Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero (2 page)

Then she paused, slowly lifting her head, and her face took on a dreamy cast. He knew at once she’d caught the scent of his mother’s prize, the white-blossomed bush against the wall. The tiny flowers were in full bloom, and their sweet fragrance never failed to seduce visitors to the garden unfamiliar with the exotic plant.

But as he’d learned in summers past, those flowers also seduced honeybees. It was one of the reasons his mother had procured the bush in the first place. Bees in the garden, she said, helped produce more harvest.

They also stung the naïve.

Of course, the little girl squatting beneath the roses would know nothing about the white-flowered bush. She’d likely reach out for a cluster of blooms and stuff her hand directly into a throng of crawling bees.

He couldn’t let that happen. Not to a lady. De Ware men protected ladies.

He dropped his book onto the grass, hopped to his feet, and emerged from the curtain of willow branches, shouting, “Look out!”

The girl gasped loudly, clearly horrified. She leaped up, scattering the rose cuttings, and swung around, her eyes as wide as silver coins.

He scowled. He hadn’t meant to scare her. Not
that
much.

“I meant no harm, my lord, “she chattered breathlessly, flushing scarlet and backing away. “I swear it. I only—“

“Move away!” This time his harsh command was intentional. Dozens of bees squirmed mere inches from her shoulder. Still the lass seemed unaware of the little yellow firebrands. She stood frozen in his regard like a deer sensing a hunter. “Now!”

Cynthia’s heart was beating so hard, she feared it would burst. She stumbled back from the lordly voice, utterly abashed. Lord James de Ware’s son had caught her stealing!

The boy lifted his hand, and she thought for a mad moment that he intended to clout her for her crime. She cringed backward into the jasmine. A pleasant cloud of fragrance instantly surrounded her, and a branch tickled her neck. She lifted one quivering hand to brush it aside. Then, striking as unexpectedly as summer lighting, a sharp pain lanced across her shoulder, then upon her neck, then beneath her ear. She shrieked—stunned, betrayed.

“There!” the boy said, shaking his head and swaggering near. “You see? That bush is teeming with honeybees. I warned you to move away.”

He pulled her by the arm away from the shrub, glaring at it with eyes as hard as jade.

She peered up at him, mortified, in pain, but too proud to weep. Faith, what would the lord’s son do with her? She wasn’t sure what terrified her more—being stung by bees or being caught thieving roses.

She’d never had a bee sting before. Once, when her family had visited a particularly filthy manor house, she’d awakened covered with flea bites. Her mother had known exactly what poultice of herbs would ease the itch. But these were no flea bites. They felt like sharp needles of fire. And her mother wasn’t here. Heavy with child, Lady Elayne had remained at home.

Cynthia was frightened. Some people swelled up horribly from bee attacks. Some people died. Her mother had taught her the remedy for stings, but Cynthia couldn’t for the life of her remember it.

She knotted her fingers together, afraid to touch the spots that pulsed with fiery pain.

“I’m wounded,” she said in a strangled whisper.

One corner of Garth’s mouth twitched. “Well, it’s not so grave as that.” He shook his head in amusement, and his green eyes softened to the color of pine boughs.

For a moment she was pacified.

Until he drew his dagger.

Then she gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth.

“Come,” he urged, ignoring her gasp and grasping her by the wrist. “Let me see.”

“Nay.” She tugged back in resistance, drawing an uneasy breath. Why couldn’t her mother have come? This barbarian was after her with a knife!

“What ails you, lass?” he challenged, raising a brow. “You aren’t afraid, are you?”

Her gaze lingered on the gleaming silver blade. Aye, she was afraid. She was petrified.

Then she looked into Garth’s eyes. They were thoroughly gentle now, the hue of mist over the spring heath. A hint of humor glimmered in them. But so did compassion.

Garth de Ware wouldn’t harm her. She was as sure of it as she was that the sun would rise each morn. No one with eyes that kind could inflict hurt.

She lifted her chin a notch. “I’m not afraid.”

He chuckled. Then he tenderly brushed aside her unruly mop of hair, frowning down at her neck. She wondered what ghastly boil had formed there. As he raised his dagger, she willed herself not to tremble.

“The honeybees must have thought you were some rare new flower,” he murmured cheerfully, “with that bright hair of yours.” He laid the sharp blade flat along her neck. It was still warm from the sheath.

She held her breath and shut her eyes as he lightly scraped across her throat with the honed edge of the knife.

“That’s one,” he said in triumph, showing her a tiny black barb finer than a piece of silk thread.

She blinked in surprise. How insignificant the stinger looked. And yet it had caused far more pain than Garth’s great dagger.

He then turned her toward the sunlight, tipping her head to one side to locate the second wound lower on her neck. Her fear began to ease under his ministrations. His fingers, trailing across her throat, felt as gentle as her mother’s. And despite his scowl of concentration, tender wisdom shone in his eyes. Maybe he wasn’t quite as knavish as his brothers.

Young Cynthia was staring at him, unsure whether to give him her trust. Though the lass put on a brave face, she was quivering like a snared dove beneath his hands.

“I’ll wager you’ve never seen a shrub like that before,” he murmured, hoping to ease her fears with conversation.

Her eyes flicked briefly over the bush. “The jasmine?”

He coaxed the tiny black barb between his thumbnail and his dagger. Slowly, he drew the stinger out. “You know its name?”

He stopped his ministrations and turned to her. Their heads were inches apart. She was really rather comely despite her strange coloring, he decided. Her large, pale blue eyes were luminous against her sun-kissed skin. And her orange hair was…intriguing.

“My…my mother taught me the flowers’ names,” she faltered, turning a pretty shade of pink.

Garth nodded and returned to his labor. A faint grin lurked at the corners of his mouth. She’d blushed. Actually, all the little girls he knew did that when he looked at them. His mother said it was the de Ware curse. She said Garth would break many hearts on the road to manhood. Whatever that meant.

He placed his hand lightly on the embroidered neckline of her surcoat. “Forgive my coarse touch, my lady,” he said with an apologetic smile. He’d heard his brother Duncan use those words with wenches many a time. He wasn’t entirely sure of their meaning either, but the ladies seemed to like hearing them.

Cynthia gulped. Garth’s touch was anything but coarse. His fingers felt like warm silk against her flesh as he slipped her surcoat and underdress the tiniest bit off her shoulder, making her skin tingle.

“Do you know that fruit?” he asked, nodding to a white blossomed tree.

She blinked languidly at the tree, then shook her head.

“That,” he announced, “is an apricot. My grandfather brought it back from the Holy Land. He fought in the Crusades.”

Cynthia nodded, only half-listening to Garth’s words. She was far too enrapt by the touch of his large hands, firm yet delicate on her neck, and the twinkle in his proud eyes—gray-green, penetrating eyes with thick, gently curved lashes—to pay much heed to what he said. There was something about the noble slant of his nose, the dark, masculine down along his upper lip, and the strong, square angle of his jaw that had a most curious effect on her. The blood rushed feverishly to her cheeks, leaving her skin strangely sensitive.

“This is the last one,” he said.

Cynthia blinked, trying to remember his conversation. “The last…apricot tree?”

He flashed a one-sided smile. “Nay. The last barb.”

“Oh.”

Cynthia’s heart drummed like the feet of a captive rabbit as Garth bent near. Moisture formed along her upper lip. What was wrong with her? Had the bee stings poisoned her and made her feverish?

“It must be buried deep. I can’t see the barb.” He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head this way and that at her shoulder, trying to catch some glint off the stinger that would disclose its position. Twice he lifted his dagger. Twice he brought it down.

“Maybe there
is
no barb,” Cynthia said stridently. She didn’t know how much more nerve-stretching intimacy she could endure.

“Nay, there’s a barb. But the place is swollen to the size of my father’s silver medallion.” He frowned. “If I could only feel…”

Cynthia raised her brows. Feel what? What did he intend? He’d sheathed his dagger and was looking furtively about like a naughty child about to steal a tart.

Without warning, he clutched her by the shoulders and lowered his head to the bee sting. Cynthia’s breath caught in her throat. His soft brown curls brushed past her cheek like a caress. His lips pressed wetly, warmly against the flesh of her shoulder, just like a kiss. She trembled at the shock of his embrace as she felt him nibble there. For one tense moment, she didn’t breathe. Then he abruptly lifted his head and spat to the side.

“Ha!” he exclaimed in victory.

Cynthia gaped at him with glazed eyes. She felt dizzy and weak. Part of it was relief—the ordeal was over. But part of it was a skin-tingling, toe-curling sensation, the birth of desire so overpowering it threatened to dissolve her bones.

Then Garth stood tall, blocking the sun with his broad shoulders, and issued a stern warning. “Now stay away from that bush, little moppet. It’s always covered with bees.”

With the sun behind him, haloing his magnificent head, Garth de Ware looked like a hero. And so he was. He’d come to her rescue, like a knight in shining armor.

Cynthia exhaled a wistful sigh. Her lids felt curiously heavy. Her shoulder burned deliciously where his lips had seared her flesh, and she swore she’d never wash the spot again. Glowing with adoration, she pressed one hand modestly to her bosom and curtseyed in her most formal fashion.

“I’ll never forget the great service you’ve done me, Sir Garth,” she said breathlessly. “You’re a most brave and courteous knight.”

Of course, she knew he wasn’t truly a knight. Not yet. But she noticed he didn’t correct her. Indeed, he looked rather pleased with the title. He flashed her another one of his charming, crooked smiles and, retrieving his book, nodded to her in farewell.

She stared steadfastly, unwilling to forgo one glimpse of her newfound champion.

As he closed the gate after him, he called wryly over his shoulder, “Don’t forget your cuttings, little thief. Better not leave any evidence strewn about.”

Cynthia glanced down at the incriminating rose slips. How insignificant they seemed now. When she looked up again, her hero had disappeared.

She smiled dreamily at the garden gate. Then she wrapped her arms about her and twirled once in delight.

“Perhaps I
will
marry after all,” she declared to her flowery audience. Sweeping up her boots and stockings with a graceful flourish, she gave the garden a knowing grin. “Garth de Ware,” she whispered, “someday you’ll be mine.”

Fate, however, had a cruel habit of interfering with the best-laid plans. That very evening, Cynthia’s mother lost the boy growing in her womb and fell deathly ill. Cynthia and her father were summoned home before the sun had even broken through the pall of night. By the time they returned, it was over. Lady Elayne was dead. Cynthia was the new mistress of le Wyte. All her childish dreams were abandoned, and her precious cuttings, forgotten in her pockets, withered and died.

FEBRUARY 1338

Quiet reigned in the dim bedchamber, save for old Elspeth’s soft weeping and the ironic healthy crackle of fire on the hearth. Outside, a punishing rain pelted the sod, but the sound was dampened by the heavy tapestries hung over the windows.

The life force was almost gone from the man in the bed. Cynthia could feel it in the weakening of his grip. None of her healing powers would save her dear husband. She placed loving hands upon his clammy forehead, hands she’d used often to comfort him, hands through which God sometimes performed miracles. But this time, when she closed her eyes, she saw the clear image of the black snake.

Death.

It was inevitable. Lord John wasn’t a young man. He’d known he was dying for weeks. But for Cynthia, seeing that dark, incontrovertible image in her mind’s eye…

John had already bid farewell to the others. The Abbot had performed last rites. Roger, John’s steward and dearest friend, stood sentry at the footpost of the bed like a loyal hound, iron gray and ramrod straight. Beside him, Elspeth dabbed at her bleary eyes with the corner of her apron. All that remained was for John to bid adieu to his wife.

Cynthia bit back a sob and clasped his cool fingers again. He frowned, and she leaned forward to catch his faint whisper, his final bidding. His soft words barely stirred the wayward curl that had fallen from her coif, but that made them no less offensive. She drew back sharply.

Grief burned her throat. “Nay,” she protested, “I can’t.”

His face contorted with disappointment, and it was all Cynthia could do to keep from dissolving into tears. But she swore she wouldn’t cry.

“Please, Cynthia.” His voice was as weak as wind through a cracked door.

She clamped her bottom lip between her teeth, determined to remain strong. How could she do it? How could she keep such an impossible vow? But how could she let him die without granting his final request? “All right,” she managed to choke out, squeezing his hand in reassurance. “I promise.”

He smiled faintly. And then he was gone.

The frail, gnarled fingers grew limp in her grasp. His old eyes glazed over with the dull patina of death. One final breath rattled out between his lips, and his body sank into the feather bed.