Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero (30 page)

Garth’s heart pounded, and he felt his own shoulders tense as he watched the knights whirl and slash at their opponents. Of course, none of them were fit to polish the armor of his magnificent brothers. Duncan and Holden could have taken on the entire Wendeville fighting force without a scratch, he was sure. But that didn’t curb his enjoyment of the spectacle, and before he knew it, he was yelling out insults and encouragement along with the rest of the crowd.

It was a friendly melee. When it was over, the victors held out their hands to their fallen foes and clapped them on the back for a battle well played. Blunt blades were used in the sword duels. The jousting, as well, was done with coroneled lances…which was why the accident came as such a shock.

Garth had taken a cup of wine from a passing maidservant and was eyeing the pennons of the visiting knights to see how many he recognized when a collective gasp from the crowd drew his attention. He turned his gaze at once to the field of the lists. One of the jousters had fallen, which was nothing surprising, but he lay silent where he fell for a long while…too long. And when the helm was pulled from his head, it was obvious the unconscious knight was only a lad.

Garth swore under his breath. His brothers had done their share of filching armor as boys and fighting in tournaments for which they had neither permission nor experience to participate. But then, they were destined to be the finest knights in England. This boy was clearly…a boy.

The men on the field had removed his breastplate and were slapping at his cheeks now, trying to rouse the lad, to no avail. Lord, if they didn’t hurry…

Garth dropped his cup to the ground, heedless of the wine that trickled onto the sod. He hoisted up his cassock and leaped over the palisade on one arm, charging forward as soon as his feet hit the ground.

Cynthia gathered her skirts and lunged forward without thought. A lad lay unconscious on the field. She had to help him.

She heard some vague protest as she left—Philip, no doubt, concerned for her safety. But she rushed off anyway, half-conscious that her betrothed dogged her every step.

“Back away!” she snapped at the knights as she flung herself to the ground beside the fallen jouster. “Give me room to work.”

Behind her, Philip gasped. “Cynthia! Surely you’re not going to…” he began, likely appalled by the sight of his bride-to-be squatting like a peasant in the dust.

“Let her be.” Cynthia’s ear caught on the soft, deep voice above her. It was Garth. And in that instant, as he stood so close that his cassock rippled against her surcoat, an unexpected breath of desire blew past her like wind from a warm and faraway land.

“But…she can’t…” Philip sputtered.

“Let her be.” Garth spoke quietly, but with enough force to silence Philip. Then he caught her eye. “Will he live? Can you save him?”

Gazing into his solemn green eyes, she was transported back to the monastery. She’d asked that very same thing as Garth lay languishing in his cell.

“Save him?” Philip asked. “What are you talking about?”

“What do you need?” Garth asked, demanding her gaze.

Philip intervened. “Chaplain, I must protest. This is no place for—“

“Tell me,” Garth ordered.

Cynthia nodded and began rubbing her palms together.

Behind her, Philip protested. “What the devil?”

“Not the devil,” Garth murmured. “It’s God’s work.”

She hadn’t used her gift since Philip had arrived, and it returned reluctantly, but with such strength that she was scarcely able to control its power. Bolts of current seemed to shoot up her arms and through her legs, skewering her between earth and sky like lightning. Her skin crawled with prickles of fire. Quivering with trepidation, she stretched forth her hands and placed them lightly upon the lad’s forehead.

An image clapped into her brain like the flashes of a night storm, swift and sharp and clear. But it seemed so strange, so perverse…

She frowned and opened her eyes, snatching her hands back. The image made no sense.

“What is it?” Garth asked.

“Cynthia, I must insist you come away,” Philip said.

She ignored them. Wetting her lips, she closed her eyes and tried again, placing just the tips of her fingers upon the boy’s temples. There it was again. The same aberrant picture. It couldn’t possibly be right. And yet what choice did she have? The lad grew paler by the moment, his skin cooling even as she wrestled with her thoughts.

Garth’s heart raced. If Cynthia didn’t make quick work of it, if she couldn’t decipher the cure soon…

Suddenly she emitted a small moan of confused frustration. Then she inclined her head toward the lad’s. For a moment, it appeared as if she intended to kiss him.

Philip cursed. “What in the name of—“

Garth again intervened, blocking Philip with his arm. “Wait.”

But even Garth’s faith was tested as her lips fell upon the boy’s mouth in a most improperly intimate fashion. She blew out a long breath of air, and the lad’s cheeks puffed out like a frog’s. The surrounding knights began to mumble among themselves as if wondering what to make of this strange perversion. Again she exhaled into the boy’s mouth.

“What wickedness is this?” Philip demanded, incensed. “Come away from him now, Cynthia.” He reached forward to grab her arm.

She shook it off, and he gaped in astonishment.

“Leave her be,” Garth said.

“I will not stand by and let—“

Suddenly a rasping breath pierced the air, and Garth saw the boy’s chest rise. Relief and wonder filled him. She’d done it. She’d saved the lad. Literally blown the breath of life back into him. He caught her gaze, and such profound joy shone in her eyes that he longed to embrace her in sheer triumph.

But it wasn’t his place now. He was a priest. And Philip, Cynthia’s betrothed, was still scowling beside him.

A great cheer went up, echoing into the stands, and the boy struggled up on his elbows, dazed, embarrassed, but thankfully alive.

Abruptly the back of Garth’s arm was caught in a sharp pinch.

“How dare you endorse this…this work of the devil,” Philip hissed. “Have you no care for Lady Cynthia’s soul?”

Not waiting for a reply, Philip let him go and wrenched Cynthia up violently by the arm. “And you,” he muttered under this breath. “That boy should be dead. How could you interfere with the will of God?”

Before he knew what he was doing, Garth, made livid by the man’s rough treatment of Cynthia, seized him by the shoulders and spun him around. “Lay a heavy hand on her again,” he bit out, “and I’ll chop it off.”

Those who heard him gasped. They were not the words of a humble chaplain.

Philip blinked several times, astonished as much by Garth’s threat as by his own rash behavior. Then he continued more gently and with great concern. “My lady, I pray you excuse my…severity. I’m certain God will forgive you for your ignorance, but if you are to be my wife, you must promise me you’ll not work that….that witchery again.”

Garth still reeled from the heady rush of violence pumping in his blood. He bit the inside of his cheek, stifling the words that came to his lips when he beheld the pain and bewilderment on Cynthia’s face. But she made no objection. Though it must break her heart to do so, she merely swallowed back her disappointment and nodded in acquiescence.

The rest of the day was spoiled for him then. Cynthia had performed a miracle, and the man she was to marry had scorned her for it. Garth wondered how Philip could live with himself, knowing he rejected the very essence of all that Cynthia embraced. It was a tragedy, and there was nothing he could do to resolve it.

The rest of the afternoon he kept his emotions carefully concealed, doing his best to be a good chaplain to the celebrants at Wendeville. He blessed their meal, found napping places for those who’d drunk too liberally, and even chuckled good-naturedly at the heathen antics of some of the castle folk, gently guiding them back toward a spiritual bent. He tried to keep up a happy countenance.

But it was evident later, after the revelry had died down, when the keep echoed with the soft snores of the well-fed, while he restlessly wandered the corridors and the hall and the courtyard, where the musky spring air was ripe with sultry promise, that none of it changed the way he felt.

He still loved Cynthia.

The profile of the rising moon, low in the purple sky, glowed golden, dusting the leaves of the trees that rose above the garden wall. A subtle breeze made the branches shiver in the dark with shimmering radiance. Crickets played lusty music for their mates, and in the distance, an owl hooted softly.

Garth clenched his fists once, hesitating before the privy garden, silently cursing the cunning wanderlust that had brought him to this place…for the gate was ajar, and that could mean only one thing at this late hour.

Cynthia was there.

Through the crack in the door, he saw the light filtering down over the shifting branches onto a narrow slice of the path, but little else. A gust of warm wind came up behind him, brushing over his cassock and past him, shoving the gate open another inch, goading him forward.

He shouldn’t go in.

He should turn around, return to his quarters, and try once again to seize elusive sleep.

He shouldn’t even think of going in, not when he’d kept his emotions so well reined in, not after he’d managed to restore a semblance of cordiality with Cynthia without letting her glimpse the molten fire coiling beneath his surface.

He couldn’t destroy that accomplishment. He was committed to Wendeville now. It was a long road the two of them might travel together. If he couldn’t ever fully express the depth of feeling he had for her, then he must learn to live with that. He must settle for being a platonic companion to her.

And so, tonight, he should leave her be.

She probably wished to be alone anyway. God knew
he
needed to be alone. Too many things could happen if they were alone together on a sultry evening like this one.

He shouldn’t.

And yet his feet carried him forward, toward the inviting gap in the garden wall.

Slowly the gate swung inward under his hand. It creaked low, widening the wedge of light. A few pale apple blossoms fluttered to the ground, glowing softly in the refined light.

And then he saw her.

She sat on the sod bench between the deep shadows of the willow, bathed in moonlight. Her sorrowful face was turned toward him, as if she’d been weeping and waiting for him forever.

He held his breath, wanting only to look at her. God—she was beautiful, more stunning than the stars. How he longed to hold this moment for all eternity. He stood absolutely quiet, certain that breathing, speaking, moving, might destroy the fragile bond that mere gazing forged.

Yet, however he yearned for her, he was also her friend and her priest. So against his better instincts, his feet propelled him forward. He pressed the gate closed behind him, slumping back against it, knowing as he did that he sealed his fate as well.

There was no turning back.

A whiff of cursed jasmine beckoned him. Taking a deep surrendering breath, he walked toward her. Shadows of branches snaked over his cassock like Eden’s serpent, as if in warning. And yet, he could no more resist the temptation to go to her than Adam could resist Eve.

She waited for him, her hands clasped patiently in her lap, till he stood but an arm’s length away. Her eyes shone translucent and trusting and deeply melancholy as they searched his face, the filtered moonlight glazing them to a pewter sheen. Shadows of leaves played across her parted lips. Once, he thought with a twinge of yearning, he had tasted those lips. They were sweet and warm and yielding.

He wouldn’t think about it.

“My lady, you should be in bed.”

“Should I have let the boy die?” Her eyes filled with tears.

“Is that what troubles you?”

How fragile she looked, like a newborn fawn, unsure where to step. He wanted to curse Philip for planting such doubt into her head.

“Maybe it
was
God’s will,” she said brokenly.

He seized her by the shoulders, forcing her gaze to his. “God gave you that gift. It’s a wondrous thing. He meant for you to use it. Never doubt that.”

“But Philip—“

“To hell with Philip!” She flinched at his words, and he could have bitten his tongue. “Forgive me. It’s not my place to…judge. But Philip doesn’t understand your gift. However well-meaning he is, he’ll never accept it.”

She lowered her head. “I don’t love him, you know,” she confessed in a whisper. “I never did. I only wanted to please Roger and Elspeth and John and the people of Wendeville. But I don’t love him.”

Garth blew out a long and shaky breath.

She continued. “And I fear I’ll dishonor him if I wed him while…”

A tendril of hair blew softly across her face. Without thinking, he reached down and brushed the silky strand back from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. “While?”

She caught his wrist gently, like a child trapping a sparrow. She closed her eyes and pressed his hand against the warm column of her neck.

Despite her serene countenance, he could feel her pulse beating wildly against his palm. A rush of pleasure shot through him at the heat of her touch, so long imagined, so long denied.

“While my heart belongs to another,” she murmured.

His heart careened recklessly against his ribs. He should pull back, he knew. She was a lady, and he… But he’d known that when he stepped across the threshold. It was too late now. Desire tugged at him like the tenacious undercurrent of the sea.

“It’s you I love,” she whispered. “It’s always been you.” She turned her head slightly, and he felt her moist breath upon his hand. She placed a tender kiss in his palm, then another, and another. He watched in wonder, breathless, as she worshipped his fingers one by one, her own breath fluttery and uncertain, her eyes squeezed as if in delicious torment.

“We mustn’t,” he choked out.

She caressed the tip of his finger with her tongue, and a charge like lightning seared his loins. His legs weakened, and he sucked a sigh hard between his teeth. A roaring grew inside his head, like a feral lion demanding release.