My Lady De Burgh. Deborah Simmons

      The abbess’s expression reflected her concern. “Surely, you are not suggesting that one of our own murdered Elisa?” she asked.

      Robin rose to his feet. “We are simply exploring all possibilities, Reverend Abbess,” he explained. “And although we might deem it unlikely, we must remember that not all nuns are as devoted as you are. Although we might wish otherwise, they are afflicted with the same jealousies and passions as laywomen,” he said, with a sidelong glance toward a certain passionate novice.

      The abbess frowned, obviously dismayed by his words, but Robin persisted. “Think carefully, and if you can remember any quarrels or suspicious incidents occurring among the residents here, please let me know,” he said.

      “I will,” the abbess promised, though she appeared none too pleased by the prospect.

      “We appreciate your cooperation,” Robin said to smooth things over. “I would also ask you if you have noticed any strangers about, anyone Elisa would have come in contact with?”

      The abbess paused thoughtfully before answering. “I have met with the usual clerics and freemen and travelers.” She shook her head, as if frustrated. “I fear that we have fallen into lax habits here. The nuns are often asked to make trips to the village and conduct business with those in the area. As I’m sure you realize, although we are a small order, the home farm requires much organization and employs many of the local people.”

      “Are there any who might hold a grudge against the nuns or Elisa in particular? Was there someone that she might have seen more of than was usual?” Robin asked, ignoring the low hiss of Sybil’s indrawn breath. But the abbess could only shake her head, uncomprehending of such violence or any lapses on the part of her flock.

      Robin spoke gently, hiding his frustration, but he had hoped that the abbess might be able to give him a hint, at least, as to the identity of the killer. So far, none but Maud would even admit that Elisa had had a relationship with a man, and all she could do was refer him to Sybil.

      Robin’s eyes narrowed. He had thought Maud’s bitter words a result of the rivalry between them, but he had heard more than once that Sybil and Elisa had been close, had seen it himself, as evidenced by her wild display of grief. And now he glared at the One with new suspicion. All along, he had suffered her presence, allowed her to stifle his questions, to keep the name of her dear departed friend from being sullied, and all along, she probably knew more about the death than anyone.

      Biting back a scowl, Robin turned his attention once more to the abbess, but it soon became clear that she could shed no further light upon the murder. Before dismissing her entirely, he asked if he might meet with the servants and people who worked on the lands owned by the nunnery, and she consented. It would be more than he could accomplish this day, of course, but right now Robin wasn’t concerned with the lay residents of the area. His gaze slid to the other occupant of the room in grim anticipation.

      First, he had a certain novice to question.

      Sybil watched the abbess preparing to leave and had to bite her tongue to stop herself from begging the nun to stay. And when the abbess actually stepped out the door, Sybil felt like running after her. It didn’t matter where she went as long as it was away—far away—from this man who so disturbed her. Sybil took a deep breath, her heart pounding with the revelations of the last hours. To her shame, few had anything to do with Elisa’s death. They had to do with him.

      He had a dimple.

      It was tucked into his left cheek, and appeared when he smiled just so, Sybil remembered with a kind of stunned surprise. And, not only that, he laughed! And not just any kind of laugh, mind you, but one so rich and deep and joyous that it seemed to melt something inside her. Sybil’s face flamed as she recalled just what this man was capable of doing to her insides, and the rest of her, as well.

      She wasn’t sure what was worse, the fact that she had stared up at him like a besotted ninny while he held her in his arms, or that she had willingly gone into them in the first place, pouring out her grief as if a dam had burst. The memory made Sybil feel ashamed, embarrassed, a fool, and yet, she knew she hadn’t thought so at the time. Tucked against that big, hard body, she had felt safe and warm for the first time in her life, as if she were home at last…. Sybil drew a ragged breath and shut her eyes against such nonsensical thoughts, but still the discoveries dismayed her.

      He smelled like wood smoke and leather and something indefinable, something that was singularly his, and it was the most wonderful scent Sybil had ever encountered. She wanted to bury her face in his tunic again and just breathe. And this time, she wouldn’t cry, she would wrap her arms around his strong body and…what? Sybil shook her head. She knew even less about men than she knew about murder, but she was learning.

      She had learned that this one possessed compassion. Despite all their heated exchanges, snapping at each other like dogs vying for the bone of the killer, when she had lost her composure entirely, he had enfolded her with his body, treated her to a gruff tenderness that made her weep all the more for the lack of it in her life.

      Oh, she had vague memories of sweet nuns, of being held in gentle arms, but who here would have helped her this day? The abbess and most of the nuns would have been appalled by her outburst. Some would have been frightened, some pitying, and a few might have stepped forward to try to aid her. But none could have given her what this strange man had offered: his arms and his strength and his comfort.

      When he had first arrived, Sybil had resented what Robin de Burgh could do to her; now she was heartily afraid of it. Before, she had had no idea what was lacking in her life, but now she knew, and she yearned for more with a fierceness that made her tremble. ’Twas a most dangerous desire, for comfort was not all that he gave her with his body. To Sybil’s horror, he also had roused in her a certain curiosity for something else in that hushed moment when all the world seemed to dim in the brightness of his being.

      His eyes, like some kind of sweet and heady syrup, had held her spellbound, while against her belly she had felt something hard. Sybil had recognized that it was a part of him, and the knowledge had thrilled her, filling her with a power she never knew existed. Her fingers had spread upon the hard expanse of his chest, and she had wanted to rise upon her toes, to somehow make herself closer…

      “Perhaps you would allow me the benefit of your knowledge?”

      The sound of that deep, harsh, intensely male voice nearly made her jump. “What?” Sybil said, swinging round to face him in stunned surprise. Surely, she had not heard him right! Could he tell what she was thinking?

      But the look upon his face was not one to lure her. Indeed, he wore a hard scowl that marred his beautiful features, hiding his dimple and his laughter, but that nevertheless could not mask the goodness in him. “Who was the man Elisa took an unseemly interest in?” he demanded.

      Sybil glared at him, revising her opinion, and not to the good. She refused to listen to any slurs upon Elisa’s name, especially an echo of Maud’s horrible slanders! But before she could protest, he stalked across the tiles and grasped her by the shoulders.

      “What are you hiding?” he asked, and Sybil knew she ought to spit in his face, but he was touching her, and the heat from his fingers blazed up and down her arms and all through her body until she felt unnaturally weak. Her anger at his insinuations faded away, replaced by a bizarre fascination with his lips. Considering the hard, wide planes of the rest of his face, they appeared soft and a shade lighter than his tanned face. From there her gaze drifted to his cheek, and when she found the spot where his dimple lay hidden, Sybil had to fight against a sudden urge to seek it out with her fingers—or her mouth.

      With a low moan that sounded suspiciously like an oath, Robin released her abruptly and turned his head away. “Were you meeting him, too? Is that why you conceal his identity?”

      He seemed unaccountably angry, but Sybil could only stare at him dumbfounded. He thought she was seeing a man? She didn’t know whether to laugh or to slap him in outrage.