Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero by Glynnis Campbell

mite too thin…”
    Cynthia stole another glance at him just as his tongue flicked out to lick the corner of his lip. She shouldn’t have. The sight made her stomach quiver.
    “And,” Elspeth added, “a mite too handsome for his own good.”
    Cynthia choked on her wine.
    “Too much rue in the wine?” Elspeth asked, her face pinched in concern.
    Cynthia shook her head, burying a cough in her linen napkin.
    “Of course,” Elspeth allowed, “he’s quiet because he’s under a vow of silence. And he’s thin because we’ve yet to fatten him up on Cook’s fine suppers. As for being handsome…”
    Cynthia slid her gaze toward Garth again. Lord, he was that. Even the way he tucked a morsel of capon into his mouth, chewing with sensual patience… She gave Elspeth a weak smile. Her voice came out in a strained whisper. “I hardly think a man can be faulted for his looks.”
    Elspeth snapped her gaze back to Cynthia, who set aside her wine, too edgy to drink.
    She only toyed with her food as well, and by the serving of the third course, she wondered if she’d ever regain her appetite. It was only nerves, she told herself. She hadn’t seen the de Wares since she was a child, and she wanted to impress Garth, that was all.
    It couldn’t be anything else. After all, Garth was a priest now. He commanded a certain deference. And while the Bible did not expressly forbid friendships between men of the cloth and noblewomen, the church certainly did not encourage them. Moreover, Garth had come from a monastery, where the doctrine was much more stringent. After four years, he was probably completely unused to the company of women. Perhaps that was why he seemed so…restless.
    But it hadn’t always been so. Once he’d been quite another person.
    “El,” she said, running a thumbnail over the grapes carved into her pewter chalice, “did I ever tell you about my noble champion in the enchanted garden?”
    Without risking another glance at Garth, she recounted the whole tale—the jasmine, the swarm of bees, and her gallant hero with the smoky green eyes that were mocking and kind all at once. Elspeth hung on her every word.
    Afterward, the maid leaned forward expectantly. “Is it true, my lady? And did you…did you love him?”
    “I don’t know. I was only a child. But at the time, I surely wished to marry him.”
    Elspeth seemed like to burst with excitement. “Well, tell me, lass. Whatever became of the lad?”
    Cynthia almost wished she hadn’t shared the tale, for it certainly didn’t have a happy ending. She picked a crumb from her lap.
    “He’s here, El,” she whispered.
    “Here?” Elspeth scanned the great hall, her eyes aglow. “In the castle?”
    “Aye.” She flashed Elspeth a bittersweet smile. “I’d forgotten all about him. It was the day my mother died, you see. But then the bee sting today reminded me—“
    “Bee sting?”
    “Aye,” she said, frowning thoughtfully at her trencher. “I was stung by a bee in the chapel. And when I turned round, there he was.”
    “The bee?”
    “Nay,” she replied, chuckling. “The boy from the garden.”
    “In the chapel?”
    “Aye.” She peered at Garth over her chalice’s edge. She would never forget how he’d looked storming in through the chapel door, all dark and wild and gallant.
    “But how did he come to be here, my lady?” Elspeth asked.
    “Hmm?” Garth’s hand looked massive as he wrapped it around his cup of wine. Massive but gentle. She wondered if it was rough or smooth. “Oh. The Abbot brought him.” She took a small sip of her wine, which might have been goat piss, for all the attention she paid it.
    Elspeth took a long drink, then screwed up her forehead in puzzlement. “But, my lady, the Abbot brought only…” Her eyes widened. It was her turn to gag on the wine.
    Cynthia gave her maidservant a few hearty whacks on the back, which seemed only to aggravate her condition, before Elspeth waved her away.
    The old woman spoke