leave, taking your troupe of traveling troubadours with you, and leave me to a life of peace and tranquility?”
“If no proof is found, you will leave and seek solitude elsewhere,” she countered.
“We have a bargain. Damn it, must I call you Sister?”
“Chastity will do. A bargain, Mr. Gilbride.”
“Reed will do. Come.” As he pulled her along, Reed wondered when he had reached for her, and why she placed her hand so easily in his, to follow behind him, like a pup after its master.
She must have read his mind, for she stopped dead, pulling him up short, and reclaimed her hand. “Where are we going?”
“To search the outbuildings for food. Perhaps we can find a stocked smokehouse, or—”
“Proof of your heritage?”
“Or proof of my heritage. Did you say there was a caretaker here a while back?”
“Until a fortnight ago, I believe.”
“Good. Then we may find something.”
Beyond the disreputable sheds, they emerged into a weld now empty of grazing sheep. A denuded garden, furrows littered with rotted vegetation displayed more evidence of desertion. Conditions did not bode well for their foraging.
“Smokehouse is empty,” Reed told sweet Sister Chastity with her big, hopeful eyes as he stepped from the weatherworn building. Not that he expected to find food for the taking; he knew better. Break your back; that was the way to provide, but damn it, he wanted to be a hero for the pretty lady. Pretty nun, he had best remember.
He shrugged. “We have to keep looking.” He entered the stable where he left Stealth with the two large draft horses inside. “Shire horses,” he said, stroking a nodding head, “with fresh, clean hay. Someone’s been caring for them. Likely a lad from a nearby croft.”
“They’re beautiful.”
She meant it. She thought these big ugly bounders were beautiful, and she did not know that she was, even in a heavy wool habit. He took her hand and examined her wrist. “Such a tiny wrist, such a young woman, but that medieval garb makes you look matronly.”
“Matronly!” She reclaimed her hand with due haste. “My garb is not your concern, Mr. Gilbride, and for your information, never tell a woman, no matter her age or way of life, that she looks matronly. It makes one feel decrepit!”
“Is vanity allowed in the convent?”
Her surprise at his question turned to a winsome grin. “Allowed? No. Tolerated? Barely. Censured?” She sighed. “Constantly.”
“You are speaking from experience.”
She lowered her head and nodded. “I am.” But too soon, she gave up the charming pose and raised her sparkling violet eyes. “Can we make use of the horses, do you suppose? Is that Stealth?”
“How do you know?”
“He’s sleeker. Handsomer than the others. You mentioned him at the workhouse.”
Reed nodded. “We can use the Shire horses for plowing and harrowing.” When the hell had he decided to work this fool farm? Damn. He slammed the stall gate, and dust thick as flour enveloped them. Choking and gasping, he dragged Chastity into the fresh air.
After catching her breath, she shook out her skirts. “That was stupid!” She slipped her hands beneath her veil to release the dust from inside.
Guilt filled Reed as she made matters worse. The more she struggled, the more dust slipped beneath her outmoded headgear.
“Damnation!” He tore the veil and wimple off in one angry sweep, relief filling him—her as well, he suspected. He hated her wearing that. It reminded him of dungeons with barred doors and dark cells. He examined the veil—just cloth, innocent, except for what it represented. He supposed that bothered him most, the wall it placed between them, a barrier he did not appreciate, much as he should. If he had brains, he would dust it off and give it back. “This has got to go,” he said, proving his lack.
“Give it back.”
“You cannot honestly want to wear it.”
She wavered and her chin came up. “I do.”
“Chastity?”
She
“If no proof is found, you will leave and seek solitude elsewhere,” she countered.
“We have a bargain. Damn it, must I call you Sister?”
“Chastity will do. A bargain, Mr. Gilbride.”
“Reed will do. Come.” As he pulled her along, Reed wondered when he had reached for her, and why she placed her hand so easily in his, to follow behind him, like a pup after its master.
She must have read his mind, for she stopped dead, pulling him up short, and reclaimed her hand. “Where are we going?”
“To search the outbuildings for food. Perhaps we can find a stocked smokehouse, or—”
“Proof of your heritage?”
“Or proof of my heritage. Did you say there was a caretaker here a while back?”
“Until a fortnight ago, I believe.”
“Good. Then we may find something.”
Beyond the disreputable sheds, they emerged into a weld now empty of grazing sheep. A denuded garden, furrows littered with rotted vegetation displayed more evidence of desertion. Conditions did not bode well for their foraging.
“Smokehouse is empty,” Reed told sweet Sister Chastity with her big, hopeful eyes as he stepped from the weatherworn building. Not that he expected to find food for the taking; he knew better. Break your back; that was the way to provide, but damn it, he wanted to be a hero for the pretty lady. Pretty nun, he had best remember.
He shrugged. “We have to keep looking.” He entered the stable where he left Stealth with the two large draft horses inside. “Shire horses,” he said, stroking a nodding head, “with fresh, clean hay. Someone’s been caring for them. Likely a lad from a nearby croft.”
“They’re beautiful.”
She meant it. She thought these big ugly bounders were beautiful, and she did not know that she was, even in a heavy wool habit. He took her hand and examined her wrist. “Such a tiny wrist, such a young woman, but that medieval garb makes you look matronly.”
“Matronly!” She reclaimed her hand with due haste. “My garb is not your concern, Mr. Gilbride, and for your information, never tell a woman, no matter her age or way of life, that she looks matronly. It makes one feel decrepit!”
“Is vanity allowed in the convent?”
Her surprise at his question turned to a winsome grin. “Allowed? No. Tolerated? Barely. Censured?” She sighed. “Constantly.”
“You are speaking from experience.”
She lowered her head and nodded. “I am.” But too soon, she gave up the charming pose and raised her sparkling violet eyes. “Can we make use of the horses, do you suppose? Is that Stealth?”
“How do you know?”
“He’s sleeker. Handsomer than the others. You mentioned him at the workhouse.”
Reed nodded. “We can use the Shire horses for plowing and harrowing.” When the hell had he decided to work this fool farm? Damn. He slammed the stall gate, and dust thick as flour enveloped them. Choking and gasping, he dragged Chastity into the fresh air.
After catching her breath, she shook out her skirts. “That was stupid!” She slipped her hands beneath her veil to release the dust from inside.
Guilt filled Reed as she made matters worse. The more she struggled, the more dust slipped beneath her outmoded headgear.
“Damnation!” He tore the veil and wimple off in one angry sweep, relief filling him—her as well, he suspected. He hated her wearing that. It reminded him of dungeons with barred doors and dark cells. He examined the veil—just cloth, innocent, except for what it represented. He supposed that bothered him most, the wall it placed between them, a barrier he did not appreciate, much as he should. If he had brains, he would dust it off and give it back. “This has got to go,” he said, proving his lack.
“Give it back.”
“You cannot honestly want to wear it.”
She wavered and her chin came up. “I do.”
“Chastity?”
She
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