Cecily smiled as she wiped her hands on a small towel. “You will feel the benefits of it soon. I’ll start binding your arm in a few moments.” She began walking away from the bedside, toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Oliver demanded.
She glanced over her shoulder at him as her stomach did a little flip. It was as if he was concerned that she was leaving him. “Only retrieving a chair.” She grasped the back of a wooden chair and swung it up in front of her, turning back to face him. “I must confess that I’m a bit fatigued from our shared misadventure, and would rather sit than stand while I wait for your draught to take effect.”
“Oh,” he said as she neared him, seeming nonplussed, then regretful. “I do apologize for keeping you from your rest. I’m certain you are weary.”
Cecily sat down, knees together, hands folded in her lap. She composed her face. “After your arm is bound, we will both sleep.”
Oliver nodded.
The chamber filled with silence, hairy and tickling. Cecily wanted to squirm in her chair. The moments ticked by, pacing slow, tapping circles on the floorboards.
“Are you hungry?” Cecily asked abruptly.
“Yes, famished,” Oliver answered practically before Cecily had finished speaking.
“I’ll have a tray sent up straightaway.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Several moments slithered by before Oliver spoke again. “Half you eaten?”
“No,” she said, looking at him intently now. “I’ll take a tray when I retire.”
“I shee,” he said, and Cecily realized she was hearing the slight slurring of his words.
“Feeling anything yet?” she asked. His eyelids seemed to have acquired a gentle droop.
He pulled a face and shook his head. “Nary a think, milady. Per’aps I am shimply too used to shrong drink for it to affect me properly.”
Cecily tried to hide her smile as she stood. “Well, let’s see if you can tolerate it. If the pain is too much, we shall stop and I will have another potion made.”
He dropped his chin to his chest as if bowing courteously in his invalid state. “Ash my lady wishes.”
Cecily folded the coverlet further away from his right arm, and then turned to walk around the end of the bed, her heart pounding.
“I’ll need you to sit up a bit more if you’re able,” she said, crawling onto the mattress with as much decorum as possible. “This would be easier had the maids left your arm in the sling I fashioned, but I will help you as much as I can.”
“Hussies tried to shtrip me bare,” he muttered as Cecily slid her right forearm behind and under Oliver’s left shoulder.
“I beg your pardon?” Cecily asked.
“Nothing,” Oliver said dismissively.
“All right then—hold on to your wrist and try to keep your arm as still as you can while I lift you. There you are. Ready? On three. One, two, three.”
Oliver’s breath shushed out through his teeth as he dug into the mattress with his heels and Cecily pulled. She said a small prayer of thanksgiving that they were able to move him into a suitably upright position on the first try. She was unsure how composed she could remain with her hands on his hot, bare skin.
“Very good,” she praised quietly, and skittered backward off the bed, noticing his pallor and clenched jaw. “Arm?”
“Ribs,” he whispered.
“I’ll go as quickly as I can.” She returned to the side of the bed nearest him and leaned across Oliver Bellecote’s lap to lift the lid from a silver serving tray, where a mound of slimy, steaming dressings lay atop a hot stone. She picked at an edge with her fingernails until she could grasp a single piece, and then pulled a length from the pile.
True to her word, Cecily worked quickly, drawing on her years of experience in treating the ill and injured. To his credit—and perhaps that of Cecily’s fine draught—he did not cry out as she firmly wrapped the first course of linen soaked in plantain-infused lard high up on his bicep. In moments, his upper arm was covered with the treatment from shoulder to elbow, and Cecily finished the dressing by winding long strips of clean bandages over the poultice.
She dared a look at his face as she made the final knot, and to her surprise, his expression seemed more relaxed.
“Lord Bellecote?” she whispered, wondering if he had fallen asleep.
His eyes cracked open and he turned his head minutely to look at her. “Hmm?”
“I’ve brought a proper sling with me—we’ll need to get you into it before you sleep. I was going to wrap your ribs to give you a bit more comfort, but if you are feeling well enough to rest now, we can always do it later.”
“Later,” he whispered with a slight nod, and his eyes drifted shut again.
Cecily looked at his handsome face for a long moment, wondering about the position she now found herself in. She had slept with this man, handsome, wild, notorious Oliver Bellecote. Even if he never remembered it, she would remember him and their night together for the rest of her life. And so Cecily told herself that it was only nostalgia that caused her heart to smile a little bit at the sight of him lying so still and weary before her.
She fashioned the sling with the required knots without a whisper of sound, and when she slipped it over Oliver’s head—urging his back away from the headboard slightly—he leaned his forehead against her breast.
“You smell lovely. Like a dream I had once.”
The words were so quiet, had she been breathing properly, Cecily might have missed them.
She eased him back against the headboard and brought the sling down over his arm, cocking it slightly at the elbow and slipping the linen down toward his wrist. His eyes were still shut.
“You can move down a bit more now, if it’s more comfortable for you, Lord Bellecote,” she said quietly.
Oliver slid down with a grimace, and Cecily fetched a pair of pillows to bolster his arm. She lingered over him. He had not opened his eyes, and she thought he might already be lost to sleep.
Her left hand rose hesitantly, and after only an instant of thought, Cecily smoothed her palm over Oliver’s forehead.
He sighed and then his lips barely moved as he spoke. “Best dream I’ve ever had.”
Cecily froze, her hand still in his hair. His breathing was measured now, and she was certain that he had finally surrendered to slumber.
“Me, too,” she whispered. “Sleep well, Oliver.”
She rose, gathered the tray and the domed lid and lifted it from the bed. She looked at him a final time before turning away, knowing that once she left the room, all thoughts of reminding him of the evening they had shared would be gone from her mind. Her opportunity was lost. It would be over, and no one would ever, ever know.
She gave a deep, soundless sigh, and then, walking so carefully that her slippers made not a whisper, she left the chamber, and the man who was once her lover, behind.
Chapter 8
After leaving Oliver Bellecote, Cecily first went to the kitchens, where she returned the tray and then spoke briefly with a maid regarding the preparation of a hearty meal for the lord when he awoke, as well as the manner of inquiring as to the discomfort of his broken ribs. Oliver likely expected Cecily to return to his chamber this evening, and should she receive word that his ribs needed binding, she would see to it as she had promised. The very thought of seeing him again caused her heart to pound with anticipation.
She didn’t seem to know who she was when she was in his presence.
After quitting the humid and smoky kitchens through the open double doors in the back of the annex, Cecily crossed to the nearby chapel. She glanced up at the sky, remembering for an instant the last time she’d had intentions of visiting this place of prayer and had instead wound up at the Foxe Ring. No starry blanket crowded the sky now, only low clouds, appearing disgruntled and as if they were contemplating a shower out of spite. Or perhaps boredom. Cecily loosened the scarf from a
round her waist and tied it over her hair before pushing one side of the heavy doors open just far enough to slip through as thunder stirred from far away.
The chapel was empty, save for the fleeting and nearly invisible appearance of the old, stooped maid who tended the church and Father Perry’s quarters. The servant bobbed her head and raised a gnarled old hand within the gloomy shadows at Cecily’s arrival, and then disappeared through a black doorway with a hitching shuffle, her small brush broom riding her back like an emaciated child.
Cecily took a deep breath, feeling a slight release in the tension between her shoulder blades. The smell of old incense permeated every surface inside the chapel, and the subtle, leftover perfume of it was truly a comfort. She stood just inside the doors for several moments, her eyes fixed on the altar ahead, and felt a foreign bloom of hesitation. The chapel was her home, the place she felt the most comfortable, even more so than Fallstowe. And yet she knew the sins she had committed—they shouted inside her head to make their presence known: lust, acedia, wrath, envy, pride. She dared not reveal these particular failings to her most trusted counsel. He would know it was she, certainly—what other unmarried young lady at Fallstowe was contemplating the religious life, and had also rescued Oliver Bellecote after his accident?
And then slept with him?
She knew that she could be forgiven outside confession by being in a state of perfect contrition; the problem was, Cecily was unsure whether she was contrite at all, let alone perfectly.
She took a deep breath of the perfumed air and let it out before clasping her hands at her chest and walking down the aisle.
She knelt at the altar railing and made the sign of the cross.
She raised her face to gaze upon the crucifix above the altar.
Her mind went completely blank.
Cecily’s brows knitted downward into a frown. All right, she told herself. I shall just start simply.
She recited six different prayers from memory, hoping they would purge her mind of the block that was preventing the easing of her conscience, her knees already singing from the hardness of the stone beneath them. But even after the last amen, she could not force an original phrase from her mouth.
“Do you not want my confession?” she whispered crossly. “What is it, then? I am sorry that I’m not sorry about the proper things. I don’t know what else to do—this has always worked before!” She laid her forehead atop her folded hands with a sigh.
Her head rose abruptly at the familiar scraping of the chapel door behind her, and then Father Perry’s mellow voice in midsentence.
“—you see that we are outfitted quite splendidly despite our isolated location, and—” He broke off abruptly, and Cecily surmised that he was not expecting the chapel to be occupied at that particular time of day.
Cecily made the sign of the cross once more and rose, prepared to greet Father Perry and his guest. She turned and watched the two men walking toward her, one short and slight and clothed in the familiar uniform of Fallstowe’s priest, the other of slightly taller height and clothed in the garb of a wealthy nobleman. The stranger had dark blond hair that fell in one length to just above his shoulders where the hood of his fine cloak lay in soft folds. The front-most lock of his hair was caught behind his ear thoughtlessly, as if in a habit to keep it from hindering his vision. His face was lean and square, and even in the shadows of the dim chapel, his blue eyes shone like chips of aquamarine.
“Lady Cecily,” Father Perry said, his voice rich with obvious delight. “I’d hoped we’d find you, although I would not begrudge you a day’s rest after the trying evening I’ve heard tell of.”
“Good day, Father,” Cecily said, forcing her eyes from the handsome stranger. Funny, but she could not recall ever having taken marked notice of members of the opposite sex before. “Prayer is a balm for many things, and I have found my need of it to be far greater than rest of late.”
“Of course, of course!” Father Perry beamed at her and then looked up at the man next to him. “Vicar John, this is Lady Cecily Foxe.” Father Perry looked to Cecily once more. “Lady Cecily, the Most Reverend John Grey, of Hallowshire Abbey.”
Cecily’s stomach did a little flip. Hallowshire. Beyond the thick walls of the chapel, the thunder rumbled more ominously now.
The striking man gave a bow, but his eyes never left Cecily’s face. “Lady Cecily Foxe,” he said, rising. “Just the woman I was looking for.”
Father Perry had dismissed Cecily and John Grey with a smile and a wave, refusing each’s offer to assist the priest with the preparations for the next hour. The vicar had led the way back down the aisle to the chapel doors, but once outside, he’d extended a long arm, indicating that Cecily should precede him.
“We could talk in the stables if you like,” Cecily offered, untying her scarf and slipping it from her head now, and noticing John Grey’s eyes flitting admiringly over her hair. She felt her cheeks tingle. “It will give us a bit of privacy, and Fallstowe does boast of an obnoxious number of fine specimens.”
“As you wish.” The vicar inclined his head. “I must confess a love of good breeding, in the realm of animals. My father keeps a stable also of the obnoxious caliber, and I find myself pining for the old smell.”
“This way, then.” Cecily started to walk toward the long, large structure that housed Fallstowe’s mounts. She glanced up at the sky, which seemed ready to burst at any moment. Her heart pounded in her chest, her breathing was shallow.
Why was someone—especially a man—from Hallowshire looking for Cecily? They walked through the wide doorway of the stables just as fat, cold raindrops began to splatter noisily on the packed dirt of the yard.
“I reckon you’re wondering why I’ve come,” John Grey said, and the coincidence of it caused Cecily to frown.
She stopped and turned toward him, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “I was unaware that Hallowshire had gained a new priest,” was her only reply.
“Oh, I’m not a priest,” John Grey said with a slightly embarrassed grin. “Not yet, any matter.”
“But Father Perry referred to you as a vicar.”
“It’s more of a courtesy title than anything, really.” John Grey walked leisurely to a nearby stall and grasped the muzzle of one of Sybilla’s hunting horses. The bay snorted and blew and pushed into the man’s hand. “Hello there, big boy. I’ve been studying the last two years at Coddington. My father and the bishop are old friends, and as there seems to be a shortage of priests in the area, well, he sent me to ascertain the health of Hallowshire.”
“That’s quite an honor,” Cecily said lightly. “How are you finding the abbey?”
“Not well, I’m afraid.” John Grey patted the bay soundly on its neck and then turned to face Cecily once more. “Mother is in poor health, as are the abbey’s coffers. The sisters there have grown unruly, with no strong female leadership. They’ve begun taking in paying travelers for board. The ministry is suffering.”
Cecily frowned. “That’s ... that’s terrible! Surely it cannot have changed so much since last I visited.” Cecily’s mind went briefly to the small, happy stone abbey, filled with peaceful women whose days consisted of prayer and crops and industry. She remembered vividly the small inner courtyard, the fountain, the beautiful flowers planted around the statues. Cecily had spoken at length in that garden with Mother, and it had been then that she had decided to one day make Hallowshire her home.
One day ...
John Grey’s eyebrows raised. “Really? How long has it been since you were at the abbey, Lady Cecily?”
Cecily frowned, and then felt her face heating. Had it really been that long? “Well, I guess it must be nearly three years.”
John Grey said nothing, but the small smile still played about his lips.
“You said you came here specifically to see me,” Cecily prompted, feeling slightly unnerved by the way the handsome man regarded her. Not lewdly, but intently, as if he could look into her eyes
long enough to catch a glimpse of her soul.
“Yes.” He moved to the stall across the aisle, where Sybilla’s pet, a small black mare, stamped impatiently in a bid for John Grey’s attention. “Mother spoke longingly of you. She has begun to wonder if you have changed your mind about Hallowshire. Perhaps she has sound reason?”
“I have been thinking on it very deeply of late,” Cecily admitted. “Fallstowe has a guest in my care at the moment. A noble friend of my sister’s. He was injured only last night, and it is my responsibility to tend him.”
“Fortunate man,” John Grey said, glancing over his shoulder briefly, his grin widening. “But perhaps I might be so bold as to suggest that Hallowshire needs you more, Lady Cecily. Not only the purse you would bring, but your dedication, your leadership.”
“Leadership? Vicar, I would never presume—I am not yet even a oblate!”
“One need not take vows to be an example,” John Grey said, almost musingly. “I have been mulling that idea ’round in my own head while on my mission from the bishop. Laypeople have been at the heart of many a religious institution for hundreds of years. Everyone in the land knows of your dedication and good works, Lady Cecily. Even the bishop himself waits with bated breath for your decision. Should Hallowshire not receive the help it needs, and very soon, it will likely be dissolved.”
Cecily’s heart fluttered with dread. The bishop knew of her? This was much worse than she feared. “So you have come to collect me?” Cecily challenged him.
“Not at all, not at all,” John Grey said mildly. “Only to inquire as to your intentions.”
Cecily swallowed. For some insane reason, the image of Oliver Bellecote, lying abed in the castle beyond the stable walls, rose up through the murky confusion in her mind. “As I said before, I am under obligation at this time, Vicar. I—”
“I’ve not come in an attempt to sway you, either way, Lady Cecily.” John Grey stepped away from the little black mare and came to stand facing her, perhaps only three paces away. He looked into her eyes again. “Although an alliance with the bishop may also benefit your sister.”
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