Next he greeted Aislinn fondly. Yet, it felt to Bridget as if he couldn’t wait to get those formalities out of the way so he could focus on her. No doubt, that was her imagination, which had turned so blasted active lately.
When, at last, he did turn fully her way, he first glanced over her head and cast Sir Albert a narrow-eyed glower. She felt Sir Albert’s bulk shift away from her side.
Had he been warning Sir Albert off? Was that some sort of possessive male posturing? Over her? How thrilling!
Grégoire greeted her formally, simply a “Lady Brigitte” and a brisk bow, though his gaze held a heat she felt all the way to her toes. He raked her up and down with his glinting eyes, setting her woman’s body afire. His appreciation of her new attire was obvious—to her, at least—and she had the sense he was mentally peeling it off her, layer by layer.
A moment passed before she realized Aislinn was trying to gain her attention.
“Bridgie,” her sister said, “tell him how you and I were just talking about dancing, and how I simply must see the Norman rondel done correctly.”
As he bent his ear to her lips, the better to hear her over the din, Bridget repeated the words to him in French. In truth, she wasn’t sure what she really said. All she knew was his profile filling her vision as he nodded over her words. The air between them blazed, swollen with their shared secret.
“Tell him you two can show me how to do it after dinner,” her sister said.
Bridget began to repeat the words, but cut off. “What? You want me to dance with him?”
“Wherefore not?”
“He’s y—” She wanted to say he was Aislinn’s pledged husband, but the words got stuck deep down in her chest and wouldn’t rise to her tongue.
“He’s what?” her sister asked.
“Er, not a very good dancer,” she muttered helplessly.
“Then you must teach him.”
“I’m not so good, either,” she mumbled as they all filed up onto the dais and took their places at the long table.
Bridget claimed her usual spot on the stool between the earl and her sister, but Aislinn spent much of the meal conversing with their aunt and Sir Albert to her other side. To the earl’s right sat Father, who entertained his brother-in-law and the other retainers. That left Bridget essentially alone with his lordship.
Her tongue had never been so tied up in knots. Between them hummed an awkwardness that hadn’t been there before. What did it mean?
His thigh pressed against hers in the crowded space. She felt the heat of his body bathing her. They both reached for a goblet at the same moment, and their hands touched, burning her skin. She would have snatched her hand back, but he clasped her fingers with his.
Their eyes met. Her mouth parted, then snapped shut. It appeared he wanted to say something to her, but then he straightened in his chair and released her. She slid her hand back across the table to her lap.
He shouldn’t have done that! What if someone had seen?
But her heart swelled, and the womanly places of her body sighed. For possibly the first time in her life, her appetite failed her, and she couldn’t take a bite of anything, so feverishly did her insides dance.
“Do you like our Shyleburgh grapes, my lord?” she asked once the savory courses were done and the diners turned to sweets. She’d seen him popping the tumescent purple berries into his mouth, one after another, as if he couldn’t get enough of their taste. She’d been ogling him as he did so, watching the muscles in his jaw and throat work.
“I do, indeed,” he replied around a mouthful.
“They’re what we make our English wine from.”
He cocked his head at her, arching a brow for answer. In his eyes, she read that he recalled their early conversation about the failings of English wine. How long ago had that been? A few days, but it seemed like a century.
She smiled at him and went on, spurred to fill the silence with words. “They don’t grow well enough this far north for us to make wine here, but I coddle a few vines so we have them for eating at this time of year.”
As she finished the statement, she found one of the gleaming fruits positioned before her mouth. He held it there, in his fingertips.
She glanced at his eyes. They were intent on her mouth. Heavens! She hesitated over what to do. An angel on her shoulder—or was it the devil?—told her this was harmless, utterly harmless, so she parted her lips. He gently pushed the grape in, his large fingers with their clean, square nails just touching her lips.
How hot her face was! As she chewed, and the tart-sweet morsel burst between her teeth, she thought she may have heard him groan. The secret place between her legs throbbed.
That was not harmless. She was playing with fire. Had she gotten in over her head?
Her sister turned their way. “Bridgie, you and the earl were going to show us how the rondel is done, weren’t you?”
Aunt Edyth cut in. “Why don’t you show us, Aislinn dear? You dance like an angel.”
“I don’t know the rondel, Auntie, but Bridget does. I remember Mother teaching her.”
FitzHenri rose to his feet. “I would be honored, my lady.” He put out his hand.
“Very well.” Why not? This might be her last stab at such freewheeling behavior.
She put her hand in his great paw and allowed him to escort her to the floor beside the musicians, where all eyes fell upon them. This time, he did not step on her toes. He must have been practicing, for he performed well enough. The man’s role in the rondel was basically to stand there and support the woman, so it wasn’t overly difficult.
The pace of the music escalated. The violist sawed away at his instrument, the piper’s fingers flew over his pipe, and someone beat a drum in a rhythm so sensual it was scandalous. Bridget whirled and whirled as colors whizzed round her in flashes of gold and black and red.
When the dance required the earl catch her to him, she almost kept twirling on by and ended up slamming into his outstretched arm. The air whooshed out of her, her feet tangled over each other, and he had to steady her in place lest she fall flat on her face.
Helpless laughter erupted out of her. Holding her upright, he answered with his own bellowing guffaw that had their audience joining in, too. She simply melted to hear Grégoire’s amusement. The man could laugh!
A few more lengths of music had her stepping away from him again, but as the piece came to an end and she stood toe-to-toe with him, Grégoire clasped his hands at her waist and thrust her high with his strong, unwavering arms. Everyone cheered. He held her there, suspended far above the floor, he looking up at her, she looking down into his dark, stunning eyes, and never in her life had she experienced such a swell of love for anyone.
She nearly choked, so sharply did she inhale.
Love? It had to be.
She was in love with him.
Slowly, he lowered her, letting her slide along the length of his body. Every hard muscle she came in contact with sang deliciously to her woman’s flesh. Her hands yearned to explore every inch of him, the way he’d explored her in the bathhouse.
She came to rest on her feet, still in his embrace. His amusement had vanished, replaced on his face by a furrowed brow full of questions and something like surprise. Her mirth had died away, too, for they stood there almost touching, their gazes locked, as the world receded around them. For an eternity, it was just his eyes touching her soul, the link between them as firm and as fragile as a cobweb.
At some point, her hands had gone to her face, cupping her cheeks, the surprise so potent inside her she scarcely breathed. A tug at her skirt pulled her attention away, severing the imaginary strand of spider silk that connected her to the man before her. Both gossamer ends floated airily away.
She looked down into little Margie’s huge blue eyes. The child demanded a dance.
“Of course, my sweet,” she said breathlessly, taking the little girl’s hand.
“Nay,” the child said. “With him.”
She pointed at his lordship.
Dear Lord!
Confusion lingered stormily in his eyes, beneath a wrinkled brow.
“Would you mind?” she asked, her hands upon the little girl’s shoulders.
As if coming back to himself, he cleared his throat into his fist. “’Twould be my honor.” He bowed and offered the child his hand.
Bridget pushed her sister toward him and escaped back to the table.
Aislinn had that radiant grin for her, but Aunt Edyth…Aunt Edyth stared hard at her from a crimson face. A smile of sorts decorated the lower portion of her countenance, but it was flat and tight, and did not coordinate with her eyes.
“That was beautiful,” Aislinn gushed.
Bridget took her seat once more, the flush in her cheeks still warm, her heart pumping madly in her chest. It was as if a swarm of merry bees buzzed in her veins.
“Very nicely done,” their aunt said, without a hint of praise. “You and the earl seem to get along quite well.”
Aislinn responded. “They do, Aunt. They have much in common. Bridget translates for his lordship because she knows his language so well.”
They have much in common? She’d never considered that before. She supposed their knowledge of the same languages helped, and he did seem to get something out of his learned reading, as she did. But verily, she knew little about him. Now, suddenly, she wished to know everything about him.
Her voice returned. “He asked me to teach him some steps so that he might entertain Aislinn.”
“Did he?” Auntie asked, an abrasive look in her eye.
New Shyleburgh revelers leaped to the dance floor. It became more difficult to see the earl amongst the crowd, but Bridget and the others on the dais watched him patiently suffer the fawning of the youngest Shyleburgh daughters. All four little girls surrounded him. He held the hands of two girls and stood there as they twirled endlessly beneath his arms. The twins danced together beside him, though really they just jumped about, as they’d never learned the steps.
Bridget melted into a puddle of weakness to see how carefully he behaved with the children, how he encouraged them and laughed at their antics. Unlike her childhood tormentor, this man would never strike an innocent. Never. She knew it in her soul. Such a big, powerful man, wrought thick with muscle, and yet, his touch so gentle. He was not reticent to show this side of himself. And in his embrace, she always felt his strength as if it were tightly leashed, under control.
He would be a good father—strong, kind, wise. The kind of father a son could look up to and a daughter depend upon. The certainty of this arrowed straight to her core, making her sit up at attention.
She wanted to see him holding his babe in his arms, the babe she had given him.
Never before had the desire to birth her own children flooded her as potently as it did now. She wanted to bear his babies—she and no one else.
Even now, so many yards away from him, she felt the stirrings in her body. She desired him as a hot-blooded woman would. He had introduced her to the marvels of a woman’s sexual experience, and for that, she felt an undying heat and intimacy for him. He was learned in the disciplines she admired, and for that, she felt a kinship as strong as she did for any of her platonic monk friends. Now, she added the primal yearning to be the mother of his children.
As a tingling rained down through her, her quivering fingers drifted to her lips. And it hit her like a bolt to the breast.
She was truly and hopelessly in love with him.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The musicians had long ago ceased playing, candle flames danced in puddles of wax, and people nodded off where they sat or filtered away to quieter spots to lay their heads. Servants meandered, clearing tables and mopping spills.
On the dais, abandoned by their fellow diners, Bridget sat with Grégoire, laughing over his stories of childhood pranks played on his father’s prickly, old-fashioned steward and sympathizing over his youthful efforts to nurse an injured owlet back to health.
“Did it work, splinting his little leg?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Seemed to. A few weeks later, I removed it, and he hopped about for a while. Before nightfall, I watched him fly off to the trees. I heard him calling over the next several nights, so I think he flourished.”
“That’s incredible! What did you feed him while he was in your care?”
“Worms, grubs, pieces of mice.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Yuck.”
He smiled at her, and her insides sang with the angels. She’d never had so much fun before. It was wonderful, being friends with a man like this. He had so many interesting things to say. And he really was a nice person, asking her opinions about things and apologizing when he spoke over her in error. He kept her wine goblet filled and ensured there were always nutmeats in the little bowl between them.
But all the while he talked and jested with her, her eyes fastened helplessly on his mouth. Whenever he noticed it, he quieted and smiled. Her focus would then return to his eyes, where she would find a smoldering gaze that sent jolts of sensual awareness through her. She longed to kiss him—her lips actually twitched with the need—and he seemed to know it, and longed to kiss her, too…or so she wanted to believe. The pull between them was a palpable force, and it grew stronger as time wore on. She felt beautiful and alluring, and, best of all, as if she had him under her spell.
But, alas, the night was coming to a close. She sipped the remains of the wine in her goblet, enjoying the jewel-like tartness and what it was doing to her head. It gave her a blissful serenity in competition with the keen, prolonged arousal she was feeling. When she replaced the vessel on the table, it almost tipped over, but she caught it in time.
“My, I’m so woozy,” she admitted happily. “This was very good wine.”
She started to rise but wobbled a bit. He made it to his feet first and assisted her up. His touch on her elbow struck her like a bolt of lightning from the sky, shooting all the way to her female places, and she blinked up at him. He leaned forward. He was going to kiss her!
But just then, one of the serfs swept by, and he stepped hastily back.
Thank goodness.
Something wasn’t quite right about this. She had drunk too much wine and…and… Where was Aislinn?
Truthfully? She didn’t care. She loved this man and was thoroughly enjoying flirting with him and having him flirt back, as he’d done with her all night. What was the harm in that?
“I’ll see you to your chamber,” he told her in heavy, rumbly tones that reverberated deep inside her.
“Nay. I need some air.” She put the back of her hand to her brow, feeling the heat and moisture there. Her heart beat overly fast. “I must walk a spell out in the coolness.”
“Very well. Allow me to accompany you.”
With his warm palm at her lower back, they stepped outside. Only a few people were still about, putting the animals to rest or tidying up the work sheds. The moon shone brightly in the firmament, bathing everything in a silvery glow. Somewhere an owl hooted.
She looked up at him. He was a dark, protective wall at her side, making her feel small and womanly as nothing ever had before. “Do you think your little mended owl has followed you all the way here from Rouen?”
He chuckled. “Doubtful. But I do have that effect on some people.”
“You mean they will follow you to the ends of the earth?”
He nodded, smiling faintly.
“Oh, you. What a swelled head you have.” They turned the corner of the keep, leaving the light of the moon behind. She couldn’t see more than an inch in front of her, so she halted. “I suppose we should get back now.” She whirled awkwardly about, her brainworks following slowly. The wine still held her in its hazy grip.
His hands went to her hips in a steadying gesture. Through the darkness, his voice lumbered, all growly and low. “Careful now.”
Silence throbbed. She knew they were going to kiss again. She kn
ew it in her bones.
One of his hands moved up to her jaw, his fingers stroking there lightly. She tilted her head into his caress.
“Mignonne,” he murmured.
“Aye?” The syllable came as mere breath from her lips.
He smoothed a length of her hair behind her ear, the brush of his touch striking sparks all over her. His fingers lingered on the tress near her throat.
“May I…”
“You may kiss me if you wish, minion,” she said in mock empress mode, pointing her chin up to offer her cheek. It was an attempt to flirt, but missed the mark. She should just have commanded him to kiss her. Or she should have reached up, wound her arms round his neck, and done the deed herself.
“Merciful saints,” he said, and cupped her face with both capable, masculine hands. His head came down, and, blessedly, he didn’t peck her cheek. He went straight to her lips.
Finally!
He was gentle at first, tasting her. Testing. A trace of wine lingered on his tongue. The scent of the autumn forest enveloped her. Then on an exhale—his or hers, she wasn’t sure, mayhap both—her mouth opened. His did, too, and his tongue pressed against hers. His fingers slid up into her hair. She drank the passion from his mouth and let hers flow into his.
He pulled back, his fingertips in her hair. “You are the fairest thing I’ve seen in all my days, Brigitte. You’ve got me so befuddled, I don’t know if I’m coming or going.”
At his declaration, her entire being blossomed like a flower in the sun. “Oh, Grégoire,” she whispered, running her hands up the corded length of his arms and hooking her fingers behind his neck. “I feel the same.”
He fell against her then, pressing her back against the wall, claiming her the way she wanted him to. Every corner of her sparkled with energy and fire. His tongue lapped at hers, his lips nibbled. She imagined his mouth doing the same to her breast, and her nipples tightened sharply.
“Brigitte,” he rasped.
“Aye, Grégoire.”
Suddenly, he bent, scooping her right up off her feet.
Her slipper went flying, but she barely noticed. A dizzying sort of happiness, a thrill like she’d never known, consumed her. She leaned her head against his broad, solid chest. Anticipation knocked about in her belly even as her thoughts whorled languorously and the heat of his body seeped into her as he carried her off, her skirts tangling about his legs.
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