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  But the most amazing thing that occurred was when Sir Albert demonstrated his skill with the lyre. The Saxon lyre. Where he’d learned to play such a thing, he didn’t say.

  Aislinn had fetched her precious instrument, a gift from Father years ago, and was about to amuse them with a performance. Sir Albert reached over to strum his own fingers across the strings. With an encouraging smile, Aislinn handed it to him, and he accompanied himself while singing a very old and melancholy English ballad.

  Every female in the hall could be heard sighing. Even Nurse gazed wistfully upon his handsome, youthful face.

  Such a shame the earl wasn’t here to enjoy the growing warmth and camaraderie between the keep’s folk and his trusted men.

  Bridget missed him terribly.

  At the thought, she straightened. Nay, she didn’t miss him. She worried for him, was all. He was their lord and protector, and he was facing grave danger. Who wouldn’t be worried?

  Admittedly, she enjoyed his company. She would take every moment they argued over their times apart. Always looking for him, she hoped to run into him around every corner. But that didn’t mean she missed him.

  His impudent kisses may have branded her, and his touch might be imprinted on her skin. But that was only lust, meaningless in God’s grand scheme. No one would ever know how he brought her body to flame. No one could ever know. Least of all FitzHenri. He belonged to her sister, and she was promised to the Martyred Virgins. It was as simple as that.

  Except things weren’t that simple when she collapsed in her bed and the dreams took over. Not when his hands were on her, his mouth on hers, drinking her in. His hardness wanting her.

  A click startled her awake. The latch at the door? She looked over and blinked. The door was opening, silently and smoothly, which was odd since the hinges were ancient and rusted and always grated.

  She huddled deeper into the bedding, leaving her eyes to peek out. Who would trespass unbidden and unannounced at this hour of the night? One of her sisters?

  But nay, this was no little girl. She could see by the dim light of the embers that it was a large figure, tall and straight. In a swirling, dreamlike mist, it came toward her, and she cowered, praying it didn’t see her.

  It was futile. The towering giant saw her…and he wanted her. Wanted her with a yearning she could feel in her blood, a yearning so fierce it drove away all thought, all modesty.

  The apparition came to stand beside the bed, and then spread its wings behind its broad shoulders. High and wide the wings spread, black, angular, with scales that caught the meager light and glittered greenish-gold. A high crown of gilded oak twigs topped its head, and the rafter-reaching shoots glowed and sparked like lightning trapped in a cage.

  “What do you want of me, Dragon?” she whispered, trembling.

  “All of you,” he said in a terrible voice, a voice of iron and lust.

  The Dragon reached out his hand, a man’s hand, not a bloodied claw. “Let me share your bed, maiden,” he said.

  And then he stripped the blankets and sheets from her body, cast them heedlessly away, and stared at her shivering form. His eyes burned into her, through her nightclothes, through her flesh and straight to her marrow.

  Dark eyes they were, and in the dimness she couldn’t see them. Yet she knew they were green, the hue of forest moss and wild things, knew they had deep black centers and a contour of thick black lashes.

  Knew they were tortured for want of her.

  “Nay,” she whispered. “I am chaste. I am good.”

  “Pleasure is good,” he said in that rumbling, terrible voice that vibrated inside her. “Let me give you pleasure untold.”

  “But I am for the church.”

  “’Tis better to wed than to burn, maiden.”

  “Even when there is no love?”

  “What matters love when one burns as we do?”

  Did he burn for her? She beheld his need jutting from leather-clad thighs directly before her. Aye. He wanted to feed and tame the beast inside her body. Her body.

  Her desire surged to a roaring blaze. To know he wanted her was the greatest aphrodisiac of all. Her breath came hard, rasping in her throat. But the keenest need flared between her legs, where she wanted him to be. She needed him to quell the ache. And only he could do it.

  “Take me into your bed,” he said again.

  “Aye,” she breathed, and before the word was done, he was over her, naked, and she was lost.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The dragon was FitzHenri.

  As Bridget had known all along.

  He had returned in the night and come to her. To her. And no one else.

  He moved over her as a lover, nudging her onto her back, his fierce mouth grazing secret skin, his tongue laving sensitive places. He bared her quivering breast and suckled, shooting bolts of ecstasy through her until she thought she might shatter into a pulsing cloud of sparks.

  But he wasn’t done, and it wasn’t over. His hand went to the lowest part of her body, between the tops of her thighs where not even she dared touch, and began to caress her there.

  “I am yours alone,” he whispered in her ear, his voice rough yet silky, in the way of anguished longing. “Yours and no one else’s. Come, I will give you pleasure.”

  A sudden pain struck her in the ribs.

  “Quit mumbling,” urged a voice at her side.

  A thunderclap brought Bridget fully awake. Lightning flickered, and the shutter crashed at the narrow window.

  “Oh bother,” muttered Kaitlin, in bed next to her. “Now it’s raining in here.”

  “Did you poke me with your elbow?” Bridget asked, battling to shed the confusion of fantasy and reality.

  “I had to. You were having a bad dream. You wouldn’t stop moving and moaning.”

  Aislinn’s sleep-softened voice came to them from the other side of the bed. “Someone close the shutter, will you?”

  Bridget rose, her bare feet landing on the damp wooden floor. A blast of wind and rain lashed her as she reached for the shutter, but soon she had the worst of the storm locked outside.

  She raced back to bed as flashes of lightning struck in quick succession and found their way into the chamber, blinding in their intensity. She hopped into the warm refuge of the bedding and tried to get back to sleep, but her insides reverberated with unsatisfied want.

  “Aislinn,” she whispered into the dark. “Are you awake?”

  “I am,” Kaitlin snapped.

  “Aye,” Aislinn answered groggily.

  Bridget sat up and crawled over Kaitlin’s legs to the foot of the bed on Aislinn’s side. With a rustling of the linens, Aislinn rose to join her. Kaitlin writhed her way over to the edge that Bridget had vacated, hunkering down into the blankets.

  “What ails you?” Aislinn whispered.

  “Are you worried?” This wasn’t what she really wanted to ask. She wanted to ask once and for all if Aislinn loved the earl, but the clutches of fear held her back.

  What if the answer was aye? Then Bridget would have to set firmly aside all her dangerous feelings and somehow get herself away to the Martyred Virgins immediately. But if the answer was nay, then Bridget would have to face an even harder decision…and confront so many other things—her father, her own conscience. Him.

  And after all that, what if FitzHenri didn’t love her back? She would die of shame.

  And loss.

  “About the earl?” her sister asked. “Naturally I’m worried. My fiancé is out in this dread weather. I’m concerned for his safety.” She paused. Her voice turned suspicious. “Why do you ask such a thing?”

  “We’ve never really…I guess…talked about all this.”

  “This what?”

  “You know. Me leaving. You taking my place…”

  “What is there to talk about?”

  She could just make out her sister’s features in the dim light, although they came into blinding view whenever lightning flashed. A pale
face with deep-set eyes, surrounded by a veil of black hair.

  “I just want to be sure you are happy about…everything. I fear no one really asked of your feelings.”

  “What difference will it make now?” The hardness in that question shocked Bridget. Gentle Aislinn had never sounded like that before. Never. Her tone held a taste of bitterness and accusation as she said, “You’ve already decided what we’re all going to do.”

  Bridget gasped. “Me? But that’s not—”

  She halted abruptly.

  Because it was true. She had, indeed, decided for everyone. Her selfish decision to sidestep her responsibilities and become a nun had impacted everyone.

  Was she truly such a bully?

  Her face tingled with shame and guilt. She grappled for something to excuse her own weakness. “Aunt Edyth always said you’d make the better mistress.”

  Her sister cut right through that fragile attempt. “Aunt Edyth had no power over what happened. It was your choice. You convinced Papa to pay your dowry to the cloister. I always assumed you didn’t stand up to Auntie’s needling because things were working out the way you wanted, anyway.”

  “I-I thought so, too.”

  “You thought so?” Her sister sounded harsher and harsher. “Bridget, what is this about?”

  She inhaled deeply, and said in a rush, “I want to know if you love the earl.”

  A thick silence ensued, and she thought she would burst from waiting.

  “Why do you want to know?” Aislinn asked at length.

  “I’ll feel better knowing you are wedding a man you love.”

  A loud sigh came through in the darkness. “Very well. I suppose I do love him. He’s kind and handsome and rich. I get this little twitch in my temple when he’s near.”

  A twitch? In her temple? Holy martyrs, Bridget felt much more than that when he was near.

  “It’s just…” Her sister’s statement faded away.

  Hope flared. “What?” Bridget prodded, hating herself for wanting what she shouldn’t.

  Aislinn hesitated. Bridget felt words hanging on the air between them, as if they were tangible things.

  “It’s just, what?”

  The breath whooshed out of her sister. “Nothing. I’m ready to do my duty and wed the earl. There is no other option.”

  Just that moment, the downpour outside transformed into a deluge, and a thunderclap boomed loud enough to wake the dead.

  The door to the adjacent nursery burst open. All four of their younger sisters charged in, all screaming as if demons nipped at their heels. With each clap of thunder, the girls shrieked anew and the castle shuddered round them in the torrential rain. Bridget and Aislinn opened their arms, and Kaitlin sat up and pushed the covers back to make room. The little girls swarmed the bed in a tumult of nightclothes and curls and moist, plump hands, scrambling up and into the warm cocoon.

  “I tried to stop ’em, my lady,” said Nurse from the portal, shouting to be heard above the din. “They woke up in this rage o’ God, an’ I couldna soothe ’em. They begged to see ye.”

  “’Tis all right, Nurse. Verily,” Bridget said. But she was sorely disappointed by the interruption, and wished to heaven Aislinn had finished her thought and confided in her.

  She looked round at her little sisters, mere shadows against the dim background of the chamber, all at ease now that the storm had died away, leaving only the occasional drip-drip playing around the eaves outside. And she recalled their pleas while picking fruit in the orchard just a few days ago, begging her to stay at Shyleburgh. She had been so adamant in her wish to leave at that time. How could such a short span of days have changed her mind so thoroughly?

  Her glance paused upon Aislinn, who was studying her silently. She cocked a brow at her. The darkness obscured her reaction, but Bridget felt the weight of her sister’s scrutiny. And wondered about it.

  Was Aislinn’s unaccustomed bitterness because she did not wish to take Bridget’s place and marry the earl…or was it because she suspected Bridget was about to change her mind and stay…and reclaim the fiancé Aislinn had come to love?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The day after the storm, the serfs cleaned up the tree limbs and apples that had fallen in the orchard, and others set about repairing a corner of the stables crushed by a toppled oak. Though the keep hadn’t received word from the earl in over a day, his return was deemed imminent, and everyone speculated about whether he had succeeded at putting an end to Black Hand’s menace.

  Would he capture the cur alive and bring him back in chains? Or would someone slay him in battle—the outcome preferred by nearly all?

  Bridget spent the day hefting hives and directing anyone available who could help with processing the herbs that had spent the summer hanging to dry. The restrictions imposed on entering or leaving the fortress grounds would have to be lifted soon if all the preparations for the coming winter were to be accomplished. Shyleburgh Keep counted on the assistance of villeins and serfs from the surrounding area to put up the grain and fruit for extended storage and for pressing cider from the apples and honey from the combs.

  That night, Sir Albert serenaded them again, and afterward, invited Aislinn to sing with him. Next to Bridget, Karlan made a strange growling noise in his throat. She looked over at him and saw he glowered at the two singers as they laughed over forgetting the words.

  Aislinn did seem inordinately happy, even with her intended away. And when Sir Albert took little Mattie into his arms to sing her a lullaby, and Aislinn bent close to stroke Mattie’s sleepy cheek, allowing her shoulder to touch Sir Albert’s, Bridget’s eyes widened.

  FitzHenri would definitely not appreciate seeing his betrothed getting rather cozy with his second-in-command. He didn’t deserve such a slight. Mayhap Bridget should say something to her sister. But…Aislinn was probably simply being kind to the man.

  Perhaps it was time she got back to her assigned task. The earl would want his courtship to continue, even if he wasn’t here to advance it in person. So, the next day, she hastened to FitzHenri’s solar, sat at his desk, and wrote him a letter from Aislinn. A response to the letter he’d written her.

  Strange, but the words came easily this time, pouring out of her with barely a thought. Surely, this was due to the fact that no vexing male peered over her shoulder, interrupting her or stealing her focus.

  The letter confirmed, in no uncertain terms, Aislinn’s feelings for her lord and begged him to hasten the nuptials.

  Every word squeezed Bridget dry as she scribed it. She vowed her undying love and fealty—that is, Aislinn’s undying love and fealty to her Grégoire.

  Afterward, Bridget felt wrung out. She wanted to cry, but no tears came.

  This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? To see Aislinn wed to the next earl of Shyleburgh, then for herself to go off to her new life of quiet contemplation, scholarship, and prayer.

  She’d made the two fall in love, so any sadness or envy she was feeling was her own fault. Crying over it would do no good. Her earthly pangs of loss—and lust—would pass.

  Eventually.

  After rolling up the missive and sealing it with wax, she placed it front and center on his desk, where he would be sure to see it. And she must remember to tell Aislinn about it before the earl returned.

  Which wasn’t long afterward. The earl and his men had spent the last night and day amongst the cottagers and villagers in the surrounding areas, identifying those with disloyal sentiments or ties to Black Hand. The villain, himself, had scurried back into the Cumbrian wilderness.

  At hearing this, Bridget’s sense of relief was so great, she fairly floated on clouds to the laundry shed that eve, the lure of a bath after three days of hard toil and hand-wringing too strong to ignore.

  Tonight she would see him again, and she wanted to look her very best.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Dusk was settling over Shyleburgh as Grégoire, weary to the bone, took leave of his
guests and headed across the bailey. On the road up from the village, he and his men had happened upon a rich party traveling the same direction. The group had proved to be Lord and Lady Fallingate, Oelwine’s sister and brother-in-law, and their retainers, arriving for the impending wedding festivities.

  His wedding festivities, Grégoire reminded himself with a groan of mixed emotions.

  After welcoming the party in through the gate, he had left them in the care of his seneschal. His squire had helped him peel off his mail. Nearly three days patrolling the countryside on horseback, routing rebels and making himself known to the villagers and peasants, and three nights catching a wink here and there upon the muddy ground, had left him sore and longing to cleanse the road from his limbs. He’d doused in the burn that morn, but nothing would sooth like a hot bath.

  He knew the laundry shed doubled as a bathhouse, an arrangement Bridget had devised. To Grégoire’s amusement, Oelwine had complained how often women—his women, leastwise—liked to bathe, and with seven daughters, he had been forced to acquiesce when they’d pleaded for a bathhouse. In the laundry shed, a fire in the hearth was tended throughout the daylight hours, leaving water in cauldrons warm through most of the night. Tubs and vats were already in place. To Grégoire, using the place for bathing, as well, seemed a practical and economical concept.

  To get there, he passed over a soft stretch of grass and herbs, which muffled his boot steps. Firelight from the back entrance to the keep’s kitchen cast a soft glow into the yard, and the sounds of folk toiling within carried on the air. A distant storm lingered with menace on the horizon, and lightning glinted in the darkening sky. Glowworms winked in the void.

  All this, and the odors of burning wood and meat cooking at the hearths, made the place feel strangely comfortable. He felt he’d come home.

  Someday soon, his sons would play here on the grass as they awaited their supper.

  A splash of bright light ahead betokened an opened door. Figures stepped from the laundry shed into the gloom, slamming the door behind. Girls’ laughter bubbled over the yard, accompanying dark shapes flitting across the lawn. In the dimness, Grégoire could make out pale skirts and outstretched limbs as small people cavorted, dancing in circles like fairy folk.