She found a little box that housed the emerald necklace and rings he’d spoken of. They were so lovely Bridget could scarcely look away once she’d found them. Her fingers itched to caress the gleaming stones. To have such loveliness around her own neck… But worldly riches were contradictory to a virtuous life, so she put the treasures away. Aislinn wouldn’t want them, anyway, because the color would clash with her eyes.
At length, her fingers landed on the perfect item. “Aha,” she said aloud, gazing victoriously at her finding. “This will do, and very nicely.” She hadn’t even made it to the large trunk yet. “Aislinn will believe him the most considerate of suitors.”
She snorted aloud at the perversity of that notion. Still, it was best for all involved that Aislinn think so.
Bridget exited the hall, only to come up behind three of her family’s maidservants. They battled for position while peering round a corner. Aislinn’s meek handmaiden, Mabel, bobbed and weaved in silence as the much taller Sorcha elbowed her out of the way.
“Behold those brawny arms!” Tipsy exclaimed, shoving past them.
“Who’s looking at arms?” Sorcha countered. “Behold my lord’s chest!”
“And Sir Albert’s!”
“Oh, would they doffed those breeches, as well!”
A strangled sigh of rapture followed, and then wild giggling.
“Girls,” Bridget scolded. If it hadn’t been for Aislinn’s gift in her hands, she would have clapped to get their attention. She may as well have not said a word for all the response she received. It took thrusting herself into their midst to gain any notice. “Girls, stop this at once! Have you never seen a man before?”
Mabel stepped aside and bounced a quick curtsy. Sorcha and Tipsy both gave an idle, “My lady,” and resumed staring round the corner. They behaved like half-grown pups eyeing a beefy bone held out of their reach. Such foolishness.
Bridget stepped forward. “For mercy’s sake, what manner of man could possibly turn grown women into blathering—?” She almost dropped Aislinn’s gift as her lungs lost their air in a whoosh.
Dwelling in a border fortress, surrounded by warriors and laborers of every shape and size, she should have been prepared for the sight that greeted her across the bailey. Not one, but three, superb, virile specimens stripped to their waists were dousing in buckets of water at the cistern outside the stables.
Two of the men possessed heads of dark, dark hair, one of blazing gold, and all had chest fleece to match. Fine arms, strong shoulders, all polished bronze. They were a study in fitness and health.
Her female parts tightened up at the sight. Heaven preserve me!
She summoned every ounce of will to recall the dictates of her vocation. Physical beauty and earthly desires must hold no power over her. True beauty was what lay beneath, in the mind and the heart. Sleek limbs, large hands, and powerful torsos were not the measure of a man. They meant nothing…save perhaps the pain they could inflict on the weak and innocent.
She told herself all that. Twice. But she just couldn’t stop looking. And which specimen stood out from the others like a god with a shining nimbus? Shorter than his seconds by an inch or two, Grégoire FitzHenri made up for that through thickness of sinew and sheer comportment. Aye, no one would mistake who was commander amongst the three.
But she must take care no one mistake her for a woman who noticed half-naked demigods.
That impudent kiss at the abbey. That devil’s temptation. That kiss had somehow chipped a hole in her iron defense against earthly desires. That cursed, unwanted kiss of his had her thinking about things she had no business dwelling upon.
She should never have allowed such a liberty. Never.
“Don’t you—” She cleared her dry throat, firmly focused on the maidservants, and said authoritatively, “Don’t you have duties to attend to?”
Mabel immediately complied. “Aye, my lady.” She scurried back through the portal into the keep. The other two took their time about it, strolling out across the bailey where the three warriors could see them. Bridget didn’t miss how Sir Albert gave Sir Drogo an elbow to the ribs, alerting him to the women approaching. Men and maidservants exchanged flirtatious grins.
Bridget followed, heading straight for the earl, doing her best to keep her nose in the air, which helped to bolster her confidence and show her lack of curiosity about the display before her.
The earl was using a discarded garment to wipe excess water from his scruff when she halted before him. He cast the sodden fabric over the edge of the cistern, then bent to retrieve the broadsword and scabbard leaning nearby.
Water droplets clung to the short, wavy locks on his head and trickled languidly down his neck—a strong neck, with ridges of muscle extending like a mountain range out to his shoulders. Moisture glistened there, and on his wide upper arms, and actually steamed from his skin.
Beneath the virile spray of hair, his chest was deliciously browned by the sun, unlike the pale flesh of other lords who didn’t venture out before sunset. This was a man who wasn’t afraid of the elements, who didn’t mind getting his hands dirty to accomplish what was needed. The little nubs of his nipples—
She caught herself staring and wrenched her attention to his face.
And found him watching her. What felt like a lightning bolt struck out of nowhere, straight into her gut. It must have zinged back out through her eyes, because an answering spark flared in his eyes.
A hint of humor formed in his face, and she thought he might wink at her. Instead, he flicked his gaze in the direction of her hands. “You have found something, then?”
Acutely sensing the two other large males nearby—and that they were quietly watching her—she cleared her throat. “Aye.” She proffered the little carved box that held a coiled scroll.
With a serious set to his countenance, he took it. After setting the sword and scabbard back down, he raised the lid and stared down at the object within. “You believe she will admire this.” He stated it more than asked it.
“I do.”
He met her gaze. “This simple inanity?”
Umbrage flared over how little he regarded such a precious object. “’Tis a rare treasure. She will cherish it.”
He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe it, then replaced the lid. He might as well have muttered, “Women!”
“It bears beautiful words, lord. ‘The Song of Songs,’ which Solomon composed for his bride. Aislinn adores words and song. Especially love songs.”
“Very well.” He gripped it unceremoniously with the same hand he used to grab up his things.
Bridget feared for the delicate scroll’s preservation. The man obviously had no notion of its value. The artistry of the calligraphy on the scroll, as well as the carvings on the box, had astounded her.
How old were the items, and how on earth had this churl obtained them?
“You must give this to her with a pleasant mien, you understand, or its value will be diminished.”
He gave her a surly scowl, likely meant to warn she’d overstepped, and with a stiff, “My lady,” he departed with his comrades.
Aye, he may have the body of Apollo, but his sensibilities were hardly godlike.
Thank heaven it was Aislinn and not herself who would have to put up with him for the rest of her life.
Chapter Thirteen
The distant abbey bells were tolling the close of evensong when the castle denizens filtered into the hall for the late meal. In the keep’s small chapel, Bridget had led her family in a rosary for Brother Lefrid’s soul, mindful of how her friends at the abbey would keep vigil through the night beside his earthly remains.
She approached the dais and saw FitzHenri had given Aislinn her gift. Her sister looked pleased as she waved Bridget over.
“See what the lord has given me?” Aislinn presented the open box.
“I see. He has good taste.”
Bridget glanced at the man under discussion. He gave her one of his ha
lf smiles and a lift of an eyebrow.
“What a pretty box,” Bridget said to her sister, and ignored the brute.
“Oh, aye, but ’tis what’s on the parchment that is the treasure. ‘The Song of Songs.’ See?” Aislinn opened up the scroll and flashed the script at Bridget.
“Ah. ’Tis lovely, indeed.”
Aislinn carefully rerolled the scroll, tied the delicate gold cord round it, and placed it back in the box. She cast her intended a maidenly smile.
“He is a thoughtful suitor, is he not?” Aislinn asked.
“He is.”
“Do you think he will dance? I must dance with him.”
FitzHenri didn’t strike her as the sort to dance. She leaned round her sister, the better to speak to him. “You have her in the palm of your hand now, my lord. You must invite her to dance after the meal.”
“I do not dance.”
She suppressed a gratified smirk. “Can you not walk her down and stand at her side while she dances?”
“I will not dance. I’ve never taken the time to learn.”
Aislinn was watching them eagerly, with dazzling hope in her eyes.
Bridget’s heart sank to her toes as she realized what must be done to save this sadly mismatched union.
Sweet St. Hilda! She would have to teach the boor to dance.
Chapter Fourteen
The next afternoon, a bright sun warmed the early autumn breeze. In the bailey, Grégoire kicked a stone and sent it flinging across the yard.
A picnic, Bridget had said. Take Lady Aislinn on a picnic down by the pond. Show her your courtly manners and attentiveness. She adored your gift. Now you need time alone with her.
He squirmed in discomfort. God’s teeth. What in the name of all holy would they do, without a language in common? Stare at each other and smile? He’d let Bridget talk him into this ludicrous scheme solely because she deserved time to herself to grieve her friend’s passing.
And verily, how much damage could a few hours do? Mayhap he could teach her to fish from a pole.
Thus, he took up the cursed basket and mutely escorted Lady Aislinn through the orchard, smiling fixedly, like a minstrel fawning over his simpering maiden. They picked their way over bumpy roots and through stands of tall grass. At one point, he took her elbow—gently, mind you—to assist her over a patch of mud. With a shy smile, she nodded her thanks and permitted his hand to linger on her arm.
A small triumph.
After he spread a blanket on the bank of a reedy pond, they sat and ate congenially enough, cooing over the delectables the cook had provided for them. She even allowed him to slip a bite of ginger cake between her petal-pink lips.
After such progress, he didn’t feel it too far a step forward to attempt a kiss. Merely a chaste peck. Nothing untoward. He leaned in.
The loud crack! was instant, along with a sorely stinging cheek.
She’d slapped him!
She bolted to her feet, chattering her outrage, or whatever it was, in rapid English, her face flushed. Then she had stalked off.
He raced after her, attempting to mollify in both her language and his, but she only ran faster.
He let her go.
He’d never felt more foolish in his life. This was ridiculous. Not going well at all.
No woman had ever fought off his advances before. Hellfire, Bridget hadn’t even smacked him when he’d kissed her, and she was to be a nun! Hell, not only had she not smacked him, she’d kissed him back. Exuberantly. Deliciously. Arousingly—
He stopped short. Good God. Where had that come from? His focus should be on Aislinn, on their courtship. He pulled at the neck of his tunic where the laces scratched his skin and walked on.
How could two sisters be so unalike? Where Aislinn was well-mannered and formal, quietly exuding a sense of polite haughtiness and privilege, Bridget was outspoken, lively, warm, and always moving. Though involved in every aspect of running the keep, she gave off a sense of not recognizing her own worth.
That look she’d given him in the bailey the day before…God’s bones, he’d felt that greedy inspection right down to his groin. Thankfully, she’d turned all business, handing him the gift for Aislinn before he forgot himself and did something about it.
Enough.
Bridget might have engaging wits, more than capable skills, and a body fashioned for warming a man’s bed and more, but she was strictly forbidden to him.
Aislinn would be his bride. And she required all his attention.
Every damn scrap of it.
Except, now he’d made a mess of things and, as much as he hated admitting it, he needed Bridget’s help. She would fix this blunder. She had to.
As he turned toward the keep where he expected to find her, his pace accelerated of its own accord.
“Lady Brigitte,” he said from the entryway to the small reading alcove where he’d often seen her and that scrawny monk—Karlan his name was, if he recalled correctly—going over manuscripts. Sometimes they simply sat there talking. About what, God only knew.
Her back faced the entry. She was leaning over a battered table with the monk across from her. Karlan glanced up over her shoulder, his eyes narrowing upon sighting him.
Grégoire skewered Bridget’s nape with his eyes, and saw when she stiffened. She turned about. His visage must have carried some of his discontent, because her eyes widened in alarm.
“What is amiss?” she asked.
“Teach me to dance.”
Her big eyes blinked. “Now?”
He took a step into the small space and reached toward her, stopping short of grabbing her hand. “Now. Come.”
“Let me just—”
“Oblige me.”
“Very well.” She rose, but too slowly.
He itched to take her elbow and drag her along, but he decided that wouldn’t be prudent.
“We’ll need music,” she said, turning briefly to Karlan. “Get your psaltery and meet us in the lord’s solar.”
Grégoire spun about and took the stairs two at a time, grateful to hear her hurrying along behind him.
“Where is Aislinn?” she asked, breathing hard. “Is she all right?”
“Your sister is fine,” he tossed over his shoulder.
“How did the picnic go?”
“How do you think it went?” he bit out ill-temperedly.
“You know, ’tisn’t polite to answer a question with a question,” she muttered, sounding equally fractious.
“’Tisn’t wise to cross your master,” he snapped.
Upstairs, he marched straight into his chamber and turned to await her.
She entered, panting from the climb, then stood there studying his face. Damn if her scrutiny didn’t render him feeling a bit…guilty. He glanced away.
“Please tell me you didn’t,” she said. When he remained silent, she said, “You kissed her.”
Holy martyrs, her intuition shocked him. Did she practice the dark arts? “How did you—?” His jaw clenched so hard it ached. “Aye, I tried to kiss her.”
Bridget flinched. A mere blink of her eyes out of sync with the moment, but he caught it. Was she also recalling their intimacy? It still stained his memory, despite what he’d told her on the ride through the woods.
“Whatever possessed you?” she murmured.
He shot her a glare.
“’Tis too soon for that,” she hastened to say. “Aislinn is utterly innocent.”
“’Twas to be a chaste touch to the cheek. Naught more. But I never got close. She slapped me first.”
Bridget’s chin rose. “As she should have. A pure maiden would never tolerate—”
Her words cut off abruptly. She looked momentarily horrified, then spun away from him. He could swear a stain of crimson colored her neck, but was too agitated to cipher why that should be. He knew naught of pure maidens, save the one, his wife, and that had not gone so well. Turned out, she hadn’t been all that pure, either.
He shoved a han
d through his hair, rubbing the short bristles on the back of his head. “This isn’t working. She is no closer to desiring me than she was the day I arrived.”
Bridget took a breath and turned back to him. “My lord, you will win Aislinn and be much happier—at peace, I mean—if you would heed St. Augustine on matters of the flesh. You must curb your baser nature. Lust, said his holiness, is the very bane of an ordered life.”
His lips twitched with the urge to provoke her. A man who lacked sexual desire was no man, in his opinion. “Who says I desire an ordered life?”
She looked so shocked, he almost laughed. “Why, everyone desires a placid and steady life! Mastering self-control frees one’s superior nature from the bonds of the flesh.”
He stared at her, stranded between laughter and grimace. “By the rood, you’re a sanctimonious wench.”
Her nose lifted high in the air. “I am a devout woman, my lord.” She swallowed, the nose lowering a smidgen. “I can see how you might have thought differently when we first…encountered one another. Mistakenly. But by now, you must know the truth of me. And my sister is pure, as well. Surely, you can see how your sinful nature offends her?”
“Methinks ’tis my interpreter who has a problem with my sinful nature.”
Her mouth dropped open.
Damn, he didn’t want to think about that tempting mouth. “But never mind that. I need to learn some steps. Now.”
“I doubt dancing will help your case.” She made no effort to hide her skepticism.
He stopped short of snarling, “Your idea didn’t, either.”
She crossed her arms beneath her chest and leaned toward him. “Because you followed your nature rather than my advice.” Her lips were tight, and the redness staining her skin had crept to her cheeks.
“In case you have forgotten, my nature must wed your sister in a fortnight.”
His scorn failed to scare her. She uncrossed her arms, balling her fists. “That doesn’t mean you go off seducing her like a randy bumpkin the first chance you get. If you won’t heed Augustine, at least employ some finesse. Aislinn appreciates fine manners and careful consideration. I suggest you learn her interests, her likes, and make them yours.”
Come to Me Page 8
