But he could at least try to offer some comfort after what was surely an upsetting talk with Martha.
“Martha’s been distraught since your sister died,” he said when Celeste reached him.
“With good reason, I should say,” she snapped, her lips thin and her whole body tense. Celeste wasn’t distraught, she was angry, and she sounded like his father or his brothers when they’d chastised him. “What did Martha say to you?” he demanded.
For a moment he thought she wasn’t going to answer. But she did.
She raised her chin and regarded him with defiant disdain. “She said you wanted Roland’s wife.”
“And you believed her?” he charged. He, too, was angry, although in truth, her accusation cut him to the quick, especially since she so obviously believed it.
If he had any doubts about that, they faded when she added, “You always wanted whatever Roland had.”
Gerrard crossed his arms and grimly, firmly, sternly told her the truth. “Not anymore and never Mavis. I saw at once how it was between them. She cared very much for Roland and he for her. Although I envied him, I would never have tried to take her from him.” Gerrard’s frown deepened. “You didn’t used to believe everything you heard. Have you grown more gullible?”
“I have learned that often there is some truth in a rumor.”
“But most times there is not,” he retorted. Disgruntled and anxious to be gone, he linked his fingers and bent down to help her into the saddle. Without a word, looking just as peeved as he felt, she grabbed the saddle board and put her foot into his hands, then got onto the horse with a little less effort than before.
Lifting the reins to turn her horse back the way they had come, she punched her heels into Daisy’s side with more force than necessary.
Before he could chastise her, the startled animal leaped forward and took off at a gallop.
By the time he was on Snow, Daisy and her rider had plunged into the wood, along a narrow path.
And then he heard a scream.
Chapter Sixteen
Gerrard was urging Snow into a gallop and riding after Celeste before he took another breath. If she’d come to harm...
If she’d been thrown...
If there were bandits in the woods... He’d been sure they’d captured all the outlaws who had once threatened Mavis, or that any who had not been taken had fled, but what if—
There! Celeste was on the ground near a fallen limb, half on her side, leaning on her elbow. Her wimple and veil were askew, her habit muddy. Holding her ankle with her other hand, she was biting her lip as if trying not to cry.
He jumped down from his horse and hurried to her. “Are you hurt?” Obviously she was. “Anywhere other than your ankle?”
She shook her head. “I fell onto that elderberry bush,” she replied, nodding toward a low shrub that had several broken branches.
“Thank God you didn’t land on that,” he noted with relief, gesturing at the stump of a small tree that had snapped off, leaving a jagged point.
“Yes, thank God,” she said, her words more like a prayer than his had been.
Regardless of the mud, Gerrard knelt in front of her. “I’m going to have to take hold of your ankle. I’ll be as gentle as I can.”
Her eyes wide, she again shook her head, this time vigorously. “No!”
He sat back on his haunches and regarded her with frustration. “If your ankle’s broken, it should be kept as still as possible until we get back to Dunborough. Otherwise, more damage might be done. Permanent damage. If it’s only a sprain, we’ll still have to take care, but it won’t be so serious.”
“I’m sure it’s just a sprain,” she primly replied with a lift of her chin, as if he’d suggested something immoral.
“You have experience, then?” he demanded, his brows knit with annoyance. “Or are you a physician?”
Her lips thinned. “Surely if it were broken, I’d know.”
She was the most stubborn, infuriating... “You’re willing to risk damaging your ankle for life rather than let me touch you?”
“Are you a physician, Gerrard?” she returned, eyeing him with scorn despite his efforts to help her. “Or have you spent time assisting in a hospital? From what I’ve heard, you’ve been spending your spare time elsewhere.”
He was clearly doomed to be dogged by his reputation forever. And whatever Martha had said had lowered her opinion of him even more. Nevertheless, he was determined to find out the extent of her injury and help her if he could, lest she be crippled forever.
“No, I am not a physician, nor an apothecary, but I have seen my share of injuries in training and on the tournament field, at least enough to tell a break from a sprain. And you may set your righteous mind at ease. I’d as soon risk baiting a bear as take any liberties with you again. Now I will examine your ankle.”
“Oh, very well,” she conceded, looking away, her full lips drawn down into a frown. “You were always stubborn.”
“Me?” he retorted. “Who was it insisted upon looking at that bloody badger and then nearly fainted? Who was it kept us so long at the bonfire that we got caught at the changing of the watch because she wanted to keep dancing? Who was so sure she was right about the rules of that game—”
“Who is supposed to be seeing if my ankle’s broken?”
With a very great effort he forced himself to be quiet and gently take hold of her foot.
He wouldn’t think about anything she said. He wouldn’t recall the past, or notice the little brown curl that had escaped from her wimple, or wonder if he’d actually seen her hair wound around her head beneath that flimsy veil when she’d been wearing that red gown. He would concentrate on her ankle and the injury.
He carefully turned her foot from side to side. She gasped a little when he moved it up and down, and winced. If there’d been a break, she would have done considerably more than that. She probably would have slapped him.
“It’s not broken,” he said, setting her foot carefully on the ground.
“Thank God for that,” she said. “How are we going to get back to Dunborough if Daisy doesn’t return?”
“We’ll both ride Snow.”
Celeste wrapped herself more tightly in her cloak and regarded him with cool disdain. “That would not be seemly.”
God’s blood! There was maidenly modesty and then there was stubborn foolishness. “It’s that or wait until somebody realizes I haven’t returned to the castle and sends out a search party. By then it will be dark and much colder and dangerous for those searching for us.”
She raised a brow. “Why don’t you ride back to the castle and bring some assistance?”
“Because tempting though it may be to leave you here,” he said through clenched teeth, his annoyance growing, “it’s cold and could be dangerous. If you’re so concerned about sharing Snow, you can ride and I’ll lead him on foot.”
“You let Esmerelda come to the wood alone.”
God give him strength! Was he never to be absolved of any wrongdoing over what had happened that night? Was he always going to be cast as the villain, although he hadn’t laid a hand on Esmerelda or wanted harm to come to her in any way? “I didn’t think she’d come!” he angrily returned. “I thought she’d be too frightened or her father would find out and stop her. If I’d had any notion otherwise, I would have gone to meet her.”
“So you might only have seduced her,” Celeste noted with displeasure. “A slightly better fate, I grant you, yet your behavior was still less than honorable.”
“Esmerelda was a selfish, flighty girl who wanted me much more than I ever wanted her. Wanted more than a kiss, too, although I wasn’t willing. So I said I’d meet her in the wood. If she came, I was going to tell her that her quest was hopeless. But I didn’t think she’d be
there. I cursed myself a thousand times after I learned what happened to her. I wish with all my heart I’d never said I’d meet her. If I could change what befell her, I would in the time it takes a heart to beat. But I can’t, and now you seem to think, along with half the village, that I planned to have the poor girl raped. If even you—”
He took a deep, shuddering breath and turned away. “I should refuse Roland’s offer and leave Dunborough,” he muttered, half under his breath. “If I stay, rumors and gossip are going to haunt me forever.”
His words, his tone, the despair in his voice and eyes, the things he’d said, overcame Celeste’s distress and dismay. Now she could believe all his denials. He hadn’t wanted Roland’s wife. He wasn’t the roguish, lustful wastrel gossip painted him, or if he had been once, his desire to be a better man was sincere and heartfelt.
He was truly sorry for what had happened to Esmerelda, and while he bore some responsibility for asking her to meet him, the greater blame was with the outlaws who had raped and beaten the unfortunate girl.
If Celeste still harbored any doubts of his sincerity, his muttered vow to leave Dunborough and his disgrace removed the last of them.
And if anything she had said caused him to leave Dunborough, to give up the thing he’d wanted all his life, especially after he’d made peace with his brother, she would regret it all her days.
Keeping her weight off her ankle, she rose to face him, her heart aching to see the pain in his eyes. “Dunborough is your home, and to be the lord there has been your greatest desire. Why not stay and prove to everyone that you’re worthy of the gift your brother’s offered you?”
He turned away. “Why should I stay where my past follows me around like a dark shadow?” he asked bitterly. “Better to start fresh where nobody knows me or my name. Besides, Dunborough is Roland’s, and even if...” He fell silent, then shook his head as if to clear it. “It’s better if I go.”
As she must. As she should. She had her future planned, and he could not be in it.
He raised his eyes and his gaze searched her face. His yearning, seeking gaze. “And you’ll go back to the convent.”
“Yes, Gerrard.”
He touched her hand.
She clasped his.
He took hold of her other hand. “I’m trying to be a good man, Celeste,” he said fervently. “I want to be a good man, someone others can admire and respect.”
“Your men esteem you. I’ve seen it.”
“My soldiers, yes, because I’m like them—loud and brash and prone to fighting. Yet there are others,” he said softly, drawing her close, his dark eyes full of longing. “Others whose approval and good regard I crave more.”
She must not weaken. She must be strong. He was a nobleman; she was going to be a nun. She wanted to be a nun. To be safe, to have a life of peace. Yet it took all her strength to calmly say, “If you continue to behave with honor and chivalry, you’ll earn that respect and good regard.”
“What if that’s not all I want?” he asked, his face close to hers, their bodies almost touching. “My entire life, I’ve believed Dunborough was all I wanted, all I needed. It would give me everything life has to offer—power, respect, wealth. I know now those aren’t enough.” His gaze intensified, his voice more yearning. “I want to be loved, Celeste, as Roland is loved. I want to love someone in return. Don’t you yearn to be loved, Celeste? Loved and cherished forever?”
She swallowed hard and fought to remember what she wanted, what she was sure she needed. “I want God’s love, Gerrard, and peace and security. Life in the convent as a bride of Christ will give me everything I seek.”
“What about excitement, Celeste, and passion? Do you truly wish a life free of those things, too? And children. You would give up the hope of children?”
He was reminding her of every doubt that caused her to waver in her decision to pursue the religious life. But he offered nothing in return, except passion and desire.
She pulled away. Turning her back to him, barely noticing the twinge of pain in her ankle, she found the strength to say, “We should return to Dunborough.”
It was too late for her to hide her weakness. Gerrard put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. “You want children, don’t you, Celeste? What about a husband who loves you? If you were loved—truly loved—that would give you peace and security, wouldn’t it? You could have everything you want.”
Confused, uncertain, tempted beyond all measure by his heartfelt words, his commanding presence and the yearning look in his eyes, as well as the memory of his arms about her and his lips on hers, she stammered, “Yes... No! I want to go back!”
“To Saint Agatha’s, or Dunborough, your home?”
His home, where once upon a time she had dreamed of being his wife, sharing his hall, his chamber, his bed.
A wild, desperate desire welled up within her, one that would no longer be restrained. Her sprain forgotten, she grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him to her. Her mouth found his and she kissed him with all the passion she’d been trying so hard to deny.
Here in the woods, as primitive as Eden, she gave herself up to all the feelings he aroused within her. She parted her lips in silent invitation, this time knowing and wanting what he might do as she leaned her body into his. She didn’t draw away when his hands roved over her. She stroked and caressed his strong back and shoulders as she had so often imagined.
Here, now, she was not almost a nun. She didn’t crave a passionless, peaceful existence. She was a woman alone with the man who had, from the earliest days of her blossoming womanhood, been the object of her romantic dreams, awake and sleeping.
She wanted him so much her knees felt weak, so it was an easy thing for him to guide her back to the wide trunk of a tree. She didn’t consider why he did that. She was simply grateful for its rough support.
His hand moved beneath her cloak and scapula, to knead her breast through her tunic and shift. A moan escaped her lips as she held him tighter, and she let his hands go where they would, even to cup her between her legs. Stroking gently at first, Gerrard soon increased his speed and pressure, sending new sensations through her. He kissed her neck, his other hand braced against the tree. Gasping, her eyes closed, she felt the tension grow as he continued to caress her.
Until, like the snapping of a branch, the tautness broke. She clung to his shoulders as if he were a floating spar in a storm-tossed sea, and she pressed her face against his neck while her whole body throbbed.
He continued to hold her gently, yet as the waves receded, she became aware of something else, something that told her she was not the only one aroused, although she had been the only one to journey to release.
And then the realization of her tremendous sin struck her. She had given in to her lust and, worse, encouraged his embrace and all that he had done. Instead of being virtuous, she had been wanton and immoral, and had led him astray, too.
As she moved away from him, full of shame and humbled, the pain in her ankle returned full force, as if her body, as well as her conscience, sought to punish her.
Before she could speak a word or even think of any, he spread his hands. “Celeste, I—”
“Say nothing, Gerrard,” she interrupted, her voice low and tremulous. “There is nothing to say except that I regret what happened here. Please take me home.”
“What we did is no great sin and shame,” he said softly, seriously, his eyes grave, yet yearning. “We are mortal beings, with natural needs and desires. It isn’t wrong to give in to those needs and desires if both are willing and free.”
She shook her head. “I’m not free. I belong to God and the church.”
“You can leave it.”
She couldn’t desert the church and the safe, secure life she’d envisioned for herself. After all, what else was there for he
r? He’d not said a word about marriage. “And do what? What life will I have if I leave the convent? No, Gerrard, I can’t give up the church and all it promises for an uncertain future.”
His expression grew hard and distant. “As you say, you are not free, not as long as safety and security is what you most desire.”
In the next moment, that mocking grin appeared upon his face and he made one of those sweeping bows. “I beg your forgiveness for this and all my many sins, Sister Augustine.”
He pointed at a fallen tree nearby, its trunk about a foot above the ground. “If you can step up on that, you won’t need my help to mount Snow. And I promise you that I won’t say another word to you about desire, or anything else.”
Nor did he as they made their way back to Dunborough, she on Snow and Gerrard on foot.
Chapter Seventeen
Lizabet hurried to open the kitchen door for Sister Augustine, who stood leaning against the frame.
“Sister, you’re hurt!” she cried when Celeste limped inside. “What happened?”
Celeste sank onto the stool near the hearth and, frowning, rubbed her sore limb. “I fell and sprained my ankle.”
“Maybe there’s some liniment in the larder,” the maidservant suggested.
Celeste let her look, although she was sure none was there. She had searched those shelves so thoroughly she knew every bag, basket, pot, vessel and box by heart.
But she wanted some time to calm herself, to collect her thoughts and decide what to do and when. It was very clear that she couldn’t stay in Dunborough or anywhere near Gerrard if she was to have the calm, contented life she’d envisioned for so long.
He was too tempting, too dangerous, and she couldn’t control her lustful, wayward passion when she was with him. As for marriage, a home and children, although he’d spoken of them in ways to make her yearn for such a future, he had not so much as hinted that he wanted to marry her. Yet there was no other man she wanted for her husband or the father of her children. She was sure there never would be.
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