Chapter Nineteen

That evening, Grégoire’s interpreter was nowhere to be found. At least that’s what everyone told him when she failed to appear for the late meal. Lady Aislinn informed him—through Albert, blast it—that Bridget said she had work to do and could not spare the time to dally in the hall. His second-in-command had the intelligence to look worried while giving that translation.

Grégoire heard this explanation with narrowed eyes and red-clouded vision. As the evening wore on, his ire mounted.

She’d forwarded no excuse to him for her absence. No I beg your pardon, lord or Forgive me, my lord, but—

He required her here. At his side.

The sound of laughter broke through the roar between his ears, luring his hard gaze over to Albert. His second-in-command was walking his fingers across the table as he regaled the females with some absurd story that had them all howling with merriment. Aislinn smiled as brightly as he’d ever seen her smile.

His temper simmered. Was there something there, between his second and his bride-to-be? Or was it just his ill humor seeking reasons to fume?

If something hadn’t already been eating at his spleen with sharper teeth, he’d have taken the matter into hand to find out.

As the capon and salmon were served, and Bridget had yet to grace him with her presence, his blood boiled over. He shot to his feet, knocking over his chair. This would be the last time Bridget defied him.

All heads swiveled his way.

He met Lady Aislinn’s gaze. A twinge of fear accented her features. Good. At least one female in this godforsaken keep knew how to show him proper deference.

“What is’t, my lord?” Oelwine asked, a chicken leg dangling from his fingers.

“I’m going in search of my scribe.” If the wench insisted upon disobedience, he would teach her a lesson.

As he stalked out of the hall, he was fairly certain he heard Lady Aislinn inquire in anxious tones, “He won’t harm her, will he?”

He didn’t wait to hear the reply.

The chapel was the first place he checked, as he’d seen her there numerous times over the last several days. Peering in with sight that seemed restricted to the width of a tunnel, he found only a dark, empty space.

Then he stalked off to the orchard. Every waking hour she wasn’t with him or in the chapel she spent amongst her hives, hefting skeps or straining honeycomb.

The abbey below the fell tolled vesper as his boots padded through damp grass. His breath rasped in a dry throat. His lungs pounded in his chest.

When at last he found her, she was kneeling over some weedy-looking plants near her hives, busy with a little knife in her hand and a linen sack beside her. His shadow fell over her. He itched to grab her and—and do what, he didn’t know.

She sat back on her heels, but she didn’t turn, nor did she rise to greet him.

Curse him for his lenience. He’d allowed her too much leeway and she no longer feared him as a vassal should her lord. That error would be rectified now.

“Wherefore are you not in the hall, scribe?” he snarled, longing to see her quail.

She looked up at him over her shoulder, her single braid draping forward to pool in her lap. No fear bided in her eyes. Something else did, however, but he couldn’t discern what. His first thought was that she had been weeping.

Bridget, weeping? But she was so strong, so in control. Did she mourn her Brother Lefrid to such an extent?

“I didn’t know we had an appointment this eve, my lord. I must gather these seeds ere they fall, so you have them for seasoning your pork through the winter.”

Ah, she wasn’t sad, but defiant. He longed to throttle her. His fists clenched. His whole body fought against the tether of his control. “You are to attend me whenever I speak with your sister. There’s been no change.”

“I believe your relationship has progressed enough that you no longer need me.”

“I’ll tell you when you’re no longer required.”

“But your letter did the trick. She adores you.”

He stopped short at that. A flicker of joy—or was it relief?—peeped awake inside him, like a tiny light in the black fog. Could it be this wooing shit was over? Thank you, God.

The wench started to rise. He gave her a helping hand, his fingers tightening possessively round her elbow. He had no understanding of why that should be. His corpus seemed to do things around her that he had no control over.

“What have you heard?” he asked curtly. His ire had not yet abated. If anything, it flared higher.

Upon gaining her feet, she pulled her arm free and dusted off her hands. “That she returns your feelings.”

“My feelings? What— Ah. You mean the feelings expressed in that letter.” Pray God this was true, and he could move on to a wedding. Why then did his ire blossom further, still? “She says that?”

“Told me herself today. She is yours, verily.”

He tasted that, and found satisfaction wanting. “What else did she say?”

“That you are now on a first name basis.” Bridget flashed him an inscrutable glance. “And that you danced gloriously together last night after I—” She curtailed her words abruptly, averting her gaze.

His black mood thickened. His brow lowered. “After you fled my presence ere I dismissed you. Where did you go?” He had resolved never to bring this up, to spare her having to explain herself. He knew he’d pressed her too far last night. He’d even come up with the billet-doux idea as a means to remove her from uttering aloud words that were distasteful to her.

But his indulgence ended with her failure to attend him this eve.

Her brows drew together and her eyes turned plaintive, her voice colored with a smattering of scold. “Can’t you see? We’re herding her emotions as a dog would sheep, to a place of our own choosing, not hers. ’Tisn’t fair.”

He regarded her. “That isn’t why you ran away.”

She stiffened, her fists balling at her sides. Small white fists that couldn’t hurt a fly but instead prompted potent feelings of protectiveness in him. “I cannot tolerate any more of this,” she said quietly. “I beg of you, release me from this endeavor.”

He stood absolutely rigid, ready to burst at the seams, only a few threads of restraint holding him together. Call a sparrow a sparrow. She wanted to be free of him.

“I think not,” he ground out.

“You’ve won her. I don’t wish to be a part of this charade any longer. I have real work to do ere I depart for the convent, and I can’t do it spending all my time playing go-between.”

“Who is going to do all this toil once you’re gone? Have you ever wondered? Why is it always you who must do everything?”

Her luminous eyes reddened, and her chin wobbled. He bit the inside of his cheek. Dear God, anything but tears. Female waterworks was the one thing he could never hope to battle and win. His own mother’s weeping at his wife’s death had nearly broken him.

Bridget sucked in an uneven breath. “You must stand up and face her on your own.”

His choler soared. Was she suggesting he was a coward in his dealings with his future bride? His fist clenched tighter.

“Please.” Her bottom lip quivered. “Release me from my assignment.”

But he had hardened himself against her. She wanted nothing more to do with him, and that knowledge clotted his veins and froze his brain. He would punish her.

“Nay. I shall tell you when your task is over, not the other way round. On the morrow, we travel to the abbey for Lefrid’s requiem. When we return, you will resume your position as my scribe and interpreter.”

“You are being unreasonable.”

“I am your lord.”

Her entire form cried mutiny, from the clamped lips to the clenched fists, down to her wide-planted feet. The tan freckles sprayed across her nose blazed out in strong relief against the redness of her face.

He spun and tramped away from her.

She was the one thwarting her lord’s command. She was the one being unreasonable.

Why, then, was he the one losing his grip?

Lady Aislinn had confided to Bridget that she loved him. It was what he’d aimed for.

So, why did it suddenly seem as if everything important was slipping through his fingers?