Meriel Fuller - Commanded By The French Duke

‘I’ll fetch one of the other nuns,’ Alinor stuttered out, lamely. ‘I need to finish stitching up the soldier over there.’ She indicated the bed nearest the fire.

Edward’s arm snaked out, seizing her wrist. ‘I want you to do this. You will do it.’ His voice was savage, his fingers grinding into the fine bones on her forearm. Releasing her, he slumped back into his seat, closing his eyes.

Guilhem caught her eye. ‘Be very careful, maid,’ he murmured. ‘Others are not so lenient as I.’

Alinor scrubbed furiously at the red marks on her wrist, hating Edward, hating the man who sat before her. Uncouth barbarians, the whole lot of them! Used to fighting and killing their way to victory, uncaring who or what stood in their way. But knowing this fact, knowing what these men were, would not help her out of her current predicament. Aware that Guilhem studied her closely, she drew on every last drop of her courage, drawing her spine up into a rigid, inflexible line.

She forced herself to meet his eyes. ‘Where is it?’ she asked, managing to make her tone bossy and defiant.

Guilhem frowned, uncomprehending. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Where is the wound?’ she hissed back at him, churlish.

In response, he sat forward abruptly, hauling his scarlet tunic over his head, followed by the heavy chainmail hauberk, and threw them into a glittering jumble on to the floor. Beneath his chainmail he wore a white linen shirt, slashed open at the neck, the ties loose, undone.

‘Here,’ he said, pointing to a bloody stain on the white cloth. His tousled hair glimmered in the firelight, tawny, golden. A delicious scent lifted from his skin, like woodsmoke, musky and dark. Sensual.

‘You need to take your shirt off,’ Alinor barked at him, her voice strangely hoarse. ‘I can’t bandage it like that.’

He shrugged. ‘As you wish.’ Grasping the sagging hem, he dragged the shirt upwards, revealing his naked torso. In the firelight, his skin seemed polished, like molten gold. His upper body was lean, with no spare flesh, his neck corded and strong, rising up from the powerful jut of his collarbone. Panels of taut, honed muscle covered his chest, ridging his stomach across a narrow waist.

A savage, boiling heat shot through her, dancing with treacherous excitement. Immediately she ducked her head, hiding the flame of colour across her cheeks, muttering something about bandages. She scooted away across the flagstone floor, skirts slithering in her wake.

Edward rolled his head lazily along the chair-back, contemplating Alinor’s bobbing flight. ‘God, what is wrong with that chit? Why can’t she perform a simple task? Did you see her face? It’s as if she’s never seen a naked man before!’

Guilhem observed him with a slow grin. ‘She’s a nun, Edward, do you think it’s likely?’

Edward quirked one eyebrow upwards. ‘No, but I thought these religious women were immune to men; sworn themselves away from earthly pleasures and all that sort of thing.’ He rubbed his belly, suddenly bored with the subject. ‘God, I’m hungry. Do you think these good sisters are going to offer us anything to eat?’ Levering himself up from the chair, he turned to Guilhem. ‘I’ll leave you with her; don’t take any nonsense. I’m off to find some food.’

* * *

Plunging trembling hands into the wicker basket full of rolled-up bandages, Alinor chewed fractiously at the inner lining of her cheek. Sort yourself out, she told herself sternly. He’s a man, just a man, like your father and your stupid, mulish stepbrother. No different. Treat him exactly as you would treat Eustace and everything will be fine. Grabbing a pot of salve, balancing it unsteadily on top of the pile of bandages, she spun on her toes and marched back to the fire, plonking her wares down on the small table beside Guilhem’s chair. The other chair was empty; Edward had disappeared. She heaved a sigh of relief.

Guilhem’s keen eyes followed her movements, watched as she plunged a cloth into the bowl of steaming water, wringing it out. The drips shone in the firelight, falling like crystal tears.

‘Should I be worried?’ he murmured, as Alinor slapped the wet steaming cloth against the bleeding line of his wound, scrubbing vigorously.

‘Not at all,’ she replied brusquely. Bright flags of colour burned her cheeks, exaggerated by the leaping flames of the fire. A burning log fell sideways, sending up a shower of sparks. ‘I’m perfectly capable.’ But her fingers shook as she dipped them into foul-smelling unguent.

‘Capable, but maybe not very forgiving.’

‘Can you blame me? You carried me forcibly off that bridge. You wouldn’t listen when I told you I could carry Edith.’ Alinor shrugged her shoulders. ‘This may hurt.’ Pressing her palm to his shoulder, she smeared the thick paste across the wound. His bulging shoulder muscle moulded into her skin like warm marble: solid, strong. Her breath punched out, a short little gasp. She had tended to men before, certainly, but never a man like this, so...so beautiful. She smacked the earthenware pot of unguent down on the table with such violence that a faint crack appeared from base to top. Remember who he is: a knight, tough and uncompromising, without an ounce of softness in his body. But even as these thoughts ran through her mind, she knew she lied to herself. Beneath that harsh exterior was the man who had stayed by her side after Edward and his soldiers had left, the man who had carried Edith, with infinite gentleness, up the spiral staircase.

‘I listened when you told me your father cursed you the day you were born.’

Her mouth dropped open. ‘Please, don’t speak of it. I meant nothing by it.’ The words gushed out of her, tripping over each other.

He watched the stricken expression slip across her face. ‘If you say so,’ he said. There was no conviction in his tone.

Wiping her hands briskly on a cloth, she unrolled a length of bandage. ‘You need to sit forward, with your arm held out,’ Alinor ordered, cursing her own outspokenness. He had goaded her into blurting such a thing aloud and now his eyes were on her, on her face, scorching, bold. Curious.

‘I thought all nuns had their heads shaved,’ he said suddenly. His gaze was pinned to a spot beside her ear.

‘Wh-what?’ Alinor paused, the bandage hanging in the air, a flimsy barrier between them. She reeled back as he touched a single lock of hair sneaking out from beneath her wimple. Pure, white-gold hair. Hell’s teeth! Why hadn’t she checked on her appearance before she came in here? Furiously, she tucked the offending hair back beneath her wimple.

‘Why isn’t your head shaved?’ Guilhem persisted. Her hair had been like silk: supple, vibrant. An unexpected longing gripped him; he wanted to rip the veil from her head, unwind that tightly wrapped wimple. What was the rest of her hair like? Was it long, curling, falling to her slender hips? He shook his head slightly, ridding himself of the tempting thought. He needed to stop indulging in these idle fantasies; he was intrigued, that was all.

‘Stretch your arm out.’ Impatient to finish the task, to run away from his probing questions, Alinor’s voice was terse, strained. Dutifully, he extended his arm and she began to wrap the cloth around, beneath his armpit, over his shoulder, round and round.

‘Why not?’ Guilhem asked again.

‘I choose not to.’

‘And your God gives you that choice, does he? He seems particularly lenient.’

‘He is.’ She lowered her gaze to his shoulder, pretending to concentrate on finishing the task. Why was he asking so many questions?

‘You’re talking nonsense and you know it.’

Panic flashed across her delicate features. Ripping the end of the bandage into two halves, she tied it savagely into a knot. ‘Look, we do things differently in this country; you’re not used to our ways.’