Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero (12 page)

So she marched forward, pulling out the tincture of comfrey and chattering to fill the ungainly silence.

“Has it stopped bleeding yet? I can’t imagine what you were thinking.” She seized his wrist, despite a mild show of resistance from him, and inspected the cut. It was long but not very deep. “You know, I’m certain little Dylan would have been just as content with ink.” She didn’t believe that. The boy was obviously thrilled with his bloody treasure. But as a healer, she certainly couldn’t condone such carnage.

She wet a small linen pad with the comfrey and supported his hand as she swabbed gently across the cut. His flesh was warm from the fire, his palm wide and smooth, so unlike the scarred hands of the peasants and knights she usually tended to or the wrinkled paw of her departed husband. Garth’s fingers were long and supple, his hand well muscled, and, to Cynthia’s utter mortification, she began to imagine how that hand would feel upon her own body, tracing her hip, fondling her ankle, caressing her breast. She swallowed hard.

A prominent vein ran across the back of Garth’s hand, and Cynthia felt the pulse there quicken, almost as if he read her thoughts. She dared not look at him, certain her eyes betrayed her wayward mind.

“It was kind of you to repair his toy,” she murmured, tossing the soiled pad into the fire, but loath to return his hand, “especially at so great a price.” She chewed the corner of her lip, then blurted out, “Indeed, you’re so good with children, I believe you might one day make a fine father.”

Garth pulled his hand away at that, withdrawing it into the sleeve of his cassock faster than a startled turtle, and Cynthia knew she’d said exactly the wrong thing. Before she could explain or apologize or soothe his ruffled feathers, he wheeled away, gathered his tools, and exited the great hall.

Despite her rash comment, Cynthia’s opinions about Garth’s paternal nature were only reinforced the next morn.

She’d ventured along the wall walk during a brief respite in the downpour to enjoy a breath of rain-washed air. The clouds, while still concealing the blue sky, had broken momentarily like soldiers regrouping for battle. The trees drooped with their drizzly burden, and the sod lay black with moisture. As she let her eye course along the far gray horizon and the nearer knolls, she spied two figures walking along the edge of the forest.

Garth’s dark cassock camouflaged him against the trees, but the tiny golden-haired girl in the blue kirtle stood out like a flower amid the grass. Cynthia narrowed her eyes. The lass was Grizel, the armorer’s daughter, and she was carrying something in her cupped hands. They stopped beside a massive old oak tree and Garth motioned to the girl. She nodded. Garth then knelt on the wet ground and began digging with a hand spade.

When the hole was about a foot deep, Garth held his hands out to accept Grizel’s burden. Cynthia gasped in empathy when she realized what it was. For weeks now, the child had been nursing a sick old dove in the mews. The bird must have finally succumbed.

Carefully, Garth placed the animal in the ground, then made the sign of the cross over the grave. Grizel knelt beside him, and they prayed together over clasped hands. But when he began to scoop dirt over the hole, Cynthia could hear the child’s mewl of protest. He stopped, then pointed to the sky. Whether he was trying to explain wordlessly that the dove must be buried to get to heaven or that the rain would get it wet if it wasn’t covered properly, Cynthia didn’t know. But the lass allowed him to finish covering the grave and even pressed the soil firm with her own hands.

The deed finished, Grizel threw herself at Garth, burying her face in his cassock to weep. For a moment, Garth seemed alarmed. Then he wrapped his arms about the lass, patting her back and stroking her hair.

Cynthia bit her lip and felt her eyes go all watery. What a comfort the priest must be to the child, who’d lost her mother a year ago. Cynthia remembered her own mother’s passing, how in the first months she’d missed her tender embraces and gentle words. Even now, it seemed a long while since someone had held her like that, drying her tears and smoothing her hair.

Damn, he’d seen her. He was staring at her over Grizel’s golden head, his expression too distant to read, but his eyes clearly locked with hers. She blushed, aware she’d been spying on him, intruding upon a private moment. She should go, she knew, but his gaze had frozen her to the spot.

She looked away first. She had to. Elspeth, with her usual unfortunate timing, marched up at that moment, nearly frightening her off the precipice of the wall walk.

“Ah, here you are, my lady!”

“El!” She tripped and made a grab for the embrasure, casting a quick embarrassed glance toward Garth.

“It’s slick with rain out here,” Elspeth scolded. “Why don’t you come in and dry yourself? Lord William and his retinue will arrive soon, and—“

“Who?” She rounded on her maid, scowling. “El, we’ve had visitors every day. What have you done? Sent a herald forth with news that the Holy Grail resides at Wendeville?”

Elspeth giggled rather too enthusiastically. “Oh, my lady! The Holy Grail indeed! Lord William’s retinue is just passing by. Surely you won’t deny them shelter from the storm.”

Cynthia lowered her brows. Of course she’d take them in. It was the hospitable thing to do. But she couldn’t shake the notion that crafty Elspeth was up to something.

A fat drop of rain splashed on her cheek, and a flash of lightning across the purpling clouds warned of the storm’s return. She cast one final glance over her shoulder as the downpour began. Garth had scooped up the little girl in his arms. Shielding her with his body, he strode briskly across the grass to return her to the shelter of the keep.

As it turned out, their visitors that afternoon were pleasant company indeed. Lord William was cordial and polite, neither too humble nor overbold. The rain had done nothing to dampen his good nature or his handsome countenance, and Cynthia instantly liked the man.

His knights, near a score in all, were honorable and chivalrous, and Cynthia watched several of Wendeville’s maids swoon and giggle in turns over the fine young men.

At supper, she shared a trencher with William. His manners were impeccable and his conversation interesting. He was fair of face and strong of bone, and his rust-colored hair flowed like molten copper to his wide shoulders. His brown eyes lit up when he spoke of hawking, his favorite pastime, and sparkled fondly when he recalled taking his youngest nephew riding for the first time.

After the meal, William’s men goaded him into strumming his lute, and Cynthia was amazed by his skill and the playful timbre of his voice as he sang a madrigal about the pleasures of spring. Watching the bobbing heads and listening to the laughter about her, Cynthia wondered if maybe the castle folk had suffered from the lack of visitors Lord John’s illness had caused. All of Wendeville seemed to enjoy the respite from grief that the presence of their cheery company afforded.

Then Cynthia spied Garth. While everyone about him banged heartily on the trestle table in rhythm with the music, he sat scowling, his arms crossed over his chest.

What was wrong with him? Did he disapprove of the tune? True, it wasn’t the somber plainsong of the monastery to which he was accustomed, but surely he didn’t condemn them for a bit of lighthearted music. The song wasn’t even lewd, as madrigals often were. She stared at him until she caught his eye, then lifted her brows in askance.

As if surprised by his own posture, he unfolded his arms and let his face relax. He didn’t exactly smile, but a sort of resignation settled over his features. She wished she could read his thoughts. What an enigma Garth de Ware was, she decided, and she grinned at him in spite of his dour countenance.

Garth tapped his fingers restlessly atop the table. He was glad Lady Cynthia was having a good time. Truly he was. The poor woman had lost her husband, after all. She deserved a little frivolity in her life. And if that frivolity came in the form of a handsome nobleman who sang like a nightingale and was currently dancing like he was born to it, what concern was it of his?

Garth held his breath as the gentleman appropriated Cynthia’s hand and led her about in a circle with the rest of the dancers. She looked so beautiful, so alive, so…happy.

Indeed, Garth couldn’t find fault with the man at all. Lord William was neither overbearing nor timid. He appeared to be well versed in the gentle arts, but by the breadth of his shoulders, Garth could see he was no mediocre warrior. And he could dance.

Garth, too, could dance. He’d been forced to learn alongside his brothers. Their mother never allowed the de Ware boys to indulge in the more violent sport of swordplay unless they practiced the courtly graces in equal measure. And if it weren’t for the fact that for the last four years, Garth had been a monk, forbidden to engage in such exhibitions, he’d prove it.

The air rushed out of him on an exasperated sigh. What the devil was he thinking? Not yet one week in the secular world, and already he felt the pricking of the sin of pride. What did it matter if he could dance? He was a priest. His legs were for kneeling in the worship of God. Anything else was vanity. Perhaps it was good that he was under a vow of silence, after all. In fact, he might be well advised to maintain that vow another fortnight.

He was staring into his flagon of wine, considering the merits of extending his vow to a lifetime of silence, when Cynthia jostled his elbow. Startled, he turned to catch her gaze, full force. Dear Heaven, she was breathtaking. Her face, framed by stray tendrils of her fiery hair, was flushed with delight. Her skin was misted with exertion, her cheeks rosy, her lips curved into a coy smile.

Intense longing bloomed inside him like wine warming his belly. His heart seemed to pulse to the beat of the timbrel, his lungs to breathe in the harmonies of the lute. He suddenly ached to join her, to join all of them, to share in their revelry, their humanity. For one terrible moment, his legs quivered in mutiny, threatening to move against his wishes.

Another dancer wheeled her away then, and the feeling passed. He swallowed back panic. How close had he come to taking that first step? To forgetting who he was, what he was? To violating his own principles?

Drawing the back of his hand across his perspiring lip, he rose on shaking legs. Measuring his pace to contradict the rhythm of the music, he made fists of his hands, steeled his jaw, and walked deliberately past the merrymakers.

He almost escaped. If he’d paid heed to the weaving pattern of the dancers, he might have cleared their path. But as fate would have it, as Cynthia rounded the wheel, he stepped left, square upon her toes.

She emitted a small, muffled squeak and pitched forward suddenly, falling against him. Her hands snagged the front of his cassock, and instinctively he caught her shoulders. A dizzying wave of sweet perfume arose from her hair to tease his nostrils, and he swallowed hard as he felt the weight of her warm body pressed against his.

He should push her away, he knew, and yet something held him immobile, some hunger, some unspeakable desire, some force that dismissed all sense, all reason. She raised her head to look at him, and he saw his own need reflected in her eyes, doubling its power, intensifying his desire. Suddenly, in the middle of the great hall, it seemed there were only the two of them.

Against all wisdom, he lowered his gaze to her lips. How full they were, so tempting, parted in expectation. His thoughts careened dangerously. Damn the crowd. Damn his vows. He wanted to kiss her. Now.

And in another moment, he might have.

But that bossy little scrap of a maid of hers elbowed her way between the two of them. “Oh la! You’ve ruined the pattern now, my lady!” She steered Cynthia from the circle, sparing him a heated glare that could have cauterized a wound.

Garth closed his eyes. He deserved Elspeth’s ire. He’d promised not to interfere with her machinations. Indeed, as soon as he was able to rein in his passions, he’d doubtless bless her for interrupting a moment of sheer madness. But for the remainder of the long evening until he found safe harbor in his quarters, all he could manage was a fierce scowl and a wretched craving that kept his hands locked in fists.

Cynthia only half-listened as Lord William escorted her along the herb garden of the inner bailey in the fickle morning sunlight. Her hand rested familiarly along the top of his sleeve, and yet his arm might have been only the cushion of a chair for all the attention she paid it.

Her thoughts had whirled crazily through her brain all night, ever since that encounter with Garth de Ware, intruding even into her dreams, and come morn, she could make no more sense of them than before. She knew she should pay heed to her visitor’s words, and she had, up till now, at least enough to respond with an occasional nod or smile of agreement. But when Garth appeared at the far end of the courtyard, her ears grew deaf to Lord William’s discourse.

Old Simon limped along on Garth’s arm. It appeared the feeble man had misplaced his walking stick again. The poor wretch couldn’t manage to keep his thoughts in order, much less his possessions. Cynthia wondered if she should lend assistance. She knew, as Garth did not, that Simon usually left his stick propped against the wall of the east garderobe.

“So your ears have deserted me as well.”

“What?” Cynthia snapped her head around. “I’m sorry, Lord William. I—“

He chuckled warmly. “You’ve been staring at him for some time now.”

She felt a flush steal up her cheek. “I don’t know what you’re—“

He clucked his tongue. “Be careful, lest you tell a lie. They don’t approve of that, you know.”

“Who?”

“Men of the church.”

“I…I was watching…old Simon.”

He patted her hand in a brotherly fashion. “I saw the way you looked at the man last night, even when he was stepping all over your feet.”

Panic seized her, panic and denial. “Sir, are you suggesting..?” she hissed. “He is a man of the church. I wouldn’t dream of…” She stopped to smooth her skirts, composing her thoughts. Bloody hell, she wasn’t dreaming of anything so blasphemous, was she? “What you saw in my eyes was nothing but innocent pleasure,” she explained, eager to convince herself as well.