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  She smiled with fiendish delight. Aislinn, for instance.

  “Bridgie!”

  The call of her name splintered the brief wickedness she had permitted herself. Her youngest sister, Mattie, was running through the grass toward her, arms outstretched. The little body slammed into her legs, and skinny arms hugged tightly.

  With a dramatic Oof! Bridget dropped her basket and bent to envelope the girl in her embrace. “My, what a bundle of energy you are today!”

  “Come,” said Mattie, taking Bridget’s hand. “Want juicy red ones!”

  “Is that why your hand is so sticky? Have you been nibbling what should be put in the basket?”

  Mattie grinned.

  Up ahead in the orchard, her other little sisters, Margie, Aelfwina, and Emma, along with their nurse, were already moving about, snatching up windfall apples and tossing them into baskets.

  Dragged along by Mattie, Bridget joined them, with Kaitlin sullenly bringing up the rear. The older sisters went directly to work, reaching up where the little ones couldn’t and plucking ruby fruit from the branches. For a time they all toiled without speaking while Nurse hummed an ancient ditty about autumn preparations for winter.

  “We don’t want you to go, Bridgie,” Emma announced plaintively.

  They all knew the earl’s arrival to marry Aislinn meant Bridget would soon depart for her new life.

  “Nay,” cried the others, coming round. “We want you to stay. Stay!”

  “Don’t you love us?” Margie asked.

  Bridget looked at her, aghast. “Of course I do!”

  “As much as you love books and reading?”

  “As much as you love praying?” Mattie asked.

  Bridget was flustered. She loved her sisters dearly, but how could she explain to such young ones the need to pursue a different sort of life?

  Thankfully, Kaitlin interceded at that moment, glancing knowingly at Bridget. “Did you all know that Aunt Edyth and Uncle Edward are coming soon? Let’s plan their reception, shall we?” On occasion, despite a preoccupation with masculine pursuits, her sister possessed the greatest of understanding.

  “We are due for a feast,” Emma observed with grave formality.

  Bridget laughed. “You do know we are about to have a feast to welcome the earl tonight, don’t you? At this time of year, who has time for feasting over and over?”

  “Feast, feast, feast!” they all chanted, crowding out Bridget’s attempt at reason.

  She gazed around at them all, smiling. How she loved their high-pitched squeals and soft, tiny hands, their joyous perspective on life. Leaving them would indeed break her heart.

  “My lady,” Nurse said, interrupting the noise. When Bridget looked her way, the older woman nodded back toward the keep.

  FitzHenri’s squire, Saunders, strode through the trees in their direction.

  “My lady, the earl has need of you,” he said upon arriving. “In the lord’s solar.”

  “Very well.” Puzzled, she tossed a final apple into a basket and hastened in the squire’s footsteps.

  What could FitzHenri want? Had his bride-to-be so captivated him he wished to expedite the wedding?

  A strange soreness in her throat made it hard to swallow. Was she truly ready for her life of solitude and quiet, apart from everything she held dear?

  For the first time in years, she’d begun to wonder.

  And it was all because he’d kissed her.

  Chapter Seven

  As soon as her wooden clogs struck the flagstones inside the hall, Father joined her. Together, they mounted the steps to the lord’s chamber.

  “We have a problem, daughter.”

  Alarm flared in her belly. “What has happened?”

  “The earl. He— Christ, I can barely speak it.”

  “Take a breath, Father, and be calm.”

  He stifled a curse and tried once more. “He won’t wed your sister unless he knows ’tis her choice.”

  Bridget halted. “What?” Her word of shock echoed round the stairwell. She stared at her father’s back as he stomped up the stairs.

  He said over his shoulder, “And he cannot assure himself of this because he cannot communicate with her. Stupid girl! Why did none of his benighted language stick with her, the way it has with you?”

  “He won’t wed her? But the king, the folk, require it. He must wed her.” She resumed climbing in her father’s wake. “Mustn’t he?”

  “Of course he must. He’s not refusing her, for Christ’s sake. He merely wishes that she”—he snarled, an odious sound Bridget rarely heard from him—“want to wed him.”

  Bridget felt as disconcerted as her sire appeared. “How admirable of him, verily. But—”

  “Admirable?” her father barked. “What gets into young people these days?” He wagged his head in disgust as he lumbered upward. “You, my firstborn, wish to join a nunnery—”

  “Father!” she cried in dismay. As soon as King William had taken the English crown and decreed all pacts between English nobles void, she’d asked her father to let her join the church. With little persuasion, he had agreed. He had let her use her mother’s morgengifu to pay her fee, so that a place awaited her at the cloister of the Martyred Virgins.

  “Your sister, Kaitlin, wishes to play at soldiering,” he continued. “FitzHenri wishes to have a willing bride. What about obligation and family responsibility, and bowing to the greater good? What has happened to honor?”

  She couldn’t imagine how honor was compromised in those issues. “But why summon me? What am I to do about it?”

  “You are to help him ascertain her favor.” He spoke no more on the subject, for they had reached the summit of the stairs. After he knocked and a muffled, “Enter,” sounded from within, Father pushed open the door to the lord’s huge chamber. They hastened across the expanse of floor to the small solar beyond.

  There stood Grégoire FitzHenri, Earl of Shyleburgh, with the portal behind him opened to the darling of a balcony where Bridget had hidden with her borrowed books so many times growing up. A patch of blue sky and a single white cloud hung serenely behind his head. His face, when it came into focus, was humorless, with no trace of the lighthearted, lusty rogue she’d encountered outside the abbey.

  And he was so handsome, looking upon him sent her pulse pounding.

  She blinked, taken aback by the traitorous feelings. Nay! She must not find him attractive. He was to be her sister’s husband, and she a nun.

  She sank in a curtsy. “My lord.” When she rose, her skin instantly warmed to feel his dark eyes on her. Curse her frail body!

  “My lady. Oelwine.” His lordship nodded to each in turn. He then addressed her. “I have need of an interpreter when I deal with your folk. I will also need someone to scribe for me. Your father has nominated you for this task.”

  Impossible. Her time was so limited already, and she had much to do before her departure.

  “Me? But Father—”

  “Is a busy seneschal,” FitzHenri cut in, “and this will require many hours. I cannot expect him to serve so meanly.”

  She straightened. “But I’m a busy chatelaine! And I’m preparing for my journey to Cornwall. Father, tell him.”

  “Verily, my lord,” Father agreed. He well knew her value to the keep and how little she could be spared at this time of year. “I shall do whate’er you request of me,” he told FitzHenri. “But assuredly, I would not deem such a task mean.”

  “Can you read and scribe in French?” his lordship asked her father as he strode to the table in the center of the chamber. Its surface lay strewn with scrolls and documents—the keep’s ledgers, the shire’s administrative records. He scanned the assortment briefly, pressing a fist down to flatten the up-curled end of one parchment. He perused the text thereon.

  She stifled a smirk of contempt. Could this Norman even read his own paperwork?

  “Well, nay, lord,” Father said, frowning. He chewed the inside of his cheek, then bri
ghtened. “I know some Latin howe’er.”

  FitzHenri glanced up, releasing the parchment so it sprang back with a whisper.

  “Some Latin?” He pinned Bridget with his gaze. “Something tells me you can read and scribe in English, French, and Latin. Probably Greek, as well as unfathomable Chin. Is this not so?”

  She scowled. Concealing the truth would be a sin. “Not entirely. I’ve never learned Chin. However, there is Father’s, er, your priest. He is conversant in your language, along with many others.”

  “No priests. They have their place with ministering to our souls—leastwise those of us who possess them—but I won’t have a priest involved in my…worldly activities.”

  He meant his carnal activities, certainly!

  Bridget tamped down her growing exasperation as best she could. Who was she to counter an auspicious lord, a conqueror who had vanquished the longstanding and worthy populace of England? When she was a nun, or perhaps someday an abbess like her heroine, St. Hilda of Whitby, then she would have authority to deal with a man on his level. For now, she was merely Bridget, daughter of a conquered thane. Nothing more.

  “Very well,” she conceded. “No priest.” She grudgingly admitted agreement on this point, anyway. Who would want doddering, elderly Father Usrich endeavoring to keep up with every conversation? And having him interpose in matters of man and woman—how horrifying even to imagine.

  Which reminded her…FitzHenri hadn’t yet mentioned Aislinn.

  “I understand you seek assistance in speaking with my sister.”

  “I do.”

  “To…court her favor?” Oh, she was bold, more than impertinent to word it thus.

  His cold stare would have evoked a shiver in her were she not determined against this task. She wanted no part of it.

  “I would have you interpret for me, aye, when I speak with the Lady Aislinn.”

  “Cannot my father do this, at least?”

  Father joined in. “Certainly, lord, this I can do. Aislinn is my daughter, after all, and I would naturally see her comfortable about the arrangement.”

  FitzHenri growled. Bridget almost stepped back at the threat in his demeanor. His hand fisted at his side. “Because she’s your daughter,” he said through gritted teeth, “is precisely why I won’t have you interpreting. I wouldn’t know if she speaks under duress, or not.”

  Father drew himself up indignantly. “My daughter is honored to perform her duty, my lord. She is not under duress.”

  “Duty or nay, she must be willing.”

  Father did not back down. “Most definitely, lord. We Saxons would have it no other way. We do not force women into marriages that are odious to them.”

  The new lord had moved to the open balcony door and was looking outward. He drew in a long breath and exhaled. By the time he turned to Father once more, ease had visibly settled upon him. “Oblige me, Oelwine. I won’t have my intended’s sire involved in my courting.”

  Bridget asserted herself. She couldn’t possibly serve him in this way. To help him woo her sister—and spend so much time in his company! She didn’t like the temptation he presented to her disobedient body. Her goal was to purify herself for the convent by suppressing earthly feelings and desires, but he only provoked them. “What of Brother Baldric or Brother Odo at the abbey? Can’t they—”

  “If I won’t have a priest speak to a woman on my behalf, you cannot believe I would enlist monks to do so.”

  “But you would enlist me? This is inappropriate.”

  “How so? Because you’re a nun?”

  She glanced down. How her hands were wringing! She quelled them. “I am not yet a bride of Christ. I am only promised, these many years.”

  “Ah. Promised but not yet given.”

  She met his steady gaze. Promised was as good as given in most people’s minds. Except, perhaps, for a lecherous, worldly devil. His belief system clearly did not concur with hers.

  He said, “The arrangement makes whole sense to me. As you are her sister, Lady Aislinn will be comfortable with you, and as you are a woman, Lady Aislinn will confide to you certain things she might not to a man.” His glance shot to Father. “Especially not to her father.”

  “Things?” This was getting worse by the moment. “What sort of things?”

  “And lastly, you say you are soon to be a bride of Christ. Your prizing of virtue and chastity will make you a neutral party, one we may both trust to convey our words objectively.”

  “But what are these confidences you speak of?” Her voice had grown strident, scraping her throat as visions of this man whispering in her sister’s ear, of herself translating silky words meant for another, cartwheeled through her head.

  He remained calm in the face of her turmoil. “I will be courting her. We may have delicate matters to speak of.”

  Bridget made a rough noise. Lord help her. She was to be a chaste nun. The lewd exchanges he was certainly referencing would only soil her mind, require more penance, and make readying her heart for the convent even more difficult.

  Especially after this morning’s display…

  The heated way he’d kissed her was testament to his base interests, was it not? That she’d kissed him back so eagerly proved how weak she was. The way their kiss had—

  Forget the kiss!

  “But why court her at all?” she pelted out. “The whole idea is absurd. Aislinn is already yours!”

  “Bridget!” Father admonished. “Cease plaguing the man.”

  Forsooth, she was crossing into dangerous territory. Her discomposure had made her rash. To be questioning a lord thus was no minor thing. Why did he bring out the very worst in her, on all fronts?

  She plowed on. “Arranged marriages are the way of things in every land. Why would you—why would any lord—require his bride to be happy with the match? Why?”

  With that, FitzHenri shuttered his expression. Stepping past them, he strode into his chamber. She followed, with Father trailing behind. From atop the trunk at the foot of the bed, the earl snatched up that barbaric scabbard of his with the sword sheathed inside it.

  To Bridget, he said in low and menacing tones, “Unlike my marriage, this is not a task pending your agreement. See that you attend your sister when I speak with her in the hall later, or suffer my displeasure.”

  His tone brooked no argument. She was forced to acquiesce. “As you wish, my lord.” The words came out as little more than a series of squeaks, her throat felt so tight.

  For a moment, his gaze hung heavily upon her. “Very well, then.” With a nod to her father, he said, “You. Attend me now. In the soldiers’ yard.”

  Father bowed his head. “As you wish, my lord.”

  FitzHenri strode from the chamber. She held her sire back with a hand on his arm. “Why did you tell him I was the only person for this charge? You know I’ve so much to do, and that I’ve wanted to leave for Cornwall for ages.”

  “Because you are the only person. Did you not hear?” he snapped.

  She risked his further ire and suggested, “There is Karlan.”

  The priest’s scribe, her good friend, would surely perform this assignment if asked.

  “Bah! He was the one who taught Aislinn the Norman language!”

  Alas, that was true. Bridget would have laughed, were the situation not so dire. She pondered hard for another option, but Father cut her short. His blue-gray eyes bored into hers. She’d never seen him so angry.

  “You want to get to this cloister of yours, girl?”

  “Aye, and soon.”

  “Then see that Aislinn weds the earl. Happily. For if she doesn’t, we shall both suffer the consequences.” With that, he was gone.

  She stood on the threshold, gnawing her lip. How in blazes was she to secure Aislinn’s affections for the brute?

  But even worse, how was she to ensure her own wanton desires remained where they belonged—down deep, hidden well? She couldn’t allow those feelings to surface.

  For
therein lay disaster.

  Chapter Eight

  Grégoire took a swallow of wine, forcing down his frustration along with it. By the rood, conversing with his betrothed was a trial. Even with Lady Bridget interpreting, comprehending her statements and questions and responding appropriately took inordinate amounts of time.

  For a moment, he let the sounds of more companionable conversation weave round him. From his own knights and Oelwine’s family, down to the lowliest Norman man-at-arms and Shyleburgh’s servants, the folk in the hall were all savoring his welcome feast. A good thing, that. Discontent among the serfs and soldiery was a blister to deal with.

  As for himself, he liked having the thane’s extended family at table with him. Though he had Oelwine’s allegiance through right of conquest, he needed the Englishman’s personal devotion, as well. Offering the seneschal a place of honor at his banquet went a long way in that direction. If there was one thing he’d learned managing his father’s estate and fighting for the king so many years, it was that leadership proved all the more effective with the admiration of one’s followers.

  A quick survey of his dining companions reminded him of another reason he preferred having the resident family close at hand—he could keep a close eye on Oelwine, Oswald, and their former vassals—now his—and an open ear to what they discussed. Only a fool would assume all was well at such a transition of power, and Grégoire was no fool.

  Political sedition was not known to exist in Oelwine’s household. The former thane had fought with King William’s supporters in York against Black Hand and other rebels. But the fact remained that Black Hand—Samson of Reggeland—had once pledged his troth here at Shyleburgh, and his family lands, which William had handily wrested from him, were nearby. He very well might have followers hidden within the household.

  The seneschal claimed not so, because Black Hand terrorized the countryside—his own people—in order to survive on the run after the Normans had burned Reggeland to the ground. He and his band of followers stole livestock and foodstuffs, and slaughtered anyone who stood in their way. He had gained the enmity of his fellow Englishmen, who had suffered three years of poverty and hardship in the wake of William’s brutal suppression of resistance, and were eager to accept peace and a new way of life.