Maid Of Midnight

“I don’t care how you manage it, just talk to him.”

“As you wish, milord.”

“What have you done with the body?”

For the first time, Guise looked uncomfortable. “It seems to have been…misplaced, milord.”

LeClerc’s eyes narrowed into two violet slits. “Misplaced,” he repeated slowly.

“Aye. After the skirmish, we rode away and by the time I had reconsidered the matter and sent some men back to dispose of him, the body was gone.”

All the fury had disappeared from the baron’s tone as he said in silky tones, “Which means, my dear sheriff, that you aren’t even sure that the man is dead.”

“Oh, he’s dead, all right. I can’t imagine a head hard enough to survive the blow I gave him.”

In the same deceptively soft voice, the baron continued, “I want this man found, Guise. Dead or alive.”

“Aye, milord,” the sheriff acknowledged with a bow.

“I suggest it be soon.”

Guise’s palms began to sweat. “Aye, milord,” he said again. Then the baron waved him out of the room.

It had been easier to daydream about another visit to the sick man than it was to carry it out, Bridget realized as she stood in the little hall outside Ranulf’s cell. What if he wasn’t asleep? What if he awoke and this time realized that she was no holy creature but a flesh-and-blood woman?

What if he mistook her for the unknown Diana once again and tried to repeat his kiss? The thought sent a rush of blood to her cheeks.

With the warm poultice cooling in her hands, she took a deep breath and stepped into the dark room. Her candle flickered a dim light over to the bed. Bridget gave a small sigh of relief as she saw that not only was the patient breathing in deep sleep, he was flushed with the night fever. Her ministrations could again be explained away in the morning as a dream.

She sat next to him on the bed. In spite of the fever, he looked better. The sunken shadows around his eyes were gone. She’d read that the Saxons were a fierce people. She’d wager this man could be fierce enough if pressed. She could read his strength in the broad line of his jaw and the power of his shoulders. Her gaze drifted to his full mouth. His lips on hers had not been fierce at all. They’d been tender and warm.

She straightened her shoulders. She had no business thinking about that kiss. Biting her own lip against the memory, she briskly began unwinding the bandage around his head. He moaned and half opened his eyes.

“Shh,” she whispered. “It’s all right. I’m here to help you get better.”

“Angel,” he rasped.

“Aye, ’tis your angel come to tend you once again. Close your eyes and sleep if you can.”

But his eyes opened wider. “You’re not Diana,” he said.

He’d got that much straight, at least. “Is Diana your wife?” she asked.

With obvious difficulty, he shook his head and whispered, “She’s to be…Dragon’s wife.”

“Nay, I’m not Diana. And there are no dragons here, sir, so you need have no fear. You’re safe inside the abbey and we’re going to see that you recover.”

“Angel,” he said again.

“I’ll be your angel, if you like,” she said. She pressed the poultice in place and made quick work of binding him up. He winced once but stayed still. When she had finished, she sat back and smiled at him. “It’s much better, though the fever rages yet.”

He reached up and grabbed her hand. “Who are you?” he asked.

The sudden clarity in his blue eyes unnerved her. “I thought we’d settled that,” she said. “Didn’t you say that I was your angel?”

His gaze moved slowly from her face to the place where her plain linen gown framed the soft skin of her neck and chest.

“Aye,” he answered slowly, his voice growing stronger with each word, “but I was mistaken. If heaven had angels such as you to offer, my beauty, men would be falling on their swords in droves just to reach there.”

All at once Bridget felt as if she were the one with a fever. Her cheeks flamed.

“There’s the proof of it,” Ranulf continued, gesturing weakly toward her face. “Angels can’t blush.”

The remark was so absurd that Bridget couldn’t help a tiny laugh. “How do you know that, sir? I don’t recall any such prohibition in the scriptures.”

“They’re holy creatures. They don’t suffer from such human frailties as embarrassment or—” he stopped to study her, his eyes growing even more intense “—or shyness. Which is it that tints those fair cheeks so prettily?”

These were not the ravings of a delirious man, Bridget realized, in spite of his fever flush. This man was as sane as she and totally aware of her presence. She stood in alarm, the discarded bandage falling heedlessly to the floor. “I pray you, sir, close your eyes and sleep. On the morn you will remember that an angel tended you this night, and if you remember anything else about our encounter, I would ask you to put it out of your mind.”

He reached for her hand. “Don’t go, please. Be my angel, then, and I won’t question you further, I promise. Just sit by me awhile longer and let me look at you.”

His grasp was weak, and she could have easily slipped her hand loose, but instead she let him pull her gently back down to the bed. “I must go,” she whispered. “You need rest.”

For the first time, she saw him grin, a boyish, engaging smile that made the breath catch in her throat. “Ah, fair maid, they say to look upon beauty can be a more powerful cure than any herbalist’s powder.”

Once again Bridget’s face flamed at the unaccustomed comment on her appearance. Her discomfiture made her answer sharply. “Who says such nonsense?”

“My grandmother Ellen, for one. And she’s been healing the good folk of Lyonsbridge for three score years.”

Each moment she continued talking to him compounded her risk, but her curiosity prickled. “Lyonsbridge? ’Tis your home?”

“Aye. It’s in England, but my grandmother is Norman. She grew up here in Normandy.”

Bridget tried to picture this Norman woman. What would it be like to travel to a strange land, to make a home there and raise a family? “Is your grandmother a healer?” she asked.

The man hesitated a moment, then said, “She tends her people as the lady of the estate.”

Bridget’s eyes widened. So this man who lay abandoned and helpless in their abbey was not an itinerant wanderer, but the grandson of a lord. That meant that there would no doubt be inquiries. If she and the monks didn’t get him well and send him on his way soon, people might come to St. Gabriel looking for him.

She pulled her hand away from his and stood. “You’ve talked too long, milord,” she said stiffly. “I must insist that you sleep.”

“I’m no lord, angel. My name is Ranulf Brand. And since we’ve established that you’re not one of the heavenly host, I’d like to know your name, as well.”

Bridget shook her head. She could not tell this man her name. Outside these walls she had no name; she didn’t exist.

“Won’t you tell me?” he coaxed.

She shook her head again, more vigorously, then turned and fled the room.