Chapter 11

Eleven

If twenty times the girl had leaned back against him, twenty times Giles pushed her away. The bitter truth was that she wasn't very attractive, and so much as he didn't wish to be attracted to a nun, neither did he care to feel this particular nun's soft curves against his well-worn leathers.

And, don't think he hadn't noticed how much she wiggled—probably equally as annoyed by the material of her crude gown as Giles was by her proximity.

Forsooth, as cold as it was, he wondered irately why she did not wear the cloak Wilhelm discovered in his satchel, instead of trying to burrow into his. Though he didn't recognize the breed of animal, hers was rimmed with soft, black fur, and it would surely keep her warmer than Giles had a mind to.

What a mystery, she was, traveling with more gold than his brother earned in a given year, and wearing clothes that would have chafed his own skin raw, when she owned a cloak that could easily have passed as fashionable in Stephen's court. There was something about her… something that struck him as odd.

Despite her lack of sophistication, he believed she could be a lady, in truth—mayhap the spoiled daughter of a Welsh lord. Her accent was faint, but he recognized it just the same, and she wore a certain gleam in her eye… one he'd met in too many dissenters, and so much as her spirit did appeal to him… her face did not.

She wiggled backward, yet again, nestling her firm little backside too intimately into the crook of his thighs, and there it was again—a snicker—Giles frowned.

To his utter dismay, his body hadn't the first clue his brain must be disgusted by the woman seated before him.

His mutinous cock betrayed him, stirring, if only slightly, and he scooted back, again, this time as far as he could manage and still remain in the saddle. Any further, and he would be seated on the mare's rump.

In answer, the girl leaned again, this time resting her head on his shoulder and Giles frowned. "Have you grown weary of traveling already, Sister Rosalynde?"

"Oh, nay, my lord," she said, sweet as honey—not at all in keeping with her appearance. And nevertheless, with her back to him, he could almost imagine her to be… well, more like he'd imagined her to be when he'd first laid eyes upon her sleeping in the thicket. And regardless, there was too much glee in her tone… as though she enjoyed baiting him.

But why? If, in truth, she'd somehow gleaned his feelings about her appearance, she should be rightfully offended—unlike his nose.

Bloody hell.

Her hair smelled of… roses.

And while there was nothing quite so extraordinary about a Rose smelling like a rose—still, he frowned, wishing he could, at least for the time being, forget the girl's unpleasant face.

Sweet lord, he didn't wish to lean into that intoxicating scent… and neither did he appreciate her dark, shining hair spilling over his shoulder so familiarly as a lover's. Warmed by the noonday sun, it shone like red velvet.

Moreover, there was something about Sister Rosalynde that reminded him of the siren from his dreams… that beauteous water nymph that time after time had lured him to the depths of the sea. She'd had a similar gleam in her eyes that hardened his cock so painfully he awoke in the mornings with a burning desire that would not diminish until he took himself into his own hands. As soon as he found a moment alone, he must indulge himself again, as he didn't consider it to be in anybody's best interest for a man to burn.

"You seem to be very much at ease," he said, this time allowing her rest.

"Aye, my lord. Because, after all, you've been so kind." He caught a smile in her voice, and, inexplicably, it made his cock stir again. She inhaled deeply, her ample breasts brushing against his arm, and he shuddered over the sensation. "I was lost until you found me."

"Ah, yeah," he rejoined, perhaps testing her. "And what man, having a hundred sheep, if he has lost one, does not leave the ninety, to go after the one…"

"Ninety-nine," she said.

"Ninety-nine," he amended. "You do know your scripture, Sister Rosalynde."

She was silent a moment. "Alas, not so well as I should. But you also know yours?"

"I do, indeed," said Giles. "Until recently, I was… conscripted to…" He peered at Wilhelm, who seemed to be doing his utmost to ignore them. "The seminary."

"I see," she said.

He very much doubted she did, and yet what he did and where he'd been until the day he'd returned to England was not a matter for public consumption. He cast a glance at his moody brother. Even despite their recent discussion, something was bedeviling Wilhelm, though Giles couldn't put a finger on it. He was tired, that much he could see. He was beginning to slouch in his saddle, but as tired as Giles might be, himself, he didn't intend to stop until Wilhelm begged for mercy. If he had to hand the nun over to keep him awake, he would do it—except… for some odd reason, he realized he didn't want to. And, more, the longer she remained burrowed in his arms, the stronger his desire to pull her back against him and keep her safe. The scent of her was like some witchery… lulling him into a state of bliss, making him long for his siren, invented though she must be.

"My lord, we've been traveling the King's Road for some time. Perhaps we should return to the woods?"

Sister Rosalynde peered over her shoulder yet again, and Giles cringed at the presentation of her face so near. It wasn't so much that she was unattractive, but to look at her made him feel drunk, and it didn't help much that he was already exhausted and growing more so by the second. He hadn't slept all night long. And so much as he didn't regret it, because of the return of his sable, he was growing more and more vexed by the mile—both at this sweet, unsuspecting nun, and his lame-brained, ill-tempered brother.

"We'll be fine," he reassured her, and hating himself for the rudeness, he gave her a twirling motion with his finger, so she would turn back around. If he must be forced to suffer the tantalizing curves of her body, he'd rather suffer his own imagination. But, if only… because she was perfectly formed. So much as he didn't wish to know that, he did, and it was impossible to deny it—as impossible to ignore as her sweet, beguiling scent, and he blamed it on his wasted state.

Consequently, the more confused he grew, the more cantankerous he became. "Sister, please, must you lean… so… close?"

Beside him, his brother chuckled, and Giles tensed.

Clearly, Wilhelm was enjoying his discomfort, and, evidently, he'd forgotten everything they'd discussed back in that tavern, else none of it had meant a bloody thing to him. It was enough to sour his mood.

"Say Wilhelm… do you recall my suggesting we stop by Neasham?"

"Of course," Wilhelm said, impatiently. "You said we could deliver Sister Rosalynde with time to spare."

"Nay, brother… before that… in the tavern… do you not recall I said we should stop to give alms for Lady Ayleth's soul?"

His brother did not answer—not at once, and when he did, his voice was thick with emotion. "Nay," he said. "I did not."