Come to Me

by Tessa Fairfax

  The girl huffed out a sigh that sounded exasperated. “We all have duty—” She glanced away, looking as if she sought words. She returned to look him in the eyes. “But my sister…” She waved her hands in apparent linguistic frustration, and lapsed into Fren-glish. “Bridget has un grand tendre for you, Grégoire. Very big.”

  Silence pulsated, thick in the air. He wasn’t sure he understood correctly. Bridget cared for him greatly? “Lady Bridget is a virtuous and kind person,” he said cautiously. “She cares for everyone.”

  “Nay. She— How do you say…” Aislinn shook her head, lips clamped, then burst out in English, “God’s teeth, my lord, she loves you! You must go to her. Tell her what is it in your heart.”

  The words rang clear as a mountain stream. He needed no interpreter to understand their meaning. The heavy organ in his chest gave one hard kick.

  Bridget loved him?

  Was it possible?

  Go to her?

  Did he dare?

  He had vowed his next wife would come to him. He had done everything in his power to make that happen with Aislinn. It hadn’t. And now she suggested the opposite, that he go after another. Her sister.

  Had he gotten it all wrong? Should he have made his wishes clear from the beginning—or at least as soon as he understood them himself?

  When, exactly, had he realized the truth? He wasn’t even sure he knew what the truth was. All he knew was, when he was with Bridget the world was bright and filled with potential. He felt like an emperor. When he was apart from her, he was just Grégoire FitzHenri, liegeman to the king, going about his lonely day.

  She, alone, made England livable.

  “Trust your heart, my lord,” the black-haired siren whispered, her fist pressed to her breast. She placed her palm gently on his forearm, her eyes compassionate. “You must try.”

  “But, my lady—”

  She patted his arm. “Go. I will be fine.”

  He hung his head. “I am sorry. Please forgive me.”

  She smiled. “I forgive you, my lord. And my father will understand, and release us from our agreement.”

  He understood the English words, but doubt still dampened the flame of hope in his core. “What if her answer is nay? I must wed a daughter of Shyleburgh come Michaelmas.”

  Aislinn’s smile lit her eyes like a candelabrum. “She will not say nay. But if she does…” Her smile dimmed. “Then I will wed you.”

  He bowed his head. “You are a treasure any man would be proud to call wife. Including myself.”

  On his way to the stables, he called out for two armored men to attend him. Sirs Albert and Drogo stepped forward immediately. Good. He’d rather not leave Albert unattended.

  He ordered Phoenix readied, and a few minutes later, the three of them charged out of the keep. The sun rode high in the sky, and if they hurried they should be able to return by nightfall.

  If Bridget consented to come away with him.

  But would he be able to convince her? What would he say to make her change her mind?

  What if Aislinn was wrong?

  He only knew that Shyleburgh wasn’t the same without her. She belonged with her family and the people who loved her.

  She belonged with him.

  Not a quiet, lonely convent somewhere. God must know that, and would forgive him taking her back. Wouldn’t He?

  Especially if she were with child. His hands clenched around the reins. God would, surely, expect him to go after her and claim the babe—and his bride.

  He must have been mad to let her go in the first place.

  They took the back way for haste, which meant bounding down the boulder-strewn path and plunging into a strip of woods that led to the abbey grounds. Soon, they made their way through the darkness cast by the ancient stand of trees, whose leaves were now turning the golden green of early autumn.

  They were halfway through to the monks’ fields when a sudden stab of pain pierced Grégoire’s upper arm. An instant of confusion reigned as he glanced down. An arrow protruded from his limb!

  Drogo and Albert called out from behind while shouts erupted from the trees.

  Ambush!

  Instinct born of a life at battle took over. Mercifully, his sword arm remained uninjured. He freed his blade, wheeling his charger to face the attack. Drogo and Albert had already engaged the foe—a dozen men on foot. Black Hand’s band? Grégoire recognized none of the men, so they weren’t the villagers Grégoire had met.

  The attackers were obviously not professional warriors, disorganized and untrained. It gave him and his own warriors the advantage. As one foe moved in to club him with a mace, Grégoire kicked him back and swung his sword. The man cowered, then tried again. At Grégoire’s whistled command, Phoenix reared up and pawed the air, then his deadly hooves came down upon the assailant, who screamed as he fell.

  Other attackers moved in. Grégoire wielded his weapon in the tight quarters of the woods, knocking down one, then another, in sprays of crimson gore. From the corner of his eye he saw Drogo and Albert dealing with the others.

  Grégoire shifted and dodged to avoid more arrows. He had not donned mail or helmet in his haste to leave the keep, but, thankfully, his men had their armor and shields, and thus more easily deflected blows.

  In the distance, he heard the abbey bells toll in alarm, and new voices were added to the fray. Friend or foe, he couldn’t tell.

  The hand in which he’d held his mount’s reins had gone numb, leaving him to control Phoenix with his legs alone. His entire arm was limp and hung useless at his side. An attacker approached on that side and reached up to drag him bodily off his mount. He hefted his blade with his good arm, crossing it over his body to slam it down upon the cur. But at that moment, blinding pain crashed through his skull in a blast of lightning.

  He struggled to maintain clarity, but it was no use. The trees danced round him. Colors blurred.

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter Forty

  A woman was singing nearby. “Ave Maria, gratia plena…” A mellow voice that calmed him. Grégoire floated upon a river of comfort. Coolness soothed his brow, his cheeks, his neck.

  His lids struggled open, letting in flashes of light, but a fierce pain slammed into his head and had him closing his eyelids once more. Dizziness made a toy of him, tossing him hither and yon. Nausea welled up, taking control. Rolling onto his side, he purged his innards, which only made the headache worse. He lay back, gasping, soothed once more only by the gentle coolness on his brow.

  He slept.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Singing threaded through his dreams. Except there were no dreams. Only blackness and fog. And always the singing.

  “Grégoire,” a woman’s voice said.

  Now, there was a gray mist curling through an orchard. A beautiful woman clad in a gown of cobwebs strode through the grasping fingers of fog, a woman who reached into the slate-colored wall for a key. When she turned, her eyes blazed a vivid honey-gold.

  “My lord, are you with us?” a man’s voice said somewhere near.

  Grégoire blinked his eyes open. Only a vague wooziness buffeted him. It faded away as his eyes focused.

  A bald man in the brown robe of a monk bent over him. He snapped his fingers before Grégoire’s face.

  “Ah. See?” the monk said, moving back. “His eyes respond.”

  Every muscle in Grégoire’s body ached. His arm up near his shoulder seemed to have a hot flame constantly licking at it. But at least the throbbing in his head had lessened. His hand moved up to his brow, where he found a bandage wrapped round his crown.

  Something at the back of his mind tried to make its way to the fore, something he should remember…

  A dull tingling in the tops of his ears made him feel restless, as if there was something he should be doing instead of lying here in bed. He was too fuzzy-headed to focus on what that might be.

  The monk placed an arm beneath Grégoire’s shoulders to pr
op his head up a bit.

  A woman leaned over, putting a cup to his lips. “Drink,” she murmured, tipping the cup as he sipped. A thin, peppery, sweet drink.

  He studied the woman’s face. It was vaguely familiar, and he felt he should know it. She looked worried. The honey-gold eyes from his dream—her eyes—wandered to his, held there for a moment, then shifted away. He was too weary to wonder about it.

  Again, he slept.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  “Where are my men?”

  Bridget jumped at the sudden noise from her patient. He was awake! It was two days after the attack. They had taken him back here to Shyleburgh, and she had insisted the Abbot take her back, too, in order to tend him.

  Naturally, he’d awakened the way Bridget knew he would—blustering, grumpy, and shouting.

  While her pulse leaped and gamboled inside her limbs in happiness at his return to consciousness, she schooled her movements, carefully replacing the bottle of tincture on the windowsill.

  He’d suffered a dreadful injury. They wouldn’t know how he truly fared until he was up and about, and speaking of everyday things.

  “Bring Sirs Drogo and Albert to me at once!” he roared.

  She smiled to herself. How she loved that gruff voice. How she loved that arrogant, overbearing, wonderful man!

  And he’d made it through the worst part of his recovery. The urge to shout for joy prodded at her. That he recalled the names of the men who had been with him was a very good sign, indeed. Brother Baldric had told her people who suffered a blow to the head often lost their memory, in whole or in part, either temporarily or permanently.

  Would he remember her?

  It mattered not, for he was alive! Her prayers had been answered.

  Bottling up her breath, she whirled from the windowsill and ventured a few steps closer to his bedside. She came to a halt before he saw her, and stood there hugging herself, quivering with thankfulness.

  Brother Baldric was tending to him on the far side of the bed. Grégoire started to rise, and the brother assisted him into a sitting position. “How do you feel, my lord?”

  Bridget remained off to the side, soaking in the sight of a man both strong of body and strong of will, battling his way back to the realm of health. He was pale, though beard whiskers darkened his jaw. His eyes looked strained round the edges. His hair was mussed, sticking out everywhere above the white bandage swaddling his head.

  He was the dearest thing she had ever beheld. Something inside her belly, knotted tight these past two ghastly days—and perhaps even longer—sprang loose at last. It opened like a new-formed butterfly unfurling its tender wings, spreading warmth and beauty throughout her limbs. She must have the silliest expression on her face, but she didn’t care.

  “Sirs Drogo and Albert,” he growled out, batting off Brother Baldric’s assistance and settling back against the pillows. “If they live, bring them here.”

  “They fare well enough,” Brother said, ignoring his patient’s ill humor to arrange the pillows more securely behind him. “They killed off your attackers and lived to tell about it. Do you remember what happened?”

  He clamped his eyes shut. His hand went to his temple, fingering the bandage. “We were ambushed. In the woods.” He opened his eyes to glare at Brother Baldric. “Who was it?”

  “No one recognized the dead. They were not men from the village. Do you know where you are?”

  Grégoire paused a moment, glancing about, but not her way. She held her breath until he said, “My chamber at Shyleburgh.”

  A sigh of relief escaped her.

  “Aye. Good,” Brother Baldric said. “For a while, we despaired you would remember anything.”

  Muttering, Grégoire made a feeble attempt to get out of bed. “St. Bede’s. Must get to St.— Damnation.” He fell back to the mattress.

  The brother comforted him with a palm to his shoulder. “’Tis too early to move. You must rest.”

  Bridget’s belly leaped inside her. If his condition hadn’t been so dire, she would have pressed him for why he needed to get to St. Bede’s. Had he been coming back for her? She desperately wanted to think so.

  Brother Baldric gestured to her. She grabbed up a cup, poured water from a jug, and stepped over to Grégoire. When she offered him the cup his gaze fastened upon her, which set her skin a-tingle.

  His face was grim. He tried to raise his injured arm, realized he couldn’t, and took the cup with his other hand. He drank.

  “I’m Brother Baldric,” the monk said.

  “I remember you,” he said when he’d drained the cup.

  “Very good—”

  “Do you remember me, my lord?” Bridget asked tremulously, interrupting the monk.

  Grégoire moved those gorgeous green eyes her way once more, though he didn’t smile. “Of course, Lady Brigitte.”

  Every corner inside her grinned. Her outside must have echoed her pleasure and relief, because finally he gave her one of his own smiles that never failed to overpower her. His eyes gleamed.

  She grew embarrassed beneath his open regard and took the cup away from him, averting her gaze.

  Please say you want me, not my sister! Please say you were going to St. Bede’s to fetch me back!

  Brother Baldric broke the awkward silence. “If you feel anything like yourself after your terrible injury, my lord, you owe it to the vigilant care of our Lady Bridget. She ministered to you night and day. Her salves and tinctures—”

  His head whipped over to the monk. “How long?”

  “Today is the third day,” Brother Baldric said.

  “Three days? Hellfire, man, bring me food and get me my men.” He tossed the sheet aside, swung his legs over the bedside, and started to rise.

  “Nay!” Bridget and Brother Baldric cried together.

  “Sit down,” Brother commanded. “You must ease into wellness.”

  Ignoring them, Grégoire shot to his feet as if to start his day. Bridget and the monk froze in place. Instead of moving, he stood there, utterly naked, his back to her with just the bed between them.

  She gulped, unable to take her eyes off him. Merciful saints, he was glorious! A towering figure of pure muscle, like a statue of marble, all high shoulders, furrowed sinews, and the smoothest skin she’d ever seen pulled taut over his rounded buttocks. The urge to cup those cheeks with her hands nearly overpowered her. And those firmly chiseled thighs! Built for riding, they could carry a woman to paradise, she knew so well.

  The vision of him doing just that rose vividly to her mind. How her sensibilities had changed over recent weeks!

  He swayed precariously, drunkenly. His fingers went to his temple.

  “Another day in bed, at least, my lord,” she pleaded, concern finally pushing lust aside.

  Brother Baldric reached forth to catch him should he fall. Though, Grégoire’s bulk would surely squash the little monk flat on the floor.

  Grégoire sat heavily back down. Brother Baldric drew the sheet up over him as he slowly eased back into place on the bed. Bridget fought to keep her eyes upon the far window and not stare where she shouldn’t. Brother Baldric had him well covered by the time she ventured to look down upon him.

  His face did not exude happiness with the situation.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, knowing how he hated inactivity. “You shall soon be mended.”

  He failed to look her way, instead lying back and closing his eyes.

  Her endurance faltered, torn as she was between happiness that he’d awakened…and the dread feeling that he remembered naught about her…nor what they’d shared together.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Later that afternoon, Bridget entered Grégoire’s chamber bearing a tray…along with her continued trepidation. Moments ago, he had sat up and declared himself fit. He certainly was fit enough to demand food again. Behind her strode the two knights, Sirs Drogo and Albert. The bedchamber suddenly became much smaller, and she stepped aside to let them
approach their liege.

  Weapons clattering, they clomped across the floor, their boots scraping the ancient wood. The men greeted each other raucously, clasping forearms, slamming palms upon Grégoire’s back so roughly Bridget feared they would re-injure him.

  When she elbowed her way past them with the tray, they parted. It felt like walking through an enchanted forest where the trees gave way at her footsteps.

  “Ah, pabulum for his lordship,” Sir Drogo remarked with the lightest of smirks. The solemn knight rarely showed levity to any degree. Grégoire gave him a glare, and the knight cocked a dark eyebrow in answer.

  Bridget placed the tray on the table beside the bed. Without a by-your-leave, Sir Albert took the napkin from the tray, snapped it in the air to straighten it, and laid it solicitously across Grégoire’s lap.

  Grégoire grabbed the knight’s arm, giving him a glower burdened with meaning. Albert grinned mischievously. His lordship shoved Sir Albert’s arm away, and the knight backed off.

  Bridget took up the bowl of beef broth, about to hand it to Grégoire.

  “Would I were to receive such care from this lovely maiden,” Sir Drogo murmured.

  Sir Albert chimed in, “Methinks you shall never leave this chamber if you continue to receive such solicitude.”

  “Out!” Grégoire bellowed while Bridget stood there holding the steaming bowl.

  “Do you not wish to hear what we have to say about the skirmish?” Sir Albert asked, feigning hurt feelings. He caught her glance and winked at her! Her brows went up in utter surprise, then she gave him a flustered smile.

  A rough growl from the patient drew their attention. Grégoire glowered severely at his man.

  Was he jealous? A little thrill tripped through her.

  “Tell me everything,” he ordered in the most unpleasant tone, taking the bowl brusquely enough that some liquid sloshed out. “I’m told none of the assailants survived.” He sipped from the vessel, grimacing. Whether from the heat of the liquid or the taste, she didn’t know.