Come to Me

by Tessa Fairfax

  “We slew four of them,” Sir Drogo explained, “but one or more got away. None of the men we killed had a bow, yet someone clearly did.” He pointed to Grégoire’s upper arm.

  Sir Albert added, “After Abbot Giles and his men arrived and you were carried to safety, we searched the woods but found nothing.”

  “Bring me the arrow,” Grégoire ordered.

  Sir Albert grinned. “Thought you might say that.” From inside his hauberk, he drew the broken shaft with the fletch still attached. He must have snapped it off in the woods, because it had not been attached when Grégoire was brought to the abbey.

  “And the point?” Grégoire demanded.

  The men turned to Bridget. From the bedside table, she picked up the hideous arrowhead that had pierced Grégoire’s flesh. Now rinsed of his blood, it remained to her a symbol of the horrors men wrought upon each other. She handed it to him, uneasy to be touching it.

  “How deep was it?” he asked her.

  She flinched. They’d had to dig it out of him, and the sight of Brother Baldric slicing into Grégoire’s arm to widen the wound flashed with sickening clarity into her head. She’d been so frightened for him, so worried he’d never wake again.

  “Very deep,” she said. “’Tis why the wound is so grievous.”

  He turned to his men. “The archer was nearby.”

  They nodded.

  “Yet he failed to fight with his men.”

  “A commander willing to risk their lives in such a hopeless endeavor,” Grégoire spat out in disgust.

  “It had to be Black Hand,” Bridget whispered, loud enough for the knights to hear and glance her way. “He is a spineless, craven knave.”

  “Likely,” Grégoire said, eyeing her closely.

  “He must be watching the keep,” Sir Drogo observed, “if he reacted so quickly to your unplanned departure.”

  Grégoire nodded thoughtfully. “Or was sheltering in the woods where we surprised him.”

  “Ambush is one of his favored strategies,” she murmured.

  Everyone looked her way once more.

  “What?” she said, irked by their surprise. “Do you forget I grew up with the bastard?”

  Sir Albert voiced what everyone was already thinking. “Either way, he took the opportunity to attempt assassination. My lord, this is a very dangerous situation for you. You must not leave the fortress without full escort.”

  Grégoire said nothing, but held her gaze. She wondered again what he’d been doing riding to St. Bede’s, at such risk, with no helmet and no armor to protect him.

  “Well,” Sir Drogo announced, breaking the silence that had fallen. “We shall leave you to the lady’s care, and bear glad news of your recovery to everyone waiting to hear.”

  Once they were gone and the room held only the two of them, his intense regard made Bridget very uncomfortable, even as her pulse raced with pleasure.

  She cleared her throat. “If you are done with the broth, your dressing needs changing.”

  He let her take the bowl, and watched as she gathered what she needed. She moved to his side. Slowly, still under his study, she lowered her hip onto the bed and began to remove the bandage from the thick muscle of his upper arm. She was tempted to explore that manly limb, to feel the smooth skin, and detect the quivering of his sinews as he restrained his power.

  But then she recalled he was an invalid in need of her ministrations, so she proceeded with her task, leaning in and focusing intently.

  He held out his arm, and she unwrapped the length of soiled linen. With a cloth soaked in fresh, warm water she dabbed at the grisly wound to clean it. As she studied the angry-looking, inflamed area, some pixie got into her. She pursed her lips and blew on the damaged skin, watching his face as she did so.

  He stiffened visibly at her action. His nostrils flared and his eyes went dark. A tiny part of her bubbled with delight. Perhaps he had not forgotten her, after all.

  She tapped his arm to indicate he should raise it, and poured some honey from a vial onto the wound.

  “What is that for?” he asked, the rich timbre of his voice sinking deep into her bones.

  “Have you never known anyone to treat a wound thus?” she asked, and he shook his head. “Honey keeps a wound clean and speeds healing.”

  He frowned. “’Tis sticky. I don’t like it.”

  Biting back a retort, she wound a fresh strip of linen round his fabulous muscle. Pray God he recovered full use of that arm and regained the strength in the sinews.

  Shyleburgh needed that limb. And this man.

  She needed this man, with a force that threatened to overwhelm her. It made her feel awkward and guilty, wanting him thus… If he still wanted her sister, that is.

  When a drop of the golden liquid escaped from the bandage to roll down over the curve of his arm, the impulse to lick it off him was so strong she almost gave in. She imagined swiping her tongue over his skin, savoring sweetness and the dark, masculine taste of him. Then all she would have to do was turn her head slightly to press her lips round the peak of his stiff, brown nipple—

  She dared a glance at his eyes. He was observing her—not what she was doing, but her face. She turned her lips up in a smile. Pleasure danced in his gaze, sending bolts of lightning through her. She looked away, tying off the bandage.

  “Why did you come back to Shyleburgh?” he asked.

  “Why were you going to St. Bede’s?” she returned innocently. She gently wiped the droplet of honey from his skin, every part of her mind and body praying for the answer she longed to hear.

  “’Tisn’t polite to answer a question with a question, you know.”

  She smiled at how he’d used her own words back at her.

  He gave her one of his heavy-lidded half smiles. “Do not look at me like that, woman. I am an invalid and unable to take care of things as a man should.”

  She glanced at the peak forming in the bedsheets, in his lap. “What kind of things, my lord?”

  “I intend to show you, in good time.”

  Heavens, how her heart thudded to hear that.

  “I do not think my sister would approve,” she chided. “It is to her you should show these things, not me.”

  “Are you sure?” His eyes narrowed. “Abbot Giles said he was able to come so quickly to our aid because he and his men were already taking you back to Shyleburgh.”

  Her gaze flew to his. So, he knew?

  “Why were you returning?” he asked.

  She dropped her gaze, and gave him the answer she’d rehearsed. “To say a proper farewell to my family. I felt guilty leaving with such haste.”

  “Is that all?”

  Heat flooded her cheeks. What did he want her to say? If only he would say he’d been coming back for her! Then, somehow, she would find the courage to admit how she felt about him.

  Even if he didn’t love her the way she yearned for, she loved him enough for both of them. Enough to become countess of Shyleburgh. Whether he loved her in return or not, she knew he would be faithful and cleave to her side through fair season and foul.

  “I’ve had some time to think, my lord,” she said slowly.

  “And?”

  “And… I need more time with my family, with those I love, ere I enter the convent.” She looked up into his eyes, hoping for a sign, any sign.

  Nothing.

  Though, holding his gaze this way did give her the same sensation as she’d experienced drinking too much wine. The blood slowed like thick, warm honey in her veins.

  He liked her. She knew he did. Why did he not say something?

  “Your turn,” she said. “Why were you traveling to St. Bede’s?”

  “To bring you back…” He paused as her happiness soared.

  “Aye?” she asked hopefully, ready to launch herself at him and hug him close.

  “For a proper farewell to your family.”

  Her heart stuttered, then crashed to her toes.

  “I see,” she
managed.

  She struggled with the hurt enfolding her in its bleak embrace as his mood shifted from amiable to serious. His black brows formed slashes over his eyes. “A moment ago, you said something about Black Hand.”

  She stilled, tucking away the pain, and eyed him warily. She hated talking about her nemesis. “Aye.”

  “In fact, you’ve said a few things that have me wondering just how well you know him.”

  Her discomfort grew tenfold. “You’re aware his father contracted him as my future husband.”

  “To take your hand when you turned eighteen, aye. Doesn’t mean you grew up together.”

  “He also came here to learn squiring as a boy.”

  His features darkened. “How long was he here?”

  “A few years,” she said cautiously.

  “And you didn’t think to tell me this?”

  “It would not have occurred to me to do so. Does it make a difference?”

  With a growl, he flung the sheet away and bolted to his feet, almost bouncing her off the mattress and onto the floor.

  “If he is so familiar with Shyleburgh and its grounds—”

  Bridget covered her gasp with her fingers. “He’ll know our weaknesses.”

  “Exactly.”

  Her mind was suddenly not on the conversation. For he faced her naked, with only the bed between them. Her attention fastened on the dark region beneath the blades of his hip bones, where his muscular thighs came together.

  He noticed her regard, grabbed the sheet, and wrapped it jerkily around his waist. Her pulse fluttered.

  “Enough, woman,” he ordered, yanking her focus back to his face. She must have looked hurt, for he softened his tone. “There will be time enough for that later. If Black Hand is out to take Shyleburgh—and you—I fear simply chasing him from the area isn’t enough. I must get to him and deal with him in a more permanent way.”

  “Not until you are well enough,” she implored, leaning toward him and placing a palm to the surface of the mattress he had just vacated. The spot felt warm, which made her want to snuggle down against it.

  He wouldn’t hear of lying abed any longer. “Tell me everything you know of him.”

  She avoided his gaze. “There is nothing to add. ’Twas so long ago.” Samson was the very last thing she wished to speak of with this man. With anyone. Her secrets and nightmares were her own to bear, and she had no desire to share them.

  “Every scrap of information will assist in bringing him down. What did you mean when you said you didn’t suit?”

  It was doubtful anything she had to say could help, but staring into his eyes, she knew he wasn’t going to let this go. How much should she tell? The ugly names he’d called her, the relentless mockery of her appearance… Those things she could never reveal in detail. Not to him.

  But perhaps if she told him some of her experiences, they would haunt her no more. Sometimes people who shared bad memories with others were better able to forget them.

  “Very well.” She stoppered the vial of honey and rose to her feet. “He was a violent and unkind lad.”

  She glanced his way and found him frowning dangerously.

  “What did he do?”

  Suddenly she couldn’t bear to have him look upon her. She turned away, moving to the window where she began straightening the bottles on the sill.

  “Brigitte,” he ground out, sounding very menacing…and very close behind her.

  “Did he hurt you?” Her eyes slipped closed at the dark thunder in his words.

  Would he care for her less when she told him? Would her burgeoning hope for a future with him die on the branch like a spring bud nipped by frost?

  Didn’t matter. Shyleburgh was in danger. She had to go on.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Grégoire had stalked round the bed to stand behind Bridget as she stared out the window. Dual needs warred within him—to take her in his arms and protect her forever or to shake her into speaking the truth.

  What he would do if she refused to answer, he didn’t know, but it would not be temperate.

  When she remained silent, he clasped her round the upper arm and he turned her—as gently as he could, given that his blood verged upon boiling. He wanted to release her, but he couldn’t. He’d thought she had perhaps been teased as a child, and that was why she was so insecure about her appearance. But now… She wouldn’t even look him in the eyes. It must be far worse.

  “If you don’t answer me, I’ll question your sisters. I will find out. Did. He. Hurt you?”

  That got her to meet his gaze. Her face was solemn, red-cheeked. Her lips made a thin white line. Carefully, she shrugged her arm from his grip.

  “Very well.” She took a deep breath. “He came here with his father when he was fourteen. At first he was charming. I felt comfortable with him, like he was the brother I didn’t have. He was so handsome, so interesting, coming from another land, one I’d never been to.” She flashed him a wan smile. “Even if it was only the other side of the moor. Not long after, I was elated to learn our fathers had agreed to betroth us. I couldn’t wait until I was eighteen, I was so happy. I followed him everywhere.”

  In her pause, he reined in his impatience. He knew she would reveal all at her own pace.

  “That was when he started mocking me.”

  “Devil take the knave.” He pounded a fist into his palm.

  Her wary glance at his hands made him realize he needed to calm down. For her sake.

  “It was my fault,” she went on. “I should have stayed away from him. What boy would have wanted me tagging along at his boot heels?”

  “Stop making excuses for him.”

  “The other boys ridiculed him when I made things for him, little things like mittens and girdles and good things to eat. He hated it, and it only got worse when they saw I was brighter than he was. I could read and write, and he couldn’t. Father Usrich tried to teach him, but he couldn’t grasp the knowledge. He started to call me cruel names, leading the other boys in deriding me.”

  “To deflect their mockery from himself. The bastard.”

  “Verily. It hurt, his bad names for me, but for some peculiar reason, I continued to seek his company, even his approval. So I hold some of the blame—”

  “Nay, you don’t. Not one jot, do you hear me? He was weak, a sniveling coward.”

  “One day, I guess he’d had enough, and he whirled on me. He punched me so hard in the belly, I fell backward and couldn’t breathe.”

  Everything halted around him. Everything—the flicker of the candle flames, Bridget, his own heartbeat—and he stared at her with burning eyes.

  He was going to kill the bastard.

  She clutched her abdomen. “It took a while for me to catch my breath, and then my belly felt bruised for the longest time.” She bit her lip, gnawed there for a while. “It must have salved him inside, because he started hitting me whenever he had the chance, and he laughed about it. He told me it was my place to do as he bade, as he would be my husband. I began to avoid him, but he would find me. He’d hide in the bushes and jump out at me, that sort of thing.”

  “Damn, mignonne,” Grégoire bit out, every thread of his existence stretched taut as he struggled for control. The compulsion to slam his fist into something nearly took over. But the last thing Bridget needed was another violent male to deal with. “He was a blackguard, a damnable cur. He should have honored and protected you as his lord’s daughter.”

  “He was my betrothed. There was nothing to be done.”

  “I would have drawn and quartered him. No honorable man abuses a girl like that. Where was Oelwine in all this?” He punched the words out, so furious, he would have throttled her father for his neglect.

  She put a gentle hand on his arm. “You mustn’t blame Father. He worked hard, and he was often away at battle, or with the King.” She stepped away from him.

  “What about your mother and stepmother?”

  She paced slowly, look
ing down at her feet when she answered. “Mother had already passed on. And my stepmother suffered a fragile constitution. It was all she could do striving to bear Oelwine’s heir. She had little energy for the rest of us.”

  “That aunt of yours could have helped.”

  A scoffing sound came out of her. “Aunt Edyth? Nay, she saw bruises on my arm one summer day and ordered me to wear long sleeves. She never even asked what had happened, nor would she have cared, I daresay.”

  Furious, he made a mental appointment to have choice words with the caustic aunt one day soon. “Your father should have been told. Samson violated you. Badly enough that you changed your entire life because of it. You were ready to give up your family, your home, and the chance for children of your own, in order to avoid a husband as cruel as he—”

  She halted before him. “Nay, Grégoire. If it were only his mockery and abuse, I would never have given up the life I wanted so much. I told myself if I would just do as he said, please him, be the biddable damsel I was supposed to be and place him on a pedestal, my marriage wasn’t going to be so bad. But…” She glanced at him. “There was more.”

  Grégoire inhaled sharply, dreading the rest. “More?”

  “I started finding him bothering other girls in an…unseemly way.”

  “Not your sisters. Tell me not your sisters.”

  “Nay. I ensured they kept away from him, but the serving maids… I found him assaulting Mabel in the stairwell. I pounded on his back and kicked him and told him I was going to get Father. That stopped him, but…only for the moment.”

  She shivered, hugging her arms over her breast, looking down at her toes. “He started manhandling me intimately. Touching me where he shouldn’t.” Her outraged glance flew to his. “I was only eleven! I had no idea what he was doing. He’d—” She grimaced. “—stick his tongue in my mouth or paw me between the legs. He told me that’s what men did to women, and it was my place to let him do it. I started hiding from him, wearing unattractive clothing, trying to make myself invisible. He disgusted me!

  “One night at dusk, I was stepping from the mead house in the orchard when he appeared before me. I tried to dodge him, but he shoved me back inside and—and—tore my gown open.”