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  “Merely this.” His hand cupped her jaw, fingers splayed carefully over one cheek. She could smell the leather of his glove and the horrible beast that panted and pawed below. When the earl bent toward her, she smelled him. Smoke, and autumn, and leaves on a woodland floor.

  She moaned.

  And then he kissed her. Aye, beyond all reason, he kissed her.

  Just a nip, and then he drew back.

  A surprised thrill shot through her veins. This was nothing like what had happened with her betrothed! Back then, she’d been an untouched girl with no knowledge of men and their lusty ways. Now she was a woman grown, with different feelings and a different body.

  What’s more, this kiss was gentle. This man wasn’t Samson of Reggeland.

  Her focus centered inexorably on his bottom lip. Full and exciting, with the merest hint of a dip in the middle, that mouth had figured in her dreams for five long years.

  He bent again, and this time he touched her with his tongue. Her eyes slipped shut and her lips parted. She hadn’t intended the latter, but his fingers and thumb squeezed her jaw ever so gently and coaxed her mouth open.

  His tongue found hers. Even back where her own tongue had withdrawn in uncertainty, he found her. And flicked her.

  She’d had no idea… Perhaps she’d occasionally fantasized, wondered what could have been, but…

  A whimper stole out of her; her tongue retreated farther.

  She sensed something within him surge, harden, and his hand abandoned her face to wrap round her back, pulling her to him so tightly she gasped. His mouth rubbed over hers, whiskers scratching, breath scalding. He tasted of salt and rainwater together, storming down on her, flooding her senses to a rushing torrent.

  “Comte!”

  His lips crushed and his tongue stroked until her own surrendered and stroked his in return.

  “Grégoire, les hommes sont arrivés!” The bastardized French of the conquerors broke through the thunder in her ears.

  With a maddened groan, FitzHenri tore away. He stared fiercely into her eyes, holding her as if she weighed no more than cobwebs in his arms.

  A half-smile formed sliver-moon dents in his cheek, and again he tapped a fingertip to the end of her nose.

  “Keep well, Brigitte,” he said before lowering her carefully to the ground. “Now, get inside quickly.”

  In the next moment he was off, wheeling his cinder-hued charger about and galloping back through the orchard. The yonder din of his men as they departed from the abbey grounds waned into the misty gray.

  Shaken, Bridget lifted her fingers to her lips, where his mouth had caressed. Never in her life had she expected such a thing. This man’s kiss was silky where she’d anticipated callous, enticing rather than vulgar, hungry and questioning instead of seeking only to dominate.

  And that sense of being embraced by desire, both his and her own, rather than subjected to another’s aggression!

  Someone should have told her about that.

  Not that she would have listened to such immodest prattle. Her interests centered on her books and her prayers, not in earthly pleasures.

  But…he’d kissed her!

  Her!

  She should be outraged. Her civilized upbringing demanded she feel affronted. On top of which, FitzHenri had mistaken her for a common strumpet!

  Admittedly, that last wasn’t hard to accept, what with her plain and serviceable attire, and her being out here alone and without an escort. Besides, men were men, unable to defeat their base natures. She knew that only too well. Which one among them would pass up such an unencumbered opportunity to sharpen his blade? Particularly this man, whose renown stemmed as much from his infamous exploits with women as from his heroic deeds at war?

  Thus she granted him some measure of pardon, and bent to collect her basket and its scattered contents. One jar of honey had shattered, and ants already swarmed over the golden bounty. Had she tarried with him that long?

  “There you are, Lady Bridget,” Brother Baldric said from the open postern. “I was worried when you didn’t arrive.”

  The prayers must be over. “Good morrow, Brother Baldric,” she said with a composure she didn’t truly feel, so distracting was the current of excitement still sparkling in her blood.

  Her words tumbled out. “My apologies for being late. I tripped, aye, I tripped over a root, just over there, and—” She laughed nervously. Lying to Brother Baldric! What had become of her? “I went flying. I don’t know where my head is this morn.”

  “Does your ankle pain you? You look a trifle flushed.”

  “Nay. The bending over to pick these up…merely that.” She raised an earthenware jar with tiny holes specially poked into the cap. “What fortune. The pot of bees I brought you remains unscathed.”

  “Come then, lady, quickly. Count FitzHenri, er, his lordship the earl was just here, meeting with Abbot Giles.” It had been difficult for everyone to start calling FitzHenri “the earl” rather than “the count.” He was a foreigner, and to call him by an English title had been hard for many to swallow.

  She feigned surprise. “Just now?”

  “Aye. He heads to Shyleburgh Keep this very moment.”

  She checked the urge to turn and hasten back home. “I’ve still time for a short visit here. Aislinn can manage well enough in my absence,” she added firmly, perhaps more to convince herself than Brother Baldric.

  He sighed his exasperation. “Lady, your sister—”

  “Will be Countess of Shyleburgh come Michaelmas.” Bridget smiled into the monk’s pale Saxon face, as dear to her as that of her own father. “And I will be safely cloistered at the Martyred Virgins convent in Cornwall. Naught can change that now.”

  Not heartfelt pleas from her family, nor her profound sadness at leaving them.

  And especially not the stolen kiss of a rude, impudent, Norman interloper.

  Chapter Three

  The Earl of Shyleburgh and his retinue of knights would have to follow the circuitous road along the burn, which skirted Dead Viking Fell and Shyleburgh Wood. Then they would cross the burn at Blackie’s Forge, gingerly and in single file, over the narrow bridge.

  Bridget had time for only the quickest of visits to Brother Lefrid, who lay sick upon his pallet. She gave him the remainder of the hyssop tea she’d brought to clear his lungs. They recited an Ave Maria together, and then she headed home.

  The shortest route to Shyleburgh Keep was all uphill, through the woods, along a rocky shepherd track, and up a steep incline studded with century-old apple and walnut trees. By the time she skidded into the inner bailey she was sweating and puffing, her pulse pounding in her legs, her lungs working like a bellows.

  The watch horn had just blasted, announcing the earl’s arrival. She stopped after rounding the corner of the keep, put a palm against the wall, and leaned for just a moment, until her gasping subsided.

  “Bridgie, there you are,” Aislinn called down from the keep steps, where a host of castle folk had gathered. “Did you not hear? ’Tis the earl. We’re assembling to welcome him at last!”

  Her younger sister, resplendent in her finery, with her long hair brushed until it gleamed like a raven’s wing, gestured for her to join them. Bridget nodded, yet too winded to speak. Willing her humors to calm, she mounted the steps to take her place between Aislinn and their father.

  A maidservant shouldered her way through the crowd at the hall’s doorway, nervously balancing an ewer and several goblets on a tray. These she gratefully transferred into Bridget’s waiting hands before scurrying away again.

  Bridget pushed the tray toward her sister.

  “Nay.” Aislinn put out her hands, but not to take the tray. “You do it. I can’t.”

  “Not this again, Aislinn. He’s your betrothed. You must do it.”

  “You’re Papa’s chatelaine. You do it.”

  “Daughters,” Father growled in warning.

  Bridget quelled her annoyance, exchanging a glare with
her sister.

  There was no time to sort out who was doing what, for FitzHenri charged into the bailey on that seething beast. When Aislinn whirled to face his approach, Bridget slipped behind her, peeking round her side.

  Dark of coloring and giant of body, FitzHenri seemed one with the animal he rode, and, thankfully, completely in control of it. She wasn’t fond of horses except for the most docile of mares, which she deigned to ride only when necessary.

  Two of his knights galloped in behind him. The three reined in amidst a towering cloud of dust and wind and horseflies, laughing and congratulating one another over a race well run.

  “Oelwine, old friend,” the earl bellowed in Norman French, addressing her father and directing his restive mount forward.

  A claret-red cloak fastened at his shoulders draped over the horse’s hindquarters. At one side of his saddle hung a mighty scabbard detailed with images of fantastic beasts, and the pommel and quillons of the broadsword within gleamed of silver. At the other side of the saddle was strapped a crossbow of metal and wood.

  “Greetings,” he continued. “Our king sends you cheer, along with gifts.” He brought his mount to stand before them.

  She ducked farther behind her sister while straining to peer around her. How would their new lord react when he spied her? She really shouldn’t have been off to the abbey alone so early.

  Not to mention kissing her sister’s betrothed…

  “Greetings yourself, my lord,” Father answered jovially, handling the conquerors’ language with dexterity. The old king of England, Edward the Confessor, had spoken French at his court and with all his nobles, and with Normans now installed in all layers of governance throughout the land, English leaders were obliged to know the tongue. “I understand you have run the hated Black Hand from England with his tail between his legs. These are excellent tidings.”

  A gasp arose from the castle folk upon the stairs. Bridget’s heart leaped to her throat. Though very few understood what was being said, everyone recognized the detested name amidst the foreign words.

  He was known throughout England as Black Hand because he concealed his damaged hand in black leather at all times, but everyone knew he was Samson of Reggeland, once Bridget’s expected husband and now King William’s sworn enemy.

  She remembered him all too well. His family lands, now lost to him, abutted Shyleburgh to the east. As vassals of the earls of Wessex, her father and his had maintained a strong coalition against Scottish incursion from the north. When Samson was fourteen, he arrived at Shyleburgh to foster under Oelwine and broaden his training as a warrior. Soon after, Oelwine promised her hand in marriage to Samson. With her would go all the Shyleburgh lands if Oelwine died without male issue.

  Now, with Reggeland succumbed to the conquerors and Shyleburgh awarded to a king’s favorite, there was no telling how desperate Samson might be to regain some of what had been taken from him.

  Bridget refused to feel sorry for the man. The boy she’d known had been relentlessly cruel, and deserved nothing. What’s more, he had turned on his fellow Englishmen and was as much their enemy as King William’s.

  “Indeed,” said FitzHenri as she banished the past and struggled to hear him over the apprehensive undertones eddying round her. The family nursemaid murmured comfort to Bridget’s small sisters nearby. “At word of my advancing crossbows, the miscreant fled into the wilderness. Naturally, my bolt longed to pierce his vile heart.”

  “No doubt.” Father’s voice held a tinge of teasing. “Howe’er, since your bolt did not find its target, I shall double the watch immediately.”

  FitzHenri tossed back his head with a wry-sounding laugh. “A prudent move, Oelwine. Do so posthaste.”

  With a few words in English, her father motioned to Sir Oswald, his sergeant-at-arms, who briskly descended the steps.

  “Let no one in or out of the fortress without my personal assent,” FitzHenri said in Norman French as Sir Oswald strode past.

  Not understanding, the English sergeant-at-arms glanced back to her father, who repeated the earl’s orders in English. Oswald nodded, then hurried off in the direction of the main gate.

  Let no one in or out of the fortress! Was Black Hand so close? She bit her bottom lip. Alas, Brother Lefrid expected her return.

  FitzHenri, his eyes much harder now than she recalled from their earlier encounter, announced to the assembly at large, “Have no fear, people of Shyleburgh Keep. You are safe under my protection. My men and I will see the miscreant dead and his limbs scattered to the four winds ere he harms a one of you.”

  Behind Aislinn, Bridget suppressed an irreverent smile. He’d obviously failed to realize how few of his new vassals understood his foreign tongue. He would learn soon enough.

  Father nodded, equally sober but eager, as well. “Thank you, my lord.” His eyes were a-glitter over the prospect of battle. Once a proud thane, custodian of the border lands, he had accepted his lowered circumstances in the new order of things and pledged fealty to King William as a condition for his family’s safety and peace in the region.

  Still, she suspected he hid an abiding heartache over the subjugation of his homeland.

  Father turned to his folk and repeated the new lord’s proclamation. With this, a measure of relief was restored amongst the crowd.

  He said to the earl. “For now, however, if it pleases you, take respite and enjoy Shyleburgh Keep’s amenities.”

  “Gladly,” FitzHenri said. “In faith, the road hangs heavy on my limbs.” On his face, the tension eased a measure, as if he were forcibly shucking off a burden, and the lines splayed at his temples diminished.

  Father continued, “Allow me to introduce the bride we promised to seal our pledge.” He indicated her beautiful, raven-haired sister. “My daughter, Aislinn.”

  FitzHenri’s fist clenched. A subtle motion, but Bridget noticed it. His charger also did, because it sidled a step.

  With a grim expression, FitzHenri regarded Aislinn. After kicking a foot free of its stirrup, he swung a long leg over the nape of his mount and leaped to the ground. Two ground-swallowing strides and he halted before Aislinn where she stood on the third step. They regarded each other warily as everyone looked on.

  To Bridget’s surprise, he shoved his cloak aside and knelt, one knee to the dirt, one forearm across his chest. He bowed his head. “Lady, I pledge you my honor.”

  A strange sensation pierced her heart. Was it envy?

  Impossible. As the oldest daughter, by rights, all this could have been hers. But she’d voluntarily, yea gladly, relinquished these earthly matters. She didn’t desire a husband, or a castle, or any of it. She’d left off dreaming of those simple female pursuits long ago.

  She loved the church. A life of prayer, study, and contemplation suited her far better than subjecting herself to the whims of a brutish and, no doubt, ungrateful man.

  But this man seemed to show a deference to women she’d never expected in him. Ah, to imagine him on bended knee at her feet instead…

  To distract herself from the unfamiliar pain squeezing her chest, she slid her gaze to Karlan, the priest’s young scribe standing beside her. He returned her look with a smirk of contempt for their new lord, as she’d known he would. Karlan hated everything Norman.

  Blissfully unaware of the undercurrents, Bridget’s sister, thankfully, accepted the earl’s obeisance with the appropriate regal hauteur. She had been preparing for this very moment a long while, and any past bouts of disinclination were nowhere in view…for the time being, at least. Duty was a virtue Bridget knew Aislinn valued, even when her courage sometimes faltered.

  Her beautiful sister lifted her hands to FitzHenri, murmuring her welcome. He took them in his, her dainty white fingers in his large black-gloved ones, then rose and released them.

  Bridget sighed in relief that all was going as planned.

  Her sister turned to the side, reaching out to grasp something. The tray! Bridget had forgotten it was in her own han
ds, and Aislinn hadn’t realized she’d ducked behind her. Her sister twisted farther, found her, and flashed her a puzzled look even as a practiced, resolute smile tipped up the corners of her lips. She took the ewer and a goblet from the tray and faced FitzHenri once more.

  “The welcome cup, my lord,” Aislinn said in her awful Norman French, pouring mead from ewer to goblet. She held the goblet out to him.

  The earl didn’t take it. Not right away.

  Bridget’s nape prickled with unease at a sudden and profound stillness in the air. She peered nervously round Aislinn.

  FitzHenri was staring right at her.

  And he didn’t look happy.

  Chapter Four

  Grégoire cocked an eyebrow. It was the wench he’d kissed but a priest’s hour before.

  The wench he’d ached like the blazes to lie with in the forest.

  She stood now before him—amongst the folk of his new stronghold.

  Oelwine took the wench’s elbow and drew her out from behind the tall, elegant Lady Aislinn. “May I present my oldest daughter, my lord. Bridget, by name. The finest chatelaine ever to grace an English keep.”

  Oelwine’s daughter?

  His own bride’s sister?

  God’s teeth.

  Her father ordered, “What do you wait for, girl? Welcome his lordship properly.”

  She bobbed a hasty curtsy, barely a greeting at all. “My lord,” she mumbled.

  A lord’s daughter.

  Sister to his promised bride.

  Stunned, he nevertheless managed to suppress his shock. A decade of dealing with enemies and subordinates had taught him how to maintain a hard face when confronted with the totally unexpected.

  “Well met, my lady,” he said with an equally shallow bow. Upon straightening, he observed what he should have noticed right away: a large cross of ironwork upon her breast, suspended from a lanyard round her neck. She’d cast her cloak back over her shoulders, exposing the ornament.

  His mind spun. What did this mean?

  The scowl of challenge on her face swiftly chased away any trace of ardor he might have felt for her. For the woman he’d mistaken for a light-skirt. What in blazes had she been up to this morn? He gave her his sternest glower, one under which his bravest knights were known to quail.