Page 34 of My Hero
She fetched wine for him then, clasping the back of his head to help him drink, as if he were an invalid.
Humiliated, he shook off her patronizing hand, grabbed the wineskin from her, and took a quick gulp. Too quick.
As Cynthia bent forward toward him, her kirtle gaped at the loosened neckline. Nestled down inside the garment, perfectly revealed for his pleasure, was a lovely breast, the skin creamy and smooth, the nipple set upon the full, pale mount like a tiny and precious rosebud.
He choked on the wine, tearing his eyes away from her tempting flesh, but not before the throbbing in his loins began.
Bracing himself against the rock wall, he glowered out the archway of the garden to the field beyond. Somewhere in the distance, though he couldn’t hear them, he knew the monastery bells tolled. With each imaginary ring, he mentally forced his arousal to subside, retreating into the discipline of his office.
Dispassionately, he tied the cord of his cassock, rose to his feet, and, refusing her assistance, placed the implements solemnly into the wheelbarrow. Then, without a backward glance, he wheeled it out the gateway.
Behind him, Cynthia made a noise like the sizzle of a snake.
“You. Ungrateful. Sanctimonious. Bastard.”
He froze, startled by the depth of her anger.
“Is that the thanks I get for saving your life?” she demanded.
He sighed, gathering his strength, set the wheelbarrow down, and slowly turned to face her. Standing with her arms akimbo, she looked as fiercely beautiful as an avenging Fury. He battled to maintain his bland expression.
“Don’t look at me like that!” she hissed. “As if you were not a man, but some stuffed quintain’s effigy!”
He tightened his jaw and narrowed his eyes, but in an instant reined his irritation back in again.
“Oh!” she groaned, exasperated. “The food I brought today gone to waste, and my flowers… Do you know you crushed all the cowslips and most of the violets? You almost crushedmewhen you fainted!”
The woman had no idea how tenuous his control was at this moment. He was trying not to think about this ravishing, wild-eyed hellion rebuking him like an avenging angel, her skirts revealing more than they covered, one satiny shoulder exposed above the neckline of her gown. He tried not to visualize his body atop hers, as she said it had been moments ago. He tried not to imagine what she’d done with that damp cloth. He forced himself to listen only to the illusory monastery bells and prayed they would save him from himself.
“What’s happened to you?” she whispered. “You were once so full of life, so compassionate.”
The maid could no more contain her thoughts than one could keep wine in a cask full of holes. And now, were those tears brimming in her eyes? Bloody hell, anything but tears.
She yanked her underdress back down, and then snatched up her soiled surcoat and struggled into it. “How could the church do so much damage to a man’s spirit?”
Within the stony shell of his body, Garth shuddered. Wariness crept in, the wariness of a man whose most secret door has been unlocked by a woman. She was half right—hewasdamaged—though it wasn’t the church that had damaged him. But she was treading too close to the truth, trespassing into his heart. And that he couldn’t allow, for her own protection as well as his.
He gazed at her with schooled mercy and calmly, deliberately made the sign of the cross, blessing her errant soul.
“Don’t you bless me!” she cried. She crossed her arms smartly across her chest, but a tear traced a muddy path down her cheek. “You’re the one who needs saving.”
She swept up her wimple and would have stalked off then, he was sure, leaving him in the dust of that singularly feminine alloy of fury and hurt. But her new maidservant came hurtling toward them as she turned to go.
“My lady!” young Mary cried, nearly bowling Garth over. “It’s Meggie, my lady! Elspeth says her babe is coming!”
“Meggie?” Cynthia dropped her own worries like a hot coal. “Shite!”
She streaked past him, and he watched her all the way across the sward until she was swallowed up by the great gray stones of Wendeville Castle. Then he sighed.
Providence had once again favored him. It seemed the woman was always rushing off to see to someone’s ills. To be sure, he’d owe extra prayers to the patron saints of the sick on the next Sabbath.
Staring up at the chamber Cynthia had made into a makeshift infirmary, he briefly wondered if there was something he should do to help. He hoped not. He’d had about all the temptation he could endure for the day. Surely even Adam hadn’t been so tormented by Eve. He supposed she’d manage well enough anyway. After all, birthing was a woman’s affair.
A parchment of seeds had dropped from Lady Cynthia’s pocket. He picked it up, brushing the dust off the letters scribed on it.
Marigolds.
His lips hardened into a grim smile.
