Tori Phillips (7 page)

God forgive him! What was he doing meditating on the eyes of a little black-haired temptress? No doubt his thoughts wandered because he had not been near a woman for over six months. In truth, women bored him, didn’t they? What was more, not one of his former dalliances possessed an ounce of virtue or honor. Nor did this lady, who was not only female—but French! Guy kicked Daisy in the flanks, much harder than he intended.

The donkey snorted at the sudden command for more speed. Uttering an offensive sound not fit for polite company, Daisy lowered her head and dug her hooves into the dirt of the road. Before Guy realized her intent, she kicked out with her back legs, tossing her rider over her ears. Guy landed headfirst in a ditch. For almost a full minute, his ears rang with the chiming of a hundred cathedral bells and he saw swirling stars instead of the blue sky.

As the clanging subsided and the heavens regained their correct color, Guy realized that his loose gown had fallen around his ears. The cold air blowing across his bare backside told him that a very private part of his anatomy had made an unexpected appearance. A rich peal of feminine laughter confirmed his worst suspicions.

Rolling over, he struggled to sit up, despite the fact that the landscape tended to tilt sideways.

“Magnifique!”
Celeste laughed with unabashed humor. Gaston and the men-at-arms joined her. “Forsooth, Brother Guy, I have never seen such... such... ” Another fit of merriment overcame her.

A string of dormant oaths crowded behind Guy’s lips as he pulled himself into a standing position. He clamped his teeth tightly together to keep back the tide of his righteous anger.

“Such a beautiful moon in the middle of the day!” The chit managed to complete her sentence before erupting into another gale of laughter.

The tips of Guy’s ears burned as a hot flush spread itself up from his neck. Perdition take the girl! For a farthing, he would haul the little vixen off her horse, turn her over his knee and soundly administer a well-deserved chastisement to her backside. How dare she laugh at him!

Guy clambered out of the ditch. His fingers shook with suppressed rage as he snatched up the reins of the innocent-looking donkey. Turning his back to her, he slowly remounted the creature. Surely Father Jocelyn could not have foreseen this situation when he placed the novice under his vow of silence. Guy itched to let loose a torrent of words that would truly shock the brazen minx.

“Peace, my lady,” Gaston hissed at her. “See? You have offended the good brother. What would your aunt say to this behavior?”

Celeste managed to stifle her laughter in a series of hiccups before answering. “Gaston! You know very well what she would do. While she scolded me with her tongue, her eyes would have enjoyed the same view as much as mine. Perhaps even more so. In truth, I have never seen...”

Gaston. cleared his throat loudly, then glared at the other men, who were still sniggering at the memory of the monk’s naked show. “You crawling vermin!” he shouted. “Are you paid to idle about? Be off with you!”

He punctuated his order with several blistering oaths. Just listening to their richness and variety made Guy feel better. It pleased him even more to see how Celeste blushed at Gaston’s curses. Good! If the girl was going to act like a common serving wench, she deserved to have her sensitivities shocked in return.

Holding his head high and squaring his shoulders, Guy nudged the now-placid Daisy into a walk. Laugh at his backside? No woman of his considerable experience had ever found his nakedness a rude jest! They had complimented his goodly proportions and firmness in all areas. They had squealed and giggled with delight upon personal inspection of his nether regions. Most particularly, their supple fingers had given pleasurable approval to his hindquarters. Not once had any woman, high-born or lowborn,
laughed
at the sight of his most sensitive area—until now.

What a sweep of vanity!

A niggling little voice whispered its rebuke. True, vanity was sin, and he should pay the price for it. But must her amusement be his penance? Guy swallowed the bile that lurked in the base of his throat. Perhaps he should say a few prayers to calm his soul’s turmoil. Upon reflection, he amended that thought. He needed to storm heaven’s gate with a quiver full of litanies begging forgiveness for his unseemly thoughts and beseeching patience to deal with his charge.

“Good Brother Guy.” Celeste’s husky voice spoke close behind his shoulder. Gone was her comic pronunciation of his name. Did he detect a new note in her tone?

“Good Brother, please forgive me,” she continued. Her lilting accent made the language sing. Guy glanced in her direction.

If anything, Celeste’s eyes looked even more enormous—twin pools of crushed violets, watered by a sheen of tears that he could see hovering about her thick lashes. The shameless jade of a moment ago had now changed into a fairy creature. Her pale skin, those teary eyes and her rosy mouth, trembling with her contrition, made Celeste appear like the virgin in a tapestry who lured the unsuspecting unicorn to her side. A mixture of emotions played havoc with Guy’s body. In some places he hardened and burned, while in others he melted into the folds of his woolen gown. His vocal cords begged to murmur sweet nothings in her ear. He swallowed again.

“Frère Guy,
” she entreated, leaning across her horse to him. He stared straight ahead. “Bless me, good Brother, for I have sinned most grievously. Forgive my laughter at your misfortune, and my disgraceful conduct afterward.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her mouth twitch at the remembrance of that very behavior for which she now sought forgiveness. Licking her lips with that enticing pink tongue, she wiped away the suggestion of an uncontrite giggle.

“I am heartily sorry for having offended you, particularly as you are a man of God. Please forgive me, Brother Guy, and give me a penance, that I may show you my true sorrow for the transgression.”

Penance? Sweet Saint Anne! She was not merely asking for forgiveness, but for the full sacramental rite. Cold beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead. Did Celeste think him to be a priest, and so felt her laughter a true sin of disrespect, perhaps even sacrilege? Guy’s momentary shock melted into something entirely different—a smug anticipation of revenge.

Gravely he nodded at Celeste, then made the sign of the cross over her bowed head.
Wicked!
the little voice twittered in Guy’s conscience. Not so. He told himself he was merely giving her what she craved, absolution, as well as what she needed—a lesson in humility.

“Merci, bon frère.
And for my penance?”

How could he possibly deny her request? Taking out his slate and chalk, he quickly wrote on it, then handed it over to her.

“Ma foi!
Fifty Ave Marias?”

Guy tried not to smile at her appalled expression.

“That will take me hours to say!”

He fervently hoped so—perhaps even until suppertime.

Celeste lost count somewhere past the thirty-seventh Ave. Fah! The late afternoon was too lovely to spend with one’s head bowed over the neck of a horse. Rolling her shoulders back to ease the tension in her muscles, Celeste shifted in her saddle and gazed at the road in front of her—and at a pair of wide shoulders clothed in a coarse brown woolen habit.

How very big Brother Guy was! Celeste grinned as she enjoyed the sight of his well-proportioned calves, which gripped the donkey’s sides. She wondered if the monk could run very fast, especially in that cumbersome robe. What would he think if she challenged him to a race? At L’Étoile, Celeste had always beaten her sisters whenever they managed to avoid the disapproving eye of Aunt Marguerite and ran down the long, grassy
allée
in the garden. Her gaze traveled up his back and rested on the tan bald patch of his tonsure. What would Brother Guy look like if all his hair grew back in? Such a golden color! She sighed.

Was his hair soft or rough to the touch? It looked soft as a baby’s, but his body proclaimed him a man. She shook herself and said another Ave Maria quickly. She wondered if it was wrong to stare at a monk’s body that way.

Such broad shoulders! Did his mother have to make his shirts extrawide, so that the sleeves would not rip out when he practiced with his sword? Surely he must have used a sword at some time in his life—before he became a man of God. His accent and his noble bearing suggested that he came from a good family, and it was no sin to know how to use arms. Saint Michael was a warrior, as well as an angel. What would Brother Guy look like in a suit of armor such as the one worn by the hero of her dreams, the Knight of the Loyal Heart? Celeste could easily imagine Brother Guy wearing the winged heart on his helm.

Thinking of her favorite book reminded Celeste of the troubadour songs. It seemed like a month of Sundays since she had last heard those sweet tunes. She caught herself saying the next prayer while humming “The True Heart’s Lament.” How well the Latin words fit with the simple melody! She hummed another Ave, slightly louder.

Over his shoulder, Brother Guy scowled at her.

Zut alors!
Didn’t that man ever smile? Such a pity! He had such a handsome face. Perhaps he was out of practice. Maybe smiling was forbidden in the monastery. No matter. They would be together on the road for many days to come. Celeste knew she could get him to smile at her eventually. People always did. She cocked her head and grinned at him as she continued to hum.

The monk put a long finger to his lips.

Celeste resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him. What a sobersides!

“I am saying my penance,” she told him in an innocent tone of voice.

Frowning, Brother Guy shook his head. He put his finger to his lips again.

“Bah! You did not say anything about the method of my prayers, Brother Guy.” She deliberately blew the difficult
th
sound out of her mouth. “Do you not chant your own prayers—that is, when you are permitted to speak?”

Guy’s finely arched eyebrows rose slowly up his wide forehead.

“Just so,” Celeste continued, sensing she had made a point. “You chant and I hum. Now, I have not heard the quality of your voice, so I do not know if your chanting offends the ear of the Divine or not, but—”

He scowled again. Celeste wondered if that was a good or bad sign. She plunged on with her logic.

“But I have been told on excellent authority that I possess a sweet singing voice. I would not say this of myself, you understand, but only because others—”

The monk waved his hand at her, signaling the end of his attention. Gathering that she had been granted permission to continue her unusual mode of prayer, Celeste cleared her throat.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena,”
she sang, to the tune of “Lancelot and Guinevere.” As Guy turned away, Celeste thought she spied the hint of a grin hover around his lips and a softer look steal into his blue eyes.

“Sancta Maria. ”
She let her voice lift to the heavens, her spirit in tune with the sweet melody.

I shall capture your elusive smile yet, Brother Guy! Just watch me!

Chapter Six

T
he slanting rays of the setting sun softened the red sandstone walls of the massive castle above the town of Ludlow as Guy led the weary bridal party across the Ludford Bridge. Halfway up the steep slope of Broad Street, he turned Daisy into the yard of one of the town’s more reputable inns, the Feathers. The fresh-painted sign proudly displayed a trio of white plumes, the badge of the Prince of Wales, in honor of the last Plantagenet heir to the throne, the ill-fated King Edward V, who had lived in Ludlow before returning to London, where he had met his mysterious end in the Tower.

Now the Tudors ruled England, after a century of civil unrest. Guy wondered if the news of King Henry’s obsessive infatuation with Anne Boleyn had reached the ears of this hamlet, so far from the intrigues of Westminster. How would this landlord react if he knew that Henry’s lawful queen, Catherine, was ignored and virtually banished from the court? Being a prudent man with an obviously thriving hostelry, the innkeeper would probably only shrug.

After stepping off Daisy’s back, Guy turned toward Celeste to help her down from her saddle, but slowed his steps before he reached her. That service was Gaston’s by right. He watched Gaston place both hands around Celeste’s slim waist and lift her easily from her palfrey. Sweet Saint Anne! The girl must weigh less than thistledown. A green worm of envy wriggled through Guy. He pushed away the insidious emotion, reminding himself that she was merely his charge. He had already dedicated his heart to a higher calling.

“Thank the guardian angels the monk knew of a good rest house,” muttered Gaston, handing Celeste her saddlebag. His gaze swept around the washed-down cobbled yard. “This is the best lodging I’ve seen in a fortnight.”

Celeste studied the wide half-timbered facade, with its many gabled windows jutting out from under the slate roof “
Oui.
” She chewed her lower lip. “But who will speak to the innkeeper, now that Aunt Marguerite is no longer with us?”

She broke into a smile when she spotted Guy, standing by Starlight’s head. “Ah, Brother Guy! Will you use your slate and tell the innkeeper what we require for the night?” She looked relieved at the idea.

In answer, Guy took out his slate and quickly wrote upon it. He passed his message to Celeste,

Probably can’t read,
spelled the blurry chalk letters.

Her eyes darkened into twin purple storm clouds. “But if the innkeeper is unlettered, who will speak to him?”

She looked adorable, standing in the middle of the bustling yard, clutching her worn leather bag with such a perplexed look on her upturned face. Guy almost smiled at her, but caught himself in time. Hardening his features, he gravely pointed to her.

“Moi?”
she squeaked, her eyes widening at the prospect. “But my English is so... so barbaric.”