Page 2 of My Hero
He glowered before he could temper his mutinous thoughts. Damn! The last thing he wanted was to be interrupted by a little girl who’d want him to take her hawking or riding or some such nonsense. He sat very still in his shade-dappled shelter, guarding his privacy like a grouse protecting her eggs, and watched as the small murderer violated the serenity of the garden and padded obliviously by his hiding place.
Actually, he had to concede, quirking up a reluctant corner of his mouth, he supposed the brat wasn’t all that bad. She’d come with her father two days ago, and in all that time, she’d never once asked him to entertain her. That, to a boy of fifteen summers, was an unexpected blessing.
If she’d been a few years older and a great deal comelier, his brothers would have leaped to do her bidding. A pretty young face often caused temporary madness and heated rivalry between the two of them.
This lass, however, couldn’t be much over ten years old, and she resembled the minstrels’ model of beauty about as much as a partridge resembled a falcon. A lady was supposed to be as pale as alabaster, fair-haired, demure, sweet, and delicate. Little Cynthia le Wyte was none of those. She was sturdy and freckled. Her hair was an outrageous shade of orange. With her bare feet, she looked like a poor peasant. And the way she gripped that dagger in her fist as she crept close was anything but delicate.
Still, therewassome quality about her—something earthy, something honest—that made her, well, interesting.
She paused to smile then.
And Garth’s world stopped.
Her smile lit up her whole face, as if the sun shone for her alone, as if neither freckles nor orange hair could prevent her from expressing the sheer beauty of the moment and the radiance within her. And in that magical instant, Garth caught a glimpse of the woman she would become.
There was life in her eyes, vibrancy and mischief. Her smile was thoroughly engaging, as joyful and pure as a bubbling stream, and he mused on what it would be like to drink from that stream.
He was suddenly filled with wonder, the same wonder he felt when the odd little brown bulbs in his mother’s garden surprised him by miraculously blooming into rare and splendid flowers.
He settled back and watched in charmed amusement as the blossom slayer went to work. With her tongue anchored to the corner of her lip in concentration, she patiently sawed at the rose branches, carefully avoiding the thorns, and then tucked the foot-long pieces gingerly into her surcoat pockets. Once, the nearby chirp of a sparrow made her start in alarm and drop her dagger. And after that, from time to time, she’d look furtively over her shoulder. But she never noticed him sitting motionless beneath the bower.
Her stealth was pointless, of course. His mother wouldn’t have minded in the least. Lady Alyce gave often and willingly of her roses, which were known and prized far and wide. Had the little robber asked, his mother would have gladly loaded her pockets with cuttings.
The girl moved on to the deep red rosebush, the one who’s dropped petals always reminded Garth of spilled blood. Just then, as if she’d heard his thoughts, she pricked her finger on one of its nasty thorns. But the brave lass didn’t cry. She only winced, popping her stubby finger into her mouth to suck on the tiny wound.
Then she paused, slowly lifting her head, and her face took on a dreamy cast. He knew at once she’d caught the scent of his mother’s prize, the white-blossomed bush against the wall. The tiny flowers were in full bloom, and their sweet fragrance never failed to seduce visitors to the garden unfamiliar with the exotic plant.
But as he’d learned in summers past, those flowers also seduced honeybees. It was one of the reasons his mother had procured the bush in the first place. Bees in the garden, she said, helped produce more harvest.
They also stung the naïve.
Of course, the little girl squatting beneath the roses would know nothing about the white-flowered bush. She’d likely reach out for a cluster of blooms and stuff her hand directly into a throng of crawling bees.
He couldn’t let that happen. Not to a lady. De Ware men protected ladies.
He dropped his book onto the grass, hopped to his feet, and emerged from the curtain of willow branches, shouting, “Look out!”
The girl gasped loudly, clearly horrified. She leaped up, scattering the rose cuttings, and swung around, her eyes as wide as silver coins.
He scowled. He hadn’t meant to scare her. Notthatmuch.
“I meant no harm, my lord,” she chattered breathlessly, flushing scarlet and backing away. “I swear it. I only—”
“Move away!” This time his harsh command was intentional. Dozens of bees squirmed mere inches from her shoulder. Still the lass seemed unaware of the little yellow firebrands. She stood frozen in his regard like a deer sensing a hunter. “Now!”
Cynthia’s heart was beating so hard, she feared it would burst. She stumbled back from the lordly voice, utterly abashed. Lord James de Ware’s son had caught her stealing!
The boy lifted his hand, and she thought for a mad moment that he intended to clout her for her crime. She cringed backward into the jasmine. A pleasant cloud of fragrance instantly surrounded her, and a branch tickled her neck. She lifted one quivering hand to brush it aside. Then, striking as unexpectedly as summer lighting, a sharp pain lanced across her shoulder, then upon her neck, then beneath her ear. She shrieked—stunned, betrayed.
“There!” the boy said, shaking his head and swaggering near. “You see? That bush is teeming with honeybees. I warned you to move away.”
He pulled her by the arm away from the shrub, glaring at it with eyes as hard as jade.
She peered up at him, mortified, in pain, but too proud to weep. Faith, what would the lord’s son do with her? She wasn’t sure what terrified her more—being stung by bees or being caught thieving roses.
She’d never had a bee sting before. Once, when her family had visited a particularly filthy manor house, she’d awakened covered with flea bites. Her mother had known exactly what poultice of herbs would ease the itch. But these were no flea bites. They felt like sharp needles of fire. And her mother wasn’t here. Heavy with child, Lady Elayne had remained at home.
Cynthia was frightened. Some people swelled up horribly from bee attacks. Some people died. Her mother had taught her the remedy for stings, but Cynthia couldn’t for the life of her remember it.
