John had known all along she didn’t love him. He’d known. Why else would he have exacted that terrible promise from her? Why would he have chosen those words? Swear to me you’ll marry again, he’d said. Swear to me you’ll marry...for love.
Hot tears spilled over her cheek. A choking agony cut off her breath. All at once, she felt John’s loss like a heavy rock pressing upon her chest.
Ah, God, he’d known.
Deep sorrow squeezed her heart, and guilt crushed her. She collapsed to her knees on the wet grass and buried her face in her hands. Then she wept—for John, for herself, for her blindness and his benevolence. Grief denied for too long rained upon her soul like the first winter shower upon scorched summer earth, stunning her, consuming her, drowning her.
Weeks and months of sorrow poured out, and it was a long while before the well of healing tears ran dry. But eventually her sobs subsided, leaving only a telltale hitch now and then to remind her of the storm’s passage...that and the daffodils, still cheerfully waving, merrily oblivious to her outburst.
How beautiful they were. There were enough to make a small bouquet. And, she thought as a tenuous smile trembled upon her lips, she knew just the place for them. She wiped her eyes, and then carefully cut the tender stems with her dagger.
What was past was past, she decided as she collected the blooms in the folds of her soiled apron. Whatever wrongs she’d committed, John had gone to his grave a happy man. She had to believe that. Besides, he would never have stood for her blubbering days on end over him, not with the sun so warm, not with daffodils in bloom.
As for the promise... If she never found the strength to honor it, if she never found the will to diminish John’s memory by replacing her affection for him with some faint imitation of devotion for another, well, at least John would be none the wiser. And if, at her life’s end, she didn’t fulfill that promise, it was between her and God what would happen with her immortal soul. Nay, she never intended to marry another.
Her apron full, Cynthia made her way toward Wendeville’s chapel. She felt less like the lady of the castle and more like a pauper bringing a gift to the king as she walked across the sward in bare feet with the yellow blossoms cradled against her belly. And that feeling was only magnified by the impressive appearance of the chapel itself.
No matter how frequently she visited, the chapel never failed to fill her with awe. It was holy and quiet and serene—the oldest part of the castle. The afternoon sun streamed through the brilliant stained glass, leaving designs like bright fallen petals on the cool gray stone floor.
The new addition at the chancel of the chapel still startled her. The great stone tomb dominating the nave bore a carved effigy of Lord John Wendeville, the way he supposedly looked as a young man. But Cynthia saw only a stranger’s face when she gazed upon the reclining figure. The man was attired as a knight with a lion crouching at his feet, his hands pressed together in prayer. Atop these hands, hands that bore little resemblance to her late husband’s, she tenderly placed the daffodils.
“I’ve brought flowers, John,” she whispered, and still her voice seemed a shout in the death-quiet chapel. “The garden will be lovely this year. The long winter didn’t harm the roses at all.”
She carefully separated the blossoms, arranging them in a spray atop the tomb, then relegated her soiled apron to the floor.
“And I heard the first cuckoo today. It made me think of that song. How did it go?”
She bent her head over her hands to think, close enough for a bee traveling upon one of the daffodils to flit onto the bright blossom of her hair.
Then she began to hum softly, a song about a rude cuckoo who stole a robin’s supper, throwing in the words where she could remember them.
The bee meandered across her orange tresses in search of nectar. It staggered twice, fell to a lower curl, then lost its grasp completely and tumbled onto her shoulder.
Cynthia struggled through the last verse, then tossed her head back for the familiar refrain.
The dazed bee, annoyed and confused in the tangle of her hair, floundered onto its back. When it squirmed upright again, it stung her for all it was worth.
The song ended on a shriek. Cynthia clapped one hand to her shoulder, then one to her mouth, amazed not only by the sharp pain, but by the loudness of her own voice as it echoed against the stone walls. She jumped back, scattering the flowers over the edge of the effigy, and winced as her fingers brushed away the half-dead insect. It buzzed in an ineffectual circle on the floor, and she frowned down at it.
“A bee!” she said in wonder. It was scarcely spring. What was a bee doing...
A strange vibration tugged at the nape of her neck. Some long lost incident pushed upward at the crust of memory to be reborn. In all her years of gardening, she’d only been stung once before, long ago. But there was no forgetting that pain.
Suddenly, it was as clear to her as if it had happened yesterday—the de Ware garden, the roses, the honeybees...the boy.
All at once, the chapel door exploded inward.
She whipped round. Her heart tripped. The door struck and bounced off the plaster wall.
A tall, dark-haired stranger loomed in the doorway. His dark robe swirled about him, his shoulders squared with primed power, and he clenched his hands as if preparing for battle. His chest heaved with exertion, and he glared at her with fierce green eyes that seemed to condemn her.
Dust motes scattered riotously in the shock of sunlight, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The man’s chest rose and fell once, twice, and still she stood riveted to the spot by his gaze.
Finally a familiar figure shattered the moment, gliding forward past the man, his black cassock rippling like inky shadows swallowing up the light. “Are you ill, child?”
“Oh!” she exhaled, placing one hand at her bosom to assuage her panic.
The Abbot peered down his nose at her. “I hope we didn’t startle you.”
Of course he’d startled her. Half to death. But if she knew the Abbot, frightening her was likely his intent. Indeed, she gleaned some satisfaction from the possibility that her sudden shriek had startled him.
“I hope I didn’t...” The words caught in her throat as her gaze flickered again over the man accompanying the Abbot. He wore the cassock of a holy man, but he didn’t look like any friar she’d seen before. “Startle you.”
She tore her eyes away long enough to see the Abbot smile with thin affection. “Nothing you do could ever startle me, child.”
Ordinarily she’d snap back a clever retort, but today she wasn’t interested in a verbal duel with the Abbot. She was far more intrigued by his companion—the towering, grim-faced, broad-shouldered man of the cloth who continued to challenge her with a piercing stare.
“I’ve brought a chaplain for Wendeville,” the Abbot droned, glancing down at the bee still spiraling on the flagstones beside her bare feet. “Apparently not a moment too soon, if vermin are already infesting the chapel.” Cynthia spared the Abbot a glimpse, getting the distinct impression he wasn’t just referring to the bee. “Lady Cynthia,” he said, nodding with false deference, “may I present Father Garth.”
Garth.
She looked closer.
It couldn’t be, she thought. It was mere coincidence. The bee made her remember the boy in the garden, and here was a man with his name. Garth was a common enough name. Surely it wasn’t the same Garth. And yet...
“Garth?” Her pulse pounded erratically at her temples. It was childish, this sudden excitement. But the man before her had gray-green eyes and hair the color of chestnuts...and suddenly she wished with all her heart, childish or not, that it was that boy. It was naïve, a memory from a girlhood filled with faeries and foolish dreams, and she was a woman grown. But she couldn’t recall a time when she’d been happier, that halcyon time before her mother had died. Garth de Ware was a part of that life. Please, she prayed with uncharacteristic whimsy, let it be him.
Garth had never felt more awkward in his life. For God’s sake—he’d thought he’d left his warrior ways behind him.
The lady’s scream had started it all. His heart had plummeted at the sound, and for the first time in four years, his hand had whipped around to his left hip, seeking his sword, finding nothing but cassock.
As unnerved by his own instinctive response as he was by the shriek of a damsel in distress, he nonetheless burst into the chapel like a knight bent on rescuing her.
Then he froze. And almost broke his vow of silence. Before him, bathed in the ethereal light of the sun-washed chapel, stood the most fey and wondrous creature he’d ever beheld. A wave of paralyzing heat assaulted him. The breath caught in his chest, and his heart stumbled like a wounded warhorse.
The devil had taken a pleasing shape. There was no other explanation for such beauty. The woman was nearly as tall as he, but as statuesque and well proportioned as the pagan sculptures he’d seen long ago in Rome. Her skin was smooth and vibrant, like the flesh of an apricot, and a delicate sprinkle of freckles frolicked across her nose and cheeks. Her lips were sensual, as inviting as a cherry tart, and her eyes were an ethereal shade of blue matched only by a clear English sky. Most striking, however, was the shock of unbound orange hair that curled riotously about her face, framing it like a storm-tossed halo. It reminded him of marigolds and sunlight and long-abandoned summers of childhood innocence.
Her sideless surcoat, where it wasn’t smudged with dirt, was the color of Highland pines. Beneath, a soft gray kirtle hugged her lovely form, and the sight of the delicious curves it revealed made Garth’s nostrils quiver like a steed’s sensing danger.
Mother of God, he despaired silently, what comes to test me now? Surely this was some jest. The Abbot couldn’t be serious. He’d have to be mad to place a man burdened by the sin of temptation in the household of Eve herself.
The woman’s gaze swept him from head to toe, settling at last on his face, searching his eyes for...something. “Is it possible,” she said, her breathy voice drizzling over his nerves like honey, “that your surname is de Ware?”
He stiffened. She’d heard of him.
“Indeed,” the Abbot said coolly. “You’re acquainted with his family then?”
From beneath his brows, Garth could see her face light up with pleasure. It made him melt inside.
“It’s been some time,” she breathed. “But I’m so pleased to see you again, Garth.” She warmly inclined her head and extended her hand. It was a capable hand, strong and genuine, a little soiled, but unfettered by jewelry or guile. “My father was Lord Harold le Wyte?” she prompted.
Panic seized him as he stared at her hand. He knew without touching her that that hand was as warm as fresh-baked bread. He suppressed the desire to take it, greeting her with safe, stony silence instead.
As far as Lord Harold le Wyte, he neither remembered her father nor wished to remember her. If he had known her, it was from a time he’d put under lock and key long ago, and he didn’t intend to pry open that box, ever.
Her pretty smile faltered. Her hand hung in empty space.
“Oh, I should mention,” the Abbot said, “Father Garth is under a vow of silence.”
The smile congealed on her face. She awkwardly withdrew her hand. Garth felt a twinge of remorse, but he’d never been more grateful for a penance in his life. He couldn’t have forced words past his lips if his soul depended on it.
“I understand.” She didn’t look as if she understood at all. Indeed, she looked rather offended, as if he’d taken the vow just to spite her.
“It’s a temporary penance,” the Abbot added, “just a week more.”
“Ah.” Her glance flickered over him, inspecting him rather too thoroughly.
“I’m certain, Lady Cynthia, you’ll be pleased with Father Garth. He’s had four years in the monastery, and he’s a fine scribe, as well as an expert on sin and the moral life.”
Garth winced at the Abbot’s subtle barb.
“I’m so glad you found him, Abbot,” the lady said.
Garth knew he was doomed. That wistful longing flirting about her eyes would surely be his undoing. Her very presence rattled his composure and did unspeakable things to his loins. And—God have mercy—short of castration, there was no way out of the hell his life was about to become.
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