Page 4 of My Hero
“That,” he announced, “is an apricot. My grandfather brought it back from the Holy Land. He fought in the Crusades.”
Cynthia nodded, only half-listening to Garth’s words. She was far too enrapt by the touch of his large hands, firm yet delicate on her neck, and the twinkle in his proud eyes—gray-green, penetrating eyes with thick, gently curved lashes—to pay much heed to what he said. There was something about the noble slant of his nose, the dark, masculine down along his upper lip, and the strong, square angle of his jaw that had a most curious effect on her. The blood rushed feverishly to her cheeks, leaving her skin strangely sensitive.
“This is the last one,” he said.
Cynthia blinked, trying to remember his conversation. “The last…apricot tree?”
He flashed a one-sided smile. “Nay. The last barb.”
“Oh.”
Cynthia’s heart drummed like the feet of a captive rabbit as Garth bent near. Moisture formed along her upper lip. What was wrong with her? Had the bee stings poisoned her and made her feverish?
“It must be buried deep. I can’t see the barb.” He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head this way and that at her shoulder, trying to catch some glint off the stinger that would disclose its position. Twice he lifted his dagger. Twice he brought it down.
“Maybe thereisno barb,” Cynthia said stridently. She didn’t know how much more nerve-stretching intimacy she could endure.
“Nay, there’s a barb. But the place is swollen to the size of my father’s silver medallion.” He frowned. “If I could only feel…”
Cynthia raised her brows. Feel what? What did he intend? He’d sheathed his dagger and was looking furtively about like a naughty child about to steal a tart.
Without warning, he clutched her by the shoulders and lowered his head to the bee sting. Cynthia’s breath caught in her throat. His soft brown curls brushed past her cheek like a caress. His lips pressed wetly, warmly against the flesh of her shoulder, just like a kiss. She trembled at the shock of his embrace as she felt him nibble there. For one tense moment, she didn’t breathe. Then he abruptly lifted his head and spat to the side.
“Ha!” he exclaimed in victory.
Cynthia gaped at him with glazed eyes. She felt dizzy and weak. Part of it was relief—the ordeal was over. But part of it was a skin-tingling, toe-curling sensation, the birth of desire so overpowering it threatened to dissolve her bones.
Then Garth stood tall, blocking the sun with his broad shoulders, and issued a stern warning. “Now stay away from that bush, little moppet. It’s always covered with bees.”
With the sun behind him, haloing his magnificent head, Garth de Ware looked like a hero. And so he was. He’d come to her rescue, like a knight in shining armor.
Cynthia exhaled a wistful sigh. Her lids felt curiously heavy. Her shoulder burned deliciously where his lips had seared her flesh, and she swore she’d never wash the spot again. Glowing with adoration, she pressed one hand modestly to her bosom and curtseyed in her most formal fashion.
“I’ll never forget the great service you’ve done me, Sir Garth,” she said breathlessly. “You’re a most brave and courteous knight.”
Of course, she knew he wasn’t truly a knight. Not yet. But she noticed he didn’t correct her. Indeed, he looked rather pleased with the title. He flashed her another one of his charming, crooked smiles and, retrieving his book, nodded to her in farewell.
She stared steadfastly, unwilling to forgo one glimpse of her newfound champion.
As he closed the gate after him, he called wryly over his shoulder, “Don’t forget your cuttings, little thief. Better not leave any evidence strewn about.”
Cynthia glanced down at the incriminating rose slips. How insignificant they seemed now. When she looked up again, her hero had disappeared.
She smiled dreamily at the garden gate. Then she wrapped her arms about her and twirled once in delight.
“Perhaps Iwillmarry after all,” she declared to her flowery audience. Sweeping up her boots and stockings with a graceful flourish, she gave the garden a knowing grin. “Garth de Ware,” she whispered, “someday you’ll be mine.”
Fate, however, had a cruel habit of interfering with the best-laid plans. That very evening, Cynthia’s mother lost the boy growing in her womb and fell deathly ill. Cynthia and her father were summoned home before the sun had even broken through the pall of night. By the time they returned, it was over. Lady Elayne was dead. Cynthia was the new mistress of le Wyte. All her childish dreams were abandoned, and her precious cuttings, forgotten in her pockets, withered and died.
Chapter 1
FEBRUARY 1338
Quiet reigned in the dim bedchamber, save for old Elspeth’s soft weeping and the ironic healthy crackle of fire on the hearth. Outside, a punishing rain pelted the sod, but the sound was dampened by the heavy tapestries hung over the windows.
The life force was almost gone from the man in the bed. Cynthia could feel it in the weakening of his grip. None of her healing powers would save her dear husband. She placed loving hands upon his clammy forehead, hands she’d used often to comfort him, hands through which God sometimes performed miracles. But this time, when she closed her eyes, she saw the clear image of the black snake.
Death.
