Come to Me

by Tessa Fairfax

Lord help him, but she was soft and clean. And so warm. It seemed only natural to trace her jaw, her throat, and end at her ebullient breast. He flattened his palm over her, found the nipple already turgid, poking against the cloth of her rough woolen gown. He rubbed the peak with a thumb, all the while nipping at her lips, her chin, her jaw, and pulling her closer.

  “Ah, mignonne,” he whispered against her skin, caressing her breast. It pleased him to see her eyelids drift closed. He kissed those lids one by one, then moved to her lips. “Mignonne.”

  “My lord… Please…”

  My lord. Not Grégoire, as before? He moved through the discomfort of noticing that, taking advantage of her open mouth to slip his tongue inside. He felt surprise jolt through her body, and her tongue fled from his, the way it had at first. His arm supported her weight when she recoiled, or her knees gave out, he wasn’t sure which. She bowed back over his arm.

  Then, as he swept the realms of her mouth, she moaned, a low moan that came from somewhere deep in her core and brought fragrant heat with it, straight into him. It stoked his fire hotter to feel her succumbing to sensuality like this. Bridget out of control was the most erotic thing he’d ever experienced. He kneaded her breast with waning discipline, felt the soft bounty swell rounder in his hand.

  When her velvety tongue at last ventured to rub his, he nearly lost his mind.

  Her clothing had become impediments. The need to see her naked body again drove him like an arrow shot from the bow. He was mad for her.

  Breaking the kiss, he looked down at the collar of her gown.

  She looked down, too. He pulled one end of the lacing that cinched her throat.

  “Oh,” she said on a gasp as the wool separated, fell open.

  They both watched as her bounty spilled into view, as he brushed aside her gown and cupped one heavy breast in his palm. They watched as the pad of his thumb skimmed the rosy, upturned bud. She jerked, and he smiled to feel the tightening ache right along with her.

  His mouth wanted her breast with a drive that blinded him. So he turned her, lifted her to the edge of the desk, and lowered himself before her, fists to the plane of the desk.

  His mouth found her breast, her soft skin. It was as if he hadn’t made love to her in years, though it had only been an hour or two. He drew the taut point of her nipple between his lips.

  Her gasp of pleasure and shock went straight to his cock. Her thighs were spread to either side of him, and he was tangled in the folds of her skirt. He flicked her nipple with his tongue, tasting her now familiar flesh. She tasted of rich cream and…

  “Nectar,” he murmured.

  “W-What?” she breathed above him.

  “As a boy”—he nibbled the pink bud and it curled tighter—“running the wildwood…father’s estate…” After that, he managed only, “Honeysuckle,” before the need to make love to her breast consumed him.

  Again and again he laved, now buttressing her breast with one hand while he held her upright with the other at her back, until the nipple was as hard as a spear’s point and her sighs and moans were cascading round his ears.

  The entire gown had long since collapsed around her arms and now restrained her in a vise of fabric. Even so, her hands were wildly caressing his upper arms or his shoulders or his chest, anywhere she could reach. Her head had fallen back. It wasn’t long before he sensed her whole body crowning, straining for the pinnacle.

  What he wouldn’t give to make her come right now, this way, touching only her breasts. The very notion almost sent him over the edge, but she bucked so hard against him he lost his balance and backed up to regain purchase.

  When he reached for her again, she had righted herself against the edge of the desk, her feet on the floor, and thrust up a hand between them. A cold, flat palm meant to ward off Satan himself.

  “Enough, I beg you!” she rasped out, then gulped air, steadying herself. Shivering. Her face wasn’t so stony now, but crumpled and distressed.

  With her other hand, she yanked the top of her gown back over herself. He couldn’t help but grieve the loss of so magnificent a sight. Had he ever desired a woman—and her sexual gratification—as fiercely as this?

  “Take me to St. Bede’s. I’ll lodge in their guest quarters. I cannot remain here.”

  Breathing hard, he fixed his gaze upon hers. “And why is that? What has changed from mere hours ago?” She’d been so joyful and open when they’d parted. He wanted to howl in frustration.

  She returned his gaze firmly, her eyes a brilliant, hard shade of amber, but unreadable. She had closed her inner self off from him. “You should know why,” she said.

  He had not a clue. “Tell me anyway.”

  She looked so small standing there, her arms at her sides, her hair pulled tightly back into her customary braid. The crucifix was back at her breast, atop her garment, appearing black as onyx and larger than ever. She was her own person, strong and determined, with a mind of her own. Capable in every way.

  Defiant, he should have said, but that wasn’t exactly the right word.

  “I cannot allow this…this to go on.”

  His stomach clenched. A hollowness turned him inside out as he stared at her.

  In his silence, she continued. “Do not make me voice it. ’Tis sinful even to think of what we have done. I must remove myself from temptation. I don’t want…whatever this is. I wish a life away from temptation, as I always have.”

  This new blow felt as though it had cracked his ribs and left him flattened. His back strained to keep his shoulders rigid, his breathing calm, but he had his pride, which supported him now.

  He’d been misguided to think Bridget esteemed him overly much, had misread the signs in her woman’s glance and her sweet surrender. How could he have been so wrong about her desire for him?

  Nay, he’d been accurate about that. Her body did, indeed, want him. She’d proved that all throughout the night they’d shared. She’d even admitted as much, when he’d suggested she should know what she was giving up before retreating to the nunnery. To his surprise, she’d agreed.

  But she was a strong woman, in control of her baser urges. She had tasted what they offered, but had not been swayed by them. She might have physical desire for him, but she could never love a man like him, a man of earthly wants and common interests. The true essence of a man, that was the only thing that might have changed her mind about her life’s course. But she had overcome her carnal needs as easily as a hermit fasted in his cave.

  Women were clearly not like men. They could easily forego sexual cravings when deeper feelings of the heart did not exist.

  “My sister will wed you, as decreed,” she was saying now. “Cherish her. Do not betray her again.”

  She was right. He had what he’d set out to achieve. Why did he not rejoice? Why, instead, did rage simmer, red and scalding, just beneath his skin?

  Because she’d used him. The woman had toyed with him, employed his weakness for her in order to taste the delights of the flesh once before entering the convent, the way her beloved Augustine had advised. Now that he was no longer of use to her, she saw fit to toss him away like the core of an apple after eating.

  And yet, he reminded himself, to be fair, he had offered himself to her for just such a purpose, had he not? He just hadn’t expected…this afterward.

  His lungs squeezed hard. His feet drilled into the earth where he stood. When he finally got the words out, his voice rasped harsh and bitter. “I will not betray your sister. You may have confidence in that.”

  She gave a single, sober nod of her head, which said she believed him. At least she had some faith in him. “I beg you. Take me to the abbey. I shall find haven there as I always have. When you have vanquished Black Hand, Abbot Giles can see to my journey to Cornwall.”

  In the end, barely able to look at her, he acquiesced. The choler in his blood scorched every inch of his veins as he tamped it down. She didn’t wish to prolong her good-byes to everyone, reminding him
that she’d been preparing for this for years. A quick break was best all around.

  At least, that was what he told himself as he led the small procession on horseback out through the main gate a handful of hours later.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The journey to the abbey was brief, cold, and silent. Bridget was not able to say anything more to Grégoire, and he obviously had nothing to say to her. As they plodded along, she prayed with bowed head, begging God to give her strength and keep the tears at bay. But with every word, her soul whispered other entreaties, aimed at the tall knight beside her.

  Please, tell me you love me, and no one else. Ask for my hand. I would gladly give up everything I had planned and marry you.

  Who was she fooling? A nobleman like Grégoire could never love a plain, stubborn woman who’d spent her formative years immersing herself in the dry treatises of sages long dead, rather than learning what fragrance is pleasing to a man, or what fine stitchery impressed him, or how to pluck the harp and sing like an angel.

  Indeed, could Grégoire truly love any woman? He was tormented by what had happened with his first wife, but he’d never actually said he’d loved her. And now with Aislinn, he was all about making her love him. He had never expressed that he must love her, as well.

  At least with her beautiful, feminine sister, he would have a wife he could esteem the way a lord should esteem his lady. He had sworn he took the sacrament of marriage seriously, that once he spoke the nuptial vows, he would be faithful unto his wife, no matter what. He said he would keep and cherish Aislinn’s love.

  Recalling those declarations of his squeezed Bridget’s heart so hard that tears stung her eyes. Would that he would declare those things for her!

  But that was not to be.

  In the abbey courtyard, she shifted her leg over the sidesaddle to slide down to the ground, and Grégoire was beside her immediately, his arms up to help her dismount. She couldn’t look him in the eyes. Simply couldn’t. But her hands rested on his powerful shoulders as he lifted her down. His body heat warmed her against the chill of the morn, and his masculine scent of leather and wood smoke engulfed her senses.

  When her feet touched earth, he promptly stepped away, leaving her cold and wanting.

  Abbot Giles approached, unnerving her because he was wearing the garments of a secular lord rather than his priestly ones. He greeted them, and Grégoire explained that Bridget wished to begin her journey to the Martyred Virgins, but it was presently too dangerous.

  “Wherefore come here?” he asked, glancing with great curiosity between her and Grégoire.

  She addressed the concern. “I wish to purify myself before the journey, my lord, and I can best do that here, in the hallowed halls of St. Bede’s.”

  St. Bede’s did provide shelter to travelers on pilgrimage, taking payment if the guest had means. She could offer her crucifix to pay for lodging if her labor in the fields wouldn’t suffice.

  The abbot frowned down at her. If he rejected her request, where would she go? She couldn’t go back to Shyleburgh Keep. Under his questioning gaze, she cast a glance at Grégoire, who remained stoic and cold. There would be no help from that quarter.

  She detected the abbot’s eyes shifting to Grégoire, as well. When they returned to her, they had softened somewhat.

  “Please, Abbot,” she begged, holding herself hard and firm, hoping her eyes didn’t betray the desperation clawing at her. Desperation showed weakness, and weakness left one prey to others’ cruelties, as she well knew. “Let me stay here until I can journey onward. I will work hard. Brother Baldric needs help with his hives. Brother Odo needs help with his chronicles. You won’t regret it, I swear.”

  He laid a fatherly arm round her shoulder. “Of course, my child. All are welcome in God’s house. We shall find accommodations for you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Bridget refused to watch as Grégoire wordlessly turned his horse and departed the abbey.

  For the rest of that day, she put her entire being into marking the abbey’s hives for culling. The task took enormous focus. It also took repetition, quiet, and even-tempered movement so as not to rile the bees—all conditions well suited for meditation or prayer, which is what she tried to do now.

  Here and there, she upended a skep and took a piece of comb to test for flavor and rancidity. This she placed in a wooden scuttle Brother Baldric held.

  By sext bells, her monk companion was complaining that he couldn’t keep up with her, she was working so feverishly. She could barely muster a word of response, concentrating so hard on her chore.

  By vesper, Brother Baldric gave up and went off to dinner. Bridget couldn’t eat. Nausea fizzed in her belly and up into her throat. She forced herself to drink some water every now and then, which refreshed her temporarily, but the queasiness never left. She thought vaguely that eating something might curb the nausea, but the idea of putting anything in her mouth, let alone swallowing it, nearly made her retch.

  At nightfall, when it was too dark to work with the hives any longer, she cleaned her tools in a bucket of water, then plodded on weary legs to the chapel. Her toes were numb inside her wooden clogs, and the soles of her feet ached like the devil.

  The monks’ chanting wafted through the gloaming fields. The sound used to make her shiver blissfully with spiritual awareness, as if heaven were whispering to her soul, but tonight it just made her feel as if she carried a sack of boulders on her back.

  The abbot had given her a tiny cell in the wing reserved for travelers. She didn’t go there directly, however. Instead, she attended mass in the sanctuary and remained there praying through the night.

  Or tried to, at any rate. After a few Ave Marias and Paternosters, her tongue simply jumbled automatically over the words while her mind strayed elsewhere. She could not purge Grégoire from her mind, no matter how much she wanted to. Nothing helped.

  Every time she thought she’d got her thoughts anchored to the Virgin Mother, or to Christ’s sacrifice, or the mysteries of the trinity, Grégoire’s sober face with those intense eyes shattered her concentration. Every time she prayed to St. Hilda for the strength to devote her life to charity and quiet contemplation, and for the motivation to become the devout leader of her own abbey, a sense of loss swamped her, so powerful that tears burned behind her lids.

  Wherefore, oh, Lord? Why turn my heart, when this is what I’ve wanted since girlhood? Why torment me with impossible new desires?

  Oh, Brother Lefrid, I wish you were here. You would know just how to counsel me.

  Somewhere in the darkest part of the night, long after matins, weariness finally took her, and she curled up on the bench where she’d knelt for hours, succumbing to sleep.

  A bang or two and the creaking of a door, followed by a man’s quiet humming, filtered into her imageless dreams. Light footsteps approached, and for one heart-in-her-throat moment, she thought he’d come for her. To tell her he wanted her, and not her sister. But the voice that spoke was not his.

  “My lady! What are you doing here?”

  Her eyes blinked open. With difficulty, she raised herself to a seated position. Everything ached—her arm where she’d lain on it, her hip where it had no cushion against the hard wooden bench, her shoulder. She rubbed her face, feeling utterly drained.

  Abbot Giles slid onto the bench beside her.

  “Have you been here all night, my child?” he asked, sympathy gentling his tone.

  She dragged heavy eyes to his and nodded. Wearing his priestly garb, he’d obviously come to prepare for the daybreak mass. She must be on her way, back to the bees.

  When she started to rise, the abbot placed a kind palm on her shoulder.

  “Lady Bridget, what is this about?”

  Without meeting his gaze, she muttered something about purifying herself for the Convent of the Martyred Virgins.

  “But why the sudden urgency? You’ve had years to make your way to the cloister.”

  She s
hrugged, not wishing to answer.

  “You know you may trust me with your worries. Do you wish me to hear your confession?”

  “Mayhap later, Father Abbot,” she mumbled, avoiding his gaze even more.

  He straightened in alarm. “Has something happened at Shyleburgh Keep?”

  She shook her head. “Nay. All is well.”

  “Brother Baldric tells me you toiled like a fiend yesterday, without pity or respite. Now you pray in here throughout the night. Are you trying to forget some shameful deed?”

  Again, she shook her head, feeling very guilty.

  “Or mayhap you struggle to forget someone?”

  Her gaze flicked to his, and he drew in a sharp breath. She quickly looked back to her hands in her lap.

  “Does this have to do with Grégoire FitzHenri?”

  She started to rise. “I must get back to the hives.”

  “I observed an abundance of tension between you and him when you arrived yesterday. Has he hurt you in some way?”

  Standing, but wavering slightly, she looked down at the abbot through watery eyes. “Nothing of import. Let me go to Brother Baldric and the hives. We are almost finished with the hefting.”

  His brows crumpled in empathy. “Stop to break your fast, at least. You are no use to God—or Brother Baldric—if you fall ill.”

  “I will try to take some bread. Thank you.”

  “Bridget,” he said, and this time his tone was hard. “This is definitely not like you. Something has happened to frighten or disturb you. What is it?”

  The world whooshed round her head in one final battery against her reserves. She plopped back down on the bench and, God forgive her, burst into tears.

  “Oh, dear child,” the abbot murmured, wrapping a comforting arm round her and holding her close.

  She smelled the comforts of monastic life upon him—holy incense and old wood oiled with linseed. Smells that she had always loved. But all she wanted now was to be immersed in a pine forest with a wood fire nearby.

  “You’ve fallen in love with him, haven’t you?”