What did it mean that she was called to the side of the king? Verily, he could not mean to send her back to her father. A sudden fear squeezed her middle. Why would he not? What other reason would there be that he ordered her to attend him? Nausea roiled in her stomach.
Dear God, I prithee, do You not send me back to my father. My Father in Heaven…Blessed Virgin…have mercy on me! Suddenly, the words came with fervor, and Madelyne opened her eyes to look up at the wooden crucifix and prayed.
Her thoughts shifted then again. And this man…this man who took her, who had somehow identified her… Heavenly Father, protect me from him. I will make my promise to You, speak my final vows with no further delay if You see fit to return me to the Abbey.
Even as she prayed these platitudes, Madelyne knew she had to put aside the strange, bubbling feelings that Gavin of Mal Verne evoked in her. He could mean naught to her.
In sooth, she had no desire to feel for him, to live in his world. The Abbey allowed her the freedom to learn and to exist almost as a man, though cloistered. And now, this man threatened the path that she had followed for a decade, merely by appearing in her life with his power and command. She’d begun already to forget the admonishments her mother had impressed upon her, the warnings of the controlling, all-powerful hold a man had on a woman. Fascination and a deep, stirring need to know him had intervened quietly and subtly, and now Madelyne feared she would be lost.
Her hand shook as she remembered the fluttering in her belly as she sat encased in his arms, the horse jolting her against him with perfect rhythm until she had forced herself to sit uncomfortably upright. The smell of leather and the unfamiliar scent of maleness, of sweat and horse and clean chain mail, still lingered in her memory, as did the image of his strong, tanned hands holding the reins in front of her.
Madelyne took a deep, shuddering breath. She could not allow herself to feel this way. Any emotion toward this man was naught but her own naiveté, and was bound to be naught but a weak battering ram slamming against the stone wall of an arrogant, unfeeling man.
“What sin could you have committed this day that should bring you here such a late hour?”
Madelyne whipped her head around as her heart leapt into her throat. ’Twas as if her thoughts had conjured up the man, and now he stood just in the doorway of the chapel. Her limbs jittering from the startle, and her stomach roiling with guilt at being caught thinking of him, she pulled herself to her feet with slow, deliberate movements.
“Sin?” she asked calmly, tucking her hands into the sleeves of her gown to hide their trembling. “Nay, ’twas not a sin about which I spoke to God,” she lied, mentally noting that she had yet another reason to seek a confessional anon. “’Twas for the soul of men like yourself, who have the hearts and lives of a warrior, and live only by bloodshed and power, and who destroy the lives of others without thought.” She spoke flippantly, carelessly, of her own situation, so as to seem undisturbed. But when she saw his face blanch, she realized she had struck him as if with the self-same sword he carried in his belt.
His face hardened, and in the flickering light of the chapel, it settled like stone in an ominous mask, and for a moment, she was afraid. Then, she saw the pain under the steeliness in his eyes, and she closed her eyes briefly as her fear settled.
“Oh, my lady—Sister—’twas not without thought that I came to draw you from the abbey. ’Twas only after much thought that I chose to…destroy your life, as you have stated so bluntly.”
“I did not mean to offend, my lord,” she spoke quickly, unable to hold back the honest response to his obvious hurt. The first time she’d seen a change in that stony expression. “I truly do pray for your soul, and that of others like you.”
A bitter laugh grated in the stillness. “Aye, my soul is indeed in great need of such concern.”
He stepped toward her, and she had to make a conscious effort not to retreat. “Now, my lady—Sister Madelyne—we are up with the sun and in the saddle anon, and I shall not be as accommodating as my man Clem was to your maid if you should collapse in exhaustion. ’Tis time to return to your bed.” He looked at her closely. “And do you not wander at night alone, else you wish to find yourself in need of more than a chapel for protection.”
His meaning dawned on her, and she looked up at him in shock. “But, my lord, your men would not—”
“Only a fool believes he knows what a man would or would not do, especially when confronted with a beautiful woman.”
Madelyne’s heart bumped out of rhythm, then realigned itself. He did not mean it, she knew, that she was a beautiful woman. He only meant to warn her of her carelessness. And, indeed, she had been foolish to wander unescorted through the monastery. “I will return to my bed, then, my lord.”
Lord Mal Verne stepped toward her and, to her surprise, offered her his arm. “And I will escort you so as to assure myself that you return unharmed. And that you plan no further tricks.”
She reluctantly slipped her fingers around his forearm as she remembered seeing her mother do many years ago at Tricourten. Although her hand barely rested there, she was acutely conscious of the feel of the well-woven linen of his sleeve, and the steadiness of his arm beneath it. Her skirt brushed against his legs as they walked at a comfortably brisk pace back to the women’s chambers.
When they reached the entrance to the chambers, Mal Verne stopped, pausing in front of the door, but making no move to open it. He looked down at her as she pulled her hand from his arm, and Madelyne found herself trapped by his gaze. Something glittered there, in the depths of his eyes, and it made her unable to breathe as they stood in a lengthening silence.
“Do you ever wear your veil—even to sleep?” he asked finally, reaching out a hand as if to touch it.
Unsettled by his odd question, Madelyne looked away, breaking their eye contact and the tension between them. His hand dropped back to his side, but he continued to look down at her. “Nay, my lord.” She stepped back from him and raised her face to look up at him again, confused by his words.
She was shocked when his mouth curved into the slightest of smiles, chagrin lighting his eyes. “I have always suffered from the basest of curiosities…and I merely wondered at the color of your hair, that which you keep so well-hidden.” Then, a flash of horror widened his eyes, but was immediately gone to be replaced by familiar, hard cynicism. “Unless ’tis the custom of the nuns at Lock Rose Abbey to shave their heads.”
“Only those who have taken their final vows partake of that custom,” Madelyne replied, suddenly glad that she had not yet done so. “My head is not shaved. And my hair is dark.” She knew that only because it was long enough that the heavy braid she wore fell over her shoulder down to her waist, for she’d not seen herself in a looking glass since arriving at the abbey.
He stilled. “You are not a nun?”
“I will be a nun when I am returned to Lock Rose Abbey,” she told him firmly, hiding her clenched fingers in the folds of her gown.
“Aye. When you are returned to the abbey.” He turned abruptly and opened the door to her chamber, gesturing for her to enter. “I shall see you on the morrow, Lady Madelyne. I wish you a well-deserved night’s slumber.”
Fantin was mixing healing earth, dry apple wood ash, and chipped fragments of rubies when the sign he’d been praying for became known to him.
“My lord,” the squire said nervously, executing an impeccable bow, “this missive has just arrived.”
Turning away from the table at which he worked, Fantin dunked his hands into a small basin of water he kept for such a purpose. He did not abide dirt under his fingers, or stains on his clothing, or spills on his floor or tables—and most definitely did not allow his correspondence to have ink smears or blood specks.