The Elusive Bride Page 13

  “Sister Hulda swears this will do the job.” John entered, bearing a small clay pot. “A salve of brownwort and wintergreen in goose grease.”

  “Aye.” Cecily held out her hand for the pot. “Wintergreen will cleanse the stripes and brownwort draw the bruises.”

  John FitzCourtenay held the salve vexingly out of her reach. “This is hardly an injury you can remedy yourself, lass. Besides not being able to see what you are doing, you’d likely wrench your arm out of its socket trying to apply the medicine.”

  He chuckled. “Lift your skirts now and let me tend you. It’s the least I can do for not saving you from Lord Ranulf’s lash sooner.”

  “But…” What could she say? That it was indecent for him to see her so? He’d already had an eyeful in Lord Ranulf’s hall. That she could not bear him to touch her so intimately? The throbbing flesh of her backside cried out for relief. From anyone. In any form.

  “This is no time to come over delicate, lass.” John tugged up the skirt of her gown. “You need to be able to sit a horse tomorrow and I’m the only one handy to smear on this salve. I’ve tended plenty of wounds in my day. One rump’s much like another.”

  The rascal! Prevailing upon her with the very argument she would have used on him if the circumstances had been reversed.

  “Very well.” She wriggled the skirt of her kirtle up until her lower half was fully exposed. “Mind you use a light touch.”

  Silence.

  Cecily felt her cheeks redden. “I’ll thank you to leave off your gaping and apply some of Sister Hulda’s ointment.”

  “By all the saints, lass.” She could hear the flinch in his voice. “How did you manage to sit a horse on that?”

  “Women are tougher than you take us for, Master John.” The absurdity of the whole situation made her chuckle. “I’d match the pain of our monthly courses against some of your worst battle bruises. Not to mention the travail of child—”

  The first tentative brush of his fingertips made Cecily suck in her breath. Only partly from pain.

  “I’m sorry,” he cried. “I’m trying to be as gentle as I can.”

  “Be at ease, Master John. You did not hurt me. I only gasped because the ointment felt cold.” Would he swallow such a patent falsehood?

  Perhaps he did. Or perhaps not. He said nothing more to give Cecily a clue. Instead he concentrated on his task.

  Deftly, with a touch as tender as any woman’s, he daubed the ointment of bruised herbs over her sensitive flesh. As the soreness of her wounds eased, a strange, pleasant ache took its place. It radiated from the apex of her thighs, making the breath catch in her throat and her whole body ripple with alternate fever and chill.

  “Sister Hulda bade me rub it in well.”

  Cecily did not dare glance back at John, but she heard the tightness in his voice, felt his hand tremble, ever so slightly. Did the look of her nether parts affect him—gruesome sight though it must be?

  Warm and slick, his hands glided over the rounding of her buttocks, sometimes straying lower to the back of her thighs. His touch set her aquiver. Whenever he broke contact, even for the slightest instant, it was all she could do to keep from arching toward him. Quite against her will, her legs parted, inviting—begging—him to explore the responsive cleft between them.

  He did.

  “Beauchamp’s switch fell awry, I see.” The husky tone of his voice bespoke arousal, barely restrained. Like the faint scratch of his beard against her ear, the sound stirred Cecily to an almost unbearable pitch of—what?

  She knew a little of mating. Enough to scandalize the novices at Wenwith. What she hadn’t guessed was the pleasure a woman could receive from the right man.

  Suddenly, his beard did graze her ear as he stretched out beside her on the pallet. One hand continued to work its wicked enchantment on her body. His lips nuzzled, imparting a suggestive murmur that made Cecily fairly wriggle out of her skin.

  “‘My beloved put his hand by the opening of the door, and my being was moved for him.”’

  “What—” The word rasped from a mouth parched with desire. “What say you?”

  He chuckled, a sound as warm and inviting as the caress of his hand. “Did you put in no time at the scriptorium, in that convent of yours? A would-be nun should know her Bible better. ‘I rose up to open to my beloved; and my hands dripped with myrrh, and my fingers with sweet ointment upon the handle of the lock. I opened to my beloved….’ I am your beloved, aren’t I, Cecily?”

  His question filled her thoughts as the aroma of the ointment filled Cecily’s nostrils. The sharp scent of brownwort, the tang of wintergreen mingled with the mild, savory smell of goose fat. The Biblical poet spoke of a different kind of balm. The kind her heart’s old wounds had found in John FitzCourtenay.

  She knew there were a hundred good solid reasons to resist him. To resist her own fierce inclinations. At the moment she could not summon a single one to mind.

  His hand ventured deeper into the hot moist crevice between her thighs. Nothing she’d so far experienced with men had prepared Cecily for the gathering, mounting, swelling—

  The door of their quarters burst open as a gravelly feminine voice—a familiar gravelly feminine voice—rang out. “Sister Hulda sent me up with another—”

  Her searing desire quenched, as if by a ewer of cold water, Cecily looked back.

  “Cecilia Tyrell!” The clay pot slipped out of Sister Goliath’s massive hand and plummeted to the floor, smashing into a hundred pieces.

  Chapter Ten

  Rowan recognized the big nun, too.

  Cursing her under his breath, he withdrew his hand from its incriminating place in the dewy fissure between Cecily’s thighs. It came away most reluctantly.

  He jerked the hem of her gown lower, to cover her exposed backside, hoping Sister Goliath would not think him responsible for Cecily’s injuries.

  Leaping from the bed, Cecily completed the adjustment of her attire. “Please don’t be alarmed, Sister Gertha. It may look ill, but I swear—”

  “There is an altogether innocent explanation,” Rowan chimed in, scrambling to his feet.

  Her face an unbecoming shade of plum, the big nun cast him a glare of righteous wrath overset by disdain. “I did not come to the cloister in swaddling clothes, young man! And my eyes are keen enough to tell what mischief you were up to.”

  She shifted her black look to Cecily. “Cecilia, is this man your husband, as he claimed to the portress?” Her tone left not the slightest doubt of her suspicions.

  Cecily hung her head. “No, Sister. He is not.”

  Before Wenwith’s Mistress of Novices could continue her inquisition, Rowan heard raised voices in the priory courtyard. Glancing out the narrow window, he cursed aloud.

  Sister Gertha sucked in a gasp of outrage.

  “I beg pardon, Sister,” he amended hastily. To Cecily he added, “It’s Beauchamp’s men. We must fly.”

  “Beauchamp?” Curiosity replaced the indignant vexation in Sister Gertha’s tone. “The lady abbess of Boulton was of that family before she took the veil. Why must you flee her kinsmen? What trouble have you landed in this time, Mistress Tyrell?”

  “Terrible trouble, Sister.” Cecily stepped toward the nun, picking her way through the wreckage of the clay ointment pot.

  Rowan followed hot on her heels. He didn’t relish the thought of overpowering a nun—no matter that the brawny female probably outweighed him by a stone.

  Clutching Sister Gertha’s arm, Cecily pleaded, “I know you think I’m a wicked, willful creature, but I must beg you to help us just the same. My fate and that of my people hang on it.”

  The nun looked from Cecily to Rowan, her dark gaze searching and measuring. She could not possibly know his identity, Rowan insisted to himself. So why did he get the shattering sense that she could read his impossibly stained soul?

  She uttered one word. “Come.” Pivoting with an unexpected grace, Sister Gertha ducked through the door and
hurried down the corridor.

  When Cecily rushed after her, Rowan had no choice but to follow. They trailed the black-clad figure through the narrow hall and down a steep spiral of stairs that grew darker with each step they descended.

  “Oh…my.”

  Rowan overheard Sister Gertha, though he could no longer see her or Cecily. In spite of the danger, he grinned to himself in the darkness. By the sound of it, the reverend sister had barely managed to check an oath of her own.

  “There is supposed to be a brand kept burning here,” she hissed back at Rowan and Cecily. “Someone has been neglecting her duties. I don’t know but it may prove a blessing, after all,” she added. “Come a few more steps. Feel your way and watch for the last one.”

  They groped ahead. At the bottom, Rowan sensed a widening from the tight confines of the stairwell. Though cool and damp, the air felt less close.

  “Stay here,” ordered Sister Gertha as she brushed past Rowan on her way to the stairs. “I will go see how things stand and try to work out the best means to spirit you away from here.”

  Without awaiting a reply from them, she padded back up the stone steps.

  As her soft footfalls retreated, Rowan reached for Cecily. Catching a piece of her that felt vaguely armlike, he followed it downward to clasp her hand. “Can we trust Sister Goliath, do you think?”

  “Have we any choice?” She squeezed his hand. “If she had bellowed for Beauchamp’s men when you spied them, we would be taken by now. I believe she sincerely means to help us.” In a whisper, as though speaking to herself, she added, “Though I cannot fathom why.”

  “In that case…” Rowan pulled her closer. “Let us see what we can do to make the waiting pass pleasantly.”

  To his unpleasant surprise, she pushed him away. “Leave off, FitzCourtenay! Your tempting wiles may work on other women, but I dare not risk dallying with you.”

  Headstrong wench! Rowan fought to master his body’s eager response to the fleeting sensation of her in his arms. “I swear, Cecily, I’ll do nothing to ruin you for any other man. But I felt you move and melt beneath my hands less than an hour since. Let me show you what you’ll be missing if you choose someone else.”

  He reached for her again, thinking to take her by the arm. Instead, his hand closed over her bosom. Even beneath the soft wool of her gown and the linen kirtle, he felt her pap harden and thrust toward him. His mouth watered as he imagined his tongue gliding over it.

  A squeak of protest from Cecily wavered to a soft sound of enjoyment deep in her throat. Almost a moan. Not quite a purr.

  The hunter in Rowan knew better than to frighten his quarry by moving in too quickly. Though he ached to close the distance between them, itched to touch her without the hampering layers of cloth, he kept still and concentrated on maintaining the contact between them. His fingertips moved in circles, acquainting themselves with the gently rounded cast of her breast. His thumb toyed with her eager, saucy pap, swiping over it—one instant rubbing roughly, the next barely grazing the fabric of her gown with his thumbnail.

  The sounds she made as she roused to him excited Rowan to a fever of longing. The swift rasp of her breath. The sudden intake of air. The faint whimper. Soon she would be powerless to deny him.

  Eyes closed, straining toward Cecily with his heightened senses of touch and smell, Rowan missed the first flicker of torchlight.

  When Sister Gertha’s voice rang out, he started.

  “I’ll search below!” the nun called out, obviously to someone behind her.

  Rowan hoped no one would volunteer to assist her.

  He gave Cecily’s bosom one last gentle squeeze, then let his hand drop to his side. If a man could fall asleep every night with a hand closed over that breast, what greater bliss could heaven afford?

  Sister Gertha rounded the last turn of the stairs with a glowing brand held aloft. For a moment Rowan shielded his eyes from the light. Then he glanced around at what the flames illuminated.

  Massive wooden pillars supported the low-slung ceiling of the storage cellar. Much of the summer’s harvest had already been gathered in, as evidenced by orderly rows of casks, kegs and hogsheads lining the walls of undressed stone.

  “Go to,” whispered Sister Gertha, holding the torch as high as she dared, to light their way as she herded them before her. “Farther along and through that door, we’ll come to the crypt beneath the chapel. You can hide there and don your disguises.”

  “Disguises?” Rowan pushed through the heavy-hinged door that sparked a suffocating memory of the stockade at Lambourn. “What disguises?”

  Sister Gertha deposited her torch in a wall sconce. Its light flickered eerily over several large stone tombs ranged along the far wall.

  “These disguises.” From beneath her own habit she pulled two others, handing one to Cecily and one to Rowan. “Put them on, and if anyone comes, tell them you are searching for the fugitives by Mother Bertelle’s order. See those stairs?” She pointed to a flight of wide, shallow steps rising upward. “They lead to a trapdoor behind the altar. Check that the coast is clear, then come out between nocturns and matins to hide yourselves in the chapel. At matins, join the tail end of the procession for Mass. I will be leaving Boulton immediately after prime to return to Wenwith. You will leave with me.”

  Rowan watched as Cecily began to don her veil. “Won’t we be noticed among the other nuns? This habit will not disguise my beard.”

  Sister Gertha produced a candle and lit it from the brand. “There are several nuns from sister orders attending at Boulton this week, to celebrate the appointment of its new abbess. Two more will scarcely be noticed. As for your beard, young fellow, I suggest you keep to the shadows, pull your veil as far forward as possible and keep your hands folded before your face in prayer.”

  Before Rowan could question her brisk instructions, she slipped back into the cellar and closed the door firmly behind her.

  He glanced over at Cecily to see her lips spread in a wry grin.

  “I believe Sister Goliath is enjoying this,” she whispered. “Come along, Sister Joan.” She tossed the habit and veil at him with a gleeful chuckle. “Get you modestly clad for our escape on the morrow. Pity Sister Gertha could not hunt us up a razor. Though it would have been a shame to sacrifice your beard. It is a rather fine one.”

  As if to emphasize the compliment, she raised one hand and drew it in a lingering caress along his jawline from ear to chin. The gesture brought a lump to his throat. His eyelids slid shut to savor the intimacy of her touch. Or was it to mask the stinging moisture she might mistake for a tear?

  The effort to stifle a deep yawn brought tears to Cecily’s eyes. Her last sleep was almost a full day past, when she had wakened in the guardhouse at Lambourn. So much had happened in the meantime, it felt like a week.

  She glanced over at John FitzCourtenay. Disguised in his nun’s habit, he knelt in prayer in the choir beside her. Detecting the faint buzz of a snore, she jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. He came awake with a startled cough. Fortunately, the plainsong chant of the other nuns covered his lapse.

  He cast her a look of apology.

  She winked in reply and tried to swallow a grin at the queer sight he made. Poor fellow. By rights she should not take amusement at his expense. He had been awake far longer than she—dragged out of the guardhouse by Lord Ranulf’s men at first light. She hoped he could keep on his feet long enough to get them beyond pursuit.

  Beauchamp’s searchers appeared to have left the abbey, but Cecily feared they had probably not drawn too far off. Pray God the sun would not rise unclouded today. In the deep shadows of the chapel, her companion’s beard attracted no notice. In broad daylight it might easily betray them.

  According to Sister Gertha, Beauchamp’s men had confiscated the horse they’d ridden from Lambourn. Just as well, perhaps. Thanks to the ointment John had applied so thoroughly, Cecily’s backside pained much less. Another day on horseback would do it no good. Beside
s, once they made their way through Cirencester, the county of Gloucester lay a very few miles beyond. In their borrowed habits, she and John might make it there on foot before nightfall.

  By all the angels and saints, she hoped they would. If Lord Rowan’s brother took another opportunity to touch her in intimate places, her weakening resistance might melt beneath the searing delight of his hands. She might throw over everything she held most dear—Brantham and her loyalty to the Empress—to take him as her lover.

  If it had been only the carnal joy of mating, she might have resisted him with ease. But Cecily could no longer deny her feelings went deeper than that. His skill and daring excited her admiration. His humor and camaraderie warmed her. His brief hints of unhealed grief and longborne burdens touched the wounded places of her own heart. When he looked at her, spoke to her, touched her, it kindled a sense of beauty and virtue she’d never known she possessed.

  Though she tried to keep her thoughts on the Morrow-mass, Cecily caught them often straying to her companion. How had he insinuated himself into her heart so swiftly and completely? If she managed to stand firm against his blandishments and wed his brother after all, how would she bear the years to come without him?

  She was still mulling it over when Mass ended and the nuns of Boulton filed out for chapter. Bringing up the tail of the procession with John, Cecily could not shake the guilty conviction that the other nuns must see through her disguise.

  Outside the chapel, fat banks of dark-bottomed clouds billowed across the sky, driven by a strong, warm wind. Cecily and her companion hung back in the shadows of the chapel porch until Sister Gertha bustled up.

  “Put these on.” She passed them each a short length of loosely woven linen. “Since we are walking abroad, no one will take it amiss that we wear such veils. It was all I could think of to hide your man’s beard.”