Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero

by Glynnis Campbell

  There was no room for thought, only perception. It was as if a film of gauze surrounded her, blurring the world, stifling all but the extraordinary sensation building within her. Her nipples ached, and he seemed to read her mind, palming the throbbing buds. Her hips surged upward of their own accord, striving for, for…she knew not what. Her head rocked from side to side, and the moans coming from her were foreign to her own ears. Some delicious demon seemed to possess her, stealing her command, shredding away her gentility like worn linen. Never before had she known such madness, such helplessness, such ecstasy.

  And then, rising to a dizzying peak with alarming swiftness, came a moment when nearly everything ceased. No breath stirred her lungs. No word escaped her. No sound penetrated the preternatural silence. Her body seemed to hang in perfect balance between two worlds. But that one spot, the place where their bodies met and merged and danced together, refused to cease. It glowed brighter still, carried beyond the realm of reality, becoming pure spirit and light and sensation.

  And then waves of intense pleasure rushed over her like drowning waters, claiming her body, wrenching all will from her. She sobbed out her ecstatic release on the syllable of his name.

  Then the ethereal world receded. Slowly, slowly she began to hear the crickets again. Stars glittered between the gray-green branches of the willow. The sod beneath her was damp and fragrant.

  Her body, spent and weak as a kitten, felt as if it belonged to someone else. And Garth loomed over her, his flesh still melded to hers, his breath heavy upon her cheek, his male scent strong and virile.

  She closed her eyes in horror. She’d done something wrong. She must have. Never had she lost control like that. Never had she surrendered so wholly or felt so vulnerable. What was wrong with her?

  She’d completely neglected Garth. She should have helped him find fulfillment. It was her duty. But nay, she’d been so focused on her own thirst that she’d scarcely heeded his. And that focus had proved fatal. She’d had no power whatsoever over her body—not over her limbs, which flailed and clutched at him like a madwoman’s, not over the savage moans and cries she uttered, not even over the gluttonous, self-indulgent thoughts that led her to forget his needs in favor of her own desires.

  He must be appalled.

  She was like a greedy child. And she’d paid for it. Oh aye, God had sent her soul to the very edge of death.

  Unable to restrain himself any longer, Garth had followed Cynthia simultaneously over passion’s precipice, plunging again and again into her sweet body, filling her with his seed, shuddering afterward like a frisky steed.

  Now he wished he could stay there forever, sealed to Cynthia, inhaling the womanly scent of her, watching the shadows of breeze-blown leaves dance across her moonlit skin, listening to the ragged sound of her breathing, feeling her heart beat against his. He wanted to think of nothing but the gentle, tempestuous, serene, wanton woman beneath him. He wanted to fall asleep with her there, cradling her in his arms, protecting her from the night, dreaming of jasmine.

  But he’d learned the harsh truth from Mariana. The lovely woman nestled under him was far from satiated. It was only the beginning for her. And since he’d come this far, he owed her the best he could offer, even if it couldn’t be enough.

  So he summoned up what strength was left him and willed his flagging staff to stand. He ran the fingertips of one hand down past her curving waist, over a perfectly sculpted hip, through the mat of curls still damp from their love. Gently, he spread the petals below, opening her to stroke the moist bud within.

  “Nay!” she hissed.

  Reflexively, he drew his hand back. What had he done?

  “Nay,” she whispered again.

  He searched her face. There was no malice there, no disgust. Only a queer shame that kept her from meeting his eyes.

  And suddenly, he was ashamed.

  She was unsatisfied. That was it. Just as Mariana had said. He wasn’t man enough.

  “I can do more,” he said gruffly. But even now, he felt his ardor diminish.

  “Nay!” she hastened to say. “Nay. You’ve done enough already.”

  His pride threatened to crack, but months of enduring Mariana’s barbs had hardened him enough to keep him from crumbling as he withdrew from her.

  The crickets seemed to applaud in mockery as he wrapped his cassock around his inadequate body again. The shadows of the garden seemed harsh now against the hard-packed path.

  Cynthia looked lost as she gathered her garments about her, like an orphan cast out of an inn.

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered, glancing about for her boots.

  He could do little more than nod. He was choking on a knot of emotions. Of course she was sorry—sorry she’d ever set eyes on him.

  She found her boots and stood clutching them to her chest. Her chin trembled as she tried not to weep.

  He couldn’t blame her. He was a disappointment. It wasn’t her fault. How could a woman truly understand what it was like to be half a—

  “I’m sorry,” she blurted out tearfully. She turned to flee, but not before he saw the first drop slide down her cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

  He stared at the ground rather than watch her run from him as if he were cursed. He was sorry, too. He’d known better. From the beginning, he’d known they were from different worlds.

  And yet, in a way, he wasn’t sorry, not at all. For one shining moment, he’d held heaven in his arms. And if he never shared a woman’s bed again, at least he’d always have that.

  CHAPTER 18

  Two weeks past Easter, the Abbot spurred his mount forward, wincing at the ache in his hips from the long ride. He was unaccustomed to riding at all, but it was one advantage that being master of his own castle afforded. He at least had the pick of the scrawny nags stabled in Charing’s stalls.

  Before him, the precisely cut gray stones of Wendeville rose out of the earth like a brazen slap in the face of the god who’d cast man out of a perfect world. The splendid castle seemed to mock the Abbot’s own battered Charing, where one counted oneself fortunate to find a corner free from drafts on a damp night.

  It irked him to have to come here himself, and he swore he wouldn’t do it again until he was ready to confront the Wendeville slut with orders for her execution, until he could claim Wendeville for his own.

  But he’d had to come. His plans had taken a nasty turn. Garth hadn’t killed the wench after all. And she hadn’t died from whatever disease it was she had. In fact, she’d apparently recovered enough to be courting. According to Mary, Cynthia Wendeville had already as good as promised herself to Sir Philip de Laval, which boded nothing but ill for the Abbot.

  So he’d come to the castle to take matters into his own hands again. He planned to befriend eager Philip, talk with him, pore over Lady Cynthia’s…bewitching ways. After all, the devoted couple had known one another only a short while. The Abbot knew her so much more intimately. Apparently, Cynthia had even managed to perform one of her healing “miracles” at the Easter tournament with Philip as witness. All the Abbot need do was whisper in sanctimonious Sir Philip’s ear what he knew about unscrupulous Cynthia Wendeville and her devil’s herbs. He was certain within the space of a few hours, he could convince the gentleman to part company with his tainted betrothed…leaving the Abbot that much closer to victory.

  He peered up again at the bold pennon flying jauntily above the majestic keep and grimaced at the bitter taste of dread. He was so close, and yet fate seemed ever determined to thwart him. He felt like a hound slavering over a bone that persisted in staying just out of reach.

  Elspeth knew something terrible had happened. But proud Cynthia wouldn’t speak a word of it. Since Easter, the poor girl had retreated to her chamber, taking her meals there, coming out only for crises that Roger couldn’t handle himself. She’d scarcely even spoken to the man she was to marry.

  At first, Elspeth wondered if the sickness had left some lasting mark on the lady or if pe
rhaps the Easter celebration had been too taxing. Then she worried it was some new malady. But at the heart of it all was fear. Never before had Cynthia retreated so far into herself. Never had she locked Elspeth out of her chamber. And never had she smelled of strong drink so early in the day.

  It was those thoughts that occupied Elspeth as she supervised the laying of the new rushes over the stones of the great hall. And so she was caught completely off her guard when she flung open the outer doors to discover the Abbot on the threshold, standing there like Death come to collect souls.

  “Oh, la!” she shrieked. “Abbot!”

  “Elspeth.”

  She hated the way he said her name, as if it were a Saxon curse.

  “I didn’t know you were…that is…had I known, I…” she muttered, trickling stems of meadowsweet onto the floor. “Why have you come, Abbot?”

  “Now, Elspeth.” Roger came up behind her, placing undue pressure on her spine as he prodded her out of the way. “Let’s see to the Abbot’s comforts ere we start questioning him, shall we?”

  She stood dumbfounded for a moment until she realized she was being rude. “Of course. Of course. I’ll get a cup of ale for you, Father. Come in.” She stood aside and let him in, against her better judgment.

  Lord, she thought, her hand trembling as she poured the ale a moment later in the refuge of the buttery, the Abbot couldn’t have picked a worse time to come. Lady Cynthia had always needed strong armor to battle the wretched holy man, and at the present, the poor lass could scarcely dress herself in the morn. What would she do if he brought bad tidings?

  Her hands were still shaking when she scurried across the newly laid rushes toward the hearth, where Roger and the Abbot sat conversing.

  “I hope the lady’s not ill?” the Abbot inquired, his forehead crinkling in a web of false concern.

  “She’s fine,” Roger lied as Elspeth passed full cups to both of them.

  “And your chaplain?” the Abbot asked.

  “Father Garth,” Elspeth piped in. “He’s working out well. It’s a worthy choice you made, Abbot.”

  She hoped she wasn’t lying as well. Over the last several days, Father Garth had made himself as scarce as a squirrel in January. His Sabbath offering had been an uninspiring sermon on the merits of going on pilgrimage. Even the chaplain himself could barely stay awake for it.

  The Abbot glanced at her dismissively, the way he always did, and turned again to Roger.

  “I hear congratulations may be in order for your lady. A wedding?”

  Elspeth exchanged a quick, panicked glance with Roger, then cleared her throat. “There is a man come to call, a good gentleman, fine and honorable. Of course, he knows nothing’s to come of it for a while yet, not till the lady’s done her proper grieving for Lord John, God rest his soul.” She hastily crossed herself, more to seek forgiveness for the lie than to bless John.

  “Of course.” The Abbot mimicked her motion with slow reverence.

  Elspeth took a steadying breath. She wondered if the Abbot believed her. Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t be performing the ceremony anyway. By the time he learned of the wedding, the deed would be done by Wendeville’s own chaplain.

  “Any…troubles?” the Abbot inquired.

  “Troubles?” Roger repeated, taking a swig of ale and screwing his face into a thoughtful frown. “Nay. None that I know of…unless you count the last rabbit I snared wiggling out of the trap.” He guffawed and slopped a little of his ale over the cup.

  The Abbot’s somber expression never changed. Elspeth wondered how soon they could get rid of him.

  “Well,” the Abbot said, running a single bony finger around the rim of his untouched cup, “that’s all I came for. You know, I’ll always have a warm spot in my heart for this castle.” He looked around the hall, at the tapestries hung from the scrubbed plaster walls. “I’ll always think of Wendeville as my home.”

  Elspeth doubted there was a warm spot in the Abbot’s heart. And as for Wendeville being his home, was it her imagination, or was there a covetous glint in his eyes when he said that?

  Fortunately, Roger had more tact than she.

  “You’ll always have a place here, Abbot.”

  The Abbot drained his drink all at once, and then sat back, staring into the gentle flames of the low fire as if he never planned to move again.

  “Well,” Elspeth finally broke in, unable to stand the uneasy silence or the suspense any longer, “will you be staying then for supper?”

  “It’s a long way home, and I fear my bones are weary from the ride. If I could burden you for one night, I’d like to meet this suitor of Lady Cynthia’s.”

  “Of course,” Roger hastily replied.

  “My thanks.” He handed his empty cup to Elspeth. It was a good thing he didn’t bother lifting his eyes to her, or else he would have immediately spotted the displeasure on her face.

  Garth grimaced as another stone cut into the sole of his boot. A few more trips to the village and he’d have to buy another pair of shoes. His feet ached from the long walk home.

  And yet it was a familiar ache, one he’d earned doing an honest day’s work, one he could salve with oil and herbs, nothing like the ache that pressed in on his chest, threatening to squeeze his heart till it burst.

  That ache would never heal, no matter how many times he trudged to the village to preach to sinners, no matter how many babes he blessed, nor how many marriages he performed. That ache would live with him for the rest of his life. And only time would erode the sharp edges of such pain.

  The sun perched on the hills like a giant eye, watching him as he walked briskly up the gravel path toward Wendeville.

  He wondered what supper would be or if he’d be hungry for it tonight. Most of all, he wondered if she would be there.

  She hadn’t come down to supper once since their unfortunate affair in the garden, which relieved him immensely. Between her confinement to her room and his trips to the village, supper and Sabbath were the only time they were likely to come face-to-face. And thus far, she’d avoided supper.

  He’d considered confining himself to his quarters where he’d be certain of dining in peace. But both of them supping in seclusion would have been suspect. It would have endangered Cynthia. More than anything, he had to protect her.

  So, his shoulders tight with anxiety, he passed through the massive oak doors of Wendeville, just in time for the late afternoon meal.

  Once again, Cynthia had absented herself.

  Instead, the Abbot, visiting from Charing, commanded the place of honor at the high table. To Garth’s chagrin, he also demanded the company of Wendeville’s chaplain.

  The Abbot didn’t frighten Garth. Aye, he was as sober as the grave, and aye, he resembled the skeletal rendering of Death in the monastery Bible. But he was a man of flesh and blood, no matter how little of either he had.

  It was his questions that were unsettling. The Abbot may be a mere man, but he was a powerful man, one who could exile and condemn with a mere sweep of his bony arm.

  Garth was certain guilt was smudged across his forehead like the ashes of Lent for the Abbot to see. Surely the stain upon his soul lay bare to the Abbot’s shrewd eyes. And if the Abbot could sniff out Garth’s sin…

  An image of innocent sky-colored eyes and bouncing orange curls flashed through his mind.

  Thank God she’d remained in her chamber.

  “So you’re content with your position here, Father Garth?” the Abbot asked quietly, picking idly at his trout.

  “Aye,” he replied carefully.

  “It’s a…splendid keep.”

  Garth glanced around the hall. Cream-colored candles flickered golden against the white plaster walls. Painted shields and rich, dark tapestries hung between the narrow windows. It was splendid. Nearly as splendid as Castle de Ware. But since his arrival, he’d paid heed to little but Cynthia’s splendor.

  “Your quarters are acceptable, I presume?”

 
“Aye.” Garth shifted in his chair. This type of talk made him restless. There was some motive underlying the Abbot’s words, but he’d be damned if he could name it.

  The Abbot gave a pinched sigh through his nose. “It was difficult to leave.”

  Garth scanned the faces before him, all of whom he could readily identify now. “They’re good folk.”

  The Abbot craned his head toward Garth and gave him a most curious half-smile, as if Garth were some insect he was trying to identify.

  “Good folk. Aye.” Then he lifted a tiny morsel of trout to his lips, taking it off the knife with a sucking noise.

  Garth glanced at his wine flagon. It was empty. He wished he had a full cup to slug back.

  “And how are you coming with that…” That Abbot bent near to whisper low. “That vice for which you took the vow of silence?”

  Sudden heat flamed across Garth’s cheeks. Did the Abbot know? Did he know that he lusted after the lady of the castle? Did he know that he’d slaked that lust between her lovely legs mere days ago?

  He dared not look up.

  “Well,” he replied as evenly as he could. “Very well.”

  The Abbot studied him a long while. Then he dabbed at his lips with his napkin.

  “Aye. Well, it’s comforting to hear. After all, there is so much more…temptation…away from the monastery.”

  Garth held his breath. It would come now. Now the Abbot would close his trap.

  “And how do you fare with,” the Abbot murmured, “the poor child?”

  “The child?”

  “Lady Cynthia.”

  He nearly blurted out that Lady Cynthia was no child. But at the last moment, he wisely choked back the words. “Fine.”

  The Abbot tapped his eating dagger on the edge of his silver platter. “Fine?”

  “Aye.” He knew he should expand on that, but he could think of nothing to say that wouldn’t tighten the noose around his neck.