Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero Read Online Free Page B
a chapter of her life.
The Abbot stared at the closed door, stunned. His chest constricted. He could scarcely draw breath.
Charing. Lord John had left him Charing . The Charing property didn’t represent a twentieth of the old man’s wealth. It was a travesty, a slap in the face. After all he’d endured, the sacrifices he’d made, this was his reward—a moldering castle on the barren land adjoining Wendeville. The niggardly tribute left a bitter taste in his mouth, like a moldy bone tossed to a faithful hound.
Rage snaked its way through his veins, heating his blood as he gazed down at the chilling body laid out so peacefully upon the bed.
He’d been cheated. There was no other word for it. He’d been betrayed by the old fool’s incorrigible desire for his lascivious young wife. How many times had he warned Lord John about the dangers of lust? How many Sabbaths had he spoken, within the walls of Wendeville’s own chapel, of that deadly sin?
But he’d been ignored. The very word of God had gone unheeded. Disgust twisted the Abbot’s mouth. Fury sharpened his vision. He coiled the fingers of one hand into a bony fist. Then, with a strangled oath, calling upon the wrath of God for penitence, he drove that fist with all the rancor of a cuckolded husband into Lord John’s lifeless, sin-riddled groin, again and again, each blow punctuated by the name of the old man’s transgression…Cynthia!
By the time his fury was purged, sweat beaded his brow. He gasped for breath. His knuckles throbbed with pain.
But pain was an old friend. And that old friend soothed him, clarifying his thoughts. He carefully wiped the moisture from his face with the corner of his sleeve and smoothed the cope over his cassock.
He knew what he had to do now. Lady Cynthia Wendeville may have sent him packing, but it wasn’t the last she’d see of him. There were always others he could use as instruments for his purpose.
He had at least a year. No widow would dare marry before at least a token period of grief. Until then, Wendeville’s coffers would be safe enough.
Slipping a spy into the servants’ ranks would be child’s play. His world teemed with the repentant—lost sheep who would lay down their lives to do his bidding and gladly sell an influential shepherd like him their very souls.
As a parting gesture of concern for the bereaved Wendeville household, and to protect his investment, he’d even help Lady Cynthia select a new chaplain. He’d find her a humble cleric from the poorest monastery in the land, a man of little ambition, a man who believed in the blessedness of poverty—in short, a man who’d not interfere with the Abbot’s aspirations to wealth and power. Oh aye, he’d find a chaplain for Wendeville. Indeed, he already knew just the man for the position.
CHAPTER 2
APRIL
Garth de Ware gasped as the wanton woman rode him mercilessly. She was exquisite. Her long, black hair fell forward, lashing his bare ribs. Her eyes glittered like emeralds. Her fingernails raked his shoulders, and her sleek, round buttocks pounded down upon him as relentlessly as the tide. He felt every glorious inch as he strove upward to shelter in the warm recesses of her flesh.
She leaned over him, thrusting voluptuous breasts forward which he happily cupped in his hands. They were so soft, so delicate, he feared he might hurt her. Then she bent to him, shoved aside his hair, and lapped voraciously at his ear, and it was all he could do to keep from bruising her in his eagerness. She eased a nipple between his lips, and he sucked gently at it, gasping at the sweet honey of her skin.
Tension stretched his body until he felt like a bowstring ready to snap. Her nipple popped from his mouth, and he tossed his head feverishly back and forth.
“Mariana,” he moaned, his breath coming shallow and rapid. “Ah, Mariana…”
He woke abruptly. No woman rose above him, only the pale ceiling, where the dawning sun sketched leafy
The Abbot stared at the closed door, stunned. His chest constricted. He could scarcely draw breath.
Charing. Lord John had left him Charing . The Charing property didn’t represent a twentieth of the old man’s wealth. It was a travesty, a slap in the face. After all he’d endured, the sacrifices he’d made, this was his reward—a moldering castle on the barren land adjoining Wendeville. The niggardly tribute left a bitter taste in his mouth, like a moldy bone tossed to a faithful hound.
Rage snaked its way through his veins, heating his blood as he gazed down at the chilling body laid out so peacefully upon the bed.
He’d been cheated. There was no other word for it. He’d been betrayed by the old fool’s incorrigible desire for his lascivious young wife. How many times had he warned Lord John about the dangers of lust? How many Sabbaths had he spoken, within the walls of Wendeville’s own chapel, of that deadly sin?
But he’d been ignored. The very word of God had gone unheeded. Disgust twisted the Abbot’s mouth. Fury sharpened his vision. He coiled the fingers of one hand into a bony fist. Then, with a strangled oath, calling upon the wrath of God for penitence, he drove that fist with all the rancor of a cuckolded husband into Lord John’s lifeless, sin-riddled groin, again and again, each blow punctuated by the name of the old man’s transgression…Cynthia!
By the time his fury was purged, sweat beaded his brow. He gasped for breath. His knuckles throbbed with pain.
But pain was an old friend. And that old friend soothed him, clarifying his thoughts. He carefully wiped the moisture from his face with the corner of his sleeve and smoothed the cope over his cassock.
He knew what he had to do now. Lady Cynthia Wendeville may have sent him packing, but it wasn’t the last she’d see of him. There were always others he could use as instruments for his purpose.
He had at least a year. No widow would dare marry before at least a token period of grief. Until then, Wendeville’s coffers would be safe enough.
Slipping a spy into the servants’ ranks would be child’s play. His world teemed with the repentant—lost sheep who would lay down their lives to do his bidding and gladly sell an influential shepherd like him their very souls.
As a parting gesture of concern for the bereaved Wendeville household, and to protect his investment, he’d even help Lady Cynthia select a new chaplain. He’d find her a humble cleric from the poorest monastery in the land, a man of little ambition, a man who believed in the blessedness of poverty—in short, a man who’d not interfere with the Abbot’s aspirations to wealth and power. Oh aye, he’d find a chaplain for Wendeville. Indeed, he already knew just the man for the position.
CHAPTER 2
APRIL
Garth de Ware gasped as the wanton woman rode him mercilessly. She was exquisite. Her long, black hair fell forward, lashing his bare ribs. Her eyes glittered like emeralds. Her fingernails raked his shoulders, and her sleek, round buttocks pounded down upon him as relentlessly as the tide. He felt every glorious inch as he strove upward to shelter in the warm recesses of her flesh.
She leaned over him, thrusting voluptuous breasts forward which he happily cupped in his hands. They were so soft, so delicate, he feared he might hurt her. Then she bent to him, shoved aside his hair, and lapped voraciously at his ear, and it was all he could do to keep from bruising her in his eagerness. She eased a nipple between his lips, and he sucked gently at it, gasping at the sweet honey of her skin.
Tension stretched his body until he felt like a bowstring ready to snap. Her nipple popped from his mouth, and he tossed his head feverishly back and forth.
“Mariana,” he moaned, his breath coming shallow and rapid. “Ah, Mariana…”
He woke abruptly. No woman rose above him, only the pale ceiling, where the dawning sun sketched leafy
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