Come to Me

by Tessa Fairfax

  That stopped him. He didn’t wish to hurt the damsel, either. But would she be hurt if she never learned of it?

  Christ, he hated himself at that moment. What his first wife had done to him had nearly broken him. He could not do that to another person.

  And yet, this woman in his arms was so ripe, so special, so willing. She made him feel like no woman ever had. He didn’t understand it, but there it was. He was powerless against it.

  “Ah, but I know a secret way,” he murmured, shifting his hand low between them. “I can appease your ache.” The back of his fingers brushed the soft hair where her thighs met outside the sanctuary of her woman’s core.

  She jerked, gasping a little, and his seed swelled violently in its scabbard. The torment made him pause, hold himself still for a moment. His head swam drunkenly.

  When he felt he’d regained his composure, he resumed his sensual tutelage. “Without breaching your maidenhead. Did you know that?”

  “Nay,” she whispered.

  “Would you like to know it?”

  Her gulp was followed by a hesitant nod.

  Shaking off the heady haze that swamped him, he gave her a wry smile, prepared to sacrifice for her sake. He wanted, nay, needed to witness her surrendering control, but he would maintain his own control, even if it killed him.

  Bending to kiss her lips, he cupped her creamy round breast in his hand, gliding his thumb over the sweet, furled peak. She gasped into his mouth.

  He tightened his arms round her. “Aye,” he breathed. “Come with me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Every inch of Bridget’s body stood on alert, waiting to see what FitzHenri’s magical hands would do next. If simply stroking her breast like that caused lightning to burst inside her, what else could he do?

  He didn’t keep her in suspense. His lips left hers, tumbling over her jaw and down her neck in a steamy trail. Was he heading for her breast? Aye, he was! She’d heard of such wicked things in the bawdy songs of visiting minstrels, but never knew people actually did them.

  His lips worked their way over her flesh, his whiskers scratching in that delicious, masculine way. His tongue stopped to bathe her in places, stoking her skin into fire. When his mouth closed over her nipple, she thought an arrow had pierced her between her legs, so keen was the sensation. Her fingers clenched in the muscles of his shoulders.

  When the tip of his tongue swirled round and round that aching point, her body seized up in exquisite tightness, reaching for something beyond her understanding.

  But that wasn’t all. He slid a warm palm down the side of her hip, going back to the place he’d teased moments before. One fingertip glided over the private seam between her legs. Darts zinged through her, from one corner of her body to the other. His finger felt wet when it came away. But that didn’t seem to deter him. In fact, he then slid more fingers deep into that part of her.

  While his thumb brushed her woman’s curls, his fingers explored gently, carefully, separating her outer flesh and exposing her tender core. All this while his cheek rested alongside hers. He was now focusing all his efforts on what his hand was doing.

  His fingertips had found an exquisitely sensitive spot. She whimpered at the discovery, tightening her grip on his shoulders. He began a tender assault on that one incredible place, massaging, caressing, until her entire being constricted into a narrow lance.

  She was going to die of sensation! Her legs stiffened. Her head fell back against the linen-draped wall. Never had she known pleasure like this. It was heaven and hell together.

  “What are you doing to me?” she cried, half frightened, half thrilled, climbing a mountain that grew higher and higher before her.

  He removed his hand. Nay! Was it over? She shouldn’t have spoken!

  But then he slid to his knees before her. Oh! She felt his breath right there, on those brown curls she both hated and loved. Bending forward, he touched her with his mouth. High in her curls, he kissed her. She could feel his breath scalding a part of her she’d never dared touch.

  His mouth moved farther down, and her anticipation soared. With his thumbs, he gently separated her. Why? To see deep inside her?

  Nay, oh, nay, not to see her—to lick her!

  She gasped as sharp pleasure stabbed at her. Her thighs tightened. She seized handfuls of his hair. He did it again, and she moaned. Aye, he did it again and more, that confident tongue of his darting hither and thither, wetting her, prodding her.

  Striking against that particularly keen spot.

  Oh, sweet St. Hilda!

  Her legs wobbled. He’d found the one place above all others that sent spikes of fire through her when he rubbed it, and he’d chosen to torture her just there with that beautiful mouth of his.

  While his thumbs kept her open to him, he paused, and she looked down to see what he was doing. That smoldering, unreadable gaze was tilted up to her.

  “Are you ready now, maiden?” he asked.

  “R-Ready?” She was panting, and her pulse thundered in her ears even as it began to slow.

  “Aye. To know how good it can be.”

  “I— I don’t know. Whatever you’re doing…I don’t think it will work.” She had no idea what he was trying to achieve. She only knew she wanted it badly and feared she could never have it, like so many other things in her life.

  “It will work. I’m a persistent man. Give in, and you will see.”

  He reached behind her, yanking a sheet from its mooring on the wall. It tumbled in frothy folds to the floor. With his big hands at her hips, he guided her down onto her back atop the linen. He knelt between her knees.

  “Give in to me,” he said.

  Her control completely vanished at the erotic command. She would do anything, anything at all, that he asked.

  Then his mouth met her flesh again, and so sensitized was she, her pulse leaped instantly to a furious gallop. She felt his front teeth graze that tormented spot, and graze again, and she was lost to the darkness of heeding every subtle action of his mouth. He took her between his tongue and his whiskered upper lip and suckled hard.

  Over the cliff she went, like a ball from a catapult.

  Like a gyrfalcon kicking off its perch.

  Like an angel cast from heaven.

  Only to quiver endlessly on the air as the primal needs of her body commandeered her soul and carried her off to a dark lair of pleasure.

  A long time later—forever, it seemed—she lay like a lump of warm wax, boneless, shapeless, and tried to catch her breath. What had happened? Exciting, towering, cresting, and shattering, it had terrified and thrilled her at the same time.

  Was this what everyone spoke of—the poets and the bawdy maidservants and aunts who married much older men and yearned for more? Was this it?

  FitzHenri had stretched beside her, on his side, and she could feel him sweating through his clothing. She opened her eyes to meet his.

  “What have you done to me?”

  “I’ve shown you what you are so eager to forgo upon entering your convent. The pleasures between a man and a woman.”

  She swallowed hard. The cloister suddenly seemed like a very austere place.

  “And that is only a taste, mind you,” he assured her.

  Something feral came over his face. Three days ago, she would have been terrified by that look. Now, she was enthralled. He grabbed her hand, drawing it down to his groin. She fingered the hard bulge in his leggings gently, savoring the guttural moan her touch elicited. He grew larger still, as he flattened her hand beneath his and bucked into her palm.

  “Shall I do to you what you did to me?” she whispered.

  He stilled, his lids closing. He swallowed heavily. “You should dress,” he said at length.

  She hesitated, but he didn’t move. “Very well.”

  She rose on shaky legs. While she bent to retrieve her gown, he turned away, moving farther into the chamber. He offered to help her with dressing as there was no handmaiden abo
ut, but she told him she never used a handmaiden.

  “As I suspected,” he said, over his shoulder. Why he gave her privacy now, after what he’d just done to her, was a mystery.

  “And what does that mean?”

  He chuckled quietly. “It means I know you well.”

  “Better than any other,” she murmured softly, lowering the dress over her head and tying the girdle at her waist. Outside, the abbey bells were tolling evensong.

  “Are you clothed?” he asked.

  “Aye.”

  “Leaving now would be a prime idea.” As she raised the pin in the door, he said, “Brigitte.”

  She turned about to see him smiling faintly. “Aye?”

  “I shall see you shortly in the hall.”

  She smiled back. When she stepped from the warm steam of the bathhouse into the fresh cool of the evening, she floated on a cloud of absolute bliss.

  And wondered at how she could have been so very reluctant to know the intimate touch of a man…

  Chapter Thirty

  Grégoire spent his seed in the ashes of the fire. The relief was immeasurable but did little to quell his overall need. He must have the woman. No one else would do. And it must be soon, or he would explode into a million shards.

  He lowered himself into the bath Bridget had vacated. Tiny bolts of lightning pricked his flesh. He doused them in the tepid water as he sank lower in the tub, willing his seething body to calm.

  She desired him. There was little doubt of that. She desired him with an earthy exuberance no one could fight forever. She would enjoy their bed sport as much as he, that was a given.

  Aye, once was all he would need to purge her from his blood. Just once. Then he would wed whomever they gave him.

  His cock stirred. He looked down at himself.

  Twice, damnation. Twice inside her would surely exorcise the demon.

  And for her, entering the cloister would be all the more meaningful, for she would take the veil fully cognizant of what she eschewed in the name of God.

  But what of his vow? It had to be the woman’s choice. Had he not learned from his wife’s death?

  He surged from the bath.

  It had not been Elisse’s desire to wed him, but he had wanted her and pursued her. Their fathers had made the pact that had sealed her to him, for the union held great value toward everyone’s ambitions.

  Yet, everyone knew she had loved another from childhood, a landless young squire who sang love songs to ladies in their fine halls. When she ran off with de Montaigne, Grégoire’s rage had consumed him. Why had she preferred another lover over him?

  Grégoire had been a good husband, loyal and considerate.

  He grabbed a length of toweling, scrubbed it over his head, his belly. Why could he not scour away the memories? They weakened him like a plague.

  What had happened at the end had been the worst of all. He had caught up with the couple on their flight to Paris. The squire had challenged him, but Grégoire had cut him down with one strike of his sword. One strike. He had intended only to frighten the lad into submission—but his wife’s lover had parried unwisely and encountered the deathblow. Beside the road, before anyone saw her, Elisse put a knife to her wrists and let her life drain away. Her handmaid later told him she’d been with child.

  Grégoire’s child? He would never know. He would have raised it as his own without a qualm. Why had she killed herself rather than live as his wife?

  He thought of Bridget and, for the first time ever, he had an inkling.

  He threw the sodden towel across the chamber, then drew on his leggings. He wrenched the lace taut.

  He was a sham. Kings ruled men, and men ruled women. Men made the decisions who would marry whom, who would bear a lord’s children. And yet, he could not bring himself to do so. It would break him.

  He wanted Bridget with a need that threatened to blind him.

  But he would not take her without heed. She would have to come to him.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  In the chamber she shared with her sisters, Bridget sat before the polished bronze mirror. Night had fallen, and the room was lit by a candelabrum fitted with fat candles. Years had passed since she’d spared a glance at her reflection. Once she’d decided on a life of devotion, she hadn’t really cared what she looked like.

  What she beheld now was nothing like the girl of her memory.

  A woman full grown stared back from the shimmering surface. Was this really her? She turned her face to one side, studying her likeness. She turned to the other side, studying some more.

  Her complexion was paler than she remembered, her hair glossy, backlit by the glow of the candle flames. Her nose wasn’t as broad and short as she recalled. In fact, her entire face, once round, childlike, and covered in freckles, had thinned out and lengthened, so that now her cheekbones were more defined and her chin was narrower. What she could see of her profile was rather regal and—dare she say it?—elegant.

  Even her eyes held a drama she hadn’t expected. Large golden-brown discs gazed out from beneath lashes that flared outward at the corners. Above them, brows arched gracefully.

  Both of those brows rose high. Something about her was…graceful? Really?

  Grégoire—aye, it was more than fitting to call him Grégoire now, even if only to herself—had said she was comely. While she could see she was no exquisite beauty—not like Aislinn or Aunt Edyth with their translucent complexion, raven hair, and supremely blue eyes—she did indeed find she was pleasant to behold. A giggle threatened to bubble up.

  At first she’d been mortified when he’d caught her in all her naked glory. That is, after she’d been thrilled to see him safe and whole. Those first few joyous moments she hadn’t given a thought to her nakedness. Seeing him so tall and dark amidst the fragrant steam of the bath had been like beholding an archangel emerging from the realms of heaven.

  Then she’d been mortified, once her wits had returned. But she’d been titillated, too, as shameful as it was to admit. He’d already wrapped her in his embrace more than once during the previous fortnight and had kissed her silly twice. She was becoming familiar with just how far he would take his provocative behavior. He always stopped at an appropriate place, before she became panicked. He kept his strength and ardor well harnessed.

  So to have him see her nudity and approve turned out to be a strange blend of awkwardness and arousal, prolonged to the very extent of her tether. She’d never felt like that before and didn’t really have the words.

  Her fingers touched her lips where Grégoire had kissed her. In the reflection, her hand trembled. Not from fear or dread, but from…excitement. Anticipation, pure and bright, blossomed up from her heart, into her throat, where it left her nearly breathless. Anticipation of what, she wasn’t certain, but there it was, all the same.

  From under her feet came the muffled sounds of revelry in the hall below, which heightened her elation. On leaving the bathhouse, she’d learned from a passing servant that the earl had encountered her aunt and uncle traveling to Shyleburgh Keep for the wedding, and they had all arrived here together. There would be a grand celebration this night.

  And while their guests had been brushing the dust of the road from their clothes, she’d been sequestered with Grégoire. Holding him safe in her arms after his three-day manhunt through the countryside. Being brought to heavenly ecstasy by his touch and his kiss.

  It would be her secret, to be cherished all to herself. This time, she actually did giggle out loud. There were no words to express this jubilation. Indeed, the reason for its existence eluded her. Why should one man’s compliments, and the memory of his caresses, make her feel so giddy?

  She’d always taken pride in her intelligence and learning. She’d always appreciated how adroitly she handled housekeeping management and how she knew bee husbandry inside and out. Those had always been things she liked about herself.

  But her relatives’ constant reminders that she resembled her
rugged Scots mother far more than anyone in Oelwine’s handsome lineage, plus everyone’s regard for Aislinn as the great family beauty, compounded by Samson’s abuse, had all snowballed in her mind to form the negative opinion of her physical self. That she wasn’t a beauty to draw men’s attention was just a fact of her life, one she’d gotten over as soon as she discovered all her real aptitudes.

  A lord would have taken her to wife out of obligation. She knew that. He might even have come to admire her for her skills. But with Grégoire, it seemed that he liked everything about her, including her looks. He talked to her about Augustine and saints. He didn’t condemn her choices in life. And, despite his overpowering strength, he had never once hurt or forced his will upon her.

  She sighed happily.

  It was true what St. Augustine had advised—that in order to make a sacrifice worthwhile, one must know what one is giving up. And now she knew one piece of it—a small one, according to Grégoire. Could she do the rest? Could she lie with him, to see what other wonders occurred between men and women?

  Nay. She didn’t think so.

  Not if Aislinn loved him.

  She couldn’t. Just doing what she’d already done with him was disloyal enough. Automatically, her mouth drooped in disappointment, which drew her attention back to her image. Her lips had formed a delicate pout.

  Her, delicate? Incredible. It didn’t even seem like her own mouth. She laughed, then pursed her lips as she looked on.

  So, she couldn’t lie with Grégoire. But…she could taste of other pleasures, couldn’t she? Gowns and jewels, for example? And perhaps engage in a little harmless flirtation? Perhaps with handsome Sir Albert or darkly mysterious Sir Drogo? She’d love to flirt with Grégoire, but that didn’t sit well with her. Not if Aislinn had feelings for him, and was to wed him.

  Her sister swept into the chamber at that moment. “There you are, Bridgie! We’ve been looking for you. Aunt and Uncle are here, did you know?”

  “I know.” She was proud of how calm she sounded when everything inside her fizzled and popped with this unaccountable exhilaration.