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A bad choice of lovers had come back to haunt her, and she needed to escape the fallout for a time.
An international ring of criminals was plotting to kill, kidnap, or sell her to the highest bidder.
Well, if that was the case, I pitied the criminals. They would end up rolling on the ground, clutching their balls in agony.
My lion chuckled. Can we ask her to push us up against a wall again? Please?
I grinned, but then my mood darkened. The fair lady keeping a low profile in the library might be more capable a fighter than most men, but even she couldn’t hold off three, four, or even five attackers.
Can’t let anyone harm her, my lion declared.
Still, my stomach churned at the ugly possibilities. Possibilities my mind turned over for hours in bed and all throughout Matins, the next in an endless cycle of prayers we were called to at all hours. Honestly, to God, monks must be worse than babies who refused to sleep through the night.
I yawned, then moved my lips in time to the prayers, a trick I’d learned my first week in purgatory — er, the abbey. The rare times I truly prayed, it was either to leave the abbey, for some sword-wielding barbarians to storm the abbey, or for a surprise revelation that my elder brother John — a different one, not the prince — was an impostor, thus elevating my status to second son. Then, whoopee! I would finally be a knight and could pack for the Crusades.
Sadly, none of those prayers had been answered.
Occasionally, I even prayed for world peace.
So far, that one hadn’t been answered either.
However, that night — or morning, or whatever godawful hour it was — I offered up a whole new prayer. Not for myself, nor for something grand. Just for her. The captivating, intriguing, and highly armed woman in the library.
Let her be safe. Let her be happy.
That was it. Cyril had a theory that simple prayers had a better chance of slipping through all the traffic our poor Lord had to deal with, and I tended to agree.
Halfway through Matins — in other words, an eternity — I stole a glance at the abbot, then Father Benedict, his assistant and head librarian. Both were rocking in prayer — or in an attempt to remain awake, like the rest of us. Surely those two knew about the woman in the library. But why was our guest so secretive? Who was she hiding from, and why?
I kept my eyes on my book of psalms, but all I saw were her dark eyes and hair. All I smelled was her flowers-in-a-meadow scent, and all I felt was her electrifying touch on my hand…my shoulder…and, er, other places.
I shifted in my seat, fighting a hard-on. A first for me, at least in church.
Consequently, it was also the first time I didn’t bolt out of my pew when prayers concluded. When I eventually joined the others filing into the cloisters, I looked up at the sky. Still dark, still mysterious. And my mind was still full of thoughts of the fair lady.
She was noble, for sure. Upper-upper-crust nobility, a good tier or two above my family. She hid her pedigree well, but it still came through in her long vowels, articulated consonants, and pauses that assumed you’d stick around to hear whatever she had to say next.
And boy, would I stick around. Not just due to her manner of speaking.
But not just due to her looks either. More like her fighting spirit. Her verve. Her determination.
We can go for walks together, my lion side enthused. Maybe even hunting.
Ha. Hunting was probably right up her alley. But how would she feel about heading out with, not in search of, a full-grown lion?
I think she’d love me, my lion growled, emphasizing the L-word.
I gulped, shying away from that thorny topic. Instead, I went back to dreaming — and wondering, because the mystery captivated me. What was a woman like that doing in a forgotten little abbey like this?
“I owe you,” Cyril had whispered over and over once I’d handed over the sketches.
All the sketches, thank you very much, since I’d resisted the temptation to keep one for my own amusement. Because, heck. Why look at a silly sketch when my mind had the memory of the fair lady?
My breath caught there. Playing keep-away with the sketches had brought her back against my front, the way a couple would be in the slow, happy hours after lovemaking. My chin had hovered over her shoulder, and my eyes had explored the creamy skin of her neck.
And, heck. I didn’t need much imagination to take things further and wake the little monk — er, big monk — in the lower half of my tunic. Even more astounding, I didn’t just dwell in steamy fantasies. I spent just as much time dreaming about tamer moments. Like holding her. Walking with her. Going riding with her, side by side on a couple of easy-going horses. Even reading to her or just watching her do needlepoint.
I checked the temperature of my forehead. What was wrong with me?
