Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero

by Glynnis Campbell

  “Nay,” she groaned, wincing, halting his hand.

  He hesitated. Was he hurting her? Or did she protest, as women often did, as a game? Again, he slipped his finger over the sensitive nubbin.

  “Nay, Garth. Please.” She jerked beneath him, then squeezed her thighs together.

  A deluge of fears fell around him: He hadn’t pleased her. She regretted her actions. He was but half a man. She couldn’t endure his touch.

  But the truth was she had come to him. She had sought him out. Why? Why, if there were more capable men available, if she’d been unsatisfied by him before, would she have sought him out again?

  “Don’t you require…more?” he asked, all his fears perched on his shoulder, waiting for her answer.

  “More?” She laughed. But it wasn’t the jeer of ridicule Mariana had perfected. Cynthia’s laugh was capricious, full of delight and relief. “Oh, Garth, more?” She squirmed away from his hand, giggling. “More and I shall die, truly. They’ll have to pry my cold bones from around yours.”

  A fierce love swept through him then that had nothing to do with the remnant of fire in his loins.

  “You’re satisfied?” he breathed, scarcely able to believe it. “It was…enough?”

  She answered him with a giddy sigh, locking her fingers around his neck and smiling up into his waiting eyes. “Enough? How can you ask me that when I’m dying of pleasure?”

  He searched her face. She spoke the truth. And her words acted upon him like a keystone dislodged from a dam, releasing a flood of long-checked emotions all at once. Gratitude choked him, and he dared not try to speak. Instead, he gathered her in his arms and hugged her so tightly for so long she squealed in protest.

  He didn’t remember loosening his hold or slipping from her or rolling to her side to keep from crushing her. He thought he was too agitated for slumber. He was wrong. Within a moment, he was sleeping more deeply than he had in days.

  So it was a surprise when, sometime near the hour of Matins, he snorted awake to discover the candle sputtering and Cynthia slung like a heavy cloak over his body.

  “Cynthia,” he whispered, jostling her shoulder.

  She mumbled incoherently.

  “Cynthia, you must get up.” He rattled her again, harder this time. “Come. It’s late.”

  She murmured again and snuggled closer.

  He cursed under his breath. How could he have been so stupid as to fall asleep? He’d compromised both of them. He had to get Cynthia back to her chamber.

  Briskly he disentangled himself from her and shrugged into his cassock, raking his hair back into some semblance of order. Then he stared down at the angel lying on his bed, and he had to smile. She looked like the victim of a shipwreck, cast ashore by a haphazard wave. Her hair spread across the pillow like seaweed, and her skin glowed with pearly luminescence. He stood there long enough to commit her features to memory, for in days to come, when they passed in the great hall or at chapel or by the garden, he wanted to remember her like this.

  Then he bent to scoop her from the bed. He was never sure she came fully awake at all, even when he slipped the gown over her head. He carried her through the course of dozing bodies that populated the great hall, knowing the Abbot would be sequestered in the lord’s chambers and praying the servants were still asleep as well. He crept up the steps to her chamber, and then tucked her hastily into her bed.

  He silently congratulated himself as he picked his way back to his quarters. It wouldn’t happen again, this clandestine midnight meeting between lovers. It was far too dangerous for both of them. They still lived in two different worlds. She had her betrothed, and he had his church. But Cynthia had given him back his manhood. He’d have a sweet memory to sustain him. And, with any luck, she wouldn’t remember a thing.

  Unfortunately, he counted too much on three things—on the amnesiac properties of ale, that, once he’d bedded Cynthia, it would be easy to resist her, and that they hadn’t been seen.

  CHAPTER 20

  Elspeth recoiled into the shadows at the bottom of the stairwell. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stop the squeak that was wont to come out. She even clenched her eyes tightly for a moment, hoping that when she reopened them, what she’d seen would prove to be a trick of the moonlight.

  But as sure as she knew the back of her own wrinkled hand, that was Father Garth carrying Lady Cynthia up to her bedchamber. She sank against the cold stone wall, suddenly feeling all of her sixty-three years.

  Maybe, she reasoned desperately, willing her heart to quit its crazed jig, things weren’t as they appeared. Maybe Cynthia had gone to him to confess her sins and then…fallen asleep, or…or the Father had found her dozing in the buttery, where they’d both gone to fetch a midnight bite. Maybe she’d fallen down the stairs and…

  But nay. Garth wasn’t in any hurry with her. If anything, his step was stealthy. And his face, where the wall sconce lit it up for an instant, was filled with such warmth and affection for his burden that there could be no mistake.

  Garth was Cynthia’s lover, not Philip.

  It pinched at Elspeth’s old heart to think of it. Aye, Garth was comely and kind and generous. He came from a fine family. He was young and hale. He’d never given her cause to question his loyalty. And the two of them together, well, they made a handsome pair with their strong features and formidable height. What children they’d—

  She gave her head a hard shake.

  The man was a priest.

  Peering up where the two had just disappeared into Cynthia’s chamber, Elspeth crept out and made her furtive way toward the steward’s quarters. If anyone knew what to do in such a coil, it was Roger.

  He awoke most rudely, nearly lopping her head off with a flailed hand when she waggled his shoulder.

  “Watch your fist!” she hissed. “You old fool. It’s me. Me. Elspeth!”

  “What the devil?”

  “Keep your voice down. I’ve got to speak with you.”

  “Then light a candle,” he groused, “so I can at least be assured it’s you and not some other harpy come to torment me.”

  She snatched up a candle stub and lit the wick from the banked fire at the foot of his bed. By the time she returned, Roger was sitting up, the covers pulled up to his neck, his hair askew, and his expression cross.

  “What’s this about?”

  “Ah, Roger, I hardly know where to begin.” But apparently she did, for the story spilled out of her with little difficulty. She told him about Cynthia’s melancholy, blushing as she skated over the subject of their conversation in the bath, and recounted what she’d seen in the great hall. “It’s a tragedy, Roger. What shall we do?”

  Roger sat silent for a long while, his gray eyes thoughtful, his mouth stern.

  “Nothing,” he finally said, flouncing over to go back to sleep.

  “What!” Elspeth exploded, wrenching him back over. “How dare you…have you no…what do you mean, ‘nothing’?”

  “I mean nothing. You’ve done enough already. You’ve taught her all she needs to know. She’s a grown woman, not a child.”

  “But she can’t lie with the chaplain!” Elspeth screamed under her breath.

  “And why not?”

  “Because…because…he lived in a monastery. His vows expressly forbid—“

  “He’s not a monk anymore, Elspeth. He’s a chaplain. It’s not entirely uncommon for a chaplain to take a wife.”

  “A wife, aye, but a concubine? Our Cynthia?”

  Roger glowered at her. “I’m sure he’ll do the right thing.” He yanked the coverlet back around his shoulders dismissively. “Besides, Garth de Ware is a far better man than those weasels you’ve been digging up from God-knows-where.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Lord Philip is a decent, God-fearing—“

  “Didn’t you hear? Lord Philip’s apparently so God-fearing he’s let the Abbot convince him to go on pilgrimage instead of marrying.”

  “What?”

&n
bsp; “He’s leaving tomorrow.” Roger snorted. “As for the rest of the motley prospects, you know none of them have been good enough for our Cynthia,” he accused. “I’m surprised at you, Elspeth.”

  She clapped her mouth shut again and planted her fists on her hips. “Well, I don’t see you bringing any gentlemen by.”

  Roger snorted again. “I’d be well pleased to call a man as forthright as Garth de Ware lord and master of Wendeville. And I’m just as glad that Cynthia has the good judgment to think so, too.”

  Whatever answer Elspeth sought in waking Roger, it was certainly not this.

  “Then you’ll do nothing?” she asked. “Not even protect her from the gossips? From the Abbot?”

  Roger eyed her from beneath his bushy brows, suddenly serious. “Do you think the Abbot knows?”

  “I pray to God he doesn’t. But if we don’t watch out for her, for them…”

  Roger nodded. “The Abbot will be on his way come sunrise. Until then, we’d best keep an eye on her.”

  Elspeth pursed her lips. It wasn’t exactly the response she’d hoped for, but it would serve. If the lass couldn’t govern her heart, at least she had two friends who would guard her reputation.

  After Lord Philip’s hasty departure with the Abbot, Garth’s attempts at chastity succeeded about as well as a fish’s attempts at flight.

  The very next night Cynthia cornered him in the herb cellar and had her way with him. He blamed himself, claiming a momentary lapse of judgment on his part.

  The night after that she lured him to the stables, and in a moment of weakness, he conceded to her lusty wishes.

  The following afternoon, she surprised him at his bath, and since he was already disrobed…

  By the fourth night, he abandoned all excuse and accepted the fact that if it was Cynthia’s will that he revel in her, then there wasn’t a blessed thing he could do to prevent it.

  It was the beginning of the most magical summer Garth could remember. For nearly a dozen glorious weeks, Cynthia filled his life with more color and joy than all her beds of flowers, delighting him, surprising him, fulfilling him. No corner of the keep was safe from their passion—the solar, the dovecote, the wine cellar. And if he preached chastity on Sunday and trysted with Cynthia the rest of the week, it was his own private sin for which he’d pay…later.

  For now he wanted to wring every last drop of bliss from what bit of summer remained.

  But they had to be cautious. There were those, including the Abbot and the king, who might judge them harshly, those who believed solely in marriages of diplomatic convenience for such women as Lady Cynthia, and those who held to the practice of chastity without compromise for men of the cloth.

  So they followed unspoken rules. They never met where they might be discovered. They displayed no public affection, not even a hand given in comfort. And they shared no confidences…with anyone. Above all else, Garth and Cynthia cared for their vassals. If they thought for one moment their actions might do harm to the people of Wendeville…

  It was a hell’s ransom to pay for heaven. But he had no choice. If they revealed their love, the uncompromising Abbot would have Garth exiled from the church, and if that came to pass, what kind of future could he offer Cynthia? He wouldn’t fool himself. He’d spent the good part of his life in preparation for the priesthood. To be cast from his faith would leave him nowhere to turn.

  And yet the alternative was just as unthinkable. If they kept their hearts secret, he knew that one day the impatient king would choose a suitable husband for Cynthia himself, a man to further Edward’s own political interests. And that would be the day Garth’s soul shriveled and died.

  He clenched his fists, wishing he could tear asunder the images of the impossible future before them.

  He visually measured the sun’s ascent above his sill. It had been nearly an hour since she’d left for her bathing pool—probably enough time—but he couldn’t be too careful.

  Sometimes, though he no longer adhered to his vow of chastity and though he kept his faith, what he and Cynthia did felt like sin. If they were caught…

  He didn’t want to think about it.

  Still, he felt a twinge of trepidation as he glanced through the window toward the wood and the overgrown deer trail that marked the path to the pool.

  She swore the place was private, that everyone knew that, and no one dared encroach on her summer bath. But that didn’t change the fact that the two of them would be out of doors, together, in broad sunlight, for the first time.

  He’d tried to persuade her to stay with him in his chamber. But she’d pleaded with him relentlessly, tempting him with the delights of sunshine and green grass and refreshing water, flashing the smile that turned his knees to custard. He’d punished her with a growl and a fierce kiss, hauling her over his thigh and onto the bed, pinning her there. A thrill of pure animal lust had shivered every muscle in his body as he gazed at her. But she remained adamant.

  He could have changed her mind in an instant—both of them knew it—with one strategic brush of his lips, one caress of his hand.

  But he hadn’t.

  And now he feared that fate would realize it had left them alone too long.

  Cynthia shivered in spite of the strong midday sun as the water sluiced over her naked shoulders. It was a glorious day. At the north end of the wide pool, the stream babbled over the smooth pebbles and dove several feet, spreading with a gurgling sigh. The pool was clear as glass, so deep that the bottom was a green blur. Jewels of sunlight winked on the waves as the water circled and was siphoned once again at the opposite end into a rushing brook.

  She wondered what was taking Garth so long. Sometimes his sense of propriety annoyed her. What they did—was it so wrong? Surely nothing so heavenly could be evil in God’s eyes. True, Garth was a man of the cloth. He had taken certain vows. But he wasn’t a monk anymore. Chaplains were allowed to take wives. Certainly this was not so different. As for her, why should the king care who she wed? She was hardly a virgin, and she couldn’t have cared less about rumors that might tarnish her reputation.

  She tipped her head back, drenching her hair in the cold current that swirled around her. It was so peaceful here. She’d made the lovely spot her own domain. No one ever intruded upon her. The only other visitors she had were birds, squirrels, frogs, an occasional fox that skittishly drank at the pool’s edge, and fish that nibbled at her toes. It was a perfect haven…and the perfect place to tell Garth the happy news.

  She smiled and rubbed her palm over the slight swelling of her belly. Actually, it was scarcely noticeable. But she was certain that sometime after the new year, she and Garth would be blessed by their own child.

  It had been sheer torture to keep it from Elspeth, to pretend to endure her monthly courses at the usual time when she’d missed three already. But she wanted Garth to be the first to know.

  She wasn’t sure how he’d respond.

  Over the last three months, she’d seen Garth come back to life. She’d heard him laugh long and loud, nearly fainted at his whispered words of desire, reveled in the music of their joined souls when not a word was spoken between them.

  She’d learned all there was to know about Garth de Ware and his family. She smiled now, recalling the tales he’d told her of his illustrious brothers.

  Holden de Ware was a ferocious warrior, unmatched in combat, a man who had garnered the confidence of the king with his skill in battle and his keen sense of diplomacy. That diplomacy had earned him his wife, Cambria Gavin, laird in her own right of a Scots clan. According to Garth, Holden’s mail-clad wife was as sly and savage a fighter as her husband. Of course, Cynthia had to admit, his opinion may have been colored by the fact that Cambria had once outwitted Garth.

  Garth’s oldest brother, Duncan, was as kindhearted as Holden was fierce. Castle de Ware was nearly overrun with recipients of Duncan’s charity. Orphans and halfwits were drawn to him like iron filings to a lodestone. And yet he’d had
to exercise considerable charm to win the heart of Linet de Montfort. She was a Flemish woolmaker, a member of the guild, competent and independent, sure she had no use for a husband. Apparently, Duncan convinced her otherwise aboard, of all things, a sea reiver’s ship.

  They sounded charming, and she looked forward to meeting them…if Garth would have her. It was the one thing of which she was unsure. Garth seemed to care for her now, but when he learned of the child…

  Everything could change in an instant. He could slam that great helm closed over his emotions again. He’d certainly had enough practice.

  Still, she had to take the risk before anyone else found out. And hopefully, bathing in the refreshing waters of this special place, with the sun beaming down and birds warbling from the bushes, Garth would take the news well. Hopefully, he’d be pleased.

  A rustling came from the nearby willows. She grinned and twirled in the water toward the sound.

  “Garth?” she ventured.

  No answer.

  “Garth,” she said. “You can come out. It’s safe.”

  The branches parted. It wasn’t Garth.

  A portentous cold lump settled in Cynthia’s stomach as she looked into her maidservant’s wide and culpable eyes.

  “Mary?” Cynthia’s voice quavered. That would never do. It would establish her guilt at once. Nay, she had to take charge. “Mary!” she scolded. “Return to the castle at once! This is my private domain! What the devil are you doing here?”

  The branches parted further. Mary wasn’t alone. The lump in Cynthia’s belly congealed into a block of ice as she stared into familiar, cruel, hard features. The Abbot.

  “I commanded her to bring me to you.”

  For a long, painful moment, she felt as stunned as a deer caught in an open meadow.

  Then the brush surrounding the pool rattled, and four burly knights in the scarlet tabards of Charing emerged. At the Abbot’s command, they sloshed forward through the current toward her. She gasped, trying to shield herself from their greedy eyes, but still they came. She panicked, turning in the water, looking for escape. Finally, one knight clenched her arm in a steel gauntlet, dragging her forcibly forward.