Page 33 of My Hero
Garth stiffened visibly. He looked as if he’d rather perish in his cassock than bend the rules of propriety by removing what tenuous obstacle remained between the two of them. He shook his head once, grimly, and returned to his annoying diligence.
They toiled in silence, except for the incessant drone of insects and the papery rustle of bulbs going in the ground. The forest birds were too hot to stir or sing, and not even the suggestion of a breeze teased the still air.
Cynthia began to feel as withered as an old rose. She tucked one last bulb into the soil, then went to fetch the watered wine she’d brought. It was only a quarter gone, no thanks to Garth. He hadn’t taken a swallow. She uncorked the wineskin, took a long swig of the musky drink, then forced it into Garth’s hands. He hesitated, then wiped the rim of the skin with his sleeve, as if her heathen lips might soil his holy ones, and took one modest sip.
Vexed by the heat and her scratchy kirtle and Garth’s self-righteous nonsense, she bid a farewell to propriety altogether and brashly tossed off her surcoat, leaving only her clinging underdress. This she hiked up, belting it high to cool her legs. She untied the laces at the back and loosened the neck, pulling the sticky cloth away from her body.
Garth had congratulated himself, thinking he’d been doing well, tolerating the lady’s presence with exemplary stoicism. He’d endured the fire burning outside and within him, melding them into a discomfort he could blame entirely on the sun. It was simply his purgatory, he maintained, the suffering of the flesh that would purify him in the end.
But this—this was beyond purgatory.
Cynthia’s legs, lanky and smooth, shone with sweat. From his vantage point, crouched in the mud of the garden, his gaze involuntarily traveled up their full length, from shapely ankle and muscled calf to rounded knee and smooth thigh, stopping where they disappeared beneath her bunched skirts. Her kirtle, devoid of its modest surcoat, snugly embraced her every curve. Her neck, where the hem had been pulled away, was chafed by the wool, and he had an insane longing to kiss the pink flesh there. The fire burgeoning within him had nothing to do with the sun, he knew, and it created a burning thirst in him that no drink, save that of her affections, could quench.
Yet he couldn’t slake that thirst. He was a friar, he reminded himself, though even that concept fluctuated in his head like a desert mirage. Agitated, he rose abruptly to his feet and poked hard at the soil with his planting stick, willing away the image of the bare-legged goddess toiling beside him.
Alas, he stood up too quickly. The world wavered and shifted in his sight. Peripheral shadows blurred his vision. He vaguely sensed the stick falling from his nerveless fingers.
His last thought was that a de Ware never fainted.
Then his eyes rolled, and his bones turned to jelly. The horizon tilted, and everything went black.
Cynthia recognized the vacant look in Garth’s eyes. Bloody hell, he was passing out! His eyelids fluttered as he swayed on his feet. She dropped her spade and rushed forward, catching him about the waist. For a long moment, they teetered on the brink of balance, Garth completely limp and Cynthia gritting her teeth and oozing into the soft mud beneath her heavy burden. At last, his dead weight was too much for her, and they sank to the ground in their odd embrace, Cynthia nearly crushed by his large, lifeless body.
She gasped for air, spluttering against the itchy brown wool of Garth’s cassock. She wriggled beneath him, but he had her pinned, and all her squirming only made a bigger mess of the newly planted cowslip they’d squashed in their fall.
Suddenly, Cynthia fought the unbearable urge to giggle. How ridiculous they must look, this great bear of a man flattening her like meadow grass. Sweet Mary, she prayed, snickering helplessly, don’t let Roger find us like this. That made her laugh all the more. She’d be discovered dead by her steward, suffocated by a friar, a ludicrous grin plastered on her face.
She wiggled her hands around until they were against Garth’s chest, and then pushed with all her might. He budged, and with a groan, she rolled him off of her onto a row of violets.
But her levity faded when she looked at Garth’s unconscious face. She didn’t need her divining gift to tell her he needed to get out of the sun. The bull-headed fool. He’d labored all morn in the blistering heat in those heavy robes with scarcely a swallow to drink.
She clasped his thick wrists and, shaking her head in regret, dragged him unceremoniously and with great effort across the furrows she’d just seeded, into the shade.
His face was flushed, but he no longer perspired. His skin was hot and dry. When she placed two fingers along his throat, she could feel his heart racing. Wasting no time, she untied the cord at his waist and flung open his robe. She blew cooling breaths across his face and chest and fanned him with her discarded headpiece.
He needed water. Slicing a sizable rag from the cleanest part of her surcoat, she dipped it into the watering pitcher and let a small stream trickle between his lips. Then she used the cloth to gently sponge his brow, his neck, his chest.
Eventually his heartbeat began to slow.
The danger past, Cynthia perused Garth’s body at her leisure as she moved the cooling cloth over him. How different it was from her late husband’s. John had been wrinkled and pale. Garth was smooth and strong, like a two-pronged buck she’d seen once in the wood. His chestnut mane was thick and shining, gloriously defying the strictures of a friar’s pate. His freshly shaved jaw was strong, his neck broad, and now that his formidable chest was laid bare, she could see, near his shoulder, a jagged white scar that might have come from the slash of a sword. Though his flesh was spare, he most definitely possessed not the body of a friar, but that of a warrior.
Soft brown hair made a line from his breastbone to his navel and further, interrupted only by the top of his linen loincloth, and she felt a fleeting perverse urge to follow that furred path.
But he was rousing.
From the darkness, Garth could hear his own heart beating forcefully in his ears, feel it pounding in his hot temples. Yet a chill breeze caressed his jaw, his forehead. He drifted in and out of awareness. Before, he’d imagined he was in the privy garden, suffocating in his monk’s cassock. But now it seemed as if he lay nude upon his back.
Confused, he scowled and cracked his eyes open just wide enough to see the woman staring down at him. What did she want? After an endless moment of painful disorientation, he remembered. Hewasin the garden. He’d been working when… His head felt weighted with lead as he lifted it to determine his condition.
Satan’s claws! He was half-naked. What the devil…?
His nostrils flared. He snatched up the edges of his cassock, flapping them together like the wings of an angry gyrfalcon. He ground his teeth. Damn his vow of silence! He wanted to upbraid her soundly. He was a priest, for the love of Peter! What had possessed the woman to…
Just whathadshe done? He pierced her with his eyes.
“You fainted,” she explained limply.
Which only made him angrier. De Wares, this wench should know, did not faint. He tried to sit up, but to his chagrin, he tottered weakly, forced to settle back onto his elbows.
