Tori Phillips (16 page)

She tapped her foot lightly on the scarred floor. “I am waiting for your promise, Brother Guy. I think the time has come for the reckoning due me.”

What was Lissa talking about? What did he owe her but his sworn duty to deliver her into the hands of a fiend? That day of reckoning would come soon enough.

“Your promise to meet me in the great room after supper, my lord monk, or you will have to push me down the stairs.”

Don’t tempt me, fair Lissa.

“Ma foi!
You would think I have asked you to strip off your robe and dance naked under the moon!” Her eyes glowed.

Haven’t you, sweet temptress?

“Well, Brother Guy?”

Clenching his teeth, Guy nodded his assent.

“Très bien!
I shall expect you then.” She stepped aside.

As Guy brushed past her, she grabbed hold of his sleeve. “And do not think you can hide in the jakes all night. I have no shame, and that is the very first place I shall look for you.” She released his sleeve. “Best be warned, Sir Monk. I always get what I go after.”

Guy took the rest of the stairs three at a time. Her smoky laughter followed after him.

Chapter Thirteen

T
rue to his unspoken word, Guy appeared at the doorway of the common room shortly after the delicious supper promised and provided by the cheerful little host of the Blue Boar. Guy looked like a forbidding wraith, except for that bright golden halo of curls about his head. Pretending she hadn’t noticed him, Celeste fiddled with the skirts of her crimson velvet gown, its furred hem falling warmly over her thin house slippers. Crimson was her favorite color, and Celeste hoped her choice of gown would put Guy into an amenable frame of mind.

Though Celeste tried to convince herself that she was doing the right thing, her fingers trembled a little as she pulled the small table closer to her and rearranged the items upon it—a candlestick with a new taper, a small jug of the landlord’s best wine, two cups and a fresh deck of cards. Celeste picked up the cards and began to shuffle them. The familiar feel of the smooth pasteboard sliding through her fingers put her a little more at ease. She loved card games. At home in L’Étoile, she was considered the family champion. Now she would see if she could use her skill to relax her glowering—and challenging—escort.

It is only an innocent game or two of cards, not an assignation, she reasoned with herself. Then why was her heart skipping so erratically, and why had her breathing become more difficult the minute he stood at the door? It
must be the stays of my bodice. I pulled them too tight when I dressed.

Celeste smiled up at him with all the charm she could muster, despite the flock of butterflies fluttering in the pit of her stomach. “Good evening, Brother Guy. Please come in and sit down.” She indicated the stool opposite her. “Oh, la, la!” she continued lightly when she saw him hesitate. “Do you think I have asked you to hear my confession?”

An expression of pure horror etched Guy’s face. Celeste suppressed her inclination to giggle. Instantly she decided that Brother Guy was not the one to hear her whispered transgressions.

“But no, good monk. I have no great sin to confess—at least, not yet,” she couldn’t help but add with a mischievous tilt of her head. Poor Brother Guy was really such fun to tease. She reminded herself to be careful not to wound his vanity again, the way she had done when Guy took that unfortunate spill off Daisy’s back. She suspected that under his shapeless robe there beat the heart of a very proud man.

“Please sit down. I promise not to bite.” She ruffled the cards again. Through her lowered lashes she watched him silently pad across the floor between them, like a wary kit fox who must be coaxed from its den with patience and food. Guy lowered his large frame onto the stool and eyed Celeste intently.

Good. We have crossed the first bridge, she thought.

Celeste continued to shuffle the deck. “I thought we might pass a pleasant evening together playing cards. I think you pray too much. The good Lord made us to play, as well as to pray,
non?”

Guy eyed the cards in her hand, and his frown deepened.

“Ma foi!
Such a face! Come now, Brother Guy, surely there is no harm in a game of cards? I know you have no money, so we will not gamble.”

Guy’s eyes narrowed to icy slits as he looked from the cards to the wine. He made a move as if to rise.

Celeste quickly placed her hand over his. The touch of his warm skin under her fingers sent her butterflies into full flight, knocking against the sides of her breast. When he turned his startled eyes upon her, she snatched back her hand as if it had been burned.

“Please!” she murmured. “Stay with me a little while.”

Celeste swallowed, trying to regain her composure and to erase the raw loneliness in her voice. She couldn’t let him know how much she craved company—his company—or he’d bolt like a hare and never come near her again.

Guy wavered; his eyes, like a blue sky full of shifting clouds, mirrored a quick succession of emotions she couldn’t read.

Celeste sat back, squared her shoulders and flashed him a winning smile—at least, she hoped he’d find it winning. It always worked on her mother. “What is a game of cards? Pah! Nothing but a chance to while away the tedious hours between supper and sleep. What am I to do? The light is too poor for reading or sewing.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “And to tell the truth—and as you are a man of God, I must tell you the truth—I sew very badly. I hope my new husband will not mind.”

Guy looked away from her. Celeste had the feeling she was losing ground. “I cannot go to the taproom and sing songs and make jests, as Gaston and my men do. That would be unseemly for a lady. So, good Brother Guy, tell me. What am I to do?”

Having fired her last arrow, Celeste held her breath. Very slowly, Guy turned his beautiful face toward her again. The ice in his eyes had melted, and they gazed at her with the color of a new-washed May morning. He pointed to the cards and nodded.

Relief flooded Celeste. She had no idea how important this little game of cards had become until this moment.
“Merci,
Brother Guy. Consider this an act of sweet charity on your part. Besides, I do not recall that you took a vow not to play cards. Wine? The landlord has assured me it is a French vintage—but I think he would tell me anything I wanted to hear.”

Guy’s lips twitched. Grasping the jug, he poured the ruby liquid into the cups.

Celeste shuffled the deck again, though she knew it needed no further mixing. “Do you know the game of piquet? I believe the English call it cent, though
why
they call it that I do not know. I find that the English take great pleasure in turning our beautiful French language into something horrible and not French at all. Have you ever heard how they pronounce the fine name of Beauchamps?” She made a wry face. “Beech-hem!
Sacre!
It is enough to make the stones weep—good
French
stones, that is!”

Guy’s lips twitched again. He drank some of the wine.

“So we play cent,
oui?”

Guy nodded. His eyes seem to blaze blue sparks in the candlelight. Celeste wondered if her imaginary butterflies would suddenly fly out of her mouth.

She took a tentative sip of her wine and was pleasantly surprised to find it good. “Since you cannot speak out your points, let us keep score on your slate,
oui?”

In answer, Guy set his slate and a bit of chalk on the table.

Celeste leaned across to him. “Now, good Brother, what shall we wager?”

Guy frowned. Celeste quickly hurried on. Here was the nut and core of her plan—the main reason for the card game in the first place.

“I speak of simple things, not money. For instance, if you win, what shall I have to do? Sing a song? Tell a story?”

Guy shook his head. He folded his hands together, palm to palm.

“Pray?” Celeste sighed. Of course he’d think of that! Wasn’t prayer his favorite occupation?

The corner of Guy’s mouth wiggled. He shook his head. Holding out his folded hands, he slowly opened them, then pretended to read what was written on his palms.

“Ah! I am to read you a story!
Ma foi!
I do not think my book of love is to your taste, Brother Guy.”

He shook his head again. Then he continued to pantomime reading, even wetting his finger and turning an invisible page. At the end, he blessed himself.

Celeste should have guessed his wager from the first. “You wish me to read from my book of hours?”

Guy nodded, his face a mask.

Celeste blew through her nose. She knew every prayer by heart in her book of devotions, and their routine repetition tended to lull her to sleep. She wondered if the good Lord got very tired of hearing everybody saying the same words to him over and over again. When she prayed, Celeste much preferred an informal chat with the Almighty.

“I agree, you crafty man. In the unlikely event that I lose, I promise to read my book of hours—for one full day.”

Guy’s brows rose inquiringly.

Celeste smiled. “In all honesty, good Brother, I cannot promise more. One day for me is like a month for everyone else. Do you accept this forfeit?”

Guy nodded, then took another drink. Celeste was pleased to see him enjoying her wine. She wasn’t sure if he had sworn off food and drink except for his customary bread and water, but a little wine strengthened the blood. Everyone knew that—except the English, who insisted that their ale was a healthy drink. Fah! Disgusting!

“And if I should win this game, Brother Guy, you will have to pay the forfeit of ...” She cocked her head and enjoyed his shifting discomfort. Did he think she would demand the usual kiss? What a tempting thought! But, no, Celeste must always remember that the archangel seated across from her was first and foremost a man of the church. “A smile, Brother Guy. I wager you for a smile.”

He nodded his agreement.

“Très bien,
and so we begin our game.” With that, Celeste dealt out the cards, twelve each.

She quickly discovered that she had underestimated Guy’s skill. By the tenth trick of the first game, she began to fear that not only would she be nosedown in her book of hours all day tomorrow, but worse, she would never see him smile. She glanced at him over the top of the few remaining cards in her hand. Guy’s face could have been carved in stone—beautiful, expressionless and cold. The only alive thing about him was his eyes, which occasionally seemed to twinkle at her, though she discounted that as a trick of the flickering candlelight.

After miserably losing the first game, Celeste concentrated harder on the second. Though she did not lose as many tricks this time, her score was still very low. The image of that wretched book full of saints and angels floated in her imagination. She must win that smile! She knew that once he smiled for her, the ice would be broken and he would act much more friendly toward her in the future.

By the fourth game, Celeste had managed to narrow the gap in the score. Though Guy’s expression remained impassive, little indications, such as the way he slapped his cards on the table, told her that he was not happy with his losses.
Bon!
It was high time this glowering giant learned a lesson or two in humility. Good for his soul, Celeste told herself.

At the end of the sixth game, Guy tallied the marks. He stared at the slate for a moment, then poured out the last of the wine for himself and tossed it back in a single gulp.

Celeste bit back a smile. “May I see the score,
s’il vous plaît?”

Not looking at her, Guy pushed the slate across the tabletop. Its passage made a grating sound. Celeste saw at a glance that she had won by a mere six points, but she pretended to linger over the marks as if she could not add them up. She waited to see if he would confess his defeat.

After a minute or two, he suddenly reached out and snatched back the slate. He rubbed out the marks, then scribbled something across its cleaned surface.
You won
.

“Ah, Bro
ther
Guy, I thank you for your honesty. And now, my forfeit, if you please?”

Folding her hands on the table, Celeste waited. Guy lifted his eyes to meet hers. For a long, heart-stopping moment, they stared at each other across the narrow width of the table. His ice-blue eyes changed to an indigo. Celeste felt herself drowning in their depths, and she prayed that he could not read the most unmaidenly thoughts that tumbled about in her mind like whirligigs in a high wind.

His lips twitched, then slowly pulled back into a grimace that showed a great deal of teeth and nothing else.

Celeste shook her head.
“Non
, Bro
ther
Guy. That is not a smile. That is a look of a horse who does not like the taste of the bit in his mouth. My wager was a smile—a real smile. Not with your teeth, but with your eyes, as well. Not with your lips, but with your heart.”

She held her breath. Would he do it? Guy blinked once, and then his lips twitched in that now-familiar way. The corners of his mouth began to curl upward. As his smile deepened, his eyes took on a softer hue—an azure lake on a misty day. Celeste trembled as she watched an amazing change sweep over him. Gone was the stern, unapproachable statue of an angel. Now, before her, appeared Saint Gabriel in the flesh. She could almost imagine blinding rays of light emanating from his halo of curls. Had she thought Guy handsome before? That had been nothing but a murky shadow of the true man. His sheer beauty transfixed her. If she never saw another smile from him, Celeste knew, she would never forget this spectacular one. Its warmth seared through every fiber of her being; its fire left an indelible imprint on her heart.

“Magnifique!”
she breathed.

The sound of her voice extinguished the blaze in his eyes. As a candle snuffed out his smile disappeared, leaving only Guy’s customary chiseled expression. Abruptly he stood. Turning on his heel, he strode out of the room. Several of the cards fluttered in his wake, landing in a dejected heap on the floor. His swiftly retreating footsteps thundered down the stairs.