Tori Phillips (29 page)

“’Tis a tempting thought, my lady, and one that I had not considered.”

Emboldened by her first success, Celeste pressed on. “Also, my lord, my goodly Brother Guy reminds me that Advent comes apace. The time between now and Christmas would allow a message to be sent to L’Étoile. In the meantime, I could begin to learn my new duties as mistress of this house....” She cast a swift glance at the shocking disrepair of the great hall. It would take a decade to clean up the filth. “And I could practice my English, so that I would be more pleasing to my husband.” She ended by fluttering her long lashes.

“Advent,” Ormond rumbled under his breath. “Bestrew me! Another time of fasting and alms-giving. Fire and brimstone, mistress mine! So be it! Tonight we shall make merry over this new betrothal, and feast until bursting—enough to last us four weeks of wilted greens, brown bread and water.”

Celeste turned her smile of triumph into one of pleasant acquiescence. “And come Christmastide, Sir Roger, we shall have a wedding feast and a tournament to celebrate our marriage!”

“Tournament?” Ormond bristled his shaggy brows. “Expensive.”

“
Oui!
” Celeste agreed. If Brother Guy’s miracle did not happen, at least she would have the excitement of a tournament. For one day, she would realize her dream of being the Queen of Truth and Beauty. After that, she could bear the weight of being Sir Roger’s wife—and by the size of him, that weight would be heavy indeed.

“I would so love to see you joust in my honor, my lord.” Cocking her head, Celeste laughed lightly. “Oh, la, la, I think you make a very handsome knight,” she purred, again fluttering her lashes.

To her surprise, Sir Roger flushed red, like a schoolboy caught in his first kiss. “Aye, I have broken my share of lances in the past. Well, my lady, if your heart’s desire is a tournament to celebrate our nuptials, then you shall have one—a small one, mind you.”

Celeste clapped her hands with glee. Arranging and practicing for a tournament would keep Sir Roger occupied for the weeks to come, and leave her free to clean up his house in peace. “
Merci beaucoup
, my lord. I shall be so proud of you!”

“Cease your tongue-wagging, mistress mine,” he growled, though he smiled as he spoke. “So we have an agreement, eh? On the day after Christmas, Saint Stephen’s Day, we will be wed and you shall have your tournament, I vow. Come now... Celeste, let us seal this bargain between us with a sweet betrothal kiss.” He stood and held out his arms to her. “And you, monk, will be witness to the plighting of our troth.”

Celeste fixed a smile firmly on her face, though inwardly she quailed. The only men she had ever kissed before were her father and brother. From observing her parents, she knew that a kiss was part of marriage, but until this moment she had not realistically considered who would be her partner in this new experience. Sir Roger’s face, even softened as it was now, bore the fearful marks of several battles and a hard, angry life. She rose from her chair and advanced toward him, reminding herself that kissing the father was infinitely preferable to placing her lips against the thin, rotting ones of his son.

Sir Roger enfolded her in a crushing embrace and bent her backward over his arm, so that her slippers barely brushed the floor. Suppressing her initial instinct to struggle against him, Celeste tried to relax in his arms, though she felt she would crash to the flagstones at any moment. Before she could compose herself, he attacked her mouth, planting his thick lips around hers. His whisker bristle scraped against her chin and under her nose as he pressed himself hard against her. She couldn’t breathe. When she opened her mouth in panic, Ormond’s thick wet tongue pushed itself inside, and began sucking on hers. Celeste almost gagged. Tears pricked behind her eyelids. At long last, Sir Roger withdrew from her lips, though he still gripped her in his hands.

“Cupid have mercy, wench! You taste as sweet as a honeycomb,” he rumbled. “’Twill be a penance indeed to wait four weeks afore I can dip into your honey pot. Once more, say I!” He swooped down on her bruised mouth again.

Celeste closed her eyes this time, held her breath and endured his shameful thrusts between her lips. This treatment must be part of what Aunt Marguerite had hinted at in such dire tones on their last evening together, in the priory.
Mon Dieu, good Aunt! I wish you were here with me now!

Guy rattled the chair behind them. The grating sound broke through Sir Roger’s eager occupation, and slowly he released Celeste, nipping at her lower lip as he did so. Celeste’s head spun and she felt the first inkling of another headache announce itself.
Oui,
she would spend the rest of the morning locked in her room with a cold compress. The prospect sounded delightful.

“Your confessor has reminded me in time, my sweet ducky, or else I might not have waited for the holy words to make you mine in truth.” Sir Roger’s boisterous laughter rocked Celeste’s fragile sense of balance, and woke the huge hound at her feet. “I bid you adieu, until we meet at dinner. Aye, and I’ll want another one of those kisses for my sweet course!”

Snapping his fingers at the dog, Ormond turned on his heel and lumbered across the hall. He disappeared down the stairs to the courtyard, whistling out of tune. Celeste collapsed in his chair and massaged her temples. The headache rose up in full force behind her eyeballs.

“
Zut alors
, Brother Guy! I fear Christmastide will come too soon. If I must endure attentions like that, I doubt I shall last until Twelfth Night. By my heel, that man killed his other two wives with his...kissing!” She wiped her lips with her handkerchief.

When Sir Roger clasped the lady to his barrel chest, Guy had gripped the carved knob on the back of Celeste’s chair to keep himself from snatching her out of Ormond’s lascivious clutches.

His conscience had fired a warning bolt.
She is not yours. She belongs to Sir Roger.

Nevertheless, the sight of her frightened expression as Ormond plundered his prize had almost torn Guy’s voice out of his vow. By her quick wits and his advice, Celeste had bought herself four weeks of grace, but what then?

After Ormond left the hall, Guy knelt before his shaken lady. He dropped his hood back so that he could see her better. He wondered how long it would be before Sir Roger or the villainous Walter discovered the identity of Celeste’s silent “confessor.” No doubt they would evict him with unholy oaths in his ear, despite the fact that Guy’s father was their overlord. For a generation, hot words, bitter accusations and occasional bloodshed had flowed between the greedy, grasping Ormonds and their liege lords, the Cavendish family. Guy longed to snatch up this poor, shaken flower and ride with her to the safety of his father’s house. Only his honor, now fraying around the edges, kept him from doing it.

Celeste blew her nose into the handkerchief. Her lips quivered a smile at Guy, though her beautiful violet eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “Thank you for being here, good Brother,” she whispered. “I do not think I could have persuaded him to wait, had you not come.”

Guy bowed his head. She was probably right. Had Ormond not been bedazzled by the gleaming thought of more dowry, he would have realized he could marry Celeste tonight, before Advent began. Guy took her hands in his. They were hot and damp with her fear.

“And so,
mon ami,
I have four weeks to clean up this pigsty of a castle and to make a gown to be married in, since I lost my first one in the river two months ago. And yes, Brother Guy, I will pray, as you suggested. I will pray so much you will be astounded.”

Guy took out his slate.
Why a tournament?
he wrote.

Celeste lifted her shoulders in her delightful little shrug, which he had come to love. “Why not? That is my wedding present, for I think after that, there will be no more merriment for a long time to come.” She drew her wing-swept brows together. “There are times, Brother Guy, when I think I would like to be a man. This is one of them.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Guy grinned. Personally, he was glad she was so utterly feminine. Then he chided himself. He must not regard Celeste as a seductive, beautiful, desirable, spirited woman, but only as a poor soul to save.
What a barrow of rubbish!
his conscience sneered.

Celeste placed her hand over his. “Brother Guy, I must make a confession to you.”

Guy’s stomach clenched with a sudden spasm of fear and guilt. For two months, he had hoped to avoid this predicament. Now he must tell her that he did not have the authority to forgive her sins—whatever they could possibly be. He started to fumble for his slate and chalk, but her hands stayed him.

“Fret not, good Brother. Do you think I could tell to you all my evil deeds? Oh, la, la! I should be a month of Sundays at it, and much ashamed to boot. Non, my sins I will confess to someone who knows me not. But to you, I must tell a secret of my heart.”

She leaned closer to him. He closed his eyes and reveled in her sweet scent of musk roses. “I tell you true, for I know you cannot betray me, or scold me. I do not want to marry either Sir Roger or his son.”

Guy opened his eyes and looked upon her with a mixture of relief and gladness in his heart. It cheered him to hear it, yet her revelation left a bitter aftertaste.

“Oui,
I knew you would be shocked. Furthermore, I tell you, if a mysterious knight should ride into the lists on my wedding day and challenge for my hand in marriage, I swear I would jump on his horse’s back and ride away with him. Such a man could not be any worse than the pickle barrel I am in now.” She stared into the space over Guy’s head, with a dreamy look on her face. “Perhaps that is the real reason I wish for a tournament. I wish for a handsome knight to save me.”

She pondered the idea for a moment, then gave herself a little shake.
“Ma foi!
What am I saying? I am no longer a silly child who believes in magic wishes. Do not think me evil, Brother Guy. These are only my dreams of fancy, mere toys of the mind.” She rubbed her temple again. “Pray, excuse me, good Brother. I have a headache and must rest before dinner.”

Celeste stood and shook out her skirts. Guy couldn’t help but admire the way her yellow satin gown displayed her tiny waist to such an advantage. ’Sdeath! His handspan would more than encompass her. Guy’s palms itched to hold her. Instead, he stood aside to let her pass. As she did so, she spoke to him over her shoulder.

“Do you think Sir Roger will want to kiss me at
every
meal?”

I would do so, my heart.

Without expecting any reaction from him, she continued. “If that becomes his habit, I need to get more herbs for headaches. Adieu, Brother.” She slowly climbed the steps to the upper gallery.

Guy watched her departure until the last wisp of her golden buttercup train disappeared around the bend of the stairs. With the firm intention of spending the rest of the day prostrate on the chapel’s icy floor, he spun around and raced down the courtyard staircase. Surely God, in his divine wisdom and justice, would not let this ill-conceived marriage take place. If Guy prayed hard enough, fasted enough, subjected himself to enough physical torment, perhaps his prayers for Celeste’s deliverance might be answered. Didn’t Father Jocelyn say, time and again, that the good Lord hears all petitions? Hears, yes, but answers — ?

In the center of the courtyard, Gaston was instructing Pierre and Émile in a bit of swordplay. Pip sat nearby on an upright keg and watched the lesson with open admiration.

“Zounds! Go creep back into the pond, you turtle!” Gaston railed at the perspiring Pierre, who was obviously getting the worst part of the exercise. “Your skill is as thick as dried Dijon mustard! Parry, parry, lackwit!”

Pulling his hood lower, Guy hid his grin. Gaston sounded much like his own master-of-arms in days gone by.

Gaston grabbed the sword out of Pierre’s hand, then turned to face Emile. “Observe, mule-head!” Gaston moved with a speed that belied both his years and the girth of his waist. “Parry left, parry right, then attack, attack, attack, lunge, like so! Pah! You will never graduate from the stable loft!” Spying the monk, Gaston berated his winded wagoneer even louder.

“Mark you, Pierre! Even the good priest laughs at you. I think, perhaps, even you can best our Pierre with a sword, eh, Brother Guy?”

Without further preamble, Gaston lofted the naked blade into the air toward the monk. Acting on pure instinct, Guy extended his right hand and closed his fingers around the haft. The weight of the weapon felt at home in his grip.

Gaston chuckled. “Think you can pull your wool robe over my eyes, dissembling monk? Ha! I knew I spied a sword arm ’neath your sleeve. Come, go a round with Émile.”

Reminding himself that he had sworn off his former warlike pastimes, Guy pushed the temptation aside. Peace must rule his life now. He held the sword out to Gaston, hilt first. Gaston stuck out his lower lip and glowered at Guy.

“You white-livered worm! Your reluctance does not sit well in my weak stomach, and therefore I must cast it up!” Gaston snatched Émile’s blade from his hand, then waggled it at Guy. “I think you a coward, and by this hand will I verify it.”

Guy tightened his grip around the sword. How dare this garlic-mouthed, snail-munching Frenchman call him a coward! Guy knew he could make mincemeat of the old soldier in three strokes. A hot, angry flush spread over his face.

Gaston danced lightly on the balls of his feet. “What say you, toad? Craven jackdaw? Think you so little of your honor? Perhaps you should retire to a nunnery! What say you, cowl-covered knave?”

Guy expelled short, angry bursts of air from his lungs as he listened to Gaston’s taunts. Émile, Pip and Pierre gawked with amazement as Gaston launched into yet more invective. What had gotten into the old goat? Guy always considered Gaston the most sensible of Celeste’s men. In his headstrong youth, Guy would have answered such rude comments with his blade. Even now, red spots whirled before his eyes as Gaston continued to describe Guy’s courage, honor and manly parts in the lowest possible terms. The sword shook in Guy’s grip.