Brigitte’s hands clenched into fists, her nails biting into her palms. “Are you saying he did not send a messenger to Berry?”
“Of course not. Whatever for?” Amelia smirked. “How silly you are.”
“It’s not true!” Brigitte shouted. She threw her gowns on the cot and then, striding past Amelia, ran into the courtyard in search of Rowland.
He sat on a horse at the end of the courtyard, near the stables. It was not the Hun, for he was not yet healed.
Brigitte ran to him and cried, without preamble, “Did you honor our bargain? Did you send to Count Arnulf?”
“I did not,” he said flatly, his eyes flickering briefly.
There was a stunned silence, and then she gave an anguished cry. “Why not?”
“It was a foolish request,” he said simply, trying not to sound as ashamed as he felt.
“You thought so little of me that you lied to me?”
Rowland leaned forward, his blue eyes dark as midnight, but before he could respond, she went on.
“You are a bastard! I will never forgive you!”
He turned his horse around and rode away without answering. His apparent indifference inflamed her beyond control, and she screamed at his departing figure, “I hate you, Rowland! I hope the devil waits impatiently for you! Damn you, damn you, damn you!”
Hands led her back to her hut, but she did not feel them. For a long time, she felt nothing at all.
Rowland paced the yard that night like a caged cat. He moved to Brigitte’s hut once, twice, three times, then abruptly turned away. Each time, he heard her tears and retreated. It would do no good to ask her forgiveness now. She needed time.
That night, Rowland dreamed his same old haunting dream. But this time, when he awoke, he felt close to understanding the dream. This time, he really had lost what was dearest to him.
Chapter Thirty-three
Three days had passed, and Brigitte was bone weary when she reached her destination. She had ridden relentlessly for the first two days and would have reached Angers that morning but for a snowstorm. Fortunately the weather had passed her by late afternoon. It was slow going after that, trudging through three-and four-foot snow drifts, losing sight of Wolff again and again. But the worst part of her journey was over.
Brigitte found a warm bed at the monastery, though not a private room, for she was taken for a poor traveler and put in the large dormitory. It was still a bed, and she was too tired to protest. She had no coins to pay for better, and she was, in fact, a beggar. But in the morning she would be on her way to an audience with the Count of Anjou. She did not know him, but she had no doubt he would help her once she told her story. She slept, confident that the morning would see her in safe hands at last.
She regretted tricking kind Sir Gui out of a horse, but he would not have let her take one if he had known she planned her escape, and she had not known any way of obtaining a horse except by ruse.
Morning came soon enough. Brigitte begged a private room and water for washing, which the young priest frowned on but brought her just the same. She spent two hours on her toilet, grooming with special care, and dressed in her blue linen gowns.
Bedecked in her finery, the sapphires turning her eyes a darker blue, the hood of her mantle covering her tightly wound golden braids, Brigitte seemed to be royal. Avoiding the young priest so as not to cause alarm at her transformation, she left the monastery for the Count’s palace.
She had no problem getting through the gates there, even unescorted. A groom took her mount and gave her the directions to the great hall where the Count of Anjou held his court. Brigitte grew nervous at the sight of so many nobles hurrying through corridors. The Count of Anjou was a very powerful man. Would he have time to hear her plea? An escort was all she meant to ask for, a few men to take her to Berry. She would pay the Count with her sapphires if necessary.
The chamber was cavernous, at least as large as the great hall of Montville. Hundreds of people were milling about, all richly garbed nobles and their fine ladies. It was the most impressive she had ever seen, and Brigitte was awed and terrified. Which of these grandly dressed men was the Count of Anjou? His court was an informal one, and, as there was no dais, there was no way of knowing which of the men was the Count.
“You are here to see the Count, milady?”
She turned to the portly bald man beside her and smiled uneasily. “Is he here?”
The man smirked, his gray eyes glinting. “His highness is most definitely present, milady.”
Brigitte grew uneasy at the man’s frank disdain. An enemy of the Count’s? A jealous lord? Thank God she had never been involved in court intrigues. Druoda would be happy here, but she was not.
“I do not know him, milord,” Brigitte said, hoping the man would not ask too many questions.
“Why, you will know him by all his splendor. There.” The man pointed to the middle of the room. “In the red velvet, with an emerald as large as his nose around his neck. That jewel was mine, given in payment for a favor I never received.”
Brigitte felt her spirits fall. Would the Count treat her callously, then? Would he agree to help her, take her sapphires, and then forget her?
As she studied the man in red velvet, her eyes fell on a tall man beside him. She froze.
Rowland! It was not possible! But there he stood, dressed grandly in a black jeweled tunic of a glossy material, with fine hose and black velvet cape. She was not even aware he possessed such finery. Obviously he had lied to her about not knowing anyone in Angers, for the Count was speaking to him as if they were old friends. Brigitte was further stunned to see that a young woman hung on Rowland’s arm, a beautiful young woman. Someone else he did not know?
Oh God! She ducked behind a large pillar before he saw her. What was he telling the Count? To expect a petition from a serf claiming to be a lady, and to deliver her directly to him? Damn him! He would tell the Count that, of course he would! The sly bastard. Damn him for getting here first! How had he done it?
She turned and left the hall unobtrusively, her hood pulled closely around her face. But as soon as she reached the corridor she started to run and did not stop until she reached the stable. She nearly pounced on the young groom who had taken her horse away.
“Where is my mare? Where? Quickly!”
“There…lady,” the boy stammered, pointing to a stall several feet away.
Brigitte rushed to it and quickly led the mare out of the stable.
Mounting without help, she forced herself to set a sedate pace until she got beyond the castle gates. It took every effort of will to walk the mare across the courtyard. She feared that Rowland would come running after her at any moment. She kept looking back, unable to stop herself.
At last Brigitte was outside the walls. No one was following. At least not yet. She started south at a gallop but stopped suddenly, nearly unseating herself. Wolff! She had left him at the monastery. She turned around quickly and rode back to the monastery, careful now not to ride too fast and draw attention. As she rode, worrying over her new dilemma, she continued to look back over her shoulder again and again for Rowland. Every little sound she heard was Rowland galloping up behind her.
And then, suddenly, there he was, coming toward her down the road. She drew up, too astonished to wonder why he was ahead of her, coming from the north, instead of behind her, coming from the castle. She shook her head, terribly confused. He was getting closer and closer, his black cape billowing in the wind behind him. Panicking, she swung her horse around and set her heels to the mare. But Rowland was quickly right behind her. He could not reach the reins of her horse because she veered away from him, so he reached for her instead, pulling her across the space of the two horses and onto his lap. She squirmed away, making it nearly impossible for him to manage his horse.
“Brigitte, stop, or we will both fall,” he said.
“Then let us fall!” she cried.
He managed to draw her into one arm an
d halt his horse. “There. Now, if you do not stop screeching I will turn you over my lap and give you a beating that will draw a crowd.”
Rowland spoke softly, close to her ear, and she quieted immediately. “You would, too, brute that you are,” she said more quietly.
He chuckled then. “You have led me a merry chase once again, little jewel.”
“You had no right to chase me down,” she snapped. “Have you forgotten that you released me?”
“Ah, well, I have changed my mind about that,” he said slowly.
She was furious. “Insufferable lout! The bonds do not work that way and you know it. You cannot cast me aside and take me back as you please! You were never my lord in the first place. I did not swear fealty to you.”
“I swore it. That was enough. Now come, we should not be arguing out here. Stop your fussing. I have you, and you know you cannot fight me.”
She fell silent, and Rowland moved ahead to retrieve her mare. He had her back again. She was enraged, and she was exhilarated. He had come for her, had followed her all this way.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked calmly.
“Home.”
“To Berry?” she asked quickly.
“To Montville. That is your home now, and it will always be. I swore you would never return to Berry, and that was a promise I had forgotten when I set you free.”
Brigitte went rigid. “So that is why you came after me! Only because of that! I hate you!”
“Brigitte,” Rowland growled, tightening his hold on her. “What do you want to hear from me? That I could not bear to see you go? That if you are not near me I feel as if a part of myself is gone? I am a man of war, Brigitte. I know nothing of tender words. So do not expect them from me.”
“You just said them, Rowland,” she whispered softly.
They both fell silent. Brigitte relaxed in Rowland’s strong arms, contentment flowing through her. She did not try to fight herself, but let the warm feeling take over. Then suddenly she remembered Wolff.
“Wait!” She sat upright, bumping Rowland’s chin with her head and hearing him swear. She explained, and Rowland followed her directions.
At the monastery Wolff could not be found. He had run off with a pack of hounds soon after Brigitte left, the priest informed them, and had not returned. There was nothing to do but wait until he did.
Rowland paid for a private room, telling the priest quite shamelessly that Brigitte was his wife. Whether or not the priest believed him, the young man allowed nothing to show on his face. But Brigitte was not amused.
“You have told everyone else we meet that I am your servant,” Brigitte said as soon as they were alone. “Why not the priest?”
He reached for her, but she neatly ducked under his arm and away. “Just what are you doing?”
“Come now, cherie, you know exactly what I have in mind. It has been seven days since I have held you in my arms, and that is too long.”
“I was in your arms on the way here,” she reminded him tartly.
“Be damned, you know what I meant.”
“You be damned, I am not sure I want to be with you.”
“Liar. You could fit no other arms as well as mine. Now come here.”
“Rowland,” she protested. “This is a holy place. Have you no shame?”
“Not where you are concerned.”
He caught her shoulder and jerked her to him, and her body molded to his hard frame. After a few moments, she felt as if her body were a part of his. She saw the fire in his eyes before his mouth came down to claim hers. Her lips parted under his gentle onslaught. His warm breath was intoxicating. Had he not been holding her firmly, she would have fallen to the floor. Fit in his arms? She was made for his arms alone.
He released her lips and picked her up. She was in a dream, a dream of his eyes loving her, burning with his need for her. But when she felt the bed under her and Rowland’s hands upon her, she knew she was not really dreaming.
He undressed her slowly and unbraided her hair so he could run his fingers through it. She reveled in his tingling touch and could not help but touch him at every opportunity. A hand, an arm, his cheek, she thrilled to the feel of him.
When Rowland was as naked as she was, Brigitte stroked the hard muscles on his chest, leaning up to kiss his shoulders. Then she forced him to lie down. She wanted to make love to him, wanted to show him how glad she was to be with him again.
She leaned over him, her flaxen hair falling down over his chest like a silken caress. She kissed his lips teasingly, tenderly, darting her small tongue into his mouth playfully. She nibbled his ear, then trailed her lips and tongue down his neck to his chest. She licked and teased the nipples there as his hands caressed her breasts. She wanted to kiss him all over as he had done to her so many times. But when she moved lower, Rowland caught her shoulders and pulled her up to him.
“Witch,” he breathed huskily. “You have already set a fire in me. I have never wanted you more than I do now. Any lower and I would spill my seed too soon.”
“Then take me now, lover.” She grinned. “Take me.”
He rolled on top of her and took her passionately, wildly, and she delighted in his every thrust. They reached the heights together, and it was over quickly, in a long, magnificent cresting.
Rowland moved away and pulled Brigitte close. She snuggled against his shoulder, one leg curled up over his, her hand resting possessively on his chest. She had never felt more at peace as she drifted off to sleep, secure, the future far, far away.
Chapter Thirty-four
“Brigitte.”
The hand resting on her hip shook her gently, and she stirred with a smile before she opened her eyes. Rowland leaned over the bed and placed a soft kiss on her cheek. He was dressed and grinning down at her.
“You slept an hour, little jewel. Now come. We can be far from here before the sun sets.”
Brigitte grinned and stretched languidly. “Are you certain you wish to leave now?” she asked, her eyes gleaming.
“Ah, damosel, do not tempt me.” he groaned, turning away to find her clothes. She giggled, and he threw her clothes at her for punishment. “You will pay for that tonight, I promise you,” he growled.
“I will look forward to it,” she teased.
She was in a jubilant mood. She could not have been happier.
“Has Wolff returned then?” she asked as she slipped on her clothing.
“Yes.”
Rowland sat down on the bed to watch her. Then his hand circled her waist, and he pulled her to him to stand between his legs. She was surprised and touched when his arms went around her and he laid his head against her breasts. He just held her like that for several moments. She was deeply moved. She wrapped her arms around his head to hold him closer, for she understood what he was telling her.
“Do you love me, Brigitte?”
The question made her want to cry, for she truly did not know. “I have known much love in my life. The love of my mother and father, of my brother, of servants and friends. But what I feel for you is different from all of the others. I am not sure if what I feel for you is love, Rowland. I have never loved a man before, so I cannot say.”
“Not even—” He could not say it. He would not remind her of her lord at Louroux, the one who had loved and pampered her, the one who had probably given her the sapphire-studded tunic.
She gripped his head between her hands and forced him to look at her. “Not even who?”
“I only thought there must have been someone in Berry,” he said evasively. “Someone you had hoped to marry, perhaps, or someone you spent much time with?”
She smiled. “There was no one. And I can tell you this, Rowland. I am happy being with you. I was desolate when you set me aside. And it devastated me to think you cared so little for me that you would not honor our bargain. Will you tell me why you lied to me?”
“I was afraid someone would come and take you from me,” he said simply, his eyes
on her face. She squeezed him tighter.
“Do you still want me to send someone to Berry?” he whispered.
“No,” she whispered in return. “Not anymore.” She did not wish to think about it anymore.
He crushed her to him once again, then released her and whacked her behind. “Get dressed, wench.”
He resumed his rough exterior, feeling awkward with the tender feelings she stirred in him. He had a need for her that went beyond the joining of their bodies. And if she did not love him, did he love her? Could he answer that any better than she? He had never known love at all, any kind of love. He knew nothing of it. But he knew he wanted Brigitte’s love. Perhaps one day she would know for sure and tell him so. For the present it was enough to know that she was happy, that there would be no more threats from Berry, and that she would not leave him again.
“This gown is too thin for traveling,” she broke into his thoughts. “I see you changed your clothes,” she added, noticing the brown woolen tunic he wore under his black cape.
He looked down. “I did not change, cherie. I brought no other clothes with me. There was no time.”
“Rowland, that is an outright lie,” Brigitte said, surprised.
“A lie?”
“That you brought no other clothes with you. I saw you this morning at the palace, and you were wearing a bejeweled tunic.”
Rowland laughed. “You were mistaken. I had only just arrived in Angers when I found you in the street.”
“But I tell you I saw you talking with the Count,” she insisted.
“No, you did not,” he replied firmly. “Someone must have looked like me.”
“I know you when I see you, Rowland,” she said curtly. “I was shocked to find you there—with a woman hanging on your arm—speaking to the Count as if you were old friends. You had told me you knew no one in Angers.”
“I did not lie to you, Brigitte. I was not at the palace. I have never met the Count of Anjou. I can swear to it.”
She frowned, gazing at him in bewilderment. Why would he lie about this? She thought back to when she had seen him riding toward her. She had known then that it was impossible for him to be there after she left him at the palace, yet he was there. And she could not recall seeing the black bejeweled tunic on him then. When they had come to this room, she had not noticed his clothes at all.