Cecily turned her face to look at John Grey. His profile was sharp against the frame of the stable doorway, and his eyes skittered over the clouds, as if searching for something hidden there.
“Will you stay at Fallstowe?” she found herself asking.
“No. Very kind of you, and your sister as well, to offer,” he said, and Cecily was surprised that he had already spoken to Sybilla. What a strange pair of days she’d had. “I will enjoy Father Perry’s hospitality for tonight and then return to Hallowshire in the morn. My hope is to come to Fallstowe for a pair of days each week.”
Cecily looked back to the sky. “I understand.”
“Will you see me when I come?” he asked quietly. “I confess that it will make my time at Hallowshire more bearable, knowing that I have your presence to look forward to.”
She turned her face toward him once more, quickly, and found that he was searching her face much as he had searched the clouds in the sky.
“Will you be taking your own vows when you return to the bishop, Vicar John?” Cecily asked boldly.
He stared at her for a pair of moments. “It is a season of discernment for many, Lady Cecily,” was all that he would say.
“Of course I will see you,” Cecily answered at last. “You may lecture me on the many reasons why I should commit to the abbey, and I in turn will try to convince you to take your vows as a priest.”
John Grey grinned. “Or not.”
“Or not,” Cecily agreed with a smile.
“Perhaps—” John Grey began, but whatever he planned to suggest was lost beneath the sound of a woman frantically calling Cecily’s name from across the stable yard.
“Lady Cecily! My lady!”
Both Cecily and John Grey turned to behold the kitchen maid trotting across the bailey toward them, waving at Cecily with an old rag.
“What is it, Marga?” Cecily stepped from the door frame tentatively.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Lady Cecily, but you must come. Good day to you, sir.” The maid curtsied perfunctorily in the vicar’s general direction. “Lord Bellecote is near to tearin’ the bed apart, milady. I believe the draught you give him is wore off. He’s carryin’ on dreadful for you, and won’t let anyone else in the chamber!”
“I’ll come, Marga,” Cecily assured the maid calmly. “Keep everyone else away from him until I arrive, and have a tray of cool, wet towels ready for me in the kitchen. Lord Bellecote is likely feeling a superior ache in his skull from the sedative.”
“Yes, milady.” Marga curtsied again and then turned on her heel and scurried back across the bailey.
Cecily began walking away from John Grey, backward so that she might still bid him farewell. The man was enigmatic, and although Cecily longed to spend more time with him, peeling back the layers of this non-vicar, this not-a-priest, Oliver was calling for her, he was in pain, and she must go.
“Will you stay for chapel in the morn, Vicar?” she asked.
“Yes,” John Grey called, and then threw out the challenge of, “Will you be in attendance?” as he bowed, keeping his eyes on her face.
Cecily’s smile was her only answer. She waved to him before spinning and proceeding toward the castle in a more proper manner.
Though her bearing was appropriate as she opened the door of the annex, she was still smiling.
Chapter 10
“Good morning, Lord Bellecote.” Cecily walked briskly across the chamber floor, keeping her eyes carefully averted from the bed when the answering groan floated through the murky shadows. She grasped the inner seams of the draperies and flung them wide, and then stood at the window, looking out on the fringe of hills visible in the distance beyond the wall walk.
Hallowshire seemed so far away this morning. Distant, like an old dream. John Grey seemed so much closer, and in truth, he was—just below her, at Fallstowe’s chapel.
Of course, the currently dangerous proximity of Oliver Bellecote trumped them both. But she had refused to dwell on his shocking questions and statements from the previous afternoon and chosen instead to fall immediately into a welcome and exhausted slumber upon reaching her chamber. When she had awoken this morning, she told herself that she would simply pretend the conversation had never happened. The end. Carry on.
A hissed curse and then a grumbling came from the bed. Cecily thought that perhaps the latter was an attempt at a proper greeting.
“Are you decent?” she asked brightly, not wishing to turn and happen upon him without the bedclothes. Although she had done her best to convince herself that she had put the fantasy of Oliver Bellecote from her mind, if he were completely uncovered, Cecily feared she would be unable to look away.
She wasn’t a saint, after all.
“Depends on who you ask, I s’pose,” Oliver muttered. “But I am properly covered, if that’s what you mean.”
She turned, and immediately noticed his ashen and grizzled face. His hair was matted on the back of his head, and sticking up in great spikes at the crown. He looked decidedly prickly and not at all comfortable.
“How are you feeling this morn?”
“Bollocks.”
Cecily pressed her lips together in an attempt to tame the smile that tickled at her mouth. “I’m sorry to hear that. But you might take heart in the fact that you will begin to see an improvement each day forward.”
He scrubbed his left hand over his face roughly and made a noise that Cecily could only liken to a growl. Then he turned his reddened eyes to her.
“I dreamed of you again last night.”
Her heart skipped a beat, and she had to force herself to approach the bedside, her fingers following her gaze to his exposed and slinged arm. She touched him lightly, turning her face this way and that to examine the swelling and bruising visible above his bandages.
“I’m sorry,” she said evenly.
“Sorry? What have you to be sorry about? God, you smell delicious.”
“It must be quite bothersome, is all I meant.” She glanced at his face for only an instant. “And thank you, although that is a rather inappropriate compliment. How are your ribs?”
“They’re grand. Why do you think that is?”
Then she did look at him fully, still bent at the waist over his arm. “It’s the wrapping. The tightness keeps—”
“No,” Oliver said crossly. “Why do you think I keep dreaming of you?”
Cecily swallowed. “Ah ... well. I don’t really know.” She stood abruptly and turned to the small table at her back. “I’ve brought you some more tea.” She tried to keep the spout from rattling against the edge of the cup. Cecily set the teapot down, grasped the cup in both trembling hands, and closed her eyes for a moment to compose herself. Then she hung a friendly smile on her lips and turned.
He was staring at her, and the sight of him looking so disheveled, so rugged and fresh from sleep, caused a funny hitch in her breathing.
“You,” he said.
“Beg your pardon?” Cecily said, troubled to hear the words come out of her mouth in a whisper.
“You,” he repeated, his lips pausing, widening slightly, as if struggling to form the words. “You have a mole. On your left side. Just below your collarbone.” His words were quiet, easy.
Matter-of-fact.
All the air streamed out of her lungs in a wheeze and she couldn’t help but glance down at her chest dumbly.
“You must have me confused with someone else,” she said, and then thrust the cup at him. “Here is your tea. I’m late for chapel and Vicar John is waiting.”
He blew on the surface of the tea, then took a sip, his eyes never leaving hers over the rim of the cup. “If you think the compliment I paid you was inappropriate, linger a bit. I’ve been thinking a lot. All night, actually. I should like to share with you my theories on how the back of your cloak was ruined, as well as how my knees were turned into ground meat.”
Cecily felt her body go ice-cold. “I’m certain it would be a very interesting conversation, Lord Bellecote, but as I’ve only just relayed to you, I have other responsibilities to attend to this morn. Perhaps I should have Cook reduce the amount of willow in your tea—it seems to be having a strange effect on your logic and sense of propriety. Good day.” She turned calmly and began to walk to the door.
“I was drunk, Cecily. Not unconscious,” he called out from behind her. “You may as well confess.”
She paused, her hand on the door latch. So much for carrying on. “I fully intend to,” she said. And then she opened the door and slipped out.
She did not pause in the corridor—her whirling thoughts would not allow it. Instead she escaped the castle and walked straight toward the chapel.
John Grey’s blond hair was like a golden beacon in the morning sun. A halo. A haven. He was not Father Perry, and yet he was not Oliver Bellecote, either. She had to restrain herself from running to him.
He smiled at her and raised a hand in greeting, speaking before she had fully reached him.
“Good morning to you, my lady,” he said, and Cecily did not miss the way his eyes swept her from crown to slippers. He took her hand when she came to a breathless stop before him, squeezed her fingers lightly and then released them. “Father Perry commented on your absence. I do hope it was not on my account.”
“No, Vicar. No, of course not.” She felt on the verge of hysterical tears, but she tried to smile at him nonetheless. “My charge kept me occupied this morning, more so than I had planned.”
A look of concern shadowed his face. “Nothing too dire, I hope.”
“No,” Cecily said quickly, and then drew up short. “Actually, yes. Yes, it is quite dire, I’m afraid.”
“My lady?”
Cecily bit her lip briefly. “Vicar, I need your help.”
“Anything, of course. Only put name to it and I shall see it accomplished.”
“My charge did not keep me from chapel this morn,” she admitted.
John Grey’s noble brow dropped. “You were deliberately absent?”
“Yes. I—” She stopped and looked around the bailey. “Would you mind if we went somewhere to speak privately?”
“Well, I was going to suggest that we have a ride about the countryside today since the weather is so unusually fair.”
“Perfect,” Cecily said, noting wryly her use of Oliver Bellecote’s favorite word. “I mean, yes, that would be fine.”
“Shall I have our mounts readied and then wait for you in the stables while you change?”
“Let’s both go now. I fear that if I put it off any longer, I will lose my courage.”
Although Cecily had been barely able to contain the miserable tangle of words trying to claw their way up her throat upon meeting John Grey near the chapel, once they were astride and through the gates, the knot had frozen into a lump of ice that was loath to be dislodged.
John Grey was not ordained. He could not offer her absolution, Cecily well knew. But perhaps he would have some words of wisdom to impart to her. She wondered if, once she had told him her dilemma, he would think her unworthy for Hallowshire.
She wondered if, somewhere deep inside her heart, that was her secret hope.
He did not pressure her into speaking as they made their way into a long, shallow valley, but seemed content to enjoy the sunlight on his upturned face. Cecily glanced at him often. His profile was rugged, craggy almost, in contrast to Oliver Bellecote’s noble, Romanesque features. The vicar’s hair was smooth and straight, the color of rich brass. Oliver’s was dark, like melted carob, and unruly as a squire’s. John Grey sat a horse easily, but she could not imagine him on a merry chase through the countryside at midnight, in pursuit of a woman.
She could not imagine him following her into an abandoned ruin to make love to her, either.
“I didn’t attend chapel this morn because I cannot partake of the sacrament,” she blurted.
He looked over at her easily for a moment, and then straight ahead once more.
Cecily continued. “I have mortal sin on my heart, Vicar. Sins that I cannot confess to Father Perry.”
“You cannot confess to Father Perry for fear of his recriminations? Or because you are not sorry for what you have done?”
His words were so gentle, so matter-of-fact, and so accurate, Cecily was struck dumb for several moments. Was she so transparent?
“Perhaps both,” she said quietly at last.
“Father Perry is a good priest,” John Grey offered. “He strikes me as a competent confessor—one who would never broach a subject introduced in the confessional.”
A pair of birds swooped before the path of the horses and Cecily followed them with her eyes until they were lost in the sunlight. She blinked away the wetness induced by the bright glare. “Indeed.”
“You fear the loss of his love, then? The love he holds for you above his flock?” He led them toward a cluster of three trees, their thick, naked gray arms raised to the heavens.
“Yes.” John Grey seemed to be pulling Cecily’s feelings from her heart as a mummer would scarves from inside his vest. Precisely, vividly.
He drew his horse up to a stand, turned his face toward Cecily. “What would you have me do to aid you? Shall I secure you another confessor? Perhaps at the abbey ... ?”
“No,” Cecily said. “I want you to hear my confession, Vicar.”
He stared at her, but his face held no shock. “I cannot absolve you, Lady Cecily. Surely you know that.”
“I do,” Cecily said with a nod. “But I cannot tell these things to anyone who knows me, and I cannot bear the weight of them any longer. Perhaps after hearing my dilemma, you might be able to advise me, for in truth, what I would tell you is the reason for my hesitation for Hallowshire. The bishop would not have granted you the mission of the abbey were you not a capable director.”
“Lady Cecily, I—” He broke off and looked up at the sky through the netting of branches above their heads. When he met her eyes again, there was a smile about the corners of his mouth. “I must be honest with you—I am very fond of you already. I’m not certain that—”
“Stop,” Cecily said. “I’m sorry, Vicar. But if we are to have any sort of true friendship, then it is best that you know this about me now, lest we go on and you be disappointed later. I would not have you think me someone I am not. That seems to be one of my crosses in life.”
“All right,” he said with a courteous nod of his head. He kicked the stirrup free and lighted from his horse, crossing over to help Cecily dismount. “Shall we sit?”
Despite the rare warmth of the sun, the mud and dormant grass at the base of the trees were frozen and solid. John Grey went to his saddle and untied the bundled blanket to spread on the ground. Cecily took his hand as she sank to her hip, crooking her legs to the side and leaning on one arm. John Grey chose to sit away from the blanket, a respectable distance, his back against a tree trunk, one knee raised. He rested his elbow on his knee and looked at her, waiting.
“Two nights ago, I went to the Foxe Ring,” she began simply. “Have you heard of it?”
John Grey nodded. “I have. If I remember correctly, unmarried persons visit there upon the fullness of the moon in order to divine their future spouse. Is that correct?”
“Yes. Although that’s not the reason I went. Actually, that’s not true—I don’t really know the reason. In other circumstances, my intentions would seem suspect—my younger sister, Alys, met her husband there. And my parents met there, as well.”
“Is that the nature of your sin?” the vicar asked, a delightfully indulgent smile on his face. “Surely you do not think it a slight to God that you would simply visit your old family keep? You didn’t make a sacrifice of any sort, did you?” he teased.
“No,” Cecily said, and returned his smile. “As a matter of fact, I prayed Compline.” She dropped her eyes to the blanket beneath her and scratched at the fabric with a fingernail. “I hoped God would show me what I should do with my life. Where I should go.”
“Still not seeing any occasion for you to abstain from chapel,” John Grey said in a gentle nudge.
“The injured man that I am caring for now—Lord Oliver Bellecote?”
“Yes, I am familiar with the house of Bellemont. As well as the tales of the younger Bellecote brother’s adventures.” John Grey’s smile caused a twinkle in his eye.