Sanctuary of Roses (Medieval Herb Garden 2)

Her world spinning, Madelyne kissed him back, tasting him, tentatively caressing his mouth while his lips devoured hers-demanding from them, from her-leaving her breathless and her eyelids weighted closed. A fiery heat built within her, surging into her middle and down, lower, to pool ther

e where they fitted, hip to hip.

One of his arms slid to the base of her back, crushing her close, lifting her up against him as his mouth continued to coax and caress hers. She felt a thrill of surprise when his tongue slipped inside her, bringing all the heat and sleekness of his desire. He sighed into her, giving a short shudder, and dragged his lips away with a soft, deep-throated moan.

Gavin stared down at her, breathing heavily, his fingers sliding from the back of her neck to rest on her upper arms. He gazed at her for a long moment with hazy eyes, a myriad of emotions playing across his face before the harshness settled there again.

"As I said, Lady Madelyne, a fool is not all that I think of you. " His words were rough and hard. He continued to look at her with eyes that had cleared and flattened to match his tone as he gathered up Rule's reins. "I'll not apologize for that-nay-but I'll see that it does not happen again. Now, you will put your misguided self into my passable care until we reach Prentiss Keep, and then we shall start off for the king's court with a rested band of men and no more of my transgressions. "

Chapter Eleven

Fantin's howl of rage ricocheted off the walls of the small room, followed by the clatter of tin goblets, eating knives, and metal platters as they tumbled to the floor. "Imbeciles!" he shouted, eyes bulging as he stalked fore and aft amongst his men. "Each of you! All imbeciles!"

He could not even take pleasure in the way they cowered before him, for pure rage empurpled his vision. Madelyne had been within his grasp. . . the Stone so close he could taste its power. . . and now he sat empty-handed in some bloody, primitive tavern with naught but godless cretins to serve him. Unblessed, they were, and he, foolish as he was, had brought them into his employ, thinking to share with them some benefit of the Gift once it was his. But now, nay. Nay.

"Out of my sight! All of you!" he ordered, heedless of the proprietor's worried face peaking around the doorway.

The men fled-those who were left of the thirteen-and Fantin slumped in his chair, fighting to regain clarity over the haze of fury that fogged his faculties. These rages that befell him at moments such as this, and with more frequency now that he came closer to the fruits of his labor, affrighted him with their vehemence and strength. Rufus had cautioned him to work to control them, else he might become too impatient and suffer God's displeasure. Thus, Fantin raised his eyes to the heavens and prayed for a moment, allowing the comfort of this familiarity to wash over him.

He barely finished his words of supplication when his mind wandered back to the moment. . . the moment when he had seen her, seen the girl and recognized her-before slipping away from the small battle to allow his men to finish. In an attempt to maintain anonymity, he'd left the actual seizure of Madelyne to his trusted man Arneth, choosing to keep for himself the pleasure of killing Mal Verne-of putting an end to the man who stood always betwixt Fantin and his work. But to his surprise and fury, the bloody coward had not been present when the ambush took place.

God's bloody teeth! The fury threatened to rise within Fantin again, rattling his nerves and stringing his muscles tightly. How could he have come so close, only to have her swept away? Never again. Never again could he trust those fools to do what he must do for himself!

His fist closed around a knife and he stabbed it into the scarred wooden table, burying it as deep as the first digit of his finger. His shuddering breathing rasped in the sudden silence, and his fingers opened and closed, opened and closed around the hilt of the knife.

His breathing slowed again, and at last he was able to reach for his goblet of wine-he disdained ale, for it was the drink of mean serfs-and drink heavily, draining it with several gulps.

Could he have been wrong? Could he and Rufus have misunderstood?

Or. . . mayhap it was another test.

Aye. Another test. He nodded and sank to the floor, to his knees, to prostrate himself there.

He must ask forgiveness. . . for failing. For allowing the bloody heathen Mal Verne to best him. For allowing his rival to once again stand in his way, to keep him from completing his work.

The stone floor bit into his knees, but Fantin reveled in the pain. He knew he must bear it, enjoy it, worship it. He must find some other painful penance to bear, now that he had failed his God again.

Curling his fingers into the edge of the rough table, Fantin dropped his forehead to the wood with a loud and painful thump and stared down at the floor with vacant eyes, praying, begging, pleading. . . silently and violently. . . for something. For God to speak to him, to guide him.

Tears filled his eyes. He tried so hard. . . so hard to be the man God had chosen him to be. To fulfill his destiny. To be all that God wished him to be. A drop fell to the floor, dampening the dust below, and seeping into nothingness.

At last, when he looked up, he saw a flicker of movement at the doorway-the wisp of a skirt as it fluttered past. "Hail! Wench!" he called, suddenly thirsty. . . and famished.

The skirt paused and returned to view, and with it came a comely wench with a low-cut, but soiled, bodice. She sauntered in to the room. Obviously she was either unaware of his high ire only moments before, or, now that it had subsided, was unafraid.

"My lord, how may I-a be helpin' ye?" She flashed him a coy smile and came to stand next to his table, generously showing her cleavage to its best advantage.

The ample mounds of her pushed-up bosom threatened to erupt from the tight bodice, and he saw them vibrate with her movements.

And he knew.

God had responded to his pleadings. Here was his penance. "Come hither, my lovey," he invited in his smooth, rich voice. He smiled.

She bent forward, and, eyeing her cleavage, he reached to slip a long finger into the deep crevice between the globes. She allowed him to slide his hand down to cup a heavy weight, sighing and smiling in the same way all whores did. . . the way Nicola had, and Retna.

"Eey, my lord, I see what 'tis y'r wishin' for. " She grinned, showing three holes where teeth had been and moving around the table to stand next to him. "Wit' such fingers as you have, I can bet at the pleasure you give. An' let's see what we have to work with, now. "

"Aye. . . let us indeed. " Fantin did not relish taking the filthy whore to his bed. . . but 'twas God's will, and, in truth, his desire flared there beneath the table. After doing this task, he would serve his penance and mete out the punishment God had chosen. . . upon himself and the woman.