“Silene.”
She closed her eyes. She liked how her name rolled off his tongue on his lyrical burr.
“I’m sorry ye are seein’ so much so soon. ’Tis a harsh world. ’Tis why yer uncle chose me to escort ye. He cares fer ye.”
“Does he?” she asked solemnly.
“Of course,” he told her, not truly believing it.
“He cares that the church thinks he has ties to the church through me. He cares for me because I am to be a nun.”
It was the first time she had confessed it. It tasted bitter in her mouth.
He was silent for a little while and rode his horse closer to hers and gazed at her.
She suddenly wanted to tell him everything, things she’d only told God. “I was given up by my parents to help my uncle. The first time he came to St. Patrice’s, I thought he was coming to take me home, to take me away. I thought they had changed their minds and wanted me back. But I wrong. He left without me, ignoring my cries. I have always felt abandoned.” Why was she confessing this all to him? Why were these emotions she thought she’d put away coming back to the surface? And not to a priest but to a man of war. A man who moved closer—close enough to dip his head beside her and press his lips to hers.
She should have moved away, denied him—but she didn’t.
She began her litany of Hail Marys, but everything faded from her lips but him.
Chapter Seven
Her lips tastedfaintly like honey and made Galeren hungry for more of her. Nothing that would strip her of her dignity. He was not raised to be an animal. He wanted to touch her, take her in…
He lifted his hand and slipped his fingers under her chin, along her jaw. His full, lush lips played with hers, swept against her teeth. His legs felt soft, weak. He’d fought dozens of battles, faced great, terrifying opponents on the field, and his legs had never gone weak. He was surprised at the acceleration of his heartbeat, the clarity of his thoughts. He had to let her go. He wanted to go on kissing her for days—years. He wanted to hold her in his arms. But he couldn’t. She wasn’t his. She was God’s.
Galeren was grateful he hadn’t been struck down.
“Fergive me.” Who was he asking?
“Of course,” Silene answered on a quiet, quavering voice and took a step back.
“I didna mean to…”
She looked up at him waiting for more. Her fingers trembled as they reached her lips.
What should he say? The truth was best. “I meant to kiss ye…” Saying it made his gaze dip to her lips, bringing back to mind how soft and yielding they’d been against his. “I—” he looked at the trees around them. “I didna mean to overstep. I know—He—”
“Let us not speak of it,” she pleaded, appearing and sounding as guilty as he.
But he’d kissed her.
Hell. That’s where he was going. She didn’t wish to speak of it. For now, or forever?
They met up with Mac and the others and told them what had happened. The attack, not the kiss. Galeren didn’t want to tell anyone. Mayhap a priest. Mayhap Father Timothy. Until then, he had to be away from her. Being together was deadly for their souls.
They ate and the men laughed and teased serious Morgann.
Once Silene understood that Morgann wasn’t hurt, she enjoyed the banter.
“’Tis easy not to grow angry with them,” the young Highlander told her, leaning in. “Their insults are weak and impotent.”
“Now, Morgann,” Will laughed, “let us not bring up yer bedroom troubles.”
“Why not, Will?” Morgann asked. “Are ye worried the malady might strike ye again if ye speak of it? Remember ’twas ye who suffered with it, not I.”
Will thought about it for a moment then was quiet.