Page 42 of My Hero
And yet, he realized with sudden clarity, he was master here. This was not the garden. The chapel was his domain. Here, she was the interloper.
With a new sense of authority lending him confidence, he took the cross from her and settled it around his neck, nodding his thanks. He caught a whiff of—Lord, the woman knew no mercy—jasmine, as she rose in a velvet whirl of saffron skirts to sit on the bench at the front of the chapel.
He averted his gaze, glancing again at the stained glass panel. Of course, he realized, as the colors sharpened in the growing light. It was there in the picture. A chaplain was a teacher first. It was a priest’s duty to show the sinner the error of his ways. Lady Cynthia, more than anything, needed a teacher. It was up to him to instruct her, to look after her soul.
She didn’t understand the order of things. She didn’t see how noblewomen were to follow one path and men of the church quite another, how perhaps once there’d been a time when the two of them could frolic together in a summer garden, but that time was gone. Once there’d been a time for chasing dreams and thwarting bees, but now was not that time.
He crumpled the parchment and tossed it aside, his heart lighter than it had been in days. He knew exactly what passage to read. Thumbing through the pages of his Bible to the verses he knew well, he waited for the congregation’s murmurs to subside.
“Omnia tempus habent et suis spatiis transeunt universa sub caelo,”he recited. To every thing there is a season.“Tempus nascendi et tempus moriendi, tempus plantandi et tempus evellendi quod plantatum est…”
Cynthia felt her heartbeat deepen. She sat perfectly still, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, lest she break the thread of his voice. She closed her eyes. The fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled.
It wasn’t the Scripture that enthralled her. Nor the musical cadence of the Latin he spoke. She scarcely paid heed to his words. What held her riveted was the bewitching sound of Garth de Ware’s voice.
She’d expected a cool, arrogant tone from him. Or well-schooled false humility. Ill-concealed gruffness. Or an even drone as bland as the mask he frequently donned. Never in her wildest imaginings did she guess he’d possess the voice of an angel.
“…tempus flendi et tempus ridendi, empus plangendi et tempus saltandi…”
Her hands trembled on her lap as she let the music fall about her ears. His voice rumbled and rolled, whispered and sang, floated like a roundelay, then pounded down like the surf.
“…tempus spargendi lapides et tempus colligendi…”
All at once, she understood. The emotions he held in check, the passions he denied behind a staid face and rigid body, were expressed in his voice as he read…God-knew-what. Cynthia was so caught up in the beauty of his delivery that she wasn’t listening to the words. With all her soul, she longed to rush into Garth’s arms and press her ear against his chest, to feel the power of his rumbling voice. She wanted to be enveloped in his strong, warm…
“…amplexandi et…”
Her gaze darted toward him.Amplexandi.Embrace.
Garth didn’t mean to look up. Especially not at that spot. But Cynthia’s quick intake of breath distracted him. And once distracted, all was lost. The words danced before him on the page. He couldn’t find his place to save his life.
“Et…et…”
“Et tempus…”Cynthia quietly offered while the castle folk stared at him expectantly.
He stiffened, but refused to look up. Things were not progressing well as he’d planned. True, he was reading the words properly, and Lady Cynthia appeared to listen with rapt attention. It was only that suddenly her attention seemed altogether too rapt. He struggled to find the phrases again, but everything looked like meaningless black scribbles on the page. Frustrated, he closed the tome with a thump, tucked it back under his arm, and cleared his throat.
“Tempus plantandi.A time to plant,” he began, pacing, although the action felt oddly unnatural. “Our world is like a great garden. On one hand, there are daisies and roses and marigolds…”
Marigolds? Lord. Why had he said marigold?
“Marigolds,” he repeated more firmly. “On the other, there are wheat and rye and barley. And then there are thistles and all manner of weeds that…”
Cynthia’s eyes looked as liquid as melting icicles.
He cleared his throat. “All manner of weeds that grow among the…”
Her lips were parted, and he could see the pearly rims of her teeth.
“Among the thistles.” He nervously licked his upper lip. God, he wished she would stop interrupting him with those vibrant eyes. Curving mouth. Lush hair.
“Aye, God created weeds,” he croaked, “just as surely as he created barley. But you wouldn’t plant weeds in your barley field, would you?”
A few men in the congregation obediently shook their heads. Cynthia, however, stared at him with a longing so naked that he found himself strangling the Bible beneath his arm.
“Nay,” he answered. “Nay, you would not, any more than you’d plant thistle among lilies or nettle among…jasmine.” The curse that sprang to mind was too foul to think about. Damn her lustrous eyes! “Some plants…” His voice broke. “Some plants do not belong with others.” He paced across the front of the nave, then stopped and made a grand sweep of his arm. “Just as the gardens of the world are planted, so is man set upon the earth in God’s great garden, each in his own time and place. A knight does not toil in the scullery, nor does a…a peasant dine beside the king. A minstrel has no place in the armory. A merchant does not labor in…”
Bloody hell. Lady Cynthia looked as if she might devour him any moment.
