin with a curved forefinger. “What will she bring ye from the market? A bit of lace? A pretty bauble?” Her head came up reluctantly, and Kinnon saw the sheen of tears on her face. “Och, lass. I dinnae mean to upset ye.” He started to pull her onto his lap, but thought better of it when a twinge of discomfort brought his attention to his wounded leg. Instead, he dragged her chair against his and allowed her to rest her head on his shoulder.