Tori Phillips (11 page)

Bunching up the voluminous material of her gown and robe, Celeste pulled herself up between the two men. “Peace, I say! I am the one at fault. Oh, Gaston, are you sorely hurt?”

“Nothing’s broken, no thanks to that...Englishman!” Gaston spat out the word as he glared at Guy.

Celeste looked from one to the other. Guy’s hair stood out on all sides, like an angered lion’s. Gaston’s silvered strands bristled from the top of his head, as if they were the flames on a candlewick. Celeste put her hand over her mouth, but could not stop the flow of her giggles. The more she tried to control herself, the harder she laughed.

“Oh, la, la!” she gasped between bouts of mirth. “If you two could but see yourselves!” Another wave caught her. “In faith, two bantam cocks!
Oui!”
She nodded as both men glared at her.

“Lady Celeste!” Gaston threw his shoulders back with tattered dignity. “I’ve been charged upon my life to see you safely to your husband, and I’ll thank you not to make me into your jester for doing so!”

He looked so injured, Celeste immediately sobered. What on earth had gotten into her? In the meantime, Guy tossed another log on the fire. A shower of sparks flew up the chimney. The room grew brighter, illuminating the monk’s face. If Celeste had thought him stern before, now Guy looked exactly what she imagined an avenging angel would be on the final day of judgment, when he turned his eye upon the damned. Biting her lip, she looked down at her fingers which were clasped tightly together.

“Pardonnez-moi,
” she begged the two men in a soft, husky voice. “I have wronged you both.” She cast a sidelong glance at Gaston, who still glowered at Guy with a bloodthirsty look. “Pardon my laughter, good Gaston. I am deeply indebted for your swift protection of my life and honor.”

She tried to avoid looking at his bare legs, which were exposed from the thigh down. How very hairy they were, and how comical! She bit the inside of her cheek before continuing. She couldn’t laugh again, not at this precise moment, anyway.

“And, good Brother Guy...”

His face flushed, from either the heat of the fire or his anger. The ruddy color heightened his wrathful expression. She swallowed. “Forgive me for disturbing your rest. I only meant to make you more comfortable.”

Gaston exploded. “What?”

Celeste gasped as she realized the implication of her words. “
Non
, Gaston, it is not what you think. Brother Guy was asleep on the floor without covering, and the night is cold. I was only trying to...” She left off her explanation before she said anything that would further anger the sergeant.

“I suppose my folly requires another penance, Brother Guy?” She didn’t dare look directly at him.

Through her lashes, she saw him slowly nod.

“Do you not think my lady has done enough penance?” Reining his horse beside Guy, who was again mounted on Daisy, Gaston looked back over his shoulder at his silent mistress.
“Pauvre petite!
Never have I known her to be so silent.”

Guy swallowed. Perhaps he had been a trifle harsh last night, when he inflicted his punishment on Celeste. After all, she had no idea what she had done to him in those few moments when her hands so gently stroked his hair.

His instincts had awakened him the minute Celeste crawled out of her bed. Years of combat in the service of Henry VIII had honed Guy’s reflexes to a razor edge. As he lay on the uneven bricks of the hearth, enduring his self-imposed retribution for his tempting secular thoughts, he had been aware of her every movement. The nearer she crept to him, the louder his heart had pounded. Surely she must have heard it. He had known, without turning, when she stopped and he swore he could feel the heat of her gaze as it traveled over him. It had taken every ounce of his self-control to feign sleep, when in fact his treacherous body ached for her.

Guy had not needed the blankets she so gently placed around him. He had grown hotter with each passing moment. He had almost leapt into the fireplace when Celeste first touched his hair. He recalled the cold droplets of sweat that had beaded his brow as she threaded her slim fingers through his hated curls. Delicious chills, which he had not experienced in a long time, had coursed down his back. His own fingers had tingled to take her into his arms and return the sweet torture she inflicted upon him.

When Celeste finally stood, he had thought himself saved, until he realized that she was leaning over him. In a heartbeat, she had fallen into his arms — just as he had fantasized. Her startled expression and sleep-tousled hair had enchanted him. He had wanted to clasp her to his chest and murmur sweet nonsense in her ear. Thank heavens Gaston had interceded when he did! Guy did not want to contemplate what might have happened if he had not been there.

I would have made love wath her there and then, and let the devil take the hindmost. Sweet merciful Lord, help me!

“Have you taken a vow of deafness, as well as silence, monk?” Gaston prodded him with the handle of his riding crop. “Lady Celeste has held her silence all morning. I have never known her to keep so still for so long, and I have known her all her life.”

Guy stared straight ahead at the rutted road. He tried to tell himself that Celeste’s enforced silence was to teach her a much-needed lesson, but his conscience knew otherwise. The very sound of her smoky voice, her bell-like laughter and, most of all, her sweet singing made his blood race through him with unholy desire. Her punishment was not for her, but for him.

“Fah! You are a man of stone, I see,” Gaston snorted. “Much like my lady’s father.”

At this, Guy finally turned toward Gaston. He raised one brow in a silent query.

“
Oui
, my master, the old chevalier. He is a man like any other. He wanted a son. What does the good Lord give him? Four daughters! Lovely creatures, like so many roses in a garden. Then Lady Eugénie is pregnant again. An old soothsayer predicts a boy—‘one who will o’ertop the rest,’ were her exact words. The chevalier became transported with joy. Gave the old witch much gold, and the bag departed, never to be seen again. It was a good thing that she did so, for when Lady Celeste was born...” Gaston shook his head at the remembrance.

Guy snapped his fingers, encouraging the old soldier to continue.

“The walls of L’Étoile shook with my lord’s anger and disappointment. Wouldn’t even look at the babe, nor give her his blessing. And such a sweet thing she was! In my humble opinion, the prettiest of the lot. And such a cunning little mind, that one!”

Glancing over his shoulder, Gaston grinned at the subject of his story. “All sunshine and quicksilver. The other girls? Beautiful, like their mama, but I tell you true, good Brother, there is not a thimble full of good sense among the lot of them. Not so with my little lady.” He chuckled with affection.

“She made her father notice her,
oui!
We all noticed her clever jests, her merry spirits, and her many little pranks, for which she was often switched.”

Guy’s eyes widened. Lissa beaten? He would have flayed alive anyone who marked such a delicate skin.

“She did not seem to mind, and went on her merry way as before. But her singing voice!” Gaston sighed with rapture. “You have never heard her truly sing, Brother Guy. She shames the larks in the meadow — yes, even the angels in heaven.” The old soldier leaned over in his saddle and spoke in a lower tone. “My men miss the sound of her singing, good Brother. Especially Pierre.” He nodded toward the young wagon driver, who lazily waved the whip over his two charges, warding off invisible flies.

Like a spun-sugar castle crumbling at the end of a feast held in an overheated room, Guy’s resolve disintegrated. He was nothing like Lissa’s cold father. He had no wish to snuff out her lively spirits. That would happen soon enough at Snape Castle. Guy gritted his teeth at the thought of the forbidding Ormond stronghold.

He nodded to Gaston, then took out his slate and scribbled a few words on it. Halting Daisy’s bone-jolting stride, Guy waited for Celeste.

Celeste’s lips twitched in a tentative smile as she drew abreast of Guy. Maintaining his stern composure, he thrust the slate at her.

You may sing
, she read. A brilliant smile wreathed her face, and she clapped her hands. “
Merci,
Bro
ther
Guy! I am now forgiven, yes?” Joy-filled laughter rippled from her.

Each delightful sound struck Guy like a stinging dart, assailing his senses, opening the floodgates he had dammed up so long ago. Gripping the slate until its sharp corner bit into the soft part of his palm, he shook his head and pointed to the word
sing.

Celeste cocked her head, allowing the yellow feather in her bonnet to sweep against her shoulder. “Only sing, good Brother?”

Guy nodded sternly.

“And no talking?”

He nodded again.

“Not even one or two words of pleasant conversation, such as one would while away the hour—?” The fierce knotting of his brows cut off her further remarks.

She looked up at the sky for a moment, wrinkled her nose, then proceeded with the first verse of a slightly bawdy tavern song about a maid and a hunter. Guy opened his mouth to object, remembered his vow and gritted his teeth. Celeste continued into the chorus, with a gleam of pure deviltry in her dark eyes. Kneeing her horse, she trotted past him, singing her very heart out.

“My good thanks to you, Brother Guy.” Gaston gave him a friendly whack between the shoulder blades. The sergeant might be a little long in the tooth, but he still had a strong right arm, Guy thought, arching his back.

“I agree that my lady’s choice of ballads may not be proper for a young girl to sing,” Gaston continued, his warm brown eyes shining with pleasure, “but she sings it well,
non?”

Guy gave him a weak smile in agreement. Then his eyes narrowed as he regarded Celeste’s slim body, swaying slightly with her music.

You little minx! You know exactly what you are doing, don’t you? Well, Lady Lissa, there’s two who can play that game, and you’ve just met your match!

Chapter Nine

B
y unspoken, even unacknowledged mutual consent, Celeste and Guy maintained a polite distance over the next few days. For his part, Guy found this stalemate oddly annoying. Of course, he should have been relieved that Celeste didn’t fall into his arms again, or even brush against him in passing up the stairwells of the various country inns where the party lodged at night.

Yet, wrapped in the cloak of midnight, Guy found himself lying awake. He remembered her silken hair, the slimness of her waist in his hand, and the moment when her firm little backside had nestled in his lap before he thrust her away. Neither prayers, nor fasting, nor cold dousing under a pump at dawn, could erase the hot ache of desire that had taken up a permanent abode within him.

Not that Lissa completely ignored him. If she had, it would have eased Guy’s torment. Daily she bubbled with a never-ending stream of witty observations of the countryside, snatches of poetry — mostly from the romantic tales of chivalry — bright, one-sided conversation and glorious singing. Gaston was right. The lass did possess the voice of an angel. Even so, Guy’s defenses could have withstood all of this. It was her attempts at speaking English, coupled with her ceaseless campaign to make him smile, that threatened to beat down the protective bulwark with which Guy had enclosed his heart.

“Hey-ho, Brother Guy!” she chirruped behind him as the party rode out of the village of Leebottwood two days later. “The landlord of that house is a knavish raw-beet sucker,
non?”

The surprise of Celeste’s pronunciation, and her new vocabulary, nearly caused Guy to fall off Daisy’s increasingly uncomfortable back. Rabbit sucker! Where in the devil’s name had Lissa picked up that phrase? Suppressing his initial urge to grin, he glowered at her over his shoulder. The little witch dimpled prettily in return.

“Do not frown at me that way. I am merely trying to speak peench-’potted English. And that man — he asked too much money. ’E is what I say ’e is.” She grinned mischievously. “A peench-’potted raw-beet sucker!” She rolled the words around her mouth with the relish of a matron eating a dish of sweetmeats.

Guy bit down on his tongue so hard the pain watered his eyes. He would not laugh, or even permit the merest flicker of a smile past his lips. He would not give her that power over him. For the precarious sake of his tortured soul, he must maintain his facade of aloofness and disapproval. On the other hand, he wholeheartedly agreed with her opinion. Their innkeeper of the night before had cheated them shamefully. Had he been allowed to speak, Guy would have blistered the ears of that grasping scullion with a fine display of noble temper. That was the only thing most of these common folk understood — brute strength and bellowing. Lissa was right: the Churl was indeed a pinch-spotted rabbit sucker.

Still, Guy couldn’t let her think these words were appropriate for a young lady. What if she blurted them out in good company? Jesu! What if she said them to her husband? The mere thought of that weasely Walter Ormond putting his hands on Lissa was enough to deepen Guy’s frown.

“
Ma foi!
” Celeste had lapsed back into French. “And what have I done now to displease you, Brother Grumpy? Bah! I must learn this horrible language, since I am to be an English lady, and you are the only one who can help me.” She rolled her violet eyes to the cloud-laden skies. “And what help is that? Nothing but frowns and sour looks. Upon my soul, Brother Guy, I think I would rather converse with your donkey!”

Guy wrote on his slate, then held it out to her. She leaned over in her saddle and read his latest dictum.

“Where did I learn those words?” Her eyes widened with amethyst innocence. “At supper last night. I overheard two men talking, and they said those words over and over. I think they sounded very fine. Raw-beet...”

Guy shook his head so vehemently the wreath of his blond curls lashed his face. If she said that one more time, he didn’t think he could restrain himself — from either bursting out into laughter or dragging her off her horse and stopping her mouth with a kiss. God’s teeth! Where had that wanton idea come from?