Page 57 of My Hero
He’d helped her to dismount at the stables, spanning her waist with his broad, strong hands. His shoulders had bunched beneath her fingers as he lifted her down. Her breast had brushed his arm, her thigh sliding along his. He’d placed her between his spread feet, close enough to kiss.
But to her frustration, he hadn’t kissed her. And that frustration kept her awake tonight, burning with heat one moment, shuddering with cold the next.
Defiantly, she rose naked from her bed. The moonlight bleached her body to blue-kissed ivory and tinted her woman’s thatch of auburn curls to an icy blonde. The cool vapor caressed her bare flesh, stippling the skin of her arms and tightening her nipples. She welcomed the cold, for it helped to douse the unrequited flames of passion blazing inside her.
Brazenly, she moved to the window and peered out. It was almost as bright as day. Shadows stretched across the sward like ragged cloaks thrown over the silvery grass. No breeze stirred the trees. No owl cracked the silence of the night. It was too cold for crickets. Her roiling desire felt like a scream against the quiet.
And then she heard a low thump and a soft, scraping sound from the herb garden, again, and yet again, in an easy rhythm. Unmindful of her undress, she leaned out to seek a better view. The cool stone pressed against her bare waist.
It was Garth.
For the space of two heartbeats, sheer lust poured over her loins like hot honey, sharpening her senses, making her fingers curl upon the ledge.
Then she realized what he was doing, and her yearning congealed instantly into a cold, bitter knot.
She watched in horror as the brute shoved the spade deep into the soft earth of the garden, her precious herb garden, and wrenched it aside, making the soil well up in a growing mound.
Hurt, then anger, flashed through her as swiftly as fire through dry rushes. How dare he ransack her garden again? Hadn’t he done enough damage? They wereherherbs. And it washergarden. He had no right to play God, ripping out perfectly healthy plants simply because they offended him. Even the Abbot hadn’t been so audacious.
Grinding her teeth in fury, she wheeled from the ledge and tore her cloak from its peg so fiercely that she ripped the shoulder. Cursing, she wrapped it about her and felt along the shadowed side of her bed for her boots. It was far from decent attire, but she had to hurry. She had to stop the plunderer in the garden before it was completely laid waste.
The wet grass squeaked beneath her as she hastened across the courtyard. The glowing hedges made eerie shadows along the ground, and the mist spiraled away from her swift feet.
Then she slowed. Seething, she came up behind him in silence, wickedly hoping he would jump ten feet with guilt when she asked him just what in the devil’s name he was doing.
But as she rolled the choice words around in her mind, she chanced to notice the seedlings arranged beside him. Wormwood. Monkshood. Hellebore. Her “devil’s herbs.” She watched in stunned surprise as Garth set the spade aside and eased the wormwood into one of the holes he’d dug. Using his hands, he scooped dirt around the plant, packing it down with a firm touch. He moved on to the monkshood. Then the hellebore.
Faith, he was planting them.
Her throat tightened. Her eyes grew watery. All the caustic accusations she’d prepared splintered into meaningless syllables. Her heart slowly filled with a wistful longing.
She wanted this quiet hero—this man who gladly held the hand of a sick child, who spoke God’s word as if he’d written it himself, who crept to the garden in the middle of the night and used his own two hands to replace her precious plants.
He was her champion. And they belonged together. She’d known it from the first time they’d met, among the jasmine, when she’d sensed his goodness, his strength. And nothing could change that—not the mask of indifference he chose to show her, not his friar’s trappings, not the fact that he was sworn to chastity.
She flicked her tongue lightly over her bottom lip.
She should go back to bed.
There was no reason to disturb Garth. Besides, now that she saw the true nature of his deed, she was ashamed of her misplaced suspicions.
Aye, she should go.
She watched him as his hands cupped the mound of earth as tenderly as a lover caressing a breast. Her nipples stiffened against the rough wool of her cloak. She closed her eyes against a potent wave of desire and backed slowly away.
Garth heard footsteps behind him. He’d known someone was there for some time now. But he wasn’t worried. The spade was in arm’s reach. When the stalker took another soft step, he spun toward the sound, bringing up the shovel before him in a swift arc that would have impressed even his warrior brothers.
“Shite!”
Garth froze in mid-swing, cataloguing the scene before him in a series of quick flashes. Cynthia. Fear. Wild hair. Stumbling. Bare flesh. Wide eyes. Dark cloak. Pale skin. Bare flesh…bare flesh…
He averted his eyes and snapped his head down. He lowered the spade, but he couldn’t let go of it. His fists were clenched too tightly around its handle. His unruly heart raced, and he could draw no air into his lungs. He didn’t dare look again. Now he understood the terrible quandary of Lot’s wife as he fought the urge to lift his eyes to the wonder before him.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Surely it was only his lewd imagination. Lady Cynthia didn’t wander the castle grounds in the middle of the night, half-naked. That perfect, creamy, dark-tipped breast peeping from her cloak had been only a creation of his mind. He took a ragged breath and slowly lifted his gaze to her again.
She tightly clasped the front of her cloak.
“I—I,” she stuttered. “I…didn’t mean to disturb you. I only heard the noise and…”
