Page 21 of My Hero
In the blink of an eye, Garth leaped up and over his table, dagger in hand. Before Cynthia could even draw breath to gasp, he lunged forward across the high table like a charging boar. His dagger rose high, then plunged down with a powerful thud, stabbing the rogue roast, pinning the meat clear through to the wood planking.
A hush of awe dropped instantly over the hall. Not a hound stirred. Even the Campbell lads halted their bickering. All eyes flew to the chaplain clutching the knife with bloodless knuckles like some Viking berserker.
The furrow between his brows deepened as he stared at his own hand, evidently as dumbfounded as the rest by his spontaneous, absurd feat of heroics.
Cynthia didn’t know whether to laugh or applaud. She’d never been saved from a roast before. What a boyish, charming, ridiculously chivalrous gesture. But she could do neither. The rest of the castle folk would follow her lead, and she couldn’t let them make fun of him.
Instead, she murmured a gentle, “Thank you, Garth.”
Garth slowly lifted his eyes across the table to hers, drawing her into his gaze. She hadn’t noticed before how deep a green his eyes were—as deep as a Highland forest, as deep as the North Sea. Faith, she could lose her way in those eyes.
“Oh, my lady!” Alton, the kitchen lad, barged into her reverie, stumbling forward. “Forgive me!” His swagger gone, he doffed his cap and twisted it in his hands, looking as pitiful as a pup who’d mistakenly bitten his master’s hand. “I didn’t mean to—”
Cynthia waved away his apology. “No harm done.”
The boy bobbed twice, then shoved his cap back down over his shaggy head and squatted to attend to the mess.
Garth’s grip loosened upon the dagger, but before he could withdraw, Cynthia impulsively reached for him. His hand was wonderfully warm and large. And smooth. It was smooth.
“Thank you,” she repeated. She could feel his pulse beneath her thumb. For one insane moment, she longed to press his fingers against her lips, to see how his skin would feel against her mouth. An emotion flickered in Garth’s eyes, visible for only an instant, an emotion akin to hunger, and an irrational thrill coursed through her veins. But then his hand stiffened. Reluctantly, she let go.
He clenched his hands once and relaxed, reminding her of a knight about to do mortal battle. Then he turned from her and crouched to help Alton.
Cynthia folded her napkin beside her trencher. Her heart fluttered like a moth around a flame, the way it did when she was about to do something of which the Abbot wouldn’t approve. And indeed she was.
She couldn’t very well let Garth grovel in the rushes at her feet, could she? Not the new chaplain of Wendeville. Especially after she’d welcomed him with a fist the last time they met. At least that was the reason she gave herself as she rose from the bench and humbled herself to join him on the floor.
The castle folk were accustomed enough to Cynthia’s odd habits that seeing their lady scoop refuse from the floor did not amaze them in the least. Soon enough, the hall grew noisy again.
Garth knelt less than a foot away. As he stretched forward for a wayward onion, the sleeve of his coarse garment rasped against the hem of her velvet kirtle. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, and he kept his lips closed in a sober line as he labored. But she could feel waves of strong emotion coming off of him like heat from an autumn hearth.
Garth clenched his teeth against the breeze of elusive perfume that assaulted his senses as he reached past Lady Cynthia for a stray turnip. Surely God was testing him; it was all he could imagine. Or else why torture him so, forcing him to such painful intimacy with this paragon of womankind? And before so many witnesses?
He shuddered at his own idiocy. Why in God’s name he’d leaped across the table to save Lady Cynthia from a slab of meat he didn’t know. It was possibly the most foolish feat he’d ever undertaken. But he’d done it without thought, on pure instinct. And now he’d unwittingly put himself in the worst possible place—directly in temptation’s path.
Silently cursing himself for a bigger fool than Lot’s wife, he nonetheless hazarded a glance at the woman working beside him. And wished he’d been turned to salt. By candlelight, she was more beautiful than the portrait of the Madonna in the de Ware family chapel. A gold glow seemed to enshrine her radiant face. Her downcast eyes were as silvery as moonlight on an October pool. Even the wisps of her hair, escaping from her wimple like naughty children out to play, curled perfectly upon her cheek. Sweet Mary—she wreaked utter havoc with his senses.
He sincerely prayed his cassock was sufficiently loose to hide the evidence of his lust. For that was all it was, he was sure. Lust. It had been weeks since he’d seen a woman, months since he’d been this close to one. Close enough to detect the soft, clean scent of her skin. Close enough to feel the disturbing brush of her garments as she turned.
She touched his forearm. “Don’t worry,” she murmured, glancing at the castle folk surrounding them. “You’ll grow accustomed to Wendeville’s…chaos.”
He’d never grow accustomed to it, not if she were a part of it. Was his apprehension so obvious, then? What else could she divine in his face? Fear? Confusion? Desire? He stared at the fingers still resting on his bare arm. They didn’t belong there. He was a man of God. She had no license to touch him.
And yet nothing had ever felt so right. Her hands were as warm as a dove’s breast. They were hands of comfort. Hands made for toiling lovingly in the garden and patting away a child’s fears. Hands unafraid of soil or spilled turnips or…or the sanctity of a priest’s flesh.
His long scrutiny finally convinced her to release him. He let out a relieved breath, unaware he’d been holding it. Then he deposited the last of the vegetables onto the platter and strode back to his bench before she could touch him again, before she could beguile him.
Aye, Lady Cynthia was more beautiful than Eve. But he was no Adam to be tempted by a woman’s wiles. He’d be damned if he’d let this one undo the four years he’d spent forgetting his sordid past.
The candle flickered in the draft sneaking through the half-open shutters of Garth’s new quarters, making light dance across the parchment. Despite the darkness outside and the dimness within, he scribed the letters flawlessly, with a steadiness of hand that belied the turmoil brewing in his mind.
Lady Cynthia had ruined his supper. It was bad enough to be denied the monastic silence he was accustomed to while dining. Worse that he’d chosen a seat between two brawling boys. But the wench had had the effrontery to stare at him the whole while, as if she’d never seen a man eat. And then the whole episode with the roast…
A spot of ink smudged off to the side of the letter he’d just completed, and he grimaced, wiping it away swiftly with a linen rag.
Hell! She was only a woman. It had simply been so long since he’d had any contact with one, he’d forgotten how to behave. After his recent nightmares, it was only natural he’d feel threatened by the presence of a woman, any woman.
But was she just any woman? According to Lady Cynthia, they’d met before, and indeed, some image of her danced at the edges of his memory. But like the elusive stars glimmering beyond his window, recollection kept skipping just out of reach.
