As the girl watched him devour the carrot, her alarm turned rapidly to amusement. A dimple blossomed by the corner of her wide, mobile mouth. “I meant that for your horse, sir.” Laughter bubbled musically beneath her words.
The man jerked his head toward the gelding. “I’m hungrier than he is. Grass is plentiful, but not to my taste.” The voice was deep and warm, the smile wry and sardonic. As if to affirm his master’s comment, the horse dipped his lean head and cropped a mouthful of tall grass at the edge of the clearing. The girl reached out a hand and passed it caressingly over the big beast’s neck.
Then she remembered the man. “Wait there,” she said eagerly. “I’ll get more. For both of you.”
Making a rapid circuit of the garden, she plucked a handful of beans, pulled a carrot here and an onion there. She thrust the vegetables at the man, holding back one carrot for his mount. She held out her offering to the horse, who snipped it in two mannerly bites. The stranger dropped to the ground and wolfed down his portion with noisy gusto.
“I thought you said she was right behind you!” A deep feminine voice rang out from nearby, coming closer with each word.
“Sister Goliath!” hissed the girl, pulling man and mount back into the safety of the forest’s thick foliage.
“She was right behind me,” insisted a nasal whine.
Into the glade garden charged a bearlike nun in a rusty black habit. By her side scurried a chinless ferret of a novice. They stopped short and peered around the empty clearing.
“Now where can she have got to?” demanded the nun. “Mother Ermintrude wants to see her about something. It’s almost time for Mass—”
“Probably wandered off into the woods,” suggested the novice, with the self-righteous implication that she would never indulge in such improper conduct.
“Heedless child,” fumed the big nun, planting her hands on her hips. “She ought to know wild places can be dangerous.”
Watching from the shadows of the forest, the girl smiled to herself. She knew wild places could be dangerous. She also knew they could be fiercely compelling—like the man who stood behind her. She could feel his breath rustle her hair. She could smell the warm musk of sweat and leather.
Sister Goliath took several menacing strides toward the verge of the clearing, peered into the dense curtain of foliage and bellowed, “Cecilia!”
The man clutched his horse’s bridle and instinctively brought one hand up to clap over the girl’s mouth. He could not take the chance that she might betray him. She did not struggle as he pressed her back against him, but yielded as to a lover’s embrace. The warrior suddenly remembered how long it had been since he’d held a woman. His body ached with the pleasure of it. His breath quickened. A strange chill rippled up his back. Was it excitement?
Or fear?
The nun glowered into the trees. Apparently, her sun-accustomed eyes could not penetrate the green shadows of the forest. “It’s no use,” she barked at the novice. “We’ll have to call out the others to help us look.” With a snort of exasperation, she lumbered off.
As she watched Sister Goliath turn away, a dizzy wave of relief broke over the girl. For an instant she savored the masterful feel of the man’s arm about her, his hand firmly covering her lips. If Fulke DeBoissard had ever taken such liberties with her, she’d have laid him out cold. But this man was nothing like her odious suitor. Indeed, in the few moments of their acquaintance she’d sensed with fierce certainty that he was like no man she had ever known.
Much as she enjoyed the close contact, however, part of her took offense at the man’s presumption. She could hold her tongue well enough without his help. If she had wished to raise an alarm, six stout Crusaders could not have stopped her. She’d teach this bold fellow to underestimate her.
Parting her lips slightly, she ran her tongue over the flesh of his fingers. The man jerked his hand away as though she’d spat hot coals into his palm. She skipped out of arm’s reach with a puckish chuckle.
“I’d better catch up with them,” she whispered gleefully, “before they have the whole priory swarming this place. Stay in the woods until you hear the bell for midday Mass. Then you can both come out and eat your fill.” She pointed to the west. “There’s a stream over that way, where you can drink.”
Lunging forward, the man caught her hand. “My thanks for this aid, lady. I hope I haven’t got you into trouble.” He nodded toward the waning sound of Sister Goliath’s scolding.
Amber sparks of mischief glinted in the girl’s deep-set brown eyes. She flashed him a smile, blinding in its radiance. “Oh, I’m used to it.”
With hardly a rustle of the leaves, she was gone. For an instant her presence seemed to shimmer in the spot where she had stood, bright and elusive as a shaft of sunlight.
“Sister Gertha! Here I am, Sister!” she called. Kilting her habit to her knees, she bounded through the garden.
The tall black bulk of the nun loomed over her at the entrance to the garden clearing. “Where did you get off to, you vexing girl? I was about to raise the alarm. How many times have I told you? You can’t be too careful these days, even out here. Stay with the others. Don’t go wandering into the woods after every butterfly or whiff of wildflowers.”
“I’m sorry, Sister Gertha,” blurted the girl. “I had to relieve myself and I didn’t think I could make it back to the privy in time.”
This frank excuse left the big nun temporarily speechless. Finally she managed to sputter, “Well, I never did hear such immodest talk! Hurry on now, or we’ll be late for Mass.”
The girl knew he must be listening. It brought a tingle of warmth to her loins, speaking of such intimate matters in his hearing. She gave a brazen toss of her head and grinned at her own audacity. Striding up the path to the chapel, invigorated by her little adventure, she began to wonder about the identity of her fugitive. He must be King Stephen’s man, going so stealthily through lands loyal to the Empress. If so, she’d given aid to the enemy. Try as she might, she could not make herself regret it.
Watching from the safety of the forest, the man had to clap a hand over his own mouth to stifle a hoot of laughter. When the glade was deserted once again, and the Angelus bell had begun to peal from the distant priory tower, he reached up and absently scratched his horse behind the ear. Half to himself and half to his mount, he chuckled, “They’ll never make a nun out of that one. But pity the poor fool who takes such a creature to wive!”
Six weeks later, on a stifling afternoon in early September, Cecily Tyrell answered another summons from Mother Ermintrude. Uncertain which recent transgression had landed her there, she entered the prioress’ parlor in an attitude of extravagant contrition.
Mother Ermintrude glanced up from her breviary. “Cecily, come in, my child. We must talk, you and I.”
Was it a good sign or a bad, the girl wondered—the prioress calling her by her English name instead of the Latin Cecilia? Having little use for the insipid saint on whose feast day she’d been born, Cecily Tyrell hated being called Cecilia. She never could imagine herself going meekly to martyrdom, singing hymns.
“If it’s about that business with Sister Veronica,” she burst out, “I’ve apologized, I’ve confessed and I’ve done my penance thoroughly. I just couldn’t believe she had no notion of how men are…well…equipped. I never expected the little goose to faint dead away when I told her. I wonder if Sister Veronica isn’t a bit too delicate for God’s work—”
The prioress’ firm, practical lips twitched. She gestured to a low stool near her own chair. “This has nothing to do with Sister Veronica, nor with the hedgehog you smuggled into chapel last week.”
Cecily reddened. “How did you know about that? Even Sister