Commanded By The French Duke. Meriel Fuller
shoulders. ‘No, merely concerned.’ The feeling of guilt was nothing new to him, hanging constantly from his shoulders like a grey shroud. ‘She’s vulnerable lying there like that, unconscious; any woman would be.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, leave her! Get on your horse and come with me’
‘I’ll follow on.’
Edward’s mouth drooped with disappointment. ‘You’ve gone soft, Guilhem,’ he said bitterly. ‘Ever since that day at Fremont—’
Guilhem shook his head, a swift, decisive moment, stopping Edward’s speech. He had no wish to be reminded of that awful day. Remorse lurched through his heart. The burning castle. That child...
Edward eyed his friend’s stony expression. ‘Don’t let it affect you so, Guilhem. You paid the price.’
‘I set the fire that killed him,’ Guilhem replied tonelessly. A child’s life lost through his thoughtless actions. ‘I’ll follow on.’
Edward slumped in the saddle. Hazy shadows cast by the beech trees dappled his skin, sunburnt and freckled. Guilhem was indispensable, his best commander. But he had no authority over him: Guilhem was not a knight in Edward’s pay, he was a rich man in his own right, a man who chose to ride by the Prince’s side from a sense of loyalty, of friendship. Because Edward had helped him. Saved him.
‘Oh, if you insist,’ Edward said finally, resigned. Raising his arm, he gave the order for his soldiers to mount up and follow him. Kicking his heels into the destrier’s flanks, he rode away, clattering across the flat square stones of the bridge, horse’s tail swishing in his wake.
* * *
The sun had moved behind the clouds again. Beneath the tree the light was dim, streaked in shadow. Ducking his head beneath the low swaying branches, Guilhem crouched beside the girl’s prone figure, pillowed in a mass of spent beech leaves, her gown billowing out from a girdled waist, the cloth sinking down around her limbs to display the rounded curve of her hips, slender thighs. Leather boots poked out from a rickety hemline. And hanging from her belt, a dagger, carried in a leather scabbard! Surprising, for a lay sister to carry a blade; he thought they believed that prayers and the Cross would protect them in all circumstances. Obviously, this one had other ideas.
He knelt in down in the spongy ground, shins sinking into the mess of decaying coppery vegetation. A single leaf, burnt orange, fluttered down from above, landing on the coarse cloth covering her midriff, the concave hollow of her stomach. His nails dug into his palms, resisting the urge to brush it away.
‘Come on,’ he said brusquely, stroking the side of her cheek. His breath hitched at the silky sensation spiralling upwards through his blood. Her skin was like goose down, delicate, milk-white, a single freckle above her top lip. His big body hulked over her fragile frame, awkward, graceless, like some giant about to devour its prey. Most of his life had been spent bawling at soldiers, training them to fight, to battle harder, faster, longer. He’d been fighting for so long, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent in the company of a woman, had forgotten how to treat them. ‘Come on!’ he repeated, more loudly this time. Moving closer, his knees snaring her skirts, he seized her shoulders, shaking her gently. Her head rolled back against the leaves; she moaned softly.
Her eyes opened slowly.
* * *
At first, Alinor’s vision was hazy, clouded; above her head, a trembling latticework of leaves, yellow, brindled, scuffing gently in the breeze. Where was she? Why was she lying here? Damp seeped upwards from the ground, soaking through the thin fabric of her gown. She wriggled her shoulders, trying to reduce the uncomfortable feeling. Her cheek ached incessantly; she examined the smarting skin with tentative fingers.
‘No,’ a gruff voice said, ‘leave it.’ Firm, decisive fingers pushed away her hand.
Alinor’s stomach lurched in recognition. Oh, God, not him again! The man knelt above her, face tough and brutal, slanted grooves carving down from his cheeks to the square angularity of his jaw. Fear whispered through her veins. She pushed her hands down into the ground, trying to push back from him. ‘You, go away!’ she stuttered out. His knees pinned her skirts; she was trapped. ‘Get away from me, you...you barbarian!’
To her surprise, he laughed. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’ His voice was low, melodious, curling through her veins like velvet smoke.
‘You hit me!’ she spat out weakly, eyes flaring with accusation.
‘Not me,’ he replied calmly. ‘The Prince. You wouldn’t stop screaming.’
‘And that makes it all right, does it?’ she flung at him, her tone brittle. ‘To hit a woman because she’s making too much noise?’ Anxiety knotted her heart; she wished she had the strength to leap up, to push the man away.
‘I don’t agree with what he did...’ the man hulked over her like a huge bear, shining chainmail wrinkling across his shoulders ‘...but you must admit, your behaviour was extreme, and discourteous. It’s customary to defer to royalty, to show respect, but you, you showed anything but!’ His eyes pierced her, twilight blue, intense and predatory.
‘I had to protect the grain,’ she mumbled. The rounded bulk of his knees brushed against her midriff, hot through the thin stuff of her dress. Too close! What was she thinking of, lying sprawled out beneath him, like some wanton? Vulnerability surged through her, her pulse fluttering insanely. ‘I need to sit up,’ she muttered. ‘And you’re on my skirts!’
He looked down to the point where his knees trapped the fabric of her gown, mouth twitching with humour at the nun’s temerity, her constant spurning of any help from him. Surely she should be pleased that he had stayed? Ignoring her, he clamped strong fingers around her elbow.
‘I can do it myself!’ she hissed at him, jerking irritably at his hold. But to no avail. He released her when she was sitting upright. Her vision wobbled dangerously, but she compelled herself to concentrate on the details in front of her: his horse, the bridge, the oxen waiting patiently.
‘What have you done with my grain?’ Raising her knees, she planted her boots flat on to the ground, scrabbling to stand, fighting the bubbling sickness in her stomach. ‘If you’ve done anything, you’ll...oh!’ Collapsing back, she clutched at her mouth. ‘I don’t...’
‘Take it easy,’ Guilhem said, pressing down on her shoulder. ‘Your grain is safe, stacked by the side of the bridge.’ In contrast to the maid’s hostile behaviour, her collarbone was fragile, bird-like against his palm. He had a sudden urge to unwind the cumbersome fabric of her veil, her wimple, and trace the line of bone into the dip of her throat. He frowned, rising swiftly and strode over to his horse, extracting a leather water bottle from the saddlebags.
‘Here.’ Pulling the cork stopper as he walked back, he held the bottle out to Alinor.
Reaching upwards, she was shocked to see that her hand was shaking. Inadvertently, her fingertips jogged against his wrist, muscled and sinewy, and she snatched her hand away, horrified at the flare of sensation arcing straight to the pit of her belly. Hell’s teeth, the Prince must have really punched her hard to make feel so strange!
‘Take it!’ he insisted, gruffly. ‘Stop acting as if I’m about to poison you!’
She glared at the firm, tanned fingers holding the bottle out to her, then reached up to grab the flagon quickly, to avoid all touch. He raised his eyebrows at her desperate movement, but said nothing. She took a sip, relishing the cool water slipping down her throat, quelling the unstable feeling of nausea in her belly.
‘Thank you,’ she said, giving the bottle back. Tilting her head on one side, the fawn linen of her veil draping across one shoulder, she swept the empty clearing with a wide-eyed, luminous glance. ‘Where have all the soldiers gone?’ And him, she wanted to add. Prince Edward, the thug who had punched her.
‘They carried on.’ The knight stood over her, his expression stern, implacable, long legs planted wide,