Come to Me

by Tessa Fairfax

  Oelwine’s daughters, coming from their bath. His interest perked up. Was Bridget among them? Likely not. She was certainly tending to some chore or another. Or administering healing aid to one of the soldiers. Always looking to others’ needs before her own, she was everything valiant and strong to be admired in a woman. The prospect of seeing her again later, after so many days away, gave a lift to his steps.

  He didn’t see Aislinn among the girls, either. She most likely took her bath in her chamber, attended by her maid, to preserve her modesty.

  Hellfire. Did he have no admiring thoughts for his bride-to-be? That he had to force himself to think of something good about her made him grimace. Certainly, she was lovely, accomplished, and valiant in her own right, the perfect bride for an earl. And she had admitted to her sister that she had feelings for him. Bridget had said he’d won the girl’s affections.

  Why, then, did he not just consider the job done and marry the girl now? The wedding was decreed for Michaelmas, six days hence. Nothing precluded him from moving the date forward.

  Except that he couldn’t shake the feeling that Aislinn was doing her duty. Perhaps it was her eyes. They didn’t hold the same heat when she looked upon him that Bridget’s did. That smoky, honeyed loveliness that had him wanting to lose himself in them completely. He could live forever gazing into those eyes. Bridget’s eyes.

  She’d kissed him like a madwoman the other day.

  Damnation.

  Which brought him back round to feeling that what he most required swam like a teasing mermaid just out of his reach. He had to be absolutely certain of his bride. It was the only way to fix what happened in his first marriage. It didn’t make sense even to him, but the drive to do it right this time spurred him on.

  He stepped aside to let the little girls pass. Kaitlin, bearing the smallest girl at her hip, gave him a wide berth, shooing the other girls onward and adjusting the cloth that draped the baby’s head. “Forgive us, my lord.”

  “Not at all, ladies.” With a flourish of his arm, he bowed. “I am honored to have crossed your path.”

  Kaitlin lowered her head, and the group darted on by, the cloud of whispers and twitters fading behind him.

  On to that bath.

  He approached the shed, occupied anew by his thoughts, this time concerning more tangible things. The reeve Dunstan had assured him Black Hand had never prevailed upon any locals to join his band of renegades. And the way those poor villagers at Sedgeburn Heath had behaved in the aftermath of Black Hand’s attack had him believing they were not interested in supporting the blackguard.

  Though Grégoire had witnessed the villain hightailing it back into Cumbria two days past, the need to additionally fortify the keep pressed at him. Materials must be arranged for a sound guardhouse at the northeast corner. Also, not enough men had stepped forward for crossbow training. He had to remedy that.

  His hand went to the latch and pulled open the door, releasing a fragrant cloud of steam. He did want to relax in his bath, and not be disturbed, so he stepped in and bolted the door behind him. He was already untying his cloak and striding forward when a motion ahead caught his notice.

  What greeted his eyes jerked the solid earth from under his feet. The world as he knew it vanished, leaving him treading on naught but air, his very breath stolen away.

  A woman stood facing the doorway. Stark, utterly naked, rising from a steaming vat in the center of a vapor-filled chamber. She was bending forward, all shapely white limbs and glowing breasts and ropes of long damp hair clinging to her skin.

  Bridget.

  He’d known the woman was splendidly fashioned, but he had not envisioned the whole wonder of it.

  As she straightened, her form revealed itself—curvy hips and shapely thighs, deeply indented waist and gently rounded belly with its mysterious navel centered low. The crucifix at her breast and its cord round her neck were the only distractions from the perfection of her pale flesh.

  Like a fabled naiad rising from the waves, she lifted an earthen mug full of water from the vat in which she stood and tipped it down the front of her body.

  He drank in the sight as the glistening splash flushed remnants of frothy soap from her heavy breasts and dripped off the tips of berry-pink nipples, as it sluiced down a white abdomen and trickled through the whorls of hair at the crux of her thighs.

  Desire bolted through him, white-hot and urgent. It took everything he had not to charge across the distance and make her his that very moment.

  “You’re back,” she said as she doused herself, not noticing whom she addressed. “I can’t believe you—”

  Her words cut off when she beheld him. At first, shock blanched her features, followed by a look he’d swear was joyful.

  Joy? For his return? His body answered with a joy of its own, instantly hard and straining for her.

  “Praise God you are home!” she cried.

  Home. He liked the sound of the word on her lips.

  “It pleases you are glad to see me, my lady.”

  Her gaze swept him top to bottom, stoking his need as if she caressed his body. “You appear whole and uninjured. Is it so?”

  “’Tis so. We exchanged a few volleys with Black Hand’s band and sent him back to Cumbria.” The grisly details he would leave for another time, if ever.

  “So it was Black Hand!”

  He nodded. “I fear we have not seen the last of him.” But he didn’t wish to speak of that cur. He had a much more intriguing object of study before him. “Did you worry for me?”

  “Of course, I— We all worried, night and day.”

  Then suddenly, she seemed to remember the situation. A stunned silence followed, and she doubled over with a shriek, trying to cover herself with her hands. The mug plunked to the water at her calves.

  “Y-You shouldn’t be in here.” Her voice was little more than breathy squeaks, and her gaze darted past him to the door. “Where’s Margie?”

  “I believe she is chasing glowworms.” His voice dropped to a low rasp. “And I’ve come for my bath.”

  A glittering spray of bathwater arced into the air as she hopped out of the vat and snatched up some toweling that lay on the edge of the laundry tub nearby. She snapped open the cloth, flung it round herself, then lobbed a damning glare in his direction. “The bath is occupied. Please leave.”

  He bit back the hunger railing within him. His flesh was about to blow right off his bones. “I was told the bath would be free if the door was unbolted. It was.”

  She fretted with the towel, struggling to close the gap. Despite her efforts, one generous hip, golden in the brazier light, peeked out at him. He advanced, one deliberate step at a time.

  Her hand shot up. “Come no farther, I warn you.”

  Nature would compel him forward. He was a man, wasn’t he? A beautiful woman stood naked before him, the very woman who had driven him mad with lust since he first beheld her in a fog-shrouded orchard. What else was he to do?

  But his conscience laughed without mirth. He was no beast, and therefore he halted his steps.

  Aye, he possessed a conscience. He should turn and leave the shed now. Staying wouldn’t be fair to Lady Aislinn—the woman who apparently loved him.

  And staying wouldn’t be fair to Bridget, either, who was undoubtedly mortified to be discovered in this state of undress. Yet he couldn’t take his eyes from her. No woman had ever affected him like this before.

  What about what you want? Bridget’s own words haunted him.

  Aye, what about what he wanted? It had been a long time since he’d given weight to his own desires in life. He’d desired Elisse all those years ago, but with a boy’s yen for something others coveted. His father had told him she was the right bride for him, and he’d accepted it.

  But this woman before him… He desired her deep down inside, more than he’d ever wanted anything.

  By the rood, she was comely, every voluptuous and alluring bit of her, with shapely legs tha
t flared at the top before curving into those gloriously round hips. The drive to clasp one and squeeze, letting his fingers sink into the creamy, rippling flesh of her bottom, nearly strangled him.

  “Don’t look at me. Stop it.”

  He trod farther into the chamber, deliberately inspecting the bath items instead of her—kettles of water steaming over the stone hearth, pots of soap that smelled too sweet, and piles of toweling arranged nearby. Then he met her gaze. Her eyes were huge, discs of honey fringed by fine, damp lashes.

  “Do I frighten you?” He’d asked her that before, and she’d said nay. He hoped for the same answer this time.

  Her chin rose. “Nay. You don’t frighten me.”

  The breath he’d been holding eased out. Most men didn’t bother themselves with a woman’s feelings, but he did. “But you don’t like me taking pleasure in your beauty,” he observed.

  Every woman of his acquaintance had used one opportunity after another to parade herself before him. Bridget, however, covered herself in reams of cloth. Those bland gowns she wore were plain as grain sacks.

  “Beauty?” She tossed her head with a laugh. “You mock me.”

  “Not at all.” He tipped his head. “You must know how comely you are.”

  “Me? Nay, I’m…”

  When she hesitated, he prompted her. “You are what?”

  “Old.”

  He feigned agreement with a nod. “But you are younger than I, mignonne.”

  “And you are as ancient as St. Peter’s finger bone, so that means naught.”

  He laughed. “You are insolent, wench.” He captured her gaze once more. “Forsooth, Brigitte, were you to enter upon my bath, I would beg you to stay.”

  “Now you are insolent, sir.” This was spoken with measured sarcasm.

  He drew the gloves from his belt, then posited them on a bench.

  “Don’t you dare,” she snapped.

  “Nay?”

  She shook her head, but he swung the cloak from his shoulders, tossed it over the lip of the tub, taking her dare as a challenge.

  “I have freed the path to the door,” he pointed out, “and yet you remain.”

  “I can’t go out there like—like this!”

  “Ah.” A pile of gray wool draped over the tub’s edge drew his notice. He picked it up and handed it to her. She took her gown, questioning him with solemn eyes. And still she did not flee.

  “Why?” she asked.

  He arched a questioning brow.

  “Why would you ask me to stay if—if I came upon your bath?”

  “A man likes a comely wench to assist with his ablutions.”

  “And you…” She paused to swallow. “You truly think I’m comely?”

  “As fair as they come, mignonne. Don’t you know that?”

  She shook her head.

  No one had ever told her? More likely, she wouldn’t have listened.

  In one pace, he had obliterated the small distance between them, though he stopped short of taking her in his arms. The widening of her eyes was her only reaction. That and clutching the towel tighter in her fists. He ached to hold her, but he refrained. He had to know. Was his theory about her regard for him all in his own deluded mind?

  He would be long dead and buried ere she revealed this on her own.

  “Do you think I’m made of stone, woman?”

  She tilted her face up to blink at him. Her frown posed her question.

  He reached forth and brushed a finger along her temple. “How long do you think I can stand idly by while you watch me with these eyes?”

  “I don’t watch you,” she whispered.

  “Aye, you do. You constantly caress me with your gaze.” Echoing those caresses, he stroked her cheekbone with a thumb. Her eyes slipped shut. Like the sun setting on the horizon.

  “Please,” she whispered. “This is cruel.”

  He pulled back. “Am I hurting you?”

  “Nay, you’re not hurting me.”

  “Then what is cruel?”

  Say it. Tell me that you burn for me.

  He brushed his thumb over her lush bottom lip. The mouth that had all but devoured him the other day on the way home from the reeve’s house. Did that episode haunt her, the way it did him?

  Her eyes opened. “Making me want what I can’t have.”

  “What do you want, mignonne?”

  Say you want me.

  She shook her head in stiff refusal to answer.

  However, he was a determined man. “What do I make you want? Sin?” Her eyelids trembled. “I know full well those words you spoke the other night were not your sister’s.”

  “What words?”

  “The night you fled the hall. The night you spoke of sin.”

  She squirmed while insecurity fluttered through her visage. “I misspoke.”

  “And your kisses tell me even more. Do you want to sin, Brigitte? Just once, before you hide yourself away in the cloister?”

  Her mouth gaped. “No one wants to sin.”

  “Ah. But methinks you do.”

  “You offend me, lord—”

  “I know.” He smiled just to goad her. When she harped at him, his blood stirred, giving life to an otherwise dull existence. “You long for the cloister. But even Augustine sampled earthly pleasures ere he devoted himself to God.”

  “You speak of Augustine now?”

  “I told you how I read your book while it was in my keeping. Being no priest myself, I found little there to enlighten me, except one thing.”

  “What was that?” Her voice was airy, excited.

  He encircled her with his arms, eliciting a small gasp. Her hands didn’t push him away, though. Nay, they rested upon his arms. “That a body needs to know what it gives up ere turning to chastity. Do you know what you are giving up?”

  The towel yet enveloped her, and it was sodden from her bath. But he could feel naked skin in places, soft and creamy, like rose petals. It was as if he had fallen into a bowl of flowers.

  “I know what I don’t wish to know about.”

  “How do you know?” He jostled her in his embrace, ever so slightly. Her breasts rubbed erotically against his lower chest.

  She was staring into his eyes and he sensed her resolve ebbing. “I…I just know.”

  “I am here to serve, should you change your mind.” What he wouldn’t do to have her come to him and beg him to take her. “About tasting what you will be leaving behind.”

  “But I will…not change my mind.”

  “Can you be so certain?” He lowered his head, placed a kiss on her lips.

  Her tiny moan nearly undid him. That, and her fragrance of honey and blossoms coiling with the humid warmth of the bathhouse. He lifted one hand to cup her jaw, then slid his fingers up and into her bath-damp hair.

  When her eyes slipped shut this time, the unrelenting craving took over, and he crushed her lips with his. He tasted her gasp of surprise and then he tasted luscious cream laced with honey and wildness barely tamed, like her honeybees.

  But her lips were wooden.

  “Kiss me back,” he ordered, his fingers clenching in her hair. He nipped at her lips, at the high curve in the center, at the deep corners, sensing the need she scarcely suppressed.

  “Kiss me,” he urged once more, a whisper against her mouth. His thumb traced the downy rim of her ear. “Kiss me.”

  Love me.

  With an exhalation, she surrendered. Her lips moved against his, at last—sweet, little, unsure kisses, as if she doubted he really wanted her to. He returned them each, kiss for kiss, fighting the urge to consume and matching her quiet rhythm.

  But he craved that wild ravishment from the other day, when they’d kissed on the way home from the village. So when his hunger grew too strong to be content with little busses, he nudged her jaw downward with his thumb. She opened for him, and with a groan he plunged forward into the haven of her mouth.

  At first she held back, but he couldn’t. He drove his
tongue into the silken refuge, unable to stop, drinking her as if he’d finally found the sacred wellspring all men sought, the one that would absolve him of all his sins and nourish him the rest of his days.

  Finally her tongue came forth and boldly rubbed against his, spurring his urgency onward. It was like the times before, her response stoking him like a bellows at a forge. He wrapped his fist in her hair and tugged her head back to gain easier access to her mouth. He drove a thigh between hers and walked her backward, ever mindful of her scalding core just there beyond the barrier of his woolen leggings.

  Her kissing grew more urgent still, her hands gripping his upper arms, then his shoulders, then twisting in his hair. The gown she held fell to the ground between them, and then the towel.

  He found a stretch of wall draped with sheets hung to dry and pressed her back, taking her bottom in his hands and lowering his thigh. She undulated against him, voluptuous, eager, and altogether female. It was going too far, too fast, and he was losing sight of everything but slaking the hunger. His arousal thrust at her, thrust again, blazing a path through the barriers.

  He wanted nothing more than to come into her, to plunge into her silken sheath and find blessed release.

  But he wouldn’t deflower her, not without her full consent. He drew back to gaze into her eyes. Her lips were parted. Her breath came in lovely little pants.

  “I know you burn,” he whispered into her mouth, “though you will not say it. The fire consumes you.”

  She didn’t refute that, gazing back at him with wide, wide eyes.

  “Let me quench the fire.”

  Her eyelids flickered. He could feel her heart racing, the excitement in her blood.

  “Have you never tasted carnal pleasure?” He didn’t think she had, but he wanted to hear it from her.

  She shook her head.

  “Do you wish to? Ere you commit yourself to a life without?”

  At that, she spoke, her breath hitching exquisitely. “I— I do not wish to hurt Aislinn.”

  Damnation.