Chapter Twenty

The small procession to the abbey for Brother Lefrid’s requiem slowly wended its way down the main road from Shyleburgh Keep, then across the burn and through the village. A leaden sky and chill air had supplanted the sunshine and heat of the previous day, and now the mournful tolling from the bell tower clanged throughout the moors and fells.

Bridget shivered in her cloak.

People had come out to view their progress, and a dog or two barked with frustrated menace. The spectators bowed or otherwise demonstrated the customary respect, and yet an air of disquiet pervaded. She felt it to the bottom of her toes. Many folk, she was well aware, still viewed their Norman overlords as interlopers, violators. It was hoped that the union betwixt the old ruling lines and the new would smooth matters over and bring peace and prosperity back to the turbulent land.

One more reason to get Aislinn and the earl wed quickly.

She watched them ride side-by-side, looking for all the world like shy young lovers. Aislinn was clad in a sweeping gown of sapphire velvet and a cream-colored cloak lined with fox fur. Beneath the hood, her sister wore a glittering circlet of copper on her dark tresses, and her hands were gloved in the softest white kidskin, her feet booted in glossy calf leather. It was gorgeous clothing designed to enhance her beauty in the extreme, to proclaim her as the future countess, and to emphasize her role as Lady of the Shire while she paraded before the local inhabitants.

Today, it all served to make Bridget’s mouth water with longing. She brushed her fingers over her thigh, feeling the slightly scratchy, stiff material of her own gown and imagining it felt smooth and silken instead.

Sweet Holy Mother! She pinched her lips together as if tasting the sourest of grapes. The desire to wear fine clothing hadn’t nagged her in years. Her simple woolen sack of a gown was easy to don and doff, easy to take in or let out as her body changed. It didn’t draw attention or beautify her in any way, but was stout and serviceable. Why did she yearn to wear fine textiles against her skin now?

Her shoulders slumped. She knew why. The way the earl looked at her sister, as if he would devour every inch of her… She wanted him to look at her like that. She wanted him to hold her fingers like that and assist her onto her palfrey with such gentlemanly solicitude.

Nay, she didn’t! She wanted the cloister with its respect for women, its learning, and its purifying rituals. Its lack of confusing, tumultuous emotions. Her father had promised her to them, and she wouldn’t go back on a promise.

Besides, raiment like Aislinn’s would never look as spectacular on her as it did on her achingly lovely sister. She was the ideal of feminine beauty. Fashionable attire endeavored to enhance that ideal. Bridget’s short and sturdy frame would not do it justice.

In penance for her flight of envy, she launched into a fervent rosary. And yet, with every prayer she uttered, that dismal church bell tolled a solemn march over her heart.

As the abbey gates came into view, her sister fell back in the line of riders to plod beside her. They were now well away from Earl FitzHenri and Sir Albert who led the column, and Karlan and Father Usrich who followed them. Several guardsmen finished up the rear of the procession, but they were not within hearing distance.

Aislinn appeared to be in a cloud of happy reverie, her brow soft, her smile serene as her placid palfrey trod along, whereas Bridget dwelled in a nightmare—admittedly one of her own making, but hellish all the same.

She hadn’t slept a wink the night before, instead fretting over what she should do, now that she had recognized her own shameful weakness. Why had the earl refused to release her? It was too difficult to stand by and watch all this. The idea of setting off to the cloister in Cornwall on her own sorely tempted her, but she knew that would be foolish. Not only would it put her in serious peril, it would endanger anyone who sought to go after her.

Because surely, someone would. Her father, mayhap. Or even the earl. Or he might just say good riddance and leave her to the hazards of the journey. She wanted to believe he would be concerned and go after her, but in truth, he would probably just see it as his scribe abandoning her post. He would never see the gesture for what it truly was.

Thank the Lord.

She gritted her teeth. How she could possibly feel this way about such a man was too confounding. She couldn’t understand why she yearned for him as she did. He spoke so demandingly toward her…with no regard for her wants or wishes. She should be furious with him, not staring at his mouth, her body tingling, as he ordered her about.

Not feeling this racing of her pulse and this exquisite shivering at the mere prospect of being near him.

Her sister broke the silence. “I didn’t tell you, Bridgie. My lord tried to kiss me the other day.”

Bridget regarded her sister cautiously. “What did you do?”

“He surprised me, and I didn’t like it. I’m ashamed to say it now, but I slapped him. I fear I’ve put him off kissing me ever again.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that. He is a man, after all. They adore that sort of thing.” And you do, as well! She shook her head to fend off that crazy voice.

“Do you think he will kiss me tonight? I think I would like that. As long as it’s not too”—she wrinkled her nose—“wet. I wouldn’t like that.”

Desire’s fingers curled in Bridget’s belly at the memory of how the man had kissed the daylights out of her in the monks’ orchard. He’d been forceful and unrelenting about it, not giving her quarter in his pursuit. The want in that kiss had been like nothing she’d ever experienced, or even dreamed of, and her own body had responded by flaring to life. As it did now, just thinking about it.

But would Aislinn appreciate the way he kissed? She was so innocent, so gentle and quiet. Bridget could show him how to—

Sweet St. Hilda. What was she thinking? She didn’t need to tutor him on how to kiss. Kissing Grégoire FitzHenri was the very last thing he required of her, or that she should want.

But it was the only thing she could think about the entire rest of the way to the abbey.