Come to Me Page 6

  “Nay, nay, I cannot. I’ve been informed that Brother Lefrid has taken a turn, but you’ve directed that no one leave the grounds without your assent. You must come away this moment.”

  He squeezed his lids shut, then blinked them. A vague memory worked its way through the fermented haze behind his eyes. “Did I not forbid you visiting the abbey?”

  There was a brief pause. “Aye, you did, my lord, but you were mistaken. If you accompany me this one time, you will see.”

  He supposed he could accommodate her this one request. Last eve when he’d forbidden her venturing there, he’d spoken out of some sort of bitterness he hadn’t known dwelled inside him. He’d learned soon afterward that the respected monk Lefrid did indeed lie on his deathbed and Bridget had been nursing him.

  But by the rood, he felt awful just now.

  “I will take you once the sun has risen and after I’ve broken my fast. No earlier.”

  “But ’tis morn already! I broke my fast long ago.”

  “Return at daybreak.”

  A thud sounded, very like that of a wooden-toed shoe striking the door. Footsteps fell away. It could have been more than one pair. Had someone been with her?

  He relaxed deeper into the bedding. Who called such an hour morning? He was no monk to rise in the middle of the night and call it day. When the cocks crowed in the yard, that was when he would rise and take the woman to her cursed abbey. Surely, the damned monk could wait.

  He closed his eyes and began the descent into slumber once more.

  But the silence began to disturb him. The walls nearly shook with the profoundness of it. His lids shot open. Aye, mayhap the monk could wait, but would she? She had many friends amongst the castle folk—even, evidently, the guards on the wall who allowed her to pass whenever she wished. If she thought to defy his orders—

  He surged from the bed. Damn her! His bare feet hit cold, cold wood, but he barely noticed. A nauseating dizziness fishtailed through his body, and he had to pause to steady himself. He shook it off.

  A quick stomp through the darkness and he yanked open the door to roar into the brazier-lit hallway.

  “Saunders, my ablutions at once!”

  Silence answered his call. He tramped back into the chamber. If that woman put herself in harm’s way just to prove him inconsequential to her comings and goings—

  He grimaced against a renewed attack of head-blain. A moment later he was back at the doorway. “Saunders! Do you hear me, you witless gadfly? My garb and hauberk now!”

  She would do it, too. He knew enough of her to realize she would traipse off to the abbey alone, even with Black Hand afoot, should she have a desire to get there.

  “Saunders!” Where was the blasted lad? He usually slept in the hall just outside the door.

  Sandy’s voice sounded from far away. “Coming, lord!”

  A flurry of footsteps on the stairs followed. Soon after, the lad appeared on the landing. He bore a dripping earthen pitcher and several cloths.

  A girl was with him, one of the seneschal’s daughters he had seen on the keep steps the day before. Dressed in tunic and chausses, her pale hair pinned tightly to her head, she might be mistaken for a boy.

  She didn’t react as a boy to Grégoire, however. She glanced down to his lower portion, let out a wide-mouthed scream that hurt his ears, and scampered back down the stairs.

  He snatched the pitcher from Sandy’s hands. “Quickly now, lad. My garb.”

  “Aye, lord, immediately.” He went to the chest near the foot of the bed and pulled out Grégoire’s attire for the day.

  “Did you see Lady Brigitte this morn?” he asked the boy.

  “I did.”

  “Did anyone accompany her?”

  “Aye. A monk was with her. They were hastening through the bai—”

  “In which direction?”

  “Toward the west, my lord.”

  To the abbey, naturally. Grégoire accelerated his movements. Once he had attended his morning ritual, his usual demeanor began to emerge from the fog of his rare overindulgence. He shoved into the sleeveless leather tunic and chausses Sandy had put out. Forgoing the hauberk, he hopped into his boots, and the squire knelt to bind the cross garters.

  “My horse,” Grégoire said, fighting residual swells of nausea. “Is he ready?”

  The boy looked up at him. “Nay, lord. ’Tis but the middle of the night—”

  Grégoire didn’t wait for Sandy to finish speaking or tying the garters. He dashed down the stairs, heading for the stables, prepared to saddle and bridle the beast himself.

  Moments later, astride Phoenix, he spied Bridget and the monk. They were but shadowy blurs of gray in the brightening twilight, halfway through the orchard on their way to the rear wall.

  So this was how she had made it back from the abbey with such speed the morn before.

  Grégoire kneed Phoenix, and the animal, ever anxious to spend energy, responded by galloping through the trees. When the monk heard the crashing behind him, he reached for Bridget’s arm and attempted to pull her aside. But she turned the opposite way at the same moment, just missing the monk’s grasp and recoiling with a cry. Grégoire leaned low to wrap an arm round her waist, and scooped her up before him.

  “You cast aside my order so deliberately?” he asked, wrestling between her struggles and reining Phoenix to a slower pace. The monk, quickly left far behind to fend for himself, called after them to no avail.

  Bridget twisted and flailed, struggling to gain her balance and hang onto her basket. He slowed Phoenix to a gentle trot.

  “You’re the one who refused my honest plea to help a fellow soul,” she huffed. “Is that not more dishonorable than my good-intentioned disobedience?”

  With one arm, he held her firmly in place, her legs draped together over Phoenix’s withers, her basket on her lap. She made a soft, feminine bundle in his embrace, scented of the blossoms and green vines of the wildwood. It soothed his storming belly.

  Pushing with her hand against his thigh, she squirmed her curvaceous rump into place against his groin. If his blood hadn’t been gelled by the heady potions still coursing through his veins, he might have become aroused.

  “I meant for you to return at a more favorable hour, when I would take you myself,” he said. “I wager there are many brothers at Lefrid’s side, all offering the best of care. Why must you go?”

  “He needs me.” She sucked in a breath, sounding dangerously near tears. “I shouldn’t have left him at all.”

  “I need you here. You cannot be everything to everyone.” That seemed to give her pause. He added, “You know the guards have orders to let no one abroad without my assent. How were you going to slip by them?”

  “I don’t need to slip by anyone.”

  “I will punish any man who let you out,” he growled testily.

  “That would be too cruel.”

  “And the man who allowed the monk in this morn will suffer, as well.”

  Silent at that, she edged her tempting rump away as far as the confining saddle would allow. He had to assume pressing against the high pommel pained her thigh, but she made no mention of it.

  It was then, with her squirming away, that a certain part of his lower body finally sprang to life and strained toward her. Damn it.

  He tamped the feeling back. “Sit still, and mayhap we’ll arrive at the abbey each in one piece.”

  “I am sitting still.”

  Verily she was, and yet her vibrating energy fed him, made him feel alive in every corner of his corpus. Damnation, why her? Why not the maid intended for him? A woman was a woman, curse them all.

  “As soon as we pass the outer wall, I will step up my horse’s pace.” He needed to get to the abbey quickly and her out of his lap.

  “I’d prefer you did not.”

  “I don’t have all morn to attend you, woman.”

  “Then don’t. I have two legs of my own. I’d rather walk, anyway.”

  He frown
ed. “You do not like to ride?”

  “If we were expected to travel at the speed of the wind, we’d have four legs. Or wings.”

  He prayed no one witnessed the ridiculous grin he surely wore on his face at that moment. When she glanced up at him, he dropped the grin and cleared his throat.

  Her eyes narrowed upon him. “You do not look well.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Nay, I would say you are not.” She considered him further. “The feasting drew on quite late, I avow, but surely you’re a man to hold your wine—”

  He made a low growl. “’I am. ’Twas the mead, woman. The mead did me in.”

  There was a moment’s silence. “I’m sure it wasn’t. My mead usually has the opposite effect. I administer it medicinally for many ailments. I have some in my basket now for Brother Lefrid.”

  “The stuff is poison. I’ll never drink a drop again,” Grégoire vowed.

  She tossed her head in an annoyed manner and looked forward once more. “You’re a busy man, my lord. I’ll find someone else to escort me to the abbey. All you need do is allow the guards to let me pass.”

  “Nay. I need my interpreter today. I have plans for you.”

  She sniffed. “Aye, interpreting for you and Aislinn. I’m—”

  “I wish to visit the village and speak with the elders. As your father is needed at the keep, I shall take you.”

  The look on her face when she stared up at him was beyond price, with her little chin dropped a measure and her dusky lips parted in astonishment. “You would involve me in such dealings?”

  “You are my interpreter and scribe, are you not?”

  “But I thought— That is, I presumed my service would only be needed within the keep. With my family and retainers.”

  “I will require your assistance on many tasks.”

  “But…I’m a woman.”

  “As I can plainly see. And feel,” he added, just to be perverse. He drove his point home with a subtle nudge of his groin. A mistake, because his rod thickened painfully. If he didn’t get his mind off rutting soon, he’d have to dismount.

  She reacted just as he expected, with the scorn of the self-righteous, and utterly oblivious to his frustration. “This charming behavior will never win my sister, you know.”

  “Forsooth, woman. Even a man like me knows he does not wench with the woman who will be his wife. Rather, wooing her is a matter best handled delicately and with care.”

  “Unlike how a man handles women who will not be his wife.”

  “Precisely so.”

  She snapped her mouth shut at that and gave him a withering glare. He had the peculiar sense he’d insulted her in some fashion.

  He didn’t let it bother him overlong. “Pray, if you know the secret that will win Aislinn’s affections, tell it now.”

  She must have decided clinging to her pique was against her best interest, because she pondered only a moment before replying. “A gift would be a good start. Do you have something to present to her?”

  “A gift, you say?”

  “You appear dumbfounded. You brought things for Father. Why haven’t you brought her something special?”

  “I…hadn’t considered doing so.” He mentally struck a palm to his brow. Ladies appreciated gifts. How had he forgotten?

  The criticism in her eyes grew. “What manner of suitor are you? Aren’t you one of the Rogues of Rouen, who seduced nearly every maid and matron between Avranche and Dieppe?”

  His mouth widened in a smile to remember that halcyon bit of his distant past. “Heard about that, did you?”

  “I heard what the minstrels told of it. You were a gang of heedless young bucks in Duke William’s army. Licentious and immoral, the lot of you, is what I heard.”

  “Loyal to the duke to the last, and his most victorious warriors,” he corrected, his mirth falling away. Her censure rankled. Who was she to disapprove of the duke’s youngest and most distinguished champions? He knew there were legends rampant about the Rogues’ exploits, but primarily—or so he’d thought—he and his comrades had been lauded by peasant and noble alike for their prowess and courage.

  Besides, he’d been another person, then, living a vastly different life.

  The would-be nun in his arms sniffed. “Sinful and obscene is what it sounded like to me.”

  “And you are a judgmental prig,” he said evenly.

  Her jaw dropped. A look of hurt flitted through her eyes, then her brows formed a vicious V before she whirled to face forward once more. He easily imagined steam venting from her ears.

  “I would think,” she ground out through gritted teeth, “a man who has succeeded in luring so many women into his bed surely would know that women like gifts.”

  “Every woman I’ve made love to has been exceedingly pleased with my gifts.”

  At that, she growled and tried to kick herself free from her perch. He tightened his hold around her. “That would be foolish, lady,” he warned, his body involuntarily enjoying this strong, curving figure wriggling against him, reproachful little wench or no.

  She ceased, evidently resigned to staying put. The ground was a long way down, after all.

  “Besides,” he decided to add, in case she was reporting back to his bride-to-be, “those days were long ago. I was a youth. I am wiser now, and take the marriage sacrament seriously. I will be faithful to the end, once the vows are spoken.”

  That had her cocking her head and peering up at him. She blinked a few times. Ah. He’d surprised her. Very gratifying.

  She said, “Amongst those many trunks of goods you brought, is there naught of a decent nature you might offer my sister as a token of your esteem?”

  “Well, I remember there is gold cloth from Damascus and red cloth from Madrid.”

  Hope brightened her expression. “The red—is it crimson or scarlet?”

  “Brownish, if memory serves.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “Alas. Deep reds and blues are my sister’s colors. They go with her complexion, you see.”

  “A gown made of my cloth would go with your fair eyes, Brigitte.”

  Flags of deep pink leaped to her cheeks, and she looked away. He sensed her feeling of awkwardness. Had no one ever flirted with her before, or given her a compliment? Perhaps no one so debauched as he.

  Facing Phoenix’s ears, she said, “Nay, brown won’t do at all. Besides, cloth would just mean more work for her. She would have to design a garment from it and wait for the seamstresses to make it.”

  “I have jewels.”

  With renewed excitement, her gaze flew to his, then immediately away. “Aislinn likes jewels. What sort do you have?”

  “Emeralds, I think. Perhaps some gold ear hoops.”

  “Nay, Aislinn likes sapphires, garnets, and rubies.”

  “Naturally.”

  “They go with her coloring best.” She faced him. “Listen, this gift must be chosen with her in mind. It must be something you know she would admire.”

  Those emeralds he had would also go very well with Bridget’s eyes. And with her hair. He forced his attention away from that dark and dangerous alleyway.

  But he couldn’t ignore that his mouth was in her hair, and that he tasted her. The creamy skin of her brow was an inch from his lips. His body had begun to ache.

  Hellfire. He needed to end his sexual fast soon.

  “How should I know what she would admire?” he bit out. He regretted that he sounded angry, but there was nothing for it, given the strain his body was under.

  “I will think of something,” she said. The woman remained oblivious to his discomfort. Oblivious!

  “I brought many trunks of goods with me. You may go through them and find something I can give her.”

  She pondered the idea. “Very well. Between us, we shall get Aislinn wooed.”

  They rode through the postern door, just wide enough for a man on horseback, and saluted the dawn guard above. He spurred Phoenix’s pace. Though the way was
steep down the rocky hillside to the woods, the steed bounded easily along the path, like a spring lamb. The effort of riding banished his body’s sexual obsession at last, and he was able to focus on getting them to the abbey.

  Why he let himself indulge this obnoxiously opinionated woman so thoroughly, he couldn’t fathom.

  But there was just something about her. Something, for the life of him, he couldn’t seem to resist.

  Chapter Eleven

  In the end, Bridget’s attempt at haste proved fruitless, and Brother Lefrid’s soul had departed by the time she and FitzHenri arrived at the abbey. As she burst over the tiny cell’s threshold and came to a halt, Abbot Giles was signing the cross over her mentor’s still face.

  “Nay.” She shook her head. “Nay.”

  Brother Baldric came to stand beside her. “God took him as he slept, my lady. Verily, he felt no pain.”

  A sob escaped her before she could stop it, a sob born somewhere deep inside, exploding to fill the volume of her body. Her hand went belatedly to her mouth to contain it. With a thud, the basket filled with hyssop tea, man-root, and peppered mead, all useless now, fell to the floor at her side.

  Brother Anselm knelt a few feet away, his ever-silent head bowed in prayer.

  Abbot Giles marked Brother Lefrid’s waxen brow with the holy oil and gently took the book from his hands. Some of the faded gilt letters on the cover flashed into her view. Confessions. Brother Lefrid’s favorite book, St. Augustine’s Confessions. She’d been promising to read to him from it again.

  “Oh, Brother Lefrid.” Tears stung her eyes, and she squeezed her lids shut. He had been waiting for her. She should have been here.

  Abbot Giles stopped before her, tall and solemn. “My sympathies, lady,” he said in grave tones. He offered her the book. “He would have wanted you to have this.”

  But to touch it would have been a sin. How could she accept it after letting him down so badly? When she made no move to receive the book, strong-knuckled fingers not her own clasped round it.

  “I’ll ensure it returns with her,” FitzHenri said from beside her.

  The abbot bowed his head. “’Tis a valuable thing, this book. Though it would increase the abbey’s coffers to possess it, I know it belongs with Lady Bridget.” He stepped out of the cell.