The Highlander's French Bride

by Cathy MacRae

  “Have the men douse their lights,” Kinnon murmured to Hervé.

  “But they cannot see—”

  Kinnon’s fierce look effectively severed Hervé’s complaint, and he spoke a low command to the gathered troops. “Éteignez les torches.”

  Around them the lights extinguished one by one, eliminating the wink of metal on the horses’ harnesses.

  “Have them mount and remain close together until we approach the brigands’ campsite. I will tolerate no talking or unnecessary noise. There will be complete silence.”

  The creak of leather answered Hervé’s command, and the soldiers moved forward, fading into the shadows of the trees. All understood the importance of their mission, and Kinnon approved the forty men assigned to him for the task. Mercenaries, they would answer to him without question, all well experienced in the Fabian strategy of attack and fade Bertrand often favored.

  ’Tis a good thing we will rid the area of these brigands. Melisende and her sister shouldnae have to worry about such. And yet, would they not be replaced by others? Mayhap not for a year or two, but how long could two young women live in peace, alone and unprotected? Kinnon dragged his attention back to the mission at hand. There was no time to worry about Melisende and her sister. At least they were safely tucked away at the farm with Jean-Baptiste to guard them.

  The clop of hooves on the packed earth whispered through the leaves covering the ground. The soldiers moved wraith-like through the trees, their passage a mere hiss of sound. Kinnon’s leine soon became soaked with the night’s moisture and his own sweat. Accustomed to such discomforts, he ignored the clinging fabric but regretted the increased squeak of leather as the mist permeated the well-oiled saddles and harnesses.

  Ahead, a light glowed then winked out abruptly, only to repeat the pattern again. Lifting his hand in a silent gesture, he reined his horse to a halt. Around him, his men did likewise, and the phantom sounds of their advance faded away.

  A few moments later, two of Bertrand’s scouts appeared from the deepest shadows. The moon’s first glow slid over the double-headed eagle on the standard borne by the young man mounted next to Kinnon, and the men made their way to Kinnon’s side.

  After a hushed conference, Kinnon directed his soldiers’ moves. Without a sound, they fanned out through the woods, encircling the camp Bertrand’s spies had led him to. Kinnon watched silently as first one torch then another flared around the perimeter, indicating his men were in position.

  A guard apparently noticed the flares, for a hoarse cry went up. “Êtes-vous fous? Éteignez les torches!” Grumbles from the makeshift tents and bedding rose and subsided at the nighttime interruption.

  With a blood-curdling war cry, Kinnon led the charge into the camp.

  Chaos erupted as men scrambled for weapons, shouting as Kinnon’s men overran the scattered tents and huts. This was the home of the renegades De Ros would not allow to live inside the village, men who had no regard for law beyond what they made themselves. They were adept at keeping the citizenry in a constant state of fear and submission, and they paid De Ros well for the privilege.

  Kinnon aimed the tip of his sword at a half-dressed man running barefoot through the camp and pierced the blackguard’s heart. His weapon ran black with blood in the moonlit night, glistening with the stain of fallen men.

  He reached the far edge of the camp and reined his horse in from his charge. Setting him on his haunches, he wheeled him about and sent him back into the middle of the fray. The air filled with shouts and cries, the clang of metal. Kinnon smelt the coppery tang of blood, freshly churned mud, and the stench of death. He saw two of his soldiers engaged with a stout man wielding a sword in each hand. Another catapulted from his horse as it crashed to its knees. Others were a blur of movement, but he saw them all, one sprawled next to his charger with a spear through his neck, another spinning through the air as a spiked mace splintered his helm.

  His horse screamed, jolted forward, one rear leg dragging as it struggled to stay on its feet. Caught off-guard, Kinnon lurched sideways in the saddle. His left foot slid forward, his hands, encumbered with sword and axe, grabbed at his horse’s mane, but the heavy strands slid from his grasp. With a curse, Kinnon fell, one foot still caught in the stirrup. His horse squealed again as an arrow pierced his meaty shoulder. He spun his heavy body away from the source of the pain, stumbling through the melee of battle, dragging his master behind. Dropping his weapons, Kinnon pulled himself upward, reaching for his trapped foot, unable to yank it free. His body bounced across the ground and he wrapped his arms about his head for protection.

  Another arrow found its mark and the beast crashed to the ground. Shaken, Kinnon struggled to his feet and freed his glaive from his dead mount’s saddle. Bracing his feet in the soft ground, he hefted the pole arm in both hands and faced the enemy.

  * * *

  Pushing thoughts of Kinnon from her mind, Melisende entered the village gates just as dusk fell. Amid the last of the people hurrying home from a day in the fields, she passed the guards without question and was soon on the market street.

  The tall building on the right housed the butcher and his family. She routinely did business with him and could count on his wife for hospitality for the night. Traveling alone was something of a necessity, but spending the night unaccompanied at a local tavern was unthinkable. Raucous noise from the inn at the corner of the lane reinforced her decision as candlelight spilled from the open door, three obviously drunken soldiers stumbling into the street.

  Melisende adjusted the collar of her cloak about her throat and stepped into the doorway of the butcher’s shop. The sign on the window read ‘Fermé’ and the curtains were drawn, but she could see the glow of lights in the back room, and she knocked briskly on the door.

  Booted feet sounded on the wooden floor. “Nous sommes fermés,” a baritone voice grumbled. Suddenly a pair of dark eyes peered at her through the small glass in the door. The butcher gave a grunt of recognition and the latch rattled.

  “Bonsoir, monsieur,” Melisende murmured as the door opened. “I have arrived for tomorrow’s market. I have no cheeses to sell today, but could offer coin for a night’s lodging.”

  A feminine voice floated through the door. “Qui est-ilce, Pier?”

  “It is Melisende, the cheese-maker.”

  Pier’s wife bustled into the room and nudged him aside. “Come in, my dear. Quickly! Do not let those loutish soldiers see you.” She took Melisende’s arm and tucked it beneath her own, drawing her into the room. “Have you come to stay the night with us? Mariette has just cleaned the kitchen, but the lazy girl can find you a bit of supper.” She held up a hand as Melisende opened her mouth to protest. “You will be hungry after your long walk down from your farm. When will you replace that pony, hm? You should marry and have your man bring you to market.”

  She handed her husband Melisende’s cloak and seated her at the freshly scrubbed wooden table, sending the maid scurrying with a flick of her wrist. Pouring water from a steaming pot on the cook hearth, she added a bundle of herbs and set it before Melisende. “Warm your hands for a moment whilst this steeps. We do not wish you to catch a chill this late in the evening.”

  “Madame…” Melisende began, but the woman patted her hand with a laugh.

  “I have told you before to call me Cateline. ‘Madame’ will not do between us.”

  Melisende ducked her head, the memory of her own mother awash in the words and actions of the butcher’s wife. Suddenly, she was seventeen again and a paralyzing fear crept coldly beneath her skin. Muffled shouts rose in the streets, the flares of torches glared through the windows, and Cateline half-rose from her chair.

  “Que se passe-t-il?” she whispered, her voice tight and frightened, her eyes on her husband. Melisende shook her head, but the urgency and fear did not dissipate.

  Pier slipped across the room and stood to one side of a window. He peered cautiously through the thick glass as shadows and flames rushed
past. “Soldiers. They are armed.” His gaze swiveled to Melisende. “Did you see anything when you came in?”

  Fear descended through her like ice, numbing her mind, her tongue. Her body trembled. “Non. I saw nothing unusual.” She cast frantically through her memory. Had there been more soldiers than normal at the wall, at the gate, in the streets? She thought of Kinnon, of Bertrand’s army just beyond the wall. Are we under attack?

  Panic exploded behind her eyes in a white-hot flash of light. Lucienne! “I must get to her!” She pushed away from the table, but Cateline’s hand caught her arm.

  “Who, Melisende?”

  “My sister! She is alone at the farm.” Shaking off the woman’s grip, Melisende darted for the door and wrenched it open, pulling against Pier’s attempt to stop her. The door flew open and she pulled up short as the bloody form of a man crashed through the opening. His sword clattered to the flagstone floor from his lax fingers and his sightless eyes bored into hers.

  Chapter 6

  Pier shoved Melisende aside and grabbed the dead man’s shoulders. With a great heave, he tossed him past the low step and slammed the door shut. The whoosh and click as the bolt slid home echoed in her head.

  “No! I must get back!” She dove for the door, but he held her back.

  “You would not make it, ma petite,” Cateline said soothingly. “The soldiers are too many in the street.” She glanced at her husband. “Pier will find out what is happening, and we will make a plan.”

  Melisende trembled, her heart a huge fist knotted in her chest. Shouting continued beyond the safety of the bolted door as torchlight threw frightening shadows on the white walls of the butcher shop, and she was forced to agree. “Thank you, madame, monsieur. You are very kind to help me.”

  Cateline’s hand gently cupped her chin. “Do not worry. There is likely a brawl down the street, nothing more.”

  Melisende managed a small smile, accepting Cateline’s words they both knew were placatory at best. Men did not fall dead into the doorway because of a fracas nearby. Too many booted feet pounded the dirt, too many torches lit the air, and the shouts bordered on panic, reverberating through the narrow streets.

  “Come, let us see to your room.” Cateline tugged gently on her arm and Melisende followed. Picking up a candle, she led the way up the stairs to the small room beneath the eaves that Melisende had used before. Cateline placed the lit taper in a holder on a table near the bed. “I will have Mariette bring up a pitcher of fresh water and a cloth to wash your face. You will feel better once you are refreshed. As soon as Pier hears anything, I will let you know. Please try to get some rest.”

  “Thank you. I am sure things will be better in the morning,” Melisende replied, doing her best to keep her voice from shaking.

  Cateline beamed at her, obviously relieved she showed no more signs of hysteria. The spare room’s window overlooked the small courtyard behind the shop where farmers brought their beasts, and all was quiet and dark. Only the occasional muffled shout could be heard through the thick walls. With a last fond pat on Melisende’s shoulder, Cateline made her way from the room.

  Mariette soon arrived as promised, sparing Melisende the need to worry as the young girl’s chatter spiraled about the room. She knew nothing more than Melisende did, but had no difficulty embellishing with stories she recalled from her grand-mère years ago. When she got to the part where the town was over-run by soldiers who set fire to buildings, empty of their owners or not, Melisende threw her hands into the air.

  “Stop! I implore you. It does no good to think on these things. There will be a market as usual in the morning, and I will make my purchases and go home.”

  Mariette’s brows lifted. “You may of course believe that. I think Bertrand, l’Aigle de Bretagne, has come at last to save us all.” Delivering her pronouncement, she spun on her heel and quitted the room.

  Melisende sank down on the bed, her hands clasped tight in her lap. Then I pray Bertran is quick about it, and successful.

  * * *

  Kinnon opened his eyes to the night sky. Black clouds rushed overhead, alternately obscuring the moon’s weak light. Voices rang in hushed tones across the clearing. A light bobbed in the darkness.

  “Il n’est pas ici.”

  “Then look again. The dead do not go far.”

  Is that what I am? Dead? He tried to move, but his mind did not seem able to command his body. He blinked his eyes. Slowly, he rolled his head to one side. The sleeve of his leine fluttered in a light breeze, tattered and spotted with black stains. Blood. And yet he felt no pain.

  I am not yet dead, but ’tis not far. Is this how Jamie and Brody felt before they died? He struggled to remember their passing, but his mind drifted far away into darkness.

  When he opened his eyes again, the moon’s light was brighter, the two voices louder.

  “We must find him. Bertrand will want to know what happened.”

  “Bertrand will be too busy to care beyond the fact his Scottish militaire let brigands escape.”

  A light shone bright in Kinnon’s face, and his eyes blinked in surprise.

  “Le voici!” the first voice exclaimed. Both men bent over him, and he recognized Hervé as the second voice.

  Aye, here I am, he wanted to say, but his mouth was too dry and his lips would not form the words.

  Hervé scowled. He wrenched Kinnon’s plaide away with an unkind flick of his hand. Coldness he never believed existed washed through Kinnon, and he shook. Hervé’s scathing glance took in Kinnon’s form. He reached for something at Kinnon’s side, then straightened.

  “He will be dead soon whether we move him or not. His leg is all but hacked away and there is little blood left in him.” He turned to the man next to him. “We will send for his body later.”

  “But—”

  Hervé cut the man’s protest short with a wave. “We must join Bertrand and tell him of this night’s venture.” He cast a malicious look at Kinnon. “He will not be so eager to retrieve his dead Scot.”

  Motioning for the man to follow, Hervé strode away. Kinnon followed with his gaze until they left his view. Do not leave me! he implored silently. His tremors increased and he again faded into blackness.

  Something warm roused him, pushing at his cheek. The pain of a thousand knives shrieked through his left side and his eyes flew open. Large topaz eyes stared at him, and a rhythmic heat pulsed in his face. Kinnon’s focus widened. The pale pink sky cast the dog in dark relief. No sounds other than a soft panting reached his ears. The pain in his side became an intolerable agony radiating from his thigh. He ground his teeth.

  The dog whined anxiously and licked Kinnon’s face.

  “Jean-Baptiste?” The words slid thickly from his tongue. The dog whined again. Nearby a goat bleated. Jean-Baptiste bounded from his side with a bark.

  No! Shite. Even the damn dog has left me. But he felt stronger, and he fisted his right hand. It closed on empty air. He lifted his head a scant inch from the ground, glancing at his arm and the area around it. Damn, Hervé took my glaive.

  He sighed and switched his attention to inventorying the rest of his body, ignoring the searing pain in his left leg. It took an effort, but he raised his right arm. Other than a few scrapes and bruised areas, it appeared intact. His left arm was in a similar condition, and he slowly lifted himself to his elbows. Hervé had ripped his plaide away the night before, and his words drifted back.

  “His leg is all but hacked away…”

  Though scraped and bloodied, his right leg appeared to have come to little harm. His left leg, however, was crusted in dried blood with a large area of glistening, still-damp blood pooled mid-thigh. Suddenly dizzy, Kinnon sank back to the ground.

  He left me to die. Why have I not died? The thought of living with only one leg horrified him, but there was a stubbornness inside that refused to give up. Taking a deep breath, Kinnon rose on his elbows. Agony ripped through his leg again, and this time he cried out.

 
; Suddenly, gentle hands were on his shoulders, pushing him back. The dog’s whine pierced the fog of pain and for an instant he wanted to tell the beast to cease his caterwauling. Until he realized it was his own voice making the unmanly racket. He clamped his mouth shut and opened his eyes.

  Soft lavender eyes stared back at him. Wispy curls framed a sweetly oval face like a shimmering golden halo. I am in the hands of an angel. Why do I still hurt in Heaven?

  “You are the soldier who has come to our farm, no?”

  Kinnon searched his mind for the correct answer, but could not make the connection. The dog whined again and the girl shushed him with a nervous glance over her shoulder.

  “Who are ye?” he gasped.

  “I am Lucienne. Melisende’s sister. I have seen you before.”

  Of course. Now he remembered. Though he had never seen her, she obviously recognized him. “Where is Melisende?”

  “She went to market. She will be back tonight.”

  Kinnon shook his head. Even if Bertrand’s attack was successful, they would likely allow no one in or out of the village for several days.

  “You are injured, monsieur. You must let me help you.”

  The offer both relieved and repulsed him. “I am hurt—too bad. You should leave. Men will be here.” Talking drained his energy, and he closed his eyes, his breathing ragged. As if to prove him correct, a murmur of sound drifted toward them. “Go.”

  “I cannot leave you here. They are heartless, cruel. You will come with me.”

  Kinnon would have laughed at her, but it required effort and a certain amount of caring, and he was beyond both.

  Determined, Lucienne grasped his arm. “Take Jean-Baptiste’s collar. He is strong.”

  “He cannae carry me, lass.” Kinnon protested weakly, but he found it easier to go with her insistence rather than oppose it. He found himself tugged to a seated position, staring bleakly at his left leg. A fresh wash of bright red blood rose through the darker clots. “My leg—” He gestured numbly at the wound.