“I agree, you crafty man. In the unlikely event that I lose, I promise to read my book of hours—for one full day.”
Guy’s brows rose inquiringly.
Celeste smiled. “In all honesty, good Brother, I cannot promise more. One day for me is like a month for everyone else. Do you accept this forfeit?”
Guy nodded, then took another drink. Celeste was pleased to see him enjoying her wine. She wasn’t sure if he had sworn off food and drink except for his customary bread and water, but a little wine strengthened the blood. Everyone knew that—except the English, who insisted that their ale was a healthy drink. Fah! Disgusting!
“And if I should win this game, Brother Guy, you will have to pay the forfeit of ...” She cocked her head and enjoyed his shifting discomfort. Did he think she would demand the usual kiss? What a tempting thought! But, no, Celeste must always remember that the archangel seated across from her was first and foremost a man of the church. “A smile, Brother Guy. I wager you for a smile.”
He nodded his agreement.
“Très bien, and so we begin our game.” With that, Celeste dealt out the cards, twelve each.
She quickly discovered that she had underestimated Guy’s skill. By the tenth trick of the first game, she began to fear that not only would she be nosedown in her book of hours all day tomorrow, but worse, she would never see him smile. She glanced at him over the top of the few remaining cards in her hand. Guy’s face could have been carved in stone—beautiful, expressionless and cold. The only alive thing about him was his eyes, which occasionally seemed to twinkle at her, though she discounted that as a trick of the flickering candlelight.
After miserably losing the first game, Celeste concentrated harder on the second. Though she did not lose as many tricks this time, her score was still very low. The image of that wretched book full of saints and angels floated in her imagination. She must win that smile! She knew that once he smiled for her, the ice would be broken and he would act much more friendly toward her in the future.
By the fourth game, Celeste had managed to narrow the gap in the score. Though Guy’s expression remained impassive, little indications, such as the way he slapped his cards on the table, told her that he was not happy with his losses. Bon! It was high time this glowering giant learned a lesson or two in humility. Good for his soul, Celeste told herself.
At the end of the sixth game, Guy tallied the marks. He stared at the slate for a moment, then poured out the last of the wine for himself and tossed it back in a single gulp.
Celeste bit back a smile. “May I see the score, s’il vous plaît?”
Not looking at her, Guy pushed the slate across the tabletop. Its passage made a grating sound. Celeste saw at a glance that she had won by a mere six points, but she pretended to linger over the marks as if she could not add them up. She waited to see if he would confess his defeat.
After a minute or two, he suddenly reached out and snatched back the slate. He rubbed out the marks, then scribbled something across its cleaned surface. You won.
“Ah, Brother Guy, I thank you for your honesty. And now, my forfeit, if you please?”
Folding her hands on the table, Celeste waited. Guy lifted his eyes to meet hers. For a long, heart-stopping moment, they stared at each other across the narrow width of the table. His ice-blue eyes changed to an indigo. Celeste felt herself drowning in their depths, and she prayed that he could not read the most unmaidenly thoughts that tumbled about in her mind like whirligigs in a high wind.
His lips twitched, then slowly pulled back into a grimace that showed a great deal of teeth and nothing else.
Celeste shook her head. “Non, Brother Guy. That is not a smile. That is a look of a horse who does not like the taste of the bit in his mouth. My wager was a smile—a real smile. Not with your teeth, but with your eyes, as well. Not with your lips, but with your heart.”
She held her breath. Would he do it? Guy blinked once, and then his lips twitched in that now-familiar way. The corners of his mouth began to curl upward. As his smile deepened, his eyes took on a softer hue—an azure lake on a misty day. Celeste trembled as she watched an amazing change sweep over him. Gone was the stern, unapproachable statue of an angel. Now, before her, appeared Saint Gabriel in the flesh. She could almost imagine blinding rays of light emanating from his halo of curls. Had she thought Guy handsome before? That had been nothing but a murky shadow of the true man. His sheer beauty transfixed her. If she never saw another smile from him, Celeste knew, she would never forget this spectacular one. Its warmth seared through every fiber of her being; its fire left an indelible imprint on her heart.
“Magnifique!” she breathed.
The sound of her voice extinguished the blaze in his eyes. As a candle snuffed out his smile disappeared, leaving only Guy’s customary chiseled expression. Abruptly he stood. Turning on his heel, he strode out of the room. Several of the cards fluttered in his wake, landing in a dejected heap on the floor. His swiftly retreating footsteps thundered down the stairs.
Celeste stared at his vacant place for a long time, trying to understand what had happened. When she finally rose and carried the candle into her own room, she felt a black emptiness within her. The butterflies had died.
Guy pressed his forehead against the cold stone of the stable’s outer wall and inhaled a deep breath of the brisk night air. Though he had managed to walk through the crowded taproom without attracting unusual notice, his heart hammered as if he had run five miles in full armor. Squeezing his eyes shut, he prayed for help and guidance.
Lord, forgive my weakness! He should have never agreed to meet Celeste alone. Once there, he should not have let her talk him into that card game or drunk her wine. She caught him off guard with her remark about hearing her confession. God’s teeth! One of these days she might very well ask him to do just that, and expect him to give her absolution.
Nay, what sins could such an innocent have committed thus far? Except the sin of stealing the heart of a weak-willed, struggling Franciscan novice who should have been made of sterner stuff. Ah, but that last hour with her had been sweet!
In Great Harry’s court, Guy had enjoyed the reputation of a skilled gamester, not only with women but with cards. Many a night he had filled his purse with princely winnings from the games of cent, primero and hazard, only to spend it all the following day on some idle fancy for his latest ladylove. Never in his life had he played at cards for so trifling a stake as a smile. Never had his loss been so expensive, for what was money compared to the price he placed upon his soul?
I wanted to leave that life behind me, and now it follows me in a guise more desirable than I have ever known. The lady is a devil!
While his mind fumbled through the first part of his nightly office, his memory conjured up her sweet face. The more Guy strove to banish thoughts of Lissa from his prayers, the more she intruded into them.
Never again would he allow her to breach his weak defenses. Never again would he trust himself to be alone with her. Lissa was all grace and beauty, fire and rose petals. Like the proverbial pearl of great price, this most stunning woman would shortly be cast at the feet of the greatest swine that had ever mucked through England’s bogs, and he—Sir Guy Cavendish, a knight sworn to the code of chivalry and a man of God sworn to obey—by his right arm he would hurl sweet Lissa to her undeserved fate. Afterward, Guy knew, he would damn himself to the grave for his part in such a foul deed, while he prayed to the silent God above for forgiveness.
She is nothing to me but a temptress—and someone else’s bride. I must only do my duty by her, then begone. She has no hold on me, nor I on her.
A mocking laughter echoed in the dark recesses of his brain. A truth colored by wine.
Fearing to return to the scant comfort afforded by a pallet on the floor of the upstairs hall—the floor just outside Celeste’s door—Guy bedded down in the stable, drawing a thick covering of clean straw over him for warmth. But the sleep he craved did not lie
down with him. Eyes open or shut, he could not blot Lissa out of his racing thoughts. Nor could he forget the look of anguish she had given him when he bolted from her and ran. Never had he deliberately hurt a woman—until now. As surely as if he had shot her with an arrow, he had wounded the one woman who deserved only kindness from him.
In an early hour of the morning, when all the world slept shrouded in thick darkness, Guy rose, shook the straw from his robe and crept back inside the Blue Boar. The boy who played the night watchman was startled awake, but he grinned in a lopsided manner when he recognized the tall monk. Guy blessed the lad, then made his silent way up the stairs.
Looking like a large wolfhound, Gaston lay across Celeste’s closed threshold, snoring loudly. As Guy stepped past him, Gaston snapped awake and drew his dagger from under his blanket.
“Say one last prayer, you shag-eared ruffian, before I skewer your liver.” Whispering his threat in French, Gaston pressed his blade against Guy’s side.
Reacting instinctively, Guy wrapped one hand around Gaston’s knife-wielding wrist, while the other closed around the old soldier’s throat. Gaston struggled, then suddenly relaxed in Guy’s grip.
Jesu! I could have killed the man so easily! Guy released his hold. Gaston sputtered and choked, muffling the noise in his blanket.
“By the devil’s cock, man, you have a damnable strong hand for a puling milksop of a monk,” Gaston gasped, when he could finally get breath enough to speak. “What do you mean to sneak up here this way, instead of keeping good Christian hours?”
In the dark hallway, Guy could do nothing to answer Gaston’s question.
“If it had not been for that robe you wear, I wouldn’t have recognized you, and you would have been greeting Saint Peter at heaven’s gate by now.” Gaston sheathed his dagger, then massaged his neck. “Oui, you think your strength bested me, Brother Guy?” He blew out a blast of ale fumes. “Fah! There’s not a man I’ve yet met who has fully tested my mettle. Now I’m for my bed, and you are welcome to this reeky pallet.”
Gaston lumbered into the large communal room, leaving Guy holding his thin blanket. A squeak of the knotted bed ropes told Guy that Gaston had found his resting place. In less than five minutes, Guy heard the old soldier’s heavy, even breathing. So, his earlier snores had been just a ruse, Guy thought with increased respect for Celeste’s aging watchdog.
As he stared at her door, Guy’s hand hovered over the handle. Perhaps his scuffle with Gaston had awakened her, and now she cowered under the covers, too frightened to see what had happened.
Gently he lifted the latch, and pushed open the door. By the light of the waning moon, he saw her form in the middle of the bed. His ear barely detected her soft, steady breathing. Telling himself that he merely wanted to be sure she was safely asleep, he crossed to her bedside like a night-prowling cat.
A cascade of black hair fanned across the pillow. By the Book! She was more beautiful than he recalled from that last memorable time he had seen her in her nightgown. The heat he had spent so many hours quenching rose again in his blood. As he looked closer at her face, a sharp knife of guilt twisted in his heart. Down her cheeks, the moonlight revealed the traces of dried tears—tears shed, no doubt, as a result of his churlish behavior.
Forgive me, dearest Lissa, because I cannot forgive myself. He caught himself before he stroked her forehead. If I could, I would ride into your life on my gray charger and whisk you away from all tears and pain. I would give you only joy for your bread and laughter for your drink. I would ...
He backed away from the bed, appalled at himself for his unholy thoughts. Hating himself for all that he yearned to have and knew he couldn’t possess, Guy huddled under the blanket outside Lissa’s door.
Sweet Jesu, what are you doing to me?
Chapter Fourteen
Over the next few days, Celeste and her retinue pushed northeast, through the villages of Helsby and Daresbury. Though Brother Guy politely acknowledged her presence whenever Celeste rode close to him, she realized that he had entrenched himself more firmly behind his aloof barrier. Her clever plan to make him more friendly toward her had failed miserably. Perhaps it was for the best. In the secret recesses of her heart, she admitted she was growing too fond of him. Celeste tried to put him—and that memorable, shattering smile—out of her mind, and to turn a cheerful face to her companions.
A day out of Manchester, the weather changed for the worse. Rain, whipped by a stiff wind, howled down upon the travelers and turned the already soft road into a quagmire. Despite Pierre’s best efforts to guide the horses, the lumbering cart carrying all of Celeste’s worldly possessions constantly bogged down in enormous water-filled ruts.
“God’s nightshirt!” Gaston bellowed as the men struggled with the wagon for the fourth time that afternoon. “This is too impossible in this weather. Put your weak-hinged backs into it, or by the beard of my father—” He cut off his threat when the cart squeaked and groaned out of the hole. “Load it up quickly again, before we lose daylight altogether. A pox on it! Does it do nothing but rain in this cursed place?”
Celeste, mounted on her palfrey, huddled deeper in her cloak under the scant protection of a leafless tree and tried not to think how long she had endured this trip. It seemed they had been traveling these unfriendly roads all her life. Only thoughts of the warm hearths of Snape Castle and the handsome face of her waiting bridegroom kept up her waterlogged spirits. She dared not tell Gaston that her throat felt raw again. As soon as they found shelter for the night, she would dose herself up with hot spiced wine and honey, and go to bed immediately. A good night’s sleep would clear up the light-headedness she experienced. She must not allow another bout of ill health to prolong this wretched journey any further.
“Good Lady, are you ready to go on?” Gaston reined his huge black steed in front of her. When she looked up at him to give her assent, he swore a very shocking oath.
“The devil take it! You are not well!”
Celeste shook her head. “Non, good Gaston. I am merely wet. Let us be gone from this place.”
Gaston put his hand on her bridle. “You may hoodwink half the world, young lady, but I’ve known you since you were in leading strings, and you cannot fool me. Brother Guy!” he roared over his shoulder.
“Do not disturb the monk, Gaston. We have tried his patience sore enough as it is.” Celeste didn’t want Brother Guy to think her a weakling. He obviously found her a trial enough as it was.
“Sacre!” snorted the old soldier, the fire of determination blazing in his brown eyes. “I will disturb him, all right. I will blast him off that waggish, rump-fed flea-house of his. Brother Guy!”
Guy appeared, ghostlike, out of the curtain of rain. Celeste pulled her hood lower over her face and hunched into her cloak. Even without looking, she knew when Guy turned his piercing blue eyes upon her. His gaze scorched through her thin defenses.
“You know this country, monk, and I pity you for that. My lady has a fever again, and I’ll not have her die here on the road. Not for the king of this hag-ridden land himself! We need a goodly house for shelter.” Leaning over in his saddle, Gaston nearly shouted his last words into the stony face of the angel on the ill-tempered donkey.
Celeste squeezed her eyes shut with embarrassment. If she didn’t feel so giddy, she’d chastise Gaston for his rudeness. As it was, she knew his diagnosis was correct.
For the first time since that evening at the Blue Boar, Guy touched her. Caught by surprise, Celeste nearly fell out of her saddle when he took her wrist in his hand. He pressed his fingers against her pulse point and appeared to be listening to her heartbeat through the skin. By the stars! Could he tell how fast her pulse raced because he was so near?
Dropping her hand, Guy reached up and felt her forehead. The hard planes of his features changed and became almost tender—or was it her hopeful imagination that made Celeste think so? She quickly glanced down at her hands, which clutched the leather reins.
/> “I am well, just fatigued, Brother Guy. Let us be off, or it will be the horses who will catch a cough,” she murmured.
Shielding his slate with his body from the downpour, Guy quickly wrote, Lend me your horse, and thrust it under Gaston’s nose.
“Oui.” Gaston quickly dismounted, and Guy leapt into the saddle with ease, despite the heavy soaked robe that wrapped itself around his body.
Guy pointed to Celeste, then to the place in front of him. Nodding again, Gaston reached up to help Celeste down.
“What is this?” She clutched Gaston’s cape. Were they going to abandon her here on the road?
“Be still, my lady. The good brother will carry you to safety, and you will get there faster on Black Devil than on your own dainty horse. Pierre, come here!” Ignoring Celeste’s weak protests, Gaston handed her up to Guy.
The monk easily lifted her, then settled her on the saddle in front of him. Guy gathered her close against his broad chest with one arm. Celeste had the feeling that she weighed nothing in his hands. Though they were both wet to the skin, the heat from his body warmed her. His shoulders curved over her as if he had sprouted golden wings with which to enfold her. Her head felt very heavy, and she let it fall back against him. Celeste’s ear pressed so closely to his chest, she could easily hear the beating of his heart through the single layer of woolen fabric. Its steady, strong rhythm soothed her.
When Pierre dashed up, Gaston pointed to Celeste’s mount. “Ride my lady’s horse and follow close to the monk. When you find out where they are going, come back and lead us there.”
Pierre made a wry face. “On that? It’s a saddle for a woman.”
With a muttered oath, Gaston ripped open the cinch and pulled off the offending sidesaddle, leaving a bit of damp blanket. “Now it is fit for a dog-hearted whipster. Get on.”
Silent Knight Page 13
