The Highlander's French Bride

by Cathy MacRae

  He guided his horse around the rocks and boulders, as familiar as a distant dream from the weeks he’d spent visiting the farm that housed the fierce Alaunt, Jean-Baptiste—and Melisende.

  But today Jean-Baptiste did not leap from the barnyard, snarling his warning. All was silent at the little house. The ramshackle barn leaned perhaps a bit more precariously and a few chickens clucked and pecked their way across the dusty yard, cackling in indignation as Kinnon’s horse strolled through their midst.

  He saw Melisende everywhere in his mind. Eyeing him distrustfully from the far gate. Smiling as she placed a reassuring hand on the dog’s head. Motioning for him to follow her to their private spot overlooking the valley. But she was no longer there.

  Desertion was evident everywhere. The far gate hung askew, its top hinge worn through. No cows waited for milking; the absence of the goats was apparent in the overgrown shrubbery. Kinnon glanced to the house and frowned at the broken crockery spilling from the open door. He swung down from his horse and handed the reins to the soldier beside him. Rory accepted them without a word.

  Kinnon stepped over the crocks, eyes intent on the darkness beyond the door. He touched the ripped wood where the metal latch had hung. But the scar was old, its color nearly that of the ancient door. Alert, though more concerned with Melisende and Lucienne’s fate than his own, he crossed the threshold into the house. The air was fresh, with no lingering odors of death or decay. I wonder if it has been empty since they left nearly four years ago? He moved to the spare room and peeked inside. The narrow bed was overturned; the thin mattress slouched against the wooden frame. But there was no trace of the young girl who’d once called it home.

  He walked back through the main room.

  ’Tis a large wound and you cannot care for it yourself.

  Dip me in pitch! Startled, he glanced about the room, but saw nothing but the second bed in the corner where Lucienne had tended him. The memory of her unyielding curiosity warmed his blood and he hurried from the temptation he’d felt to toss her over his knee for her brazen ways.

  “Is aught amiss, sir?” Rory asked anxiously as Kinnon darted back into the sunshine.

  Kinnon collected his reins and mounted. “Nae. There has been no one here in years. Let us ride to the village.”

  The men reined their horses’ heads in unison and picked their way carefully back down the rocky trail. On reaching the main road, the pathway smoothed and they set their mounts to an easy canter. They reached Châteauneuf-de-Randon and slowed their pace as they rode down the main street. Nothing was familiar to Kinnon, but he’d been on the outside of the village during the siege, and his time inside had been restricted to the tower room at the château itself.

  He searched each building front. There was a butcher she trusted…At last he spied a shop displaying meats. He dismounted and handed the reins again to Rory, who tossed them to Hamish. Rory slid from his horse and followed Kinnon inside the building.

  The light was dim after the brilliant sunshine outside. Kinnon gave his eyes a moment to adjust as he glanced about the moderate-sized room. A counter with a white cloth draped over it sat along the far side, with a door presumably leading to the back courtyard directly behind. A cloying smell filled the air—not quite rancid, but similar to what Kinnon associated with a battlefield. He wrinkled his nose.

  A large man entered the room, wiping his hands on another white cloth, though this one bore several stains. He was jovial and eager to do business.

  “How may I help you gentlemen today?” he asked, a broad smile on his face. “It is late in the day, and much of my product is sold, but I have a young stoat in the barn I could have dressed for you…?” He lifted his eyebrows in query. Apparently he’d seen Kinnon’s soldiers waiting out front.

  Kinnon shook his head. “Mayhap another time. Today I have a question for ye.”

  The man’s face fell in disappointment, but he shrugged. “Answers are generally free.”

  Kinnon’s lips quirked upward. “It is possible my men would not be averse to something fresh for dinner.” He raised a hand to halt the butcher as he hurried toward the rear door. “And they can help after ye have answered my question.”

  The butcher spread his hands wide. “But of course, monsieur. I am Pier, the butcher. How may I help you?”

  Kinnon stepped closer. “I was a soldier here when Constable Bertrand took the town from De Ros.”

  “He was a very great man,” the butcher intoned, his voice deepening with respect. “It is said his body was buried in the Basilique royale de Saint-Denis—with the kings of France.”

  Kinnon nodded. “I have heard that as well. But his heart lies with Thiephaine de Raguenel, the wife of his youth.”

  “Oui, monsieur, but how did you come by that knowledge? Is Bertrand spoken of in Scotland?”

  “To my knowledge, no—or at least very little. I was among his junior officers when he died.”

  Pier’s eyes widened. “It is an honor to have you in my humble establishment.”

  Kinnon laughed. “Forgive me—I am Kinnon Macrory. And I was a brash young Highlander when I first met yer constable. I was once of some small service to him and I believe he appreciated the fact that as a Scotsman, I stood to gain little by advancing myself in his army.”

  “By needing little, you gained much,” Pier noted.

  “His friendship and respect were my everlasting gain, but I also received unasked-for enmity from other officers. Which brings me to my question.”

  Pier made an inviting gesture with his hand. “Of course.”

  “During the siege, I made the acquaintance of two young women who lived on a farm in the hills north of town. They sometimes supplied Bertrand with fresh eggs and vegetables. I collected them for him.”

  Pier’s look became guarded, but he said nothing. Kinnon continued. “I was injured during the battle, and the younger—the eldest being away from home at the time—saved my life.” He focused directly on the butcher, who seemed to shrink. “I returned to my unit just before Bertrand passed, then attempted to help the two women before I left town, as they were verra much alone. I had become quite fond of them and wished to see them safe.”

  The memory of the utter terror in Lucienne’s voice drifted through his ears and he glimpsed again the uncertain fear in Melisende’s expressive eyes the last time he saw her. He paused, placing a finger next to his nose to control himself.

  “I am not sure I understand your question, monsieur,” Pier mumbled as he took a step backward. “Mayhap now would be a good time—”

  Kinnon interrupted him. “I spent three years in the tower prison at Châteauneuf for trying to help them, and six months after that regaining my health. I wish to find them.”

  Pier shrugged expressively, his hands spread wide. “What would I, a poor butcher, know of two young ladies? There were many refugees both during the English occupation and after.”

  “But, mon ami,” Kinnon said softly. “Melisende mentioned you.”

  It was a calculated risk. Kinnon did not know if this was the correct shop, or if this was the same man who had sheltered Melisende in the past. He had just spent several minutes proving himself worthy of the butcher’s trust by aligning himself with Bertrand. He watched Pier’s eyes as they darted about, weighing his options. A voice from the doorway called the butcher’s bluff.

  “Tell him, husband. Tell him what you know.”

  * * *

  Kinnon, Rory and Hamish sat at the table with Pier and his wife, Cateline, while the rest of his men took their meal in the open air beneath the first of the evening stars. A dark-eyed maid served them, her belly lightly rounded with child.

  “I remember your Melisende,” she announced loftily. “’Twas before my Gautier and I wed.” She placed a hand protectively over her belly as her gaze fell on Kinnon. “She did not mention you.”

  Cateline sent the maid a stern look. “That will be all, Mariette. You may begin clearing the kitchen.”


  Kinnon held the maid’s gaze. “No offense, madame, but she dinnae mention ye, either.”

  With a huff, Mariette flounced from the room. Cateline turned to her guest. “Melisende was always gracious, but spoke little of herself. We were, quite frankly, surprised to see her a day or two after Bertrand died. She had been forced to stay with us the better part of a week during the siege, and left without a word to anyone.”

  “It seemed affronting at the time,” Pier added. “But when she returned, she was able to tell us what happened.”

  Kinnon listened intently, bitterly disappointed to find the trail continued on from here, but enthralled to hear Melisende spoken of by people who had known her as well as anyone.

  He winced to hear of the insolent old goat who’d tried to take advantage of her, and grinned broadly when she’d left him passed out on the floor of the run-down house and at the mercy of any who came across him.

  Good lass! Ye are so verra brave.

  “I thank ye for caring for Melisende and her sister. If there is anything ye need—if ’tis in my power…”

  Pier belched pleasurably. “Duly noted, monsieur, but we were happy to help Melisende.”

  Kinnon caught the look that passed between the butcher and his wife, as well as the deliberate omission of Lucienne’s name. What trouble did ye stir up, Luci?

  The butcher waved an arm about the room. “And we have what we need.”

  Kinnon rose to his feet and bowed over Cateline’s hand. “Then, with your permission, madame, my men and I will retire for the night and be on our way to Puy-en-Velay at first light. Your hospitality overwhelms me.”

  Cateline beamed at him. “I hope you find her, monsieur. Melisende deserves to be happy.”

  * * *

  The town of Puy-en-Velay clustered around the base of the cathedral, its alternating black and white façade a contrast to the tile-roofed buildings at its feet. Just to the north, the foresse de Polignac rose from the great black rock, hovering protectively over the town.

  “Where shall we start?” Rory wondered, echoing Kinnon’s thoughts.

  “The butcher said Melisende was searching for her father’s family. He had been a goldsmith, so we will try the market place.”

  Rory nodded. “Hamish will find us lodging and food for the noon meal.”

  Kinnon was too anxious to wait. “I will find something to eat in the market.”

  “Then I will join ye.”

  Kinnon’s steadfast captain who had spent so much time searching for him a year ago, seemed reluctant to let him out of his sight. Kinnon appreciated his loyalty. “Mayhap a guard of three would care to follow me?”

  Rory signaled two additional men and the group parted ways. Kinnon’s path wound past the cathedral. A youth helpfully pointed out the Place du Breuil where the market was held. Kinnon and his men dismounted and strolled through the packed stalls, munching food from vendors and admiring the colorful extravagance that was Le Puy’s market.

  A merchant directed them to the Golden Street. “There was a terrible confusion last week at Ramon’s shop,” he added. “Soldiers tried to arrest his niece—a lovely young woman who was always kind to me and others here.”

  “Was she arrested?” Kinnon demanded, his heart pounding in his chest.

  “Non, monsieur. I do not think so, because the soldiers have lingered about the shop since. Poor Ramon. This, after his other niece eloped with Lord Depaul’s eldest son three years ago! His reputation was only just recovering before this happened.” The merchant chuckled. “After a lifetime of being a bachelor, he is even less likely to marry now.”

  “Which niece eloped?” Kinnon’s heart stuttered. Was it in Melisende’s character to run away to marry? Nae. ’Twas more likely Lucienne.

  “’Twas the youngest. A bit fey, she was, though I’ve never seen a lovelier woman in my life. Too beautiful, if you ask me. But I was never comfortable around her. No one could deny her anything, and she knew it.”

  With a word of thanks, Kinnon led the way to the wide street the merchant indicated. Trees and scattered benches marked the elegant shops. A few well-bred horses loitered in the shade, servants keeping watch over their charges. Bells chimed cheerfully as a door opened part way down the street. A woman in rich clothing, escorted by an elegantly dressed older man, strode from the shop, her hand held up before her as she admired a ring on her finger that winked blindingly in the midday sun. She tucked her hands in the crook of the man’s elbow and snugged his arm tight against her breasts, her well-pleased giggle drifting on the breeze.

  “I believe this may be our shop,” he noted. Rory handed the horses to the other two soldiers and he and Kinnon stepped across the street to the red-roofed shop.

  The same bells tinkled as Kinnon opened the door. The interior of the shop sparkled with polished wood and stone surfaces that glittered in the abundant candle light. A man in a supple leather apron glanced up from the exquisite, multi-stoned necklace he was showing to a gentleman at a nearby table.

  “I can be with you shortly, monsieur,” he called.

  Kinnon acknowledged him with a wave of his hand, aware he once again had reached Melisende’s trail too late. He peered about, imagining Melisende entering the room, a smile on her face as she greeted each customer. She would be intimate with the details of the room, leaving no cobweb or speck of dust to mar the perfection of the displays.

  I had no gift for creating beautiful things, but I was quick with numbers and did his accounting. Her words drifted through his head. Nae, lass, for ye outshone them all. Yer greatest beauty is in yer heart and it surfaces in yer smile and yer eyes.

  “How may I help you, monsieur?”

  Kinnon dragged his attention from the past and assessed the shop keeper. Delicate tools peeked from various pockets in his apron, and his hands were surprisingly large to produce fine jewelry.

  “Are ye Ramon the goldsmith?”

  His eyes darted about the room, but other than Kinnon and Rory, it was empty. “Oui. Who wants to know?”

  “I wish to speak to ye about yer niece.”

  The man scowled. “I was better off before those two showed up on my doorstep.”

  Kinnon tilted his head. “I thought caring for family was a cornerstone of Christian charity.”

  “They brought their own trouble. Though sales improve as people come to gawk and linger to purchase, the gossip is enough to drive a man to madness.”

  One side of Kinnon’s lips quirked upward sardonically. “Pray to be delivered from such madness.”

  Ramon shrugged. “It brings customers,” he repeated.

  “What happened to the eldest—Melisende?” Kinnon asked softly.

  The man looked at Kinnon in surprise. “You knew her?”

  “Bertrand’s army compensated her poorly for her gardening and cheeses.”

  As Kinnon had intended, the mention of Bertrand’s name caught the goldsmith’s attention.

  “Bertrand was a great man. ’Tis right she helped him.” His attitude mellowed. “She was good, competent help whilst she was here. Never a number out of place in the books, nor a speck of dust to be seen.” His eyes narrowed. “Not that I can say as much for that sister of hers.”

  “Lucienne had her own problems,” Kinnon demurred.

  Ramon raked a hand through his hair. “Even as a young child she was beautiful. Men wanted her.” He cast Kinnon a sharp look. “You knew of this?”

  “Aye,” Kinnon replied placidly. “’Twas why they moved to the farm.”

  The goldsmith appeared satisfied with Kinnon’s response. “About three years ago, Lucienne eloped with Lord Depaul’s eldest son. He was betrothed to a wealthy merchant’s daughter, and the lord threatened to bring Lucienne up on charges of witchcraft.” He snorted. “As if the young man hadn’t excellent reason besides a love spell to choose Lucienne over the sour-faced woman more than a few years his elder. Nevertheless, until word came that they had married and planned to take up residence i
n Italy, I was hard-pressed to keep out of the magistrate’s clutches, Lord Depaul was that angry.”

  “Loss of the wealthy heiress was a problem?” Kinnon queried.

  “He has sworn to bring his son home and arrange an annulment. Seems the heiress wanted a title.”

  Kinnon nodded. “What about Melisende?”

  Ramon’s gaze grew furtive. “Her trouble was with the army—for aiding a man who had deserted his post.”

  Kinnon locked his gaze on the goldsmith’s. “I was that man.”

  The man’s eyes grew large, frightened, and he glanced about the room. As before, only Kinnon and Rory were in attendance, and Rory took a step toward the door, crossing his arms over his chest as his bulk obliterated that exit. Ramon gulped.

  “I did not betray her to the soldiers,” he whispered.

  Kinnon’s ears caught the nuance of the phrase. “But she thought ye did, aye?”

  The man nodded. “They threatened me, and I did not wish to land in prison. Then they promised me part of the reward for her capture. I was tempted.”

  “I hope ye dinnae believe ye would receive coin for yer efforts.”

  Ramon hung his head. “I lied to them to save myself.”

  “And Melisende?” Kinnon’s blood began to boil.

  “Oui. It saved her, too.”

  * * *

  Kinnon patted his horse’s neck and checked his manger to be sure it had an adequate amount of grain in it. “Greedy bastard. Ye have nearly licked the wood slick.” The horse snorted his disregard for his master’s concern and went back to cleaning the corners of the small box.

  Kinnon turned to Rory, one stall away as he tended his steed. “I dinnae know where to go from here,” he confided.

  “Mayhap a stroll to the cathedral will help clear yer head,” Rory mentioned.

  The red, white and black mosaics gleamed in the late evening sun. Pilgrims seeking to be blessed before their journey to Santiago de Compostela clogged the streets, many hoping to obtain their blessing that evening in preparation for an early morning departure. Rory and Kinnon approached the cathedral from the west. The Rue de Tables was narrow, the half-timbered buildings overhanging the street. Stalls jammed the way, filled with trinkets and items for sale, snatched up at the last moment by eager pilgrims. Men and women alike, adorned with the scallop shell—the symbol of St. John—on their clothing and walking staffs, wound past the tables, some chattering excitedly about the journey ahead, others silent with equal parts of hope and despair reflected in their eyes.