Come to Me

by Tessa Fairfax

  He scowled. “I know how to kiss.”

  “Nay, you don’t.”

  “You didn’t have any objections with the way I kissed you.”

  Circles of red blotched her cheeks. Her jaw was rigid. “Aislinn wants you to kiss her again, but you are so arrogant and blind, I fear you will ruin everything. Holy martyred virgins, you are such an oaf!”

  He’d had enough. Of her mutiny. Of her insults. Of her speaking of kissing.

  Reaching down for her mount’s halter, he yanked both animals to a halt. He kicked free of the stirrups, swung his leg over, and dismounted.

  “What are you doing?” She kicked furiously, trying to urge her palfrey out of his way as he pushed Phoenix aside and stalked toward her.

  He didn’t know exactly what he was going to do—a churning fog, a primitive instinct of some sort, crammed his brain—but he reached up, took her by the upper arms, and pulled her down beside him.

  “Let me go,” she cried. She fought him, but her efforts were like a buzzing fly against his superior strength. He caged her with his body against her palfrey’s flank, making the animal prance. But he placed both hands on the saddle and held the small beast steady.

  He wanted her to stop. Stop talking about coaching and wooing and kissing, damn it. If only he could press her close, shut her mouth…

  He trapped her there between his arms, her back against the horse, her front against him, her wild-blossom scent leeching into his blood. Damnation, he was hard as a rock. Need pulsated through his entire body. Had he ever wanted a woman as much as this?

  “What are you doing?” she cried up at him, her eyes ablaze.

  He held himself granite-like, pressing his arousal into her soft belly. He wanted like hell to grind deep, but he controlled himself. It nearly killed him, but he was no beast of the wild.

  “Are you afraid of me?” he asked, his voice hoarse. If she was, he’d stop this moment, set her away from him. Though it would surely rip him apart.

  “I’m not afraid of you. But you must understand, this sort of thing will frighten my sister. Into retreat.”

  He tore his attention from his body pressed against hers. What was she saying about her sister? His brain was so bewitched… Something about coaching him in kissing.

  He thought back. “Of course. I mustn’t frighten her. With my ardor.”

  Bridget looked relieved. “Exactly.”

  He moved closer still to her. “Well, then. Show me how I should kiss her. Show me.”

  He hadn’t intended to do anything like this. Certainly, he had no plans to ravish anyone. But he was unable to stop himself. He bent his head and took her lips, the way he’d been needing to since that first meeting outside the abbey.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Bridget’s knees melted right out from under her. She should be fighting him, condemning him. Instead, she clutched desperately at him, silently begging him to kiss her and no one else.

  He wore one of those thick quilted gambesons that provided no purchase, so her hands scrabbled wildly. His arms caught her round the waist, holding her so tightly she couldn’t breathe. But she didn’t need air to breathe. His kiss was sustenance enough.

  That scratchy, salty, voracious conquering of her mouth that she’d been yearning so desperately for, since that first morning. It fed her, nourished her. She wanted more. But he left her mouth too soon, swiping a damp trail with his tongue over her jaw and back to her ear, where his hot breath scalded and aroused.

  He flicked at the opening of her ear, weakening her legs even more. Everywhere, her skin tingled as if embers were sparking into fire. Her head fell back, and his greedy lips tumbled their way down her neck. He lifted her high to reach where he needed.

  The manliest part of him, fiery like a branding iron, dug into her hip, so close to her woman’s core. The knowledge that she’d done that to him thrilled her. She had been around enough animals to know males became aroused when they were sexually interested. And to know he was sexually interested in her—

  Do not lose yourself in baser needs, a voice within her cautioned, too entrenched to be forgotten. He will only hurt you.

  Her air clogged in her throat.

  Aislinn loves him, the voice cautioned, too strong to be ignored.

  His mouth was in her hair. The tips of her breasts flamed with want. She could feel the hard points of them pushing through her gown. At least his thick gambeson prevented him from knowing the shameful fact.

  “Wait,” she whispered, battling to catch her wits, pushing against his arms. “Wait. This, I know will frighten Aislinn.”

  “But it doesn’t frighten you,” he whispered in her ear.

  Her mind went still. ’Twas true, he didn’t frighten her. This didn’t frighten her. She liked it. She liked him, trusted him. And she wanted to know just where this…activity…could lead.

  But it mattered not how she felt about it. She was supposed to be showing him how to kiss Aislinn.

  “I feel your desire,” he said, his breath rasping at her temple. “Your breasts yearn for my touch.”

  Her skin almost exploded from her bones. She wanted to be mortified that her body reacted without her will, but she wasn’t. Still, this was going too far. She pushed at him again, though her fingers instinctively clasped those granite, virile arms at the same time. If only they were hers to hold her forever…

  “You cannot say that to Aislinn. Or do this sort of thing. You must show more restraint with her.”

  “I like that I don’t have to show restraint with you.” He tugged her back to him, his hands round her waist, his fingers dangerously close to the undersides of her breasts. Then, as he kissed her lips, his warm palm covered a soft mound, and his thumb brushed one desperate tip.

  A moan escaped her as her body constricted with longing.

  With monumental effort, she shoved at him. “If you don’t curb this wickedness, ’twill be a long time ere she goes to you willingly.”

  As if someone had splashed a bucket of cold water over them both, he stilled, dragging his lips from her, slackening his embrace. His eyes were almost black, his chest heaving as he stared down at her.

  The enormity of what had just happened, what she’d discovered—about him…about herself—hit her. She feared that her wantonness, this aching want in her marrow, could not be stopped with all the prayers in the world. She should be ashamed. But instead of horror, what she’d felt when his thick rod prodded her, seeking her, was excitement and…hope.

  Merciful saints, would the Martyred Virgins still accept her?

  She stepped back from him. That he let her go so willingly sent her heart plummeting to her toes. Why did he not reach for her again? A look of anger masked his face like a mummer’s costume. Did shame besiege him, too?

  But then—something snagged his attention over her shoulder. His face changed to utter sobriety. He put a hand on her upper arm, gently, and stepped round her. She turned about.

  His man, Albert, was riding toward them. Behind him rose the barren, high swell of Dead Viking Fell and the ancient dirt road snaking up the face of it. Shyleburgh Keep towered at the summit.

  Sir Albert shouted as he drew near. “Sedgeburn Heath is under attack.”

  “Black Hand?” FitzHenri asked, exchanging a quick glance with her.

  “Very likely,” Albert said.

  Bridget’s heart leaped to her throat. Sedgeburn Heath was just on the other side of the fell. Too close!

  FitzHenri jumped upon his mount and leaned down, reaching toward her. “We need haste. You must ride with me.”

  “Buttermilk!”

  “Albert will bring her. We must get you to safety.”

  He cut off her next words by lifting her into the air and draping her none too gently over his lap. He set his spurs to Phoenix, and away they bolted, across the footbridge and up the face of the hill. The fiery arousal she’d been feeling drained away. Terror had taken its place.

  Chapter Twenty-Four


  From the hall’s front entrance, Bridget watched FitzHenri in the bailey as he donned his mail and barked for a squad of men to assemble. Word was that a large renegade band of Norman and English soldiers was stalking through the area just to the east. They’d fallen upon the village of Sedgeburn Heath and engaged the inhabitants in a clash over the livestock and other supplies. Innocent Englishmen and their families had lost their lives simply trying to hang on to their meager possessions.

  This brigandage would not be tolerated. The earl must rout the perpetrators and restore a sense of security to the locals.

  And if Black Hand was involved, the blackguard must be stopped from gaining any ground nearer to Shyleburgh.

  As vespers drew on, torches were lit against the failing day. In their shifting light, the yard became a maelstrom of activity as a score of men took up arms and mounted. FitzHenri’s squire stood on a tree stump to fasten the long black cloak at his lord’s shoulders and held the crossbow while the earl mounted. Once FitzHenri found his seat, he took up the crossbow, fastened it to his saddle, then took up his shield.

  “Open!” the earl bellowed, wheeling his restive mount and galloping toward the main gate.

  “Open!” men echoed. With the crash of bolts thrown and the creak of wood, the huge doors of the portal in the curtain wall were drawn apart.

  With the Conqueror’s Dragon at the fore, his cloak flying behind him and his warhorse snorting its fiery breath, the column of men charged out into the countryside, and the gate was shut and sealed tight.

  Inside the fortress, everyone readied for the possibility of a siege. Shyleburgh keep was well stocked and well-armed, but until word came back from FitzHenri regarding the scale of the threat, the prudent move was to be prepared. While Sir Albert worked with the men to stage munitions and seal up defenses, Bridget and her father took tally of the food stores and other supplies, implementing immediate rationing.

  As they’d been trained to do, Aislinn and Nurse retreated into the innermost core of the keep, along with all the children and those too elderly to wield a weapon in any effective way. By nightfall, the castle was prepared for whatever might come, and no one slept but unknowing babes.

  King William’s ruthless quash of rebellion in the north during the previous years had impoverished vast stretches of England from Shyleburgh all the way southeast to York. There was no telling how many followers Black Hand had recruited from the disgruntled populace. And if he had the support of a powerful chieftain like the Thane of Mawdor, he could become unstoppable.

  He was likely amassing forces to make a play for Shyleburgh. It was the last place for him to go before departing England altogether—or meeting his maker.

  The possibility that he might now be ready to assault Shyleburgh struck Bridget mute with terror. There was no way she could ever allow the brutal bully to marry any one of her sisters. She would see him slain by her own hand and face the gallows before she let him touch a single hair on any of her sweet girls’ heads.

  With Kaitlin helping, she worked through the night in the shed reserved for processing herbs and potions, preparing for the coming battle. Even while her heart raced as though clawing its way up her throat, she boiled water with betony, that most useful of herbs. She crumbled dried vervain to make a balm that would staunch bleeding. She crushed mustard seed to add to soothing poultices.

  But no matter how hard she pressed the stone pestle into the well-worn mortar, she couldn’t push out the dark worries that kept her heart hammering at her chest.

  He was out there, FitzHenri, hunting the vilest man she’d ever known. Though her brain told her their earl was the best in the land at what he did, that he’d triumphed in battle after battle in France and England, horrific images crowded one after another behind her eyes: A stray arrow from the trees. Some act of treachery. An axe no one saw coming.

  Black Hand was like a snake in the grass, watching and waiting to strike. Did FitzHenri know how dangerous his foe was, and how lacking in honor?

  She should have told the earl what she knew, but he’d never asked. Which suddenly struck her as odd, since he’d asked her opinions on just about everyone else. But he had his own firsthand knowledge of the knave, as he’d come up against him at York. He must know how fast and loose with integrity Black Hand played.

  What if FitzHenri didn’t come back?

  Her hands shook so badly over the betony tincture that she had to put the bottle down to keep from spilling it all. She moved on to helping Kaitlin rip old clothing and linens into strips and roll them into bandages.

  Why had she never worried as much as this about her father? He’d gone off to war many, many times throughout her life, and while she’d stressed over what he’d be like when he returned, how broken or solemn or full of himself he would be, the concern that he wouldn’t return at all had never plagued her. Perhaps she’d been utterly childish, even selfish, in this naiveté, but there it was.

  And now, all she could think of was the danger FitzHenri the Dragon had galloped headlong into.

  Such angst was surely misplaced. She was leaving soon for a life of her own. She would forsake all of this, aye, even her family, upon entering the cloister. The earl’s fate shouldn’t matter to her.

  But it did.

  It must be for her sister’s sake. Aislinn would be crushed to lose him. And if the earl didn’t survive, Black Hand would attack and attempt to gain the fortress. Could Father and Sir Albert fend him off with the few remaining men? What would happen to them all if Black Hand prevailed?

  The prospect sent horror coursing through her veins.

  It was crucial the earl return alive.

  It was for these reasons, not for the sake of her trembling heart, that he must return to her safe and whole.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The next day dawned eerily quiet. The overcast skies of the previous day had transformed into churning thunderheads that stampeded toward Dead Viking Fell.

  Bridget prayed in the chapel. “Please, Lord. Let him come home safe and unharmed.”

  It was on Aislinn’s behalf that she prayed. Aislinn, on the verge of her wedding. To lose her betrothed would be a tragedy. As would be what followed in the wake of a victorious Black Hand.

  Bridget did not want to even consider what her own pain would be if anything happened to FitzHenri.

  As the afternoon drew on, Bridget went to keep her sisters and Nurse company in their fortified corner of the great hall, a tiny vestibule leading to the kitchen. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep, and her hands were cramped from her labors in the herb shed. But everyone suffered, so she couldn’t complain.

  Within the circle of light cast by an oil lamp, Aislinn looked up from Mattie, their sister who was sleeping on her lap. Aislinn’s face was pinched with exhaustion and anguish.

  She loves him. She must be in agony. Even more than Bridget herself.

  Giving Aislinn the cheeriest smile she could muster, Bridget lowered herself to the floor. Her little sisters had insisted their pet rabbit be kept safe with them, so when Sieur Lapin sniffed at Bridget’s knee and wanted to crawl onto the hammock her kirtle formed over her crossed legs, she allowed him. Margie, who had been leaning in to Emma, shifted to lean in to her.

  “Ho, ladies!” a man’s voice called from the hall. ’Twas Sir Albert.

  “Come,” Bridget called back.

  The clomp of boots sounded across the hall floor, and then the golden-haired knight thrust his head into their sanctuary. He wasn’t wearing his helmet. Though his hair was mussed and his face a bit gray, he looked…cheerful.

  “The earl sends word. The immediate danger has passed. We are to go about our business as usual.”

  Cries of relief rose from everyone.

  Nurse called with upraised arms, “Thanks be to God!”

  “He is safe, then?” both Bridget and Aislinn asked at once.

  “He is. For the time being.” The knight glanced back and forth between her and her si
ster, a bit of curiosity in his expression. He spoke English rather well, which added to the sense of comfort that settled over everyone.

  He struck the doorjamb playfully with a fist and stepped into the tiny space. Kaitlin rose and bounded past him, always chafing to pick up her sword and practice combat.

  As Nurse began to rise to her feet, he kindly took her elbow in assistance. She beamed up at him, giggling like a girl.

  Leaning back down, he reached toward Aislinn. “You look exhausted, my lady. Allow me.” He took the groggily awakening Mattie into his arms.

  What an odd, tender thing for a warrior to do, in his mail and hauberk, his broadsword fastened at his hip. Mayhap he was feeling the relief as much as anyone. Cradling Mattie in the crook of one arm, he bent to help Bridget up from the floor. She stepped past him while he assisted Aislinn up from her spot.

  “My lord commands that no one leave the grounds, just as before, but we may dine in the hall this eve and sleep in our beds.”

  “Our many thanks for your glad tidings,” Aislinn said to him. She pressed her hands to the back of her waist and arched her spine as she limped forward.

  Sir Albert kept a solicitous hand at her elbow. He really was a nice man. Very polite. Just the sort of protégé Grégoire FitzHenri’s leadership would foster. “Are you in pain, my lady?”

  Aislinn smiled up at him, then shyly averted her eyes. “All night and most of today in such small quarters has done its worst with me, I’m afraid. But all will be well soon. Here. Let me have Mattie back.”

  That night, they ate a late meal together on the dais. Everyone spoke in hushed tones, their spirits weighted by thoughts of the earl and the men tarrying in the wilderness while danger remained afoot. Sir Albert entertained them with stories of his travels through the high mountains of Italia and France. Even disdainful Karlan thawed a smidge toward the fair knight, inquiring as to the habits of hermits in the Alps.