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I left behind a few doodles, Cyril had explained, wringing his hands and turning red. The kind with no place in a book on holy subjects.
I grinned. Cyril wasn’t just the abbey’s best singer — he was also the best illustrator in the scriptorium, where the library’s most precious books were laboriously copied. But like the rest of us novices, he suffered from an overactive, unquenched libido.
Some of the guys took those urges out on themselves. Some took them out on one another. That made sense, though I wasn’t thus inclined — or that desperate. Yet. My not-too-satisfying solution was vivid fantasies in my bed at night, reliving every sweet kiss, every heated touch of my former life — and adding in a hefty dose of my own imagination.
Art was Cyril’s form of release, though I doubted the abbot would call it that. I’d snuck a peek at Cyril’s doodles once and had a good chuckle. Mostly, they showed naked men and women getting it on in bed, though the details showed Cyril was working more from imagination than experience. Not unless he knew some really wild positions that would make even a sex-starved acrobat balk.
Those were the sketches he’d left behind earlier in the day. But Cyril didn’t have the nerve to sneak across the abbey at night, so he’d begged me to retrieve them for him. A rescue mission, you could say, even if it wasn’t the kind I’d once imagined.
I paused at the entry to the scriptorium, getting my bearings. Three rows of four desks each, all nice and tidy. A can at the upper right corner of each held quills, blotters, and brushes, with a cubby under each desk for scraps of parchment. I went to the third desk on the right and started riffling through it.
The scriptorium had the biggest windows in the abbey for lighting by day. Even now, at night, they admitted enough moonlight to help me make out the drawings. The first scrap had a sketch of a letter S, its curves populated by rows of lords and ladies. The next was a B filled with pretty lilies. Then came a corner with a lady petting a unicorn, and at the bottom, a saint hacking at a giant snail.
I chuckled. Now, that was an artist I could relate to.
I flipped through more sheets, pausing only to snort at a poorly drawn lion. Unless the image was intended to capture a lion shifter in the process of transforming, his features were far too human. And what self-respecting feline would go around sticking out his tongue like that?
I saw it all — animals, plants, and mythological creatures. But no bedroom antics.
If they’re not in my desk, they must be with the project I was working on, Cyril had said. They might have gotten mixed in with the papers Father Benedict gathered up to bring upstairs to the library. Oh God! If anyone finds them…
I headed back to the spiral staircase and up to the next level, all in pitch dark. Working mostly by feel, I finally emerged on a tiny landing with a window just big enough to let in a sliver of light. The library’s back door was locked, but I’d been at the abbey long enough to feel along the upper frame for the key. Seconds later, the door clicked, and I pushed it open, entering the library.
I grinned, because my secret mission was feeling more secret than ever, and my adrenaline was kicking in — a first for me, at least in a library.
I headed for a table I could just make out in the dim light, but I never got there. And I didn’t catch the shadow rushing in at me from the right until it was too late. A split second later, I was shoved against the stone wall and pinned there, with my arms yanked painfully behind my back.
A lock of silky black hair fell over my shoulder and tickled my cheek. Then a blade pricked my neck, and someone hissed, “Move, and you’re dead.”
I went limp, playing along just long enough to lull my attacker into a false sense of security. Then I spun out of his grip and slammed him against the wall. The knife clattered away on the stone floor. I pinned him there the exact way he’d held me, with my elbow against his back to be doubly secure. Then it was my turn to lean in close and hiss in his ear.
“Move, and you’re dead.”
It had all gone so quickly, my senses didn’t catch up until a split second later. Then my nostrils flared, and my thoughts blurred at her heavenly flowers-in-a-meadow scent.
Then my mind caught up with my nose, and I frowned. Wait. Her scent?
My lion hummed. Yes, her. A woman.
Chapter Three
MARIAN
The attacker was twice my weight and at least a head taller than me. No matter how much I kicked or struggled, I couldn’t get free.
Then he hesitated and loosened his grip. Twisting out of his arms, I yanked my spare knife out of my sleeve. I held it between us, practically baring my teeth.
“Get your hands off me!”
He blinked, then fanned the space between us. “Um…they are off you.”
I scowled. A minor technicality.
I’d only had a few candles burning, but they illuminated his fair hair like golden flax under the summer sun. The little bit of moonlight that snuck through the windows found his amber eyes, making them glow.
“Well, your hands were on me a second ago,” I snipped. When he raised an eyebrow, I cursed myself. That came out all wrong.
“Um…apologies?” he offered.
