by Ana Seymour
His hands loosened their hold around Bridget, then, like a great tree, he toppled slowly to the ground.
Ranulf hardly gave him a glance as he dropped down to lift Bridget from where she’d fallen. “Are you all right, sweetheart?” he cried.
She lay back in his arms, suddenly exhausted, and whispered, “Aye.”
Ranulf looked across the clearing to be sure that Jean needed no help with the three guards. Then he looked over his shoulder at Guise. When Ranulf had seen the sheriff’s big fingers move around Bridget’s slender neck, he hadn’t bothered to try anything with finesse. He’d simply lunged at the big man’s chest, and from all appearances the blow had been lethal.
Turning back to Bridget, he lifted her tenderly so that her head was against his cheek. “You may have saved both our lives, my fierce angel,” he told her.
She shook her head. “Is he—?”
“Aye, dead,” Ranulf confirmed. “But what about the baron?”
She nodded weakly toward the still-burning building.
“Inside,” she said.
Ranulf let out a long breath and said, “So be it.”
“The baron was my mother’s cousin,” she said, struggling to sit up. “And, Ranulf, Alois has been in league with him. For years. And—”
“Shh, sweetheart,” he said, rocking her in his arms. “We’ll sort it all out in time. For now it’s enough that I’ve found my brother and you’re safe. Nothing else matters.”
Chapter Seventeen
Bridget picked up another torn habit from the pile on the floor and stabbed her needle angrily into the thick linen. “I don’t want Darmaux Castle or any of the rest of it,” she said. “Everything I need is here inside the abbey.” She gestured around the kitchen. “I don’t hear you desirous of making any changes, Brother Francis.”
Francis sat back on the bench with a sigh. “My course in life is set, child, and, aye, I’m content here now that Brother Alois has been removed and sent to Rome and Ebert has become abbot. But life has so much more to offer you. You’re a noblewoman now, an heiress. You’d be a fine match for Ranulf, if that’s what you should choose.”
Bridget gave a little sniff of disdain. “I’m not a whit different than I was yesterday.”
“Nay, but you have more money,” Francis pointed out with a smile.
“I don’t want it,” she said again.
Francis tried another tack. “Bridget, now that everything has come out about the black metal and Alois’s bargain, the bishopric has become involved in the operation of the abbey again. Soon we’ll have one of the bishop’s representatives moving in to check out our operation, perhaps even the bishop himself.”
“Let them come. I’ll just hide myself away like I’ve always done.”
“There’s been enough hiding at St. Gabriel,” Francis said gravely. “I believe all this is the Lord’s way of telling us to turn to more holy paths.”
“Do you think the bishop will forbid the tinkerings?” she asked in alarm.
“Nay, though there will never be another blast fire at St. Gabriel.”
“Nor anywhere else, I trust,” Bridget added. “’Tis nothing that will make the world a better place.”
“But things will be different here, Bridget. No more secrets. We can’t hide you any longer, and it’s time you took your rightful place in the world.”
Bridget’s eyes glistened as she looked over at the monk. “I don’t want to leave, Francis. I warrant I’ve been a lot happier here than my cousin ever was with all his estates. My mother was right to run away from him.”
“But your mother was running away to the man she loved.”
Bridget’s needle froze halfway to the next stitch. “To my father,” she said slowly.
“Aye.”
She let her hands fall into her lap. “No more secrets, you said, Francis. Doesn’t that mean that it’s finally time for you to tell me about my father?”
Francis hesitated so long that Bridget thought that once again she’d be denied the knowledge she sought, but then he said slowly. “Your father was one of us, Bridget. He was one of the White Monks of St. Gabriel.”
The room seemed to move. She grasped the edge of the fireplace to keep her balance. “A monk?” she gasped. “But he…he couldn’t be. Monks can’t—” She faltered for the word. “How could he?” she ended.
Francis’s eyes were wise. “He could because, besides being a monk, he was a human being, just as we all are. When Charlotte began coming here to escape from her cousin’s abuses, she and Brother Renault fell in love, just as young people have been falling in love since the beginning of time.”
“But the Rule…” she stuttered. “The vows…”
“Aye, the Rule, the vows,” Francis agreed. “Brother Renault suffered for his transgressions, but in the end, I think he knew that he had God’s forgiveness.”
“They were truly in love?” Bridget asked wistfully.
Francis nodded. “More than any two people I’ve ever known. He asked to be released from his vows, and in view of your mother’s condition, Brother Josef gave him a dispensation and set him free. They were married the same day.”
“They were married?” Bridget felt a flood of joy. Somehow she had always imagined that her parents had been star-crossed lovers who had never been able to swear to their love in any kind of ceremony.
“Aye. ’Twas here in the church. We all attended.” Francis gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Oh, I imagine the church itself would never have sanctioned any of it, but it didn’t matter, because by that time we knew that your mother was dying, and Renault knew it, too.”
For some reason she couldn’t understand, she was afraid to ask the next question, but she forced herself. “What happened to him?”
Francis looked away. “You must understand, child. Renault knew that as a disgraced monk he would most likely not be allowed to raise you. One of his very last deeds was to ask the rest of us to care for you and keep you safe. He loved you very much. He agonized over leaving you, but he decided it would be the best thing for you.”
“And then what happened?” she asked softly.
“And then he went to be with his Charlotte, for he said that there would never be a moment of joy in an earthly life without her.”
Bridget sat in silence for a long moment. Suicide was a mortal sin, even when the person no longer had a reason to live. Her father had died alone and unshriven. “Do you think that they are together?” she asked, her voice breaking.
“Aye, child, I do, for I believe in a loving God. He’s the one who allowed your parents to love each other, and I can’t believe that he gave them that gift only to take it away from them for eternity.”
She looked up, the tears rolling down her face, and reached for Francis’s hand. “Thank you,” she said.
Francis sniffed back some tears of his own and gave her hand a squeeze. Then he let it go and sat back, since the touch was against the Rule.
Ranulf shook his head as Pierre offered the pitcher of ale to refill his mug. “Nay, Dragon and I must be leaving,” he said, “but I thank you warmly for your hospitality and more than I can say for my brother’s life.”
He stood and pushed back his bench. The spacious main room of the Courmier farmhouse looked cramped with the two English knights, the six strapping Courmiers and the bulky blacksmith all crowded into it. Camille Courmier had given up and retired to her room.
Pierre nodded. “We have to thank you, as well, for helping to rid us of a corrupt sheriff and a cruel overlord.”
“Beauville will be a different place in the future,” Edmund added, rising next to his brother.
“Aye, especially with our new sheriff,” Pierre said, clapping Jean on the shoulder.
“Aye, I intend to crack down on all the rowdy bachelors in town and see that they get settled with proper wives,” Jean joked.
Facing danger together had forged a bond among the nine men and the goodbyes were heartfelt, but finall
y Ranulf and Edmund were mounted on their horses and headed along the road to St. Gabriel.
“Does that finish up our business here?” Edmund asked. “We can be on our way to Lyons-bridge?” He said the words casually, but gave a sideways glance at his brother out of the corner of his eyes.
“I suppose,” Ranulf answered with a scowl.
“Or was there anything else to be taken care of?” Edmund asked with feigned innocence.
“If you mean Bridget, she doesn’t want me.”
“Ah, forgive me. Somewhere along the line I missed the account of your meeting with her and, you know, the part where you told her that you loved her and that you wanted to spend the rest of your life with her because she was the only woman who has ever put that cowlike look in your eyes, with the possible exception of Diana, who, by the by, is mine. I missed that part,” he ended.
Ranulf turned his head in astonishment. “You knew about my feelings for Diana?”
“Brother, for a smart man, you were ever a bit dim on the subject of women. All Lyonsbridge knew of your supposed feelings for Diana. But they weren’t love. Think about it—if I had never come back, would you change your Bridget for Diana?”
“Not for an hour,” he said immediately. Even the idea was preposterous. There was no comparison. Diana was beautiful, granted, but she was no more real to him than some kind of painting he could admire from afar. Whereas Bridget was more real than any woman he’d ever known. She was spirited and warm, innocent yet wise. She was everything he’d ever imagined in a partner. “Not for an instant,” he said softly.
“So, it’s too bad that even after hearing all these wonderful sentiments on your part, the heartless woman turned you down.”
“I, well, she didn’t turn me down, exactly.”
“Spurned you, then. Probably had you begging on your knees, too. Women are cruel that way.”
Ranulf’s grin was sheepish. “You know very well that I’ve not broached the subject.”
“Ah, good. I always expect my women to be mind readers, as well. I think it only fair since their lovely bodies give them such an advantage over us oafish males.”
Ranulf shook his head. “She says that all she wants is to settle back into life at the abbey and that she wishes none of us had ever come here.”
Edmund stared at the dark road ahead of them. Finally he said, “I don’t know why it’s the little brother in our family who has to be giving all the advice, but I’ll take on the task one more time. Women need to be told, Ran. They need to be loved and cajoled and courted and, above all, they need to be told.”
They rode in silence for several minutes. Finally Ranulf said, “So you think I should tell her.”
Edmund gave an exaggerated sigh. “Aye, brother, I do.”
Once again the unaccustomed sound of a knock jolted her upright. She’d been lying in her bed for the past hour, but sleep would not come. Francis’s story of her parents’ love unto death and beyond kept running through her mind, mixed with unwanted thoughts of her encounter with Ranulf, here in this very bed.
She padded across the room in her bare feet and opened the door. Of course, it had to be him.
“Is it too late?” he asked, looking inside at the dark room. “I’m sorry, you were already sleeping.”
She shook her head and stood back to allow him to enter. Then she moved to the bed and lit a candle. “Nay,” she said. “Have you come to say goodbye? I thought you and your brother weren’t leaving until morning.”
He stepped into the room and carefully closed the door behind him. “I didn’t come to say goodbye.”
“Oh,” she said. Now that the room was lit she felt a little self-conscious wearing only her thin shift. She sat on the bed and pulled the blanket up around her like a shawl.
“Are you cold?”
She shook her head.
He cleared his throat.
“What did you come for?” she asked finally.
He looked at her then with the particular look that told her exactly what he had come for, but she steeled herself to resist both the look and the memory it invoked.
“I came to tell you a story,” he said, surprising her.
“At this hour?”
“Aye. The telling couldn’t wait.”
“Is it a long story?” she asked with a brief smile. She tucked her legs up underneath her on the bed and sat back, making herself comfortable, ready to listen.
Ranulf appeared to relax, also, as he grabbed her little stool and drew it up close to her cot. “Not too long. I was remembering that you liked to read stories in that library of yours.”
Her voice grew soft. “Tales of adventure,” she agreed. “Of knights and ladies.”
“Tales of love,” he added.
She nodded.
“Aye, I was remembering that you liked them, so I thought to myself, I’m going to tell Bridget a tale of a knight and the lady he loved.”
“This may not be the time—”
He raised his hand. “It won’t take long, I promise I’ll skip all the once-upon-a-time stuff and just get to the part where the knight falls in love.”
Bridget found herself focusing on the play of his smile around his lips as he talked. She gave herself a little shake and forced herself to pay attention. “The knight falls in love,” she repeated.
“He thinks it’s love,” he amended. “But it’s really not.”
“Why not?”
“Because this lady actually belongs to someone else, and the only reason the knight thinks he loves her is because he’s never found a woman he could love for himself.”
Bridget leaned back against the wall.
“Don’t fall asleep on me, now,” Ranulf said. “I’m just getting to the good part.”
“I’m not falling asleep,” she said, working to keep her voice even when her entire insides seemed to be quaking.
“So then this knight, who’d always thought himself in love but never really had been, journeys to—” he paused “—a far-off land.”
Bridget smiled. “To a magnificent castle?”
“Mmm…let’s say to a magical place. And there he met a mysterious angel who saved his life.”
“But he couldn’t fall in love with an angel,” Bridget said. “Because angels don’t really live on earth.”
“Ah, you’re right. So let’s say that the knight didn’t know that it wasn’t possible to fall in love with an angel, so he did anyway.”
“Oh, dear. The poor knight.”
“Exactly. For a long time he was rather miserable about it.”
“And then what happened?” She was holding her hands clasped so tightly that the knuckles had grown white. He pulled his stool closer to the bed and reached out to gently separate them with his own hands.
“Then he turned her into a real woman,” he said. His voice had grown hoarse.
“The knight did that?”
“Well, you see, it turns out that she actually was a real woman right from the start, so it all worked out.”
“It did?”
He kicked the stool backward and moved to the bed, gathering her into his arms. “Aye,” he said. “It did. It will.”
Then his mouth sought hers in a hungry kiss. “I love you, Bridget the angel,” he murmured. “And I never want to be without you again. I don’t care if we live at Lyonsbridge or Darmaux or St. Gabriel or in a cave somewhere. I want you by my side, and I want to make love to you every night and make lots of little baby angels with you.”
Bridget laughed happily. “Baby angels?”
“Aye.” He kissed her again, then let his hands caress her through the thin cloth of her shift. “Do you remember how it’s done?”
“I’m not sure.” She stretched to whisper directly into his ear, “You may have to give me another lesson.”
“That’s what I was hoping.” Neither one had patience for lingering. It seemed as if his declaration had released a need that was only going to be filled when their bodie
s were merged. Clothes scattered and kisses turned to sighs and then shudders as they moved together in perfect union.
When it was over, they lay entwined, their heads side by side on a single pillow, staring into each other’s eyes from just inches apart.
“You didn’t finish the story,” Bridget whispered.
“You’ve left me little energy for storytelling, sweetheart,” he complained jokingly.
She smiled. “But I want to know what happened.”
“To the knight and his angel?”
“Aye.”
In the flickering candlelight, his blue eyes were brimming with love as he grinned and said, “Why, sweetheart, I thought you knew the ending. The knight and his angel lived happily ever after.” Then he kissed her softly and rolled her back into his arms.
ISBN: 978-1-4603-5943-3
MAID OF MIDNIGHT
Copyright © 2000 by Mary Bracho
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
Visit us at www.eHarlequin.com