Tori Phillips (15 page)

Guy felt as if the icy fingers of the Northumberland winter held him fast in their grip. Down through the years, Lissa had loved him. Nay, his conscience reminded him, she loved the faceless knight with a wolf’s device. She never knew
you
, therefore she did not love you. Besides, what does it matter now? You are for the church, and she is for... Guy squeezed his eyes shut to blot out the grotesque image of Walter Ormond that pranced through his mind.

“Pardonnez-moi,
Brother Guy!” Lissa’s sweet voice instantly banished the sickening sight. “I have been remiss. I see you suffer a headache,
oui?
And all my prattling has made it worse. Forgive my stupidity.”

With that, she leapt up from the bench, snatched her book and, lifting her thick skirts, which revealed her slim ankles, dashed down the gravel walk. The pale green veil attached to her coif caught on an outstretched branch of a yew as she rounded the hedge, but she quickly disengaged it and disappeared.

Guy sat very still on the hard stone bench and wondered when he had last yearned so much for the touch of a woman.

Chapter Twelve

L
eaving Burke Crest after early mass the next morning proved to be very difficult for both the Foxmores and Celeste’s party. Little Harry bawled loudly to see Pierre, his newfound playmate, leap into the driver’s seat of the wagon. Harry’s pretty nursemaid looked equally bereft. Lady Eleanor managed to rescue Nell’s secret gift of a new kitten, who yowled in piteous tones for its mother inside a canvas sack amid the baggage. With many thanks for the Foxmores’ generous hospitality and many more promises to keep in touch with her new friends, Celeste mounted her palfrey.

“It is too bad that the young James is not old enough to be your husband,” Gaston muttered as he adjusted her saddle girth. “I would approve of that marriage.”

Celeste leaned over so that only Gaston could hear her. “You mean you approve of his father’s ample larder and their even more generous cook,
oui?”

Gaston puffed out his cheeks and knotted his thick brows. “The devil take you, my lady, for spying on a man’s private affairs”

“Oh, my good Gaston, I did no spying myself, but the children!
Ma foi!
What can one do with four pairs of bright eyes watching every move?”

“Bah! Little foxes they are!” Gaston glanced over his shoulder at the four forlorn faces watching from the top of the stairs. “I will remember your sins in my prayers!” he shouted to them in French, with a huge grin of forgiveness.

Young James swept him a courtly bow.
“Merci beaucoup,
brave soldier,” he answered.

“The young jackanapes has picked up a fair speech in just a week.
Mon Dieu!
What I could do in a month with a boy that quick!” Gaston muttered with an approving gleam in his eye.

Celeste laughed, in spite of her sorrow at leaving. “My mind is not wide enough to contemplate that possibility, Gaston.”

Guy left last, detained by Sir James, who engaged him in a private conference. Neither man looked happy upon parting.

“Remember what I said, churchman!” Sir James called after Guy as the party wended its way out the gates of Burke Crest. “ ’Twill be upon your soul!”

Guy said nothing, of course, but his face looked thunderous.

Celeste spent the rest of the cool, misty morning wondering what her kind host had meant by his strange admonition. She knew it was pointless to ask Guy. Sitting as straight as a poker on his beast, he acted as if he were going to his execution. Perhaps he was beginning to miss the priory, and longed to be back within its safe confines. On the other hand, perhaps Brother Guy just hated being astride balky old Daisy again. After listening to Gaston’s complaints about the donkey’s sharp bones and sharper disposition, Celeste couldn’t blame the monk, though he bore his discomfort with his customary stoic forbearance.

The fierce wind from the North Sea spewed winter on its breath, turning the bare trees on the moorlands of Northumberland into glistening frosty sculptures. Nightly, ice formed a thin cover in the wells and horse troughs. Even the washing water in the master bedroom froze before morning. Walter Ormond drew his cloak tighter around his shivering body and damned the arrival of an early snow.

Only today a weary messenger had brought the discouraging word to Snape Castle that the promised bride—
his
bride—had delayed her journey once again, this time on the pretext of some sort of indisposition.

“When the wench is mine, I’ll see to it that she moves right smartly,” he growled to Scullion, one of the few minions who still enjoyed Walter’s company—or Walter’s purse. It mattered not. Scullion would sell his own mother for a farthing.

“Aye,” Scullion nodded, then drained his pot of hot ale. “Ye make all the lasses skip to yer tune, m’lord.” He wiped both his mouth and his runny nose with the back of his hand.

“That I do,” Walter agreed without humor. He splashed more ale into his cup from the large brown jug that warmed on the hob. “So where are these good men you promised me?”

“They come, by an’ by,” replied his coarse companion.

“When it suits them,” Walter snarled. “If they want to be paid, they’d best learn to hop when it suits me.” He drained his ale without pleasure.

“’Doin’ the devil’s own work is ticklish business, m’lord,” Scullion pointed out in a mild tone. “Dark deeds need dark hours. They will come anon.”

Walter slammed his empty cup on the table. “Taking a wife is no dark deed.”

Scullion answered with a sharp laugh followed by a hiccup. “Aye, but takin’ another man’s wife, now that be right murky.”

“The wench is mine by law.” Walter stifled the impulse to push his fist into Scullion’s greasy face. The dim voice of prudence reminded him that friends, even those bought with silver, were getting sparser for him.

Walter knew that people called him Ormond’s spawn, and probably a good deal worse. Few wenches would lie with him any more, unless they were toothless hags, or even more pox-ridden than he. Every time he thought of the fresh young French bride coming to him, he salivated. The devil and his dam take his father! The girl—and her needed gold—were Walter’s.

It seemed to Guy that since he’d wanted to delay the journey as much as possible, the bridal party had made even better time than before. By late afternoon, they arrived at the outskirts of Chester. From here, they would cross over the spine of the country and head north for York, the largest city outside of London. Guy found lodging at a small but reputable inn he knew, under the sign of the Blue Boar. Despite the building’s slightly shabby facade, Guy knew the innkeeper to be an honest, cheerful man. And one blessed with too good a memory, as Guy discovered when the travelers entered the taproom.

“Welcome back, my lord!” A tiny, spare man, almost lost in the folds of his apron, bounced out from behind the counter. “Or is it Brother Monk now? Aye, by the look of you, I’d say it is. So you
did
go for the church, just as you told me you would last March—or was that April when you passed through here?”

Barely pausing for reply or a breath, the innkeeper turned his hospitable charm on Celeste. “And I see you bring glad company to brighten my establishment. Welcome, welcome!”

Celeste drew herself up as tall as possible and smiled prettily at the host of the Blue Boar. “Good evening, good man,” she began slowly in English. Her better pronunciation surprised Guy. Since she preferred to speak French to him, he had not heard how well her English had progressed thanks to the young Foxmores’ tutelage. Catching sight of his surprise, Celeste shot him a quick grin of triumph. “We ’ave much need of a room for the night.”

The innkeeper made a small bow. “Right you are, my lady! And you’ve come to the finest hostelry in Chester. I am honored.” He looked around to Gaston and the other men, nodding and smiling all the while.

No doubt our friendly landlord is sizing up the wealth of his customers.
Taking out his slate, Guy questioned the fee. He hoped it hadn’t been raised since his last visit, on his way south to join the monastery. The innkeeper glanced quizzically at the slate.

“Your pardon for asking, my lord, but has the cat got your tongue?” The little man chuckled at his own joke.

“’E is without speech,” Celeste informed him.

“Aye.” The innkeeper nodded as if that explained everything. “With your beauty, my lady, I can see why.”

Celeste dimpled in reply and fluttered her lashes a bit. Guy wanted to shake her before she got too carried away by the man’s compliments. He wrote,
Four shillings for all, dinner included?
The price was more than fair, yet not ruinous to Celeste’s dwindling purse.

The innkeeper nodded again. “Aye, and there you have it, my lord monk, my lady.” He ushered them toward the timeworn stairs ascending to the first-floor gallery. “I have the finest hostelry in Chester,” he bragged. “Table linens changed daily, and every traveler who lays his head upon my pillows is assured right well of clean sheets and no bedbugs.” He puffed himself up very proudly.

“For the lady,” he intoned, opening the door to a small side room. The fading light through the dormer window revealed a plain bed, a table with pitcher and bowl, and a stool. “And your men can sleep in here.” He waved to the common room at the end of the hall, which held four cots, as well a larger table and stools before a small fireplace.

The innkeeper glanced at Guy, then scratched his head. “Would Your Lordship prefer—” he began, but Guy cut him off with a quick hand motion.

The monk had renounced the trappings of nobility when he donned the simple brown robe of the Franciscan order, and the innkeeper’s babbling about “Your Lordship” embarrassed him. Also, it would be better if Lissa thought that Guy was a poor man, and not the son of a Border lord. Guy pointed to the floor of the hallway just outside Celeste’s door.

The host of the Blue Boar shook his head, a puzzled knot wrinkling his brow. “Aye, you may sleep there, if that is your pleasure, my lord.”

’Tis not my pleasure but my pain. I dare not name the place wherein I would rather sleep this night
. Guy’s mouth went very dry, and he longed for a cooling draft of ale.

The innkeeper turned again to Celeste, who stared, mouth agape, at the monk. Guy could see a question forming on those full pink lips of hers, and he didn’t want to answer it. Fortunately, the innkeeper rattled on, diverting her attention.

“Now, my lady, twill be but a tick of the clock and I’ll have a fire for your comfort in yon room and a bite of supper. I’ll warrant you are famished. Hungry?” he added in a louder tone, speaking to her as if she were deaf. “What say you to a bit of beef, and new-laid eggs fried in sweet butter and garnished with parsley?”

Smiling, Celeste nodded, which encouraged the landlord to greater heights of description.

“Bread, both brown and white, so please you, my lady, and an apple tart, fresh-baked this morning by my good wife. You like apples?” He raised his voice again and spoke slowly.

Celeste didn’t flinch under his well-meaning onslaught.
“Oui,
good man. I am ver-rey ...” She paused, struggling for the correct word. “I like apples ver-rey much.
Merci.”
she concluded, flushed with her latest triumph over the foreign English.

“Good, good.” The landlord stood nodding and smiling at the pretty young woman. Guy finally gave him a little push and pointed down the stairs. “Aye, my lord monk, to be sure.” The little man backed up, teetering on the top step. “A fire and supper and water for washing. At once, and again, welcome to the Blue Boar.” With that, the innkeeper all but fell down the narrow staircase in his haste to serve them.

“By the petticoat of Saint Catherine!” Gaston snorted as the clatter of the landlord’s thick shoes died away. “I pray that fellow is as long on his drafts of ale as he is on his talk. If we are fortunate, we shall have supper sometime before midnight.” He-handed Celeste the worn saddlebag containing the apostle spoons. “I think I will go down and hurry him along a bit, for I swear by the stars, I could eat a horse. Aye, even a horse roasted by an English cook.”

Gaston, with Émile, Paul and René in tow, descended to the taproom, leaving Guy and Celeste alone together. Guy shifted his feet nervously. The narrow hallway seemed to close in about them.

Celeste cocked her head, and a soft, sensual smile wreathed her lips. “Thinking of flying away again? So where will you run to now, my
lord
priest?” she asked, reverting to French in her rich brown-velvet voice. “It is most strange, I think, that you never want to be in my company.” Her violet eyes darkened to a deep purple. “Is it because my breath is sour?
Non,
I think not, for I chew mint leaves every day.”

Guy turned to go. With her standing so close to him, the musk of her rose scent invaded his defenses. He tried not to think how tempting her sweet mouth looked, or how the stray locks of her midnight hair beckoned his fingers to roam therein.

Celeste blocked his exit down the stairs. “Oh, la, la! Have I suddenly turned into a dragon, Brother Guy? Do I frighten you? Boo!” She folded her arms over the saddlebag and stood her ground.

Aye, Lissa, you scare up the very devil in me.

Fixing a deep frown on his features, Guy pointed down the stairs. If he wanted to, he could sweep her off her feet as easily as he could a kitten, but he knew that once he held her slim waist in his hands, he would be loath to put her down again. He tried to shoulder his way around her, though he feared she might fall down the stairs.

“I will let you go—for now.” Celeste grinned, a wicked look in her eye. “But only if you give me your solemn word of honor that I shall have the pleasure of your company after supper.”

Guy’s eyes widened. What mischief did this minx have in mind? Her invitation echoed many others he had received when he played cupid’s fool at court. Surely she could not think of seducing him! And yet, for all her wit and professed honor, Celeste was still only a weak woman, and he, God help him, was losing his last shred of fortitude against her wiles. A cold wash at the well, that was what Guy needed this minute. That, and several hours on his knees, in deep meditation on his sins.