Guy snapped his fingers, encouraging the old soldier to continue.
“The walls of L’Étoile shook with my lord’s anger and disappointment. Wouldn’t even look at the babe, nor give her his blessing. And such a sweet thing she was! In my humble opinion, the prettiest of the lot. And such a cunning little mind, that one!”
Glancing over his shoulder, Gaston grinned at the subject of his story. “All sunshine and quicksilver. The other girls? Beautiful, like their mama, but I tell you true, good Brother, there is not a thimble full of good sense among the lot of them. Not so with my little lady.” He chuckled with affection.
“She made her father notice her, oui! We all noticed her clever jests, her merry spirits, and her many little pranks, for which she was often switched.”
Guy’s eyes widened. Lissa beaten? He would have flayed alive anyone who marked such a delicate skin.
“She did not seem to mind, and went on her merry way as before. But her singing voice!” Gaston sighed with rapture. “You have never heard her truly sing, Brother Guy. She shames the larks in the meadow — yes, even the angels in heaven.” The old soldier leaned over in his saddle and spoke in a lower tone. “My men miss the sound of her singing, good Brother. Especially Pierre.” He nodded toward the young wagon driver, who lazily waved the whip over his two charges, warding off invisible flies.
Like a spun-sugar castle crumbling at the end of a feast held in an overheated room, Guy’s resolve disintegrated. He was nothing like Lissa’s cold father. He had no wish to snuff out her lively spirits. That would happen soon enough at Snape Castle. Guy gritted his teeth at the thought of the forbidding Ormond stronghold.
He nodded to Gaston, then took out his slate and scribbled a few words on it. Halting Daisy’s bone-jolting stride, Guy waited for Celeste.
Celeste’s lips twitched in a tentative smile as she drew abreast of Guy. Maintaining his stern composure, he thrust the slate at her.
You may sing, she read. A brilliant smile wreathed her face, and she clapped her hands. “Merci, Brother Guy! I am now forgiven, yes?” Joy-filled laughter rippled from her.
Each delightful sound struck Guy like a stinging dart, assailing his senses, opening the floodgates he had dammed up so long ago. Gripping the slate until its sharp corner bit into the soft part of his palm, he shook his head and pointed to the word sing.
Celeste cocked her head, allowing the yellow feather in her bonnet to sweep against her shoulder. “Only sing, good Brother?”
Guy nodded sternly.
“And no talking?”
He nodded again.
“Not even one or two words of pleasant conversation, such as one would while away the hour—?” The fierce knotting of his brows cut off her further remarks.
She looked up at the sky for a moment, wrinkled her nose, then proceeded with the first verse of a slightly bawdy tavern song about a maid and a hunter. Guy opened his mouth to object, remembered his vow and gritted his teeth. Celeste continued into the chorus, with a gleam of pure deviltry in her dark eyes. Kneeing her horse, she trotted past him, singing her very heart out.
“My good thanks to you, Brother Guy.” Gaston gave him a friendly whack between the shoulder blades. The sergeant might be a little long in the tooth, but he still had a strong right arm, Guy thought, arching his back.
“I agree that my lady’s choice of ballads may not be proper for a young girl to sing,” Gaston continued, his warm brown eyes shining with pleasure, “but she sings it well, non?”
Guy gave him a weak smile in agreement. Then his eyes narrowed as he regarded Celeste’s slim body, swaying slightly with her music.
You little minx! You know exactly what you are doing, don’t you? Well, Lady Lissa, there’s two who can play that game, and you’ve just met your match!
Chapter Nine
By unspoken, even unacknowledged mutual consent, Celeste and Guy maintained a polite distance over the next few days. For his part, Guy found this stalemate oddly annoying. Of course, he should have been relieved that Celeste didn’t fall into his arms again, or even brush against him in passing up the stairwells of the various country inns where the party lodged at night.
Yet, wrapped in the cloak of midnight, Guy found himself lying awake. He remembered her silken hair, the slimness of her waist in his hand, and the moment when her firm little backside had nestled in his lap before he thrust her away. Neither prayers, nor fasting, nor cold dousing under a pump at dawn, could erase the hot ache of desire that had taken up a permanent abode within him.
Not that Lissa completely ignored him. If she had, it would have eased Guy’s torment. Daily she bubbled with a never-ending stream of witty observations of the countryside, snatches of poetry — mostly from the romantic tales of chivalry — bright, one-sided conversation and glorious singing. Gaston was right. The lass did possess the voice of an angel. Even so, Guy’s defenses could have withstood all of this. It was her attempts at speaking English, coupled with her ceaseless campaign to make him smile, that threatened to beat down the protective bulwark with which Guy had enclosed his heart.
“Hey-ho, Brother Guy!” she chirruped behind him as the party rode out of the village of Leebottwood two days later. “The landlord of that house is a knavish raw-beet sucker, non?”
The surprise of Celeste’s pronunciation, and her new vocabulary, nearly caused Guy to fall off Daisy’s increasingly uncomfortable back. Rabbit sucker! Where in the devil’s name had Lissa picked up that phrase? Suppressing his initial urge to grin, he glowered at her over his shoulder. The little witch dimpled prettily in return.
“Do not frown at me that way. I am merely trying to speak peench-’potted English. And that man — he asked too much money. ’E is what I say ’e is.” She grinned mischievously. “A peench-’potted raw-beet sucker!” She rolled the words around her mouth with the relish of a matron eating a dish of sweetmeats.
Guy bit down on his tongue so hard the pain watered his eyes. He would not laugh, or even permit the merest flicker of a smile past his lips. He would not give her that power over him. For the precarious sake of his tortured soul, he must maintain his facade of aloofness and disapproval. On the other hand, he wholeheartedly agreed with her opinion. Their innkeeper of the night before had cheated them shamefully. Had he been allowed to speak, Guy would have blistered the ears of that grasping scullion with a fine display of noble temper. That was the only thing most of these common folk understood — brute strength and bellowing. Lissa was right: the Churl was indeed a pinch-spotted rabbit sucker.
Still, Guy couldn’t let her think these words were appropriate for a young lady. What if she blurted them out in good company? Jesu! What if she said them to her husband? The mere thought of that weasely Walter Ormond putting his hands on Lissa was enough to deepen Guy’s frown.
“Ma foi!” Celeste had lapsed back into French. “And what have I done now to displease you, Brother Grumpy? Bah! I must learn this horrible language, since I am to be an English lady, and you are the only one who can help me.” She rolled her violet eyes to the cloud-laden skies. “And what help is that? Nothing but frowns and sour looks. Upon my soul, Brother Guy, I think I would rather converse with your donkey!”
Guy wrote on his slate, then held it out to her. She leaned over in her saddle and read his latest dictum.
“Where did I learn those words?” Her eyes widened with amethyst innocence. “At supper last night. I overheard two men talking, and they said those words over and over. I think they sounded very fine. Raw-beet...”
Guy shook his head so vehemently the wreath of his blond curls lashed his face. If she said that one more time, he didn’t think he could restrain himself — from either bursting out into laughter or dragging her off her horse and stopping her mouth with a kiss. God’s teeth! Where had that wanton idea come from?
Guy wiped the slate clean with the back of his sleeve, then wrote again.
“‘Ladies do not say rabbit sucker or pinch-spotted, or anything el
se they may hear at an inn,”’ she read aloud. Celeste digested this instruction for a moment, then smiled beatifically at him. “Très bien, Brother Guy. You can write in complete sentences.”
Flicking her crop, she spurred her horse ahead of him. Her low golden laughter drifted back over her shoulder.
That evening they crossed a stone bridge that arched over the Severn River and entered the bustling town of Shrewsbury. Within the protective city walls, the majestic stone spire belonging to Saint Mary’s Church, built in the twelfth century, attempted to pierce the gathering gloom, made darker by the heavy gray clouds that had accompanied the bridal party all day. Their horses’ hooves echoed down the cobbles of Grope Lane, where high black-and-white half-timbered houses leaned companionably over the street toward each other, like whispering gossips around a cider bowl.
The weary travelers gratefully accepted the hospitality of the convent that sat hard by Saint Mary’s walls. At least Celeste won’t pick up any more foul language here. Guy allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as he rubbed Daisy down before offering her a bucket of oats.
Instead, the tall abbess had a great many words to say to Guy in the privacy of her spare office.
“I am thunderstruck!” She rattled the thick rosary beads that hung from her waist. “A scandal, to be sure! What could have the chevalier of Fauconbourg been thinking, to let such a beautiful young daughter go off to England without a proper chaperon?”
Her aunt was injured in an accident, Guy wrote on his slate.
The abbess crossed herself in a prayerful attitude before continuing. “Still, that is no excuse!” she snapped.
Guy swallowed his anger. I am in charge of the lady’s honor. Pressing down too hard on his chalk, he accidentally broke it into two pieces. The old she-dragon!
The abbess pursed her lips as she appraised the tall monk. “You are far too young for such a duty,” she continued waspishly. “And too handsome for your own good, as well. I trust you remember your vows. Poverty, obedience — and chastity.” She practically spat out the last word at him.
Guy drew himself up to his fullest height. No wonder this woman was in a convent! She would have made a merry hell for any man witless enough to wed her.
I must attend to my prayers, he scribbled across the slate.
The abbess rattled her beads again, coughed, then blew her nose before answering. “Aye, a wise idea. And I shall pray for the Lady Celeste, that she may not fall among wolves ’ere she reach her waiting husband.”
With a curt nod, Guy turned to go.
“Your blessing, Father?”
Even as she knelt at his feet, the abbess’s chin jutted out in silent disapproval. Guy wondered if her request was purely pious or an unvoiced challenge to his authority. After quickly tracing the sign of the cross in the air in front of her, he sought sanctuary within the dim church.
Jesu! What if the abbess asked him to say mass on the morrow? He would have to explain that he was not ordained. Then what? Would she permit Celeste to continue in his company? Or would she lock Lissa inside the convent and send him back to Saint Hugh’s with a large flea in his ear? The abbess looked exactly the type of shrew who would do just that. Faced with this possibility, Guy realized how very much he wanted to see this journey to its conclusion.
’Tis my charge on my honor. Guy prayed before the tabernacle on the altar, as its rich gilding reflected the light from a solitary candle. Lissa is safer in my care than with all the chaperons in the world. I would protect her with my life. It took a moment for him to realize he was shaking.
“Gaston, have you seen Brother Guy?”
Celeste looked down the table in the convent guest house. The men had almost finished their meal of roasted capons, fresh-baked bread and dairy butter, rabbit stewed with onions, sharp cheddar and baked apples in a pastry cover. Both ale and a middling red wine rounded out the meal. Though the convent’s food was plain, it filled everyone to satisfaction.
Gaston scraped the last morsel of baked apple from the bowl, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve, before answering. “I saw him in conversation with the mother abbess. Then he went into the church.”
Celeste regarded a wedge of the savory cheese that Gaston politely placed on her wooden plate. She wondered if she ought to wrap up some of the food for the missing monk before the dishes were cleared from the board.
“Again he does not eat!” she sputtered. “And when he does, it is only a crust of bread, a cup of water or a piece of uncooked fruit.”
“He is a man of God,” Gaston observed mildly. “And this is one of God’s houses. He is doing what he supposed to do — he prays.” He took a deep swallow of his ale.
“Fah!” Celeste stabbed the inoffensive cheese with her small eating knife. “He is not doing what he is supposed to do at all.”
“Oh?” Gaston cocked one bushy brow at her. “Then permit me to ask what he should be doing?”
Celeste played with a gold ring on her finger. “He should be here with us, eating this good supper. He needs his strength.”
“D’accord,” Gaston murmured into the depths of his tankard. “I agree, but what does one do? Do I tie him up and feed him like an invalid?” He shrugged the thought away. “I do not think the good brother would like that. And I do not think I am the man to try it.”
“He will be sick if he does not eat. Ma foi! He is such a big man. He needs a lot of food.” Pulling off her napkin as she spoke, Celeste laid the cloth out on the table and began to pile bread, cheese and the remains of a capon in the middle of it.
“A midnight supper, my lady?” Gaston jested.
“Oui.” She tied the ends together. “For one who keeps too many late hours as it is.”
Gaston caught her wrist as she turned to go. “Remember, my lady — Brother Guy has dedicated his life to the church.”
Celeste did not like the sergeant’s stern look, or what his words implied. She tossed her head back proudly. “And I do not forget that I am all but married, either.”
She slammed the door behind her.
Across the garden, she could make out the side door leading into Saint Mary’s. Clutching her bag of food, Celeste glided down the stone corridor of the cloister.
The large interior of the church reminded Celeste of the pictures of a cave that she had seen in one of her father’s books. Tall stone pillars receded into darkness as they stretched toward the arched roof. The chill air held a faint scent of candle wax, dust, mold and lingering incense. Celeste waited a moment while her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She spied Brother Guy’s spear-straight form in front of the rood screen. Even when kneeling, he looked tall.
Celeste quickly traversed the aisle, then dropped down beside him. The uneven stone paving bit into her knees through her many layers of petticoats and gowns. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.
If he knew she was beside him, Guy gave no indication, but merely continued to stare at the altar as if mesmerized by its flickering candle. Celeste bowed her head, though not in prayer. She hated to disturb Guy when he was so obviously deep in his devotions. Yet, what was she to do with her gift of food, especially since its various contents emitted a pleasing, though strong, odor? Hesitantly she put it on the floor in front of her, then made the sign of the cross.
Memorized prayers sprang to her lips without prompting, though her eyes were anywhere but on the altar. She shifted on the uncomfortable flooring, landing directly on a particularly sharp stone. She muffled her gasp of pain, then cast Guy another sidelong look.
He neither moved nor blinked.
Celeste considered pretending a faint, just to see what he would do, but she could almost hear Aunt Marguerite’s voice telling her not to act like such a silly goose. A pale white spider caught her eye. Fascinated, she watched it walk up Guy’s gown, its legs moving one at a time. When it reached the end of his sleeve, it wavered for a moment, then disappeared inside.
Holding her breath, Celeste waited for Guy
to come alive and shake the thing out. Nothing happened.
Growing more alarmed, Celeste stared directly at him. Was he in a trance? Would he fall to the floor in convulsions any minute? Should she run for help?
“Brother Guy?” she whispered, tentatively touching his robe.
Without shifting his gaze from the altar, he slowly raised one hand and put his finger to his lips. Then he returned to the attitude of prayer.
Celeste blinked. How could he concentrate like that? Never had she seen anyone so single-minded in his devotions. At L’Étoile, a perpetual hum of twitching, scratching, coughing, sneezing and whispering accompanied the daily mass. Even Père Jean-Baptiste made unholy noises at inappropriate times, and she knew for a fact that the old man couldn’t stay on his knees for more than five minutes.
Celeste stared down at her hands, twined her fingers together and tried to meditate on matters spiritual.
Impossible! Though both the air and the stones under her knees were cold, Guy seemed to radiate his own heat, which spilled over onto her. His striking hair formed a golden halo about his head, giving him the appearance of a divine creature not of this world. His hands, with those long fingers, were folded in peaceful prayer. By the dim light, Celeste noted their strength. She recalled his touch from the other night. How easily he had lifted her from the floor of the bedroom. How gently he had held her, and how disappointed she had been when he set her aside.
Celeste squeezed her eyes shut. Mon Dieu, forgive me! He is yours—not mine.
Gathering her skirts, she pulled herself to her feet. Her knees stung where they had borne her weight. She tugged at Guy’s sleeve.
“Supper!” she hissed. Turning on her heel, she marched stiffly down the aisle. She deliberately let the side door bang loudly behind her.
Lifting her skirts scandalously above her ankles, Celeste raced down the cloister walkway until she reached the solitude of the tiny room assigned to her for the night. There she pressed the single pillow to her mouth, not caring that the small cushion was stuffed full of straw. It muffled the sobs that rose unbidden from her throat.
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