Page 22 of My Hero
His hand faltered around the curve of a letter, and he painstakingly retraced it to cover the flaw.
He should set the wench straight now, distance himself from her. It was better to risk offending her than to lead them both into sin. Besides, he reasoned, he had nothing to give her, nothing to give any woman. Mariana had assured him of that. He wasn’t deserving of a woman’s affections. He was only fit for the church.
He flinched almost imperceptibly, but enough to make a jog in the straight line he was scribing. Mentally cursing, he swabbed it away, then on impulse wiped over the whole line, leaving an ugly smudge across the page.
He blew the candle out, slumped in his chair, and stared at the glittering stars that taunted him from the heavens. Damn it all. He’d found a suitable niche in the church. Why then was it so difficult for him to stay in it?
Cynthia poked at the embers in her bedchamber’s hearth, sprinkling dried sweet basil over the smoldering wood and watching it catch fire in small, fragrant bursts. The flames warmed her cheek like a blush, and she stared into them, unable to think of anything but Garth de Ware.
Garth with his impossibly broad shoulders. Garth with his thick, oak-colored hair and finely sculpted features. Garth with his fathomless green eyes that could scorch metal with a glare.
A sad smile crossed her face. His eyes hadn’t always been like that. Once they’d gazed at her with tenderness and warmth.
She stepped back from the flames now, which had begun to make her eyes tear with their heat. She settled herself onto the velvet bench, perching her bare feet up at the edge of the hearth, and blew on the ashen tip of the willow poker till it glowed.
What had thrust Garth de Ware toward the church? In her experience, men of the cloth were either uncomplicated—wrinkled of face and twinkly of eyes—or corrupt, like the Abbot. Men of passion, like Garth, usually found their calling elsewhere.
Priesthood was obviously contrary to his nature. She’d seen him lunge halfway across the hall after that roast. He possessed the instincts of a knight, of a warrior, and the act had been as innate to him as walking. How taxing it must be to repress his emotions, emotions she could sense bubbling inside him like a keg of ale about to explode. How he must have to battle to subdue his inherent power of command—common to nobles, notorious to de Wares. And what torture it must be to force his body to quiet toil when his muscles demanded more challenging labor.
Why? What had driven him down that path? What had wrenched all will to thrive and grow from him, like weeds choking an abandoned garden? Whatever the catalyst, Garth had sought sanctuary at the monastery four years ago. From what she could see, the church had been less a sanctuary than a siren calling to him, enclosing him in comforting arms and pulling him down beneath the waters of human struggle to his spiritual death. It seemed he hadn’t lifted his eyes to the secular light of day since.
It was truly a shame, becausethisworld, and not the spiritual, was the one in which they lived and breathed, the world of nature and passion and life. For Cynthia, to deny the corporeal world was an offense to God.
Of course, she didn’t expect Garth to pull himself from the embrace of the church—to do so would be blasphemy. But Cynthia knew men of faith who lived full and happy lives, who even wed and had children, to the delight of their parishioners. Surely Garth de Ware was more suited to such a life. He deserved something beyond the austere existence of spiritual poverty he’d endured over the last four years.
She sighed. Four years! Perhaps it was too late to save him.
And yet, she’d used those very words a hundred times upon finding some pathetic, ailing plant she was tempted to nurse back to health. No amount of common sense had ever kept her from trying to salvage one before. And the more hopeless the task, the more determined she grew.
She supposed a man was no different. With proper care, by gently weeding the defenses from around Garth’s tender roots, he could be redeemed.
Aye, she thought, shifting upright on the seat. It was suddenly clear. She could rescue him.Shecould redeem his lost spirit. Fate had brought Garth de Ware to Wendeville, and now she knew why. He was her destiny. Once, in a long-ago garden, he’d been her knight in shining armor. This was her chance at long last to return the favor.
A pinecone sizzled on the fire, and with the long stick she poked it into the heart of the flames, where the sap bubbled and snapped. A smile lingered on her lips, but despite her newfound conviction, she couldn’t help but imagine she might be playing with fire where Garth was concerned, too.
Chapter 6
The sun blazed high overhead, hotter than Hades, as Garth steered the rickety wheelbarrow across Wendeville’s broad courtyard to the garden for the thirty-second time. Runlets of sweat trickled down his neck and along his ribs. The wool cassock itched about his waist. A sharp pebble had lodged itself between his foot and what was left of his boot. And his breath cut into his lungs like a dagger.
But the pain was good. The pain helped him to focus on his new surroundings, his responsibilities, God’s plan—anything but the long legs planted in the garden muck before him.
Lady Cynthia had bloused a fair portion of her surcoat above her belt, effectively exposing far too much of those legs. Her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, and her bare white toes burrowed in the mud as she turned the earth with a spade.
He tried to think of anything, anything else at all, as she leaned forward to pluck a weed from the ground, all bottom and skirt and delicious ankles. Then she turned, ambling forward to meet him. A childlike smudge of dirt decorated the bridge of her nose, and it was all he could do to resist wiping it away. Instead, he forced his attention to bracing the wheelbarrow in the mud to remove the plants from it.
He wished God had granted him an extra Sabbath this week. Normally it was a chaplain’s busiest day. But yesterday, Garth’s vow of silence had given him a blessed reprieve from preaching. He’d spent the Sabbath mostly in his quarters, recopying scripture, saying his devotions, suppressing impious thoughts. When he found it necessary to leave that sanctuary, he guarded his privacy as much as possible, moving surreptitiously through the halls like a monastery mouse. That way, at least, there was only supper to contend with, when the sound of Cynthia’s throaty laughter and her impertinent stare all but destroyed his appetite.
Today, however, he found himself in the middle of the Wendeville hive. Since he had no voice to serve her, Lady Cynthia had decided she’d put his back to good use instead. Already he could feel the pull of muscles unused for years, one in particular he didn’t want to think about. But, if not for the sin of pride, he would have congratulated himself. He’d managed to control his reactions to Lady Cynthia rather admirably, given the circumstances.
He lifted two herb seedlings from the wheelbarrow. One fell over as he set them in the dirt.
Aye, he’d almost completely ignored his body’s feckless stirrings.
Thyme. Rosemary. One by one he pitched them to the ground. Borage. Mint.
If only, he wished, pressing his lips together tightly as he discarded the plants, she wouldn’t sway like that when she walked.
“Please, Garth,” she said, startling him.
