Maid of Midnight

by Ana Seymour

  “I’d like that,” she whispered.

  He had little patience for their clothes, ridding first her, then himself, of any encumbrances. Finally they stood together naked, his hands moving slowly up and down the length of her back. Bridget closed her eyes and let her head fall back with a soft murmur of delight. “That feels exquisite,” she said. “Like nothing I’ve ever known. Touching is mostly forbidden by the Rule here.”

  She’d had some quick embraces from the monks growing up, an occasional comforting hand on the shoulder. But in general, Ranulf’s caresses were opening a whole new world of sensations. Her skin seemed to come alive everywhere he trailed his fingers.

  “Everyone should be touched,” he told her, moving his hands up to massage her shoulders and neck. “It’s part of being human.”

  She opened her eyes and smiled at him in agreement. “Then I should touch you, as well.”

  “Aye,” he agreed, his voice no longer steady.

  For several minutes they explored each other, standing in the dimming light. He ran his hands up her arms and down her back to cup her small bottom, before lifting her closer against his stiffened manhood. The tips of her breasts brushed the crispy hairs of his chest and hardened.

  She touched him tentatively at first, then more boldly, letting her hands sculpt the bulging line of his arms and slide along his sides to his narrow hips. He pulled back slightly and looked downward. “Touch me, angel,” he said softly.

  She moved her fingers to the center of him, softly stroking his hardness, and he did a swift intake of breath that made her exclaim, “Oh! I’ve not hurt you?”

  With a low chuckle, he picked her up again and placed her on the blankets, then lay beside her. “Don’t worry, you’re doing everything just right, sweetheart,” he said. “You’ve a naturally loving way about you.”

  Her skin felt flushed and peculiar waves were radiating through her middle. “I don’t know what to do exactly,” she admitted.

  “Do whatever feels good,” he said. “Then relax and let me do what will make you feel good. It will all come about just as it should.”

  “Am I supposed to—”

  He interrupted her words by laying his fingers across her lips, then swiped his hand across her forehead as if to clear her mind. “Stop thinking….” he murmured.

  He started to kiss her again, and she discovered that he was right. Her thoughts were no longer coherent as his mouth wandered down to her nipples, and lingered there, sucking gently. His hand was making warm circles on her stomach, then lower as she lifted herself against his fingers.

  By the time he moved over her, thought had fled entirely, replaced by a mindless wash of feeling. As he entered her, she was jolted by a slight sting, but the feeling was soon replaced by a delicious fullness that seemed to reach into her very core.

  Their breathing had become uneven and agitated. Light flashed behind her closed eyelids, and an urgency began, a burning inside and out. She tightened her hold on Ranulf as he took her crashing over the top, then lay limp, dimly aware that he had withdrawn from her quickly to spill himself into the hay.

  In an instant he was back, gathering her tenderly in his arms and rocking her slightly. “Angel,” he whispered. “My beautiful angel of love.”

  She floated. Little by little the sensations subsided in her body and she came back to earth, aware of the feel of his skin sticking damply to hers, of the rough wool of the blanket against her back. It was long moments before she could speak.

  “So that’s what it’s like to make love,” she said dreamily.

  Ranulf gave a shaky laugh. “That’s what it’s like if you’ve been touched by the gods. Normally, ’tis a bit less intense.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Ranulf shook his head, smiling. “You have to stop thanking me.”

  “But I’m grateful. I’m sorry that you had to go through your horrible bash on the head, but, just think. If you hadn’t been wounded, you’d never have come here, and I’d never have known what this was like.”

  “I’d be bashed on the head any day if this was my reward. And I’m glad you liked it, too.”

  She burrowed her head into the crook of his neck. “I’ll never forget it. Nor you, my very own knight.”

  The words had a sound of finality. A sudden chill went up her back as the evening breeze drifted in from the open doorway. He made no reply, merely tightening his hold on her. His breathing was evening out, and he appeared to be falling asleep. She lay silent for several moments, then said, “Ranulf?”

  Sleepily he kissed the top of her head. “Aye, angel, I’m here. I apologize, but it appears that the long ride is catching up with me.”

  With a flush of guilt she pulled herself out of his arms. “Good Lord, I’d forgotten all about your wound. Are you sure you’ve done no damage?”

  “My wound is fine, angel. ’Tis the rest of the body that appears to be fashed. The day has been long.”

  “And you should have long ago been back in your bed. What kept you in town?”

  He told her of his long talk with the blacksmith, and by the time he was done, she’d moved away, sat up and started to put on her clothes.

  “Is something the matter?” he asked, suddenly aware of her withdrawal.

  “Do you think this man was telling you the truth?”

  He looked puzzled. “Jean? Aye.”

  “So you believe him that the monks—my monks—make those terrible things? That they are working for this monster LeClerc, who killed the smithy’s brother?”

  Ranulf sat up slowly. The entire tone of her voice had changed. “Aye, Bridget. I believe that the weapons are being made here at the abbey. But I don’t know who here is involved. It may be all the monks or it may be just a few.”

  Bridget had finished dressing. She turned to face him. “Well, I don’t believe it.”

  “There’s no other furnace powerful enough to forge such a metal. I’ve never seen anything like it in all Europe or England.”

  “Then someone else is using it. I can’t believe the monks know anything about it.”

  He shook his head. “Be reasonable, angel. The monks swarm over this work shed all day long. How could someone else be using the blast fire without their knowledge?”

  Her chin went up in that stubborn way he recognized. “I don’t know, but ’tis not possible that the brothers of St. Gabriel are warmongers and murderers. I’ll never warrant such a tale.”

  Ranulf sighed, then explained with a touch of exasperation, “But ’tis not your brother who is missing, Bridget. I must investigate every possibility to find Dragon.”

  Her expression softened. “Aye, I know. And you may find answers with the sheriff and the Baron of Darmaux. I just don’t think you’ll find them here at the abbey.”

  He finished fastening his belt around his waist, then reached to take her hand. “Will you come with me to wait at Lyonsbridge while I return with help to solve this mystery?”

  She shook her head slowly. “My place is here with the monks.”

  He looked at the tousled blankets on top of the hay mound. “Even when you have seen some of the wonder that the rest of the world has to offer?” he asked softly.

  “Aye,” she said. “What I see of the world is that it holds out enticements to cloud your thinking while it tries to bring hurt to the people you love.”

  He hadn’t believed that she would really refuse to leave with him, especially now. The thought of having to leave her unprotected made his tone sharper than he had intended. “I don’t want to hurt anyone, Bridget. I just want to find my brother.”

  “Your brother is a knight, like you, Ranulf. This is a place of peace. You’ll not find him here.”

  The sky outside had grown black, and he could barely see her face, but he heard the anger in her voice. He tried to think of something to say to bring back some of the feelings they’d shared only moments before as they’d lain together on the hay, but before he could speak, sh
e whirled around and ran out of the barn.

  “He is well again?” the baron asked the cowled figure who had met him in the woods behind St. Gabriel.

  “Aye. He leaves in the morning to ride to his home at Lyonsbridge, but he says he only returns home to bring more help to add to the search,” the monk said.

  “And the girl is hidden with you again.”

  “Aye, she’s returned home.”

  LeClerc snapped his whip against his leg. “She’s become a danger to us.”

  “She knows nothing, and she wants nothing more than to live here in peace as she always has. It was part of our bargain.”

  “Aye, but the bargain may have to change. We can’t afford to have people snooping around the abbey until the entire shipment for the duke is finished.”

  “I know, milord, but I tell you the girl won’t be a problem.”

  “We’ll see. In the meantime, we’ll get rid of the Englishman.”

  “You won’t try to do it inside the abbey?” the monk asked.

  “Nay, ’tis unnecessary and unwise. Such a crime could lead to an investigation from the bishopric—meddling that we’ve so far managed to avoid.”

  “I agree. ’Tis best if the knight is well away from the abbey before you strike. We’ll have to hope that this time your men prove more effective than the first time.”

  LeClerc walked over to his horse and pulled himself impatiently into the saddle. “Guise is a bumbling fool. This time I intend to be sure that the job is done right myself.”

  The monk gave a slight bow. “Very good, mi-lord. As long as he has left the abbey well behind before you deal with him.”

  “Let me worry about the Englishman, Brother. It’s your job to keep things peaceful here and keep the monks away from the shed at night while my men are at work. The duke is expecting his weapons soon.”

  The monk nodded.

  LeClerc pulled up on the reins of his horse and the animal reared back. “And remember, if the girl starts causing trouble, we’ll be forced to get rid of her, too.”

  “I understand, milord,” the monk said.

  The baron wheeled his horse around and rode off into the trees.

  Bridget had been awake since long before dawn, lying in her bed, her mind tumbling. She tried to keep from remembering the feeling of Ranulf’s hands on her in the stable the previous evening, but the treacherous thoughts kept surfacing, along with an irrational desire for a repetition of the experience. Then she’d remember how the evening had ended, how he’d accused the monks of complicity in weapon making and murder.

  Before the roosters started crowing in the pen behind the stable, she rose and made her way to the kitchen. She hoped Francis would join her to help with morning chores. It was often his custom, though Bridget suspected his presence was due more to a desire for an early breakfast than to his devotion to work.

  She was relieved to see his round form turning toward her as she went into the kitchen. “Brother Francis, I’m so glad you’re here,” she said.

  The monk licked a last bit of butter from his fingers and asked, “What is it, child?”

  “It’s…oh…everything,” she ended, biting her lip to keep back the tears.

  Francis immediately put down the bread he’d been eating and walked over to her. “Sit down, Bridget. Tell me what has happened.”

  Her cheeks flamed as she realized that she could never tell Francis the most momentous thing that had happened to her in the past twenty-four hours, but she did tell him about Ranulf’s charges regarding the blast fire.

  As she finished her account, Francis sat heavily on the bench beside her, his face grim.

  “What is it, Brother Francis?” she asked. “Surely you can’t think that there is any truth to these accusations. Weapons at St. Gabriel? Why, the very idea is ridiculous.”

  Francis remained silent for such a long time that Bridget finally said again, “’Tis a ridiculous notion, is it not?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Bridget felt a pulsing behind her ears. “What do you mean?” she asked slowly.

  Francis looked over at her. “I’ve never been comfortable about the blast fire since they built the confounded thing. And I do think a great deal of metal is produced there. I don’t know what happens to it. It seems to…disappear.”

  Their gazes held. “But how could—” she began.

  “I don’t know,” Francis said.

  “Someone must know,” she said.

  “Aye, someone must know.”

  “We need to call a meeting and ask.”

  Francis shook his head. “If one of the brothers of St. Gabriel is keeping this secret and has allied himself with the Baron of Darmaux, ’tis not likely that he will admit it before all.”

  “Ranulf intends to bring reinforcements from England and go against the baron with force.”

  Francis shook his head and sighed. “If someone here is involved, it could mean the end of St. Gabriel.”

  Bridget felt cold inside. “We must discover who it is and somehow stop him. If no one in the abbey will cooperate, the baron will have to look elsewhere for his weapons.”

  Francis nodded. “I’m going out to the work shed right now. Perhaps I can find out something before anyone else is awake. But what about Ranulf?”

  Bridget’s face became determined. “I believe I can convince our English knight to delay his homecoming while you see what you can discover.”

  Francis nodded and heaved himself up from the bench. “This, um, delaying tactic would not involve anything that would later require the confessional, would it, child?” he asked gently.

  Bridget’s cheeks flamed once again at the monk’s perceptive question. Was it obvious that she and Ranulf had already made love? “Nay, Brother Francis, I promise you. I’m merely going to ask his assistance on a certain matter.”

  Francis stood watching her a minute more, then appeared to be satisfied. “Good,” he said. “Ranulf seems to be a fine person, but he’s a nobleman, and they are not always known for their scruples in dealing with…er…lower classes.”

  His words hit her like a blow in the midsection, but she managed a smile. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I know better than to think that Ranulf Brand could ever be meant for the likes of me.”

  “I’d go by myself if you hadn’t been so insistent that I was in danger from the sheriff’s men,” Bridget told Ranulf as she sat next to him on his cot. The monks had already all awakened and left the dormitory, and they were alone.

  “I don’t think the old dairy woman even knows her own name, much less your mother’s,” Ranulf said. He was embarrassed at being caught still abed at this late morning hour, and he was uncertain about Bridget’s sudden change of attitude. When she’d left him the previous evening, she’d been angry. Now she seemed all sweetness, though she had resisted his attempt to reach for her hand and draw her near him on the bed.

  “I have to at least try,” she said. “She called me Charlotte, which we know now was my mother’s first name. At some time in the past, Mistress Courmier must have known my mother’s family name, as well.”

  Ranulf pushed himself around her on the bed and reached for his tunic to pull on over his underclothes. “I wanted you to come with me today to Lyonsbridge,” he argued.

  “And by the time I returned from England, old Mistress Courmier may be dead, which would mean that I’d lost my last chance to find out what she knew about me.”

  “Her son, Pierre, said he had no idea why she called you Charlotte. He seemed to know nothing about the name.”

  “Pierre is only a few years older than I. He probably wouldn’t remember if the family somehow knew my mother.”

  Ranulf finished dressing quickly, trying to decide what he should do. Now that he’d seen the black metal and learned of the involvement of the sheriff and Baron LeClerc, he was anxious to get home, tell his news to his grandparents and recruit his brother Thomas’s help. On the other hand, he was relieved that Bridget
seemed to have gotten over her anger, and riding with her today to question the Courmiers might give him the opportunity to convince her to return to England with him.

  “Very well,” he said. “Let’s start immediately before we lose more of the day.”

  “I’m not the one who lay as a slugabed the entire morning,” she pointed out with an impish smile.

  He wanted desperately to kiss her, but things were not the same between them as they had been in the darkened barn, so instead he touched a light finger to her nose and said, “’Tis not fair to make fun of a knight recovering from battle.”

  He gave a wry twist to the remark, leaving open to interpretation exactly which battle he meant.

  Chapter Twelve

  Pierre Courmier greeted Bridget and Ranulf cordially enough as they rode up to his dairy farm. Ranulf felt his courtesy was commendable since the last time they’d appeared it had been to involve him in the aftermath of the Marchands’ tragedy.

  “Mistress Marchand is safely on her way to Rouen,” he told them as Ranulf dismounted from Thunder and reached up to assist Bridget. “Her daughter came for her yesterday. She’s left the selling of the cottage in my hands.”

  Ranulf reached to warmly clasp the dairyman’s hand. “One can see that you’re a man to rely on, Pierre. I’m beholden to you.”

  “No need. ’Twas the thing to do among neighbors.”

  “Nevertheless, we’re grateful for your help,” Bridget added.

  Pierre gave her a bright smile. “I was pleased to be of service. The Marchands were fine folk.”

  Bridget’s smile faded. “Aye, they were.”

  “But we’ve come on another matter,” Ranulf said quickly, watching his companion’s face. “Do you remember in the market the other day when your mother called this lady by name?”

  “Aye, ’twas Charlotte, I recollect. But as I told you, my mother’s not too clear in the head these days.”

  “Would it upset her if we asked her some questions?” Ranulf tied Thunder to a fence that surrounded the dairyman’s neat vegetable garden.

  “I never know. Sometimes she becomes kind of jumpy when she’s trying to remember something.” He looked over at Bridget, whose eyes were pleading, then said, “I suppose you can try.”