Scoundrel of Dunborough by Margaret Moore Read Free Book Online Page B

drained his ale and took himself to bed.
    * * *
    Just past dawn the next morning, Celeste walked across the courtyard toward the gate. The weak November sun did little to warm the air and frost was heavy on the ground, but at least it wasn’t snowing.
    Mercifully, and perhaps in answer to her prayers, Gerrard hadn’t been in the hall this morning, nor had any of the servants acted as if there had been any talk of improper behavior on her part.
    For a long time last night she’d prayed for forgiveness for her lust, and the strength to resist the temptation Gerrard embodied. In future, she vowed, she’d have as little to do with him as possible. If Roland returned soon, she might never have to speak to Gerrard again.
    Which was what she wanted, just as she needed...wanted...to be safe and secure in the religious life.
    Nevertheless, and despite what had happened between them, she couldn’t help wishing that the tales told about Gerrard weren’t true. That he wasn’t a drunkard and lust-filled libertine. That he was a better man than his father and older brother, and more like the hero of a ballad than the wastrel gossip and rumor said he was.
    That she was right to still have hope that Esmerelda had unjustly blamed him for what had happened to her. Even if she never saw him again, she wanted to think of him as a good man.
    As Celeste got closer to the gate, she couldn’t be sure if the guards were the same men who’d been on duty last night. In case they were and had seen that shameful embrace, she would do her very best imitation of the always serene Sister Sylvester. That way they might have doubts about who had been with Gerrard under the tree.
    “Good day,” she said with a pleasant smile when she reached them. “Please open the gate.”
    The two men exchanged wary glances.
    “Is there some reason you should not?” she sweetly inquired.
    “Not at all, Sister,” the older, bearded one replied, moving to open the wicket gate for her.
    With a nod of thanks she lifted her skirts to pass over the threshold—and nearly bumped into Gerrard.
    He fell back a step and his surprise soon gave way to that slightly mocking grin. “Where might you be going this fine morning, Sister Augustine?”
    He didn’t look the worse for drink, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t. She had learned from her father that a man could be far from sober and still look it.
    Perhaps he’d been in his cups last night when he’d kissed her. She hadn’t considered that.
    Even if he had been, that didn’t excuse him. Indeed, if anything, it magnified his offense.
    “Since I am a guest, I don’t believe I need answer that question,” she replied.
    “No, you don’t,” he agreed with exaggerated courtesy as he stepped aside. “After you, Sister.”
    “Good day, Gerrard,” she replied, walking briskly past him. She did not look back to see what, if anything, he did as she continued toward the village and her family’s home.
    She passed a group of old men gathered by the smithy and several servants already gossiping by the well. More than one gave her a quizzical look, and one of the women immediately covered her mouth and turned aside to whisper to another. About her? About Audrey? About their father and his mistreatment of their mother, or had those tales of quarrels, harsh words and bruises been forgotten long ago?
    As Celeste quickened her pace, a youth of about sixteen, with sandy hair and a pockmarked face, paused while removing the shutters of a shop. He gave her a shy smile and nodded a hello, reminding her that not everyone in Dunborough was regarding her with curiosity.
    A baby cried from within a nearby house and a woman began a lullaby, soft and low and tender. Again she felt that yearning ache, and she pictured herself by a glowing hearth with a dark-haired baby at her breast.
    But the image quickly faded, for she had already decided what her fate would be.
    Reaching the house, she slipped the key into the sturdy lock,