Page 59 of My Hero
She sucked in a hard, startled breath, but she voiced no protest, pressing her hips forward against him instead, inflaming his already blazing staff and driving him mad with desire.
Cynthia shivered, not with the cold, but with sheer animal need, as the pads of Garth’s thumbs swept over the sensitive peaks of her breasts. She could feel his staff harden, crushed recklessly against her belly. She moaned as he ravished her mouth, grazing her teeth and teasing her tongue. Never had she been kissed like this. Her husband’s kisses, loving though they were, had never moved her to such an ecstasy of yearning. The curls between her legs moistened as desire squeezed the juices from her. Every part of her body strained to couple with his, like lightning drawn to lightning.
And then he kissed her neck, the spot just below her ear where her pulse beat wildly. She arced against him, clutching great handfuls of his thick hair, pleading wordlessly for more.
He gave her more, panting heavily against her ear, cupping her breasts, licking ravenously at her throat, nipping her shoulder. And then he parted her cloak to trail kisses across her bosom.
The wet touch of his tongue lapping at her nipple shot an exquisite current of desire through her body. It sizzled through her loins and charged every inch of her skin. He groaned as he sucked gently there, and the sound seemed to echo through her, rasping across her soul like fine silk.
A moment more and he might have touched her warm, secret woman’s place, swelling with longing. She might have sought out the firm velvet length of him with a questing hand. A moment more and they might have consummated their passion then and there in the garden, by the smoldering light of the moon.
But piercing the cool silence of the night, a voice suddenly rang across the courtyard.
“My lady?”
Elspeth!
They separated as quickly as split timber.
“Lady Cynthia?” Elspeth picked her way across the dew-bejeweled grass as if she feared to break the shimmering diamonds.
Cynthia snapped her cloak tightly about her neck.
“What is it, El?” Hell, her voice was little more than a croak.
“Whatever are you doing out of doors on such a night, my lady?”
Cynthia wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, erasing any trace of his kiss, and stepped cautiously into the light, certain the maid could see the flush of desire on her cheek and heard the frenzied beating of her heart.
“When I didn’t find you in your bed, well, Roger and I, we looked high and low for you. What are you doing, lass?”
Cynthia’s gaze flitted over to the spade. “Planting.”
“Planting?”
“Aye.” She picked up the spade. “The chaplain and I…” She turned to the niche beside the wall where Garth was. But he’d disappeared, evaporated like mist. “We…we brought back some new herbs from the village. I wanted to be sure to plant them straight away.”
Elspeth shook her head. “Well, come to bed now, lass. The plants will wait till morning. With all the sickness about, I won’t have you taking a chill.”
Cynthia nodded and scanned the empty shadows of the castle wall one last time. A part of her was relieved that Garth had escaped undetected. But a part of her was disappointed. And for that part of her, it promised to be a very long night.
Garth sat on his bed, hanging his head. He couldn’t stay at Wendeville. That much was painfully obvious. Cynthia might have extricated herself from the embarrassing situation tonight. She might have given Elspeth a plausible explanation for her presence in the garden in the middle of the night. But there was no excuse for him.
He couldn’t fool himself. He knew that if he stayed, it wouldn’t be the last time he tangled with Cynthia. Whether it was by some enchantment she’d cast upon him or his own damnably weak will, the woman was as addictive as opium wine. He’d crossed over a line. He’d tasted her. And now he only wanted more.
But he couldn’t subject her to such disgrace. He cared too much for her. Besides, any affair between them was doomed to fail. Even if he became one of the clergy who allowed themselves the company of women, he knew he was unfit as a man. Sooner or later, she’d discover that.
He blamed himself. This whole awkward situation was his fault, all of it. He was a priest. It was up to him to control his passions. And tonight, he’d failed miserably.
Outside, the moon began its descent. The fog thickened, blurring the line between the treetops and the sky.
He stuffed his few possessions—quills, ink, parchment, books, candles—into his satchel, and looked one last time around the chamber that would be his no more.
With a heavy heart, he stepped into the night. She’d forget him within a week, he was sure. As for Garth, he’d fall back into the comfortable routine of the monastery—praying, copying, teaching. Eventually, Lady Cynthia and Wendeville Castle would recede like a pleasant, brief dream. He told himself the lie and tried to believe it.
The Abbot shivered impatiently in the crofter’s cottage. The hovel provided little comfort against the chill of the night. He was eager to return to his hearth at Charing. But his spy had assured him she brought important news.
“He…replanted the herbs?” he asked, blinking.
