by Cathy MacRae
“My commander sent me for chickens, eggs, beef—whatever ye can spare.” He gave her a sideways glance. “The coin would purchase material for a pretty gown for ye, or mayhap a bit of ribbon.”
The woman gave him a stern look. “I have no use for such fripperies. The English soldiers care nothing for our welfare, and our cupboards bear the brunt of their greed.”
Kinnon shook his head. “Bertran wouldnae condone such behavior.”
Her face darkened. “His is not the only army in these parts, monsieur. The English have garrisoned here many years.”
“That would explain ye speaking English, though yer accent is quite lovely.” He gifted her a winsome grin.
“Your accentuer is strange. Neither Anglais nor Français. It is not one I recognize.”
“Nae English. Scots.”
She lifted fine eyebrows. “You are Scottish? Fighting here, on French soil? Have you no battles to fight in Scotland?”
Kinnon’s grin broadened.
“Och, aye. There are always skirmishes to whet one’s appetite. But as part of the Auld Alliance, we Scots are grateful for any chance to fight the bluidy English.”
Wiping her hands in her apron, the young woman nodded. “Do you have a wagon?”
“Aye. `Tis in that copse of trees. Bluidy rocks around here make driving it a bit of a nuisance.”
“We will pick out what you need and load the cart. Jean-Baptiste can pull it to your wagon.” She led him into the stable.
Kinnon eyed the beast’s beefy shoulders. “A good use for his muscles.”
“He can take down an angry bull with a mere tug of his head. His ancestors were bred in the mountains and came with the Romans as war dogs. He fears nothing, yet cares for us with gentleness.”
“Us?”
She nodded. “My sister lives here as well. She is gathering eggs.”
Kinnon paused. “Mademoiselle, I have been too long at war, but even so, my ma would say my manners need polish. If we are to do business, I should introduce myself. My name is Kinnon Macrory.” He held out his hand.
“My name is Melisende. Let me see the color of your coin.”
