Page 107 of The Daughters of Avalon
Rosalynde frowned, annoyed.
It didn’t make sense that her given champion should utterly abhor her, but perhaps it was unreasonable to think he might see beyond herglamour, especially since she didn’t want him to. “Well, my lord… I hope you find peace in God.”
“Thank you, Sister,” he said, and fell again into a narrow silence—a quietude that neither brother gave any indication of wishing to end.
Ah, well… at least boredom wouldn’t be the death of her…
Her mother might be, though considering that Giles was here, without Seren, something must have happened in London to waylay the hateful witch.
Conceivably, therewasone person she could ask, but how could she broach the subject when she shouldn’t even have any knowledge that Giles was supposed to wed her sister?
Oh, what a tangle…
Chapter
Eleven
If twenty times the girl had leaned back against him, twenty times Giles pushed her away. The bitter truth was that she wasn’t very attractive, and so much as he didn’t wish to be attracted to a nun, neither did he care to feel this particular nun’s soft curves against his well-worn leathers.
And, don’t think he hadn’t noticed how much she wiggled—probably equally as annoyed by the material of her crude gown as Giles was by her proximity.
Forsooth, as cold as it was, he wondered irately why she did not wear the cloak Wilhelm discovered in his satchel, instead of trying to burrow into his. Though he didn’t recognize the breed of animal, hers was rimmed with soft, black fur, and it would surely keep her warmer than Giles had a mind to.
What a mystery, she was, traveling with more gold than his brother earned in a given year, and wearing clothes that would have chafed his own skin raw, when she owned a cloak that could easily have passed as fashionable in Stephen’s court. There was something about her… something that struck him as odd.
Despite her lack of sophistication, he believed she could be a lady, in truth—mayhap the spoiled daughter of a Welsh lord. Her accent was faint, but he recognized it just the same, and she worea certain gleam in her eye… one he’d met in too many dissenters, and so much as her spirit did appeal to him… her face did not.
She wiggled backward, yet again, nestling her firm little backside too intimately into the crook of his thighs, and there it was again—a snicker—Giles frowned.
To his utter dismay, his body hadn’t the first clue his brain must be disgusted by the woman seated before him.
His mutinous cock betrayed him, stirring, if only slightly, and he scooted back, again, this time as far as he could manage and still remain in the saddle. Any further, and he would be seated on the mare’s rump.
In answer, the girl leaned again, this time resting her head on his shoulder and Giles frowned. “Have you grown weary of traveling already, Sister Rosalynde?”
“Oh, nay, my lord,” she said, sweet as honey—not at all in keeping with her appearance. And nevertheless, with her back to him, he could almost imagine her to be… well, more like he’d imagined her to be when he’d first laid eyes upon her sleeping in the thicket. And regardless, there was too much glee in her tone… as though she enjoyed baiting him.
But why? If, in truth, she’d somehow gleaned his feelings about her appearance, she should be rightfully offended—unlike his nose.
Bloody hell.
Her hair smelled of… roses.
And while there was nothing quite so extraordinary about a Rose smelling like a rose—still, he frowned, wishing he could, at least for the time being, forget the girl’s unpleasant face.
Sweet lord, he didn’t wish to lean into that intoxicating scent… and neither did he appreciate her dark, shining hair spilling over his shoulder so familiarly as a lover’s. Warmed by the noonday sun, it shone like red velvet.
Moreover, there was something about Sister Rosalynde that reminded him of the siren from his dreams… that beauteous water nymph that time after time had lured him to the depths of the sea. She’d had a similar gleam in her eyes that hardened his cock so painfully he awoke in the mornings with a burning desire that would not diminish until he took himself into his own hands. As soon as he found a moment alone, he must indulge himself again, as he didn’t consider it to be in anybody’s best interest for a man to burn.
“You seem to be very much at ease,” he said, this time allowing her rest.
“Aye, my lord. Because, after all, you’ve been so kind.” He caught a smile in her voice, and, inexplicably, it made his cock stir again. She inhaled deeply, her ample breasts brushing against his arm, and he shuddered over the sensation. “I was lost until you found me.”
“Ah, yeah,” he rejoined, perhaps testing her. “And what man, having a hundred sheep, if he has lost one, does not leave the ninety, to go after the one…”
“Ninety-nine,” she said.
“Ninety-nine,” he amended. “You do know your scripture, Sister Rosalynde.”
