Page 55 of My Hero
As natural as when, long moments later, after her sobs had subsided into rough hiccoughs, she turned her tear-streaked face up to his and sought out his lips with her own.
He tasted like autumn—all smoke and mulled wine, ripe apples and dusky honey. His mouth was soft, warm, and yielding, the sigh of his breath so faint she could barely feel it stir. And like autumn cider, once tasted, she wanted more. She clasped the folds of his robe between her fingers and drew him down, closer, deepening the kiss. She slanted her lips across his mouth. Her nostril flared against his as they shared one fluttering breath. His fingers curled slowly against her back, and a soft moan escaped her.
At the sound, his hands stilled. He broke violently away from the kiss and pushed her firmly back by the shoulders. Though she searched his face, her eyes still heavy with desire, he wouldn’t meet her gaze. Instead, he restlessly studied the ground.
“I…” he began tautly, “I’ll see you get your plants back.”
For one reckless instant, the last thing on her mind was her plants. She wanted Garth back. Not the cool, controlled man of the church standing before her now, but the one of passion she’d glimpsed a moment ago.
A tiny muscle flexed in his jaw. “I think we should leave for the village,” he muttered, “before you forget I’m a priest.”
She was still vulnerable enough to be wounded. She stepped away, cut to the quick by his reprimand. Just before she wheeled toward the stables to seek her mount, she fired back, “Don’t you mean beforeyouremember you’re a man?”
Garth watched her go in silence. She was right. Every nerve in his body cried out that, aye, he was indeed a man. His mouth burned where she’d kissed him. His eyes felt drenched in honey, heavy and slow to respond. His heart thudded. And below his cassock cord…bloody hell—he didn’t even want to think about that.
How had it happened? She’d wept. Comforting her was as natural a reaction as scooping up a fallen child. But somehow, as her sobs broke against his chest like ocean waves breaking on the shore, he was moved by emotions far stronger than mere compassion. He wanted to hold her closer. He wanted to hold her forever.
He never should have let her kiss him.
He lifted the back of his hand to his lips with the intent of wiping away any vestiges of that kiss. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It had been four years since he’d felt the touch of a woman’s mouth. He’d forgotten how soft and sweet a kiss could be, as delicious as honey mead, as warm as summer. And yet he’d never felt a kiss so deeply as the one Cynthia bestowed. It was as if she stole the breath from him, drew his very soul between her lips, then gave him the precious nectar of hers in exchange. And he grew drunk on that ambrosia.
It was her moan that sobered him. The small whimper of desire wrung from her throat shot a bolt of lust straight into his loins, the like he hadn’t felt in years. His body responded instantly. Instantly, his options narrowed. He must either bed her or cast her away.
He made the only choice he could. He was a priest, for God’s sake. And, he thought as Cynthia emerged from the stables with her palfrey, because he’d made the right choice, his mind would be at peace, unfettered by guilt, for the journey to the village.
But his body… He clenched his fists until the knuckles grew white. His body would curse him at every step.
The interior of the first cottage they visited looked as bleak to Garth as an empty ale cask, despite the small fire burning in the room. What few furnishings the two Scotswomen possessed were worn to splinters. Chinks in the daub let mist in through the wattle walls. Straw stuck out between the seams of one threadbare linen bed. The iron pots hanging beside the hearth bore deep cracks.
Cynthia was given the place of honor, a rickety chair propped near the fire. Garth stood beside a warped oak table he dared not lean upon for fear it would collapse. He wondered how Cynthia could come to hovels like this day after day and not be dragged into the mire of the peasants’ misery.
“You can do no more here, Caitlin,” Cynthia said. “Your sister grows well already. See how her cheeks have color now?”
“But I promised her I’d stay.” The pale Scots lass glanced ruefully at her sister, worrying her fingers so much that Garth feared she’d wear them to the bone.
“And so you have,” Cynthia assured her. She placed a comforting hand atop the girl’s shoulder for just a moment. Then her smile grew strangely brittle, and she snatched it back. “But I fear your aunt will worry if she hears no word from you.”
“I canna leave her. She’s my sister. I must stay.”
Cynthia nodded in apparent surrender. But as she turned, stepping past Garth to leave, she tugged hard, surreptitiously, on his cassock, murmuring low in his ear for him to follow her. They were the first words she’d spoken to him since they’d left Wendeville in stony silence. He followed her toward the door of the cottage.
As she pretended to rummage through her satchel, she spoke under her breath. “You must tell her it’s…it’s the will of God that she goes to her aunt.”
He drew his brows together. He wasn’t about to lie about the will of God.
“Please,” she whispered.
“Why not let her be?” he murmured. “She is happy enough caring for her sister. It’s a grim enough place for the two of them. But alone—”
“She won’t be alone. A neighbor will care for her.”
“Still—”
“Caitlin’s sister will live through the illness,” she said pointedly. “But if Caitlin stays,shewill not.”
Her words sent a disturbing shiver up his spine. “I suppose you somehow…know that.”
She regarded him with eyes as clear and solid as crystal. “I do.”
