by Cathy MacRae
Edward halted, jerking Melisende to his side. “Step aside, Marcel. She is not for the likes of you.”
Marcel stepped closer, his head tilted to the side as he tried to peer beneath Melisende’s hood. Without warning, Edward backhanded her, his fist striking her nose and upper lip. She gasped, one hand flying to her face at the pain. She tasted the coppery tang of blood, and warm liquid filled one side of her nose. She wanted to scream at him, punish him for his assault, but the casualness of it stunned her.
“Save yerself the trouble. I’m taking her to De Ros—one last bit of fluff before he turns this dump over to the French.”
Undeterred, Marcel raised the edge of her hood with grimy fingers. Melisende blinked her eyes, fighting back furious tears. She wiped the back of her hand across her face, smearing blood and mucus. Marcel grimaced and stepped back.
“I hope she cleans up better than she looks now—for your sake. De Ros likes his whores not to look as though they’ve been well-used before he gets them.”
“Let us pass,” Edward grumbled. “We’re late as it is.”
“Mademoiselle.” Marcel gave Melisende a sweeping bow, his dark red hair shining with oil in the hot sun.
Edward grabbed her arm and half-shoved, half-dragged her through the gate and into the alley. As soon as they reached the shelter of the darkened path, Melisende wrenched free of his grasp, twisting his thin arm between rigid fingers.
“Do not ever touch me again!” she seethed, flinging his arm away. Using the edge of her cloak, she wiped her face, grimacing at the pain in her nose. “I will not tolerate such behavior—I do not care what the provocation is. Do I make myself clear?”
Edward set hard, unrepentant eyes on her. “I had to get you past that licentious bastard somehow. He has a lot of power among the soldiers, and not a one of them in the yard would have stopped him had he taken a fancy to you.”
With a snarl, Melisende ripped the small dagger from the pocket of her cloak. Edward’s eyes widened as the tip parted the grimy hem of his jacket. “Do not handle me again. I will play along—but only to a point.” She pressed the blade against his soft belly. “Is my meaning understood?”
Edward raised his hands in surrender, a half-grin pulling at his mouth. “You are a feisty one, that’s for sure. Too bad you aren’t really going to De Ros. I hear he likes ’em lively.”
Melisende shot him a disgusted look. “Get me out of here.” She jammed the dagger back into her pocket and motioned him on with a jerk of her head.
He eased away from her and stuck his head around the corner of the building. After a moment, he turned back to her with a mocking bow. “All is clear—please remember the town is evacuating.”
They stepped into an uproar of carts and horses, citizenry and soldiers. Cries rang out as people were jostled, horses squealed as people darted into their path. Bellowed commands and yelps of surprise or pain created more confusion. Dust billowed from beneath the hurrying feet of both man and beast. Melisende pulled a corner of her cloak over her mouth and nose to ward off the dirt and hide her face. There were few women on the street.
Around them, men carried what they could. The lucky few heaped belongings—owned and stolen alike—into small carts or wagons. A woman shrieked from an upper story window, and Melisende’s head jerked sharply at the sound. An angry shout followed by muffled sobbing drifted downward.
“And De Ros said it would be an orderly surrender,” Edward muttered.
“He cannot keep the mercenaries under control, and they know they will not get payment from Bertrand for their troubles.” Melisende eyed the rapacious lot angrily.
They hurried past the mob, taking care to move along the edge of the street, next to the buildings and away from the dangerous melee. Ahead, a group of rough-looking soldiers wove through the crowd, threading purposefully toward them. Weapons bristled from belts and harnesses as they shoved people out of their way.
“So they take what they can before Bertrand’s army marches through the gates,” Edward noted, continuing their previous conversation.
“Have you chosen your loot yet?” Melisende mocked him.
He gripped Melisende’s arm and shoved her sideways into a dark alley. Her head snapped back as he slammed her against the rock wall. Her breath left her in a whoosh, and her vision blurred. She blinked her eyes to clear them, and Edward’s scarred face loomed before her. He leered.
“Aye, I have. You.”
An explosion of pain ripped through her head and her world went black.
* * *
Kinnon leapt to his feet, but his wounded leg betrayed him. He snarled a curse and reached for his staff. Hobbling to the door, he held the dog at bay with the sturdy stick as he worked the latch. The instant a crack appeared, Jean-Baptiste shoved his head through and was gone.
“Shite! Where is he?” Kinnon shouted, overcome with fear for Lucienne. He snatched his dagger from the table and jerked the door fully open. Glancing about yielded nothing—the dog was long gone. He fought to listen through the pounding in his chest, the roaring in his ears.
There! A shriek and a snarl drifted to him on the breeze. A masculine shout. Kinnon’s head swiveled toward the sound. Certain he was headed in the right direction, he jolted unevenly across the ground.
He sweated, cursing his healing body. Pain stabbed upward through his side and his breath came in short gasps. He pressed on, ignoring the knife-like tugs in his leg. As he rounded the corner of the ramshackle barn several yards behind the house, Jean-Baptiste’s growls grew louder. A woman’s voice sobbed and pleaded. Angry male shouts roared. Kinnon doubled his efforts.
He shoved aside a heavy limb, its leaves snapping with the force, slender branches raking his face as he pushed past. In a small clearing ahead, Lucienne stood splayed against a tree trunk, held there by a large knife pinning the shoulder of what remained of her dress to the tree. A few feet away, a man and Jean-Baptiste circled each other, a long dagger extending from the man’s hand. Its blade winked in the mottled light and Lucienne cried out again.
“Do not hurt him! Please!” She reached for the knife at her shoulder and tugged at it, but the blade bit deeply in the wood and did not budge. She stomped her foot and sobbed her frustration, her fists clenched.
Kinnon jerked his attention back to the combatants as the man recoiled from a slashing attack. A red line opened on Jean-Baptiste’s shoulder, but he neither whined nor flinched. His amber eyes remained locked on the man, his lips curled back from his impressive teeth.
It would only be a matter of time before the dog’s wound proved deadly. A combination of blood loss and a slower response due to the injury would give the man the upper hand. Kinnon grabbed the point of his dagger between his fingertips and threw it with all the strength he could muster. The blade whistled through the air, startling the man. He paused, head up as he sought the source of the sound—exactly as Kinnon hoped he would. The slim, honed blade pierced the front of the man’s neck, its tip protruding from the back. With a look of pained surprise, the man clutched the handle already drenched with heavy, pulsating blood. His legs crumpled and he crashed to the ground.
Jean-Baptiste raced to his adversary’s side, sniffing him suspiciously as low-throated growls rumbled from his chest. Keeping an eye on the dead man, the dog pivoted on his haunches, lifted a hind leg, and let loose a healthy yellow stream.
Good for you, Jean-Baptiste! Choking on a slightly hysterical laugh, Kinnon staggered across the clearing to Lucienne. He reached for the handle of the knife pinning her to the tree, partly straddling her to get close enough to leverage it from the trunk. With a grunt of accomplishment, he pried the blade free. He caught sight of Lucienne’s tear-stained face.
Her eyes loomed impossibly large and round in her pale face. Tears matted her long lashes and sparkled in her eyes. Her soft pink lips parted.
“Thank you, Kinnon,” she whispered. Her breath hitched in her chest and Kinnon’s gaze drifted lower. The shoulder of h
er gown was torn and a trickle of blood trailed across her collar bone.
“Are ye hurt?” He felt the question inadequate, but could think of nothing better to say.
She touched her shoulder gently with her fingertips, wincing slightly. “’Tis a scratch. Thanks to you and Jean-Baptiste, I am otherwise unharmed.”
Kinnon studied her face and saw bruise marks on either side of her mouth. Could the bastard have grabbed her face, forcing a kiss? Her hair was a snarled mess, and he envisioned the man’s fist trapped within the golden curls. The bodice of her dress was ripped, exposing the fullness of her creamy breasts. A long scratch curved downward across her chest. His wrath returned, rasping his voice. “It looks as though he handled ye rough, lass.”
Lucienne stiffened. “Are you angry with me?”
Kinnon drew back, shocked. “Nae! ’Twas not yer fault. He had no right to touch ye. I am angry I couldnae prevent it.” He shook his head forcefully as self-disgust roiled through him. “I couldnae stop him. I was no use to ye. Damn him and the others of his ilk!”
Lucienne’s hands cupped his face, stilling his movements. She rained soft kisses across his cheek. “Non! You did not know he was here! You saved me.”
The knowledge of what he’d barely been able to stop brought a curse to his lips. What if there had been more than one man? He could not have fought them off. What if his blade had missed? What if this had happened two days ago? Three? When he was still confined to his bed, unable to come to her aid? What if the man had dragged Lucienne further away where Jean-Baptiste’s keen ears would not hear them? His stomach lurched.
His hands fisted tight as rage at his inadequacies roared through him. “I should have been here and prevented this—not cosseting my damn leg!”
“But don’t you see? You did stop him. You did not let your leg hinder you.” Lucienne gently kissed the side of his neck beneath his ear.
The soft touch of her lips changed Kinnon’s awareness. He breathed in the odor of her skin, warm beneath the tumble of her hair. Her breasts crushed against his chest, answered by the hardness in his groin. Slowly, he loosened his grip.
Lucienne snuggled closer. “Please do not let me go.” She firmed her stance against him.
“’Tis not proper, lass,” he answered, gently setting her from him.
“I want you to hold me,” she replied with a pout, hands fisted at her sides.
“’Tis not right.” Kinnon took a step back. Lucienne’s face crumpled and fresh tears lit her eyes.
“Take me to the house,” she choked. “Take me away from here.”
She threaded her fingers through his as they crossed the clearing past the dead man and Kinnon did not have the heart to rebuke her. Jean-Baptiste ran ahead of them, a silent streak of muscled protection.
They reached the house and Kinnon shut the door behind them, locking away the horror. Lucienne came to an abrupt halt, and he pulled up short behind her.
“You fixed supper?” She whirled to face him, a smile on her face. “You are so wonderful, Kinnon.” Her fingers trailed down his sleeve. “Why can you not see how I feel about you?”
He struggled to ignore her half-exposed breasts, but his blood thickened, addling his thoughts. “I am a Scotsman—”
“Do Scotsmen make love differently from Frenchmen?” Her voice, low and hypnotic, shortened his breath.
“Nae. ’Tis not the point.” He ran his fingers through his hair.
“What is the point?” She glided closer, pressing against him, her breasts welling further out of their tattered, inadequate confines.
“Ye are but a lass, and not my wife. There can be nothing more than friendship between us.”
Her eyes slanted, catlike, angry. “Is it Melisende? You like her better than me, ai-je raison?”
“Ye are too young to be worried about such things, Lucie. I like ye and yer sister too much to cause a rift between ye.”
Her face lit with a smile, throwing Kinnon into a spin with her rapid and unpredictable mood changes. “You called me Lucie. I like that! No one has ever called me that before.” She took his arm, pulling herself close as she peered up at him. “It will be your special name for me. Aren’t I special, Kinnon?”
St. Andrew help me! Kinnon took a steadying breath. “Aye, Lucie, ye are a verra special girl.” He glanced at the dog, panting on his rug by the hearth. “Ye should take care of that wound on Jean-Baptiste’s shoulder.”
With a cry of distress for the dog, Lucienne broke away and began gathering items necessary to treat the gash. A bit unsteady, Kinnon sank onto a nearby chair.
Chapter 12
Morning sunlight gleamed through the tangled web of golden hair lying across his face. Kinnon’s nose wrinkled at the feather-light sensation as the gilded strands brushed his face with every breath he took. He shook himself awake, gently sweeping the locks aside as he took stock of his surroundings.
A slender arm splayed across his chest, and one leg draped over his. Lucienne’s head lay tucked beneath his arm, face downward, her entire body completely relaxed. He slowly slid from the bed, gently tugging her night rail down over her exposed calves. She had woken him during the night, crying incoherently about the monster coming after her. After a short check of the house and a glance at Jean-Baptiste—who merely yawned at Kinnon’s midnight ramblings—he had attempted to soothe the overwrought girl. But nothing would help except allowing her to curl up next to him on the narrow bed, where she fell instantly into a deep, dreamless sleep.
He grimaced as his leg attempted to bear his weight. Nothing like a lass draped across yer leg all night to stiffen it. He stepped jerkily across the room and prodded the banked fire to life, wondering how he could leave Lucienne to see to his unit, and just how soon Melisende would be home.
* * *
Melisende opened puffy eyes to the pale streak of dawn’s light outlining the door to the small room. She slowly sat upright, her stiff limbs protesting the hours spent on the hard floor. Treacherous English bâtard! She rubbed her arms, wincing as her fingers encountered the bruising on her left arm. Certain there was also a knot, or at the very least a substantial bruise, on the back of her head, she gently probed the area. Aïe!
She took stock of her clothing, but other than being rumpled and dusty, she found nothing amiss. Her satchel’s strap still clung to her neck, its reassuring presence at her back. She patted the cloak’s pocket and felt nothing. Bâtard! He stole my money and dagger. She rose to her feet, fingertips touching the wall for balance.
A noise at the door alerted her and she swung about to meet the intruder, her head suddenly clear. The latch slipped free and the door creaked open. Edward stalked inside and slung a bag from his shoulder to the floor. His eyes lit as he registered her standing form.
“Finished with yer nap, eh?” He propped his fists on his hips and grinned at her. “I was beginning to worry you were a delicate thing despite the spunk you showed earlier.” He prodded the bag with the toe of his boot. “There is food in there. Fix us a bite to eat.”
Melisende eyed him warily, but he did not approach her. Instead, he clomped to the narrow window and hefted the bar from the shutters. Letting it fall to the floor with a thump, he pulled the heavy boards apart, allowing in the early morning light. “A nice day in the making, though ’twill be quite hot again soon. Yer Constable Bertrand should arrive for the formal surrender tomorrow.” He gave her a lecherous leer. “We will celebrate from here.”
Like hell! Keeping her features carefully neutral, Melisende approached the bag. She unknotted the drawstring at the top and peered inside. A loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese and a couple of rather withered apples nestled against a flask. Edward pulled a bench away from the wall and sat, leaning his back against the stone, watching her.
She eyed him over her shoulder, not making eye contact. “I will bring your breakfast to you, but I think I will get comfortable, first.” She fingered a pleat of her skirt, drawing his attention to her clothing.
Edward’s boots scraped the floor as he sat upright, clearly interested. “I suppose you have done this for yer beau before?”
She lifted her shoulders in a negligent shrug. “It is different with each man, monsieur,” she commented, affecting a worldly nonchalance. Turning her back to him, she grabbed her satchel strap amid a handful of the edge of her cloak and lifted both items over her head. Keeping the satchel covered with folds of fabric, she set it on the low table before the hearth.
“Don’t be formal with me,” Edward said. “I don’t mean to keep you. Just a little play before I leave town. Yer beau won’t mind a little wear and tear.”
Melisende’s eyes narrowed and she allowed herself a moment to clear her thoughts. A bit of acting can go a long way, and I must distract him. She loosened the tie at the neck of her gown and pulled the neckline wide at the shoulders. Lifting her hair, she finger-combed the tangled tresses as Edward’s grunt of encouragement reached her ears.
Satisfied she had his attention where she wanted it, she resumed her task.
She bent over the sack on the floor, making sure her gown gaped open enough to reveal the tops of her breasts to Edward’s eager eyes. She played with the contents of the bag for a moment, finally pulling the flask from its depths. “Would you care for a drink whilst you wait?” Giving him her most innocent look, she held up the wooden vessel.
Edward licked his lips. “Aye. Bring it to me.”
Melisende smiled and turned to the table. Her back to her captor, she worked swiftly and silently, removing three packets from the satchel. She picked a chipped mug from an array of worn dishes on the table and poured a measure of the wine into it. Quickly adding the powders to the liquid, she swirled it with her finger before facing Edward.
With a slow swish of her hips, she crossed the room and seated herself next to him. Predictably, his nose dropped to the level of her bosom. She rolled her shoulders forward, forcing her breasts to the top of her gown’s neckline, displaying the exposed flesh. Edward swallowed and beads of moisture broke out on his forehead.