Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero Read Online Free

steadfastly by the dying man’s side. She’d find a formidable foe if she thought getting rid of him would be easy. He had no intention of leaving her alone with the vast Wendeville fortune. One way or another, he’d receive his due.
    He twisted his fingers in wordless irritation, resisting the urge to strangle the wayward wench into accord. But he knew ire was not the answer. Anger was never shrewd. Nay, he must be meek. After all, it was the meek who inherited…
    “Abbot?”
    “Perhaps you act in haste, child.” He fixed a bland, sympathetic expression on his face and looked down his nose at her. “It’s a harsh trial, losing a husband, and you so young. Wait a day or two. Allow me to offer you spiritual comfort.”
    To his consternation, she actually winced at his words. “I find comfort in the peaceful manner of his passing, Abbot,” she said, unpinning the dried rose spray from her surcoat and placing it upon Lord John’s silent breast. “I wish that all men could die as content as my John.”
    His nostrils flared. John Wendeville had certainly been that. Happy beyond reason. Happier than any mortal man deserved. The wench had coddled him like an infant. He frowned at the array of various scented oils and potions by Lord John’s bedside, medicines she’d concocted for his ills. It turned his stomach to imagine Cynthia’s hands applying their devil’s ointments to the old man’s wrinkled skin. After all, the church believed in the sufferings of the body. His own scarred back attested to the fact that pain was the avenue for salvation. Why should the old man be spared the agony of his own dying?
    He sulked as he watched Lady Cynthia blow out a candle at the head of the bed. Damn the heathen wench! And damn John for wedding her. They’d ruined his plans. All the years he’d spent romancing the old goat as if he were a suitor, all the forced smiles and exchanged pleasantries, all the patience as the childless lord’s life dragged on and on and on… All were wasted now, all because of the harlot before him. Cynthia le Wyte had come to seduce the lord’s wealth away, using the one weapon the Abbot couldn’t employ.
    She’d slept with the wrinkled prune.
    He closed his eyes to slits, unable to blot out the repugnant vision that came to mind of young Cynthia mounting the wasted old man in eager ecstasy. He turned away in disgust, letting the dim light obscure the enraged veins sticking out from his neck.
    He’d have to control that rage if he wanted a scrap of his reward. It might be too late to save the inheritance, but there was still a chance to wheedle a healthy stipend from the bereaved widow.
    Bereaved? The idea almost made him laugh. Unlike her sniveling maid, the cold Cynthia hadn’t shed a single tear for her husband. And she clearly bore him no love. Squeezing blood from an apple would be easier than wresting a penny from Lady Cynthia.
    If only the wench had died with John… He clenched his fingers together, imagining the feel of her soft, supple neck between his hands as he choked the life from her.
     
    “I think he’d want a simple, private ceremony. Abbot?” Cynthia said. “Abbot?”
    The Abbot jerked his head up, startled. Cynthia could see his thoughts were elsewhere. He was probably thinking up ways to salvage her wayward soul. She sighed and looked one last time at John’s restful face.
    That all men could die as content…
    Her husband had been content. For two years, Cynthia had stayed by his side—a faithful wife, adored companion, enthusiastic lover. That he survived an entire year after the physician tucked him into his deathbed was likely due more to her doses of affection than the foxglove and wormwood she painstakingly administered to him for his failing heart. She’d devoted herself to pleasing him—preparing his favorite foods, regaling him with snatches of song, letting him occasionally win at chess.
    Gently, she leaned forward and blew out the last beeswax candle