Maid of Midnight

by Ana Seymour

  Nevertheless, she protested, “You broke my ribbons.”

  He chuckled and began kissing the edge of her ear. “I’ll buy you new ribbons, sweetheart. And some stout rope for the next time you decide you need to take a captive.”

  “I didn’t do a very good job of it.”

  He moved his kisses around to her mouth, settling her beside him on the bed. “Nay, you’re wrong. For I’ve suddenly decided that an entire army of LeClerc’s men couldn’t make me leave for Lyonsbridge just at this moment. You’ve got it your way, after all. I’m staying here.”

  “I’m glad,” she whispered, and raised her arms around his neck.

  For several moments they kissed, focusing only on the interplay of their mouths. For the first time, Bridget was as much a participant as Ranulf, actively seeking to give him pleasure as well as receiving her own. She teased him with the tip of her tongue, then when he pulled back with a low groan, nipped gently at his lower lip. “My angel has become a temptress,” he murmured.

  She gave a low laugh, then, daringly, slid her hand underneath his tunic and stroked his wool hose just where his body had hardened. “She’s had a good teacher,” she whispered back.

  He dropped his head back, shut his eyes and let her hand explore for a long moment, then finally, with a kind of growl, he lifted her to one side and stood to rid himself of his clothes. She followed his example and soon they tumbled back to the cot, both naked.

  She stretched out like a cat, unconsciously seductive, and his eyes flared as he looked down at her. He ran his hand across her soft shoulder, then along the alabaster smoothness of her side and over the gentle curve of her hip. “Mayhap ’tis time for the next lesson,” he said in a choked voice.

  She nodded, her throat too full to speak.

  “Turn over,” he told her.

  Surprised, she did as he asked, rolling onto her stomach, and then his big hands were on her, moving up and down her back and up her neck, massaging gently while he gave a low murmur of admiration. His attentions moved to her bottom and the upper part of her thighs and finally down to her feet. Bridget felt as if she were floating on a sea of feeling.

  His thumbs made circles on the soles of her feet, then she could feel his mouth on them and a delicate touch of tongue. She giggled a little as the caress caused a tickling sensation.

  “Ah, laugh at me, will you?” he teased, straightening up to give her bottom a soft swat. “Then ’tis time we went to more serious business.” He turned her and slid himself on top of her. “Would you like something more serious, sweetheart?” he asked low in her ear. At the same time he reached a hand out to feel that she was moist and ready for him.

  “Aye, please,” she whispered as she moved beneath him to make the fit of their bodies more perfect. He entered her swiftly, then stopped while each took a moment to savor the joining. It felt almost like relief, Bridget thought with wonder, as if she’d been waiting to recapture this feeling of completeness.

  “Angel,” Ranulf groaned, “I’m sorry—I have to—” He began to move inside her and there was a pent-up intensity to him that went beyond their first encounter. He seemed less focused on her, more into his own need. The thought made her feel sensual and powerful. She smiled as she gave herself up to the sensation of his strong, rhythmic strokes. In just moments, he gripped her more tightly and took her mouth in a fierce kiss as they reached a mutual climax.

  The kiss subsided to tenderness, then became playful. “Ah, sweetling, that’ll teach you to be holding strange men prisoner in your very own bed-chamber,” he said with a rueful laugh.

  She grinned at him. “Mayhap ’twas exactly my intention.”

  He shook his head and rolled to collapse beside her. “I’ve never met a lady like you, Bridget. Part angel, part nurse, part chatelaine, part scholar and all—” he lifted up to plant a kiss on her cheek and lowered his voice “—all woman.”

  He undoubtedly meant the words to be complimentary, but Bridget felt as if a shadow had flickered across her glow of happiness. None of the qualities Ranulf had listed would alter the fact that she was a girl with no name raised by monks, while he was a nobleman. No matter how perfectly their bodies responded to each other, they were from two different worlds, and their time together was destined to be short. In fact, this one night might be the end of it.

  Resolutely she pushed away the wave of sadness. “How many times can people do that?” she asked him.

  He opened his eyes wide in surprise. “Do…ah…what we just did?”

  “Aye. Can it be done more than once in an evening?”

  Ranulf looked as if he was trying not to laugh at her earnest question. “Aye, sweetheart. So I’ve been told.”

  “Then I think we should.”

  “Should…ah—”

  She gave a firm nod. “Do it one more time. At least once more, maybe twice. What do you think?”

  This time Ranulf did not restrain his laugh. He put his arm around her and scooped her over on top of him. Under her stomach she could feel his manhood spring instantly to life. “Like I said before,” he said with a grin, “I never turn down an angel.”

  Bridget came sleepily awake as once again she heard the unaccustomed sound of tapping on her door. She lay, still naked, entwined in Ranulf’s arms. The candle had sputtered out and it was almost totally dark in the room, but she could feel from his sudden tensing that Ranulf had awakened, also.

  He was quicker to act than she. Rising from the bed, he began groping in the dark for his clothes and handing her own garments to her. “Do you know who it is?” he whispered.

  “Nay,” she said, dressing hastily. “No one ever disturbs me here, especially not at night.”

  “Damnation,” Ranulf swore. “My weapons are all over in my own room.”

  “I still have the spear point.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, sweetheart, but you and your spear point are about as fierce as a ewe on lambing day.”

  Bridget gave an indignant huff. “I managed to subdue you,” she said.

  He leaned toward her in the darkness and planted a kiss that landed on her nose. “Aye, angel, that you did.”

  She had no time to question the laughter in his voice, since the tapping had grown more insistent. “Who is it?” she called.

  “Open the door, Bridget,” a voice replied.

  “I think it’s Brother Cyril,” she said, surprised. What on earth would he be doing here in the middle of the night?

  She opened the door, flooding the room with moonlight. Cyril stood just outside, his chest heaving with exertion. He was half carrying Francis, who had begun to droop at his side.

  Bridget gave a little cry, and Ranulf stepped around her to help Cyril support his brother monk. “What happened?” he asked.

  Cyril, gasping, said merely, “He’s been knifed.”

  Together the two men led the wounded monk into the little room and eased him down on the bed. Bridget had found the flint and another candle and set it in place. When the light flickered, she sank to her knees beside Francis and reached for his hand. “Where are you hurt, Francis?” she asked.

  His eyes opened. “’Tis nothing, child. A little nick in the side, but the walk back proved a bit longer than I’d thought. I’m afraid I was quite a load for Cyril here the last few hundred yards.”

  “Were you at the work shed?” she asked, looking up at Cyril. The monk nodded, his face etched with guilt.

  “Have they followed you here?” Ranulf asked, looking out the open door.

  “Nay, Guise thinks he killed Francis. He left him for me to bury.”

  “’Twas the sheriff, then?” Ranulf confirmed.

  “Aye.”

  “We can ask questions later,” Bridget said. “First we must tend to your wound. Where are you hurt, Brother?”

  Francis was holding his hand at his side. “I’m afraid I’ve ruined another habit, lass. More sewing for you.”

  Bridget choked back a tear
. “I don’t care about the habit, Francis. How bad is it?”

  “Just a nick,” he said again. Then his head slumped to one side in a faint.

  “Blessed Mary,” Bridget breathed. But putting a hand on his chest, she could feel that his heart beat strongly. She turned to the two men. “I’ll need your help to get this habit off him so I can bind the wound.”

  The three set to work tending to the wounded monk with little talking. Bridget was reassured to see that Francis had spoken the truth. The knife had only put a gash along the edge of the monk’s sizable belly, but the wound continued to bleed, and she decided that the best course would be simply to sew it up. Blessedly, Francis did not regain consciousness during the procedure.

  When she was finished and had checked that he was breathing evenly and that the color of his face was normal, she sat back on her little stool with a sigh of relief.

  “Now,” she said, looking over at Cyril, who was standing miserably in the corner of the room, “tell us what happened.”

  The monk didn’t try to soften the truth. He admitted his involvement with the sheriff and the baron.

  “I thought that Alois would never allow us to bring the black metal to the world,” he told them. “He was always so stern whenever I talked about sharing our discoveries, even with the people of Beauville.” As usual, his black eyes snapped with energy when he spoke of his inventions, but this time they also held anguish.

  Though Cyril had always been good to her, Bridget was not yet ready to forgive him. His actions had brought them to this. He’d nearly caused Francis’s death and had put the future of St. Gabriel in real jeopardy. “How did the sheriff find out about the metal in the first place?” she asked coldly.

  He looked down at the floor. “I brought it to him. I knew it would have many uses, and I thought he would be the logical one in town to talk with.”

  “And he went with it to the Baron of Darmaux?” Ranulf asked.

  Cyril nodded. Then a sudden thought struck him. “I almost forgot. I must tell you, Sir Ranulf. It’s about your brother.”

  Ranulf seemed to freeze. He waited, unblinking, while the monk continued, “They have him—LeClerc and Guise.”

  “He’s alive?” Bridget asked, excited.

  “Aye, but perhaps not for long. Tonight the sheriff said that he means to kill both the English brothers.”

  Ranulf’s voice was barely recognizable. “Where is he?”

  “They’ve had him prisoner in Mordin Castle. He was asking questions in a neighboring town about the black metal and the baron had him captured. He kept him alive to hold for ransom after—” Cyril paused with another flush of guilt “—after the black metal becomes known. But now he’s given orders to kill him.”

  “How far is Mordin Castle?” Ranulf asked.

  “I think it’s about a two hours’ ride east.”

  Ranulf’s eyes glittered like blue ice. “How soon is the sheriff planning this execution?”

  Cyril looked uncomfortable. “I—I don’t know, milord. I’m afraid ’twas to be soon. I’m sorry to tell you that he spoke almost as if it was already done.”

  “Will you ride to Lyonsbridge?” Bridget asked, now feeling guilty for having tried to delay him.

  “I don’t think there’s time.” Again his voice sounded unnatural.

  “You can’t go up against LeClerc all by yourself,” she said.

  “The castle will be well guarded,” Cyril added.

  Ranulf rubbed his hands together. Just under the surface he seemed to be trying to control an immense anger. “Perhaps we could help,” Bridget said in a weak voice.

  “With your spear point?” Ranulf said with a note of disgust.

  Cyril straightened up. “No, she’s right. We could help—we monks.”

  Ranulf shook his head. “No thanks. I think I’d be better on my own than shepherding a group of—” He broke off his comment. “Forgive me,” he said to Bridget. “Worry makes my tongue sharp.”

  Bridget nodded. “And it’s completely understandable. But you should listen to Cyril. The monks may not be young warriors, but they are much more enterprising than you might think.”

  Ranulf’s heart felt like someone had stuffed a boulder inside. Dragon was alive, only two hours’ distance away, and he was in mortal danger, yet Ranulf might be unable to help him. He looked from Bridget’s eager face back to Cyril. The idea of storming a castle with a band of monks was preposterous, but it appeared that he might have no other choice.

  “Would they be willing to help me?” he asked.

  “I know several who would,” Cyril replied. “This is a dull place—a number of us have itched for an adventure for years.”

  “What if there’s violence?” Ranulf asked.

  Cyril smiled for the first time since he’d arrived with Francis. “I’ve been known to crack a head or two in my time before I saw the way of the Lord.”

  Very simply, it had been the most amazing evening of Ranulf’s life. He shook his head as he looked around the bedraggled procession that made their way along the road to Mordin Castle. Leading the way were the six Courmier brothers. It had been Bridget’s idea to ride to the dairy farm and see if the brothers would be willing to join their cause.

  “If the other five are as brawny as Pierre,” she told Ranulf, “you’d practically have an army right there.”

  Ranulf had had doubts that the family would be willing to take on such a risk for a perfect stranger, but agreed to have her ride to the farm with Ebert and ask. She suspected he had done it more than anything to keep her out of the way while he and the monks discussed battle strategy, but she went anyway, and rode back proudly followed by the six strapping dairymen and Jean the Smithy, as well.

  “’Tis time someone went up against the baron,” Pierre told Ranulf as he got off his mount, a dubious-looking plow horse. “It’s common knowledge that he had Jean’s brother killed, and, if my mother’s memory is not fooling her, he may have been responsible for the death of your sweetheart’s mother, the lady Charlotte.”

  Ranulf wasted little time in gratitude, but the handshake he gave the farmer was heartfelt.

  He’d been surprised to see Jean. “You work for the baron,” he pointed out.

  “No longer,” the smithy told him. “It’s like Pierre said. ’Tis past time to stop him. I’ve been a coward long enough, but I’ll not stand by and see another man lose his brother the way I lost mine.”

  So the force had grown, with borrowed horses, some brought by Jean from the smithy, some recruited along the way. They picked the ten most fit monks. Cyril had insisted on being included, over Ranulf’s misgivings.

  “I may have a few tricks that will help you out,” the monk said, “and I need to try to make up for all the trouble I’ve caused.”

  Brother Jacques was the youngest in the abbey, though he’d been there for the better part of two decades, and they’d sent him as a lookout to the work shed. He reported back that the sheriff’s men had evidently finished their evening work and left.

  After that, Cyril led a group of those monks who were to accompany the expedition back to the work shed “to pick up some useful items.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have any of those black metal weapons lying around, would you?” Ranulf asked.

  When Cyril shook his head, Jean pulled a heavy bag from the back of his horse and said, “Here are some of the arrowheads that were left at the smithy, but none of us has a bow.”

  Cyril said, “Bring them along. We’ll take care of the bow.”

  And so it had gone through the frantic evening, until now, just before dawn, the group was assembled and on its way.

  Jean’s mount was the only other battleworthy horse. He dropped back to speak with Ranulf as it grew light. “Do you think they’ll post guard on the road?”

  Ranulf shook his head. “I don’t know. Are you familiar with this area?”

  Jean nodded. “If there are guards, they’ll be in the Venteux hills just
to the west of the castle. I’ll ride ahead and check them out if you like.”

  Ranulf nodded, then said with his voice full. “I won’t forget this, my friend.”

  Jean’s face grew hard as he said, “You owe me no thanks. I’ve waited eight years for this day.” Then he whirled his horse and galloped up the road.

  Bridget paced the length of the barn for the dozenth time. She should go work, she thought—weed the garden, bake some bread—but her thoughts were on the road to Mordin Castle. She’d asked Ranulf to take her along, but even she had to admit that the idea had been impractical. Her riding skills were still weak and she’d have slowed him down even more than the monks.

  She smiled as she remembered how they’d looked setting off on Snail and Tortoise and assorted other borrowed animals, both horses and mules. The Courmier brothers had even brought along a donkey, which had been recruited to carry some of the equipment Brother Cyril had wanted to take along.

  Most of the St. Gabriel monks had never done anything even remotely similar, and for those few who had once been soldiers, their days in the field had receded into dim memory. Worry fluttered at her stomach as she continued to pace.

  The question of her own identity seemed to have faded in importance with the more urgent matter of Ranulf’s brother, but as she thought about it, she realized that the events were connected. If she really were a LeClerc, then it was her relative who held Ranulf’s brother. And, if what the old dairy woman remembered was true, it was the same relative who had pursued her mother and perhaps hounded her to her death.

  She couldn’t help thinking that the truth about her identity must be somewhere in the books that Abbot Josef had left to Brother Alois. Brother Alois kept them closely guarded in his own little office at the back of the library.

  A thought struck her. Alois had declared that the monks should spend the day inside the church praying for the safety of their brethren. The rest of the abbey was deserted, including the abbot’s office. Bridget looked over at one of the two milk cows who stood in its stall, chewing placidly.