Scoundrel Of Dunborough. Margaret MooreЧитать онлайн книгу.
took a swallow of the excellent ale, then wrapped his hands around the cup. He would have this one drink. It wouldn’t be wise to get drunk, not with Celeste—Sister Augustine—no doubt ready to denounce him for a drunkard as well as a libertine.
Even though she’d returned his kiss with equal passion, he still felt like the most disgusting reprobate in the kingdom—deservedly so. Only weeks ago he had been what gossip and rumor claimed he was: a rogue and a wastrel, carrying on with no concern for whom he hurt or why, seeking to annoy Roland, assuage his own desires and assert some independence.
He’d chosen for his friends young men with little to recommend them except their agreement that he deserved to be lord of Dunborough more than his brother.
Gerrard had paid for his pleasure, cheated at games of sport and toyed with women’s hearts, although he truly hadn’t meant for Esmerelda to get hurt.
Ever since the attack on Roland, though, he’d kept away from taverns, gambling dens and unwholesome women. He’d busied himself with training the men and the business of the estate, as much as he was able. He’d sought to lead a better, more respectable life and thought he’d been succeeding.
Until today. Until tonight, when his desire had compelled him to take a nun into his arms.
Perhaps he truly was his father’s son.
No, he was not. If his father had wanted Celeste, he would have taken her, no matter what she said or did, and even if she’d fought him tooth and nail.
Gerrard ran his hand through his hair. God help him, why had he kissed her?
The first answers came to him in Roland’s censorious voice. Because you wanted to and didn’t care about the consequences. Because she’s pretty and you have a weakness for pretty girls.
Yet in his heart he knew there was more to it than that. Standing so close to her in the dark, he had felt as he had when they were younger, when he was afraid of his father and brothers and she had regarded him with awe and admiration, as if he could do anything. Be anything.
And then what had he done? He’d lost his temper over some stupid game, held her down and cut off her lovely, curling hair.
His feelings had overruled his head tonight, too. Was he never going to be master of himself? Why could he not foresee the consequences of his actions, especially the ones that would cause hurt and pain and anger?
He would. He must.
He 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, silently blessing Audrey for making sure she had a key, and for telling her to hide it. Otherwise, she would have turned it over to the mother superior, who would surely have taken as long to “find” it as she had to send word to Ireland that Celeste should return to the convent. There was news of her family, the message had said, giving no hint of what Celeste was going to hear when she arrived back from her pilgrimage, which had been more of an exile.
Celeste pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the empty house. As she had told Gerrard, she didn’t fear ghosts, but there were unwelcome memories and, worst of all, no Audrey there to greet her and remind her of the few happy times they’d shared.
She hurried past the main chamber with that horrible stain, trying not to envision what had happened there or imagine a man capable of such jealous rage that he could brutally attack a woman he claimed to love.
In the kitchen at the back of the house, a pot with a ladle still in it hung over the cold ashes in the hearth. A basket of laundry, wrinkled and musty, lay on its side beside the worktable, its contents spilled onto the floor. There were spoons and a wooden bowl in the stone sink. The room looked as if it had been suddenly, abruptly abandoned, as it probably had.
She went to the larder, noting that the door stood slightly open. That was not so surprising if the servants had fled quickly. Inside, a few mice had been at work, tearing