Commanded By The French Duke. Meriel Fuller

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.’

      He picked up his shirt, pulled it over his naked torso. ‘Religion works the same in both our countries; don’t try and fob me off. What are you hiding?’

      ‘Nothing,’ Alinor bit out. Apart from a poor, frightened girl in the cellars, but Bianca was none of his concern. ‘I’ve finished,’ she announced, swiftly gathering up the spare bandages, the unguent, clutching the bowl of water to her chest. The water slopped against her gown, splashing dark spots. ‘I suggest you get some rest, like your men.’ She glared pointedly at the curled bodies huddled in front of the fire, wrapped in their cloaks, her tone dismissive.

      He tilted his chin, the brindled slash of his brow arching upwards. ‘And stop bothering you.’

      ‘And stop bothering me.’ Alinor turned her back on him, flouncing away.

      * * *

      She returned to the large table in the middle of the infirmary, popping the unused bandages back into the shallow wicker baskets, looking around the beds to see if anyone else needed her help. Every nerve-ending in her body seemed alert, highly strung, as if bracing themselves for some further onslaught; at any moment, she half-expected Guilhem to step beside her, asking more questions.

      ‘Everything all right over there?’ Maeve appeared at her side, tilting her head towards the fireplace. ‘I had to find the Prince something to eat, but he’s happy now; I’ve left him in the kitchens.’

      ‘Everything’s fine,’ Alinor reassured her. ‘I think most of them will sleep now.’

      ‘Do you want to fetch some food for him?’ She pointed at Guilhem, sprawled back in the chair, staring into the flames.

      ‘No, I do not,’ Alinor replied, scuffing at a mark on the floor with her leather boot. ‘I’m sorry to say this, but he’s not very pleasant. He’s doing everything in his power to annoy me.’ A bandage slipped from her grasp, unwinding down to the flagstones; she began to roll it up again, her movements precise and controlled, as if by performing the task perfectly she could take control of her thoughts and stop thinking about him.

      ‘The Prince told me to look after him. Apparently he’s his right-hand man, the Duc d’Attalens.’

      Alinor jerked her head up, staring into Maeve’s pale, lined features. ‘Who?’

      ‘The Duc d’Attalens? I think I’ve pronounced his name correctly. Goodness, Alinor, you’ve become quite pale. Are you quite well?’

      Alinor stared over at the man by the fire. Guilhem, Duc d’Attalens. Bianca’s brother.