Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero

by Glynnis Campbell

  “Come, come now,” he chided, actually elbowing Garth. “The truth shall set you free.” Then he whispered. “The wench is a hopeless heathen, rife with lust and vulgarity, the handmaiden of the devil himself. For years I tried to bring her to the light, but I’m afraid…I failed miserably. I had hoped that you might…endear yourself to her, show her the error of her ways, instruct the child—“

  “She’s not a child,” Garth hissed, unable to listen to more slander. He instantly regretted his words.

  “What’s this?” the Abbot asked slyly, bending close enough to ruffle Garth’s hair with his fishy breath. “Has she tried her provocative wiles on you so soon, Father Garth?”

  It took all his fortitude to turn and face the Abbot straight on, to look him steadily in the eyes and speak a lie. But he did it. For Cynthia.

  “Not at all,” he said. “I am a man of God. I’ve made it abundantly clear to her.”

  The Abbot’s interested stare diminished after that, dimmed perhaps by disappointment. He hoped so. For Cynthia’s sake, he hoped so.

  The Abbot lowered his eyes to the dissected trout spread across his platter. He’d unconsciously arranged the remains in the shape of a cross, something that had become a habit with him. He arranged his cope and sandals thus at night. And the collection of jewels, gifts of his flock, which he took out from time to time. Maybe, he thought with satisfaction, he’d arrange Cynthia in such a fashion when he had her executed…as he knew he would.

  Garth’s face had assured him of that. The idiot wore his passions like a banner.

  He’d thought it was sheer cunning at first, that Garth had wormed his way into Cynthia’s affections for his own profit. But now he could see it wasn’t artifice at all. The fool was in love with her.

  He popped a piece of sugared fig into his mouth and chewed slowly. Usually he hated sweet things, but tonight was cause for celebration.

  Condemning Cynthia on the herbs alone would have been tricky. Indeed, there were many noblewomen who practiced the art of healing, and few could stand too close a scrutiny of their cellar.

  But this…

  Seducing a man of the cloth, enticing him away from God…

  For this, she would pay.

  All he had to do was catch them in the act.

  He’d leave Wendeville tomorrow. By the time he was through enlightening Lord Philip, he was sure the godly man would want to pack up and leave as well. Then there would be nothing to stand in the way of their perfidy, the foolish friar and his unholy mistress.

  He’d leave them to their vices. But he wouldn’t stray far. And he’d watch them like a hawk.

  CHAPTER 19

  The room spun as Cynthia climbed into the steaming tub, her mug of strong ale still clutched in one hand.

  “I don’t care,” she mumbled drunkenly to no one, frowning.

  The dizziness was fine. Better by far than the terrible guilt and shame that had tortured her for two weeks, days spent hiding from Garth and Elspeth and the decent man everyone wanted her to take to husband. Everyone but her. Hell—today, according to Elspeth, she’d even managed to hide from the Abbot himself.

  She plopped down into the water and let her head nod forward.

  “Piss.”

  She’d forgotten to take off her linen underdress. It stuck to her like a wet snake’s skin.

  “Well, I don’t care.”

  She was miserable. For no good reason.

  She should be happy. She was healthy. She was rich. Soon she would be wed. The seeds she’d planted were already poking their little green heads up through the soil.

  But she felt wretched.

  Ale slopped over the side of her mug into the bath, and she quickly righted the cup and then looked for a place to set it. There was none. She scowled.

  “Mary!”

  The tapestry on the wall swayed as she watched it, and she closed her eyes to stop the nauseating motion. She really shouldn’t be drinking so much, she supposed. Drinking ruined her gift. Of course, the man she was to marry had forbidden her to use it anyway, so she supposed it shouldn’t matter. But ale gave her a horrible headache the next day. And it destroyed her authority over the servants. Why, it had taken her more than an hour just to get the water for her bath.

  She slugged back the rest of the cup.

  “Mary!”

  “Did you want something, my lady?”

  Cynthia narrowed her eyes at the bug-eyed face peering around the door. It wasn’t Mary.

  “Elspeth!” She saluted her maid with the cup. Then she drew her brows together. She couldn’t quite remember what it was she wanted. Ah, well, she decided, it was good just to see Elspeth’s friendly face.

  “Oh, my lady,” Elspeth said, clucking her tongue. She shut the door behind her.

  “Where’s Mary?”

  “I sent her to the hall to make excuses to your guests,” she said, bustling forward. “Can’t very well let them see you like this, can I?” She shook her head. “Oh, my lady, you’ve got yourself well besotted now.”

  “Aye,” she agreed, grinning wide. “Well and truly.”

  “Come now, my lady, it’s time we had a chat,” Elspeth said more gently, plucking the mug from her hand. “What’s this all about? For a week you’ve moped about like a harlot sent to convent. And now, you’re so deep in your cups you can barely—“

  Cynthia snickered once, then threw back her head and let out a long laugh.

  “My lady!” El scolded.

  “A harlot?” Cynthia guffawed, smacking one hand across the surface of the water. “Send to convent? Me, El?”

  But as funny as it sounded for a moment, the thought suddenly made her horribly sad as well. Even as her laughter rang off the walls, tears welled in her eyes.

  “A harlot sent to convent,” she repeated ruefully. Bless Elspeth—the maid didn’t know how close to the truth she was.

  Cynthia closed her eyes and sank down into the soothing water, letting it close over her neck, her mouth, her nose.

  “My lady!”

  Elspeth hauled her up by the neck of her gown. Cynthia gasped, choking on the water, and slapped at the maid’s hands.

  “Talk to me, my lady,” Elspeth said in a voice that brooked no argument.

  Cynthia swallowed. She didn’t want to talk. “First I need another drink.”

  “Pah! You need another drink like the Abbot needs another cock.”

  Cynthia hiccoughed. A bemused smile slid across her face.

  “Now tell me what’s amiss,” Elspeth commanded.

  Cynthia drew circles on the surface of the water with a fingertip. “God,” she said. “He’s punishing me.”

  “Punishing you? God?”

  “Aye. He nearly seized my soul the other night,” she murmured, shivering. Her body could still recall the awful thrill of passion that consumed her as she hovered at the precipice of mortality.

  “What do you mean, my lady?”

  Cynthia licked her lips. Suddenly they felt very dry. “I mean…” She glanced down at the wet, transparent pocket of fabric draped between her legs. Her woman’s curls looked as innocent as ever, despite her sin and her tumultuous brush with death. “I bedded with a man.”

  Elspeth’s hand flew to her mouth, but she uttered not a word.

  “It was…it was…wonderful.” She smiled. Her ears buzzed as she recalled the heat of Garth’s arms about her, his warm flesh melding with hers.

  Then she thought better of it. “Nay. Nay. It was terrible.” She screwed up her face. It took her a moment to recall why it was so terrible. Then she remembered. “I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think. The devil put awful moans in my throat, and God…”

  She frowned. Elspeth was making some strange noise. She peered at the maid beneath heavy-lidded eyes.

  Damn her!

  Elspeth was snickering behind her hand. Her shoulders shook with suppressed mirth. If she hadn’t been drunk, Cynthia would have kicked the impertinent mai
d all the way to the door. As it was, she settled for calling her names.

  “Why, you cursed old bag of bones,” she said, her speech slurred by the ale. “What’s so funny about…about thrashing like a beheaded chicken and—“

  Elspeth cackled, beside herself. “Oh, my lady, stop! Stop!”

  Cynthia crossed her arms over her chest and waited for Elspeth’s laughter to cease.

  “My lady,” Elspeth finally managed to gasp out. “Is that all? Is that what’s troubling you?”

  “Isn’t it enough?”

  Elspeth stood over her and held out a hand. “Give me your gown, my lady. We’ve got some talking to do, and you might as well have a good bath while the water’s warm.”

  Elspeth did have some talking to do. She told Cynthia things that made her eyes widen and her ears burn. She spoke of men and nature and the way of the world, things she said Cynthia’s mother had apparently neglected to tell her. She spoke until the water grew tepid. But Cynthia listened to every word, too chagrined to argue. And by the time Elspeth was done with her sermon, hope had taken root in Cynthia’s heart.

  “But with John…” she began as Elspeth finished toweling her off.

  “John was an old fool,” Elspeth said bluntly. “It wasn’t his fault. But he likely knew nothing about pleasuring a woman. A young man, though, like Lord Philip? There’s a fine one to ruffle your skirts.”

  Cynthia giggled. Ruffle her skirts. Garth certainly did that. Joy blossomed suddenly inside her. Garth obviously knew how to pleasure her. So there was nothing wrong after all.

  She thanked Elspeth with a squeeze that made the maid squeal in protest, then allowed herself to be tucked into bed. When Elspeth leaned over to kiss her forehead and inquired in a whisper, “Do you love him then, my lady? Do you love Philip?” she pretended she was asleep.

  As soon as she heard the door bump shut, Cynthia opened her eyes. She was too relieved and too excited to sleep. She must tell Garth. She must heal the senseless rift between them. And she must do it now, before he suffered through one more night of disillusionment. She’d slip on her silkiest gown, steal through the hall, and go to him in his quarters. She’d repair everything.

  The scent of ale roused Garth from sleep—that and the harsh whisper slicing through the night.

  “Garth!”

  He threw back and coverlet and reached for the sword that wasn’t, and never had been, under his pillow.

  “It’s me!” Cynthia whispered loudly, sending another puff of ale-laced breath wafting in his direction.

  “Cynthia?” he whispered back, his heart pounding. What was she doing in his room?

  “It’s all right,” she breathed. “Everything is all right.”

  “What?” His head spun. If he was going to make any sense of this, he’d have to get up and light a candle. “Wait.”

  He groped his way to the hearth and stirred the banked coals, all the while wondering if he was completely mad to let Cynthia remain in his chamber. For the love of God, the Abbot himself lodged in the castle this eve.

  He lit the blackened wick of a candle on a glowing log, and it sputtered to life. Then he turned to face her.

  Aye, he decided, he was completely mad.

  Her hair cascaded wild and loose and damp about her. One shoulder of her sleek, flimsy gown hung askew, low enough to reveal the cleft of her arm and part of her breast. Her feet were bare, and her toes clutched playfully at the rushes. She was obviously besotted. She swayed unsteadily, her eyelids lowering lasciviously as she stared at him. He nearly groaned when she winked and gave him an intoxicatingly sultry smile.

  He fumbled the candle into the holder at the foot of his bed.

  “You’re drunk.” At least that explained her imprudent presence here. But his cursed body didn’t know the difference. Blood surged to his loins as if he might indeed bed the reeling woman before him. “Go back to your chamber.”

  “Nay,” she said, rushing forward.

  He held his breath.

  “Nay,” she insisted. “You don’t understand. It’s all right now.” She pressed her palms flat upon his chest and gazed up into his eyes. She smelled clean, wonderful. “It’s perfect.”

  He had no idea what she was babbling about, and he suspected neither did she.

  Sometime soon he would need to breathe. “Go now, Cynthia. Go.”

  “But…” She looked dismayed for an instant. Then sudden inspiration sparked in her eyes. “Kiss me!”

  His gaze dropped involuntarily down to her mouth, that wide, sensuous mouth that probably tasted of fine ale.

  “Nay, my lady.”

  “Then I shall kiss you.”

  It would have been unforgivable to jerk away from her then. Particularly when she looked so naïve and vulnerable, weaving on her feet. It would have hurt her. At least, that’s what he told himself. But he should have. He should have recoiled as if from fire. Instead, he let her raise her mouth to his.

  Her lips tasted like autumn, with the harvest done, and the smells of cut wheat and ripe apples filling the air, when pine boughs crackled on evening fires and tankards of golden ale warmed the belly. He could no more refuse that taste than a starving man could refuse a loaf of bread. And once lost in that intoxicating nectar, he could do nothing else but drink deeper.

  She was warm from the bath. Her damp hair smelled of spice. He wove one hand into the fragrant mass as he plundered her mouth. The other hand slid along her spine, catching in the delicate fabric of her gown, slipping it across her satiny skin.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice protested, telling him he was making a mistake, telling him he should stop now before he made a fool of himself. But he ignored it. It sounded too much like Mariana’s scolding. And at present, the voice of passion spoke louder than the voice of reason. It spoke like thunder in his ears.

  Cynthia wriggled closer, locking her arms about his neck, devouring him as if he were a Christmas feast. She moaned against his lips, wordlessly begging for more.

  And, God help him, he obliged.

  He plunged his tongue deep into her mouth, savoring the sweet, warm recesses with the desperation of a condemned man at his last meal. Desire rushed through his veins like strong poison, leaching out all sense, compelling him to taste her, to embrace her, compelling him, aye, to take her.

  Still ravaging her mouth, he wrested out of his cassock. She, too, pulled free of her garment, tearing the neck of the frail thing. It slid sinuously over her curves and pooled at her feet. And then there was nothing between them.

  Tongues of fire lapped at him as she kissed his neck, his shoulder, his chest, seeking and finding his mouth again. He endured the torture of her nipples grazing him, her unbound hair rasping across his skin, the sizzling of his blood as she danced just out of reach. And then he could endure no more.

  He hauled her up against him, hard, forging her flesh to his like iron to steel. He swept her onto the bed, his bed, where he’d spent too many long, guilty nights dreaming of this very thing, this soul-searing union he’d never hoped to relive.

  Yet here she was again, beneath him, writhing, gasping, twisting her head back and forth across the furs as if she were tortured by some demon of yearning.

  He knew how she felt. The blood pounded in his loins and sang through his body like a siren’s call, driving him mad—mad enough to cover her hot flesh with his own, mad enough to rest his lust-heavy weight atop her, to part the swollen petals of her womanhood and plunge into the welcome harbor of her womb.

  It was heaven. God forgive him, it was heaven.

  Whorls of sensation circled Cynthia, leaving her dizzy and breathless. She was drunk, aye, but this euphoria had nothing to do with ale. Garth was everywhere—above her, around her, inside her—and it was where he belonged. She felt possessed by him, as if their two souls were somehow forged together.

  Then he moved, and it was much finer than she remembered, that slow, relentless tide he forced her to. Her loins prickled with need
, and he soothed that need with each stroke. She wrapped her legs about him, wanting him closer, and she could feel the muscles of his buttocks flex and release. Her hands wandered over his massive shoulders, down his tensed back, and that delicious thrill of fear coursed through her once more.

  She was losing control. She could feel it coming as surely as the sun came up over the hills. Moans came to her lips unbidden. Her hips undulated to their own rhythms, striving upward against him. She held on for dear life. But this time, as she teetered on the narrow ledge of fulfillment, she felt no panic.

  Perhaps it was the ale. Perhaps it was Elspeth’s words.

  This time, she let the flood carry her away, past care, past reason. She gasped, arching impossibly beneath him as he, too, drove with bold abandon deep within her. For one glorious moment, they were one, soaring high above the earth like a solitary flaming angel. Then they plunged downward, clasped together, rocking with tremors as old as time, to extinguish their passion in a tranquil sea.

  Cynthia drifted on that sea like a ship without a wheel. She couldn’t cease smiling. Her whole body glowed the way it did when she stood too close to the fire. But she didn’t want to move away from this fire. Nay, she wanted to lie here beneath Garth forever.

  The last thing Garth wanted to do was move. He was drained, physically and mentally. Cynthia would want more. For a woman, Mariana had told him, once was never enough. But lying quiet, he could float aimlessly, oblivious to the guilt threatening to press down upon him, oblivious to the demands surely to come from Cynthia, demands he wasn’t sure he could answer.

  And yet, affection did what neither guilt nor demands could. He longed to fulfill her again. He longed to satisfy her completely. At least he had to try.

  And if his staff was not wont to rise again, what it couldn’t achieve, a skilled hand could accomplish.

  Separating from her no more than an inch, he snaked his fingers down over her flat belly toward the damp curls mingling with his. Carefully, gently, he parted her soft folds and ran one slick finger over the tiny bud hidden there.