Page 23 of My Hero
He turned to her with thinly cloaked panic. Why couldn’t she address him as Father or Chaplain like everyone else? She was far too near. And her hand was on his sleeve again. He could smell the sweet fragrance of her hair. Coriander today. Nay, anise. And where she touched his arm, her fingers felt like hot lead.
“The plants are delicate,” she murmured diplomatically. “Please try to be gentle with them.”
He swallowed heavily. Her voice soughed like wind through a sycamore grove. He tensed his jaw, nodded once, and resumed unloading the cuttings more carefully. How could he have been so stupid? Of course the plants were delicate. He’d been hurling them about like catapult missiles. Her presence was obviously distracting him from all else.
Garth’s company had apparently driven all the wits from Cynthia. She couldn’t recall which seedling she’d intended to plant next. This close, she saw the flecks of blue in his green eyes, heard the breath rasp faintly through his nose, felt its gentle breeze on her face. She could discern the shadow of the beard he’d scraped this morning and the light sheen of sweat atop his lip. She could smell his skin. It was doing strange things to her senses.
She’d missed him yesterday. She’d spent the first half of the day searching for him and the second half entertaining a pair of bachelor brothers Elspeth had diverted from a passing pilgrimage.
One brother was deadly dull, and the other delighted in reciting his own health history in excruciating detail. By the end of dinner, she knew every ailment the man had ever endured or might endure. And to Elspeth’s horror, Cynthia used that information to rid herself of the pair. When he complained of recurring digestive upset, she prescribed spurge. The man, mortified by the herb’s swift effects on the contents of his stomach, declined to stay another night. Thankfully, he took his boring brother with him.
Today, she had both time and Garth to herself, for all the good it was doing. Her heart hadn’t beat steadily since morning, when she’d found him kneeling in prayer at the altar, haloed in magnificent rainbow-colored sunbeams. Nor did the sun shining now in undiluted, buttery splendor on his rich mane help matters. He was beautiful, and her hand still tingled from the touch she’d stolen of his muscled forearm. She gulped. She had to think of something to say before her ridiculous obsession with his physical attributes made her forget her good intentions.
She cleared her throat. There was an awkward moment as they both tried to take the same parsley start from the wheelbarrow, but he snatched his hand back at once, surrendering it readily to her.
Her fingers trembled as she set the plant upon the ground. She felt feverish. Perhaps it was the sun. Tugging the flask from her hip, she took a long drink of watered wine, then turned to offer Garth a sip.
He glanced at it. The tip of his tongue wet his lower lip. For a moment he looked as if he’d like nothing more. But then a bland mask descended over his features, and he glared into the distance with cool dismissal. It was as if all the humanity suddenly drained from his face. He declined the drink.
She shivered reflexively as he breezed past her with all the chill of the north wind. He might not be able to speak, but his expression spoke volumes. His emotions were as apparent on his face as the freckles were on hers, and at the moment, his gaze was most challenging.
She sighed. Perhaps he was angry with her. Or perhaps he was just hot. The poor man was probably unused to the outdoors, closeted in a monastery scriptorium all day. She supposed she should let him retire to the great hall for proper rest and refreshment.
She should, but she didn’t want to. She wanted to know what had become of Sir Garth de Ware, slayer of bees, defender of young ladies.
“You really don’t remember me?” she blurted out before prudence could stop her.
He halted, a seedling clutched in each fist.
“I mean, it’s difficult to imagine.” She shrugged. “I’m a bit uncommon, after all. Who could possibly forget little Cynthia le Wyte’s freckled face and orange hair?” She giggled, picking nervously at the parsley. “Though I suppose ithasbeen a number of years…”
She was chattering, and she knew it. And Garth couldn’t answer her, with his silly vow of silence. But he didn’t have to glare at her like that. She blushed and dropped her gaze. “Of course, I’m aware I’m no great beauty and…” Lord, she was embarrassing herself, pruning the poor parsley to death, and growing more irritated by the moment. “Perhaps not even very memorable, but…”
Garth didn’t look like he was going to help her out of the hole she was digging for herself any time soon. She tossed the ruined parsley back into the wheelbarrow and planted her hands on her hips. “God’s wounds! Just how many ladies have you met with hair the color of a marigold?” she snapped.
“My lady!”
Across the courtyard scurried the new girl, Mary. Cynthia mouthed a soundless curse at the maidservant’s poor timing.
“And even if youdon’tremember me—” she muttered.
“Lady Cynthia!” the maid cried.
“You could at least be chivalrous about it and—”
“My lady! Come quickly!”
“And…well…at leastpretendyou remember,” she finished, adjusting her belt and whisking out the folds of her skirts.
“My lady,” Mary gasped out, skidding to a stop before her.
“What!” she barked.
The maid jumped in surprise, her brown eyes wide. “Elspeth says to come quick.” The lass glanced briefly at Garth, clearly awed by being in the presence of a priest.
“What’s happened?”
“A gentleman arrived from Tewksbury, my lady. He says he’s eaten yew berries, and he’s ailing something fierce.”
