Come to Me

by Tessa Fairfax

  He regarded her. “That isn’t why you ran away.”

  She stiffened, her fists balling at her sides. Small white fists that couldn’t hurt a fly but instead prompted potent feelings of protectiveness in him. “I cannot tolerate any more of this,” she said quietly. “I beg of you, release me from this endeavor.”

  He stood absolutely rigid, ready to burst at the seams, only a few threads of restraint holding him together. Call a sparrow a sparrow. She wanted to be free of him.

  “I think not,” he ground out.

  “You’ve won her. I don’t wish to be a part of this charade any longer. I have real work to do ere I depart for the convent, and I can’t do it spending all my time playing go-between.”

  “Who is going to do all this toil once you’re gone? Have you ever wondered? Why is it always you who must do everything?”

  Her luminous eyes reddened, and her chin wobbled. He bit the inside of his cheek. Dear God, anything but tears. Female waterworks was the one thing he could never hope to battle and win. His own mother’s weeping at his wife’s death had nearly broken him.

  Bridget sucked in an uneven breath. “You must stand up and face her on your own.”

  His choler soared. Was she suggesting he was a coward in his dealings with his future bride? His fist clenched tighter.

  “Please.” Her bottom lip quivered. “Release me from my assignment.”

  But he had hardened himself against her. She wanted nothing more to do with him, and that knowledge clotted his veins and froze his brain. He would punish her.

  “Nay. I shall tell you when your task is over, not the other way round. On the morrow, we travel to the abbey for Lefrid’s requiem. When we return, you will resume your position as my scribe and interpreter.”

  “You are being unreasonable.”

  “I am your lord.”

  Her entire form cried mutiny, from the clamped lips to the clenched fists, down to her wide-planted feet. The tan freckles sprayed across her nose blazed out in strong relief against the redness of her face.

  He spun and tramped away from her.

  She was the one thwarting her lord’s command. She was the one being unreasonable.

  Why, then, was he the one losing his grip?

  Lady Aislinn had confided to Bridget that she loved him. It was what he’d aimed for.

  So, why did it suddenly seem as if everything important was slipping through his fingers?

  Chapter Twenty

  The small procession to the abbey for Brother Lefrid’s requiem slowly wended its way down the main road from Shyleburgh Keep, then across the burn and through the village. A leaden sky and chill air had supplanted the sunshine and heat of the previous day, and now the mournful tolling from the bell tower clanged throughout the moors and fells.

  Bridget shivered in her cloak.

  People had come out to view their progress, and a dog or two barked with frustrated menace. The spectators bowed or otherwise demonstrated the customary respect, and yet an air of disquiet pervaded. She felt it to the bottom of her toes. Many folk, she was well aware, still viewed their Norman overlords as interlopers, violators. It was hoped that the union betwixt the old ruling lines and the new would smooth matters over and bring peace and prosperity back to the turbulent land.

  One more reason to get Aislinn and the earl wed quickly.

  She watched them ride side-by-side, looking for all the world like shy young lovers. Aislinn was clad in a sweeping gown of sapphire velvet and a cream-colored cloak lined with fox fur. Beneath the hood, her sister wore a glittering circlet of copper on her dark tresses, and her hands were gloved in the softest white kidskin, her feet booted in glossy calf leather. It was gorgeous clothing designed to enhance her beauty in the extreme, to proclaim her as the future countess, and to emphasize her role as Lady of the Shire while she paraded before the local inhabitants.

  Today, it all served to make Bridget’s mouth water with longing. She brushed her fingers over her thigh, feeling the slightly scratchy, stiff material of her own gown and imagining it felt smooth and silken instead.

  Sweet Holy Mother! She pinched her lips together as if tasting the sourest of grapes. The desire to wear fine clothing hadn’t nagged her in years. Her simple woolen sack of a gown was easy to don and doff, easy to take in or let out as her body changed. It didn’t draw attention or beautify her in any way, but was stout and serviceable. Why did she yearn to wear fine textiles against her skin now?

  Her shoulders slumped. She knew why. The way the earl looked at her sister, as if he would devour every inch of her… She wanted him to look at her like that. She wanted him to hold her fingers like that and assist her onto her palfrey with such gentlemanly solicitude.

  Nay, she didn’t! She wanted the cloister with its respect for women, its learning, and its purifying rituals. Its lack of confusing, tumultuous emotions. Her father had promised her to them, and she wouldn’t go back on a promise.

  Besides, raiment like Aislinn’s would never look as spectacular on her as it did on her achingly lovely sister. She was the ideal of feminine beauty. Fashionable attire endeavored to enhance that ideal. Bridget’s short and sturdy frame would not do it justice.

  In penance for her flight of envy, she launched into a fervent rosary. And yet, with every prayer she uttered, that dismal church bell tolled a solemn march over her heart.

  As the abbey gates came into view, her sister fell back in the line of riders to plod beside her. They were now well away from Earl FitzHenri and Sir Albert who led the column, and Karlan and Father Usrich who followed them. Several guardsmen finished up the rear of the procession, but they were not within hearing distance.

  Aislinn appeared to be in a cloud of happy reverie, her brow soft, her smile serene as her placid palfrey trod along, whereas Bridget dwelled in a nightmare—admittedly one of her own making, but hellish all the same.

  She hadn’t slept a wink the night before, instead fretting over what she should do, now that she had recognized her own shameful weakness. Why had the earl refused to release her? It was too difficult to stand by and watch all this. The idea of setting off to the cloister in Cornwall on her own sorely tempted her, but she knew that would be foolish. Not only would it put her in serious peril, it would endanger anyone who sought to go after her.

  Because surely, someone would. Her father, mayhap. Or even the earl. Or he might just say good riddance and leave her to the hazards of the journey. She wanted to believe he would be concerned and go after her, but in truth, he would probably just see it as his scribe abandoning her post. He would never see the gesture for what it truly was.

  Thank the Lord.

  She gritted her teeth. How she could possibly feel this way about such a man was too confounding. She couldn’t understand why she yearned for him as she did. He spoke so demandingly toward her…with no regard for her wants or wishes. She should be furious with him, not staring at his mouth, her body tingling, as he ordered her about.

  Not feeling this racing of her pulse and this exquisite shivering at the mere prospect of being near him.

  Her sister broke the silence. “I didn’t tell you, Bridgie. My lord tried to kiss me the other day.”

  Bridget regarded her sister cautiously. “What did you do?”

  “He surprised me, and I didn’t like it. I’m ashamed to say it now, but I slapped him. I fear I’ve put him off kissing me ever again.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that. He is a man, after all. They adore that sort of thing.” And you do, as well! She shook her head to fend off that crazy voice.

  “Do you think he will kiss me tonight? I think I would like that. As long as it’s not too”—she wrinkled her nose—“wet. I wouldn’t like that.”

  Desire’s fingers curled in Bridget’s belly at the memory of how the man had kissed the daylights out of her in the monks’ orchard. He’d been forceful and unrelenting about it, not giving her quarter in his pursuit. The want in that kiss had been like nothing she�
�d ever experienced, or even dreamed of, and her own body had responded by flaring to life. As it did now, just thinking about it.

  But would Aislinn appreciate the way he kissed? She was so innocent, so gentle and quiet. Bridget could show him how to—

  Sweet St. Hilda. What was she thinking? She didn’t need to tutor him on how to kiss. Kissing Grégoire FitzHenri was the very last thing he required of her, or that she should want.

  But it was the only thing she could think about the entire rest of the way to the abbey.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “This procession was a bad idea,” Grégoire remarked discreetly to Albert as the party filed into the abbey courtyard and began to dismount. They were late. The Requiem had begun, and the monks’ chansons resounded everywhere around them. The balmy odor of incense pervaded.

  “Verily?” Albert handed their reins to Sandy.

  “It took us overlong to arrive.” He and Bridget could have made it here in half the time on his mount. Yet, when Oelwine had asked him to carry Aislinn and Usrich and even the surly clerk along, it had seemed feasible. “Even with Oelwine and Drogo remaining behind to guard the keep, I should constrain travel outside the fortress to only the shortest distances. ’Tisn’t safe.”

  While he assisted Lady Aislinn down from her palfrey, Albert did the same with Lady Bridget. He caught the quick glance Bridget sent his way as Albert’s hands found her waist and lifted her down.

  Damn, if his gut didn’t clench at seeing another man’s—especially that man’s—paws on her. All his humors boiled together in his ears. Possessiveness slammed through him. Mine, a voice inside him roared. Mine.

  Bridget quickly averted her eyes, her face white, her expression strained.

  “My lord?” came a tender voice in front of him.

  He wrenched his attention from Bridget to the damsel he planned to wed. She was smiling mildly up at him, her hands lingering upon his shoulders after he’d assisted her down. This kind, innocent maiden did not deserve his inattention, nor his wandering eye. He could not do to her what had been done to him. He would not.

  He released his grip from her waist, aware that he’d been clamping his fingers into her. He stepped briskly back.

  As the two ladies came together and straightened their clothing, Albert joined him at his side. For an instant, he could only glare at his second with the gravest animosity, but quickly schooled his undeserved ire.

  “Methinks there be no cause for concern,” Albert said, returning to the subject they’d spoken of earlier. “We’re well fortified here. You’ve taken a host of guardsmen along.”

  Grégoire forced his attention back to the matter at hand. Their continued safety required his full focus. Not ridiculous concern over women, and who belonged to whom. “Something wasn’t right in the village,” he said.

  Albert nodded. “A certain sentiment was in evidence there, I agree. But I credit it to discomfort with a new lord. They were examining you. They were observing their lady, judging her temperament about the impending union.”

  “Mayhap. But he’s out there, Black Hand. I can feel him lurking in the shadows.”

  “You don’t think he has made it to Scotland?”

  “Who would allow it? He has no boats to go by sea. Earl Gospatric would not let him pass through Cumbria.”

  “He is cunning. He would find a way.”

  “But he is unfamiliar with the wilderness. Nay, I say he bides nigh.” Grégoire scratched his jaw, watching the two ladies enter the sanctuary arm in arm.

  Albert began, “Your visit to the village representative—”

  “Is long overdue. On our return, I will stop and see the reeve. You proceed on with two of the guards and triple the patrol in the shire.”

  “You will need Lady Bridget with you.”

  He clamped his jaw. “Aye.”

  His eyes went to where the sisters had gone into the church. He needed her to translate for him, and translate for him she would, by God. But that was all, as much as his inner self seemed to hope for more. He was making good progress on winning Lady Aislinn, and he wasn’t about to endanger that now.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “You don’t like him.”

  Grégoire rode side by side with Bridget, he on Phoenix, she on her small palfrey, which put her much closer to the ground than he.

  When he looked over at her, he saw the top of her uncovered head. She never wore a veil. The part in her hair was severe, straight as a lance, but had a softness to it where the thick, tawny locks met her pale scalp. As much as she tried to bind her hair, strands always wandered free of the plait arrowing down her back, silky strands that he had been itching to feel in his fingers for days.

  At least viewing the top of her head was better than staring at her comely backside while she rode in front of him. That’s what he’d been doing all the way from the reeve’s house, unable to keep his eyes off the very spot where the point of her long braid tapped against her bottom cleft with every step of her mount. Urging his horse alongside hers helped to stifle an unwelcome, burgeoning arousal.

  Only a monster would find himself aroused by the sister of his intended, an unadorned nun, a woman who wished to live a chaste life of contemplation. A woman who had begged him to release her from duty. He would deny his unruly nature, even if it killed him.

  “You don’t like Dunstan the Reeve,” he repeated when she failed to respond.

  She didn’t turn his way, concentrating on maintaining her seat, her discomfort around horses and riding evident from her hands tangled with the reins and knotted in the animal’s mane. “How can you tell?”

  “’Twas written in every move you made back there.” Indeed, she’d barely given the man a glance the entire time they bided in his house. The reeve had spoken Norman well enough that her translation hadn’t been required.

  Her knuckles whitened even more, raising his sympathy. But there was no way he was going to bring her up with him on his mount, not even to ease her dislike of riding. Not while he burned for her the way he did.

  “Nay, I don’t like him. But my feelings have no place in such matters.”

  “I beg to differ. I, for one, place great value on your perspective.”

  She turned to him. “Verily?”

  He couldn’t help chuckling at her surprised look. “You arrive at your conclusions after careful consideration. ’Tis an honorable, intelligent approach.”

  “Are you saying I’m intelligent?” That pink mouth of hers hung open.

  “As any Cluny sage, I warrant.” Her face colored with shy pleasure. Much better than her scolding and shouting in the garden last night. He caught himself staring and cleared his throat. “Now tell me what you truly think of Dunstan the Reeve.”

  She faced forward once more after shooting him a suspicious glance, and shrugged. “He is unlearned and avaricious, which together are very dangerous traits. The folk at the keep distrust him sorely. However, the villagers continue to elect him as their overseer. Some think he bribes them. Or falsifies the tally.”

  He made a mental note to speak with some villagers without the reeve present. He could bring Bridget along—

  He cut off the thought. Damnation. Why was he constantly finding ways to keep the woman at his side? He must start moving on without her. He hated to admit it, but she’d been right about that last night.

  What he felt for her was just an inappropriate case of lust. He was strong enough to overcome that. And more pertinent, critical matters required his attention.

  “I noted he displays those tattoos of his without reservation.” The inky blue serpents coiling up his arms harkened back to proud Saxon England. Normans did not subscribe to mutilating their skin in that fashion. That Dunstan wore them prominently rather than concealed them as many Englishmen did these days communicated a measure of silent mutiny.

  “I saw that as well. He is a fool to court suspicion like that.”

  “But you know naught of his involvement
with open rebellion?”

  “I do not, but that doesn’t mean he’s guiltless. Best to watch him.”

  “Noted. Tell me what you think of the others we met today.”

  She went on to give her assessments of the elders he’d rounded up—the hayward, the woodward, the tithing leaders who all ensured the villeins met their labor requirements to him. She knew many of them by face and name, and though they’d remained wary of him during the visit, they’d been congenial with her, treating her as their Lady. He liked seeing that. It lent calm and stability to things. She was good with the people.

  Would he be able to say the same about Lady Aislinn? Bridget would depart soon, and his wife would be their mistress. How did she get along with them?

  No matter. It would have to work…even though he was starting to have a niggling feeling that, perhaps, a grave error was being made.

  They rode on in silence for a time. As they passed the last thatched hut of the village, the broad fell beneath Shyleburgh Keep squatted ahead of them. As they were so near home, he sent the two guards on ahead.

  He heard a strangled noise. When he looked over, Bridget cleared her throat. “My sister… She wishes for you to kiss her again.”

  His spine straightened. They were going to speak of kissing?

  What was he to say on that subject?

  Her gaze whipped over to him and back. “She told me about your foolish attempt the other day.”

  Foolish attempt? His teeth locked. He should throttle her for that impertinence.

  “She is sorry she struck you, and hopes you will try again soon.”

  His jaw slackened. “And you are sharing this because…?”

  “You want me to coach you through this courtship, do you not?”

  That sounded a jot insulting. “Now see here, wench—”

  She thumped her fists against her mount’s nape, growling in some form of frustration. “How can you be so utterly lacking in your understanding of women? How? You have a reputation for womanizing. The minstrels said that serf and freewomen, alike, have fallen victim to your seductions. But you don’t even know how to kiss a damsel.”