Page 13 of My Hero
Finally a familiar figure shattered the moment, gliding forward past the man, his black cassock rippling like inky shadows swallowing up the light. “Are you ill, child?”
“Oh!” she exhaled, placing one hand at her bosom to assuage her panic.
The Abbot peered down his nose at her. “I hope we didn’t startle you.”
Of course he’d startled her. Half to death. But if she knew the Abbot, frightening her was likely his intent. Indeed, she gleaned some satisfaction from the possibility that her sudden shriek had startledhim.
“I hopeIdidn’t…” The words caught in her throat as her gaze flickered again over the man accompanying the Abbot. He wore the cassock of a holy man, but he didn’t look like any friar she’d seen before. “Startleyou.”
She tore her eyes away long enough to see the Abbot smile with thin affection. “Nothing you do could ever startle me, child.”
Ordinarily she’d snap back a clever retort, but today she wasn’t interested in a verbal duel with the Abbot. She was far more intrigued by his companion—the towering, grim-faced, broad-shouldered man of the cloth who continued to challenge her with a piercing stare.
“I’ve brought a chaplain for Wendeville,” the Abbot droned, glancing down at the bee still spiraling on the flagstones beside her bare feet. “Apparently not a moment too soon, ifverminare already infesting the chapel.” Cynthia spared the Abbot a glimpse, getting the distinct impression he wasn’t just referring to the bee. “Lady Cynthia,” he said, nodding with false deference, “may I present Father Garth.”
Garth.
She looked closer.
It couldn’t be, she thought. It was mere coincidence. The bee made her remember the boy in the garden, and here was a man with his name. Garth was a common enough name. Surely it wasn’t thesameGarth. And yet…
“Garth?” Her pulse pounded erratically at her temples. It was childish, this sudden excitement. But the man before her had gray-green eyes and hair the color of chestnuts…and suddenly she wished with all her heart, childish or not, that itwasthat boy. It was naïve, a memory from a girlhood filled with faeries and foolish dreams, and she was a woman grown. But she couldn’t recall a time when she’d been happier, that halcyon time before her mother had died. Garth de Ware was a part of that life.Please,she prayed with uncharacteristic whimsy,let it be him.
Garth had never felt more awkward in his life. For God’s sake—he’d thought he’d left his warrior ways behind him.
The lady’s scream had started it all. His heart had plummeted at the sound, and for the first time in four years, his hand had whipped around to his left hip, seeking his sword, finding nothing but cassock.
As unnerved by his own instinctive response as he was by the shriek of a damsel in distress, he nonetheless burst into the chapel like a knight bent on rescuing her.
Then he froze. And almost broke his vow of silence. Before him, bathed in the ethereal light of the sun-washed chapel, stood the most fey and wondrous creature he’d ever beheld. A wave of paralyzing heat assaulted him. The breath caught in his chest, and his heart stumbled like a wounded warhorse.
The devil had taken a pleasing shape. There was no other explanation for such beauty. The woman was nearly as tall as he, but as statuesque and well proportioned as the pagan sculptures he’d seen long ago in Rome. Her skin was smooth and vibrant, like the flesh of an apricot, and a delicate sprinkle of freckles frolicked across her nose and cheeks. Her lips were sensual, as inviting as a cherry tart, and her eyes were an ethereal shade of blue matched only by a clear English sky. Most striking, however, was the shock of unbound orange hair that curled riotously about her face, framing it like a storm-tossed halo. It reminded him of marigolds and sunlight and long-abandoned summers of childhood innocence.
Her sideless surcoat, where it wasn’t smudged with dirt, was the color of Highland pines. Beneath, a soft gray kirtle hugged her lovely form, and the sight of the delicious curves it revealed made Garth’s nostrils quiver like a steed’s sensing danger.
Mother of God,he despaired silently,what comes to test me now?Surely this was some jest. The Abbot couldn’t be serious. He’d have to be mad to place a man burdened by the sin of temptation in the household of Eve herself.
The woman’s gaze swept him from head to toe, settling at last on his face, searching his eyes for…something. “Is it possible,” she said, her breathy voice drizzling over his nerves like honey, “that your surname is de Ware?”
He stiffened. She’d heard of him.
“Indeed,” the Abbot said coolly. “You’re acquainted with his family then?”
From beneath his brows, Garth could see her face light up with pleasure. It made him melt inside.
“It’s been some time,” she breathed. “But I’m so pleased to see you again, Garth.” She warmly inclined her head and extended her hand. It was a capable hand, strong and genuine, a little soiled, but unfettered by jewelry or guile. “My father was Lord Harold le Wyte?” she prompted.
Panic seized him as he stared at her hand. He knew without touching her that that hand was as warm as fresh-baked bread. He suppressed the desire to take it, greeting her with safe, stony silence instead.
As far as Lord Harold le Wyte, he neither remembered her father nor wished to rememberher. If hehadknown her, it was from a time he’d put under lock and key long ago, and he didn’t intend to pry open that box, ever.
Her pretty smile faltered. Her hand hung in empty space.
“Oh, I should mention,” the Abbot said, “Father Garth is under a vow of silence.”
The smile congealed on her face. She awkwardly withdrew her hand. Garth felt a twinge of remorse, but he’d never been more grateful for a penance in his life. He couldn’t have forced words past his lips if his soul depended on it.
“I understand.” She didn’t look as if she understood at all. Indeed, she looked rather offended, as if he’d taken the vow just to spite her.
