Tori Phillips (2 page)

Celeste smoothed her palm across her aunt’s brow, as if she could wipe away both the pain and the ceaseless rain. “Hush, sweet darling. Save your strength. Pierre will return soon.”

“Ha! When the devil speaks the truth!” Moaning softly, Marguerite closed her eyes.

Celeste cast an anxious glance at Gaston. Raindrops hung on his bushy eyebrows and dripped from his salt-and-pepper beard. He gave her the ghost of a rueful smile. “It will take more than an upset cart to silence Marguerite de la Columbiare. Wipe away your fear, my lady.” The old soldier squeezed her shoulder, then renewed his fierce exhortations to his laboring men.

Thank the good Lord her father had sent Gaston with her when Celeste and Marguerite left their chateau, L’Étoile, two months ago! Two months? Nay, it seemed like two years, and the journey to her unknown bridegroom was only half-over. Celeste pulled the cloak closer over Marguerite, trying to block the worst of the storm. Gruff Gaston had been her father’s faithful sergeant during his youthful campaigns. Now he served his master’s youngest daughter with equal devotion. Celeste promised herself to commend Gaston’s steadfastness to her parents as soon as she was safely at Snape Castle—wherever in this wretched land that odd-sounding place was.

“By the holy cross, it is about time!” Gaston bellowed. “Take heart, my lady. Pierre returns, and brings help, as well!”

Shaking the rain out of her eyes and the heaviness from her heart, Celeste peered through the gathering gloom. Pierre rode Black Devil as if the true fiend of hell were after him. Behind the boy, she could make out a number of figures, accompanied by a two-wheeled cart. Knights, come to aid two ladies in distress!

“Praise be to the guardian angels,” Pierre panted as he reined the great stallion to a halt. “There is a small monastery ahead, full of good brothers. And they speak a passable French. Look you, Lady Celeste. They come.”

Out of the rain, a half-dozen men dressed in the simple brown woolen robes of the Franciscans hurried toward them. The creak of their cart’s wheels made welcome music to Celeste’s ears, though the plain-garbed monks were a far cry from her knight-filled fantasy. Without pausing, the new arrivals leapt into the ditch and took hold of the wagon. Celeste saw their bare feet, shod only in open sandals, sink into the clammy muck.

One, taller by a head than the rest, shouted a quick command in English, and then everyone heaved against the wagon together. Miraculously, the cumbersome vehicle lifted away from Aunt Marguerite’s body. With the groaning of splintered wood and the creaking of the wet leather springs, the heavy conveyance regained the roadbed once more, where it came to rest in a woefully canted position.

“Peace be with you, my lady.” A gentle voice, warm as summer honey, spoke flawless French in Celeste’s ear. “Let me tend to your companion and ease her suffering.”

Celeste looked up at the speaker, then gasped when she beheld him. The tall blond monk had the shining face of the archangel Gabriel himself!

Guy Cavendish had seen many pretty women in his twenty-eight years, but never one whose eyes flashed the color of purple violets in springtime and whose midnight black hair blew in a silken cloud about her. A hot stirring fluttered below his knotted rope belt. He clamped his teeth tightly together. Jesu! The girl was temptation incarnate—the very thing he had renounced when he entered Saint Hugh’s Priory six months ago and pledged himself to a life of poverty, obedience and chastity—especially chastity.

Her eyes widened with that old familiar look of awe that he hated to see on anyone’s face. Guy ducked his head lower, hiding from the lady’s glassy-eyed expression. By the Book! When would people—especially women—cease to stare at him like that? All his life, the word
beautiful
shadowed Guy. Though his body had shot up to six and a half feet, filling out at the proper time into a man’s form, his face had never roughened as his brother’s did, but had retained the look that his old nurse once told him reminded her of the stained-glass windows in York Minster. Guy’s blond curls had not darkened to brown, as Brandon’s had done. Despite the bald patch in his novice’s tonsure, his short hair fell about his face in a bright golden halo, which only accentuated the deep blue of his eyes.

Disgusted by his unwanted beauty, he had thrown himself into the harsh training of warfare. The years of riding at the quintain and wielding a heavy two-edged sword had not marred his cursed looks, but instead, hardened his muscles and broadened his shoulders so that men held him in respect and women openly admired him.

Singly and in battalions, ladies at the king’s court had sighed at his beauty, fought for his attention at tournaments and boldly proffered their own special favors in return. Being a mere mortal, without saintly pretensions, Guy had taken what was so enthusiastically offered. But in the secret hours of the night he had wondered if the lady who slept beside him would have been so generous if he was less comely.

As his hands gently probed through the soaked velvet gown of the semiconscious woman, Guy strove to ignore the disturbing feminine presence only a whisper away from him. The injured lady cried sharply when he touched her left hip.

“Softly, good mother,” he murmured as his fingers continued their necessary search. He felt her stiffen as his hand hovered over her thigh. “I will be gentle. You will feel better anon, I promise.”

The old lady’s eyelids fluttered open. “I am in torment!” she groaned. Then she got a good look at him, and her mouth dropped open. “Sweet Saint Michael! Am I in paradise already?”

Guy sighed softly to himself. “Nay, good lady, unless you call a foul mud hole heaven.”

The woman surprised him by giving a weak chuckle. “Would that I were twenty years younger and not so sore in body. I’d make a heaven of any spot on earth, if you were there to share it with me.”

The lady of the violet eyes gasped. “Hush, Aunt! You are speaking to a priest. Pay her no mind, Father. I fear my aunt’s tongue runs faster than her wits. It is the pain that makes her prattle,
n’est-ce pas?”

Reluctantly Guy allowed his gaze to light upon the speaker. A mistake of the first order! He felt as if a dart from a crossbow had shot through him, rendering him speechless.

“A priest!
Quel dommage
! Such a pity, eh, Lissa? Did the maidens tie black ribbons in their hair when you professed your vows, handsome Father?” The aunt’s eyes twinkled with faint merriment before they closed against another wave of pain.

Despite being the subject of this uncomfortable conversation, Guy allowed a faint grin to touch his lips. “As to that, I know not, my lady, though my mother cried and wondered what she had done wrong in my upbringing.”

“I daresay she did right well,” murmured the aunt before lapsing into a faint.

“Oh, please, don’t let her die,” the younger woman begged, her purple irises shimmering in the raindrops.

“She’ll not die—not this day, at least.” As he spoke, Guy removed the rope from around his waist and used it to lash the aunt’s lower extremities together. “She has merely fainted, which is a blessing. The trip back to the monastery would be an agony, were she awake.” Averting his eyes from the young lady, Guy called in English to one of his fellow novices.

“Brother Thomas! Your strong arm is needed here. The old woman has broken a bone or two and must be gently carried.”

“Aye!” The younger monk, little more than a boy and robust in nature, slipped through the mud at Guy’s command.

The girl rose and made a space for Thomas, who barely gave her a second glance. Guy wondered how the boy could be so immune to the bewitching spell of her dark, loose hair and the purple fire in her eyes. Then he chided himself. Of course Thomas saw nothing rare in her. The lad was far saintlier than Guy could ever hope to be. No doubt Thomas had never tasted the sinful pleasures of the flesh. Angry at his own weakness, Guy vowed to spend that night in humble prostration before the altar, on the freezing stones of the chapel floor. He knew from experience that such a penance would cool the ardor of even Great Harry himself.

“Slip your arms under the lady and grasp my wrists,” Guy instructed, hoping his voice would not betray the turmoil of the emotions seething inside him. “Good. Now, on my word, lift her gently, holding her as level as possible.”

“Aye, Bother Guy,” Thomas answered. “I am ready.”

“On the count of three.” Guy gripped Thomas’ wrists. “One... two...”

“Be careful. She is most dear to me,” the girl at Guy’s elbow whispered in French.

Despite the chill of the rain, Guy’s blood warmed as if turned to liquid fire; his heart raced. He gritted his teeth. “Three!” Acting as one, Thomas and Guy lifted the injured lady from the ditch and carried her quickly to the monastery’s cart. Brother Cuthbert, a brother skilled in the healing arts, lifted the makeshift canvas covering, allowing Guy and Thomas to place the lady on a bed of dry straw.

“Did you say she suffers a broken bone?” Cuthbert asked Guy in a quiet, professional manner.

“Aye, her left leg for sure, and perhaps her hip, as well.”

Cuthbert nodded. “’Tis a blessing she is unconscious.”

“Amen to that, I say.” Guy stepped back as Cuthbert sprang into the driver’s seat and slapped the reins against the patient horse’s rump. As the cart rolled away, something tugged the loose sleeve of Guy’s robe. Turning, he nearly stumbled over the enchantress of the raven locks.

“Pardon, good Father,” she began, each syllable falling like drops of heady French wine. “But I do not understand English very well. What did you say about my aunt?” Her eyes, if anything, appeared to grow larger, burning deeper into his soul.

“Broken leg,” Guy muttered brusquely, trying to avoid her stare. Why did she have to look at him as if he were the fabled unicorn? “Best that you mount up and ride quickly to the priory. You do ride, do you not, my lady? You will catch a chill and fever if you stand here. You are wet through.”

Before he realized what he was doing, his gaze slid down from her face to her slender white throat, and from to her soaked bodice. The wet burgundy velvet molded her high breasts, boldly outlining the delicious promise that lay scarcely hidden there. Another fiery bolt impaled him. He nearly groaned with the painful pleasure. A mere night on the chapel floor would not suffice. He vowed a full day of penance, as well.

“I thank you for your concern, Father,” she murmured in a low, slightly husky voice that reminded Guy of hickory smoke—and hot passion between fresh sheets.

God forgive him for the unholy thoughts that whirled about his fevered brain. He would wear a hair shirt when he did his self-imposed vigil in the chapel.

An impish smile curled the corners of her full cherry mouth. “And I do ride quite well — like the wind. Not very ladylike, they tell me.” As she turned toward the horses, the back of her hand brushed against his. He jumped as if he had been caressed by a burning brand.

“Oh!” Turning her wide eyes upon him once more, she lifted her hand to her mouth, as if she, too, had felt the fire.

Their glances locked for an eternal instant. Guy felt himself plummeting into an abyss. Her gaze spoke unvoiced poetry to his heart. He could not tear himself from her power until she blinked; then he turned quickly away.

A hair shirt, and twenty-four hours on the hard flagstones—and fasting. Yes, he must fast, as well, Guy decided as he watched the grizzled old retainer lift the girl into the saddle of her palfrey. Hitching up the trailing hem of his oversize robe, Guy followed after her down the road. Tonight, he would pray that she would ride out of his safely ordered life as quickty as possible.

As he watched her back sway rhythmically in the saddle, his mind wandered from his holy intent. “Lissa,” the aunt had called her. What sort of name was that?

Chapter Two

“’T
is not often we have the opportunity to entertain such charming company as yourself, Lady Celeste.” Father Jocelyn Pollock, prior of Saint Hugh’s, wiped his fingers free of chicken grease on his rough linen napkin. Nor was it often that he dined so richly, and he wondered if his digestion would pay the price for this indulgence in the middle of the night. Nevertheless, he enjoyed the opportunity to exercise his French. Brother Giles, acting as servitor, poured more wine into a simple pottery cup, which he offered to the lady.

“Merci
, ” she murmured, her long, dark lashes fluttering like a butterfly on a midsummer’s day.

Father Jocelyn noted how the lady’s eyes sparkled in the candlelight, and he made a mental note to keep his novices and younger monks out of her sight. On second thought, he should keep most of his charges within the confines of the cloister, lest they be beguiled by this extraordinary creature. Already, in the space of an hour at supper, Lady Celeste had transformed solemn Brother Giles into a blushing, stammering schoolboy. Praise be to the entire heavenly host that the young woman had no idea of the power of her charms. Father Jocelyn sighed into his napkin. She would learn soon enough.

“’Tis most unfortunate that your aunt has suffered a fractured hip, as well as a broken leg,” Father Jocelyn continued. His unexpected guests presented him with a number of problems, the least of which was Lady Marguerite’s injuries.

“But she will recover,
oui?”
Placing her eating knife across her trencher, Lady Celeste raised her eyes in supplication.

The prior nodded. “Aye, my lady. She will be made whole again under the care of our gifted Brother Cuthbert.” Frowning slightly, he swirled the dregs of the wine in his cup. “However, ’tis out of the question for her to travel anywhere before Christmastide. At which time, it would be advisable for her to return to your home in France, where the weather is kinder to knitting bones.”

For a moment, Lady Celeste did not speak. Then she sighed. “I suspected as much, good Father. Indeed, I am hardly surprised. ’Tis merely one more misadventure we have suffered since... we left L’Étoile.”