Sanctuary of Roses (7 page)

Even as she prayed these platitudes,
Madelyne knew she had to put aside the strange, bubbling feelings
that Gavin of Mal Verne evoked in her. He could mean naught to
her.

In sooth, she had no desire to feel for him,
to live in his world. The Abbey allowed her the freedom to learn
and to exist almost as a man, though cloistered. And now, this man
threatened the path that she had followed for a decade, merely by
appearing in her life with his power and command. She’d begun
already to forget the admonishments her mother had impressed upon
her, the warnings of the controlling, all-powerful hold a man had
on a woman. Fascination and a deep, stirring need to know him had
intervened quietly and subtly, and now Madelyne feared she would be
lost.

Her hand shook as she remembered the
fluttering in her belly as she sat encased in his arms, the horse
jolting her against him with perfect rhythm until she had forced
herself to sit uncomfortably upright. The smell of leather and the
unfamiliar scent of maleness, of sweat and horse and clean chain
mail, still lingered in her memory, as did the image of his strong,
tanned hands holding the reins in front of her.

Madelyne took a deep, shuddering breath. She
could not allow herself to feel this way. Any emotion toward this
man was naught but her own naiveté, and was bound to be naught but
a weak battering ram slamming against the stone wall of an
arrogant, unfeeling man.

“What sin could you have committed this day
that should bring you here such a late hour?”

Madelyne whipped her head around as her
heart leapt into her throat. ’Twas as if her thoughts had conjured
up the man, and now he stood just in the doorway of the chapel. Her
limbs jittering from the startle, and her stomach roiling with
guilt at being caught thinking of him, she pulled herself to her
feet with slow, deliberate movements.

“Sin?” she asked calmly, tucking her hands
into the sleeves of her gown to hide their trembling. “Nay, ’twas
not a sin about which I spoke to God,” she lied, mentally noting
that she had yet another reason to seek a confessional anon. “’Twas
for the soul of men like yourself, who have the hearts and lives of
a warrior, and live only by bloodshed and power, and who destroy
the lives of others without thought.” She spoke flippantly,
carelessly, of her own situation, so as to seem undisturbed. But
when she saw his face blanch, she realized she had struck him as if
with the self-same sword he carried in his belt.

His face hardened, and in the flickering
light of the chapel, it settled like stone in an ominous mask, and
for a moment, she was afraid. Then, she saw the pain under the
steeliness in his eyes, and she closed her eyes briefly as her fear
settled.

“Oh, my lady—Sister—’twas not without
thought that I came to draw you from the abbey. ’Twas only after
much
thought that I chose to…destroy your life, as you have
stated so bluntly.”

“I did not mean to offend, my lord,” she
spoke quickly, unable to hold back the honest response to his
obvious hurt. The first time she’d seen a change in that stony
expression. “I truly do pray for your soul, and that of others like
you.”

A bitter laugh grated in the stillness.
“Aye, my soul is indeed in great need of such concern.”

He stepped toward her, and she had to make a
conscious effort not to retreat. “Now, my lady—Sister Madelyne—we
are up with the sun and in the saddle anon, and I shall not be as
accommodating as my man Clem was to your maid if you should
collapse in exhaustion. ’Tis time to return to your bed.” He looked
at her closely. “And do you not wander at night alone, else you
wish to find yourself in need of more than a chapel for
protection.”

His meaning dawned on her, and she looked up
at him in shock. “But, my lord, your men would not—”

“Only a fool believes he knows what a man
would or would not do, especially when confronted with a beautiful
woman.”

Madelyne’s heart bumped out of rhythm, then
realigned itself. He did not mean it, she knew, that she was a
beautiful woman. He only meant to warn her of her carelessness.
And, indeed, she had been foolish to wander unescorted through the
monastery. “I will return to my bed, then, my lord.”

Lord Mal Verne stepped toward her and, to
her surprise, offered her his arm. “And I will escort you so as to
assure myself that you return unharmed. And that you plan no
further tricks.”

She reluctantly slipped her fingers around
his forearm as she remembered seeing her mother do many years ago
at Tricourten. Although her hand barely rested there, she was
acutely conscious of the feel of the well-woven linen of his
sleeve, and the steadiness of his arm beneath it. Her skirt brushed
against his legs as they walked at a comfortably brisk pace back to
the women’s chambers.

When they reached the entrance to the
chambers, Mal Verne stopped, pausing in front of the door, but
making no move to open it. He looked down at her as she pulled her
hand from his arm, and Madelyne found herself trapped by his gaze.
Something glittered there, in the depths of his eyes, and it made
her unable to breathe as they stood in a lengthening silence.

“Do you ever wear your veil—even to sleep?”
he asked finally, reaching out a hand as if to touch it.

Unsettled by his odd question, Madelyne
looked away, breaking their eye contact and the tension between
them. His hand dropped back to his side, but he continued to look
down at her. “Nay, my lord.” She stepped back from him and raised
her face to look up at him again, confused by his words.

She was shocked when his mouth curved into
the slightest of smiles, chagrin lighting his eyes. “I have always
suffered from the basest of curiosities…and I merely wondered at
the color of your hair, that which you keep so well-hidden.” Then,
a flash of horror widened his eyes, but was immediately gone to be
replaced by familiar, hard cynicism. “Unless ’tis the custom of the
nuns at Lock Rose Abbey to shave their heads.”

“Only those who have taken their final vows
partake of that custom,” Madelyne replied, suddenly glad that she
had not yet done so. “My head is not shaved. And my hair is dark.”
She knew that only because it was long enough that the heavy braid
she wore fell over her shoulder down to her waist, for she’d not
seen herself in a looking glass since arriving at the abbey.

He stilled. “You are not a nun?”

“I will be a nun when I am returned to Lock
Rose Abbey,” she told him firmly, hiding her clenched fingers in
the folds of her gown.

“Aye. When you are returned to the abbey.”
He turned abruptly and opened the door to her chamber, gesturing
for her to enter. “I shall see you on the morrow, Lady Madelyne. I
wish you a well-deserved night’s slumber.”

* * *

Fantin was mixing healing earth, dry apple
wood ash, and chipped fragments of rubies when the sign he’d been
praying for became known to him.

“My lord,” the squire said nervously,
executing an impeccable bow, “this missive has just arrived.”

Turning away from the table at which he
worked, Fantin dunked his hands into a small basin of water he kept
for such a purpose. He did not abide dirt under his fingers, or
stains on his clothing, or spills on his floor or tables—and most
definitely did not allow his correspondence to have ink smears or
blood specks.

Drying his pink, clean hands on one of the
many cloths he kept about for that purpose, he glanced at the
polished silver mirror that hung between two of the brightest
torches. His handsome face—the one that drew women to him in
embarrassing droves—was devoid of soot streaks, and his shining
wheat-colored hair lay in gleaming waves, framing his face. ’Twas
his one vanity—his hair. He did not restrain the thick, lustrous
strands that Nicola had claimed reminded her of gilded moonbeams,
despite the hazard it portended by oft falling into his face whilst
he worked. Fantin was confident God would forgive him this one
transgression, as it was such a minor trespass when one considered
other sins—such as adultery and murder and slovenliness.

After assuring himself that his appearance
was pleasing, he strode toward the boy, noting that his knees were
fairly knocking at the thought of interrupting his master at work.
Relieving the lad of the heavy parchment, Fantin deigned to bestow
one of his warm smiles upon the boy, along with a nod of thanks.
’Twas thus to his private amusement that the boy fairly fled the
room, relief gusting in his wake.

“The boy was like to piss his pants whilst
coming here belowstairs, fearing to disturb your work, my lord,”
commented Tavis, his assistant—a slender, handsome man, not so much
older than the squire who’d just fled the laboratory. He stood on
the other side of the heavy wooden table, stirring a deep bowl of
violet liquid that steamed and stank of belladonna.

“’Tis not so true, for he knows that should
a message be delayed, he would find himself in worse straits than
if he disturbed me at work.” Fantin chuckled damply. “’Twas one of
the first lessons you yourself learned, was it not, Tavis?”

Returning his attention to the missive,
Fantin glanced at the seal and excitement surged through him. He
resisted the urge to beckon Rufus from his incessant praying in the
chapel—after all, should God speak, Fantin was determined that
Rufus be available to listen.

He knew what this message contained, and if
he pulled the priest from his holy duty, Rufus would only admonish
him for what he’d called his obsession with Mal Verne. But now, at
long last, that obsession had closed with Mal Verne’s death, and
Fantin could focus his complete attention on the purification of
himself and preparation for the formula for the Philosopher’s
Stone. It was the sign he’d been awaiting.

“Who sends the message?” Tavis looked like
an eager pup as he elbowed the bowl, sloshing the smoking liquid
over the side. Dismay pinked his face as he grabbed a cloth to sop
up the spill.

“Take care, you fool!” Fantin snapped, ire
rising at the young man’s clumsiness that seemed to rear its head
at the least thrice per day. “I do not wish to have pig’s blood and
belladonna all over the floor of my chamber!”

His annoyed eased as he looked at his
assistant, who’d cleaned up the mess and now had appropriately
downcast eyes. Tavis might be overly eager, and more than a bit
clumsy, but he was completely devoted to Fantin and his work and
that in itself was worth the trouble of cleaning up after his
ineptness.

“The message is from Rohan, the man I have
in Mal Verne’s employ.” He broke the seal and began to scan the
parchment as he continued to speak. “I expect this to be the news
that—” Fantin choked off, his eyes bulging with incredulity and
then in bare shock. Hot fury rose in him, heating his face and
causing the hand that held the missive to shake violently.

At his master’s high, keening cry of
disbelief, Tavis froze, gaping at him with big, bowl-shaped eyes.
“What is it, Master Fantin?” he asked in a thready voice.

The vein in Fantin’s forehead throbbed
furiously. Raking a hand through his hair, he looked at his
assistant. “Mal Verne lives. He
lives
!”

Fantin clenched his fingers around the edges
of the parchment, relishing in the yield of the brittle paper
beneath his anger, wishing that it was Mal Verne’s own neck beneath
his nails. It could not be that he lived!

He sucked in a deep draught of air. He must
retain control of his senses and force the red that suddenly
colored his vision to ease away…he closed his eyes and called upon
God to send him the calmness and clarity he deserved. If he was to
undertake His Will, then He must give him the tools to understand
it.

Fantin concentrated, taking two more deep
breaths. The tang of smoke, and the acridity of burning pear wood
and melting iron, seared his lungs, but it did not matter.

The missive vibrated in his grip so that he
could barely read the words of the remainder of the message…but
when at last he returned to the paper, he snatched in his breath.
He could not believe the words he saw there. He read it thrice
before the shock compelled him to speak. “Mal Verne claims to have
found my daughter! My daughter is
alive
! It cannot be!” He
stared at the paper, rereading the impossible words.

Tavis stared at him with his wide, dark
eyes. “Your daughter is alive? But…is that not good news?”

Suddenly, at last, the familiar warmth
rushed over Fantin, calming him and soothing his frayed nerves.
Like a flash of lightning, a sharp thrill heightened his senses,
and all at once he understood.

The sign! ’Twas the sign he’d been praying
for!

“Rufus!” he shrieked, rushing to the chapel,
“’tis the sign! My daughter lives!”

The priest paced from the small cell, his
face sober as always, his hands tucked inside his sleeves. “Ah…I
have been expecting such good news. The Lord has provided and now
you can see the way.”

“Aye!” Fantin could not remember the last
time he had felt so relieved, so certain of his destiny. Warmth,
beauty, love…all glowed within him at the knowledge that he’d been
gifted thus. He smiled beatifically, caught sight of his own
reflection in the mirror across the table from him…and admired the
angelic, saintly glow that reflected in his fine-boned face.

At last.

That God should return his daughter—the
pure, innocent manifestation of his flesh, conjoined with that of
his beloved wife Anne—to him now…resurrected her, after so many
years….

He was blessed. And without any doubt, he
knew Madelyne would be instrumental in the creation of the
Philosopher’s Stone. She was the missing piece, now returned to
him.

Of course. The warmth rushing through him
was hot and full and arousing. “She has been serving God in an
abbey and shall take the veil,” he explained to the priest.