Page 80 of My Hero
Cynthia looked lost as she gathered her garments about her, like an orphan cast out of an inn.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, glancing about for her boots.
He could do little more than nod. He was choking on a knot of emotions. Of course she was sorry—sorry she’d ever set eyes on him.
She found her boots and stood clutching them to her chest. Her chin trembled as she tried not to weep.
He couldn’t blame her. He was a disappointment. It wasn’t her fault. How could a woman truly understand what it was like to be half a—
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out tearfully. She turned to flee, but not before he saw the first drop slide down her cheek. “I’m so sorry.”
He stared at the ground rather than watch her run from him as if he were cursed. He was sorry, too. He’d known better. From the beginning, he’d known they were from different worlds.
And yet, in a way, he wasn’t sorry, not at all. For one shining moment, he’d held heaven in his arms. And if he never shared a woman’s bed again, at least he’d always have that.
Chapter 18
Two weeks past Easter, the Abbot spurred his mount forward, wincing at the ache in his hips from the long ride. He was unaccustomed to riding at all, but it was one advantage that being master of his own castle afforded. He at least had the pick of the scrawny nags stabled in Charing’s stalls.
Before him, the precisely cut gray stones of Wendeville rose out of the earth like a brazen slap in the face of the god who’d cast man out of a perfect world. The splendid castle seemed to mock the Abbot’s own battered Charing, where one counted oneself fortunate to find a corner free from drafts on a damp night.
It irked him to have to come here himself, and he swore he wouldn’t do it again until he was ready to confront the Wendeville slut with orders for her execution, until he could claim Wendeville for his own.
But he’d had to come. His plans had taken a nasty turn. Garth hadn’t killed the wench after all. And she hadn’t died from whatever disease it was she had. In fact, she’d apparently recovered enough to be courting. According to Mary, Cynthia Wendeville had already as good as promised herself to Sir Philip de Laval, which boded nothing but ill for the Abbot.
So he’d come to the castle to take matters into his own hands again. He planned to befriend eager Philip, talk with him, pore over Lady Cynthia’s…bewitching ways. After all, the devoted couple had known one another only a short while. The Abbot knew her so much more intimately. Apparently, Cynthia had even managed to perform one of her healing “miracles” at the Easter tournament with Philip as witness. All the Abbot need do was whisper in sanctimonious Sir Philip’s ear what he knew about unscrupulous Cynthia Wendeville and her devil’s herbs. He was certain within the space of a few hours, he could convince the gentleman to part company with his tainted betrothed…leaving the Abbot that much closer to victory.
He peered up again at the bold pennon flying jauntily above the majestic keep and grimaced at the bitter taste of dread. He was so close, and yet fate seemed ever determined to thwart him. He felt like a hound slavering over a bone that persisted in staying just out of reach.
Elspeth knew something terrible had happened. But proud Cynthia wouldn’t speak a word of it. Since Easter, the poor girl had retreated to her chamber, taking her meals there, coming out only for crises that Roger couldn’t handle himself. She’d scarcely even spoken to the man she was to marry.
At first, Elspeth wondered if the sickness had left some lasting mark on the lady or if perhaps the Easter celebration had been too taxing. Then she worried it was some new malady. But at the heart of it all was fear. Never before had Cynthia retreated so far into herself. Never had she locked Elspeth out of her chamber. And never had she smelled of strong drink so early in the day.
It was those thoughts that occupied Elspeth as she supervised the laying of the new rushes over the stones of the great hall. And so she was caught completely off her guard when she flung open the outer doors to discover the Abbot on the threshold, standing there like Death come to collect souls.
“Oh, la!” she shrieked. “Abbot!”
“Elspeth.”
She hated the way he said her name, as if it were a Saxon curse.
“I didn’t know you were…that is…had I known, I…” she muttered, trickling stems of meadowsweet onto the floor. “Whyhaveyou come, Abbot?”
”Now, Elspeth.” Roger came up behind her, placing undue pressure on her spine as he prodded her out of the way. “Let’s see to the Abbot’s comforts ere we start questioning him, shall we?”
She stood dumbfounded for a moment until she realized she was being rude. “Of course. Of course. I’ll get a cup of ale for you, Father. Come in.” She stood aside and let him in, against her better judgment.
Lord, she thought, her hand trembling as she poured the ale a moment later in the refuge of the buttery, the Abbot couldn’t have picked a worse time to come. Lady Cynthia had always needed strong armor to battle the wretched holy man, and at the present, the poor lass could scarcely dress herself in the morn. What would she do if he brought bad tidings?
Her hands were still shaking when she scurried across the newly laid rushes toward the hearth, where Roger and the Abbot sat conversing.
“I hope the lady’s not ill?” the Abbot inquired, his forehead crinkling in a web of false concern.
“She’s fine,” Roger lied as Elspeth passed full cups to both of them.
“And your chaplain?” the Abbot asked.
“Father Garth,” Elspeth piped in. “He’s working out well. It’s a worthy choice you made, Abbot.”
