Come to Me

by Tessa Fairfax

  “Damn you,” he spat, rising and reaching for her.

  She leaped out of the way and began to run, the need to flee so potent it coursed through every inch of her.

  Rocks and boulders tripped her. She slipped on the dewy grass, regained her footing, her kirtle wet and clinging to her legs.

  With a throaty snarl, Black Hand caught her by the arm, whirled her around, blade poised.

  It was all over. She hadn’t the strength to break away.

  But then a sound she’d never heard before burst over the fell. Was it man or beast? Or something born of hell?

  Both she and Black Hand glanced up in alarm.

  As if birthed from the very mist, a dragon thundered out from the fog, a dragon with great black wings and a steaming snout, and a voice so terrible she thought her ears would burst. Its war cry roared over the fell, echoed off the fortress wall, and raged through the valley below.

  The dragon had a sword raised high, flashing red as it caught the bright rays of dawning day, and in its wake swarmed a host of screeching demons.

  She had never seen anything so beautiful in her life.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  From behind the nose guard of his helmet, Grégoire spied Bridget in Black Hand’s clutches. He homed in on his foe, a thunderous war cry serving as fire to boil his blood. Beneath him, Phoenix ate up the leagues with his churning gallop, but Grégoire urged him harder, faster.

  Black Hand and Bridget stumbled to a halt partway down the fell, looking his way.

  Then Bridget, sweet Bridget, kicked the bastard in the balls. She shoved off her captor and came running toward him across the sloping expanse of meadow.

  Black Hand struggled to his feet and gave chase. The man was delusional if he thought he could reach out and snag Bridget to use in some foul way and escape his fate.

  The man was delusional if he thought he could touch her and live.

  Grégoire charged toward him, inevitable and sure.

  He could see that Bridget wanted to be lifted up on Phoenix and carried to safety. But first he must end this. He would show Black Hand no mercy.

  He raised his sword high for the death blow. She needed to get out of the way.

  Her gaze fastened on his even as she ran toward him. He spoke to her wordlessly, through his eyes, willing her to understand what he needed of her. Closer and closer he galloped as she ran.

  Then, at the very moment Black Hand would have seized her trailing hair and yanked her down, she dropped to the ground, landing on her knees and bowing her head.

  In a roar of wind, Grégoire sailed Phoenix over her like a ship in the air, and in that realm between heaven and earth, his arm struck, and his blade wailed its fearful death song.

  With a merciless draw on the reins, he spun Phoenix round. Sir Albert and his other knights galloped toward him and encircled him, scattering sheep and goats and a black-and-white barking dog.

  From the corner of his eye, he spotted Dunstan, the traitorous reeve, hobbling clumsily down the fell, headed for the woods. From the man’s wife, worried for her sister who lived in the keep, they had learned that the reeve had been in league with Black Hand all along. At Grégoire’s signal, Albert took a group of knights and chased after him down the hill.

  But all Grégoire focused on was the blur of russet as Bridget scrambled to her feet and ran in the opposite direction.

  “Brigitte, wait!”

  He kicked Phoenix to a gallop. Earth and grass flew from the stallion’s hooves. They passed where Black Hand’s headless corpse had crashed to the ground, leaving a gory smear as it slid down the hillside.

  He caught up to her. “Brigitte!”

  “Kaitlin,” she yelled back. “I must find her. Just over there, I think.”

  He urged Phoenix into one last lunge to overtake her, then leaped down from the saddle, flinging his grimy sword aside. He wrenched the helmet from his head and chucked that away, too. He needed her in his arms. He needed her warm and living and loving against him.

  With his arms spread wide, he let her slam into him like a stone hurtling from a sling.

  He went down to his knees, taking her with him. His gloved hands groped her, to see if she was whole, for blood streaked her arm.

  “Ah, mignonne, you’re hurt. Let’s get back to the keep.”

  Her eyes were desperately scanning the countryside around them. Muck covered her from head to toe. Her clothing was tattered.

  Everything inside him clenched, cutting off his air. What a stupid fool he’d been to take off without telling her he loved her.

  “Kaitlin,” she cried. “Help her! I’ll never forgive myself if she—”

  “Nay. She’s safe. Oelwine cut down her attacker.”

  She stared at him uncertainly. “Verily?”

  He nodded. “Your father is with her now.”

  Her lower lip wobbled. “And you? Are you—?”

  “Safe. But, here, you are injured.” He inspected the slash on her upper arm, where her sleeve was rent. The wound didn’t appear lethal, but it likely caused pain. His chest squeezed. He couldn’t bear that she suffered.

  He smoothed the hair back from her face, and his fingers tangled in her braid. He pulled her close and smothered her with a kiss, two kisses, three kisses, all over her face, the relief coming hard and fast that he had reached her in time. He had been frantic with worry, first when he’d learned of Dunstan’s treachery and that the Thane of Mawdor had lent Black Hand horses and arms.

  But even more so when he’d reached the keep and learned she’d been taken.

  Thank God he’d found her in time.

  She felt damp and hot, but she was kissing him back. Her hands touched him all over, cupped his face, grabbed at his hair. “Oh, thank heavens you are safe!” she said between kisses. “I thought he’d killed you. Then Dunstan said you were in Cumbria and I— I was sure he would kill me and—”

  “Shhh, love,” he urged. “I’m here now.”

  “You saved me, Grégoire! You came for me, and you killed him!”

  “When I saw his hands on you, I— I can’t bear to think of it.” He gathered her closer still. “Of course I came for you. I can’t imagine my life without you. I went off determined to slay all your dragons, but…I should just have told you how much I love you.”

  She gazed up at him, her eyes widening.

  He smiled, and kissed her lips, so precious to him. “Now, let’s get up and go inside.” He kissed her lovely, pale eyelids. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

  She stilled in the circle of his embrace and focused on him, staring up at him, dumbfounded. “Do you mean it?” she whispered.

  “I love you, Brigitte. I think I have all along. I wanted my bride to come willingly to me, but I was too blind to see you had already come to me, eager and willing, whenever I beckoned. Too foolish to understand that you were always the one I was meant to have.”

  He kissed her lips, pulled his face back to look into her eyes. “And now, twice I’ve almost lost you. I would be truly undone without you. Even if you don’t love me, please say you’ll be mine. I’ll work hard to please you.”

  Her wide, gorgeous eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Grégoire. Even if I don’t love you? How can you say that?”

  He swallowed, his heart sinking. “So, you are for the convent.”

  Her expression softened, and she gently put her hand to his cheek. “Not a chance. I love you so much I’m bursting with it. Why do you think I came back? For you. I knew you wanted your bride to come willingly—you spoke of little else in your courtship of my sister. So, to show how willing I am to be yours, I was going to ask you for your hand in marriage.”

  It took a moment for her words to sink in. When they did, a joyful calm descended over him and spread everywhere like golden summer sunshine.

  “Do you know what we are saying?” he said as the sun shone down from an azure sky.

  Her smile was like the sparkling of the sea. “I th
ink we are saying we love each other.”

  He gazed into her shining-jewel eyes, where the tears welling battled the broad smile she beamed at him. She looked suspended in motion, as if he’d given her the only thing she would ever require to sustain her. He wanted so badly to take her into his arms and kiss her silly, to ravish her senseless that very moment, but first, there was an important matter to settle.

  “Well,” he said expectantly. “Go ahead, then.”

  She blinked up at him uncertainly. “With what?”

  “Ask me.”

  She froze for a moment, looking aghast. But then a smile slowly crept over her lips. “Very well. Grégoire FitzHenri, Comte de Dragonmere, Earl of Shyleburgh, will you be my lord husband? Will you wed me on Michaelmas and love me for the rest of our days? Please say you will.”

  He grinned. And then he laughed. And swung her up in his arms and laughed some more. “You, my love, are a bold and brazen, wanton wench. Which only makes me love you more. But, by God, I don’t know if I can wait that long to wed. Make it today, and you have a bargain.”

  She fell into his arms, laughing, too, and clasping him tightly. “Today, tomorrow, or whenever you say, my lord. I am yours.”

  The impulse to shout for joy just about claimed him. In fact, he may have shouted, but he didn’t know for certain, because his brain had left the earth and was soaring into the ether, along with his heart.

  She was his.

  Thank God. She was his.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  In the hall that eventide, revelry got under way, celebrating the victory and the demise of their enemy.

  Bridget had been cleaned up and bandaged, and was being fed and feted by her family and vassals, along with Kaitlin, whom a blade had sliced shallowly across her upper chest, and all the other brave souls who had defended the keep so valiantly. So many people had come to Bridget’s aid without a thought to their own safety. Her throat tightened, and her eyes stung with tears. It humbled her to know so many people supported her. She would never, ever forget it.

  She gazed round at everyone in the hall, so full of happiness it was as if she floated on a river of bliss rather than sat on a chair beside Grégoire. Cook had outdone himself in preparing Bridget’s favorite foods and presenting Grégoire with a roast of beef as big as a Yule log. All the tables teemed with bounty, and mead flowed generously. Minstrels sang, and the people laughed and ate and drank in celebration.

  “You look content,” Grégoire murmured to her with a smile.

  “I am. Most definitely. Are you?” she asked.

  He bent and kissed her temple. “More than I ever thought possible.”

  “You’re not sorry ’tis I who belong to you, and not another?” Her pulse thundered to see the heat in his gaze and feel his desire for her quicken.

  “Never doubt it, woman. I’ve chosen you.”

  She smiled. “You chose me, I fear, because no one else would have you.” She’d meant it as a jest, but mayhap as a test to see what he would do. He didn’t disappoint.

  His hand left her waist and went to the back of her head, where he wrapped his fist in her hair. Anticipation roared through her. Ever since this morning, she’d been unable to think of—or want—anything more than to make love to him again. She couldn’t wait until their nuptial night, to see what other delicious things he would teach her and do to her.

  His green eyes blazed into hers. “I’ve chosen you above all others, and that’s the end of it.”

  His mouth came down on hers, right there in front of everyone in the hall. Instantly, she tumbled into the dark sensuality of his kiss. It went on forever, his kiss, telling her in no uncertain terms where she stood with him. Just when she had given up all control and hung limply in his arms, he broke the kiss and righted her in her seat.

  It took a moment to recover, but when she did, she glanced around and saw that every woman in the hall was watching her with envy. She blushed with embarrassment…and pride.

  It felt good to be the future Countess of Shyleburgh. Very good, indeed.

  Beside her, Grégoire rose abruptly.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “There is something that can wait no longer.”

  As he strode off, she caught Aislinn’s querying gaze, and they shrugged at one another, puzzled.

  He returned a few moments later with Father Usrich in tow.

  “Marry us,” he told the elderly priest.

  Father Usrich’s eyes popped. “Now?”

  Bridget’s heart leaped in surprise. “What?”

  Grégoire drilled her with a gaze. “We had a bargain, did we not?”

  Her jaw dropped. She’d all but forgotten. “Aye, but—” She snapped her jaw closed. “Aye.”

  He motioned to the priest. “Proceed.”

  Father Usrich stammered. “B-But Michaelmas is—”

  “Two days hence. I know. This will not wait.”

  “But the abbot—”

  “Was expecting the honor. Aye. But my beloved and I are anxious to wed. He will have to understand.”

  He’d said that all the while his gaze bored hotly into hers. Her belly fluttered mercilessly. He was serious!

  Aunt Edyth gasped, a scandalized sound. “This is outrageous!”

  Uncle Edward snorted and awoke. “What is’t? What’s going on?”

  “We’re to have a wedding this night, Uncle,” Kaitlin said.

  “Wedding! Wedding!” all the younger girls chanted.

  The folk in the hall cheered.

  Grégoire drew Bridget to her feet. They clasped hands and turned to the priest.

  Then, right there, standing so proudly beside the man she loved, cocooned in the faith and support of their family and vassals, dreaming of future babes and a long lifetime filled with challenges and happiness, Bridget wed the Earl of Shyleburgh and became his countess.

  And cherished in her heart the certainty that she loved and was loved in return.

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  About the Author

  Oberon Wonch began scribbling stories at an early age, in the hopes of delighting readers the way her favorite books delighted her. While studying folklore and literature from around the world, she decided it was definitely a happy ending that offered the most satisfying read. Life being what it is, she put aside her own writing in order to earn her keep in the corporate world. One day, bored with business travel, she picked up her first historical romance novel in an airport shop and was instantly hooked. Now a two-time RWA® Golden Heart® finalist, she writes historical and contemporary romance from her home in Indiana, where she keeps company with her college sweetheart husband, two fluffy white doglets, and a garden full of flowers, herbs, and only the occasional weed. Learn more about Oberon and her books by visiting www.oberonwonch.com.

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