Tori Phillips (20 page)

Guy knew all too well what came next, and he gave her what silent comfort he could. She presumed that he was a priest and was used to hearing people confess all manner of evil things. Thank God he wasn’t! How could anyone bear listening to the sorrow and pain of others day after day?

Celeste leaned against the frosted window. “She said he would hurt me. That there would be pain and blood.” She swallowed hard at the thought. “Aunt Marguerite said that wives must accept this punishment by their husbands. Am I so very wrong not to want this thing? How can I deny my husband his rights over me? Oh, Brother Guy, I am so very, very frightened of this marriage!”

Guy reached to take her in his arms, then dropped his hand to his side and clenched his fist. God’s teeth! He would have liked to strangle that old woman before she had the chance to scare the wits out of Lissa. Dried-up, bitter crones shouldn’t be allowed near marriageable virgins. It was a wonder there were any children in the world at all, if this was how a girl was prepared for the most important day in her life. Guy wished he dared to enfold her in his arms and, with his kisses, banish her fears. Instead he merely took her hand in his. Celeste gazed into the depths of his eyes and read his anguish there.

“Please, do not feel sorry for me. I will be a good wife. I do promise that.” She gave him a brave little smile, then slid off the window seat and smoothed down her skirts. “Come, let us return to the feast, or we shall disappoint your good aunt.”

Guy rose, as if in a dream, and followed her out of the gallery.

Lissa, I would teach you joy, not fear, I swear.
But even as he made that promise, Guy knew he could not keep it.

Chapter Sixteen

T
wo days later, the sun reappeared, shedding its feeble rays for the first time in several weeks. Celeste announced to her startled hostess that she must leave. Though she had much enjoyed her stay at Cranston Hall, Celeste felt guilty for lingering the extra days once her health had returned. By now, her parents must think her well wedded, and perhaps even expecting her first child. How angry and ashamed they would be if they knew she still kept her noble bridegroom waiting!

Again the travelers turned northward, crossing the rugged Pennines, where they spent a full day pushing the wagon through the snowdrifts that covered the higher passes. They were relieved when they descended to the valley and encountered the gentler landscape of heather, peat and brown grass. Wearied by the days of travel over the frozen, rutted roads, the party ate ravenously every night and went to bed early in the various hostelries that Guy found for them. Celeste’s singing and cheerful banter had disappeared since her illness. She used all her strength to stay warm and upright in her saddle as they plodded northward.

How could Guy stand the bitter cold? she wondered as another storm lashed them with needling sleet. He wore no cloak over his one shabby robe, and the cold had turned his feet bright red. He had gained back some weight under his aunt’s prodding, but Celeste feared he would soon return to his former gaunt appearance. At least he covered his bare head with his hood, and she noted with a secret pleasure that a new growth of his golden hair had finally obliterated his funny little tonsure.

Ma foi!
How handsome he was! Celeste agreed with Lady Mary’s observation that Guy’s holy vocation was a waste of a fine man. She closed her eyes against the sting of the wind and tried to imagine what Guy looked like dressed in fine velvets and particolored hose. She already knew what strong legs he had. Indeed, she had seen considerably more of those extremities than most people, save Guy’s former squire. She sighed and pulled her hood lower over her face. She hoped her betrothed looked just as handsome.

Late one afternoon, they came upon a lone boy, crawling in the roadway that led out of Leeds. The lad, whose only name was Pip, had badly twisted his ankle from falling through the ice crust of a deep, rock-laced pothole.

“Pauvre petit!”
Celeste crooned over him as Gaston lifted the boy into the baggage cart.

“Little vermin!” Gaston growled, watching Celeste bind Pip’s ankle. “The boy is crawling with lice and fleas, my lady. Do not touch him. You’ll become infested yourself.”

“Peace, Gaston, you are frightening the child.” Celeste tucked the end of the bandage under the wrappings. “Have we any brandywine? He is near frozen.”

Pip, who didn’t understand a word of French, lay very still. His stark fear glittered from under his half-closed eyes.

“I canna pay,” he protested when Celeste offered him the wineskin.

“Drink,” she urged in English. She smiled, hoping to calm his anxiety. “Is good. You need not pay. Rest now,
oui?”
She brushed the shaggy red hair out of his eyes.

Pip glanced at the glowering old soldier beside her. He ran his tongue over his lips, but he made no move to take the bag.

“I think he is afraid of you, Gaston,” Celeste murmured to her sergeant.

“And well he should be!” Gaston grumbled in return. He pointed to the wineskin. “Drink!” he barked in English.

Pip’s eyes widened. He glanced from the woman to the men around the cart. Finally his gaze rested on Guy. The solemn monk pointed to the bag and nodded slowly. Then his face relaxed into a broad smile.

At the surprising sight, Celeste almost let the winesack slip from her fingers. She had not seen the full force of Guy’s beatific smile since that night at the Blue Boar. By now she had given up hope of ever seeing it again.
Ma foi!
An angel had come down from the overcast skies above, even if he did wear a ragged robe and ride a skinny donkey.

“Much thanks, my lady.” Pip grabbed the wineskin, and drank down a large gulp of the fiery liquid before Gaston could stop him. Immediately the lad coughed and tears ran down his cheeks. The men-at-arms laughed good-naturedly as Gaston thumped him on the back.

“Take leetle,” Gaston growled, retrieving the sack.

“Is better?” Celeste stroked Pip’s forehead.

The boy gulped, wiped his nose on his sleeve, then nodded. “’Tis a right fine drink,” he agreed. “There’s a fire a-running all through me.”

Guy’s smile widened, and Celeste thought for a brief moment that a laugh might escape his lips. Catching her gaze, Guy sobered again. He pulled out his slate from his pocket.

Ask Pip if we are near an inn,
he wrote.

“Show him your slate,” Celeste replied, shaking out a spare blanket and covering the boy with it.

Guy scribbled,
He can’t read.

“Pah!” Celeste tossed her head, then returned her attention to Pip, who had watched the proceeding with open interest.

“Did he get his tongue cut out?” he asked her, staring with awe at the tall man.

Celeste laughed. “
Non
, he does not talk to anyone except God. He is a ver-rey holy man.”

At that, Guy abruptly turned his back on them and remounted Daisy.

“He asked is there an inn soon?” Celeste continued. What was the matter with Brother Guy? One minute he was warm and friendly, the next cold and withdrawn.

Grinning, Pip pointed down the road ahead of them. “Yonder, lady. The Hawk and Hound. I am a stable boy there.”

“C’est bon!
Then we take you home, eh? You will be good with Pierre.” Celeste introduced the good-natured young driver. “Pierre is ver-rey clever with horses and little boys.”

Pip jutted out his chin. “I be nae so little, neither!”

Celeste bit her tongue to keep from laughing at his youthful pride. Pip reminded her of her brother, Philippe.
“Pardonnez-moi,
Master Peep. I am but French, and do not know too many English. I wonder, are you hungry, eh?”

Pip nodded. “Always, lady.”

Celeste tapped the side of her nose. “Ah! Just so!” She spoke to Pierre in French. “Give the boy some bread, and whatever else you have with you. But make sure he does not sample the brandywine again. I think he has had enough of that.”

“D’accord!”
Pierre agreed. He pulled a bag out from under the seat and passed to Pip a chunk of Mistress Kate’s finest white bread.

Pip’s eyes widened. “Oh, aye, lady! I ne’re tasted the like of this!” He fell upon it like a wolf cub. “My thanks,” he mumbled through a mouthful.

“If you are finished playing Lady Charity, let us begone,” Gaston rumbled in her ear. “The light is fading, and we’ll never make this inn if we stand here in the mud.”

Celeste allowed Gaston to help her back into her saddle. “You have a caring heart,” she teased him.

“I’ll have a pack of fleas by supper,” he growled as he returned to his patient horse.

Without looking behind him, Guy kicked Daisy into a protesting trot, and the party headed down the road to the Hawk and Hound.

The promised inn proved to be one of the fouler establishments they had encountered. If snow had not begun to fall just as they arrived at its sagging door, Guy would have urged the party onward. Unfortunately, he knew there was little chance of a better place between here and York. As they led their horses into the run-down stable, Guy plucked at Gaston’s sleeve.

Set a guard
, he wrote on his slate.

“Oui
, my friend.” Gaston’s brown eyes blazed in the semidarkness of the dank stable. “I smell danger, as well as a bad privy. Stay close to my lady.”

I would have her as close as my heart.

Pip stopped Celeste and Guy before they crossed the yard to the taproom. “My master is John Coldshanks, and he’s nae used to fine company. Take care, good lady. He cheats.”

Celeste placed her hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Thank you for your good advice, Master Peep.” She gave him a shilling, and before he could stammer his thanks, she kissed him on the cheek, which left him speechless.

Guy offered her his arm. Celeste held it tightly, clutching the saddlebag that held her precious dowry in the other. They picked their way across the dung-spattered yard to the taproom. Gaston, Émile and René followed close behind, leaving the others to stay with the horses and baggage.

The taproom stank of unwashed bodies, fried onions and a poorly drawn fire. The minute Celeste entered the room, all talking ceased. Bellowing in French when his English failed him, Gaston made short work of expressing their needs to the innkeeper, Coldshanks.

Without moving his head, Guy scanned the room with his eyes. A rough-and-tumble lot with light fingers, he judged, but none who looked to be an out-and-out cutthroat. For the first time since hanging up his sword and lance, the monk wished he had a weapon at his belt. He draped his arm protectively around Celeste’s shoulders as their skulking host conducted them to a room at the end of the upstairs hall. Celeste said nothing, but held her head high until after Guy closed the door.

“By the warts on the devil’s nose, what a way-stop to hell this is!” Gaston knelt by the cold fire grate and tossed a few rotted logs onto it. “It’s that knavish waterfly’s fault we are here, my lady. I’ve a good mind to thrash the boy soundly.” He struck a spark with his tinderbox, then tried to coax a reluctant blaze.

Celeste flung open the window and drew in a deep breath of the snow-filled air. “
Non
, Gaston. He meant only to help us, I am sure.”

“He’s a coney-catcher, and I intend to sleep with both eyes open this night.” A weak flame licked at the logs.

“I fear this was the only inn on the road. Is that not so, Brother Guy?”

Turning from the window, Celeste gazed up at him. Her midnight hair, released from her furred cap, blew about in the wind, framing her delicate features.

Guy nodded. How beautiful Celeste looked—and how tired! The day’s journey had been particularly difficult. Guy wished they could dispense with the deuced wagon altogether. He flashed her a brief smile of encouragement. She responded with a ripple of low, smoky laughter. Guy pretended to inspect the mattress and bed ropes. He must be careful not to encourage Celeste. Already they had become much too familiar for their own good. Nightly he wrestled with the demons of his desire for her. Daily they grew stronger.

Supper in here
, Guy wrote on his slate. The others in the room agreed. He rubbed out the first message, then scribbled,
Gaston take first watch, René in three hours, I the mid-three, Émile till morn.

Celeste put her hands on her hips. “
Et moi?
”

You sleep
, Guy printed in large letters, not daring to meet the fire in her eyes.

“
Sacrebleu!
I am as good a watchman as the rest of you.
Non
, I am better. I do not drink as much wine.”

If the situation were not so ominous, Guy would have been tempted to take up her challenge and give her the midnight shift. He gestured to Gaston to reason with her.

“When we left the priory, your good aunt made me swear to keep you safe. And you promised to follow my orders.”

“But...”

“But no.” Gaston folded his arms across his chest and glared down at her in the way he probably had been doing all her life. “You go to sleep directly after supper. We will leave this pesthole by first light.”

The old soldier and maid glowered at each other for a full minute. Guy wondered what Celeste had been like as a child. By the Book, she must have been a hellion in petticoats—she still was. Again he regretted not noticing her at the tournament eight years ago, when she had tried to give him her blue veil. Guy shook himself from the memory. It did not matter where she had been as a child, it was where she must go now that plagued Guy. Lissa would need every shred of her spirit to survive living with the Ormonds.

“Ha!” Celeste snapped her fingers under Gaston’s large nose. “I shall go to bed. But, I promise you, my dear Gaston, I shall not sleep a wink. I shall be kept awake all night by your loud snores. Fah! So you may as well give me something to do.”

“By the devil’s—” The old soldier checked his language in time. “Be mindful, my lady. You are not too old for a spanking, and I am still strong of arm.” Without giving her a chance to retort, he flung himself out the door, growling at the two smirking men-at-arms to follow.