Page 7 of My Hero
Cynthia felt a twinge of remorse. Perhaps she’d been too hasty, too judgmental. Perhaps the Abbot wasn’t as unfeeling as he seemed. Perhaps hewastouched after all by the loss of his benefactor, no matter how he despisedher. She tried to think of some small word of consolation. But staring at the pasty, somber man looming in deathly dark robes before her, her mind came up empty.
“After the ceremony,” she said as gently as possible, “I’ll send along two servants to help you get settled at Charing.”
In the awkward silence that ensued, she retreated from the shadowy chamber with Roger and Elspeth, closing the door with finality on both the Abbot and a chapter of her life.
The Abbot stared at the closed door, stunned. His chest constricted. He could scarcely draw breath.
Charing. Lord John had left himCharing. The Charing property didn’t represent a twentieth of the old man’s wealth. It was a travesty, a slap in the face. After all he’d endured, the sacrifices he’d made, this was his reward—a moldering castle on the barren land adjoining Wendeville. The niggardly tribute left a bitter taste in his mouth, like a moldy bone tossed to a faithful hound.
Rage snaked its way through his veins, heating his blood as he gazed down at the chilling body laid out so peacefully upon the bed.
He’d been cheated. There was no other word for it. He’d been betrayed by the old fool’s incorrigible desire for his lascivious young wife. How many times had he warned Lord John about the dangers of lust? How many Sabbaths had he spoken, within the walls of Wendeville’s own chapel, of that deadly sin?
But he’d been ignored. The very word of God had gone unheeded. Disgust twisted the Abbot’s mouth. Fury sharpened his vision. He coiled the fingers of one hand into a bony fist. Then, with a strangled oath, calling upon the wrath of God for penitence, he drove that fist with all the rancor of a cuckolded husband into Lord John’s lifeless, sin-riddled groin, again and again, each blow punctuated by the name of the old man’s transgression…Cynthia!
By the time his fury was purged, sweat beaded his brow. He gasped for breath. His knuckles throbbed with pain.
But pain was an old friend. And that old friend soothed him, clarifying his thoughts. He carefully wiped the moisture from his face with the corner of his sleeve and smoothed the cope over his cassock.
He knew what he had to do now. Lady Cynthia Wendeville may have sent him packing, but it wasn’t the last she’d see of him. There were always others he could use as instruments for his purpose.
He had at least a year. No widow would dare marry before at least a token period of grief. Until then, Wendeville’s coffers would be safe enough.
Slipping a spy into the servants’ ranks would be child’s play. His world teemed with the repentant—lost sheep who would lay down their lives to do his bidding and gladly sell an influential shepherd like him their very souls.
As a parting gesture of concern for the bereaved Wendeville household, and to protect his investment, he’d even help Lady Cynthia select a new chaplain. He’d find her a humble cleric from the poorest monastery in the land, a man of little ambition, a man who believed in the blessedness of poverty—in short, a man who’d not interfere with the Abbot’s aspirations to wealth and power. Oh aye, he’d find a chaplain for Wendeville. Indeed, he already knew just the man for the position.
Chapter 2
APRIL
Garth de Ware gasped as the wanton woman rode him mercilessly. She was exquisite. Her long, black hair fell forward, lashing his bare ribs. Her eyes glittered like emeralds. Her fingernails raked his shoulders, and her sleek, round buttocks pounded down upon him as relentlessly as the tide. He felt every glorious inch as he strove upward to shelter in the warm recesses of her flesh.
She leaned over him, thrusting voluptuous breasts forward which he happily cupped in his hands. They were so soft, so delicate, he feared he might hurt her. Then she bent to him, shoved aside his hair, and lapped voraciously at his ear, and it was all he could do to keep from bruising her in his eagerness. She eased a nipple between his lips, and he sucked gently at it, gasping at the sweet honey of her skin.
Tension stretched his body until he felt like a bowstring ready to snap. Her nipple popped from his mouth, and he tossed his head feverishly back and forth.
“Mariana,” he moaned, his breath coming shallow and rapid. “Ah, Mariana…”
He woke abruptly. No woman rose above him, only the pale ceiling, where the dawning sun sketched leafy patterns across the bare plaster. For several seconds, he was disoriented. Then the truth crashed down upon him like an iron portcullis.
The nightmare had returned to haunt him.
He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. His bunched cassock was soaked with sweat, and an all too familiar, craving ache gripped him between his thighs.
Curse his animal lusts—they mocked him yet again. Here he lay, a man of the church, stiff as a lance and sworn to chastity.
He forced a cold, somber mask to fall over his face like the visor on a close helm, concealing the rapt ecstasy of the dream, blotting it out of existence.
He refused to acknowledge that betraying part of his body. Certainly he’d not defile himself by seeking relief, even though as near as he was to bursting, he could have achieved it with a single stroke of his hand. But he was a monk, and if it was God’s will that he continue to endure this wretched nightmare, then perhaps it was meant as a test of faith.
So he clenched his teeth, stared gravely at the ceiling, and waited for the fiery longing to subside. He tried to forget Lady Mariana’s bewitching form, tried to think only of her cruel honesty and her mocking laughter. He forced himself to remember how much she’d hurt him.
Unlike his older brothers, he’d come late to wenching. Holden and Duncan had probably sampled the charms of a score or more damsels each by the time they were twenty. For them, Garth’s virginity had always been a source of amusement.
Part of Garth’s reluctance to pursue carnal pleasures was that he was fated for religious pursuits. A young man with two older brothers as brilliant and worthy as his could only seek his fortune through the church. Since his skill with his studies exceeded that with the blade, particularly when compared to his illustrious siblings, his destiny seemed clear.
Oh, he’d tasted the life of a knight, and he could wield a sword as well as most. His father had trusted him to guard Duncan, the eldest brother and heir to the de Ware estate, on his myriad adventures. And once, when Garth traveled with Holden north to the borders of Scotland, his brother had let him serve as steward to the castle he’d won. Unfortunately, Garth had failed miserably, outwitted by the Scots wench who eventually became Holden’s bride. After that, he’d decided to return home and keep to his pious path toward the church.
