Commanded By The French Duke

Commanded By The French Duke
Meriel Fuller

One knight to capture her heart!Alinor of Claverstock takes her life in her hands when she rescues Bianca d’Attalens from her stepmother’s evil clutches. But when Alinor encounters Bianca’s handsome brother, Guilhem, Duc d’Attalens, it’s not just her life that’s in danger.Because Alinor finds herself powerless to resist Guilhem, and is soon caught up in a perilous web of intrigue and forbidden attraction. An attraction which heightens when they are sent together into enemy territory . . .

Roped muscular arms looped tightly around her waist. She gasped out, a mixture of terror and outrage, her fingers snarling in desperation around the harness.

But to no avail. He plucked her up with ease, lifting her so high that her feet were far above the ground. Under the sheer force of the movement her grip loosened on the harness, her fingers flailing in the air as he slammed her against his solid frame to carry her away.

The jolting impact of the man’s body against her own sent shock waves coursing through her. Her face was on a level with his, his chest was hard up against her soft breasts, her hips were bouncing intimately against his muscle-bound thighs. A wild, hectic colour flooded her pale skin; she wanted to die in shame. Never, never had she been so close to a man!

MERIEL FULLER lives in a quiet corner of rural Devon with her husband and two children. Her early career was in advertising, with a bit of creative writing on the side. Now, with a family to look after, writing has become her passion … A keen interest in literature, the arts and history, particularly the early medieval period, makes writing historical novels a pleasure.

Commanded by the French Duke

Meriel Fuller

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Contents

Cover (#ua222a896-5a50-5c6e-8d7a-6af60aad3a34)

Introduction (#ubeeafe89-2f68-536a-8977-a437739c3066)

About the Author (#u7d060932-1c27-57b5-a389-67498bdeddea)

Title Page (#uefaa4ddf-b14c-56ab-8758-97d3967c15f9)

Chapter One (#ulink_5fd63506-36e8-505c-b1ca-b34a79c7d648)

Chapter Two (#ulink_822cc5fa-9537-5428-af08-005c7638425f)

Chapter Three (#ulink_0a01324b-328c-5beb-9b0b-05747064f5c1)

Chapter Four (#ulink_e018bcf1-4c8c-5740-a11a-26dc36ade608)

Chapter Five (#ulink_98967ca2-6345-50e4-ad7d-ae7362775085)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#ulink_292a2008-5454-5cd1-bb9a-436d7dae4139)

Wiltshire, England—October 1265

‘Thank you, Ralph, for coming today.’ Alinor of Claverstock turned to the burly lad sitting beside her on the cart seat, a trace of relief in her voice. Despite the faint rays of a weak October sun, she shivered in the chilly morning air, her green eyes vivid, shining, as she threw him a grateful smile.

‘Any excuse to break from ploughing in the stubble, mistress,’ Ralph replied with a quick grin, flicking the reins expertly down the bristled backs of the oxen as they began to slow. His skin was ruddy, sunburnt from his constant work outside. ‘Market day in Knighton is certainly a better option.’

‘I probably could have managed on my own.’ Alinor fixed her eyes on the rutted track ahead before it disappeared around the curve of the next hill, willing the oxen to move slightly faster than their current snail’s pace. Leaning back against the wooden seat, she adjusted her slight frame to the incline of the cart as it lumbered to the valley bottom. ‘I feel guilty for taking you away from your other duties; there’s so much to do at the Priory at this time of year.’

Ralph twisted around, his muscled shoulder jogging into the towering pile of grain sacks behind them. ‘I would have liked to have seen you try and shift this lot, mistress. Besides, it’s not right, a lady of your—’

‘We’ve been through this, Ralph.’ Alinor cut off his speech abruptly. ‘The nuns need my help and I’m happy to give it.’ She flicked the uneven hem of her practical gown down over her boots, stained dark from the heavy morning dew. Through her silk hose, which she had forgotten to change in her haste to reach the Priory that morning, the coarse wool dress scratched uncomfortably at her legs. Around her waist, at the point where the knotted girdle pulled in the baggy garment, her skin itched. She glanced up at the sky where the sun was attempting to push through a rolling bank of pale-grey cloud. When the light broke through, the rays were hot, illuminating the mists that rose from the dew-soaked fields, polishing the grass to silver.

‘Well, it’s very good of you, my lady.’ The cart lurched over a large dried-up rut in the track, a sudden, jolting movement, and Ralph frowned as one of the cart’s wheels began to squeak ominously. ‘I knew I should have put some extra grease on that wheel before we left,’ he muttered.

‘Will it slow us up at all?’ Alinor asked quickly, then bit down on her bottom lip, hoping Ralph hadn’t noticed the urgency in her tone. Behave normally, she told herself. No one must suspect anything. Usually, she would take the whole day to attend the market in Knighton, selling the grain before buying any goods that the nuns might need. But today? Today she wanted to return to the Priory as soon as possible. Ralph had no idea what she had done and neither did the nuns. But if no one knew of the girl’s existence, she would be safer. Only Alinor knew where she was hidden. Clasping her knees tightly, she willed her heart to stop racing. The sooner she could help the poor maid leave the country, the better.

‘I’m sure we will reach the market,’ Ralph reassured her, ‘and I’ll fix it while I’m there.’ As they squeaked past a solitary hawthorn, branches thick with red berries, three magpies rose, squawking indignantly, blue-black feathers glossy in the sun, white flashes on dark tails.

Running a finger around the tight curve of her wimple, Alinor tried to loosen the restrictive cloth around her neck and temples. The thick white linen wound about her throat, rising around her face to cover every strand of hair, over which she wore a piece of fawn-coloured linen which served as a veil. Even now, her stepmother’s mocking tone echoed in her skull; Wilhelma simply couldn’t understand why her stepdaughter would choose to wear such sober garments: a plain, undyed linen gown with a mud-coloured veil. But then, Wilhelma failed to even comprehend why she would help the nuns in the first place. Her stepmother would never think of helping anyone, apart from her wonderful son, Eustace. An involuntary shudder crawled down Alinor’s spine; no, she would not think of her stepmother now, of what that woman had wanted to do. Elements of that terrifying night at Claverstock shot through her brain: desperate, splintered images that sent ripples of anxiety through her slight frame. She smoothed out the fabric of her gown across her knees, plucking at a stray thread. Dragging her thoughts to the present, she forced her brain to focus on her task today. The market. Selling the nuns’ grain at a profit. The sisters would need the money to get them through the coming winter; she needed to concentrate on that.

As the sun rose, the air became unseasonably muggy, oppressive. Clouds of midges rose up, dancing above dank wet spots beside the track. Parched leaves, edges curled up and blackened, drifted down from the few trees dotted here and there in the sloping fields that ran down to the path, catching under the cart wheels with a dry rustle. The scant, shifting breeze carried a sharpness, a forerunner of winter.

‘It’s not far now, mistress,’ Ralph said, across the incessant noise of the squeaking wheel. ‘The bridge is around this next bend.’

And then the river was before them, startling, glinting silver. Water rushed, cackling throatily across the stones at the shallow, stone-strewn edges. In the middle, the river was deep and fast-flowing, the surge of current too dangerous for a horse or person to cross safely. A narrow packhorse bridge spanned the gurgling flow with four stone arches, rising steeply at the centre to counter any problems with flooding in winter.