Page 39 of My Hero
He refused to beg for the crucifix. If she wanted it, she could have it. She probably needed it more than he did anyway. He nodded coolly, then turned on his heel and fled to seek holier ground.
Cynthia couldn’t move. She felt as though the breath had been sucked out of her, taking with it the mist over her eyes.
Lust. Lust was his offense. Not pride.
She’d been so sure his sin was pride. Pride was always the vague failing for which monks were punished. Ballocks—if she’d known, she would never have played that cruel game with him. But she’d been frustrated by the babe’s death and vexed by the aloofness in Garth’s eyes, and at the time she’d wanted nothing more than to poke those cool, unfeeling orbs.
She could still see the subtle flinch at the outer edges of his eyes when she’d uncovered the truth. He’d tried to hide his emotions, sheathed them faster than a knight shoving a sword into its scabbard. But she’d glimpsed the pain, the humiliation. How he must hate her.
As he paced off, the fabric of his cassock slapped the air like the sail of a ship bound for frozen climes. It wasn’t till he’d disappeared inside Wendeville’s chapel that Cynthia leaned back against the castle wall, still clinging to Garth’s crucifix, and considered what had just transpired.
A million thoughts bounced about in her head. Garth de Ware had committed the sin of lust. Lucifer’s ballocks! What had he done? What constituted lust to the church? Had he slept unclothed at the monastery? Had he sought his body’s release at his own hands? Had he been found with a lover?
Suddenly the heat of the day seemed overwhelming. Cynthia fanned herself with one hand, swinging the cross idly from its chain with the other.
Garth de Ware was very much alive, she realized. Therewaspassion there. The flame wasn’t extinguished, though the battle to suppress it still raged within him, even after four years, driving him to take vows of silence to curb his desires.
But she’d been right. There was hope. There was a chance.
Delight shivered through her as she recalled the spicy scent of his hair and the way it curled upon his nape, the evergreen depths of his eyes, the aura of undeniable strength and masculinity that surrounded him. Just knowing he was capable of suffering the pangs of desire made her heart race. It was full night before she could banish the enticing image of Garth de Ware, his cassock cast aside with his inhibitions, from her mind.
Mary pulled her cloak together against the midnight chill and glanced down at her hands. Her knuckles were rubbed nearly raw from all the scrubbing she’d given them. She had no desire to be caught with traces of monkshood on her person, especially since she was gong to see the holy man again tonight.
Her body thrummed eagerly. The news she brought him was a juicy bit of meat. It would please him greatly, and when he was pleased, he granted her special favors. With these favors, she knew she could make her way into heaven. After all, he was a powerful man of the church. He could save her immortal soul.
A thief like her, he’d told her, had little hope of passing through heaven’s gates, even if her crime was stealing bread for her starving baby brother. She shivered. Nothing frightened Mary more than eternal damnation. But she knew if anyone could keep her from the fires of hell, it was him. So she groveled at his feet, did his bidding, catered to his every wish—this time, to spy for him. He, in turn, received her worship and absolved her guilt.
The moon was bright, making ghostly shadows at the edges of the wood, as she furtively left the great hall of Wendeville Castle. The chill air reminded her of the priest’s cool fingers upon her shoulders as she received him, and she closed her eyes in a silent prayer that it would be his will tonight.
The place wasn’t far. But it was secret. The holy man insisted that none but she know of his visits there, and Mary was flattered by his trust.
The crofter’s cottage was dark except for a faint golden glow visible through cracks in the old timbers. She took a deep, thrilling breath. It was easy to imagine that the glow was a divine presence, that inside those walls the holy man spoke to God Himself.
Casting a quick glance about her, she pulled the door open on its oiled hinge and entered the cottage.
The priest’s candle flickered eerily as he glided toward her. He looked gaunt and pale in the shifting shadows, more spirit than human, like the illuminations he’d allowed her to peek at once in his jewel-encrusted Bible. She sank to her knees in awe.
“You have news?” he demanded in the stern voice that made her shudder expectantly.
“Yes, Father.”
She told him everything in a rush, certain that his time was as valuable as gold. She told him about Meggie’s travail, the stillborn babe, the monkshood. When she was finished, the priest indulged her with a smile.
“You’ve done well, Mary, child,” he praised, laying one slim hand atop her covered head. “Now let’s speak of another task I wish you to perform.”
Mary listened as attentively as a disciple, moved by the Abbot’s helpless shrugs and frowns of concern. When he was done, after she lapped up the milk of his appeals as eagerly as a kitten, he looked into her adoring eyes with the familiar entreaty she’d waited all evening to hear.
“Do you wish to receive the Lord tonight? Do you wish to receive Him through me?” he asked gently.
Mary weakly, thankfully sighed her consent.
The Abbot tugged the hood from her head and pulled his lips back in an approving smile.
She clasped her hands before her as if in prayer and looked up at him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his translucent face radiant with religious ecstasy. Then he opened his robe to her, revealing the ungainly swelling beneath his cassock. She took glad communion there, aroused by his cries of wonder, swallowing every precious drop of the bitter offering he delivered unto her.
Much later, lying in her own bed and savoring the traces of him that lingered upon her lips, Mary fingered the amulet of angelica the holy man had placed around her neck. It would serve as protection, he’d assured her, against the evil witch that was her mistress.
Garth blew out a defeated breath, crumpling another sheet of parchment and tossing it dispiritedly to the stone floor of the chapel. Beside him, the flame atop the chunky yellow candle quavered as if fearful of its master. Garth raked a hand through his hair and stared up at the full moon dyed blue by the colored window. A small cloud passed over its face, creating a dark shadow that floated its way through the scenes of stained glass like a devil dancing among the saints.
