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  She couldn’t think at all with him so close, his breath so warm. His skin so pleasingly…fragrant.

  “My apologies.” He backed away, taking his heat with him. He was like a bonfire when he was nigh.

  She put the nib to the parchment and scratched, in English.

  Beloved Angel, my heart’s desire…

  He was back, this time staying off to the side, his arms crossed at his chest, peering down sideways at the words. His glance, when it found hers, held something like appreciation in it. That was nice.

  “Beloved angel?” he said.

  So he knew enough of written English to comprehend that. She nodded.

  “Very good.”

  She hated, hated, that his praise pleased her so much.

  His finger floated above the letters as he read aloud, trying to make out the words. “Wish heart…Nay, desire heart my…desire of my heart?” He met her gaze.

  Her pulse skittered at the impact of that look.

  “Aye,” she breathed.

  He was beautiful. The dark eyes, the dark hair. That brooding, firm mouth the color of plums. How he pulled it back on one side to form a smile with so much masculine appeal it plucked mercilessly at her woman’s body.

  She whipped her gaze down to the sheet before her. What had she just been praying for in the chapel? Where was God’s hand now? Focus!

  Surely, he was a fallen archangel sent to earth to tempt her into sin.

  Oblivious to her distress, he said, “Very good. Proceed,” and wandered off, pacing.

  She set her mind on her task once more. Ovid’s antique Roman words filtered through her head, but none of them seemed to suit her musical sister. At length, to pinpoint what would most please Aislinn, she decided to put herself inside her sister’s head.

  Oh, the caprice that skipped around in there! She smiled to herself. Dear, sweet Aislinn.

  And then the words came pouring out of her.

  When I first arrived, I was alone. I did not think to find a miracle such as you awaiting me.

  And then I saw you. Your face, your eyes. Your beauty so singular amongst mortals. I found myself slain to the death by Cupid’s sure arrow.

  And then you opened your rosy lips, and out came such glory to my ears. You sang to me like an angel on high.

  I am Love’s victim, and you are Love’s salvation.

  Do not leave me to lie in my cold crypt alone. Breathe life into me. Be mine forever.

  “I…victim…you…salvation?”

  His voice, so close, pierced her ear—and her concentration. Her skin erupted in gooseflesh all over. She turned her head to find his every whisker, every thick, sooty eyelash bigger than life. The slope of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. She inhaled the essence of his skin. Like a heady wine, it swam wickedly in her veins.

  He went rock still. His face rotated her way, his eyes going heavy-lidded as they dropped to her mouth. The world stopped, suspended in air.

  Then it was over. He snatched up the poem, straightening, and blew on the ink. Could those lips ever look more seductive? She imagined them in the same formation around her nipple—

  Her belly clenched hard, and she glanced away.

  “You think this will impress her?” he asked, rolling up the missive. “This utter folderol?”

  “I promise.” She smiled feebly, too weak—or mayhap unwilling—to shove off the wistfulness.

  “If you say so,” he muttered.

  Aye, to receive a letter of such profound avowal, such all-encompassing devotion from a man like him—

  But nay, she didn’t want that! She couldn’t want that. What would happen to Aislinn if—

  Nay, nothing was going to happen to Aislinn. Because this man would wed her. Her sister was so beautiful and accomplished in all womanly things. How could he not?

  Even if Bridget desired to change his mind, she had nothing to offer a man like Grégoire FitzHenri.

  Nothing at all he would want.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Later that day, Bridget and Aislinn gathered their veiled hats and gloves and some spiced meat pies with a jug of cider, and headed for the bee boles at the far end of the orchard. Bee boles were niches in the stone wall, into which skeps were placed, nestled on straw and wooden boards to keep them safe and warm during fair season and foul. Bees built their hives inside the skeps.

  The final and biggest honey harvest of the year approached. Unlike most people, Bridget enjoyed the hefting, the process of weighing hives against each other to determine the heaviest and lightest ones. The honey would be harvested from these, and the medium-weight hives would be left to sustain the bees through the winter and start new hives in the spring.

  Since Shyleburgh boasted more hives than any manor north of Lancaster, the annual culling took many hours of labor, and everyone worked in the orchard whenever there was a moment to spare.

  But Bridget’s mind wasn’t on the monotonous chore this day. As they walked, she noticed that Aislinn, typically quiet and serene, seemed anxious to say something. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes sparkled. If it was possible at all, her sister was lovelier than she’d ever been. An inner glow was bursting to get through. She looked so happy.

  Was this the face of a woman in love?

  “Something has happened,” Bridget said, eyeing her sister. Dread crouched heavy on her shoulders.

  Aislinn glanced over. “What do you mean?” But she was smiling as if she harbored a secret.

  “’Tis writ all over you. What news have you?”

  Her sister stopped and turned, taking Bridget’s hands. Her eyes glimmered such a beautiful, jewel-like blue, they were almost painful to look into at such close range.

  “Oh, Bridgie!” Aislinn exclaimed, then paused, freeing her fingers. “But I don’t wish to speak of such things while you are in mourning for your friend. I should not be so happy.”

  “Aye, I am in mourning, but there’s plenty of room left for other emotions. Tell me.”

  “Very well, because I think I may simply burst if I can’t share it.” Her sister fussed with the cuff of her sleeve, pulling out a small scroll.

  Bridget froze.

  Aislinn leaned close and whispered, “My lord sent me this.”

  “What is it?”

  “’Tis a billet-doux. A billet-doux, Bridgie! Can you imagine it? Me, receiving a love letter.”

  “Wherefore your surprise? ’Tis clear the man esteems you.”

  Her sister’s smile faltered, ever so slightly, but it went so quickly Bridget wondered if she’d imagined it.

  Aislinn fairly bubbled afterward. “He is everything I could want. So kind and attentive. So eloquent and smart. Do you know that last night he danced with me? Aye, after you left, he told me he had a surprise for me. He’d learned a few steps, and he took me to the floor and danced with me.”

  “Clumsy was he?” the devil made her ask. She hoped he’d made a fool of himself.

  “Oh nay! He was…perfect.” Aislinn wrinkled her nose. “But that knave Karlan kept messing things up, playing faster and faster so we couldn’t keep time. I don’t understand him sometimes. Anyway, Grégoire and I ended up just tripping over each other and laughing and laughing. It was so much fun.”

  Grégoire. Whose idea had that been? Bridget swallowed hard. “Sounds like you got along quite well, then.”

  “We did! And now, he writes that I’ve won his heart, and…and I think I may return his regard.”

  Bridget’s body turned to stone. She could feel her bones crackling as they calcified. All sensation drained out of her limbs.

  Still, she’d known this day would come. Indeed, it had been her own doing.

  “Do you know his thoughts so well?” she asked, forcing her voice to work through the rawness.

  Aislinn brought the scroll to her lips, pressing lightly. “This precious, wonderful letter has told me everything I need to know. Sentiments of his own, writ by his own hand, filled with the loveliest words I’ve ever read
. So beautiful, they made me weep.” She paused, her eyes soft. “I think we must be in love.”

  Bridget drew in a long, deep breath that sliced her lungs to shreds.

  Fighting an unaccountable sense of loss, grasping about for relief, she recalled how dramatic her sister could be. This talk of love could just be her sister’s elaborate imagination. What about slapping him the other day when he had ventured a mere kiss? Had she already forgotten that?

  Love. After five days and one letter. One well-written letter, Bridget must admit, but still, one cursed letter.

  Then again, perhaps Aislinn had already been half in love with him since his prior visit and had required very little to push her over the edge. They’d never really spoken about her opinion of him before.

  Bridget blinked, recognizing the familiar circumstance. Was that not her own predicament? Had she not been half in love with him since then, too? All because of a chivalrous gesture…

  Automatically, she resumed walking—the chores must be done—but her feet seemed to knock into each other with every step.

  Nay, she was not in love with him. Not half in love, either, or even one quarter in love with him.

  Mayhap her all-too-human weakness of the flesh was getting the better of her, though. She desired him, if she were honest. But she had admired him five years ago. And it’s possible that, had he noticed her at all, spoken one measly word of kindness to her back then, she might have let him sweep her off her feet and change her mind about…everything. He was the one man who could have done it.

  Possibly.

  Or was this all just girlish, foolish fantasies…?

  Alas, she didn’t know anything anymore.

  And now a new guilt pricked at her, as well. Her sister believed the earl had written these lovely lines, drawn the emotions from his own core. But in truth, it had all been Bridget. The knowledge that she was manipulating her sister’s affections did not sit well.

  On the edge of her lips bided a warning for her sister to not be so hasty, so careless in tossing the word love around. It was a special word. Potent. Not to be trifled with.

  But saying as much would not serve her purpose.

  “I’m glad things are working out so well,” she said, feeling a weak, false smile wobbling over her lips.

  “Verily,” her sister murmured dreamily. “They are.”

  Aye, things were going just as everyone desired, weren’t they? Then why did Bridget feel as if her own heart rattled idiotically inside her empty skeleton?

  “I knew you would be pleased,” Aislinn said.

  Bridget glanced up. “Me?”

  “Aye. I know you want us wed and happy ere you depart for your cloister.”

  “Of course I do, but— You’re not rushing, or even manufacturing your feelings for my sake, are you?” For that would mean— Possibly…

  Nay, it was too much to hope for.

  But what did she hope for?

  Aislinn’s glance darted away. “Nay, God’s truth,” her sister said, nevertheless avoiding her gaze. “He’s exactly what I want in a husband,” she said firmly. “You left so quickly the other night, I thought mayhap you were angry things between us weren’t going so well. I just wanted you to know that they are.”

  “I see.” Or…did she? Was her sister truly in love with the earl—or at least in like—or merely trying to make everyone happy…which would surely fit her sweet nature? “But I didn’t leave because I was angry.”

  Aislinn gave an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Oh, I’m so glad. But just before, you did look like you weren’t feeling well. I wanted to talk to you, but when I came to bed, you were already asleep.”

  In truth, she hadn’t been asleep. She’d heard voices—Aislinn’s and the earl’s—in the hall, followed by giggling just outside the door. Sounds that had made her teeth clench so hard they hurt. Then her sister had entered their chamber, humming happily, smelling of springtime and wood smoke in a pine forest. His scent.

  Bridget’s whole body had seized up tight, mired in some dark, unfamiliar emotion, and she’d hunkered into the blankets, feigning a deep sleep.

  “Are you feeling quite well, sister? You look pale.”

  “I’m fine.” She gave Aislinn a wan smile, trying to force joy into it. But she couldn’t say any more. Her voice had clogged up.

  As had her aching heart.

  Chapter Nineteen

  That evening, Grégoire’s interpreter was nowhere to be found. At least that’s what everyone told him when she failed to appear for the late meal. Lady Aislinn informed him—through Albert, blast it—that Bridget said she had work to do and could not spare the time to dally in the hall. His second-in-command had the intelligence to look worried while giving that translation.

  Grégoire heard this explanation with narrowed eyes and red-clouded vision. As the evening wore on, his ire mounted.

  She’d forwarded no excuse to him for her absence. No I beg your pardon, lord or Forgive me, my lord, but—

  He required her here. At his side.

  The sound of laughter broke through the roar between his ears, luring his hard gaze over to Albert. His second-in-command was walking his fingers across the table as he regaled the females with some absurd story that had them all howling with merriment. Aislinn smiled as brightly as he’d ever seen her smile.

  His temper simmered. Was there something there, between his second and his bride-to-be? Or was it just his ill humor seeking reasons to fume?

  If something hadn’t already been eating at his spleen with sharper teeth, he’d have taken the matter into hand to find out.

  As the capon and salmon were served, and Bridget had yet to grace him with her presence, his blood boiled over. He shot to his feet, knocking over his chair. This would be the last time Bridget defied him.

  All heads swiveled his way.

  He met Lady Aislinn’s gaze. A twinge of fear accented her features. Good. At least one female in this godforsaken keep knew how to show him proper deference.

  “What is’t, my lord?” Oelwine asked, a chicken leg dangling from his fingers.

  “I’m going in search of my scribe.” If the wench insisted upon disobedience, he would teach her a lesson.

  As he stalked out of the hall, he was fairly certain he heard Lady Aislinn inquire in anxious tones, “He won’t harm her, will he?”

  He didn’t wait to hear the reply.

  The chapel was the first place he checked, as he’d seen her there numerous times over the last several days. Peering in with sight that seemed restricted to the width of a tunnel, he found only a dark, empty space.

  Then he stalked off to the orchard. Every waking hour she wasn’t with him or in the chapel she spent amongst her hives, hefting skeps or straining honeycomb.

  The abbey below the fell tolled vesper as his boots padded through damp grass. His breath rasped in a dry throat. His lungs pounded in his chest.

  When at last he found her, she was kneeling over some weedy-looking plants near her hives, busy with a little knife in her hand and a linen sack beside her. His shadow fell over her. He itched to grab her and—and do what, he didn’t know.

  She sat back on her heels, but she didn’t turn, nor did she rise to greet him.

  Curse him for his lenience. He’d allowed her too much leeway and she no longer feared him as a vassal should her lord. That error would be rectified now.

  “Wherefore are you not in the hall, scribe?” he snarled, longing to see her quail.

  She looked up at him over her shoulder, her single braid draping forward to pool in her lap. No fear bided in her eyes. Something else did, however, but he couldn’t discern what. His first thought was that she had been weeping.

  Bridget, weeping? But she was so strong, so in control. Did she mourn her Brother Lefrid to such an extent?

  “I didn’t know we had an appointment this eve, my lord. I must gather these seeds ere they fall, so you have them for seasoning your pork through the winter.”

>   Ah, she wasn’t sad, but defiant. He longed to throttle her. His fists clenched. His whole body fought against the tether of his control. “You are to attend me whenever I speak with your sister. There’s been no change.”

  “I believe your relationship has progressed enough that you no longer need me.”

  “I’ll tell you when you’re no longer required.”

  “But your letter did the trick. She adores you.”

  He stopped short at that. A flicker of joy—or was it relief?—peeped awake inside him, like a tiny light in the black fog. Could it be this wooing shit was over? Thank you, God.

  The wench started to rise. He gave her a helping hand, his fingers tightening possessively round her elbow. He had no understanding of why that should be. His corpus seemed to do things around her that he had no control over.

  “What have you heard?” he asked curtly. His ire had not yet abated. If anything, it flared higher.

  Upon gaining her feet, she pulled her arm free and dusted off her hands. “That she returns your feelings.”

  “My feelings? What— Ah. You mean the feelings expressed in that letter.” Pray God this was true, and he could move on to a wedding. Why then did his ire blossom further, still? “She says that?”

  “Told me herself today. She is yours, verily.”

  He tasted that, and found satisfaction wanting. “What else did she say?”

  “That you are now on a first name basis.” Bridget flashed him an inscrutable glance. “And that you danced gloriously together last night after I—” She curtailed her words abruptly, averting her gaze.

  His black mood thickened. His brow lowered. “After you fled my presence ere I dismissed you. Where did you go?” He had resolved never to bring this up, to spare her having to explain herself. He knew he’d pressed her too far last night. He’d even come up with the billet-doux idea as a means to remove her from uttering aloud words that were distasteful to her.

  But his indulgence ended with her failure to attend him this eve.

  Her brows drew together and her eyes turned plaintive, her voice colored with a smattering of scold. “Can’t you see? We’re herding her emotions as a dog would sheep, to a place of our own choosing, not hers. ’Tisn’t fair.”