Commanded by the French Duke (Harlequin Historical)

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘Guilhem, stop, calm down.’ Alinor hung on to his upper arms, fighting to remain conscious through the sifting layers of mist suffusing her brain. She tilted her aching head, drawing strength from the taut planes of his face, those twinkling pools of blue. ‘It’s not that bad.’

  ‘Not that bad!’ he yelled down at her. ‘Alinor, you’re bleeding everywhere!’

  ‘Listen to the maid, Guilhem, she knows what’s best for her. You can help her.’ Edward’s voice was calm, purposeful. ‘I will take my soldiers and make camp at the bottom of this hill. If you need us, you know where we are.’ Returning to the horses, he mounted up and, with his helmet in place, gave the order to move out.

  Clutching on to Guilhem, Alinor watched them go, the glossy rumps receding through the trees. What words had been said between Edward and Guilhem to make the Prince leave so quickly? She had been so convinced that he would force her to go back into that camp again.

  A wave of nausea rolled over her. ‘I must sit down,’ she gasped suddenly. Guilhem held her as she sank slowly into a puddle of skirts. Her head lolled forward, but she made a supreme effort to lift it again, to speak. A strange rigidity gripped the muscles in her neck. ‘Take off my veil, and have a look at the wound.’ Her voice, although quiet and trembling, held authority.

  Crouching beside her, Guilhem removed her circlet, lifting the veil away gently from her head. Blood matted the pure gold strands of her hair.

  ‘Is it still bleeding?’

  Carefully, he parted the strands on her head. The cut sliced across the pale skin of her scalp, red blood oozing slowly in a thin line. ‘No,’ he replied, relief clouding his voice. His hands were trembling. He was used to dealing with wounds on the battlefield far greater than this, yet here he was, fingers shaking over her neat head, quivering. He knew why. The thought flooded over him, a great surge of emotion, engulfing, devastating. This woman meant more to him than anything, anyone, in the whole wide world; he couldn’t bear it if anything happened to her.

  ‘You see,’ she said, her voice soft, lilting. ‘I told you it wasn’t bad. The arrow only grazed my skin.’ Alinor twisted around and smiled; the sweetness of her expression astounded him, knifing him through the heart. He had hauled her around the countryside against her will, kissed her, bedded her. And still she smiled at him.

  ‘Now, have you any alcohol?’

  ‘What...? Yes, in my flagon.’

  ‘Pour it over the cut to clean it.’

  As the brandy touched the open wound, she sucked her breath in sharply, hunching forward to clasp her knees when Guilhem replaced the stopper. ‘That will do for now,’ she managed to say. ‘If it’s stopped bleeding, then it won’t need any stitches.’ Her head swam; exhausted and weak from the whole ordeal, she wanted to sleep.

  Guilhem knelt in front of her. Beside him, her ruined veil lay cast on to the layers of decaying leaves, the gauzy whiteness like a swirl of mist across the ground. ‘You stood there, saying nothing, whilst I spoke to Edward, yet all the time, you were injured. Why didn’t you tell me the moment this happened, Alinor?’

  She frowned. ‘Because you would have stopped, Guilhem; it happened as we left the camp, before we were even halfway to the trees.’

  ‘You kept on running,’ he murmured, incredulous.

  Her eyes sparked emerald fire. ‘Yes.’ She laughed. A light blush hazed her cheeks. ‘They would have killed you, Guilhem. I couldn’t let them catch you!’

  ‘Why not?’ His face was wretched. ‘Surely that would have been preferable for you? I’ve caused you nothing but trouble, and yet, unbelievably, you stick by me. I don’t understand—why do you do it?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ She breathed softly. A shaft of sunlight flickered down through the last fluttering leaves, bathing her skin. She closed her eyes briefly, velvety eyelashes sweeping down across the recovering bloom of her cheeks. She had nothing to lose by telling him how she really felt. Was she brave enough? The worst that could happen was that he would laugh in her face, but she was willing to take that risk.

  He picked up her hands, lying limply in the folds of her skirts, smoothing the skin on her wrists. Beneath the pale, fragile flesh, he could see the trace of her veins, a net of blue. Her pulse bumped steadily against his thumbs. ‘Maybe I do,’ he said slowly, tentatively, as if in a dream. He couldn’t quite believe what she might be about to say. ‘But tell me anyway.’

  She paused, chewing fretfully on her bottom lip. ‘I love you, Guilhem. I have loved you from possibly the very first moment I met you.’

  His heart squeezed tight, a wrenching twist of acknowledgement. He touched her cheek, the wispy golden curls of hair drifting over her forehead, incredulous, astounded by her simple admission. Those heartfelt words. My God, she loved him. Sheer, undiluted pleasure leaped through his veins, punching him straight in the gut. She loved him.

  She shrugged her shoulders, slumping forward. ‘There, now you know. I know it doesn’t make much difference to you, but maybe it explains my behaviour. Guilhem, I would do anything for you. I would follow you to the ends of the earth if you asked me.’ She frowned, clamping her lips together. Her fingers curled into the pile of loose leaves beneath her, worrying at the crisp foliage till it disintegrated into tiny pieces, waiting for him to laugh at her, to mock her. She braced her body, prepared for the onslaught.

  High above them, two buzzards wheeled above the trees, great wings feathered out against the blue sky, their haunting cries piercing through the still air.

  ‘My God...’ he breathed.

  ‘Go on, then...’ Alinor tilted her head, her mouth pursed in a grim line ‘...tell me what a fool I am. Why would anyone like you love anyone like me?’

  ‘Why would they not?’

  Her head jerked up.

  ‘Alinor, you are the most beautiful, wonderful, adorable thing that has ever happened to me. I mean that.’ The rough melody of his voice soaked through her, percolating through her body like a warm balm. ‘When I first met you, on the bridge that day, wielding a sword that was far too big for you, defending your sacks of grain, my heart already knew, even if my head did not.’

  ‘What did your heart know?’ A fluttering, newborn joy seized her. Lowering her gaze, she fixed her eyes on the hem of her dew-soaked gown. If she looked at him now, if she peeped into those magnificent, midnight-blue eyes, she might break this spell, this dream that she was in. She patted her gown into place across her raised knees, an awkward, self-conscious gesture.

  ‘That I love you, Alinor. I was hurt, guilt-ridden, from what had happened in Gascony. I carried it round with me like an iron cloak across my shoulders. I was not worthy. But your kindness towards me, your generosity of spirit—my God, Alinor, everything about you made me realise that I can love someone. And that someone is you. You have given me back my heart and now that heart belongs to you.’

  She swayed beneath the quiet determination of his words, delight singing through her veins, shoving away the last remnants of sadness, the misery that had stalked her since his awful rejection after they had lain together. Hope danced in her heart, a real possibility, a chance of a future together after all.

  Concern crossed his face, a shadow of doubt. A muscle twitched in the sculptured outline of his jaw. ‘Will you have me, Alinor? After everything I have done?’ The hesitation, the lack of certainty in his voice plucked at her heart.

  ‘Oh, Lord, Guilhem, how can you even ask such a question?’ Alinor laughed out loud, the sound tinkling through the trees. Throwing her arms about his neck, she pulled his head down to meet hers, her small frame overflowing with happiness. ‘I never thought this could be... Oh, God, how I wished for it, yearned for it, but I never thought...’

  With a low rumble of pleasure, Guilhem laughed, lowering his head. His mouth claimed hers, raw and possessive, in a kiss that would hold them together, for
ever.

  * * * * *

  If you enjoyed this story,

  you won’t want to miss these

  other great reads from Meriel Fuller:

  INNOCENT’S CHAMPION

  THE KNIGHT’S FUGITIVE LADY

  CAPTURED BY THE WARRIOR

  THE WARRIOR’S PRINCESS BRIDE

  Keep reading for an excerpt from THE OUTCAST’S REDEMPTION by Sarah Mallory.

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  The Outcast's Redemption

  by Sarah Mallory

  Chapter One

  March 1804

  The village of Arrandale was bathed in frosty moonlight. Nothing stirred and most windows were shuttered or in darkness. Except the house standing within the shadow of the church. It was a stone building, square and sturdy, and lamps shone brightly in the two ground-floor windows that flanked the door. It was the home of Mr Titus Duncombe, the local parson, and the lights promised a welcome for any soul in need.

  Just as they had always done, thought the man walking up the steps to the front door. Just as they had done ten years ago, when he had ridden through the village with the devil on his heels. Then he had not stopped. Now he was older, wiser and in need of help.

  He grasped the knocker and rapped, not hard, but in the silence of the night the sound reverberated hollowly through the hall. A stooping, grey-haired manservant opened the door.

  ‘I would like to see the parson.’

  The servant peered out, but the stranger kept his head dipped so the wide brim of his hat shadowed his face.

  ‘Who shall I say is here?’

  ‘Tell him it is a weary traveller. A poor vagabond who needs his assistance.’

  The servant hesitated.

  ‘Nay, ’tis late,’ he said at last. ‘Come back in the morning.’

  He made to shut the door but the stranger placed a dirty boot on the step.

  ‘Your master will know me,’ he stated. ‘Pray, take me to him.’

  The old man gave in and shuffled off to speak to the parson, leaving the stranger to wait in the hall. From the study came a calm, well-remembered voice and as he entered, an elderly gentleman rose from a desk cluttered with books and papers. Once he had passed the manservant and only the parson could see his face, the stranger straightened and removed his hat.

  ‘I bid you good evening, Mr Duncombe.’

  The parson’s eyes widened, but his tone did not change.

  ‘Welcome, my son. Truscott, bring wine for our guest.’ Only when the servant had closed the door upon them did the old man allow himself to smile. ‘Bless my soul. Mr Wolfgang Arrandale! You are returned to us at last.’

  Wolfgang breathed a sigh of relief. He bowed.

  ‘Your servant, sir. I am pleased you remember me—that I have not changed out of all recognition.’

  The parson waved a hand. ‘You are a little older, and if I may say so, a little more careworn, but I should know you anywhere. Sit down, my boy, sit down.’ He shepherded his guest to a chair. ‘I shall not ask you any questions until we have our wine, then we may talk uninterrupted.’

  ‘Thank you. I should warn you, sir, there is still a price on my head. When your man opened the door I was afraid he would recognise me.’

  ‘Truscott’s eyesight is grown very poor, but he prefers to answer the door after dark, rather than leave it to his wife. But even if he had remembered you, Truscott is very discreet. It is something my servants have learned over the years.’ He stopped as the object of their conversation returned with a tray. ‘Ah, here we are. Thank you, Truscott. But what is this, no cake? Not even a little bread?’

  ‘Mrs Truscott’s gone to bed, master.’

  Mr Duncombe looked surprised. ‘At nine o’clock?’

  ‘She had one of her turns, sir.’

  ‘Pray do not worry on my account,’ put in Wolfgang quickly. ‘A glass of wine is all I require.’ When they were alone again he added drily, ‘Your man does not want to encourage dubious fellows such as I to be calling upon you.’

  ‘If they knew who you are—’

  ‘They would have me locked up.’

  ‘No, no, my boy, you wrong them. Not everyone in Arrandale believes you killed your wife.’

  ‘Are you quite sure of that, sir?’ asked Wolfgang, unable to keep a note of bitterness from his voice. ‘I was found kneeling over her body and I ran away rather than explain myself.’

  ‘I am sure you thought it was for the best, at the time,’ murmured the parson, topping up their glasses.

  ‘My father thought it best. He was never in any doubt of my guilt. If only I had called here. I am sure you would have counselled me to stay and defend myself. I was damned the moment I fled the country.’

  ‘We cannot change the past, my son. But tell me where you have been, what you have done for the past ten years.’

  Wolfgang stretched his long legs towards the fire.

  ‘I have been in France, sir, but as for what I did there—let us just say whatever was necessary to survive.’

  ‘And may one ask why you have returned?’

  For a long moment Wolf stared into the flames. ‘I have come back to prove my innocence, if I can.’

  Was it possible, after so long, to solve the mystery of his wife’s death? When the parson said nothing he continued, giving voice to the thoughts that had been going round in his head ever since he decided to leave France.

  ‘I know it will not be easy. My wife’s parents, the Sawstons, would see me hanged as soon as look at me. I know they have put up the reward for my capture. Florence’s death might have been a tragic accident, but the fact that the Sawston diamonds went missing at the same time makes it far more suspicious. I cannot help feeling that someone must know the truth.’

  The parson sighed. ‘It is so long ago. The magistrate is dead, as are your parents, and Arrandale Hall has been empty for years, with only a caretaker there now.’ He shifted uncomfortably. ‘I understand the lawyers wanted to close it up completely, but your brother insisted that Robert Jones should remain. He and his wife keep the house up together as best they can.’

  ‘Jones who was footman in my day?’ asked Wolf.

  Mr Du
ncombe nodded. ‘Yes, that is he. I am afraid your lawyers will not release money for maintaining the property. Your brother does what he can to keep the building watertight, at least.’

  ‘Richard? But his income will not cover that.’

  ‘I fear it has been a struggle, although I understand he has now married a woman of...er...comfortable means.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I believe he is now step-papa to an heiress,’ said Wolf. ‘Quite a come-about for an Arrandale! Ah, you are surprised I know this. I met Lady Cassandra in France last year and she gave me news of the family. She also told me I have a daughter. You will remember, sir, that Florence was with child and very near her time when she died. I thought the babe had died with her but apparently not.’ He gazed into the fire, remembering his shock when Cassie had told him he was a father. ‘The child is the reason I must clear my name. I do not want her to grow up with my guilt hanging over her.’

  ‘An admirable sentiment, but how do you begin?’

  ‘By talking to anyone who might know something about that night, ten years ago.’

  The old man shook his head.

  ‘That will not be easy. The staff are gone, moved away and some of the older ones have died. However, Brent, the old butler, still lives in the village.’

  He stopped as a soft, musical voice was heard from the doorway.

  ‘Papa, am I so very late? Old Mrs Owlet has broken her leg and I did not like to leave her until her son came—oh, I beg your pardon, I did not know you had a visitor.’

  Wolf had risen from his chair and turned to face the newcomer, a tall young woman in a pale-blue pelisse and a matching bonnet, the strings of which she was untying as she spoke to reveal an abundance of silky fair hair, neatly pulled into a knot at the back of her head.

  ‘Ah, Grace, my love. This is Mr...er...Mr Peregrine. My daughter, sir.’