Ana Seymour - Maid Of Midnight

“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

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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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

†Lord of Lyonsbridge #472

The Rogue #499

†Lady of Lyonsbridge #520

†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!

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

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.