скачать книгу бесплатно
Maid Of Midnight
Ana Seymour
Bridget had called St. Gabriel's monastery her home since her mysterious appearance years ago. Kept far from prying eyes amidst the gentle monks, the maiden was happy to care for her protectors. But after reading fanciful tales of Arthur and Guinevere, Bridget yearned for a handsome knight of her very own….On a quest to find his missing brother, Sir Ranulf Brand scoured the Norman countryside. Attacked by brigands and left for dead, he awoke in St. Gabriel's to visions of a golden-haired angel tending his wounds by candlelight. But the monks assured him 'twas nothing more than a phantom brought on by his injuries. Ye the petal-soft touch of her lips lingered on his mouth still….
“That was your first kiss?”
“Aye, and my last, I expect. Once I go back to St. Gabriel, the monks will keep me away from future visitors.”
“Go back! You would go back there to live in such isolation?”
“It’s all I’ve ever known,” Bridget said. “The monks are my family.”
“But you are a lovely young woman. You should be meeting young men who will court you and offer you a life and a family of your own. You should be having a real first kiss and many more.”
She smiled. “It was real enough.”
“Nay, it was not. A real kiss is not a fumbled gesture in the dark between strangers. It’s an expression two people use when their hearts are too full to express their love any other way.”
Her eyes misted. “’Tis something I’ll never have, then.”
He raised a finger and wiped a tear that had started down her cheek. “Aye, you will, angel,” he said. Then he lowered his lips to hers…
Praise for Ana Seymour’s recent titles
Lord of Lyonsbridge
“…wonderful characters…a highly enjoyable read.”
—Romantic Times Magazine
A Family for Carter Jones
“…a deliciously sweet tale of love.”
—Wichita Falls Times Record News
Jeb Hunter’s Bride
“…a brilliant historical romance.”
—Affaire de Coeur
Maid of Midnight
Harlequin Historical #540
#539 THE ELUSIVE BRIDE
Deborah Hale
#541 THE LAST BRIDE IN TEXAS
Judith Stacy
#542 PROTECTING JENNIE
Ann Collins
Maid of Midnight
Ana Seymour
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Available from Harlequin Historicals and ANA SEYMOUR
The Bandit’s Bride #116
Angel of the Lake #173
Brides for Sale #238
Moonrise #290
Frontier Bride #318
Gabriel’s Lady #337
Lucky Bride #350
Outlaw Wife #377
Jeb Hunter’s Bride #412
A Family for Carter Jones #433
Father for Keeps #458
† (#litres_trial_promo)Lord of Lyonsbridge #472
The Rogue #499
† (#litres_trial_promo)Lady of Lyonsbridge #520
† (#litres_trial_promo)Maid of Midnight #540
For my sister, Barbara Jackowell, with much love and
thanks for all your encouragement, ideas, research…and
for setting me on the path to a medieval monastery!
Contents
Chapter One (#u134c14e9-1056-5ddd-892b-9b56c15e362a)
Chapter Two (#u4badc07d-e1d8-5587-b42a-43aa111b0e66)
Chapter Three (#u1fb9ec92-2ebe-55b7-a053-0a1db55470b6)
Chapter Four (#ucaaae292-d8f1-57e6-bae3-b8de116db865)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
It felt good to be mounted on Thunder again after the rough Channel crossing. Ranulf grimaced as he remembered the endless swells and how close he had come to the indignity of losing the contents of his stomach.
This was better. He took a deep breath of crisp spring air. The Norman countryside was lushly green. A pretty brown thrush burst suddenly out of a gorse bush just ahead of him.
Ranulf smiled. His grandmother Ellen had always said that her Normandy homeland was the loveliest place on earth, outside of Lyonsbridge. He’d visited here once before, coming home from the Crusades, but he’d been traveling with an army in chaos after the capture of King Richard. There had been little time to admire the scenery.
There would be little time this trip, either, he thought, his smile fading. He was not here for pleasure. He’d come to find Dragon. And he didn’t intend to return to the warmth and comfort of Lyonsbridge until he could ride there with Dragon at his side.
He knew that the others counted his younger brother as dead. Two long years had passed without word. His grandmother had secretly ordered the holy brothers to begin masses for Edmund’s soul. But Ranulf refused to believe that his brother, a fighter so fierce he’d earned the name Dragon-slayer, was dead. He would find him, no matter how long it took. He’d search every corner of this bloody continent, even if it meant riding all the way to Jerusalem.
He intended to start with an obscure little abbey called St. Gabriel.
Bridget clucked her tongue in reproof as Brother Francis presented her yet another habit with the hem shredded like cabbage.
“If you all insist on continuing your tinkerings, we’ll not have a garment left to clothe you,” she said, shaking her head.
Francis’s round cheeks dimpled. “Now that would be a sight if the bishop ever did get around to visiting us here. A bunch of naked monks, being ordered about by a girl.”
Bridget forced her face into a frown, but her eyes danced. “Careful, Brother Francis, lest you have to do penance for such talk.” The frown turned genuine. “Who says I order you about?”
The plump little monk looked as if he wanted to put an arm around her shoulders, but he stopped himself and said instead, “Ah, child, let’s call it directing, not ordering. And well you know that half the brotherhood would perish without you to care for us.”
Bridget smiled. “I’ll admit to wondering at times how you all managed before I came along.”
“The Lord sent you to us. ’Tis the only answer. We’ve pondered it these many years since the day—”
Bridget waited, but she knew that Brother Francis would speak no further about her mysterious appearance at the abbey years ago. It had been her home as long as she could remember, but even now that she was a woman grown, the monks refused to speak of how she had gotten there.
She had stopped asking. It was enough that the monks loved her and she them. Though she’d devoured the abbey books on life outside the secluded monastery, she was happy here. She enjoyed her overflowing garden, the bustle of the dining hall and the peaceful solitude of the monk’s walk.
“If ’twas the Lord who sent me, it must be because he could see just how hard the White Monks of St. Gabriel were on their clothes,” she said, holding up the shredded hem and smiling at Francis.
“Sometimes I think we put too much on you, Bridget. How one slender girl can do all the work of caring for forty careless old men…”
“Forty dear souls,” Bridget corrected. “Who first took care of me for many years, don’t forget.”
Francis looked doubtful. “It seems a burdensome life for a young woman.”
Bridget gave the merry laugh that had so brightened the dark monastery halls and the lives of its inhabitants. “If it’s a burden, then ’tis one of love,” she said. “I’m fully content here.”
Francis’s worried expression smoothed. “If Brother Ebert tears his gown again, I’ll see that he sews it himself,” he promised. “He’s so proud of his confounded bread slicer and I don’t know how many times it’s run amok.” He turned to leave, muttering as he went, “I don’t know what was wrong with pulling apart the bread hunk by hunk like we’ve always done.”
Bridget smiled fondly at the round, retreating form. She’d told Francis the truth. She was content. It was true that sometimes, just before she drifted off to sleep, she’d have visions of a world beyond St. Gabriel. By morning the dreams would be gone.
She smoothed her fingers over the rough fabric of the torn habit and stared into the kitchen fire. She had no intention of looking for such a world. The only way she would glimpse it within these walls was if it would come to her.
Ranulf’s initial thought was that another bird had shot out of the brush, this time knocking off the small leather helmet he was wearing. He hadn’t brought his full armor to France. The wars were over and he had no desire for more fighting.
Almost immediately he realized that it had been no bird that had hit him, but an arrow. Before he could so much as reach for the sword in his saddle scabbard, they were on him. Four, at least, maybe more.
He flailed about with his arms, which were hard as an ironsmith’s hammer. Even before the years of the Crusade, the three Brand brothers had honed their strength in friendly competition, always eager to match their mettle against their siblings.
With the sheer force of his blows, Ranulf knocked two of his assailants from their horses, but another, a big man dressed in a black breastplate and black metal wristlets, took their place. Ranulf’s gloved fist hit the black metal, sending a shock all the way back up his arm. The man brushed Ranulf’s arm away as though it were a noisome fly, then he turned in the saddle and lifted the weapon he held in his right hand.
The last thing Ranulf remembered was the sight of a wicked star mace and an arm encased in black wristlets descending toward his head, blotting out the bright Normandy sun.
“Brother Alois says we can’t risk having you tend the man, Bridget.” Francis’s expression was worried.
“Nonsense. He’s been out of his head, raving, for nigh on two days. The Holy Father himself could be nursing him and he’d not know the difference.” Bridget finished stirring the mug of herbal tea at the edge of the hearth and rose to her feet. “Don’t worry, Francis, if he starts to come around, I’ll scurry back into the shadows like a little spider.”
