by Ciar Cullen
Gwyneth smiled as she crossed the tiny footbridge and took the twisting, stony path up the hill towards her cottage. Perhaps the next time she would make the pathetic monk cry out for her. She would caress herself in plain view, show him her wet folds, pinch her hard nipples, and rub herself to ecstasy. It had been too long since she’d felt a man’s hardness fill her, pound into her, give her the release she missed. The release she couldn’t match by her own hand. One of the brothers would be safe enough. No chance of marriage. The Grey Cloak would care not that she could not bear him a child.
Gwyneth sighed. If only her brother-in-law Simon did not need an heir. And did not hate her, she mused sadly. She would pursue him wantonly, be his whore willingly. The familiar shiver of dread and excitement filled her at the thought of her dark, brooding brother-in-law. His eyes were the color of green leaves in the fall when the sun begins to infuse them with gold. A thin, pale scar cut across the edge of his chin, the result of a wound Gwyneth had inflicted herself years before in youthful play. Simon’s black hair was full, falling in waves to well beneath his collar, his body was hard and lean. Six years younger than his brother, four years younger than her.
How many times had she watched him in swordplay, half-dressed, sweat glistening on his bronze skin, and muscles bulging? How many times had she shut her eyes against the sight of her husband, Lester, pretending that Simon hovered over her instead? How long had she craved the touch of the wrong man? She counted off the years—since Simon was but sixteen.
And how many times in the last year had she pleaded with Simon to believe in her innocence?
“I did not kill your brother, Simon. But I know who did,” she muttered to the night air, whispering a quick prayer for the soul of her lost husband. He had been a brutal master, and he needed all the prayers living souls could offer. No doubt the prayers were wasted, and Lester rotted in Hell with his kind. But she would keep the secret, go to her grave letting Simon believe she was guilty, lest more pain come to the murderer. No, Simon Malstron Carnoor would never be hers, and that fact would plague her heart and soul for all eternity.
Gwyneth sighed again in resignation. Of course, it didn’t mean she couldn’t bed the foolish monk who hid behind the ancient wall. He would appear again in a month, would he not?
* * *
Shawn pushed his hand through his dark hair and shook his head. “What the…? Monks jerking off in the woods, witches and murderers…this is a romance? Is this the kind of stuff you read?”
“That’s the beginning. I’m not sure I can read the rest out loud. I mean, you know.”
“Yes, I do know, trust me. I do not want my sister reading porn to me. You used to read Dr. Seuss to me. That’s about all I can handle.”
Dana threw her head back and laughed. “Yeah, you already look a little pale. Here, I’ll finish it later. Take it.”
Pale? Shawn shifted on the couch, horrified his sister might suspect the effect Jen’s story was having on him. He might well be pale, all the blood having rushed to his cock. He had to get away from Dana.
Shawn held up his hand. “Look, Jen told you to wait until she finished it. And if I want porn, I’ll watch it at my condo, thank you very much.”
“This isn’t the same, is it, bro? It’s Jen’s writing. Not some anonymous bimbo faking it for the camera.”
“It’s still fiction! Ridiculous stuff.”
“There’s fiction and there’s meaningful fiction. I really think you need to read this.”
“Meaningful fiction? You’re talking in riddles. I intend to read it, trust me, but…”
“I think it’s a letter.” Dana winked and handed him the manuscript. She tilted her head to one side and stared at him. “She got it right. Your eyes are the color of green leaves, but with a glimmer of gold.”
“A letter? To whom?”
“You’re not very bright, for a professor. Can’t you see the sexy Master is based on you? Come on, I know you’re dense about women, but even you have to admit…”
“No way.” He pushed his hand through his hair. “Really?”
“Really.” Dana stood and stretched, and leaned in to kiss Shawn’s cheek. “Sleep tight. If you sleep at all.”
Shawn snatched the manuscript up and rolled it, tucking it under his arm, hidden in a newspaper. Jennifer? The centerfold? The New Age goddess? The older woman who had fueled his fantasies since high school? The woman who made him feel special simply by talking with him? No, Dana had it wrong, had to have it wrong.
Shawn slapped the papers on his forehead. “In your dreams. Forget about it, asshole.” But it wouldn’t hurt to read a little more of her story. He took the stairs to his room two at a time, locked the door behind him, and settled on the bed to read Jen’s masterpiece.
Chapter Three
“The Monk,” Shawn muttered in disdain. Ridiculous stuff, he thought. He reread the description of the hero, Simon.
“Is that how she sees me?” he wondered in shock. Shawn squeezed his eyes shut and let a wave of lust sweep through him. She was older. Yep. He was the brother-in-law. Yep. Ex-husband a brutal master? He thought of Frank. Yes, that pretty much summed up his brother. And handsome, with a hard, lean body? He’d certainly been working out, but shaking off the old picture of the skinny science nerd still took some work. Of course, the dating scene grew more promising all the time, and he didn’t have trouble getting around…but Jen? No, she was way out of his league.
“She would caress herself in plain view, show him her wet folds, pinch her hard nipples, and rub herself into ecstasy. It had been too long since she’d felt a man’s hardness fill her, pound into her, give her the release she missed. The release she couldn’t match by her own hand.”
Shawn reached to ease the ache a few dozen words had caused. “I’ll give you the release you crave, Jen.” He caressed his swollen cock in long strokes, imagining that her hand squeezed and tortured, teased the moist head, brought release. Shawn bit his lip to stifle a moan as he came. How many times, after all these years, had he jerked off to thoughts of Jen? Too many to count, even when she’d been married to Frank. Even when Shawn had been with his ex-girlfriend Morgan, he’d always imagined Jen at the moment when his world slipped away in ecstasy.
“Oh shit!” Shawn grabbed a towel to wipe the bit of evidence of his release off the manuscript page. He reached for his beer and propped himself up, ready to read more.
* * *
Gwyneth read the note again, laboring over each word, working very hard to ensure she had the meaning correct. She ran her fingers across the precious parchment, repeating the message aloud. Her French was poor, and she knew not a word of Latin. Fortunately, this note was written in English, the only language she could read.
Simon had secretly taught her to read, despite the threats Lester had repeated against the training. It was extraordinary enough that the brothers could read. It was sinful that Simon had taught his sister and sister-in-law what he knew. Had Simon himself penned the note? The thought made Gwyneth run her hand across the page again, as if she would feel something of his skin, his touch, by doing so.
Simon Malstron, Lord of Carnoor, requires your presence at a dinner to celebrate the natal anniversary of his beloved sister, Cecelia.
Impossible. Simon had banned her from Carnoor for a year, and now he invited her to his sister’s birthday celebration? Gwyneth sighed and shook her head in confusion. What should she do? Hurt the only woman who had ever treated her with kindness, the woman to whom she was bonded in a way only women can be? The woman who knew her darkest secrets? Had Simon actually given his permission, or was Cecelia plotting behind his back?
In a week, she could lay eyes on him again. And he would still hate her. But for young Cecelia…there was nothing she would deny her.
The youth cleared his throat. “Madam, I am to wait for your response. I can tell you what is contained there. I have committed it to memory.” The scruffy young man pointed to the invitation.
“No, no, I
understand well enough, lad.” She closed her eyes. Her heart lurched at her own words. “Please convey to your Lord that I would be honored to attend the celebration.”
The boy nodded, mounted his horse, and rode down the path as if he fled the Devil himself.
Even the lad thinks you’re a witch. No one understood the old ways, the healing arts. Fools. They came to her door for cures but ran from her in fear as she walked through the winding village streets. At least the Brothers at Cloores respected her art, although she knew they turned the other way when she muttered the ancient tongue to aide in her cures.
Gwyneth pulled her cloak around her and slung her heavy woven bag over her shoulder. Vials clanked against one another as she began the long trek to Cloores Abbey. It had been nearly three months since she had looked in on the aging Grey Cloaks. She hoped all fared well, but she would assist where she could.
“I give up, Adrian. The woman shows nary a sign of having a lover. I have sat on the cold, wet ground outside her cottage night after night. A witch? Perhaps. A wanton woman—it hardly seems likely to me now. If a lover was party to Lester’s murder, he seems long gone.” Simon groaned and pushed his hand through his thick hair.
The older man threw back his hood and turned his face to the weak fall sunshine. He took in a deep breath and then, as if he just remembered he was not alone, regarded Simon and patted him on the back.
“I did tell you, my Lord, did I not? She is not the wanton murderess of your brother. It is out of character for the lady.”
Brother Adrian stopped and placed his hands on the young man’s shoulders.
“Pay heed, Simon. I am your confessor, but more, I am your friend. May I call you such?”
“Aye, and I fear I know what counsel will come from the lips of my friend.”
“Aye, I believe you do. Your repeated confessions of lust for the woman are becoming somewhat tiresome. May you and God both forgive me for saying so?” He muttered a prayer in Latin and smirked at Simon. “I do not want to turn you away from the confessional, my son, but I think instead we might discuss this matter man to man. At least, that is what I believe the Lord would want me to do.” Adrian tilted his head forward and narrowed his eyes. Simon squirmed a bit under the close examination, which seemed to amuse Adrian.
“Come, lad, must you always be serious? Ah, I believe the climate here has soured the temperament of your people.”
Simon glared at the rotund Brother as he pushed his hand through his thick dark hair. He opened his mouth to argue, but laughed instead.
“You believe, although I claim to come to cleanse my soul, I want instead to chat like a young girl about a secret romance? Perhaps you are right, Adrian.”
Brother Adrian led their stroll along the grassy slope of the lazy stream that no longer fed the silent, motionless mill.
“Already the chill of winter insinuates itself into the air. Ah, my son, you should see Rome at this time of year. I will return before too long, should the Archbishop grant my request to finish my years in the land of my birth.
“But enough of my woes. In youth, one is more able to keep to the subject.” Adrian rubbed his hands together and turned his rheumy eyes to Simon.
“Your problem, sir, is that you lie to yourself, to me, and to the Raven, as you call her. I believe that is a bigger sin than your attraction to the woman. After all, she is a widow, and available. By the way, the Raven will visit Cloores this very day.”
Simon stopped dead in his tracks. “Pardon me, Adrian? I mistook you for saying that the Raven would come to Cloores.”
“Indeed. Your sister-in-law, Gwyneth. She is the woman in question, of course.” He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture and looked at Simon’s shocked expression.
“Oh, please do not feign surprise, Simon. Surely you confided in me hoping I would guess the secret of the seductress. Gwyneth is a modest healer, a grower of herbs and such. Our aging Brother Fadrius cannot fathom her success and welcomes her counsel. Every three months or thereabouts she comes all the way for one night, sometimes two, if one of the brothers is ill. She replenishes our stock of cures and sees to particular problems. Surely you knew of her skill—she lived under your roof for years.”
“A healer? A witch, you mean.” Simon made the sign of the cross. “And yet, you let her stay at the Abbey, under the holy roof? Impossible.”
“Your obsession with the woman has clouded your vision. I have been a man of God, albeit frail and flawed, for many years now, my friend. I know the difference between an unholy demon worshipper and a maker of healing potions. She is a good woman, Simon. She is no longer a child. Are we so pure as to judge her in this fashion? She is odd, perhaps, but who of us can claim not to be?”
Simon walked silently, weighing his options. It seemed all his plotting, hiding, and spying had brought him nothing but embarrassment in front of a holy man and a few nights of unquenchable lust. Enough! He might never learn who had plunged the knife into the back of his brother. It was time to return to his sister Cecelia and the management of Carnoor. No doubt the party preparations were already underway. He groaned aloud and Adrian looked at him in question.
“Oh, it is nothing, Adrian. My young sister likely has Carnoor turned on its rafters in preparation for her celebration. She turns sixteen and considers herself a grand lady of the keep. In fact, she has nearly become so. No doubt the entire town will receive invitations. I cannot believe I left it to her. I was…yes, Adrian, obsessed. You chose the word correctly. But not with the woman—with finding my brother’s murderer.”
“Ah, if it helps you to believe that, sir, I will not argue the point.” Adrian patted Simon on the back again. “Only midway through your third decade, is that not so? You have done well. Not many men your age could run a keep alone in quite the fashion you have, as well as raise a lovely and devout young sister. Cloores also owes you great fealty for your constant generosity.”
“It is out of friendship and devotion.”
Adrian clapped his hands and rubbed them vigorously. “Your charade is over? Ordained a monk and excommunicated in the space of a few months?” Adrian laughed. “Perhaps you would like to stay one more night? I doubt, however, that your Raven will strip naked on the grounds of the monastery.”
“I do not suppose you would like to make a wager on that? One last thing, Adrian? Please do not reveal my stay here. On the odd chance the witch spied my vigil of her cottage, of her…I prefer she not know it was I. For Cecelia’s sake, of course.”
“Of course.” Brother Adrian nodded.
Simon knew Adrian didn’t believe him. He turned his face to the weak sun, feeling a heat that came from inside sweep through his body at the thought of seeing Gwyneth again. Could Adrian be right? Was Gwyneth truly a healer, not a witch at all? But what of her rituals?
More importantly, Adrian had laughed at the notion Gwyneth was capable of killing Lester. Why, Simon, why did you accuse her? Did you ever believe the woman capable of such an act? No, you needed to distance her, to keep her far from your own desires. For who would take his brother’s wife to bed? Did you persecute a woman because you did not trust yourself?
Simon laughed at his own ego. What guarantee did he have that Gwyneth would take him? He was nothing like Lester, the brother she’d taken as husband. No doubt any affection she had for her younger brother-in-law was long since replaced with loathing. He had certainly earned her hatred.
Chapter Four
Jennifer paced quietly in the hallway, stopping each time she reached Shawn’s door, struggling for the nerve to tap. She heard the faint voices of a movie in the background and wondered if he was awake, or if he was reading her book. Perhaps he’d read a few pages and cast it aside, thinking it was silly women’s stuff. What if he’d read it and understood he was the hero? Her heart pounded as she imagined his reaction.
Dana had finally admitted to stealing the manuscript and handing it off to her brother. Now Jen felt foolish for chastising her good friend.
Her plan had worked so far, and she had no right giving Dana a hard time for falling into the trap.
Why are you torturing yourself like this? Knock on the door and get it over with. You wanted him to read the story. Suck it up and see if you got your wish.
She put her ear to the door and raised her hand to knock, then finally lost nerve. With a deep sigh, she wandered onto the wraparound porch of the second storey. A half-moon cast silver on the dark waves, and she sat in a lounge chair, at the same time longing and afraid to see Shawn.
The sound of the sliding glass door made her nearly jump, but she kept still in the shadows as Shawn peered out at the ocean and stretched. Here’s your chance, Jen. He’s standing right there! But the moment was lost as he turned from the window and shut off the television. She heard him open a beer bottle and rustle through papers. On tiptoe, nerves jangling, she peeked into the room to see Shawn lying in bed in his briefs, beer bottle in one hand and her manuscript in the other. She watched, transfixed, wondering how far he’d read.
* * *
The Raven swept into the monastery garden suddenly, and Simon hurried away, down the path towards the stream, pulling his hood up. He sat on a bench and feigned prayer while watching her from a distance as she washed her face and hands in the cold fountain. The sun was nearly set behind the dark forest trees and a misty grey turned to near blackness in the space of minutes.
Why are you doing this, Simon? Reveal yourself, and be done with it. Or go home, and forget she ever existed. His heart fell at his choices. He had tortured Gwyneth with his accusations for a year, relegated her to a tiny cottage on the edge of the manor holdings to make it clear to all that he held her in contempt. He had once been very sure of her guilt, that the woman had found Lester odious, that they had shared a loveless marriage. Who would not want to rid herself of his torture? For indeed, Simon knew how dark Lester had been. Never faithful to his stunning wife. But that was the way of marriages. How could someone go to another with Gwyneth waiting willingly in bed? Never, if she were mine.
