Page 27 of My Hero
She emitted a small, muffled squeak and pitched forward suddenly, falling against him. Her hands snagged the front of his cassock, and instinctively he caught her shoulders. A dizzying wave of sweet perfume arose from her hair to tease his nostrils, and he swallowed hard as he felt the weight of her warm body pressed against his.
He should push her away, he knew, and yet something held him immobile, some hunger, some unspeakable desire, some force that dismissed all sense, all reason. She raised her head to look at him, and he saw his own need reflected in her eyes, doubling its power, intensifying his desire. Suddenly, in the middle of the great hall, it seemed there were only the two of them.
Against all wisdom, he lowered his gaze to her lips. How full they were, so tempting, parted in expectation. His thoughts careened dangerously. Damn the crowd. Damn his vows. He wanted to kiss her. Now.
And in another moment, he might have.
But that bossy little scrap of a maid of hers elbowed her way between the two of them. “Oh la! You’ve ruined the pattern now, my lady!” She steered Cynthia from the circle, sparing him a heated glare that could have cauterized a wound.
Garth closed his eyes. He deserved Elspeth’s ire. He’d promised not to interfere with her machinations. Indeed, as soon as he was able to rein in his passions, he’d doubtless bless her for interrupting a moment of sheer madness. But for the remainder of the long evening until he found safe harbor in his quarters, all he could manage was a fierce scowl and a wretched craving that kept his hands locked in fists.
Cynthia only half-listened as Lord William escorted her along the herb garden of the inner bailey in the fickle morning sunlight. Her hand rested familiarly along the top of his sleeve, and yet his arm might have been only the cushion of a chair for all the attention she paid it.
Her thoughts had whirled crazily through her brain all night, ever since that encounter with Garth de Ware, intruding even into her dreams, and come morn, she could make no more sense of them than before. She knew she should pay heed to her visitor’s words, and she had, up till now, at least enough to respond with an occasional nod or smile of agreement. But when Garth appeared at the far end of the courtyard, her ears grew deaf to Lord William’s discourse.
Old Simon limped along on Garth’s arm. It appeared the feeble man had misplaced his walking stick again. The poor wretch couldn’t manage to keep his thoughts in order, much less his possessions. Cynthia wondered if she should lend assistance. She knew, as Garth did not, that Simon usually left his stick propped against the wall of the east garderobe.
“So your ears have deserted me as well.”
“What?” Cynthia snapped her head around. “I’m sorry, Lord William. I—”
He chuckled warmly. “You’ve been staring at him for some time now.”
She felt a flush steal up her cheek. “I don’t know what you’re—”
He clucked his tongue. “Be careful, lest you tell a lie. They don’t approve of that, you know.”
“Who?”
“Men of the church.”
“I…I was watching…old Simon.”
He patted her hand in a brotherly fashion. “I saw the way you looked at the man last night, even when he was stepping all over your feet.”
Panic seized her, panic and denial. “Sir, are you suggesting…?” she hissed. “He is a man of the church. I wouldn’t dream of…” She stopped to smooth her skirts, composing her thoughts. Bloody hell, she wasn’t dreaming of anything so blasphemous, was she? “What you saw in my eyes was nothing but innocent pleasure,” she explained, eager to convince herself as well.
Laughter sparkled in Lord William’s russet eyes. “Pleasure? I wish I could please a woman so well.”
She opened her mouth in denial, but his upraised hand halted her.
“Peace, my lady. I wish you well with him.”
Cynthia felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “You are mistaken. Garth de Ware is a devoted man of the cloth, not prey to…earthly desires in the least.”
“Indeed?”
Lord William was laughing at her, and it rankled her. Last night had taken them both by surprise, that was all. After all, neither of them were accustomed to such intimacy. For Cynthia, she’d lost her husband weeks past. For Garth, it had probably been years since he’d been close to a woman. Lord William simply didn’t understand.
“Then kiss me,” he said.
Cynthia thought she’d heard wrong. “What did you say?”
“Kiss me.”
“But I…hardly know you.”
“You know I wish you no ill.” He leaned forward to whisper to her. “Kiss me. I’ll wager your chaplain will seethe with jealousy. But if he stirs not an eyelash, then I’ll yield the day and bow to your instincts.”
