Page 14 of My Hero
“It’s a temporary penance,” the Abbot added, “just a week more.”
“Ah.” Her glance flickered over him, inspecting him rather too thoroughly.
“I’m certain, Lady Cynthia, you’ll be pleased with Father Garth. He’s had four years in the monastery, and he’s a fine scribe, as well as an expert on sin and the moral life.”
Garth winced at the Abbot’s subtle barb.
“I’m so glad you found him, Abbot,” the lady said.
Garth knew he was doomed. That wistful longing flirting about her eyes would surely be his undoing. Her very presence rattled his composure and did unspeakable things to his loins. And—God have mercy—short of castration, there was no way out of the hell his life was about to become.
Chapter 4
What trifling pleasantries the Abbot and the woman exchanged, God only knew. Garth was too bedeviled by the chaos in his brain to pay them any heed. But all too soon, the Abbot began to speak of leaving.
“I regret my haste,” he said without a hint of regret, “but I trust you shall see Father Garth settled? I must be off to Charing before nightfall.”
Garth stiffened. Was the Abbot abandoning him, then?
Aye. Indeed. With little more than a curt nod and a sweep of his somber robes, the Abbot managed to make the hastiest escape from Wendeville since Lot fled Sodom.
The chapel door closed behind his swirling cope with an ominous thud, like the portal of a prison.
Garth clenched his fists repeatedly, sorely tempted to rush headlong after the Abbot. But that was a coward’s way out. And he was no coward. He was a de Ware.
Still, left alone with a woman for the first time in four years, he floundered as uncomfortably as a fish thrown from the river. Knotting his restless fingers in the coarse fabric of his cassock, he stared at the well-worn flagstones.
Cynthia broke the ponderous silence, gently clearing her throat. “The chaplain’s chamber is rather modest, I’m afraid.” Her voice sounded as rich and lush as her hair. “The chapel is the oldest part of the castle.”
Unwilling to look at her, Garth feigned an interest in the windows. He might not be able to flee this temptress, but he certainly couldn’t be expected to carry on conversation with her, considering his vows, and he definitely wasn’t going to gaze into her beautiful blue eyes again.
Instead he pretended to inspect one of the panels of stained glass, though for all he noticed, it could have depicted the Last Supper or the Feast of Valhalla.
Her hospitality was apparently undimmed by his disregard. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” she crooned. “The glass came from Sussex.”
She came up behind him in a soft rustle of skirts, close enough that he could smell the fresh earth on her, close enough that he could feel her warmth at his back. He clenched his jaw, studying the narthex window intently enough to crack the glass.
“John had it commissioned when we were first wed,” she told him. “It was his gift…” She broke off, and something in her voice surprised him. Something caught at his heart and stilled his breath.
Sorrow. He’d forgotten. She’d just lost her husband.
“His gift to me,” she finished quietly.
Garth lowered his eyes from the window and let a sigh ease from him. Lady Cynthia was in grief. When the Abbot told him that Lord John had been old and feeble, he’d assumed there was no real affection between the decrepit lord and his young bride of two years. He could see now he was wrong. Cynthia had cared for her husband.
As he turned toward her, she smiled brokenly and wiped at her nose with the back of one dirty hand, leaving a streak where a tear had fallen. His heart softened at once. And he knew, as impetuous as it was, he could no more refrain from consoling her than a sparrow could refrain from singing. Lending comfort was as natural to him as breathing.
He reached out for her as he would to a child, cupping her cheek in one palm, brushing his thumb carefully across the smear to erase it. A wave of guilt washed over him. Compassion was the church’s daily bread. How could he have been so selfish, so caught up in his own troubles that he failed to notice her grief?
But as soon as their gazes converged, Garth’s fatherly instincts vanished. The innocent gesture suddenly seemed perilous. His hand burned with forbidden fire where it touched her cheek. Her skin was velvety and inviting, as smooth and warm as a fresh-laid egg. He could feel the racing pulse at her throat beneath his fingertip. And as he watched, her eyes grew veiled with some unnamable yearning and her lips trembled apart. His nostrils flared, and for one mad moment, as the sun drenched them both in a stained-glass sea, he feared he might lower his head to kiss those lips.
But an intruder shattered the moment, barging in through the chapel door. The two of them parted as quickly as torn parchment, and Garth lowered his gaze at once, praying he didn’t look as mortified as he felt.
“My lady,” the elderly gentleman said. By the jangle of keys at his belt, Garth guessed he was the castle steward.
“Roger!” She sounded strangely breathless. “Come in. Meet our new chaplain.”
“Father.” The man gave him a cursory glance from head to toe, then dismissed him. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but there’s been an accident.”
