Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero

by Glynnis Campbell

  He coaxed the tiny black barb between his thumbnail and his dagger. Slowly, he drew the stinger out. “You know its name?”

  He stopped his ministrations and turned to her. Their heads were inches apart. She was really rather comely despite her strange coloring, he decided. Her large, pale blue eyes were luminous against her sun-kissed skin. And her orange hair was…intriguing.

  “My…my mother taught me the flowers’ names,” she faltered, turning a pretty shade of pink.

  Garth nodded and returned to his labor. A faint grin lurked at the corners of his mouth. She’d blushed. Actually, all the little girls he knew did that when he looked at them. His mother said it was the de Ware curse. She said Garth would break many hearts on the road to manhood. Whatever that meant.

  He placed his hand lightly on the embroidered neckline of her surcoat. “Forgive my coarse touch, my lady,” he said with an apologetic smile. He’d heard his brother Duncan use those words with wenches many a time. He wasn’t entirely sure of their meaning either, but the ladies seemed to like hearing them.

  Cynthia gulped. Garth’s touch was anything but coarse. His fingers felt like warm silk against her flesh as he slipped her surcoat and underdress the tiniest bit off her shoulder, making her skin tingle.

  “Do you know that fruit?” he asked, nodding to a white blossomed tree.

  She blinked languidly at the tree, then shook her head.

  “That,” he announced, “is an apricot. My grandfather brought it back from the Holy Land. He fought in the Crusades.”

  Cynthia nodded, only half-listening to Garth’s words. She was far too enrapt by the touch of his large hands, firm yet delicate on her neck, and the twinkle in his proud eyes—gray-green, penetrating eyes with thick, gently curved lashes—to pay much heed to what he said. There was something about the noble slant of his nose, the dark, masculine down along his upper lip, and the strong, square angle of his jaw that had a most curious effect on her. The blood rushed feverishly to her cheeks, leaving her skin strangely sensitive.

  “This is the last one,” he said.

  Cynthia blinked, trying to remember his conversation. “The last…apricot tree?”

  He flashed a one-sided smile. “Nay. The last barb.”

  “Oh.”

  Cynthia’s heart drummed like the feet of a captive rabbit as Garth bent near. Moisture formed along her upper lip. What was wrong with her? Had the bee stings poisoned her and made her feverish?

  “It must be buried deep. I can’t see the barb.” He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head this way and that at her shoulder, trying to catch some glint off the stinger that would disclose its position. Twice he lifted his dagger. Twice he brought it down.

  “Maybe there is no barb,” Cynthia said stridently. She didn’t know how much more nerve-stretching intimacy she could endure.

  “Nay, there’s a barb. But the place is swollen to the size of my father’s silver medallion.” He frowned. “If I could only feel…”

  Cynthia raised her brows. Feel what? What did he intend? He’d sheathed his dagger and was looking furtively about like a naughty child about to steal a tart.

  Without warning, he clutched her by the shoulders and lowered his head to the bee sting. Cynthia’s breath caught in her throat. His soft brown curls brushed past her cheek like a caress. His lips pressed wetly, warmly against the flesh of her shoulder, just like a kiss. She trembled at the shock of his embrace as she felt him nibble there. For one tense moment, she didn’t breathe. Then he abruptly lifted his head and spat to the side.

  “Ha!” he exclaimed in victory.

  Cynthia gaped at him with glazed eyes. She felt dizzy and weak. Part of it was relief—the ordeal was over. But part of it was a skin-tingling, toe-curling sensation, the birth of desire so overpowering it threatened to dissolve her bones.

  Then Garth stood tall, blocking the sun with his broad shoulders, and issued a stern warning. “Now stay away from that bush, little moppet. It’s always covered with bees.”

  With the sun behind him, haloing his magnificent head, Garth de Ware looked like a hero. And so he was. He’d come to her rescue, like a knight in shining armor.

  Cynthia exhaled a wistful sigh. Her lids felt curiously heavy. Her shoulder burned deliciously where his lips had seared her flesh, and she swore she’d never wash the spot again. Glowing with adoration, she pressed one hand modestly to her bosom and curtseyed in her most formal fashion.

  “I’ll never forget the great service you’ve done me, Sir Garth,” she said breathlessly. “You’re a most brave and courteous knight.”

  Of course, she knew he wasn’t truly a knight. Not yet. But she noticed he didn’t correct her. Indeed, he looked rather pleased with the title. He flashed her another one of his charming, crooked smiles and, retrieving his book, nodded to her in farewell.

  She stared steadfastly, unwilling to forgo one glimpse of her newfound champion.

  As he closed the gate after him, he called wryly over his shoulder, “Don’t forget your cuttings, little thief. Better not leave any evidence strewn about.”

  Cynthia glanced down at the incriminating rose slips. How insignificant they seemed now. When she looked up again, her hero had disappeared.

  She smiled dreamily at the garden gate. Then she wrapped her arms about her and twirled once in delight.

  “Perhaps I will marry after all,” she declared to her flowery audience. Sweeping up her boots and stockings with a graceful flourish, she gave the garden a knowing grin. “Garth de Ware,” she whispered, “someday you’ll be mine.”

  Fate, however, had a cruel habit of interfering with the best-laid plans. That very evening, Cynthia’s mother lost the boy growing in her womb and fell deathly ill. Cynthia and her father were summoned home before the sun had even broken through the pall of night. By the time they returned, it was over. Lady Elayne was dead. Cynthia was the new mistress of le Wyte. All her childish dreams were abandoned, and her precious cuttings, forgotten in her pockets, withered and died.

  CHAPTER 1

  FEBRUARY 1338

  Quiet reigned in the dim bedchamber, save for old Elspeth’s soft weeping and the ironic healthy crackle of fire on the hearth. Outside, a punishing rain pelted the sod, but the sound was dampened by the heavy tapestries hung over the windows.

  The life force was almost gone from the man in the bed. Cynthia could feel it in the weakening of his grip. None of her healing powers would save her dear husband. She placed loving hands upon his clammy forehead, hands she’d used often to comfort him, hands through which God sometimes performed miracles. But this time, when she closed her eyes, she saw the clear image of the black snake.

  Death.

  It was inevitable. Lord John wasn’t a young man. He’d known he was dying for weeks. But for Cynthia, seeing that dark, incontrovertible image in her mind’s eye…

  John had already bid farewell to the others. The Abbot had performed last rites. Roger, John’s steward and dearest friend, stood sentry at the footpost of the bed like a loyal hound, iron gray and ramrod straight. Beside him, Elspeth dabbed at her bleary eyes with the corner of her apron. All that remained was for John to bid adieu to his wife.

  Cynthia bit back a sob and clasped his cool fingers again. He frowned, and she leaned forward to catch his faint whisper, his final bidding. His soft words barely stirred the wayward curl that had fallen from her coif, but that made them no less offensive. She drew back sharply.

  Grief burned her throat. “Nay,” she protested, “I can’t.”

  His face contorted with disappointment, and it was all Cynthia could do to keep from dissolving into tears. But she swore she wouldn’t cry.

  “Please, Cynthia.” His voice was as weak as wind through a cracked door.

  She clamped her bottom lip between her teeth, determined to remain strong. How could she do it? How could she keep such an impossible vow? But how could she let him die without granting his final request? “All right,” she managed to chok
e out, squeezing his hand in reassurance. “I promise.”

  He smiled faintly. And then he was gone.

  The frail, gnarled fingers grew limp in her grasp. His old eyes glazed over with the dull patina of death. One final breath rattled out between his lips, and his body sank into the feather bed.

  Long-repressed tears welled in Cynthia’s eyes, threatening to spill over. It didn’t matter that his death had been coming for months. It didn’t matter that he’d lived a long, rewarding life. Her husband, the kind and gentle man who’d given her he last two years of that precious life, was gone. And there had been nothing she could do about it.

  She let John’s wrist drop gently upon his chest and reached across to close the lids over his eyes.

  Behind her, Elspeth gulped out a single sob, then buried her face in Roger’s thick surcoat, muffling the rest.

  Out of habit, Cynthia pulled the furs up to John’s neck and tucked them in around him. Then she gazed once more at his rugged, wrinkled face. Remarkably, there lingered at the corners of his slack mouth the vestiges of a smile.

  Suddenly she was transported to the past spring, when they’d walked hand in hand through a meadow thick with new daffodils, the air fresh and sweet with a recent shower. What had he said to her then? That she was his salvation. That she’d taken his weed patch of a life and filled it with flowers. His smile had been so full of joy and so sincere that she was moved to prove her affection for him at once, spreading her mantle and coupling with him among the daffodils.

  The seasons came and went, days spent in light and laughter. All told, they’d had only a score of months together. Still, this was how she’d remember John always—smiling as he had on that spring day.

  She closed her eyes and waited for the hollow ache in her throat to subside. John wouldn’t want her weeping over him. His dying command proved that. And after all, he was at peace now. His long suffering was over. With that small consolation, she managed to swallow her sorrow. She kissed first his pale forehead, then his papery cheek in farewell.

  The abrupt bark of the dour Abbot clearing his throat encroached upon her private ritual. She flinched, startled. She’d almost forgotten he was there. In her vulnerable state, the last person she wanted to deal with was the ghoulish Abbot.

  Reluctantly she faced him, suppressing a shiver. Today, he looked even more like a messenger of death. His dark robes contrasted starkly with his sickly pallor, and his sharp-boned face and sunken cheeks were almost skeletal.

  “He is with God now, child,” he intoned soberly, folding his spidery fingers before him in a semblance of humility.

  Child. How the word grated on her ears. Only the Abbot could make the endearment sound like an insult.

  He’d never liked her. He’d made that clear from the beginning. And she’d made no pretense of affection for him. But for the sake of John, to whom the Abbot appeared singularly devoted, she’d kept her opinions to herself. She’d endured the man’s condescension, his hypocritical patronizing, his interminable sermons on the inferiority of females, and his resolute blindness to the fact that Cynthia was a grown woman with her own free will.

  But now it was over. Now John was gone, and she no longer had to put up with the Abbot’s affectations of fatherly concern. He’d be leaving Wendeville soon. John had bequeathed him a holding at one of his neighboring estates. In a matter of days, the Abbot would be out of her life.

  In the meantime, she dared not let him witness a hint of the disabling loss she felt with John’s passing. It would only fuel his criticism of her. She straightened her spine and gave him an indifferent glance.

  “Please see to the blessing and entombment at once, Abbot. Then if you’ll pack your things…”

  The Abbot stabbed her with a sharp, disapproving glare. Then, as quickly, he judiciously lowered his eyes, snuffing out their dark fury. “Of course. As you wish.” He steepled his fingers thoughtfully beneath his chin. “But, child, what about kinfolk who may want to see him before—“

  “John had no kinfolk, save me.” She narrowed her eyes. “I’m sure you knew that.”

  He did. And as far as he was concerned, a wife of less than two years could hardly be called kin either. His blood boiled as he thought of all that Wendeville wealth in the hands of a child. Why, she hadn’t even the look of a proper grieving widow. She should be wailing like old Elspeth, wringing her hands, turning helplessly to the church, to him, for comfort, for guidance.

  Instead, her cheek was conspicuously dry, almost as if she were relieved. The golden flicker of the fire danced across her young, luminous face, turning her disheveled hair to flame, the devil’s fire. Aye, she definitely looked relieved, as if, when the old man’s soul was lifted from his body, a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

  It wasn’t right. The wench was too much in control, too aloof. And far too clever for his taste. Lord John’s body was not yet cold, and already she planned to evict him—a servant of God who’d neglected his own monasteries to remain steadfastly by the dying man’s side. She’d find a formidable foe if she thought getting rid of him would be easy. He had no intention of leaving her alone with the vast Wendeville fortune. One way or another, he’d receive his due.

  He twisted his fingers in wordless irritation, resisting the urge to strangle the wayward wench into accord. But he knew ire was not the answer. Anger was never shrewd. Nay, he must be meek. After all, it was the meek who inherited…

  “Abbot?”

  “Perhaps you act in haste, child.” He fixed a bland, sympathetic expression on his face and looked down his nose at her. “It’s a harsh trial, losing a husband, and you so young. Wait a day or two. Allow me to offer you spiritual comfort.”

  To his consternation, she actually winced at his words. “I find comfort in the peaceful manner of his passing, Abbot,” she said, unpinning the dried rose spray from her surcoat and placing it upon Lord John’s silent breast. “I wish that all men could die as content as my John.”

  His nostrils flared. John Wendeville had certainly been that. Happy beyond reason. Happier than any mortal man deserved. The wench had coddled him like an infant. He frowned at the array of various scented oils and potions by Lord John’s bedside, medicines she’d concocted for his ills. It turned his stomach to imagine Cynthia’s hands applying their devil’s ointments to the old man’s wrinkled skin. After all, the church believed in the sufferings of the body. His own scarred back attested to the fact that pain was the avenue for salvation. Why should the old man be spared the agony of his own dying?

  He sulked as he watched Lady Cynthia blow out a candle at the head of the bed. Damn the heathen wench! And damn John for wedding her. They’d ruined his plans. All the years he’d spent romancing the old goat as if he were a suitor, all the forced smiles and exchanged pleasantries, all the patience as the childless lord’s life dragged on and on and on… All were wasted now, all because of the harlot before him. Cynthia le Wyte had come to seduce the lord’s wealth away, using the one weapon the Abbot couldn’t employ.

  She’d slept with the wrinkled prune.

  He closed his eyes to slits, unable to blot out the repugnant vision that came to mind of young Cynthia mounting the wasted old man in eager ecstasy. He turned away in disgust, letting the dim light obscure the enraged veins sticking out from his neck.

  He’d have to control that rage if he wanted a scrap of his reward. It might be too late to save the inheritance, but there was still a chance to wheedle a healthy stipend from the bereaved widow.

  Bereaved? The idea almost made him laugh. Unlike her sniveling maid, the cold Cynthia hadn’t shed a single tear for her husband. And she clearly bore him no love. Squeezing blood from an apple would be easier than wresting a penny from Lady Cynthia.

  If only the wench had died with John… He clenched his fingers together, imagining the feel of her soft, supple neck between his hands as he choked the life from her.

  “I think he’d want a simple, private ceremony. Ab
bot?” Cynthia said. “Abbot?”

  The Abbot jerked his head up, startled. Cynthia could see his thoughts were elsewhere. He was probably thinking up ways to salvage her wayward soul. She sighed and looked one last time at John’s restful face.

  That all men could die as content…

  Her husband had been content. For two years, Cynthia had stayed by his side—a faithful wife, adored companion, enthusiastic lover. That he survived an entire year after the physician tucked him into his deathbed was likely due more to her doses of affection than the foxglove and wormwood she painstakingly administered to him for his failing heart. She’d devoted herself to pleasing him—preparing his favorite foods, regaling him with snatches of song, letting him occasionally win at chess.

  Gently, she leaned forward and blew out the last beeswax candle beside the bed. A wisp of smoke rose upward, flirting with the gold brocade bed curtains.

  Theirs had been a marriage of convenience. Neither of them had deluded themselves about that. Cynthia’s father was land-poor, widowed, and sonless, with an eldest daughter whose countenance could only be described as “healthy” at best. When the wealthy but feeble Lord John Wendeville offered for Cynthia’s hand, le Wyte hastily arranged for her sacrifice to the heirless lord in order to increase the family fortune.

  Cynthia was never bitter. She knew and accepted that marriage was often a practical arrangement. She’d hardened herself to circumstance long years ago, upon her mother’s death. At eighteen, she’d realized she was no great beauty. Nor did she possess the kind of holdings to tempt a suitor. Therefore, she entered into the union with Lord John with pragmatic grace, if not enthusiasm.

  And John was quite pleasant, as it turned out. He was patient and kind, sweet and generous. He dressed her in velvet, showered her with emeralds, put up with impertinent old Elspeth, even allowed her to fulfill her dream of owning a pleasure garden, from which she picked him daily bouquets.

  John knew he was dying. He simply wanted companionship in his final years.