Nunnery Brides: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

He was perturbed that she was arguing with him. “You were the daughter of a clan chief. Marrying you secured an alliance. Lady Brighton – for all of her obvious beauty – offers nothing to him.”

  Jordan just looked at her husband, shaking her head sadly. “Is it true, then?” she asked softly. “Is it true ye’ve forgotten what is in a young man’s heart? Atty will love who he loves, regardless of her station in life. I canna believe ye’d be so blind tae that. And so cruel.”

  “Cruel?”

  “That’s what I said – cruel. Are ye deaf?”

  William didn’t want to be lectured by his wife, and most assuredly not when she was actually making some sense. Taking his drink, he rose from the table and headed off into the crowd of men who were gathering over near the entrance. He could see Alec and Hector, Kevin and Apollo and Kieran. Men who would confirm that he was doing the right thing by sending Lady Brighton back to Coldingham where she belonged.

  And she belonged away from Patrick.

  Damn his wife for making sense. Damn her for explaining the situation as a matter of the heart and not of the head. Was she right? Was he so upswept in what he wanted for Patrick that he failed to see what Patrick wanted?

  He wondered.

  CHAPTER NINE

  He followed the sounds of the sniffling.

  The eastern end of the hall had an alcove used by the servants to prepare trenchers and plates meant for the table, and it also had a door that led out to the kitchen yard and gardens. Once outside that door, off to the left, was a garderobe built into the thickness of the wall. A well-like trench below it then went under the outer bailey, under the outer wall, and dumped everything into the moat. It was a clever feat of engineering.

  It was dark when Patrick emerged from the great hall and into the kitchen yard, and he immediately heard the sniffling. The part of the yard that he emerged into was actually a small grove of trees that grew inside the walled garden area, trees that bore apples and pears. On a warm day, they made wonderful shade and, therefore, there were several stone benches underneath the trees.

  Patrick could see a lone figure on the perimeter of the trees and that was where the sniffling was coming from. Small and shrouded by the shadows, he could see the silhouette trembling as it sniffled. He headed in that direction.

  Although Patrick really couldn’t see who was weeping in the darkness, the size and general shape told him that it was Brighton. When he drew closer and could confirm his suspicions, with the distant light from the kitchen’s fires casting just enough light to see by, he cleared his throat softly to announce his presence.

  “I cannot believe you have already eaten your fill and have come out here to wallow in gluttonous misery,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “Or did Penelope chase you away from the table?”

  Startled by his presence, Brighton very quickly wiped at her face, erasing the tears that had been so freely flowing. “N-nay,” she said. “I… I simply came to have a breath of fresh air. I-I have never supped in a great hall before. It was quite warm and overwhelming… so many people….”

  Patrick knew she was lying but he didn’t contradict her. “I see,” he said, moving closer to the stone bench she was sitting on. There was just enough room for him. “It is peaceful out here. May I sit with you?”

  Brighton didn’t say anything for a moment, nor did she look at him. “Y-you should be inside with your family.”

  “Yet I am not. May I sit?”

  She shrugged and he took it as permission. Planting his large body beside her, he didn’t look her in the face. At least, he tried not to. His attention was everywhere but her face because he knew the minute he looked at her, the situation would grow personal. Even just sitting with her, so close to her, he could feel it growing personal. As much as he had fought such a thing the night before, he didn’t feel much like fighting it now. He’d run from her the night before, hiding in his chamber like a frightened squire. But the truth was that he wasn’t a squire and he was attracted to her. God help him, he was. Perhaps that was why he was so upset with his father.

  He was willing to admit he might have a personal stake in all of this.

  Might….

  “I spoke with my father this afternoon about your situation, just as I said I would,” he said. “My father seems to think you will be better off returning to Coldingham. He is concerned that you are a ward of the church and therefore their property. He feels that mayhap the church is better suited to protect you from whatever trouble follows you.”

  That was fairly close to what William had told Brighton. She could hear, indeed, that the man had completely changed his son’s mind from what Patrick had been telling her all along.

  It will be dangerous to return to Coldingham.

  So now she was to be sent back from where she came. Sent back to those cold halls, with no Sister Acha to guide her, wearing rough woolen underwear and working in the gardens until her hands bled. Well, she didn’t want to do it. She didn’t want to go back. This taste of the outside world had turned her head completely and she didn’t want to return to a place where there was no love and no laughter.

  No Patrick.

  Her emotions were already running high and something inside of her suddenly snapped.

  “T-then take me back,” she hissed, standing up and moving away from him. “T-take me back and let me take my chances. Take these beautiful clothes away and do not let me become upswept in my reflection when I see how beautiful my hair has been braided or how lovely this dress is upon me. You should have never brought me here, Patrick de Wolfe. You should have left me on the road and let me escape back to Coldingham where I would have never known the joy and beauty of the outside world because now that I see it, I do not want to return to cold walls and even colder people!”

  She was yanking out her beautiful braid, mussing her hair up, sobbing as she spoke. Quickly, Patrick stood up, genuinely concerned with her tears. “I did not say that I felt that way,” he insisted, hoping she would calm and stop trying to ruin her lovely appearance. “I said that my father felt that way. I still feel the same way I have all along, Bridey. I will not take you back to Coldingham.”

  Brighton stopped pulling at her hair, her eyes wide with surprise as she gazed upon him. “Y-you will not?”

  He gazed into those red, tear-filled eyes. “Nay,” he said softly, his heart lurching at the intense emotion on her face. He could hardly breathe for the sight of it. “I am not exactly sure what I will do, but I will not return you. I swore to protect you and I intend to do that. My father… he is afraid. He is afraid that we are sticking our noses where they do not belong and we will incur the wrath of the church. I suspect we will return to Berwick on the morrow and then I will try to determine what will be best to do with you.”

  That wasn’t what Brighton had expected to hear. She’d expected apologies, excuses. But to hear that Patrick had not changed his mind filled her with both astonishment and gratitude. With a gasp, she pitched forward, catching his big hands and holding them so tightly that she nearly cut off his circulation.

  “T-then I shall not return?” she breathed. “Truly?”

  His large fingers wrapped around hers, small and warm things. “Truly,” he said quietly. “I am sorry my father upset you so. He should not have said anything to you until I had a chance to speak with you.”

  Brighton simply shook her head, at a loss for words for a moment. But she quickly recovered. “I-it is of no matter,” she assured him as he led her by the hands over to the bench and practically forced her to sit. “But what will happen now? Will your father not be angry if you disobey him?”

  Patrick was still holding her hands as he sat down beside her. In fact, he found himself caressing her flesh, loving the feel of it. Her small hands were calloused from work at the priory, but the flesh was nonetheless soft. He rather liked the feel of it, sending pinpricks of excitement racing through him.

  “My father trusts my instincts,” he said. “They have
never failed me. He will trust that I will do what is best for all of us.”

  That was an answer without really giving her much information. Brighton’s brow furrowed with some confusion. “W-what does that mean?” she asked. “Can I remain at Berwick?”

  He shrugged. “I do not see why not,” he said, realizing that she was starting to caress his fingers as well, mimicking his actions. “Do you want to?”

  She nodded quickly, before the words were even out of his mouth. “I-I do,” she said. “I know that your sisters are already chatelaines, but it is a very big place. Mayhap I could help with the children. There are so many of them and I know how to read and write. Mayhap I could teach them.”

  He smiled faintly, seeing the outline of her face in the weak light. There was such hope there. “That is a very good idea,” he said. “I will speak to my sisters and see what they think. I am sure they would like to have your companionship.”

  Her face lit up. “D-do you really think so?” she asked. “They are so kind. I have never known such kindness. You have all been so very kind. No one has ever shown such regard for me.”

  Patrick wasn’t entirely sure what to say to that. It seemed to him that the conversation was on the tipping point of him saying something incriminating, perhaps something to the effect of you are easy to be kind to. She could construe that all different ways and he would find himself with a lot of explaining to do. He didn’t want her to think that there was anything in his manner other than pure duty, pure courtesy. But looking into that lovely, doe-eyed face, it was difficult to remain detached.

  “Did the nuns at Coldingham beat you so severely, then?” he asked, trying to jest his way out of what could possibly become a tender moment. Romantic. “You make it sound as if no one has ever shown you an ounce of compassion.”

  She smiled and his heart began to beat faster, just as it always did when she smiled. He was becoming a slave to that smile.

  “W-when I was young, they were quick with a switch or a slap,” she admitted. “Fortunately, I learned quickly. I have not been switched or slapped in many years.”

  He grunted. “The Brides of Christ are brutes,” he muttered. “You can get more out of a man with encouragement than with fear. That is a lesson those nuns need to learn.”

  Brighton giggled. “Y-you can tell them so,” she said. “Then make sure you run away very quickly. Those switches are very fast when they swing them.”

  He grinned because she was. “They cannot catch me,” he insisted. “I take one stride for every three of theirs. They would have to run like the wind to catch me.”

  “A-are you brave enough to test that theory?”

  He shook his head without missing a beat. “Not me. I have no desire to be switched.”

  Brighton was rather enjoying the jesting mood. For a woman who had never flirted in her life, it seemed that she had somewhat of an innate ability because she squeezed his big hands tightly as she gave him a rather impish grin.

  “N-not to worry,” she said. “I will protect you from them. I will have my own switch and fight them off. Any man who would save me from reivers, I dare not permit the nuns at Coldingham to lash.”

  All of that resistance he’d fronted against possible romantic feelings was being summarily crushed by her expression and warm hands. Here they were, in the dark, alone, with only a hint of moonlight through the trees, and he was being foolish enough to resist showing the woman any kind of tenderness. She frightened him but she also intrigued him; he was resistant yet she continued to lure him in.

  He had no idea what to do.

  God’s Bones, what are you thinking, you fool? You have a royal appointment you are leaving for soon! You do not need this complication!

  Aye, his common sense screamed to him, that part of him that was professional and driven. He didn’t want to complicate something he’d worked very hard for. But as he looked at Brighton in the dim light, he began to realize that even if he were to leave her tomorrow, he would still think of her. He’d still have visions of a lady with enormous blue eyes and a rosebud mouth, a postulate who was half-Scots and half-Norse. A woman he’d sworn to protect yet a woman who had endeared herself to him very quickly. Too quickly, in fact. He had no idea how or why, but this woman was already under his skin and she didn’t even know it. She hadn’t even tried. Perhaps that’s why she was under his skin. It simply… happened.

  … was it fate?

  Patrick had always thought his fate was the halls of Westminster Palace, not a postulate from Coldingham. Everything he’d ever known, or ever expected, had been jolted by the lovely Lady Brighton.

  Now, as he gazed at the woman, he realized that she had said something to him and expected something of an answer. The smile on her face was fading, turning into a grimace as he stared at her, lost in thought, and refused to answer. He could see that she was afraid she’d been too forward or too silly in her statement. Gently, he lifted her hands, still wrapped around his, and kissed them.

  “I should be so fortunate to have such a protector, my lady,” he said softly. “I am grateful, Bridey.”

  Patrick watched as Brighton’s eyes widened at his kiss and she looked at her hands, where he’d kissed her, as if she could see his lip prints on her flesh. He rather liked the astonished look on her face. Before he could stop himself, his big head loomed over hers and he deposited the sweetest of kisses on her warm, soft cheek.

  “Now,” he said huskily, “shall we return inside to eat? I am famished.”

  Brighton was genuinely speechless. She stared at him, wide-eyed, her hand on her cheek where he had kissed her.

  “Y-you… y-you…,” she stammered. “Why did you do… that?”

  Her mad stuttering amused him. It made him feel powerful and in control. “Because I wanted to.”

  Brighton stared at him a moment longer before grabbing his face between her two small hands and planting a kiss on his lips that literally knocked him backwards. She came at him so forcefully, so unexpectedly, that he hadn’t been prepared for it and when she pulled back, looking at his now-astonished expression, she burst into gleeful giggles.

  “B-because I wanted to!” she said.

  Patrick couldn’t help it; he broke down into soft, deep laughter, rubbing at his lips where she’d nearly bruised him. “I would say so,” he said. “Are you always so impetuous?”

  “I-I do not know!”

  “Did you hurt your mouth?”

  He reached out, touching her chin and lower lip as if to inspect where she’d roughly hit him, but she shook her head, unable to stop giggling. Giddiness swept her, as she’d never been giddy in her life. Yet another new experience in a few days that had been full of such things, only she liked this one better than all the rest.

  “O-of course not,” she said. Then, she abruptly sobered, looking at him with a worried expression. “Did I hurt you?”

  He shook his head, giving her a half-grin because she was so excited about the kiss. “You could not hurt me if you tried,” he said softly. “But we will have to work on your technique if you plan to do that again.”

  As the giddiness faded a bit, uncertainty came to the forefront with the reality of what she’d done. Sweet Mary… she’d kissed a man! “I-I did not plan to do it in the first place,” she said. “D-did I offend you? I did not mean to. I do not know what came over me.”

  Patrick just chuckled, taking one of her hands and kissing it again. “You did not offend me.”

  “I-I have never done that before. Kissed anyone like that, I mean.”

  “I can tell.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Y-you can?” she gasped, now feeling mortified as the reality of what she’d done began to sink in. “I am so very sorry, Patrick. Please forgive me.”

  He shook his head, holding both of her hands tightly. “I kissed you first,” he said. “If anyone should ask forgiveness, it should be me.”

  Brighton wasn’t sure if that was an apology or an invitation for future
kisses, but one thing was certain – she’d liked it. She’d liked it a great deal.

  “Atty!”

  A shout came from the alcove door, abrupt and loud, and Patrick stood up, taking a few steps to see who it was. He could see Alec in the doorway.

  “I am here,” he said. “What is –?”

  “’Tis a night raid,” Alec said quickly. “Your father is already moving to gather the men. You must come.”

  Patrick’s brow furrowed but he was walking towards Alec with Brighton following close behind.

  “A night raid?” he repeated. “Where? What has happened?”

  Alec turned away from him and headed into the hall with Patrick on his heels. “It seems that the Scots have launched a night raid on Coldstream,” he said. “Several of the villagers have come here, injured and terrified. They have large grain stores meant for market and it seems as if the Scots have gone after it. A soldier from Pelinom Castle is also at the gatehouse. Your father is going there now to speak with him.”

  Patrick was quickly shifting into battle mode. “Pelinom is north of Coldstream by a couple of miles,” he said. “That is a fairly large castle, de Velt men. Why have they come to us for help?”

  Alec shook his head. “I do not know,” he said. “But your father wants us all mounted and ready to ride.”

  Patrick didn’t hesitate. He charged after Alec on his way to gear up for battle but he hadn’t taken five steps when he suddenly remembered Brighton. Swiftly, he turned to her and she nearly plowed into him from behind. He grasped her by the arms to steady her.

  “You will remain here with my mother,” he said steadily. “She will tend you until I return.”

  Brighton simply nodded, perhaps a bit stunned by what was happening. Up until three days ago, she’d never been around a battle in her life. Now, Patrick was heading off to another one. There was tension in the air; it was frightening. Perhaps this was something about the outside world that she didn’t like at all. But before she could say anything to him, a word of blessing for his safety, he turned away from her and stormed from the great hall.