Scoundrel of Dunborough by Margaret Moore

me. Not after that kiss in the courtyard.”
    Celeste wrenched herself free and fled into the main room. She grabbed the bronze candleholder and raised it like a cudgel. “Stay away from me, Gerrard!” she cried as he appeared in the doorway.
    “Don’t be a fool, Celeste. Put that down and—”
    “Don’t say another word!” she ordered. “I will
not
go back to the castle with you, tonight or at any time. You
are
a rogue and lustful scoundrel! I could not rest easy knowing a man like you was anywhere nearby. I will gladly risk thieves and brigands rather than fall prey to your lust.”
    “So you’d prefer to hazard murder?”
    Years ago she had watched his father walk through the village with the coldest, hardest expression she had ever thought to see on a man’s face, until today. Until now.
    But she would feel no remorse, no regret for her impetuous words. Gerrard was not the boy she remembered, or the man she’d hoped he’d be.
    “I’ll take that chance,” she replied, fighting to keep her voice level and her face free of emotion. “If you’re at all sincere in your concern for my safety in this house, you can send guards.”
    He crossed his arms as if trying to contain his anger. “Have it your way, Sister. I am the evil, lustful son of Sir Blane of Dunborough and you are the holy virgin of Saint Agatha’s.” His lip curled with scorn. “Who dresses like a courtesan and kisses like a—”
    “Get out!” she cried, before he could finish. Before he could insult her more.
    “Gladly!” He turned to go, then looked back at her over his shoulder. “Don’t forget to lock the door after me, though. I wouldn’t want you to blame me if you’re robbed. Or worse.”
    With that, he went out, slamming the door behind him.
    Celeste dropped the candleholder and hurried to turn the lock, then gathered up her skirts and ran back to the bedchamber. She tore off the veil, struggled out of the gown, went down on her knees, clasped her hands together and began to pray.
    She had been a fool, like the most vain and silly of women, to put on that gown.
    She was going to be a nun.
    She had to be a nun if she was going to have a life of peace and contentment. She had heard the stories of girls whose lives had been destroyed by lustful, selfish men, such as Esmerelda.
    And her own poor mother.
    * * *
    “You there!”
    Verdan and Lizabet sprang apart as Gerrard marched toward them.
    “Sir?” Verdan said, obviously girding himself for a reprimand.
    Disgruntled though he was, Gerrard wasn’t angry at the soldier, who was not on duty, or the maidservant with him. If anyone deserved to be chastised, it was he. He shouldn’t have gone to fetch Celeste himself. He should have sent a whole patrol. Then she
might
have been more willing.
    Except then those men would also have seen her in that astonishing gown. It had fit her perfectly and emphasized her narrow waist and full breasts, exposing just enough of her cleavage to make him want to see more.
    He shouldn’t think about that gown.
    “Find the sergeant at arms,” he ordered Verdan, “and tell Ralph I want two men sent to guard the D’Orleau house, one at the front, one at the back, every night until I say otherwise.”
    “Aye, sir!”
    Gerrard looked at Lizabet, who drew back as if she feared he was going to strike her. He had never in his life hit a woman. However, given his family’s reputation, he shouldn’t be surprised that a woman would fear him when he was angry.
    It was bad enough that Celeste, and apparently everyone else, believed he was a sinful satyr unable to control his lust. It was worse, though, that anyone would believe he was capable of cruelty, like his father.
    He forced himself to speak with calm deliberation. “Since Sister Augustine still doesn’t wish to return, you’ll go to her in the morning and stay until the evening meal, doing laundry or cooking or whatever is required. You will do so for the few days that she’s here, or until