Come to Me

by Tessa Fairfax

  If Grégoire had thought he was irate before, his rage catapulted to the firmament. His sweet Bridget, the tender girl she’d been, at the hands of such a fiend! He curled a fist, struggled to hold himself together.

  She went on. “I kept screaming nay, pushing at him, but he was laughing, and not in a fun way. He looked like Lucifer himself. He asked if my books had taught me about sex. I said of course not, and he said, then he would. He pushed me down to the floor. As I fell, I managed to grab one of the honeycomb scrapers lying on the counter. You know how sharp those are. As he leaned down grabbing at me, I slashed his hand. He screamed and stopped attacking me. He spat on me and called me all manner of horrible names as I kicked at him.”

  “Brigitte…” He had absolutely no words to say, the disgust and repugnance he felt for such a man so consumed him.

  Surprisingly, she smiled, meeting his gaze. “I do believe he was weeping like a babe as he stumbled away.” She grew serious once more. “The very next day, he left to return home to Reggeland, and I never saw him again. I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone what he did, so the betrothal remained in effect. I convinced myself that nothing really all that bad had happened. He hadn’t breached my maidenhead. He hadn’t killed me. But he certainly put me off any happy anticipation of the marital state.”

  “Holy hell…”

  “So you can’t imagine the relief I felt when your king declared all English lands for himself and nullified all pacts and betrothals between our nobles. I was able to convince Father to release me as his heiress, pay my way to the convent, and proclaim Aislinn as future mistress of the keep.”

  Quivering with the effort to be gentle when every fiber of his being wanted to bludgeon something, he reached out a hand and cupped her cheek, brushing a thumb under her eye. She blinked up at him, her expression uneasy. Did she worry he would judge her poorly for her choice? How could she think that?

  “Your father should have been told the first time the bastard uttered an unpleasant word to you.”

  “I know that now. Father would have broken the pact immediately. But I didn’t wish to bring any trouble upon him. He needed his coalition with Samson’s father in order to preserve the border. And I was so ashamed. I thought I was to blame.”

  “What could possibly have led you to believe that?”

  She shrugged. “You know how outspoken and pushy I can be, never one to hide my thoughts on a matter. Samson told me he needed to beat a sense of respect into me.”

  He stared at her, appalled. “Being a strong woman should not make you a target for any man’s ire. Rather, you should be cherished for it!”

  She gazed back at him, her eyes filling with tears. “Oh, Grégoire. You are a man above all others.”

  He waved her off, anger still hot throughout his body. “Nonsense. I’ve a mind to have words with your father about this. Where is my clothing?” He cast about the chamber, seeking his tunic and chausses, his hauberk, and sword.

  “Nay!” she appealed behind him. “Do not tell Father. I beg you!”

  He turned back to her face crumpling in worry and fear. It tugged unbearably at something inside his chest.

  “Please, Grégoire. The shame would kill me.”

  Silence beat for an instant as he took in her earnest expression and the tears making her eyes bright. She was more beautiful to him in that moment than she’d ever been. So brave, so strong, yet so vulnerable.

  A wave of protectiveness crashed over him, staggering in its power. Everything within him needed to avenge her. And everything within him needed her as his own.

  But he wouldn’t be worthy of her until he had vanquished their enemy—her nemesis—once and for all.

  Even so, he longed to stake his claim. He took a step toward her. “Tell me you know that I would never hurt you—anyone—like that.”

  “I know you would never hurt a woman in your care.”

  “A man of honor would never harm anyone weaker than himself. A man of honor would seek only to give pleasure to the woman he l—” He bit off the word. What had he been about to say? “—who is under his care.”

  She gave him a shy smile. “Indeed. The other night…you showed me a very different picture of what can be between a man and a woman.”

  He took another step toward her. “I am happy to have given you a better impression of my gender.”

  She nibbled her lip and plucked coyly at her gown. “As am I.”

  For the first time, he noticed her attire. The gown she wore had the hue of ripe, juicy apricots. On her feet were delicate slippers instead of her usual wooden clogs. Her hair fell in a glittering waterfall around her bare shoulders. Above the low bodice, her skin blushed sweetly. The gown’s neckline plunged so deep, the valley between her breasts acted as a magnet to his gaze—and another part of his anatomy, as well.

  Lust mingling with the skull-banging he’d suffered had his head swimming dizzily. “Why have you doffed your nunnish frock for this siren’s garb?” he managed.

  The blush in her cheeks blazed crimson as she glanced down self-consciously. “Do you like it?”

  “Aye, woman. Very much.” He liked it so much, he wanted to grab her like a morsel of mutton and devour her. “To my eyes, you are the fairest damsel in the land.”

  Her lips parted. “Do you truly mean that?”

  “I would not say it if ’twasn’t true. You have beautiful eyes, you know. And your curves are perfection.”

  With his good arm, he hooked a hand round her waist and drew her close against him, wincing as pain seared near his other shoulder. She gasped at his discomfort, trying to draw back and tend to his wound, but he wouldn’t release her.

  He inhaled with a smile. “And you smell delicious.”

  Her eyes turned teasing. “’Tis an essence I made ’specially to please you.”

  He put his nose to her hair and inhaled. “Mmm. Honey and wildflowers.”

  She settled against him, and he breathed deeply, savoring the feel of her shivering in reaction. It felt…perfect.

  She was back with him, where she belonged. He would never let her go again. Never.

  She rubbed her silky cheek against his bare chest. The feel of her softness against his nakedness tortured him. His cock stirred. With an effort, he restrained himself.

  “Brigitte.” He jostled her lightly in his embrace. Her arms went around his middle.

  “Mmm?”

  “You’ve been calling me Grégoire.”

  “I have?”

  “When we are alone. I like how my name sounds on your lips.”

  She beamed up at him. Her eyes gleamed like amber gems, piercing deep into him. “Then I shall call you Grégoire, but in private only. When others are around, you will still be my lord.”

  He gazed at her. What a moonstruck minstrel he’d become. He’d best shake this weakness before he lost his mettle on the battlefield. What he planned to do required every dram of his focus and strength. But he couldn’t help himself. She was so adorable, he tapped the tip of her nose. He wanted to do so much more. But his strength ebbed from him with every passing moment.

  “Please,” she said, gesturing to his bed. “Lie down and rest. The morrow will come soon enough. Tonight you must endeavor to heal yourself.”

  He smiled and obliged her, knowing he had serious work ahead. Come tomorrow, he would ensure Samson of Reggeland, the outlaw Black Hand, would never hurt her, or anyone else, ever again.

  “I shall do my best, little honeybee.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Grégoire left with a host of men before Bridget awoke next morn. It was only at breakfast that she learned of his departure.

  They’d ridden silently into the dawn, taking supplies for several days and leaving the keep sealed up tight behind them. Everyone was ordered to be on alert, almost as if under siege.

  “He is not well enough yet to ride!” declared Aislinn.

  “I’m sure he knows his own strengths and limitations,” Bridget
reassured her sister. Her aim was to defend his actions, but secretly… If she said the words aloud, they would be true, wouldn’t they?

  Inside, she was a roiling ball of worry. He should have waited another day, at least. What if he weakened and fell off his horse? What if his wound opened and festered? Men lost limbs due to thwarted healing. They died, even.

  And then, there was the guilt. Was it coincidence he went after Black Hand immediately upon hearing her disturbing tales? In flights of her imagination, he went off to avenge her, to destroy her childhood tormenter, but reality made her believe otherwise. He was the Earl of Shyleburgh, and the need to protect his holdings overruled all else. When he’d learned Black Hand had such intimate knowledge of the stronghold, he’d felt obliged to go after the outlaw.

  “Well,” Aislinn went on, “I pray he rids the earth of that blackguard once and for all. Poor Auntie has been quivering beneath her coverlet ever since the attack in the woods.”

  After eating, Bridget told Nurse to usher the children into their safe place between the hall and the kitchen, but she held Aislinn back with a hand on her arm.

  “Come with me to the chapel,” she whispered. “Just for a moment.”

  Her heart clamored in her throat. She must resolve the situation between her, Grégoire, and Aislinn, or forever hold her peace.

  Amid the flickering candles and the lingering fragrance of incense, she turned to her sister and took a deep breath. “I must tell you something.”

  Aislinn met her gaze. “I hope it’s that you are back in Shyleburgh for good. The little ones were inconsolable while you were away.”

  The words came out in a rush, unplanned but bursting to come forth. “I’m in love with Grégoire.” She held her breath, trying to still her pulse, searching her sister’s face. Was that a smile?

  “Of course you are! ’Tis about time you admitted it. Has he asked for your hand yet?”

  She blinked in surprise. “What?”

  “You know, in marriage.”

  He was never going to ask her. Of that, she had grown certain, despite the fantasies of him doing so constantly dancing in her head.

  She shook her head. “Nay, but I’m going to ask for his.”

  Her sibling grinned. “Only you, dear sister, would think of such a topsy-turvy thing.”

  She clutched her sister’s hands in hers. “But only if ’tis truly all right with you.”

  “I told you I won’t stand in your way. I’m happy for you.”

  “But you planned all these years to be Countess of Shyleburgh. Will giving that up break your heart?”

  Aislinn glanced away and murmured wistfully, “True, it has been my expectation to be countess. All the splendid clothing, the jewels, and people fawning.”

  Ah, could she take that away from her after giving it to her in the first place? “Because I swear, if you want—”

  Aislinn looked back at her and burst into a smile. “Oh, Bridgie, I do not wish to be countess! Honestly!”

  Relief cascaded over her. Her arms went round her sister in a tight embrace. “Oh, Aislinn, I had prayed as much.”

  Aislinn hugged her back, laughing. “I’m certain he will be pleased when you go to him. He seemed very happy to hear you care for him.”

  She drew back. “But…how on earth?”

  Aislinn smiled. “He came to me while you were at St. Bede’s. He begged for my forgiveness.”

  She gaped at her sister. “For what?”

  “Well, let me start at the beginning. After returning from delivering you, he became a man possessed by demons.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Aislinn rolled her eyes. “Let’s just say, he was a man in love who didn’t know it.”

  A man in love? With her? Bridget’s breathing stalled. She clasped her sister’s hands. “Tell me! What did he do?”

  “He yelled at everyone. He kept finding fault with little Sandy. He drank mead night and day.” Aislinn wrinkled her nose. “He even punched Sir Albert!”

  “Nay!” she laughed. “But, how does that say a man is in love?” What did her innocent young sister know of love and men? What did she know of them?

  “Did you not see that bruise on Sir Albert’s jaw?”

  She shook her head contritely. Never had she given Sir Albert a second glance.

  “He was quite angry when he found the two of us alone together.”

  Bridget suddenly didn’t feel like laughing anymore. “He found you…with Sir Albert?”

  “Aye, and he went into a rage.”

  Her heart plummeted. “So, he must be in love with you.”

  Her sister frowned. “Nay, I’m not finished. It was when he found your billet-doux and came to—”

  “Blessed saints!” She suddenly remembered the last letter she wrote but never told Aislinn about. The one where she’d described in excruciating detail how much she’d liked when he’d kissed her. Her cheeks burst into flame. “Oh, nay.”

  Her sister nodded, chuckling. “Aye… That letter. He came to ask me about it, and of course, I knew nothing. That was when he realized the words must have come straight from your heart. Seeing his joy at that, I released him from his obligation to wed me.”

  “You…released him?”

  So all those tender things he’d said to her earlier—telling her she was beautiful, being so kind when hearing about Black Hand’s abuse… All along, he’d known he was no longer betrothed to Aislinn. Which meant…

  He’d been courting Bridget!

  “So,” she said, her heart once again taking wing, “you won’t mind if I take your place at the altar, come Michaelmas?”

  “Mind?” her sister fairly shouted. “I would be furious if you didn’t!”

  They fell into each other’s arms, laughing and jumping up and down with joy.

  “Oh, Aislinn!” she cried. “I have never been so happy!”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Two days later, Bridget’s happiness had turned to fear. They still hadn’t received word of the men.

  The constraints of preparing for siege remained in place. Aislinn stayed within the stronghold under heavy guard with the children, Aunt Edyth, and Nurse.

  Though Bridget insisted on performing the most necessary chores, she couldn’t concentrate. Thoughts of Black Hand on the loose and Grégoire going up against him in his weakened condition nearly paralyzed her with dread.

  It was not quite dawn. A hint of daybreak glowed faintly on the horizon, and a sheen of dull gray limned the landscape round the keep. Grégoire had left Sir Drogo and Oelwine in charge, taking Sir Albert as well as half of Shyleburgh’s able-bodied warriors. Uncle Edward’s troops from Fallingate had remained behind to protect their lord and lady, roaming the inner bailey and the keep itself.

  Thus the outer grounds were empty and serene.

  Bridget’s breath fogged in front of her as, by the light of the setting half-moon, she set out for the bee boles. Little Mattie complained of a toothache, and gnawing on fresh honeycomb sometimes helped.

  “Ellen! Ho, Ellen,” a man called in the distance.

  It sounded like Dunstan the reeve. Why was he at the postern gate this long before breakfast? No one was supposed to enter or leave the keep.

  Through the trees, Bridget glanced to the wall that overlooked the western exposure. By the light of a torch up at the guard post, she could just make out the silhouettes of Alaric and the Norman guardsman Gerard.

  Other guards who patrolled along the wall now moved over to stand beside Alaric and Gerard. They were distracted by something down below. Bridget went to investigate. The postern door below the guard post was shut tight, as per the earl’s orders.

  “Does someone have news of Lord Grégoire?” she inquired, looking up at the guards.

  Alaric called down, “Nay. Reeve Dunstan has come to see his wife.”

  “His wife? But she isn’t here.”

  She heard Dunstan’s voice over the wall. “Please, my lady. I believe she is
visiting her sister, Mabel.”

  Bridget knew there were no visitors in the keep. “Nay, Dunstan. She isn’t here.”

  Suddenly, she heard the oddest whistle, followed by a thump.

  Gerard went down.

  A scream tangled in her throat.

  Alaric whipped back to peer out beyond the wall, only to meet with an arrow in the throat.

  “Breached!” he cried as he staggered backward. He fell from the wall and into the yard.

  “Alaric!” Bridget ran to his side.

  Immediately, the other guards raised their bows and shot out into the wilderness, but a volley of arrows arched toward them. Guardsmen dropped one by one.

  Alaric’s mouth hung slack, his eyes wide with horror. His breath whistled and gurgled. “The horn,” he rasped, clutching at his throat.

  Bridget found the horn at his belt. She wrestled it free, raised it to her lips, and blew as hard as she could. She managed two sturdy blasts.

  Just then, the postern door took a blow.

  God save them, someone was battering at the wall! Dunstan?

  Black Hand?

  Where was Grégoire?

  On the second blow, the blade of an axe broke through the solid wooden door. Panic cut through her, icy and paralyzing.

  “Run,” commanded Alaric, his voice a mere whisper. His body seized up.

  “Alaric!” But he fell silent, his arm flopping limply to the earth. His gray eyes stared upward, unseeing.

  Hearing the next splintering blow of the axe, Bridget forced her feet to move. She ran, flinging the horn away in her terror.

  Two more swift blows, and the door gave way with a crash behind her. She looked over her shoulder. A stranger, a warrior in a battered helmet and dark armor bearing an unfamiliar crest charged through the opening. He spied her instantly and gave chase, axe in hand. Another enemy warrior followed in his wake.

  How many were to come? Was Shyleburgh to be sacked?

  From another direction, a figure, slight and quick, sword raised, dashed across the clearing toward her pursuer, who stepped aside to meet the newcomer. A hoarse shout, a female war cry, rang through the air.

  Kaitlin? Had she been patrolling on her own? Dear God.