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. Besides, 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.”
Cecily secured hers in place. “I had no notion you were such an able conspirator, Sister.”
The nun shrugged her wide shoulders. “There are many things you would little guess about me, Mistress Cecilia. Back at Wenwith, I know you thought me an ogre, preaching strict adherence to rules. I meant it for you own good, though.”
“Thank you for helping us.” Cecily did not trust herself to say more.
Sister Gertha swept a critical eye over John. “The veil does help. Tuck each hand into your opposite sleeve so no one will wonder at the hair on them. Now, heads down modestly and follow me. If we are stopped on any account, let me do the talking.”
“Aye, Sister.” Cecily fell in step behind her. Glancing back, she saw John bringing up the rear.
After a word with the portress, they were soon beyond the cloisters of Boulton and on the road to Cirencester. Cecily tensed every time a rider overtook them, but no one paid much heed to three nuns. As they entered town by one of the old Roman roads that crossed through it, she overheard someone inquiring loudly about an abducted bride.
So that was the story Lord Ranulf had put out. It took every crumb of willpower to keep from proclaiming that Beauchamp himself had been her abductor.
They passed through town unmarked and out the other side, with the Gloucester border beckoning them.
“Here I must take my leave of you and head south,” said Sister Gertha when they reached the next crossroad. “Can you get the rest of the way on your own?”
“Aye, Sister.” John thrust out his hand and the two exchanged a hearty shake. “I promise I will see Mistress Tyrell safely to her destination.”
By the look she gave him, it was clear Sister Gertha guessed he would be one of Cecily’s greatest threats. To her peace of mind, at least.
Wenwith’s Mistress of Novices drew Cecily aside for a final few words of parting. “I was every bit as wild and adventurous as you in my youth, Cecilia Tyrell.” She glanced back at John FitzCourtenay and lowered her voice still further. “I paid a high price for my heedless ways. Don’t repeat my mistakes, child. Think before you act, else you may do harm that can never be undone.”
“I’ll try, Sister Gertha. Indeed I will.”
The nun dropped a brusque kiss on Cecily’s forehead. “See that you do, child. And may God go with you.”
Cecily watched her walk away until she was out of sight, prepared to wave if Sister Gertha glanced back. Mindful, perhaps, of the fate of Lot’s wife, she never did.
“Is it much farther?” To Rowan’s ears, the lass’s question sounded more like a plea.
“Not much,” he assured her. “Over this next rise and we should be able to see Ravensridge across the Vale of Stroud.”
Glad he would be to see it, too, after the past week. Buttressed from attack by his own stout walls. With plentiful food and drink. A bed where he could sleep secure and soundly. His own clothes.
“If I don’t soon shed this nun’s habit, I will roast like a joint of mutton,” he muttered aloud.
“It is hot,” Cecily agreed. “We are fortunate not to have been caught in bright sunshine.”
How like her to find the crumb of consolation in any predicament.
He chuckled. “That I will grant you. Now, if these clouds would only deliver on their promise of rain…”
“We might be soaked to the bone and wading in a sea of mud.” She paused for a moment on the rising road to catch her breath. “Let us make the best of our condition and not pine too much for a change that might bring worse fortune upon us.”
Steeling herself for the final effort, she set off again, walking more stiffly with every step she took.
The sight made Rowan long for another chance to throttle old Ranulf Beauchamp. Eager as he was to reach home, he slowed his pace to match Cecily’s. They struggled the final furlong, not sparing any precious breath for speech.
What was she thinking, though? Rowan wondered. Was she eager to reach Ravensridge and embrace her fate? Or was she tempted to abandon all her plans and responsibilities for his sake?
It seemed possible, judging by what she’d said and how she’d reacted to his overtures.
But he had been deceived before.
Could it be she was leading John FitzCourtenay on, pretending to care but resisting a true commitment, in order to secure his services as her escort? Before they reached Ravensridge, he must coax her into some kind of declaration. Otherwise he would never be able to trust the sincerity of her feelings for him.
Their steps weaving from the effort, they reached the crest of that last hill. Before them lay the Vale of Stroud, its fields long since harvested and gleaned. Livestock grazed on whatever remained, being fattened for the winter slaughter. Gnarled apple and plum trees drooped under the weight of their ripe burden of fruit.
The moist, heavy air oozed an oversweet fragrance of abundance that foretold decay.
Across the valley, on the opposite hillside, loomed the ramparts of Ravensridge. As ever, the first glimpse of it after an absence both beckoned and repelled Rowan.
Cecily slumped against him. Following her gaze, he could tell she saw the castle. And understood its import.
“There were times I wondered if we would ever reach here.” Was she trying to tell him something, or was she simply giving voice to the qualms she’d suppressed during their journey?
When she lifted her face to him, Rowan no longer needed to wonder. “I could not have made it this far on my own, John. Thank you.”
Pulling aside the half veil, she offered him a wan smile of gratitude.
A heavy drop of rain plummeted from the sky and embedded itself in the dust of the road.
Rowan pulled off his veil, then the head-rail and coverchief. “Beauchamp’s searchers would not dare venture so near Ravensridge. At least not in broad daylight.” He struggled out of the habit.
The warm breeze played over his bare chest and shoulders, like the breath of an avid paramour. More drops of rain kissed his thatch of sweaty hair. One trickled down his back to the waist of his breeches, setting him deliciously ashiver.
Cecily removed her borrowed head gear, lifting her face to the sky. Eyes closed, she seemed to savor the cool moisture from heaven. One raindrop landed on the tip of her nose, then glided down the indent of her lip. Was caught on the pink tongue that darted out. She made that little noise in her throat, the one she’d made in the priory cellar when he’d petted her breasts.
Like a flint struck to oil-soaked tinder, that faint sound kindled a bonfire of passion within Rowan. He could not remember when he had banked his desire for a woman so long without seeking satisfaction.
Memories from their journey stirred to life, adding fuel to a blaze that already threatened to flare out of control. Every glimpse of her body. Every touch, scent and flavor. And most of all, those sweetly bedeviling sounds that whispered of an answering hunger within her, even when her words belied it.
Catching her hand, he drew her into a grove of beech trees beside the road. So intent upon the tempest within himself, Rowan scarcely noticed the storm gathering force around them.
“Get you out of this.” He tugged the rusty black habit off of her, revealing the soft linen kirtle she’d been given at Lambourn. “Wouldn’t want folks to think I’d accost a nun.” When he laughed, his breath came ragged.
“Do you mean to accost me, Master John?” A merry challenge twinkled in her eyes, brown as freshly turned earth sown with gold dust.
Rowan read something else in her gaze—a hint of fear. Though not of him, unless he was mistaken. For him there beamed a deep, unwavering trust. Would that disappear when she discovered he was Rowan DeCourtenay—a man whose hands were stained with one wife’s blood already?
Before her feelings for him underwent that test, he had to be certain of them.
“Aye, I mean to accost you, Cecily Tyrell. But only if you give me leave.”
Her lips parted to reply. Rowan stilled them with his own. Full and red as ripe pomegranates, they tasted just as sweet. Just as provocatively tart.
“Not with words,” he murmured between kisses. Words might lie, as he’d learned to his torment. Actions spoke the truth. “Show me whether or not you want me, Cecily. Show me whether or not you…love me.”
The rain gathered force, cascading down upon them. It played a whispering melody in the beech leaves. Like a heaven-sent baptism, it scoured Rowan clean of old hurts, old wrongs.
He drew back to take in the sight of her. What he saw stoked the fire that blazed in his loins. Drenched with rain, the light, pale linen of her kirtle was plastered against her skin. It clung bewitchingly to every succulent ripening curve of her flesh.
There was not enough rain in heaven to quench the heat of his desire for this woman.
His gaze rose to meet hers. To discover the answer to his question. What he saw confounded him.
Raindrops hung upon her lashes, like tiny perfect jewels. But the beads of moisture that glided down her cheeks had not fallen from the sky. If he dared to taste them, Rowan knew he would find them warm and salty.
Like a treacherous strike from behind, the sight drove Rowan to his knees. He grappled with Cecily to keep himself from pitching to the ground. His face pressed into the cleft between her breasts and his arms encircled her hips.
“Dear God, lass, don’t look at me so! Did I not say it would be your own choice? Cast me aside if you cannot love me, but don’t look on me with fear.”
She raised a hand to his hair, her fingers playing through it, gently urging him closer. For a moment her body seemed to melt against him, eager to mingle her flesh with his. It stiffened again at his words. Had he said anything so terrible?
Rowan gasped with shock and pain as her fingers twined in his hair and wrenched his head back.
“Damn you, FitzCourtenay, you are a devil! Why could you not just take what you wanted? Why must you make me choose? Can you not see it will tear me apart? Or do you not care?”
If she had suddenly drawn a dagger and plunged it into his bowels, Rowan would not have been more astounded. Or dismayed. The speed and intensity of his feelings for Cecily had rocked him to the core. He’d been so intent upon protecting his own heart, he had not stopped to consider the anguish he might be inflicting upon her by posing such a choice.
Before he could declare himself and set her mind at ease, she had pushed him away and run off down the road toward Ravensridge.
Picking himself up from the mud, he set off after her. Had he spoiled any chance he might’ve had with Cecily?
Rowan feared so.