Come to Me

by Tessa Fairfax

  What she felt for him… Those emotions were nothing like what her books, her prayers, or even her cherished bees had ever made her feel. So much satisfaction and love filled her, she was overflowing.

  She took a deep, deep breath and exhaled. Was this what waking up next to him every morning would be like? Could that ever happen for her?

  She brushed her fingertips over his lashes. Couldn’t help herself.

  His lids fluttered up. Those green eyes found hers, and he smiled languidly. His lids closed again. His arm left her waist to drape over her shoulder, and he rolled closer against her, his hand opening flat at her back. There was no mistaking that he was ready to take her again.

  “Nay,” she whispered, despite the intense pleasure his desire for her caused. “’Tis morn. I must go.”

  His eyes opened. He looked round. “Morn? ’Tis yet dark.”

  “Aye, but I must return to my chamber ere my sisters wonder where I am. We don’t want anyone raising the alarm.”

  He rubbed his face into the mattress, looking loathe to rise for the day.

  Then he gazed rather mistily into her eyes and grinned. “I like the idea that you three sleep together. All those white limbs and lovely women’s bodies. What I wouldn’t give to be the man lying in that bed.”

  She whapped him on the shoulder, rising. “You are a devil.”

  Clutching the sheet to her chest, she got up from the bed and sought her clothing. He had to help her dress, and it didn’t work out well because she had to keep slapping his hand away as he tried to touch her in places she didn’t wish to be touched at the moment. Plus, he’d torn the lacings to shreds, and the fragments they could find weren’t all long enough. With the addition of a black lacing from one of his tunics, they managed to hang her garments well enough on her body.

  When he began to dress, as well, she said, “You must remain here. I’ll go alone.”

  “I want to ensure you get back safely.”

  She smiled. “That’s sweet. But really, let me go alone or it will cause a stir.”

  “Brigitte…” he began, suddenly serious.

  She put a reassuring hand on his arm. “’Tis all right, Grégoire. I’ll speak of this to no one.”

  She would let him speak with Aislinn and her father, if he was so inclined. And if he wasn’t…. If for some reason he still wanted Aislinn—her throat seized up—well, so be it. She would then go to the cloister, confident that she was ready to devote herself to God.

  Because if Grégoire didn’t want her forever, she wanted no part of this earthly life.

  But at least she’d had this one perfect night to remember.

  But what if he’d given her a babe? She could sell St. Augustine’s Confessions for coin to keep her and her babe in comfort for many years. Or, could she have the child, then leave it here with her father, and retreat to the nunnery? Aislinn would love the child as her own, Bridget was confident of that.

  But she didn’t wish to think through all that now. She needed to sleep a few hours and ponder things with a fresh mind.

  In the end, he kissed her soundly, promising so much in the way he touched her, though he never spoke the words. It was all right if he didn’t speak them. He didn’t owe her anything. She’d set out to experience what St. Augustine advised, and Grégoire had obliged her.

  How he had obliged!

  She smiled to herself, feeling calm and confident and beautiful.

  As he watched from the balcony, she descended the exterior staircase down to the yard and made her way round to the main front doors. After slipping inside, she dashed up the big stairs and put her hand on the latch to the chamber she shared with her sisters.

  “What are you about, Bridget?” said a stern voice behind her.

  She jumped, giving a tiny scream and removing her hand from the door. As she turned to face her aunt, her blood iced over in her limbs. It was still dark in the hall, but she detected an animosity in Aunt Edyth’s comportment, in her shadowed gaze.

  “Oh, Auntie, you startled me. I— I couldn’t sleep and—”

  “Don’t play coy. Were you with him?”

  She glanced down at something her relative brandished in her hand. Her lost slipper.

  She gulped. “With whom?”

  “You know who. I found this at the bottom of his balcony stairs.”

  Bridget reached for the shoe. “Oh, I’m so glad you found it! I wondered where—”

  Aunt Edyth didn’t let her take it. “How can you hurt Aislinn like this? How?”

  “I swear I don’t know what you mean.” Her voice sounded squeaky even to herself.

  “You’re in love with him. You want him for yourself.”

  Bridget gasped, her breath sharp in her throat. Was she so obvious? She’d thought it was her secret alone.

  “You know men like that will take advantage of whatever is offered them, don’t you?”

  “I— I didn’t offer him”—she swallowed—“anything.”

  Liar.

  “Oh, ’tis as plain as if you’d written him an invitation. The way you ogled him tonight. The way you touched him. Did you think he wouldn’t notice that?”

  “Auntie, please.” She hoped no one could hear. But more than that, she wanted her aunt to leave her alone, to quit pointing out her sinful behavior.

  “Everybody notices, dear. And what about Aislinn? Do you think she’s blind? Why would you do this to her?”

  Her chest constricted painfully. “I don’t wish to hurt my sister.”

  She frowned. Except, her sister had all but offered the man to her on a platter. Why, she wondered?

  Her aunt sniffed. “Nay, I’m certain you don’t. Mayhap, you are too innocent to understand the game you are playing. All those years of reading books. Praying.” Her snide tone made Bridget wince. “You are naive, so let me educate you. Men are simple beasts. Their base needs rule them. The earl is your sister’s betrothed, and he will assuredly wed her. How could he not take my dear, lovely Aislinn to wife? She’s been promised to him. But he will have no compunction about availing himself of your comforts, as well.”

  Anger sparked in Bridget’s gut. How dare the odious woman think of Grégoire in such lowly terms? He didn’t place his affections nonchalantly, nor would he use a woman so badly. Any woman.

  And couldn’t Auntie for once see that Bridget was just as desirable as her beloved Aislinn? Not in the same way, verily, but Bridget had many fine qualities.

  “He would just as likely wed me if I wanted it!” she burst out before she could tame her temper. Where the audacity to make that declaration came from, she had no clue. Did she even believe it herself?

  The silence that greeted her drummed loudly for the space of two heartbeats.

  “Oh, my dear,” said her aunt in such a pitying way. “We’ve prepared Aislinn to be the next mistress of Shyleburgh. She has all the qualities a great lord desires in his consort. Beauty, poise, gentleness. You…” Her aunt eyed her up and down, and Bridget felt the condescension as if she’d been physically raked. Every inch of her skin prickled.

  “I, what, Aunt?”

  “I suppose you would make an adequate brood mare.”

  “How dare you!”

  “But to hold a man, to keep him in your bed and not have him stray to another’s, a woman must possess…more desirable qualities than you.”

  Bridget could take no more of her aunt’s cruelty. “I don’t have to listen to these insults.” She yanked on the latch and thrust open the door. “Go. I have work to do.”

  “Will you pursue him?”

  How she longed to slap the woman! But people were still sleeping nearby, so she lowered her voice. “How can you ask me that?”

  “Because I know you,” Auntie said through pinched lips. “You always get what you want.”

  Her aunt clearly didn’t know her at all. They’d never gotten along, not since her very youngest days. Not for Bridget’s want of trying, but for her aunt’s coolness and scor
n.

  She turned away before she lowered herself and said something equally cruel.

  “All I ask, niece, is that you heed me. A man who thinks you’re in love with him will take what he can get, and toss what’s left to the dogs.”

  Those last words were slung against her back, because she was already pounding down the stairs. She had to get away from the witch and her evil tongue.

  Aunt Edyth had always disliked her, Bridget knew that. She suspected it had something to do with her aunt’s own past, but why she took all her bitterness out on Bridget, she didn’t know. The woman deserved pity for whatever disappointments she had endured, but Bridget was feeling less than charitable. And a new anguish wormed its way through her.

  A man who thinks you’re in love with him will take what he can get.

  Was Auntie right? Was this Samson all over again? She had made no secret of her pleasure at being betrothed to him all those years ago. He had noted her admiration for him, how she asked questions about him, about his family, and how she tried to ingratiate herself with him.

  Just as she had with Grégoire.

  Samson had taken advantage of her vulnerability and had almost succeeded in taking her innocence, too. One evening, in the orchard, he’d surprised her in the dark, shoved her into the mead house. He told her he would take from her as he desired, when he desired; he was her betrothed and would do the same as her husband. He had slapped her, put his hands beneath her kirtle. Not truly knowing what he was doing, she had fought him off with a sharp honey scraper, slicing his hand, and managed to get away.

  But the emotional damage had been done. She had retreated into herself, and her books, and her gentle friends at the abbey, and slowly became what her sisters sometimes said was cold and authoritarian. She donned plain garments and wooden shoes, striving to become invisible.

  For four years she had dreaded the future that awaited her with Samson, until the Conquest when the Norman king took power, and everything changed. Suddenly released from the odious marriage contract, she chose the convent rather than risk being wed to another savage brute of a man. For nearly five blissful years, she had enjoyed freedom from dread and worry about her future.

  But where Samson had failed, Grégoire had succeeded.

  She had allowed herself to be exposed again, like a newborn chick fresh from the egg, quivering and vulnerable to the first carnivore that found her.

  And Grégoire had found her.

  She never should have put on that beautiful gown. Never should have let her hair down.

  Never should have let him see how she felt about him.

  She bit her knuckle to stifle a cry. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, but she refused to weep ever again over a man.

  At the base of the stairs, Karlan stepped forth, almost startling the hair off her head. Torchlight illuminated his grim face in a shifting glow.

  “Karlan! I’m so glad to see you.” She swiped at her wet eyes. She had shared so much of her pain with him over the years, it felt natural to unburden herself now. “You should have heard the awful things Auntie just said to me.”

  “I caught some of it.” His words were clipped, angry. Dearest Karlan. She could always count on him for emotional support. “She’s right. Everyone saw what you were doing last night.”

  Her heart thumped right down to her toes. “Karlan! I was no—”

  “Did you have to flirt with him like that?” her friend accused.

  The world had flipped on its end. Her throat tightened, making words difficult. “You mean the dancing?” She hoped that’s all he meant, that no one had seen Grégoire bear her in his arms up to his chamber. “Aislinn asked me to.”

  His nostrils flared. Bitterness reeked from every inch of him, from his clenched jaw to his rigid stance and balled fists. “What happened to your virtue? What about your plans for the veil? That man has already taken everything from Shyleburgh. He would take your dreams from you, too.”

  “He hasn’t.” She reached for Karlan’s arm. He stepped back, out of reach, his expression utterly stony. “What has gotten into you?”

  “I’m ashamed for you, Bridget.” He turned and stalked away.

  “You don’t understand! I— I…” I love him, she wanted to shout.

  But Grégoire wasn’t there to proclaim he loved her, too, so it would be a rather stupid and…worthless…admission.

  In fact, he hadn’t even told her he loved her. She hadn’t said the actual words, either—but surely that understanding had been in her every glance, her every action last night? Hadn’t she risked her reputation, her place in the world, and even her eternal soul, to lie with a man promised to another? Did that not proclaim how much she loved him, more than words?

  But he hadn’t made her any promises at all. Hadn’t vowed to speak with her father. He hadn’t even mentioned her sister, had shown no conflict about betraying her. Still expecting to wed Aislinn, he had lain with Bridget.

  Oh, my God! What had she done?

  She fell back against the wall, her cheeks aflame, her fingers scrabbling at her breast for the crucifix that wasn’t there. Her faith had always been her comfort, but she had carelessly tossed it aside. All for a man who had ruined her and betrayed her sister as easily as he downed a cup of wine.

  ’Twas true!

  Or was it…?

  He was always so kind and affable. Was that just part of his strategy? He’d seen her esteem for him and found her an easy target. He had known flattery and attentions would bring her down. He’d even plied her with drink to help his goal along.

  How foolish and stupid she was!

  Acrid shame filled her, tingling hotly in every limb. Everyone in the hall had seen her foolishness. Berthe, the maidservants, Auntie, Karlan.

  Aislinn.

  She pounded her thighs with her fists. What had she done? She’d just wanted it so badly, wanted so badly for him to want her, that she’d been blind to the reality of what was truly happening.

  It must stop here. She had to get away, to prove she wasn’t a weakling who would fall for a man who only wanted her to warm his bed.

  I am here to serve, should you change your mind, he’d said.

  Aye, he wanted to have both sisters. Her for fun, Aislinn for wife.

  Well, he wasn’t going to get everything he wanted.

  Not this time.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Someone or something was following Grégoire up the stairs—the exterior stairs leading up to the balcony off his chamber. The metallic scrape of his sword as he freed it rent the still dawn. “Who goes there?”

  A woman’s gasp took him aback. He lowered his weapon.

  “’Tis I. Bridget.”

  His senses prickled. Aye, he should have known. Her presence never failed to charge the air with something he couldn’t name. She’d come back to him. Merciful saints, he was instantly hard for her. It was still early morn. He’d been to the pond for a quick dousing, since Bridget had left him in sore need. She didn’t know about men and mornings, but he would teach her. Aye, he would enjoy teaching her about that.

  He hurried down the several steps to her shadowy figure. “What are you doing out here in this chill?”

  He grabbed at her hand. She pulled it back.

  “I must speak with you.”

  The hair on his nape stood alert. She didn’t sound happy.

  “Give me your hand, woman. These stairs are dangerous. The wood is rotted in places.”

  She reluctantly allowed him to take her hand. It felt soft and small in his. Not smooth, though. His thumb rubbed a callous he found on her palm. She tightened her fingers round his to stop the intimacy, and he had to smile to himself.

  They climbed up onto the balcony and entered his chamber.

  He turned to take her in his arms, but she stepped back abruptly. He looked closer. She had doffed the gorgeous attire from last night and once again donned her plain, drab garb.

  “Speak of what?” he asked, so they co
uld be done with talk and proceed to more pleasant pastimes.

  “I—” She broke off, seeming uncomfortable all of a sudden. Her jaw was rigid, her arms crossed over her chest. Her toe tapped rapidly on the wooden floor.

  Clearly, she was not here to enjoy time with him. “Out with it.”

  She lifted her chin at his impatience. “I must leave immediately for the Martyred Virgins.”

  The statement was like the blow of a club to his chest, leaving an ache that stunned him. Even though he’d known this had been her plan all along.

  But after last night, he’d thought things were different. He thought he might have convinced her a life with him was preferable to a celibate vocation.

  “Impossible.” His voice had turned hard, his words clipped. Even he could hear it.

  The toe tapping ceased. She uncrossed her arms. “Why not?”

  “I can’t spare the men, and travel is too dangerous.”

  Her fists clenched and unclenched. “But I thought you pushed Black Hand north, into Cumbria. I head southward.”

  “When we engaged him near Sedgeburn Heath, it was clear his forces have grown. The entire area is unsafe.”

  She stepped forward menacingly, which would have made him laugh were he not so caught between arousal and desperation. Please stay, he longed to beg.

  Tilting her head back, she looked up at him, all spit and fire. “Then why do you bide here? Be gone and vanquish Black Hand once and for—”

  He reached for her and silenced her with a kiss. Damnation, he’d tried. Had tried to keep his hands off her, allowing her leave to say what she needed to say. But now this ridiculous demand to be allowed to depart, and a scolding to boot!

  Instantly, the embers of desire he’d failed to douse in the freezing pond ignited into keenest flame. He slid one arm round her waist, pulling her to him and lifting her to her toes.

  “Don’t,” she whispered, even as her hands clasped round his upper arms and tugged him to her.

  “I must,” he murmured and kissed her again. He bussed one corner of her mouth, then the other, then slanted his mouth fully over hers.