Scoundrel Of Dunborough. Margaret Moore

to be in her hands as she clutched his shoulders to keep from falling, and to continue kissing him.

      Her desire increased, heating her blood and sending it throbbing through her body. This was the sort of passionate encounter some of the girls had talked of. Being with the men they loved, and how they’d felt in their arms.

      They hadn’t described the yearning building within her, the need for something more than lips on lips, or that a man might slide his hand along her arm and down her side, letting it rest on her hip before he began to slowly glide his palm up toward her breast.

      When Gerrard cupped her there, she opened her lips to gasp, and his tongue slid into her mouth—a shocking, unexpected act she had never heard of or imagined.

      Surprise and shame hit her like twin blows of a hammer.

      Horrified by her own weakness, she put her hands on his chest and shoved him away. She knew too well what men were like, how violent and angry they could get, yet it seemed she’d forgoteen everything for a moment’s fleeting pleasure. “Stop! How could you?”

      His brow furrowed, Gerrard spread his arms wide as he moved back. “I only meant to—”

      “What?” she demanded, hiding her regret and remorse behind anger of her own. “Seduce me?”

      His expression hardened and his lips became a grim, hard line, like Roland’s. Like Broderick’s and, yes, like their father’s. “No, that was not my intention.”

      “I am a nun!”

      “I forgot.”

      “Forgot?” she repeated incredulously, as if she’d never heard anything so ridiculous.

      “That’s the truth, whether you believe it or not,” he defensively replied. “And it wasn’t my idea to move farther back beneath the tree. It was you who led us here.”

      “I thought...” What had she been thinking? She had no explanation. Nevertheless, she gave him one. “I thought it would be more sheltered from the wind and so easier to talk. And that was no excuse to kiss me.”

      “I may have begun the kiss, but you were just as eager once I did.”

      “I was not!” she protested, although that was a lie. A terrible, shameful lie. “You caught me off guard.”

      He made a sweeping bow and his expression became a sort of mocking grin. She’d seen that look on his face before, but never had it been directed at her.

      She didn’t want to see it now, even if she had been in the wrong to accuse him so unjustly, and even if it was better than his anger.

      “I beg your forgiveness, Sister Augustine,” he said, his voice smooth and full of derision. “I promise I’ll never surprise you again. Now I give you good night and I hope you’ll have very pleasant dreams.”

      In spite of his sardonic attitude, she saw something else in his eyes that filled her with dismay and regret and shame. She had hurt him. He’d been hurt many times in the past by his father and his brothers and now she had hurt him, too.

      Gerrard turned on his heel and started across the yard toward the gate, chin up, back straight, like a conquering hero.

      A hero she had wounded.

      Another sin to beg forgiveness for, like letting him kiss and caress her.

      No, the greater sin was his, she told herself as she hurried back to Roland’s chamber. Gerrard had kissed her first. That was the truth, whatever else had happened.

      They were never going to kiss again. She would see to that.

      They must never kiss again. She was going to be a nun. She wanted that more than anything in this world or the next. Then she would be protected, secure and close to God. She would be free of worldly cares and concerns and no longer troubled by the desires of the flesh. She would be away from violence and hatred and quarrels, men and women arguing far into the night regardless of the children who could hear, trembling and clutching each other for comfort in the dark.

      She would be safe and maybe even happy, and if she had to give up certain longings and desires, it would surely be worth it.

      * * *

      The two guards at the inner gate snapped to attention as Gerrard approached. The garrison commander frowned when he saw that one of the guards was Verdan.

      “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “I gave you leave from duty.”

      “Well, sir, it’s like this,” Verdan replied, shifting his spear from one hand to the other. “The roster was all made up and one of the lads has a sweetheart in the village and he was plannin’ to see her, and he’d have to take my place, so—”

      “Oh, very well. Spare me your explanation. I, too, am going to the village and I likely won’t be back until morning. And the next time you’re excused from duty, Verdan, stay excused. I won’t make such an offer a third time.”

      “Yes, sir,” the soldier gruffly replied as young Hedley opened the smaller wicket gate.

      After Gerrard had passed through and Hedley closed the gate, Verdan regarded his fellow soldier with dismay. “I didn’t think he’d be cross because I was on duty. And where’s he goin’ this time o’ night? You don’t think he’s goin’ back to his old ways, do ya?”

      “I hope not,” Hedley glumly replied. “Maybe Sister Augustine was trying to talk him into staying in the castle.”

      “What?”

      “He was talking to the nun who came today, there by the tree.”

      “Never!” Verdan exclaimed, although Hedley was famous for his eyesight. He could hit an apple with an arrow from fifty yards.

      “Aye, he was. At least he met her there,” Hedley said. “Then they moved under the tree. I couldn’t see them after that.”

      “Maybe you’re right, and she got wind he was goin’ to the village and tried to put a stop to it. He wouldn’t like that. No wonder he looked so peeved.”

      “Aye,” Hedley agreed, leaning on his spear. “I could have sworn it was Sir Roland standing here.”

      “Reckon there’s anything we ought to do?”

      “Like what? We can’t stop Gerrard if he takes a notion to go to the village at night. He’s the garrison commander. And he might only have said he was going to the village and won’t be back till morning to see if we’re slack on the watch, and he’ll circle round and check again. He’s a clever one, after all, and takes his duties serious.”

      Verdan hitched up his sword belt. “Aye, that’s true enough. Still, we’d best keep our eyes open. I like Gerrard, but our first duty’s to Sir Roland. He’s the lord of Dunborough, and he ought to know if his brother’s a sot or up to no good, no matter how much we hope he ain’t.”

      * * *

      The proprietor of the Cock’s Crow smiled broadly as Gerrard entered the smoky confines of the tavern. “Greetings, Gerrard! It’s been a while since you’ve darkened our door.”

      “A mug of ale,” Gerrard said as he sat at a table in a far corner of the taproom, which smelled not only of smoke from the fire in the hearth, but also ale and beef stew, herb-strewn rushes on the floor and the bodies of hardworking men taking their ease after a day of toil.

      “Aye, sir, aye!” Matheus replied. He hurried to bring it, setting it down and standing back. “Anything else you want?”

      “A bed for the night—and just a bed,” Gerrard added when he saw Matheus’s expression. There had been times a woman had joined him there, but not tonight and not for days. Not since he’d returned from DeLac after Roland had been attacked.

      “Of course, sir! And more ale when that one’s finished?”

      “Perhaps.”