Chapter Thirty-Seven

The journey to the abbey was brief, cold, and silent. Bridget was not able to say anything more to Grégoire, and he obviously had nothing to say to her. As they plodded along, she prayed with bowed head, begging God to give her strength and keep the tears at bay. But with every word, her soul whispered other entreaties, aimed at the tall knight beside her.

Please, tell me you love me, and no one else. Ask for my hand. I would gladly give up everything I had planned and marry you.

Who was she fooling? A nobleman like Grégoire could never love a plain, stubborn woman who’d spent her formative years immersing herself in the dry treatises of sages long dead, rather than learning what fragrance is pleasing to a man, or what fine stitchery impressed him, or how to pluck the harp and sing like an angel.

Indeed, could Grégoire truly love any woman? He was tormented by what had happened with his first wife, but he’d never actually said he’d loved her. And now with Aislinn, he was all about making her love him. He had never expressed that he must love her, as well.

At least with her beautiful, feminine sister, he would have a wife he could esteem the way a lord should esteem his lady. He had sworn he took the sacrament of marriage seriously, that once he spoke the nuptial vows, he would be faithful unto his wife, no matter what. He said he would keep and cherish Aislinn’s love.

Recalling those declarations of his squeezed Bridget’s heart so hard that tears stung her eyes. Would that he would declare those things for her!

But that was not to be.

In the abbey courtyard, she shifted her leg over the sidesaddle to slide down to the ground, and Grégoire was beside her immediately, his arms up to help her dismount. She couldn’t look him in the eyes. Simply couldn’t. But her hands rested on his powerful shoulders as he lifted her down. His body heat warmed her against the chill of the morn, and his masculine scent of leather and wood smoke engulfed her senses.

When her feet touched earth, he promptly stepped away, leaving her cold and wanting.

Abbot Giles approached, unnerving her because he was wearing the garments of a secular lord rather than his priestly ones. He greeted them, and Grégoire explained that Bridget wished to begin her journey to the Martyred Virgins, but it was presently too dangerous.

“Wherefore come here?” he asked, glancing with great curiosity between her and Grégoire.

She addressed the concern. “I wish to purify myself before the journey, my lord, and I can best do that here, in the hallowed halls of St. Bede’s.”

St. Bede’s did provide shelter to travelers on pilgrimage, taking payment if the guest had means. She could offer her crucifix to pay for lodging if her labor in the fields wouldn’t suffice.

The abbot frowned down at her. If he rejected her request, where would she go? She couldn’t go back to Shyleburgh Keep. Under his questioning gaze, she cast a glance at Grégoire, who remained stoic and cold. There would be no help from that quarter.

She detected the abbot’s eyes shifting to Grégoire, as well. When they returned to her, they had softened somewhat.

“Please, Abbot,” she begged, holding herself hard and firm, hoping her eyes didn’t betray the desperation clawing at her. Desperation showed weakness, and weakness left one prey to others’ cruelties, as she well knew. “Let me stay here until I can journey onward. I will work hard. Brother Baldric needs help with his hives. Brother Odo needs help with his chronicles. You won’t regret it, I swear.”

He laid a fatherly arm round her shoulder. “Of course, my child. All are welcome in God’s house. We shall find accommodations for you.”