White as whey, she was scrambling to her feet, almost tripping over her threadbare habit in her haste to get round him, to reach the door.
Heart sinking, Adam caught at her wrist, and she stilled in mid-step, looking back at him. No, she would not even meet his eyes. She was looking past him at a naked Eve on the carved rood screen, eyes wide and full of fear.
‘Sir Adam! I…I’m sorry if I kept you. I…I thought you were still at the Palace.’ She tugged against his hold, edging them both back into the stream of pilgrims pouring out into the relative brightness of the Close.
Refusing to release her, Adam did, however, surrender to the desperation in her eyes and allowed himself to be drawn along. They emerged, blinking, in the cobbled forecourt, where a feeble November sun was struggling to get through the cloud. Free of incense and candle-smoke, the fresh air raised goosebumps on his neck.
Richard was lounging against the wall where he’d left him, paring his nails with his dagger. On seeing them, he straightened and made to bring Adam his sword. Adam caught his eye and shook his head.
Cecily continued to draw him away from the Cathedral entrance, away from the pilgrims and the crush in the porch, and gradually her momentum slackened. Her eyes remained wide, but her cheeks had regained some of their colour, thank God. She tipped her head back to look up at him, and the hood of the cloak he had lent her fell back to reveal the grim novice’s wimple, the short grey veil.
Her eyes were as blue as forget-me-nots, her lashes long and dark. Her lips were trembling—rosy, kissable lips. Adam’s stomach clenched. Forgive me, Gwenn. This girl’s colouring was the opposite of Gwenn’s—Cecily of Fulford was tiny and fair, whereas Gwenn had been tall and dark. And until yesterday Gwenn’s dark colouring had been Adam’s model of beauty. But today…today…
Confused by his reaction to her, Adam looked down at Cecily Fulford and hoped she could not read his mind. He did not want her to know the extent to which her delicate beauty moved him. He would not grant her that much power. Why, even with the girl dressed like this, in a beggarly novice’s habit, he desired her. Perhaps he might begin by caressing her cheeks, by testing their softness…no, he would start by kissing those lips…
Hell’s teeth—how could he hope to court her when she regarded him in this manner? He might think her the prettiest girl in Wessex, but his Duke’s ambition and her family’s destruction lay between them. He must tread softly if he was to win her. And win her he would. He rubbed his forehead, wondering briefly how his mind had altered in the past few hours. When the little novice had first offered him her hand in exchange for her sister’s he had vowed to tread warily. He had thought to refuse her until he knew more of her character and her motives in offering to accompany them back to Fulford. But now—Adam gazed into the largest blue eyes he had ever seen and his mind was in ferment.
Forgive me, Gwenn.
‘My lady, you did ask to wed me,’ he reminded her. ‘Yet you regard me as though I were a monster. You did not regard me so in the convent. What have I done?’
She bit her lip, stared intently at the great door of the Cathedral, at the pilgrims filing out, and gave him no answer. Her bosom heaved as she dragged in a breath.
Adam set his jaw. Perhaps she had considered further and thought the gulf between them was impassable. Yes, that might be the sum of it. He did not only have to contend with the fact that he was an invader in her eyes; she had realised that she was gently born while he came from humble stock. Gripping her wrist more firmly, he tried again. ‘My lady…Cecily…I give you notice I have decided to accept your proposition—both your propositions, that is. I will marry you.’
His answer seemed to rouse her, for she stopped staring at the Cathedral entrance long enough to dart him a quick sideways look. ‘Aye, sir, as you wish.’ And with that her gaze returned to the door.
He shook his head. He was eternally grateful that his heart was not involved in this betrothal, but it was galling to have a woman hardly react when a man agreed to wed her. What was going on?
‘You make me very happy,’ he said dryly. ‘I must inform you that I have had a scribe write to the Duke saying formally that you will take your sister’s place. I will not change my mind. Do you think there can at least be amity between us?’
A swift nod, a cursory glance, and once again her eyes slid away from his, back to the great door.
Adam sighed and determinedly walked her round the outer wall of the north transept. She came meekly enough. In the lee of the wall they were, as he had hoped, shielded completely from watchful eyes and the noise and bustle of the forecourt. At the heart of Winchester, they had for a few moments a world to themselves—albeit a small one—bounded on one side by the wall of the Cathedral and on the other by a wooden fence the height of a man.
White teeth were worrying away at her bottom lip.
With careful determination, Adam manoeuvred her against the wall. When she offered no resistance, some of the tension began to leave him. And when he saw that the panic was dying from her eyes, he relaxed further, reaching up to touch her mouth, fingers as gentle as he could make them. She was so tiny. Next to her he felt huge and ungainly. ‘No need to eat yourself up with anxiety,’ he murmured, voice suddenly husky. ‘I know you are innocent, a maid. When we wed I will be gentle, take care of you.’
Her eyes were huge and fastened on his. He felt her tremble. Forgive me, Gwenn. Telling himself that Gwenn was not here, while this girl most definitely was, he slid his fingers across her cheek—so soft—and under the starched edge of her wimple. He held her head steady, keeping his touch light, and slowly, so she could have no doubt what he was about and could break free if she wished, he lowered his lips to hers.
Warm. Her lips were warm and sweet.
Adam wanted to linger, but he knew better. Pure—she is pure. Easing back after the lightest of kisses, careful to keep the rest of his body away from her, he looked into her face. Her expression was startled; her colour had risen; her breath was coming faster. But there was no fear—not of him. He’d wager Flame on that.
He smiled. ‘Lady Cecily, I make you this promise. I will marry you, but I will never force you. We shall wait to consummate our marriage until you are ready.’
‘I…I thank you, but I was not always in the convent. My mother explained something of the duties of a wife to me. Our marriage will not be a true one unless it is consummated. I will not refuse you, sir.’
More reassured by her words than he cared to admit, Adam stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers, and was startled to realise that his heartbeat was not as steady as it should be. Which was odd, given that she was the one lacking in experience, not he. ‘Adam—my name is Adam,’ he reminded her once again. ‘And, since you are my betrothed, it is not unseemly for you to address me by it.’
‘Adam.’
Her cheeks had gone the colour of wild roses. She lowered her gaze, but Adam would have none of that. He looked at her mouth, aching for another, deeper kiss. This was just lust, he told himself. It had been an age since he had loved his Gwenn. The tender feeling he had for this girl was not dawning love, it was mere lust. He wanted to kiss her and he would kiss her. It did not mean anything—not as it had done with Gwenn. He could kiss Cecily Fulford without putting his heart at risk. He tipped her chin up. ‘Kiss me again, little Cecily.’
‘If you would free me, S…Adam.’
Belatedly Adam remembered his hold on her wrist. He opened his fingers. ‘My apologies. I did not mean to constrain you.’
Shyly, she smiled and looked at his mouth.
Their lips met. This kiss began innocently, as the first one had, with no more than their lips touching. Adam withdrew, then kissed her again. And again. Light kiss after light kiss. Another, another.
Cecily stood passive under his measured onslaught, and then, when Adam felt his control was about to snap—for he burned to sweep her into his