Page 28 of My Hero
“He won’t even blink,” she assured him.
He stared at her a long while, a strange play of emotions crossing his features—mild lust as he gazed at her mouth, but also a bit of sadness, and a wisdom that made him look older than his years.
“But if he does blink, I’ll waste no more time in courting you, my lady.” He reached forward and toyed with a loose lock of her hair. “I’ll pack up my men in sorry defeat,” he said with a good-natured smile, “and wish you well.”
It was nonsense. The whole conversation was absurd. By God, she’d prove she had no claim upon Garth de Ware, that he was devoid of feeling for her as well. She faced William squarely and raised her chin. “All right then. Do your worst.”
He winked, sweeping one hand about her neck, the other about her back, turning so they were in full view of the chaplain, and then he kissed her. His lips were soft, his freshly shaved chin smooth, and his touch upon her throat light-fingered, undemanding. He tasted sweet, like the sugared cinnamon loaf they’d shared for breakfast. But she felt no more stirred than she had as a girl when her father gave her a quick buss on the cheek.
After a lingering moment, he released her lips. He parted from her just an inch and murmured, “Can you feel the daggers of his eyes? Look.”
She peered over his shoulder and gasped. If looks could kill…
Garth’s face had become a rigid mask of displeasure. Her heart pounded at such potent rage directed at her. Maybe he only disapproved of public displays of affection. Or maybe he thought Lord William was an unsuitable suitor.
But deep inside, a thrill of dangerous desire infused her blood, and her flesh tingled with delicious trepidation.
“You see,” William whispered, “I’ve won the wager. I must say he’s a fortunate man to garner the attentions of so charming a lady.”
Cynthia felt so breathless she could neither protest his accusation nor receive his compliment with even the simplest courtesy.
William stepped back then, bowing over her hand in polite farewell. “You should tell your maid to stop seeking a suitor, when her lady’s heart is obviously already spoken for.”
His words left her speechless. Surely he was mistaken. Elspeth wasn’t seeking a suitor for her. And perhaps her own heart beat a little faster when Garth drew near, but certainly the priest felt nothing for her, nothing beyond a general desire for her gender that his long chastity sparked. Their intimate moments were always fleeting anyway, followed at once by his cool disregard and mild disdain.
Still, Lord William’s words haunted her all the rest of the day, even after he and his company took gracious leave of the castle. What if Garth did feel something for her? What if his remoteness stemmed not from irritation, but from a heart too fond?
It didn’t matter, she decided later, bundled snugly in her bed against the frosty air of night. Whether he felt affection for her or not, she’d made a promise to herself, and she intended to keep it. She’d vowed to rescue Garth from spiritual death. She wouldn’t abandon him now, even if it meant leaving her own heart at peril.
Once she’d compared Garth to an ailing plant. She knew now he was most like the wild ivy, that to flourish he must choose his own path, find his own footholds in the crevices of the garden wall. And it was up to her to be that strong foundation upon which he could climb. He might well cling to her affections for a time, if such was the road to his soul’s freedom, but she must remain firm, unbending, resolute.
Moonlight seeped through the clouds and the crack of her shutters, heralding the storm’s passing. The sun would return on the morrow, drinking up the last of winter’s tears and promising renewal. Garth, too, would soon bathe in the nurturing light of restoration. She would do everything in her power to make it so.
Cynthia was a born healer, after all. She could summon the earth’s power, lay hands on a sickly man, and make him strong. Shouldn’t she be able to use that gift to heal a man’s spirit as well? Certainly there was no harm in the attempt. She’d always cured the infirmities of others, miraculously absorbed their ills without injury to herself. Why should afflictions of the soul be any different?
Aye, she vowed, burrowing her nose under the furs, she’d use her talents to save Garth de Ware while keeping herself aloof from his awakening passions. She’d be more of a…caring sister to him. She smiled, pleased with her decision, and slipped to sleep, soothed by the simplicity of her promise, never realizing how difficult it would be to keep.
Chapter 8
Garth’s head thrashed on the pillow, his mind clamoring with swirling, erotic visions. The woman’s long hair lapped at his ribs like flames of a sensual fire. Her hands gripped his shoulders, and she sheathed him in her silkiness again and again, riding him like a charger.
She pressed forward, and he gasped at the fragile beauty of her breasts. Tenderly, he caressed the peaks, fascinated by their change as his thumb brushed across a soft nipple.
She bent down to him, smoothed back his hair, and whispered incoherent words of passion in his ear. He shivered and lunged upward into her, caution cast to the wind. She gave her breast to his mouth, and he sucked hungrily, groaning at its sweetness.
His body began to quiver with a tension starting in his belly, expanding outward to the top of his head and the soles of his feet. As the sensation grew out of his control, he released her breast so he wouldn’t harm her. His breath came in quick gulps, and he gasped as she smiled down at him in ecstasy, her pale blue eyes languorous in the moonlight, her hair a brilliant orange corona about her lovely, freckled face.
“Cynthia…Cynthia…” he moaned, no longer master of his mind.
Garth awoke as his body burst into a violent shudder of release. His muscles strained with effort, and his seed pulsed forcefully from him like wine too long in the cask. He cried out, then threw his arm across his mouth to silence the cries, gasping into the wool of his cassock sleeve.
The pale moonlight lent a blue cast to Garth’s quarters as he quaked in his sweat on the bed. This time had been different. This time his body had betrayed him completely. He felt the sticky, wet evidence of its anarchy upon his thighs and belly.
It hadn’t been Mariana this time, either. The goddess looming above him had been Lady Cynthia.
Sighing miserably, Garth peeled back the coverlet and grimaced in disgust as he beheld the sordid ruins of his cassock.
Why did God torture him like this? All he wanted was to quietly and completely devote himself to the church, to melt into the chapel walls unnoticed, like a forgotten tapestry over a drafty window. Was that too much to ask?
