by Ana Seymour
Slowly comprehension dawned in his eyes. “It’s the abbey, isn’t it? You’re protecting the monks.”
Now it was Bridget’s turn to look scared. “St. Gabriel could be disbanded if anyone found out.”
“That you live there?” Ranulf confirmed.
“Aye. St. Gabriel is my home.”
“How long have you been there?”
She met his direct gaze. “As long as I can remember.”
“Years?” he asked in amazement.
She twisted around to face the road ahead, then responded, “My whole life.”
Ranulf was silent a long moment. “But surely you’ve traveled about, visited the town…” His voice trailed off as she started shaking her head.
They’d almost reached the place where a smaller road branched off the main. Opposite the fork was a stand of trees ending at a gently sloping bank that led to a small stream. Ranulf steered Thunder off the road toward the water.
“Where are we going?” Bridget asked.
He didn’t answer, but let Thunder take a few more steps until they reached the edge of the trees. Then he lifted her up and reached over the horse to deposit her on the grass, before jumping to the ground himself.
“We’ll let Thunder drink some water,” he said, leading the horse down the bank. All traces of anger were gone from his tone and, when he turned back to her, his expression was unreadable.
He motioned to a level place at the top of the bank and, when she sat down, dropped beside her. Finally he turned and took both her hands in his. “Let’s start from the beginning. If you live at the abbey, why did I find you at the Marchand cottage?”
Now that he knew as much as he did, Bridget could see no further reason for deception. “The monks sent me there the morning after we spoke in the barn. They were afraid of what would happen if you discovered me.”
“But how did you come to live at the abbey in the first place? Didn’t you have parents? Family?”
“Just the monks.”
“What a strange life for a young girl.”
“Aye, but I’ve never been unhappy.”
Ranulf sat for a moment, digesting the revelation, then asked, “And you’ve never been in Beauville before today?”
“Never. Nor anywhere else but St. Gabriel.”
“But the old woman looked as though she recognized you.”
“She couldn’t have. I’ve never seen her before, and, remember, she called me by another name.”
“Charlotte, was it not? Do you know any such person?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know anyone except the monks.”
Ranulf smiled. “You know me now.”
“Aye, I know you.”
“No wonder we got nothing but stares. I wager ’tis not every day the good people of Beauville see a strange English knight dressed as a pig farmer and a beautiful unknown angel come strolling through their town.”
Bridget returned his smile, then looked away at the rushing stream below them. “You must stop calling me an angel,” she said. “You’re not delirious anymore.”
“Nay, but your beauty is no less heavenly than it appeared in the midst of my fever.”
There was a husky tone to his voice that set a hum stirring in Bridget’s midsection. With a sudden burst of daring, she said, “’Twas the fever made you kiss me, though.”
“Mayhap. I would not otherwise be so ungrateful as to take liberties with a woman who was saving my life. I apologize for having done so.”
He had dropped his hold on her hands, which had grown cold without the warmth of his touch. She rubbed them together. “’Twas no great harm,” she said.
He bent his head to try to see into her averted eyes. “But if you’ve lived at the abbey your entire life, then that was your first kiss?”
“Aye, and my last, I expect. Once I go back to St. Gabriel, the monks will be careful to keep me away from future visitors.”
“Go back!” Ranulf’s exclamation was loud enough to make Thunder toss his head and turn to look at his master to see what was amiss. The knight continued in a lower tone. “You would go back there to live isolated in such a way?”
“It’s my home,” Bridget said. “It’s all I’ve ever known, and, as I said, the monks are my family.”
“But you are a lovely young woman. You should be meeting people—young men who will court you and offer you a life and a family of your own. You should be having that real first kiss and many more to follow it.”
Bridget smiled. “It was real enough.”
He seized her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Nay, it was not,” he said firmly. “A real kiss is not a fumbled gesture in the dark between strangers. It’s—” he searched for the words “—it’s an expression two people use when their hearts are too full to put it any other way.”
Her eyes misted. Down the bank, Thunder shifted his feet and gave a whinny of impatience, but it seemed as if the sound came from a great distance. “’Tis something I’ll never have then.”
He raised a callused finger and wiped a tear that had started down her cheek. “Aye, you will, angel,” he said. Then he lowered his lips to hers.
Chapter Seven
It was the last thing Ranulf had intended. He’d wanted to reward his lifesaving healer, not take advantage of her innocence for his own pleasure. But there had been a slight trembling to her lips when she’d said she would never truly have her first kiss, and he’d known instantly that he had to be the one to give it to her.
She’d had as strange a life as he could imagine and had told him that she was soon to return to it, but first he could show her the magic that was possible between a man and a maid. He’d do it for her sake—and because he could no more stop himself than he could stop the stream at their feet from flowing.
She turned readily into his kiss with a sweet sigh of acceptance. Her lips were moist and lush and his body responded with instantaneous arousal, but he willed himself to restraint. For several long moments, he didn’t even touch her except with his mouth. He made his kisses gentle and slow, with only a tantalizing, occasional stroke of his tongue. Then she made a kind of whimper in the back of her throat, and he reached to pull her onto his lap, at the same time deepening the onslaught of his mouth over hers.
She responded by wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing him close, bringing the hardened tips of her breasts against the soft jersey of the pig farmer’s tunic.
She moved with the rhythm of their kisses, wriggling her bottom against his wool hose. Ranulf felt sudden lust pounding through his center, and he pulled back.
She lay in his arms, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, and gave him a sleepy, contented smile. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Ranulf laughed. “’Tis the gentleman who does the thanking, angel.”
“Why, if ’tis of equal pleasure to the lady?”
Ranulf considered for a moment. “I’m not sure. I believe it’s assumed that in lovemaking the gentleman reaps the greater reward.”
She pulled herself up and slipped off his lap to the grass. “Did you like it, too, then?”
Ranulf rolled his eyes. “Aye.”
“I’m glad. But I still think it was very kind of you.”
“Kind of me,” Ranulf repeated dryly.
“To take pity on me and assure that I would not live out my years without knowing what it was like.”
“It had nothing to do with pity.”
“But you wanted me to have a real kiss, right? That’s why you did it?”
Ranulf made a sound of exasperation. “Aye, I wanted you to have a real kiss, but I also wanted to kiss you.”
She didn’t look entirely convinced, but she leaned back on her hands and closed her eyes with a happy smile, as though still savoring the experience. “I’m glad you wanted to. And I’m glad it was you. And it was lovely.”
Ranulf shook his head in bewilderment. Though he was not the ladies’ man his brother Thomas had been before he’d met
his Alyce Rose, Ranulf had kissed a number of women in his twenty-six years. But he’d never before known a woman to react quite like Bridget. She was the one experiencing something new, yet she seemed in utter control of the situation, while he sat there with his insides shaking with unsatisfied desire and his mind a-jumble.
“Aye, it was good,” he agreed after a moment. “Yet you would give up all that for a world behind the walls of St. Gabriel?”
She opened her eyes and her smile faded. “I have no other home.”
He frowned. “Haven’t you ever tried to find out about your real family?”
“I used to ask as a child, but I haven’t for years. I only remember that my inquiries always led to worried looks and hushed conferences among the monks, so I stopped making them. They’ve been good to me, and I’d not hurt them for the world.”
Ranulf felt a stab of frustration at the good brothers of St. Gabriel. They seemed to be well-intentioned, but they didn’t have the right to deprive a young woman of all the world had to offer.
“You could ask more questions about the old woman who thought she recognized you. The sheriff’s neighbor, as well. I’d thought his stares were due to your beauty, but perhaps he thought he’d recognized you, too.”
Bridget shook her head vigorously. “Nay, I should not have ventured into town at all. I believe the monks thought that I would stay safely tucked away at the Marchands’ until it was safe for me to return.”
“After I left.”
“Aye. And now that Brother Francis has told you about me, I suspect I could go back to the abbey with you this afternoon.” She gave a little frown. “Are you going back?”
“Aye, they’ve agreed to let me finish my recuperation there.” He lifted a hand to his bandage.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I’d almost forgotten about your head. It’s not hurting? We didn’t injure it more a few minutes ago when we, ah…when we were…”
“Locked in each other’s arms?” he finished with a smile. “No, ’tis not my head, precisely, that’s hurting after our encounter.”
She didn’t seem to understand his reference and Ranulf gave his head a little shake. He’d not been with a woman in months, and now that he found one to whom he was instantly attracted, she turned out to be not only innocent, but most likely totally unaware of what went on between a man and a maid. His code of honor would tell him to get up on Thunder and ride away from St. Gabriel as fast as the swift horse could take him.
Instead, he said, “I’ll gladly take you back, but I’m not sure what will happen if we ride there together. Francis specifically had me promise that I wouldn’t tell the others that I had seen you.”
Bridget pursed her lips. “Aye, ’twould cause a scandal no doubt. I’m not supposed to see you, either. Brother Alois, our abbot, would have me on my knees saying penance for the next week if he knew we’d spent an entire afternoon together.”
“If you stay at the Marchands’, I could come to see you again tomorrow when I seek out the sheriff.”
Her breasts seemed to rise and fall more quickly, while his own breathing stopped entirely while he waited for her answer. Finally she said, “I’d like that.”
“The Marchands will not object?” he asked.
She shook her head. “They’re lost in their own small world. They barely seem to notice that I’ve arrived.”
Across the stream, the sun was low in the sky. Ranulf jumped up and extended his hand to help her up. “Then I’ll take you back now, and see you in the morning. If the sheriff still hasn’t returned, you can help me pass the day on a pleasant ride through this Norman countryside of yours.”
Bridget looked around at the peaceful scene. “My countryside has never been anything but the land directly surrounding the abbey,” she said, letting him pull her up. “We’ll see this for the first time together.”
The old shoemaker pulled on his cap and scraped his feet nervously in the dust as the man who had ridden in beside the sheriff of Beauville asked him for the third time, “Did this stranger tell you why he was searching out the sheriff?”
The cobbler shook his head without looking up into the big man’s odd violet eyes.
“His head was bandaged, you say? But he appeared to be in good health?”
The old man nodded. “He walked right enough, milord. His boots were of poor quality.” The man gave a little tisk. “Shoddy workmanship.”
“I don’t care about the man’s boots, you fool,” the nobleman barked. “Tell me about the girl.”
“The spitting image, she was, your lordship. The spitting image of the lady Charlotte.”
The nobleman turned to the sheriff. “Can we believe what this dunderhead is telling us, Guise? Was this truly Charlotte’s brat wandering around the town?”
Before the sheriff could reply, the old cobbler himself answered, “I used to fit her shoes, milord, the lady Charlotte’s. She came right here to my shop, and I never saw the likes for beauty. A right angel, she was, her ladyship.” He lifted his head while he made a hasty sign of the cross, then turned his gaze back down to the ground.
“He speaks the truth, milord,” the sheriff confirmed. “I was just a lad, but I still remember the lady Charlotte’s visits to town. She always had a kind word and a smile for the humblest among us. I reckon there are a number of the older folks who remember her.”
“Aye, but this was not the lady Charlotte who’s been dead these many years,” the cobbler said. “The girl I saw was no ghost. She was as near to me as your lordship and I looked right into her eyes—spun gold, they were, just like the lady Charlotte’s.”
LeClerc glared at the bowed head of the cobbler. “Did you speak to her of the resemblance?”
“No, your lordship.”
His companion scowled. “I knew this would come back to haunt me some day. I should have never agreed to let the child live.”
“Do you suppose this means that our monk has broken his agreement—” the sheriff began.
“I don’t like to suppose, Guise. I depend on those who expect my favor to provide me with the facts.”
“Aye, milord.”
LeClerc looked at the cobbler. “Have you spoken of this to anyone?”
The shoemaker’s gaze was fearful as he looked up at the baron, then over at the sheriff, whose hand was on the heavy knife in his belt. “Nay, nor will I ever, I swear, your lordship.”
LeClerc hesitated, but finally said to the sheriff, “Let him go for now. If you hear that his tongue has been wagging, cut it out.”
The cobbler gave one more scraping bow, then scurried away.
Guise shifted uncomfortably. “I’d have sworn by the devil’s eyeballs that I killed the knave.”
“Could it be another?” the baron asked.
“With a bandaged head? Nay, it must be he.”
The baron slapped a riding whip onto his own thigh. “I want to know where he is and why he was riding to St. Gabriel in the first place.”
“I’ll do my best, milord. What about the girl?”
LeClerc’s eyes narrowed to purple slits. “It may be time to rid ourselves of that particular problem.”
“He’s a handsome one, that lad of yours,” old Mistress Marchand said with a little sigh, leaning back on her stool to rest against the cold stone wall of the cottage.
Bridget finished shelling the last of the peas she’d salvaged from the Marchand garden. She would put them on to soak before she left this morning with Ranulf and they’d be ready to cook on her return. “Oh, Sir Ranulf is not my lad, Claudine. He’s a stranger I helped nurse at the abbey.”
“At the abbey. Brother Ebert wouldn’t say much when he came to ask if you could stay here, but I’ve wanted to ask you, child. Whatever was a young lass like yourself doing at St. Gabriel?”
Bridget had already discovered that the Marchands had been told little of her story, and, if she intended to go back to live at the abbey, she suspected that it was best to leave things that way. “I’d l
ost my family,” she replied vaguely. That much was true enough.
Claudine’s faded eyes grew moist. “Ah, you poor mite. Well, ’tis as I told Brother Ebert, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. And you can bring your young man around.”
“He’s not my young man,” Bridget repeated patiently.
But Mistress Marchand did not appear to absorb the words. Her eyes closed and she said dreamily, “I remember the days when Philip used to come courting. All those years ago…yet it could have been only yesterday.” She opened her eyes and looked at Bridget. “He was tall and handsome in those days. Full of pretty speeches and fancy ways. Ah, you should’ve seen my Philip back then, Bridget.”
Bridget smiled. “And you’re still in love after all these years.”
“Aye. Once a heart is set to the perfect tune, it’s like the nightingale—it’ll sing nothing but that one song its whole life.”
Now Bridget’s eyes misted. “You’re lucky.”
“Aye, that we are—Philip and I. Though it seems harder these days.” She looked around the little cottage, which had been greatly improved by Bridget’s labors. “The truth is, we’ve lived our three score years and more. Philip is tired.” She gazed toward the bed in the far corner of the room where her husband was still sleeping. Her eyes brimmed with love tinged with sadness.
“You take good care of him,” Bridget said gently.
The old woman simply shook her head.
“It was kind of you to agree to have me, adding to your troubles,” Bridget added.
“Lord, child, you’ve been nothing but a help. You’ve cleaned my house, weeded the garden, cooked that delicious stew yesterday. We haven’t been this well tended since my daughter married and left for Rouen. Still—” her gaze made a slow tour of the cozy room “—it makes a body feel kind of useless not to be able to keep things up anymore.”
Bridget was unsure how to respond. “I’m glad I could help,” she said finally.
Claudine sat up straighter and forced a smile. “Ah, child, you don’t need to be sitting here listening to a whining old woman. Go pretty yourself up for that young man of yours.”