He was staring into his flagon of wine, considering the merits of extending his vow to a lifetime of silence, when Cynthia jostled his elbow. Startled, he turned to catch her gaze, full force. Dear Heaven, she was breathtaking. Her face, framed by stray tendrils of her fiery hair, was flushed with delight. Her skin was misted with exertion, her cheeks rosy, her lips curved into a coy smile.
Intense longing bloomed inside him like wine warming his belly. His heart seemed to pulse to the beat of the timbrel, his lungs to breathe in the harmonies of the lute. He suddenly ached to join her, to join all of them, to share in their revelry, their humanity. For one terrible moment, his legs quivered in mutiny, threatening to move against his wishes.
Another dancer wheeled her away then, and the feeling passed. He swallowed back panic. How close had he come to taking that first step? To forgetting who he was, what he was? To violating his own principles?
Drawing the back of his hand across his perspiring lip, he rose on shaking legs. Measuring his pace to contradict the rhythm of the music, he made fists of his hands, steeled his jaw, and walked deliberately past the merrymakers.
He almost escaped. If he’d paid heed to the weaving pattern of the dancers, he might have cleared their path. But as fate would have it, as Cynthia rounded the wheel, he stepped left, square upon her toes.
She emitted a small, muffled squeak and pitched forward suddenly, falling against him. Her hands snagged the front of his cassock, and instinctively he caught her shoulders. A dizzying wave of sweet perfume arose from her hair to tease his nostrils, and he swallowed hard as he felt the weight of her warm body pressed against his.
He should push her away, he knew, and yet something held him immobile, some hunger, some unspeakable desire, some force that dismissed all sense, all reason. She raised her head to look at him, and he saw his own need reflected in her eyes, doubling its power, intensifying his desire. Suddenly, in the middle of the great hall, it seemed there were only the two of them.
Against all wisdom, he lowered his gaze to her lips. How full they were, so tempting, parted in expectation. His thoughts careened dangerously. Damn the crowd. Damn his vows. He wanted to kiss her. Now.
And in another moment, he might have.
But that bossy little scrap of a maid of hers elbowed her way between the two of them. “Oh la! You’ve ruined the pattern now, my lady!” She steered Cynthia from the circle, sparing him a heated glare that could have cauterized a wound.
Garth closed his eyes. He deserved Elspeth’s ire. He’d promised not to interfere with her machinations. Indeed, as soon as he was able to rein in his passions, he’d doubtless bless her for interrupting a moment of sheer madness. But for the remainder of the long evening until he found safe harbor in his quarters, all he could manage was a fierce scowl and a wretched craving that kept his hands locked in fists.
Cynthia only half-listened as Lord William escorted her along the herb garden of the inner bailey in the fickle morning sunlight. Her hand rested familiarly along the top of his sleeve, and yet his arm might have been only the cushion of a chair for all the attention she paid it.
Her thoughts had whirled crazily through her brain all night, ever since that encounter with Garth de Ware, intruding even into her dreams, and come morn, she could make no more sense of them than before. She knew she should pay heed to her visitor’s words, and she had, up till now, at least enough to respond with an occasional nod or smile of agreement. But when Garth appeared at the far end of the courtyard, her ears grew deaf to Lord William’s discourse.
Old Simon limped along on Garth’s arm. It appeared the feeble man had misplaced his walking stick again. The poor wretch couldn’t manage to keep his thoughts in order, much less his possessions. Cynthia wondered if she should lend assistance. She knew, as Garth did not, that Simon usually left his stick propped against the wall of the east garderobe.
“So your ears have deserted me as well.”
“What?” Cynthia snapped her head around. “I’m sorry, Lord William. I—“
He chuckled warmly. “You’ve been staring at him for some time now.”
She felt a flush steal up her cheek. “I don’t know what you’re—“
He clucked his tongue. “Be careful, lest you tell a lie. They don’t approve of that, you know.”
“Who?”
“Men of the church.”
“I…I was watching…old Simon.”
He patted her hand in a brotherly fashion. “I saw the way you looked at the man last night, even when he was stepping all over your feet.”
Panic seized her, panic and denial. “Sir, are you suggesting..?” she hissed. “He is a man of the church. I wouldn’t dream of…” She stopped to smooth her skirts, composing her thoughts. Bloody hell, she wasn’t dreaming of anything so blasphemous, was she? “What you saw in my eyes was nothing but innocent pleasure,” she explained, eager to convince herself as well.
Laughter sparkled in Lord William’s russet eyes. “Pleasure? I wish I could please a woman so well.”
She opened her mouth in denial, but his upraised hand halted her.
“Peace, my lady. I wish you well with him.”
Cynthia felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “You are mistaken. Garth de Ware is a devoted man of the cloth, not prey to…earthly desires in the least.”
“Indeed?”
Lord William was laughing at her, and it rankled her. Last night had taken them both by surprise, that was all. After all, neither of them were accustomed to such intimacy. For Cynthia, she’d lost her husband weeks past. For Garth, it had probably been years since he’d been close to a woman. Lord William simply didn’t understand.
“Then kiss me,” he said.
Cynthia thought she’d heard wrong. “What did you say?”
“Kiss me.”
“But I…hardly know you.”
“You know I wish you no ill.” He leaned forward to whisper to her. “Kiss me. I’ll wager your chaplain will seethe with jealousy. But if he stirs not an eyelash, then I’ll yield the day and bow to your instincts.”
“He won’t even blink,” she assured him.
He stared at her a long while, a strange play of emotions crossing his features—mild lust as he gazed at her mouth, but also a bit of sadness, and a wisdom that made him look older than his years.
“But if he does blink, I’ll waste no more time in courting you, my lady.” He reached forward and toyed with a loose lock of her hair. “I’ll pack up my men in sorry defeat,” he said with a good-natured smile, “and wish you well.”
It was nonsense. The whole conversation was absurd. By God, she’d prove she had no claim upon Garth de Ware, that he was devoid of feeling for her as well. She faced William squarely and raised her chin. “All right then. Do your worst.”
He winked, sweeping one hand about her neck, the other about her back, turning so they were in full view of the chaplain, and then he kissed her. His lips were soft, his freshly shaved chin smooth, and his touch upon her throat light-fingered, undemanding. He tasted sweet, like the sugared cinnamon loaf they’d shared for breakfast. But she felt no more stirred than she had as a girl when her father gave her a quick buss on the cheek.
After a lingering moment, he released her lips. He parted from her just an inch and murmured, “Can you feel the daggers of his eyes? Look.”
She peered over his shoulder and gasped. If looks could kill…
Garth’s face had become a rigid mask of displeasure. Her heart pounded at such potent rage directed at her. Maybe he only disapproved of public displays of affection. Or maybe he thought Lord William was an unsuitable suitor.
But deep inside, a thrill of dangerous desire infused her blood, and her flesh tingled with delicious trepidation.
“You see,” William whispered, “I’ve won the wager. I must say he’s a fortunate man to garner the attentions of so charming a lady.”
Cynthia felt so breathless she could neither protest his accusation nor receive
his compliment with even the simplest courtesy.
William stepped back then, bowing over her hand in polite farewell. “You should tell your maid to stop seeking a suitor, when her lady’s heart is obviously already spoken for.”
His words left her speechless. Surely he was mistaken. Elspeth wasn’t seeking a suitor for her. And perhaps her own heart beat a little faster when Garth drew near, but certainly the priest felt nothing for her, nothing beyond a general desire for her gender that his long chastity sparked. Their intimate moments were always fleeting anyway, followed at once by his cool disregard and mild disdain.
Still, Lord William’s words haunted her all the rest of the day, even after he and his company took gracious leave of the castle. What if Garth did feel something for her? What if his remoteness stemmed not from irritation, but from a heart too fond?
It didn’t matter, she decided later, bundled snugly in her bed against the frosty air of night. Whether he felt affection for her or not, she’d made a promise to herself, and she intended to keep it. She’d vowed to rescue Garth from spiritual death. She wouldn’t abandon him now, even if it meant leaving her own heart at peril.
Once she’d compared Garth to an ailing plant. She knew now he was most like the wild ivy, that to flourish he must choose his own path, find his own footholds in the crevices of the garden wall. And it was up to her to be that strong foundation upon which he could climb. He might well cling to her affections for a time, if such was the road to his soul’s freedom, but she must remain firm, unbending, resolute.
Moonlight seeped through the clouds and the crack of her shutters, heralding the storm’s passing. The sun would return on the morrow, drinking up the last of winter’s tears and promising renewal. Garth, too, would soon bathe in the nurturing light of restoration. She would do everything in her power to make it so.
Cynthia was a born healer, after all. She could summon the earth’s power, lay hands on a sickly man, and make him strong. Shouldn’t she be able to use that gift to heal a man’s spirit as well? Certainly there was no harm in the attempt. She’d always cured the infirmities of others, miraculously absorbed their ills without injury to herself. Why should afflictions of the soul be any different?
Aye, she vowed, burrowing her nose under the furs, she’d use her talents to save Garth de Ware while keeping herself aloof from his awakening passions. She’d be more of a…caring sister to him. She smiled, pleased with her decision, and slipped to sleep, soothed by the simplicity of her promise, never realizing how difficult it would be to keep.
CHAPTER 8
Garth’s head thrashed on the pillow, his mind clamoring with swirling, erotic visions. The woman’s long hair lapped at his ribs like flames of a sensual fire. Her hands gripped his shoulders, and she sheathed him in her silkiness again and again, riding him like a charger.
She pressed forward, and he gasped at the fragile beauty of her breasts. Tenderly, he caressed the peaks, fascinated by their change as his thumb brushed across a soft nipple.
She bent down to him, smoothed back his hair, and whispered incoherent words of passion in his ear. He shivered and lunged upward into her, caution cast to the wind. She gave her breast to his mouth, and he sucked hungrily, groaning at its sweetness.
His body began to quiver with a tension starting in his belly, expanding outward to the top of his head and the soles of his feet. As the sensation grew out of his control, he released her breast so he wouldn’t harm her. His breath came in quick gulps, and he gasped as she smiled down at him in ecstasy, her pale blue eyes languorous in the moonlight, her hair a brilliant orange corona about her lovely, freckled face.
“Cynthia…Cynthia…” he moaned, no longer master of his mind.
Garth awoke as his body burst into a violent shudder of release. His muscles strained with effort, and his seed pulsed forcefully from him like wine too long in the cask. He cried out, then threw his arm across his mouth to silence the cries, gasping into the wool of his cassock sleeve.
The pale moonlight lent a blue cast to Garth’s quarters as he quaked in his sweat on the bed. This time had been different. This time his body had betrayed him completely. He felt the sticky, wet evidence of its anarchy upon his thighs and belly.
It hadn’t been Mariana this time, either. The goddess looming above him had been Lady Cynthia.
Sighing miserably, Garth peeled back the coverlet and grimaced in disgust as he beheld the sordid ruins of his cassock.
Why did God torture him like this? All he wanted was to quietly and completely devote himself to the church, to melt into the chapel walls unnoticed, like a forgotten tapestry over a drafty window. Was that too much to ask?
He pulled the cassock off and flung it into the basin. The chill breeze sobered him as it blew against his naked skin. He scrubbed the wool with a brusque vengeance, shivering with cold all the while. But even though he wrung out the garment and spread it along the hooks in the wall, beside the other he’d unfortunately washed just hours earlier, he knew neither would dry by morn. Either cassock would be as uncomfortable as a hair shirt, and as appropriate, he thought morosely.
With a silent curse, he flounced back onto his bed and burrowed under the furs, praying no one would discover the castle chaplain sleeping in sinful nakedness.
Alas, Lady Cynthia came for him before he was awake.
“Garth? Psst. Garth?” The disembodied voice danced among his dreams. “Garth?”
He opened one eye.
“You know how to write, don’t you?” she asked.
With a sleepy scowl, he pushed up to his elbows. Lord, the lady had breezed into his private quarters like she belonged there, all green surcoat and clinging underdress, as fresh as an April meadow. She looked at him expectantly, as if it were a decent hour.
He rubbed a hand over his eyes. It was tempting to dismiss her as part of a dream, to fall back onto his bed and go to sleep. After all, it couldn’t be far past Matins. Even if he did feel like he’d lain awake all night.
What was it she’d asked him—did he know how to write? He couldn’t help grimacing at that. How could a friar not write? It was what they did all day. He nodded.
“Good. Then stir yourself and dress. There’s much to be done in the garden.”
Her gaze flicked lower for an instant, and he saw her breath catch. It was then he remembered he was naked beneath the coverlet. A hasty glance at the wall revealed the twin cassocks condemning him. His bare shoulders rose brazenly above the coverlet, but it was too late to snatch the furs up. She’d already seen him. She already knew.
To his relief, she politely made no mention of it, clearing her throat instead and throwing back the shutters at his window. “What a layabed you are, Garth. I thought friars were accustomed to rising with the sun.”
He blinked against the light and swiveled his head to look outside. The storm clouds had scattered in the night, and the sun was already a full fist above the horizon.
“I’ve brought you something,” she said, holding up a pair of sturdy leather boots. “I saw one of yours had worn clear through. I noticed you have rather large feet, but these should fit you.”
She glanced down at his foot, which stuck out from the coverlet. He yanked it back beneath the furs, feeling even more violated. It was bad enough that she’d caught him without his cassock. Something as personal as the state of his clothing was not her affair. And she most definitely shouldn’t concern herself with the size of his feet.
“Please hurry,” she said with irritating cheer, setting the boots upon the floor. “Time is a-wasting. And don’t forget your quill and ink.” Then she swept out the door like a flirtatious spring zephyr.
Much to Garth’s chagrin, the boots were nearly a perfect fit. And he was grateful for them moments later as he trudged past a huge pile of malodorous earth at the west end of the outer garden.
A dozen men carted seasoned manure to the pile, and children mixed it into the wet soil with spades, when they weren’t hurling it
at one another like ammunition from a trebuchet. Chatty young girls pulled at weeds, tossing them into a wheelbarrow. Elspeth presided over the herb garden, bleating out directions to several maids for the planting.
And there, beyond the herbs, the gate to the privy garden stood wide, as inviting and foreboding as Pandora’s box.
Cynthia squinted, scanning the garden for the perfect spot to plant the cowslip. Aye, she thought, plucking the seedling lovingly from the wheelbarrow, there, beside the west wall. She took a deep breath of fresh, damp garden air and began to hum.
An hour earlier, the sun had pushed up over the lavender hills like a lily blooming, the cloudless sky slowly turning the color of a robin’s egg. A dainty carpet of fairy’s tears had graced the sward as she made her way to the privy garden at dawn, making the day seem almost magical.
Still, none of it had left her as breathless as she’d felt creeping into Garth’s chambers. For longer than she cared to admit, she’d stood in his doorway, admiring the softness that slumber brought to his face, the provocative tangle of his hair, the way his nostrils flared gently as he inhaled the rarefied air of dreams.
Then he’d stirred in his sleep, flung an arm outward, and she discovered a salacious secret. Father Garth de Ware slept unclothed. It was, if not sinful, at least wicked. Yet it wasn’t condemnation she felt as she let her gaze rove over the sculpted contours of his bare shoulder. She’d bitten her lip against the surge of molten wonder that seeped into her blood.
What a mystery was her chaplain, and how that mystery called to her. The longer she watched him, the more she yearned to know what lay beneath that coverlet, to throw back the furs and…
She’d finally had to shake herself from her wayward thoughts. When she at last summoned the resolve to rouse him, it felt akin to waking a dozing dragon.
But she had more innocuous plans for Garth this morn. His indoctrination back into the secular world had to be handled delicately, without haste. Today she intended to remind him of what simple delights existed beyond the monastery. And so she’d laden a great basket full of palatable pleasures for him, a feast for the senses. Since she was certain monastic fare consisted of ubiquitous herring and coarse cheat bread, she took great pains to pack the very best that Wendeville’s stores and Cook could provide. Lent had begun, but that didn’t diminish the bounty of pickled eels, fresh grayling and shrimp kept cool in straw, and a loaf of very fine, white pandemayne, as well as candied orange peels, dried figs, gingerbread, and apple tarts spiced with cinnamon. She’d filled a skin with cool claret from the cellar, complete with two silver flagons.
Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero Page 10
