Page 17 of My Hero
She could tell by the lowering of his tensed shoulders that she was right.
“And it worked. Indeed, I’ve never seen a bone setting done so quickly.”
If he didn’t smile at the compliment, at least he lost a portion of his scowl.
“So…” She lowered her eyes to the floor. “I thank you for the assistance, and I’m sorry I…” She ventured a glance up at him. His lip had stopped bleeding, but it was puffed out where she’d hit him. “I…” She dug busily in her satchel and pulled out the bottle of rosemary infusion and a clean linen rag. “This should help the bruising.” She stepped toward him, and he stiffened. Dear Lord, she thought, was the poor man afraid of her now? “Don’t fret,” she assured him. “It’s painless.”
He stood his ground then, but she sensed he was tempted to flee.
She wet the cloth and stood before him. Strange, though she was tall, she had to look up to meet his eyes. She fastened her gaze on his mouth. It was beautiful. His jaw was swarthy with faint stubble, and in contrast, his lips looked soft. They were not too full, not too spare, with an intriguing curve that promised roguish smiles. She couldn’t believe she’d damaged that mouth with her fist.
Blinking back her wayward thoughts, she began to dab at the cut. He winced once, then let her continue.
Mingling with the aroma of rosemary, Garth’s scent intruded upon her senses, a spicy fragrance like the holy incense in smoke-filled cathedrals. It was intriguing and exotic and intoxicating.
His fingers clamping about her wrist startled her from her thoughts. Apparently he’d had enough of her rosemary. But it wasn’t exactly annoyance she glimpsed in his gaze. Something feral flared in his eyes, threatening her and sending her a warning all at once, like a wolf fighting his instinct to hunt. It took her breath away.
And, contrary to her usual waywardness, for once she heeded his unspoken threat.
Her hand slipped easily from his grasp.
“I’ll have Roger see to your chamber at once,” she said, fidgeting with the rag and corking the bottle, “give you the day to settle in.” She wheeled and hurried away, tarrying only long enough to gather her satchel and toss an invitation over her shoulder. “I’ll expect you at dinner.”
And even after she closed the door behind her, even after she’d put half a furlong between them, still her heart beat wildly, like that of a mouse freed from the talons of a hawk.
Garth’s mouth throbbed, not in pain, but with the memory of her touch. He raised the back of his hand to his lip, willing away the sensation.
He should never have let her near, the goddess with her laughing eyes and her sensual mouth, her summery fragrance and her healing caress.
Faith, it was remarkable to him that her touch could be so gentle. She’d nearly cracked his teeth with her fist.
When she’d come in, he’d been praying for understanding, that somehow Will and Lady Cynthia would comprehend his intent and figure out why he’d done what he’d done, since, under his vow, he couldn’t tell them. But the last thing he wanted was for Cynthia to read his mind.
Vile thoughts resided there, thoughts that had him desiring her company, responding to her touch, craving her succulent mouth.
He closed his eyes against the visions.
Lord, to what purgatory had the Abbot sent him?
Unfortunately, the tale of Lady Cynthia’s blow of vengeance upon the new chaplain was too juicy a tidbit for the gossips to ignore. By the time Roger the steward had directed him to his quarters, welcoming him with an ivory comb and a polished steel mirror to add to his meager possessions, rumors were running rampant.
As soon as Garth set foot outside his chamber, a flock of servants scattered like panicked hens from his door. When he strode into the great hall, men nodded cautiously and women whispered behind their hands. The instant he entered the armory, the knights grew silent. In the kitchen, the cauldron of pottage suddenly required the close inspection of the cook and all of the serving lads. The bustling courtyard quieted when Garth made his way past the armorer’s shed and the mews and the swine’s pen. Even the squires busied themselves with brushing the horses when he ducked into the stables. And everywhere, giggling children followed him, nervously poking and prodding each other while he suffered their unguarded scrutiny.
He supposed he was rich fodder for their jests. After all, everyone had heard of his renowned brothers, Duncan and Holden. They were two of the finest knights in England. Surely the castle folk expected Garth to be no less. It must pique their morbid curiosity to see a de Ware reduced to the level of a lowly friar. And no doubt his vow of silence and the unfortunate incident in the lists added fuel to the fire.
Whatever their intent, they succeeded in destroying his peace and shredding his dignity. He wanted nothing more than to crawl away like a wounded animal, to return to the chapel, to his quarters.
But he was a de Ware. His blood refused to let him turn tail like a coward. He supposed he’d just have to armor himself against the onslaught.
In the meantime, he needed to find a place of temporary refuge, where he could escape the haranguing mob, if only briefly, and order his thoughts.
He ducked into the tiny room he’d sought out, alone at last. He spread the burgundy velvet curtain closed behind him and leaned back against the cold stone wall, heaving a sigh of relief. Then he smirked. It was utterly absurd that the only peace he could secure in the vast Wendeville estate was in a garderobe.
He shivered in the drafty chamber and loosened the cord around his cassock, idly wondering how long he could remain sequestered here before someone suspected him of an ailment of the bowels. He bunched up the voluminous robe, deftly untied the points of his braes with one hand, and aimed a stream of piss into the dark, dank hole.
How he’d survive the day, let alone the weeks and months to come, he didn’t know. Isolation had become a way of life for him, his religion a comfort. Being thrust into the secular world again so abruptly with its chaos and disorder and…temptations was like yanking a hapless bat into the blinding sunlight. He wondered if he’d ever grow accustomed to the glare.
With a final shake, he hitched up his leggings and tied the points of his braes. He smoothed down his cassock, then, knotting the cord, he blew out a resigned breath and reluctantly shouldered the garderobe curtain aside.
