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  Distinctly not quailing, she raised her nose a notch in the air.

  His blood simmered. He should discipline her. A noblewoman, abroad without escort in a darkened wood, visiting a male asylum. It was unconscionable.

  “My lord, the cup?” The garbled words from the elegant Lady Aislinn brought him back to the goblet she proffered. He took the shining vessel, tipped it to his lips, quaffed the contents.

  Mead. Not his favorite—far too sweet—but it was a traditional Saxon drink, and he supposed he should feel blessed by the honor they did him. He handed the goblet back.

  “Well, then,” said Oelwine in approval, taking his own cup. “Let your seconds quaff the mead, as well.” He motioned for Grégoire’s attending knights to dismount and come forward. “Come, come. ’Tis Bridget’s specialty, this mead. No finer brew exists in Britain. I shall indeed be sorry for its lack when she departs anon for her convent.”

  Grégoire aimed a disapproving gaze at Bridget. The keep steps teemed with castle folk, including his perfectly lovely bride-to-be. But it was this heavily clothed woman with the defiant air and tangled braid who snared his full attention, despite his efforts to look away. That kiss at the abbey had bewitched him. Even now, the heated press of her lips remained firmly imprinted on his own.

  It rankled that she avoided his regard now, occupied as she was with handing the goblets to Aislinn and watching her pour.

  “Dinner and gifts at sext bells,” Oelwine announced above the fray as his men, Albert and Drogo, took their mead, and the remainder of his retinue arrived at their usual noisy pace, spilling into the bailey, raucous and diligent.

  But Grégoire’s attention had fastened upon Bridget and that damned cross.

  She meant to be a nun, then. A bride of Christ.

  He silently snorted. Like hell.

  Not the way she’d kissed him.

  Chapter Five

  Grégoire’s men had been shown their new quarters and he to his chamber with adjacent solar, situated in the square west tower. After the conquest, Oelwine had vacated the rooms, along with his title, and retired to the seneschal’s quarters. But the grand chambers had been kept tidy and free of dust, awaiting the shire’s new lord to take up residence.

  The furnishings were spare, as Grégoire preferred—save the bed, which was massive, ornate, and swathed in rich curtains and furs. All was just as he liked.

  Two serfs entered, bearing his trunk.

  “There, lads.” He indicated the foot of the bed, and they heaved the thing in place. Their departure left him a few rare moments of quiet and solitude.

  God’s mercy, he was weary. He put a hand to his scruff and kneaded his neck. Just moving his head from side to side elicited crackles and pops in his bones. And when he thought about it, a spot in his right knee ached. So he tried not to think about it.

  Off the solar, he found a narrow portal to a balcony. The small exterior space overlooked an orchard sloping down to a pasture where sheep grazed, and beyond the pasture lay the rear fortress wall, a soaring earthwork that prevailed over a vast, bald hillside and Shyleburgh Wood. As defenses went, the balcony was a sore deficiency, a caprice of the castle builders. However, it did offer an adequate vista of the western approach, and at one end a flight of steps rose to the catwalk and battlements overhead, another down to the ground below.

  The peaceful landscape before him brought a measure of calm. Children played amongst the sheep—a shepherd boy by his staff and satchel, and two other ragtag lads. They tussled with one of the lively dogs usually found mixing with a flock.

  His own sons would play there someday.

  The time was at hand.

  He smiled. He’d long wished for sons and a comfortable home, a place where he could put up his boots and sword. At last, it was his. God knew, his estate at Dragonmere had naught but ghosts to keep him company.

  Closer, down amongst the plum and apple trees, a movement caught his notice. Three figures strolled as if in deep conversation—the aged priest and the young clerk Grégoire had earlier spied on the castle steps, and Lady Bridget, who carried a bushel basket against her hip. Their words were indecipherable at this distance, yet a faint strain of the lady’s voice carried to him. She gestured with her free hand as she spoke.

  He braced against a stab of desire. Their kiss blazed through his memory with the rush of a torch ignited. Initially tentative, innocent, as if it were her very first, the kiss had exploded into wet, fiery, and eager. He’d had the sense she had waited her entire life for a taste of him, only him, and, getting it, would have nothing less than all of him.

  Which was, of course, but a flight of fancy.

  He quashed the ache. His newest vassal’s daughter—his future bride’s sister—was clearly intended for the church. So many reasons it was wrong to want her. By all accounts, Oelwine was a respectable sort, a superior seneschal, a man who had gained William’s favor fighting valiantly against the French years ago and more recently against Black Hand at York. He was not a man Grégoire would wish to cross.

  And the woman offered to him, Lady Aislinn, was more than acceptable for a wife. If he’d ever cherished hopes of romantic happiness for himself—and he wasn’t sure he ever had—he’d buried them long ago, with his first wife.

  Now he needed but a fruitful and worthy female to bind him to the English people, and to provide him sons.

  “My lord?”

  He wrestled his attention back to his chamber. Oelwine stood in his doorway. His promised bride was with him, sinking into a deep, graceful curtsy, where she remained.

  Oelwine said, “We trust you find all to your satisfaction.”

  “Indeed, Oelwine.” He let his eyes fall upon the girl, who had bowed her head. “All is splendid.”

  He went to her, removing his gloves. He placed his fingers to her jaw, then tilted her face upward. The rose-petal cheeks deepened in color. Her eyes, clear and blue as the waters of a loch, fixed upon his face somewhere near the bridge of his nose. He caught her scent—of fragile lilies cultivated in a bishop’s garden. Alas, it wasn’t the untamed fragrance of wild woodland blossoms.

  “Rise, chérie,” he said. Naturally, he spoke Norman, as did Oelwine, as per custom among the nobility.

  The suggestion of a frown crossed the maiden’s brow at his words, yet she rose. Fluid, her motions were, and cool. The neckline of her deep blue gown dipped low upon her breast, and a charming blush decorated the pale flesh there. No wonder Oelwine presented her as a lord’s bride.

  But did she want this?

  “Allow my daughter to attend you,” Oelwine said with his heavy English accent. “She has prepared special refreshment.” He stepped aside, gesturing for a manservant behind them to come forward.

  The lady Aislinn glided farther into the chamber while the servant placed a large tray upon a table in the corner. She made her way to one of the chairs beside the table, then turned to await him.

  Barely suppressing a grimace, Grégoire surveyed the great variety of delicacies upon that tray—bread thickly sliced, hunks of mutton and pork, also thickly sliced and darkly seasoned. Wafers studded with walnuts and drizzled with honey. Dried plums, dried cherries, a footed bowl of grapes, something in little shapes that looked to be oatcakes crammed with currants.

  He stifled his impatience. There wasn’t time for this. He was anxious to tour the grounds and evaluate defenses.

  Nevertheless, he had to know where the maiden stood on their impending nuptials. Duty was duty in this turbulent era, but he was a warrior, a foreigner, some would say savage and uncivilized. If she was reluctant to have him, he must find a way to woo her and win her over. Marriage to him must be by her choice.

  His first wife’s death had taught him that, if nothing else.

  He inhaled reflexively. The sharp edge of that memory had dulled over the years, yet it still cut into him, stinging and inescapable.

  “Thank you, Oelwine.” He forced a smile for the maiden, who glanced immediately
away.

  The man tipped his head in a polite bow and backed out of the room, along with the servant. Leaving Grégoire alone with the girl who wouldn’t look him in the eyes.

  “Would you have some wine, chérie?” he asked her, approaching.

  “Wine?” she repeated with a look toward the ewer on the table.

  “Aye, wine.”

  He poured the dark liquid into two goblets. A tart, comforting aroma issued forth. He handed her a goblet.

  She shook her head, seeking his gaze, at last.

  “Nay, thank you, my lord. I do not eat wine.”

  A strange way to put it. Moreover, he thought she’d agreed to having some.

  “No matter.” He raised one goblet and downed the contents. Then he raised the other goblet and did the same. The familiar fire scraped his throat, and a tranquilizing rush warmed his veins.

  Positing both goblets on the table, he asked, “You do not like wine?”

  She visibly pondered a moment, then haltingly replied, “I prefer water, my lord.” These words she uttered clearly enough in Norman, but then she tapped her white-fleshed throat and said something he didn’t quite catch.

  “Pardon?” he asked. He repeated the sound she’d made, adding a question to it.

  Clearly flustered, she made the sound once more, tapping her throat. “Throte.”

  “La gorge? Does your throat pain you?”

  She shook her head. “Singan. I sing.”

  “You sing.”

  “Aye. Wine not good…” She pointed to her throat once more.

  “Ah. Wine is not good for your singing voice.”

  A wide smile bloomed on her face. “Voice! Aye, voice. Wine…” She waved a level hand in the air beside her. “Not good. Water…” She nodded approvingly. “Good.”

  An earthen pitcher he hadn’t noticed amongst the bounty on the table drew her attention. She reached for it, but he beat her to it.

  “Then water it is, my lady.” He poured her a goblet of the tasteless stuff.

  Instead of drinking, she upended the goblet over an empty bowl, presumably to cleanse it of the residue from the wine he’d earlier poured into it. With a shy smile, she presented the goblet for more water. He poured. This time she drank.

  Damn, but communicating with the girl was like picking burrs from his horse’s tail. She obviously could barely speak a word of his language, and he couldn’t understand her provincial English. Would he could relegate this conversation to someone else’s care, just as he’d left his stallion’s grooming.

  But, nay. They must talk with one another, as troublesome as it was proving.

  He would have her want him as husband. It was the only way he would consent to this marriage. And to know that for certain, they must communicate.

  An interpreter was what he needed. Someone who could speak both their languages with ease. Unfortunately, there was none to hand.

  He gestured to a chair, and she lowered herself, sylphlike and silent. He sat, as well, then poured himself another goblet of wine. Holy hell, he needed it.

  Blessedly, the smile he presented her proved none too difficult to achieve. “Now, then, lady fair, I would fain know. Are you invested in this scheme?”

  Her brow puckered. “Scheme?” she echoed.

  “Aye. Our union. I must know what you think of me.”

  She shook her head, searching his eyes. “Think of me?”

  He tried in English, pointing to her and then himself. “What do you think of me.”

  Her gaze followed his finger. Then she stared at him like a startled doe.

  So he went on in Norman French. “Listen. I don’t pretend to be the courtly hero a gentle maiden such as yourself might desire. True, everyone wants this union between us. The king, your father, the folk of Shyleburgh. They all require a firm alliance between their lord and lady, a joining between the old and the new order of things.” He paused, observing her. “But how do you feel about it?”

  She blinked innocently, sipped her water. God’s troth, she seemed far younger than her eighteen years.

  He was feeling coarser by the moment, bigger and heavier, and more uncouth with every moment. “You didn’t understand a word I just said, did you?”

  “My lord?” was all she uttered.

  Damnation.

  “How do I set about making you want this?”

  She shook her head once more and attempted something in Norman. He thought she might have uttered the word duty, which reassured him little. If she was doing this merely out of a sense of obligation, God save him. His first wife had done the same.

  Never again.

  He definitely needed an interpreter. Her sister, perhaps? Both languages came fluidly from her tongue.

  His pulse quickened at the prospect of seeing Bridget. Shadowed with a vague sense of guilt, he finished off the wine in his goblet. The stoic, inscrutable look the girl was offering him only maddened him the more. He took in her elegant attire, her well-kept skin, and neatly arrayed hair. She was a pretty jewel cut and set in a desirable fitting, a swan trussed up for his banquet table—emptied out, stuffed with filler, then re-covered with all the lovely feathers.

  If only he could get the wench in bed. There, they wouldn’t have to converse. He would see she was satisfied. That, at least, was something he could do. But ruining her before the wedding would never accomplish his purpose.

  He sighed—nay, more of a groan. Michaelmas was a long way off.

  Blessedly, a knock came at the open door.

  “Enter,” Grégoire said, rising and surrendering to his eagerness to be away.

  His second, Albert de L’Arbredor, stepped into the chamber.

  Albert’s brisk bow to the lady and subsequent sweep of appreciative eyes over her person evoked a warm glimmer in Lady Aislinn’s heretofore glassy eyes. What’s more, the wench actually granted Albert a smile.

  Grégoire frowned, feeling the familiar possessiveness over what belonged to him. “What is it?” he snapped.

  Albert’s attention promptly abandoned the lady and returned to where it belonged. “The foot soldiers and archers have come. You wished to see them when they—”

  “Verily, I do.” He’d made ten paces across the chamber before he recalled his manners and turned back to the lady. “By your leave, ma demesel. I must see to this matter.” He gave a shallow bow, then hastened from the chamber.

  God knew why he’d thought settling into his new life might actually be easy.

  Chapter Six

  “Why cannot Aislinn do this?” Bridget’s sixteen year-old sister, Kaitlin, asked later that morning as they exited the back door of the kitchen.

  Bridget spared no glance toward her disgruntled sibling. Instead, she devoted herself to tying an apron round her waist and tucking a small knife into a pocket. “You know Aislinn is entertaining the new lord. When she is his wife, she will have no time for these labors.”

  “How will she spend all her time, then?” Kaitlin’s pique sharpened the edge in her voice, making Bridget grimace.

  “How do you think she will spend her time, silly goose? Her sole endeavor will be to please her husband and bear him children, as both our mother and Lady Alvina did for Father. She can do neither toiling in the orchard.”

  She held a wide-brimmed straw hat out for her sister. With her fair complexion and golden locks, Kaitlin was prone to sunburn.

  “Well, I can’t help protect Father’s stronghold if I’m stuck in the orchard!” She snatched the hat and slammed it atop her head, knocking askew the tight knot of hair she kept bound at her nape.

  Bridget didn’t bother to remind her sister the stronghold belonged to Earl FitzHenri, who was unlikely to indulge his seneschal’s third daughter in her inappropriately boyish habits, the way Father always had. Though the earl had been given possession of Shyleburgh nearly five years ago, he’d spent most of that time away, quashing rebellion in distant corners of England and tending to matters at his family estate in Normandy.
He’d left Oelwine in charge, and Kaitlin had taken advantage of Father’s lenience.

  Bridget used her foot to slide a large empty basket over to Kaitlin. “Hurry, now. The welcome feast will commence soon. We must get the apples picked.”

  They trekked out to the orchard, Kaitlin grumbling peevishly and dragging her basket over the grass. Cattle lowed in the distance. Crickets sang in the hay.

  Bridget felt the jab of her sister’s glower just before she heard the petulant question.

  “Just how will she be pleasing him, anyway? She won’t be picking apples or gathering honey. She won’t be guarding the south wall against Black Hand. I don’t see how she’ll be pleasing anyone but herself.”

  A balm in bed for the battle-scarred warrior… The phrase from an ancient tale echoed in Bridget’s mind. That was how a woman pleased her lord—like the beautiful maiden given to the old Swede, Onela, whom Beowulf slew in revenge.

  An intrusive vision of a soft, white body cushioning the heavy, hard body of a warrior made her face heat.

  Her soft, white body?

  Her hand shot instinctively to the crucifix at her chest.

  Nay, she had decided on the church, where celibacy was the price for freedom from the whims of a husband. Samson of Reggeland had given her a sampling of how vulnerable a woman was to her spouse, and that was a state Bridget had no taste for.

  Kaitlin went on, “I can’t imagine what man would want such a silly, giggling goose hanging on him all the day and night.”

  Sweet St. Hilda! It was nigh time someone instructed Kaitlin about what men liked. With their mother and stepmother passed away and Bridget the oldest, she knew she should be the person to educate her siblings.

  However, the subject made her squirm. She didn’t like how marriage subjected a woman to a man’s needs and desires with utter disregard for hers. Just because he was contracted as her husband-to-be, Samson had believed it was his right to belittle her or hit her or even touch her intimately without asking. She couldn’t imagine revealing these marital horrors to her tender, innocent sisters and hoped to delay such a discussion until she had gone to the Martyred Virgins. Let someone else fulfill the task.