Chapter Forty-Four

Grégoire had stalked round the bed to stand behind Bridget as she stared out the window. Dual needs warred within him—to take her in his arms and protect her forever or to shake her into speaking the truth.

What he would do if she refused to answer, he didn’t know, but it would not be temperate.

When she remained silent, he clasped her round the upper arm and he turned her—as gently as he could, given that his blood verged upon boiling. He wanted to release her, but he couldn’t. He’d thought she had perhaps been teased as a child, and that was why she was so insecure about her appearance. But now… She wouldn’t even look him in the eyes. It must be far worse.

“If you don’t answer me, I’ll question your sisters. I will find out. Did. He. Hurt you?”

That got her to meet his gaze. Her face was solemn, red-cheeked. Her lips made a thin white line. Carefully, she shrugged her arm from his grip.

“Very well.” She took a deep breath. “He came here with his father when he was fourteen. At first he was charming. I felt comfortable with him, like he was the brother I didn’t have. He was so handsome, so interesting, coming from another land, one I’d never been to.” She flashed him a wan smile. “Even if it was only the other side of the moor. Not long after, I was elated to learn our fathers had agreed to betroth us. I couldn’t wait until I was eighteen, I was so happy. I followed him everywhere.”

In her pause, he reined in his impatience. He knew she would reveal all at her own pace.

“That was when he started mocking me.”

“Devil take the knave.” He pounded a fist into his palm.

Her wary glance at his hands made him realize he needed to calm down. For her sake.

“It was my fault,” she went on. “I should have stayed away from him. What boy would have wanted me tagging along at his boot heels?”

“Stop making excuses for him.”

“The other boys ridiculed him when I made things for him, little things like mittens and girdles and good things to eat. He hated it, and it only got worse when they saw I was brighter than he was. I could read and write, and he couldn’t. Father Usrich tried to teach him, but he couldn’t grasp the knowledge. He started to call me cruel names, leading the other boys in deriding me.”

“To deflect their mockery from himself. The bastard.”

“Verily. It hurt, his bad names for me, but for some peculiar reason, I continued to seek his company, even his approval. So I hold some of the blame—”

“Nay, you don’t. Not one jot, do you hear me? He was weak, a sniveling coward.”

“One day, I guess he’d had enough, and he whirled on me. He punched me so hard in the belly, I fell backward and couldn’t breathe.”

Everything halted around him. Everything—the flicker of the candle flames, Bridget, his own heartbeat—and he stared at her with burning eyes.

He was going to kill the bastard.

She clutched her abdomen. “It took a while for me to catch my breath, and then my belly felt bruised for the longest time.” She bit her lip, gnawed there for a while. “It must have salved him inside, because he started hitting me whenever he had the chance, and he laughed about it. He told me it was my place to do as he bade, as he would be my husband. I began to avoid him, but he would find me. He’d hide in the bushes and jump out at me, that sort of thing.”

“Damn, mignonne,” Grégoire bit out, every thread of his existence stretched taut as he struggled for control. The compulsion to slam his fist into something nearly took over. But the last thing Bridget needed was another violent male to deal with. “He was a blackguard, a damnable cur. He should have honored and protected you as his lord’s daughter.”

“He was my betrothed. There was nothing to be done.”

“I would have drawn and quartered him. No honorable man abuses a girl like that. Where was Oelwine in all this?” He punched the words out, so furious, he would have throttled her father for his neglect.

She put a gentle hand on his arm. “You mustn’t blame Father. He worked hard, and he was often away at battle, or with the King.” She stepped away from him.

“What about your mother and stepmother?”

She paced slowly, looking down at her feet when she answered. “Mother had already passed on. And my stepmother suffered a fragile constitution. It was all she could do striving to bear Oelwine’s heir. She had little energy for the rest of us.”

“That aunt of yours could have helped.”

A scoffing sound came out of her. “Aunt Edyth? Nay, she saw bruises on my arm one summer day and ordered me to wear long sleeves. She never even asked what had happened, nor would she have cared, I daresay.”

Furious, he made a mental appointment to have choice words with the caustic aunt one day soon. “Your father should have been told. Samson violated you. Badly enough that you changed your entire life because of it. You were ready to give up your family, your home, and the chance for children of your own, in order to avoid a husband as cruel as he—”

She halted before him. “Nay, Grégoire. If it were only his mockery and abuse, I would never have given up the life I wanted so much. I told myself if I would just do as he said, please him, be the biddable damsel I was supposed to be and place him on a pedestal, my marriage wasn’t going to be so bad. But…” She glanced at him. “There was more.”

Grégoire inhaled sharply, dreading the rest. “More?”

“I started finding him bothering other girls in an…unseemly way.”

“Not your sisters. Tell me not your sisters.”

“Nay. I ensured they kept away from him, but the serving maids… I found him assaulting Mabel in the stairwell. I pounded on his back and kicked him and told him I was going to get Father. That stopped him, but…only for the moment.”

She shivered, hugging her arms over her breast, looking down at her toes. “He started manhandling me intimately. Touching me where he shouldn’t.” Her outraged glance flew to his. “I was only eleven! I had no idea what he was doing. He’d—” She grimaced. “—stick his tongue in my mouth or paw me between the legs. He told me that’s what men did to women, and it was my place to let him do it. I started hiding from him, wearing unattractive clothing, trying to make myself invisible. He disgusted me!

“One night at dusk, I was stepping from the mead house in the orchard when he appeared before me. I tried to dodge him, but he shoved me back inside and—and—tore my gown open.”

If Grégoire had thought he was irate before, his rage catapulted to the firmament. His sweet Bridget, the tender girl she’d been, at the hands of such a fiend! He curled a fist, struggled to hold himself together.

She went on. “I kept screaming nay, pushing at him, but he was laughing, and not in a fun way. He looked like Lucifer himself. He asked if my books had taught me about sex. I said of course not, and he said, then he would. He pushed me down to the floor. As I fell, I managed to grab one of the honeycomb scrapers lying on the counter. You know how sharp those are. As he leaned down grabbing at me, I slashed his hand. He screamed and stopped attacking me. He spat on me and called me all manner of horrible names as I kicked at him.”

“Brigitte…” He had absolutely no words to say, the disgust and repugnance he felt for such a man so consumed him.

Surprisingly, she smiled, meeting his gaze. “I do believe he was weeping like a babe as he stumbled away.” She grew serious once more. “The very next day, he left to return home to Reggeland, and I never saw him again. I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone what he did, so the betrothal remained in effect. I convinced myself that nothing really all that bad had happened. He hadn’t breached my maidenhead. He hadn’t killed me. But he certainly put me off any happy anticipation of the marital state.”

“Holy hell…”

“So you can’t imagine the relief I felt when your king declared all English lands for himself and nullified all pacts and betrothals between our nobles. I was able to convince Father to release me as his heiress, pay my way to the convent, and proclaim Aislinn as future mistress of the keep.”

Quivering with the effort to be gentle when every fiber of his being wanted to bludgeon something, he reached out a hand and cupped her cheek, brushing a thumb under her eye. She blinked up at him, her expression uneasy. Did she worry he would judge her poorly for her choice? How could she think that?

“Your father should have been told the first time the bastard uttered an unpleasant word to you.”

“I know that now. Father would have broken the pact immediately. But I didn’t wish to bring any trouble upon him. He needed his coalition with Samson’s father in order to preserve the border. And I was so ashamed. I thought I was to blame.”

“What could possibly have led you to believe that?”

She shrugged. “You know how outspoken and pushy I can be, never one to hide my thoughts on a matter. Samson told me he needed to beat a sense of respect into me.”

He stared at her, appalled. “Being a strong woman should not make you a target for any man’s ire. Rather, you should be cherished for it!”

She gazed back at him, her eyes filling with tears. “Oh, Grégoire. You are a man above all others.”

He waved her off, anger still hot throughout his body. “Nonsense. I’ve a mind to have words with your father about this. Where is my clothing?” He cast about the chamber, seeking his tunic and chausses, his hauberk, and sword.

“Nay!” she appealed behind him. “Do not tell Father. I beg you!”

He turned back to her face crumpling in worry and fear. It tugged unbearably at something inside his chest.

“Please, Grégoire. The shame would kill me.”

Silence beat for an instant as he took in her earnest expression and the tears making her eyes bright. She was more beautiful to him in that moment than she’d ever been. So brave, so strong, yet so vulnerable.

A wave of protectiveness crashed over him, staggering in its power. Everything within him needed to avenge her. And everything within him needed her as his own.

But he wouldn’t be worthy of her until he had vanquished their enemy—her nemesis—once and for all.

Even so, he longed to stake his claim. He took a step toward her. “Tell me you know that I would never hurt you—anyone—like that.”

“I know you would never hurt a woman in your care.”

“A man of honor would never harm anyone weaker than himself. A man of honor would seek only to give pleasure to the woman he l—” He bit off the word. What had he been about to say? “—who is under his care.”

She gave him a shy smile. “Indeed. The other night…you showed me a very different picture of what can be between a man and a woman.”

He took another step toward her. “I am happy to have given you a better impression of my gender.”

She nibbled her lip and plucked coyly at her gown. “As am I.”

For the first time, he noticed her attire. The gown she wore had the hue of ripe, juicy apricots. On her feet were delicate slippers instead of her usual wooden clogs. Her hair fell in a glittering waterfall around her bare shoulders. Above the low bodice, her skin blushed sweetly. The gown’s neckline plunged so deep, the valley between her breasts acted as a magnet to his gaze—and another part of his anatomy, as well.

Lust mingling with the skull-banging he’d suffered had his head swimming dizzily. “Why have you doffed your nunnish frock for this siren’s garb?” he managed.

The blush in her cheeks blazed crimson as she glanced down self-consciously. “Do you like it?”

“Aye, woman. Very much.” He liked it so much, he wanted to grab her like a morsel of mutton and devour her. “To my eyes, you are the fairest damsel in the land.”

Her lips parted. “Do you truly mean that?”

“I would not say it if ’twasn’t true. You have beautiful eyes, you know. And your curves are perfection.”

With his good arm, he hooked a hand round her waist and drew her close against him, wincing as pain seared near his other shoulder. She gasped at his discomfort, trying to draw back and tend to his wound, but he wouldn’t release her.

He inhaled with a smile. “And you smell delicious.”

Her eyes turned teasing. “’Tis an essence I made ’specially to please you.”

He put his nose to her hair and inhaled. “Mmm. Honey and wildflowers.”

She settled against him, and he breathed deeply, savoring the feel of her shivering in reaction. It felt…perfect.

She was back with him, where she belonged. He would never let her go again. Never.

She rubbed her silky cheek against his bare chest. The feel of her softness against his nakedness tortured him. His cock stirred. With an effort, he restrained himself.

“Brigitte.” He jostled her lightly in his embrace. Her arms went around his middle.

“Mmm?”

“You’ve been calling me Grégoire.”

“I have?”

“When we are alone. I like how my name sounds on your lips.”

She beamed up at him. Her eyes gleamed like amber gems, piercing deep into him. “Then I shall call you Grégoire, but in private only. When others are around, you will still be my lord.”

He gazed at her. What a moonstruck minstrel he’d become. He’d best shake this weakness before he lost his mettle on the battlefield. What he planned to do required every dram of his focus and strength. But he couldn’t help himself. She was so adorable, he tapped the tip of her nose. He wanted to do so much more. But his strength ebbed from him with every passing moment.

“Please,” she said, gesturing to his bed. “Lie down and rest. The morrow will come soon enough. Tonight you must endeavor to heal yourself.”

He smiled and obliged her, knowing he had serious work ahead. Come tomorrow, he would ensure Samson of Reggeland, the outlaw Black Hand, would never hurt her, or anyone else, ever again.

“I shall do my best, little honeybee.”