Kitabı oku: «Medieval Brides», sayfa 6

Sir Adam spoke briefly to the guards by the arched doorway and vanished into the Palace of the Kings. Suddenly cold, Cecily pulled her—his—cloak more tightly about her.

‘My lady?’

She started. Sir Richard was at her elbow.

‘You are thirsty?’

She nodded.

‘Follow me, and we’ll see what the storemaster has to offer.’

It was easier than she had dared hope to escape alone into the Cathedral. Having refreshed herself, she simply asked leave of Sir Richard to visit St Swithun’s tomb, saying she wanted to pray for her family. She said she hoped to find some peace. Neither of these remarks were lies, and she would not think about sins of omission…

Thus it was that an hour later Cecily was walking with Sir Richard across the Close, past New Minster, to the porch of Old Minster. She left him leaning irreverently on a crooked tombstone that dated back to a time before King Alfred.

‘Take as long as you need,’ Sir Richard said.

Inside, the cool dimness of the great Cathedral surrounded her.

Oddly, the large interior was made small by lack of light and the press of an army of pilgrims. It would be hard to pray. And as for peace—why, the Norman garrison was more orderly than St Swithun’s Cathedral. The air was smoky with incense; walking sticks and crutches tap, tap, tapped against the floor tiles; priests chanted a Latin psalm. A bell rang. One young woman had her arm entwined about her young man’s waist, and was giggling at his whispered witticisms, another hissed none too quietly to her deaf grandmother, and a small dog—a dog?—yelped as a pilgrim tripped over it…

But no sign of Judhael. No sign at all. Buffeted and knocked by those behind her, keeping an eye out for Judhael, Cecily was pushed slowly and inexorably into the shadowy nave. A couple of hundred people, maybe more, were queueing to file past St Swithun’s tomb. Mother Aethelflaeda would be shocked at the lack of decorum and respect.

‘A candle, sister?’ asked a priest, thrusting one under her nose in a businesslike manner. ‘To help your prayers fly to God.’

Cecily shook her head as she squeezed past him. ‘I…I’m sorry, I have no coin.’ God would have to heed her prayers without a candle, she thought ruefully. If she’d had coin she would have bought three candles: one each for her mother and father, and one for her brother, Cenwulf.

The line of pilgrims pressed on, and Cecily was carried with them, like a straw in a flood, to the foot of St Swithun’s tomb.

Hanging-lamps and candleholders dangled from the lofty roof overhead. Bathed in a pool of candlelight, the tomb itself was, ironically, almost buried beneath dozens of crutches and sticks and cripples’ stools that had been nailed onto the cover by grateful pilgrims. Even the great round pillars nearest the tomb had hooks hammered into them, and each was also hung about with yet more crutches, more sticks and more stools. The limewash behind the pilgrims’ offerings was almost invisible, and lead tokens bearing the Saint’s image lay scattered across the floor like autumn leaves.

So many miracles must have been wrought here, Cecily thought. Surely God will heed my prayers? And thus, for the few rushed seconds that she found herself before St Swithun’s tomb, she prayed. Not for the family that she had lost, but for the family that remained: for her sister Emma, that she might find peace and happiness wherever she had gone, and for her new brother, Philip, that he might grow safely to manhood, and finally that her brother’s friend Judhael might perhaps be alive and well and not simply exist in her imaginings.

Then the pilgrims behind her pressed forward, and she had passed the tomb. No Judhael. Not ready to return to the alien place that the Palace of the Kings had become, she broke free of the queue that was pushing her to the north door. Perhaps it would be quieter in the east end.

Near the transept, a rampantly carved wooden screen kept the great mass of people separate from the bishops and priests and their choir. Knowing better than to pass into the hallowed precincts beyond the screen, Cecily walked up to it and sank to her knees before a section carved with swirling acanthus leaves. Closing her eyes, she folded her hands in an attitude of prayer and sought to reconcile her mind to the revolutions in her life.

Whatever lay before her, she must do her utmost to ensure that no more evil befell Philip or the people of Fulford. Whether she could best serve as mediator for Adam Wymark, or as his wife, she could not say. In time, God would no doubt reveal His plans for her…

Placing herself in God’s hands, Cecily was preparing to rise when she became aware of a furtive argument on the other side of the rood screen.

‘No, I’m sorry. I found I could not!’

A woman in the priest’s stalls? A woman whose voice was an exact match for her sister Emma? Impossible. Heart in her mouth, convinced that she must be mistaken, for Emma had clearly stated that she was heading north, Cecily strained to hear more. It was hard to be certain, for the woman’s voice was distorted by anger and muffled both by the screen and the noise of the pilgrims in the nave.

‘You are a fool!’ A second voice, harsh and uncompromising and much easier to hear. Male—it was definitely male. Her pulse quickened. Judhael?

‘It was not possible.’ Emma—that had to be Emma…

‘You are weak.’

‘Compassionate, rather.’

For a space the man made no reply, and Cecily heard only the pilgrims at prayer; the tapping of crutches; the chanting of priests. She thought quickly. Back in the market square her mind had not being playing tricks on her—she had heard Judhael. Once his voice had been as familiar to her as her father’s or her brother’s. Judhael was alive! One of her father’s housecarls, and Cenwulf’s close friend, Cecily had assumed he had been killed at Hastings. She wanted to look, to see for herself, but fear of causing a commotion and bringing the Normans down upon them kept her on her knees.

Judhael’s voice softened. ‘Perhaps you do not trust me.’

‘I want to trust you,’ Emma murmured. ‘But there is more than trust at issue here. It could have been his death, and what good would that do anyone? He is an innocent.’

What were they talking about? Clumsily, Cecily clambered to her feet. She rested a hand—it was shaking—against an acanthus leaf and peered through the tracery.

Yes! Praise the Lord, it was Judhael who faced her—a tall man with his long fair hair tied back at his neck, Saxon fashion. Hands on his hips, he was scowling at her sister. Cecily could only see Emma’s back, but there was no doubt that it was she. That burgundy cloak was confirmation, if confirmation were needed. Emma had worn that cloak when visiting Cecily in the convent.

Emma had not gone north. Emma had lied to her. Why? And what was she doing in Winchester, meeting secretly with Judhael?

‘You should have brought him,’ Judhael said.

Cecily’s stomach lurched. God in Heaven, the man was wearing his seax—his short sword—in the Cathedral!

‘You broke your oath to me,’ he went on, white about the mouth. As a child, Cecily had never seen Judhael look like this, furiously, uncompromisingly angry. But she knew that look. Her father had worn it often enough.

‘My loyalty was torn…’ Emma gave a little sob, and her head sank. ‘Judhael, you are too harsh.’

Something about Emma’s tone of voice, meek, yet unashamedly emotional, caught Cecily’s attention. Back at the convent she had asked Emma if she had a sweetheart, now she realised with a jolt that matters had progressed far beyond that. Judhael was her sister’s lover. Emma’s next words confirmed this.

‘Judhael, my love—’

Just then Judhael looked past Emma, towards the rood screen. Cecily fell to her knees, clutching an acanthus leaf. If she revealed herself, she risked drawing Richard of Asculf down on them. She glanced over her shoulder. There was no sign of him in the shuffling press of pilgrims around the tomb, but he could not be relied upon to wait her pleasure in the Close. He might come looking for her at any moment.

What would happen if Judhael and Emma were discovered here? She did not know what they were doing, but their discovery by Sir Adam or one of his men could only lead to their capture. And with Judhael in this mood, and armed as he was, it could well lead to bloodshed…

‘I see only a woman whom I cannot trust.’ Judhael’s tone was icy.

Another little sob from Emma. ‘And I see a man who…’

The rest of Emma’s words were lost under the sound of brisk footsteps coming towards Cecily from behind. Turning her head towards the main body of the Cathedral, she felt her heart turn to stone.

Sir Adam Wymark had stepped out of the crowd and was marching purposefully towards her.

Chapter Seven

‘S-Sir Adam!’

With her hood up, her features were partly shadowed, but even so the frozen expression on the little novice’s face brought Adam to an abrupt halt a few feet away from her. He frowned. He was not wearing the mail coat he was certain she hated, having put it off to enter the Cathedral, and Richard was guarding his sword outside, so why that look of absolute horror the moment her eyes lit on him? He had hoped she was beginning to trust him. Given his recent decision, and the letter he had despatched to Duke William, it was essential that she trusted him.

White as whey, she was scrambling to her feet, almost tripping over her threadbare habit in her haste to get round him, to reach the door.

Heart sinking, Adam caught at her wrist, and she stilled in mid-step, looking back at him. No, she would not even meet his eyes. She was looking past him at a naked Eve on the carved rood screen, eyes wide and full of fear.

‘Sir Adam! I…I’m sorry if I kept you. I…I thought you were still at the Palace.’ She tugged against his hold, edging them both back into the stream of pilgrims pouring out into the relative brightness of the Close.

Refusing to release her, Adam did, however, surrender to the desperation in her eyes and allowed himself to be drawn along. They emerged, blinking, in the cobbled forecourt, where a feeble November sun was struggling to get through the cloud. Free of incense and candle-smoke, the fresh air raised goosebumps on his neck.

Richard was lounging against the wall where he’d left him, paring his nails with his dagger. On seeing them, he straightened and made to bring Adam his sword. Adam caught his eye and shook his head.

Cecily continued to draw him away from the Cathedral entrance, away from the pilgrims and the crush in the porch, and gradually her momentum slackened. Her eyes remained wide, but her cheeks had regained some of their colour, thank God. She tipped her head back to look up at him, and the hood of the cloak he had lent her fell back to reveal the grim novice’s wimple, the short grey veil.

Her eyes were as blue as forget-me-nots, her lashes long and dark. Her lips were trembling—rosy, kissable lips. Adam’s stomach clenched. Forgive me, Gwenn. This girl’s colouring was the opposite of Gwenn’s—Cecily of Fulford was tiny and fair, whereas Gwenn had been tall and dark. And until yesterday Gwenn’s dark colouring had been Adam’s model of beauty. But today…today…

Confused by his reaction to her, Adam looked down at Cecily Fulford and hoped she could not read his mind. He did not want her to know the extent to which her delicate beauty moved him. He would not grant her that much power. Why, even with the girl dressed like this, in a beggarly novice’s habit, he desired her. Perhaps he might begin by caressing her cheeks, by testing their softness…no, he would start by kissing those lips…

Hell’s teeth—how could he hope to court her when she regarded him in this manner? He might think her the prettiest girl in Wessex, but his Duke’s ambition and her family’s destruction lay between them. He must tread softly if he was to win her. And win her he would. He rubbed his forehead, wondering briefly how his mind had altered in the past few hours. When the little novice had first offered him her hand in exchange for her sister’s he had vowed to tread warily. He had thought to refuse her until he knew more of her character and her motives in offering to accompany them back to Fulford. But now—Adam gazed into the largest blue eyes he had ever seen and his mind was in ferment.

Forgive me, Gwenn.

‘My lady, you did ask to wed me,’ he reminded her. ‘Yet you regard me as though I were a monster. You did not regard me so in the convent. What have I done?’

She bit her lip, stared intently at the great door of the Cathedral, at the pilgrims filing out, and gave him no answer. Her bosom heaved as she dragged in a breath.

Adam set his jaw. Perhaps she had considered further and thought the gulf between them was impassable. Yes, that might be the sum of it. He did not only have to contend with the fact that he was an invader in her eyes; she had realised that she was gently born while he came from humble stock. Gripping her wrist more firmly, he tried again. ‘My lady…Cecily…I give you notice I have decided to accept your proposition—both your propositions, that is. I will marry you.’

His answer seemed to rouse her, for she stopped staring at the Cathedral entrance long enough to dart him a quick sideways look. ‘Aye, sir, as you wish.’ And with that her gaze returned to the door.

He shook his head. He was eternally grateful that his heart was not involved in this betrothal, but it was galling to have a woman hardly react when a man agreed to wed her. What was going on?

‘You make me very happy,’ he said dryly. ‘I must inform you that I have had a scribe write to the Duke saying formally that you will take your sister’s place. I will not change my mind. Do you think there can at least be amity between us?’

A swift nod, a cursory glance, and once again her eyes slid away from his, back to the great door.

Adam sighed and determinedly walked her round the outer wall of the north transept. She came meekly enough. In the lee of the wall they were, as he had hoped, shielded completely from watchful eyes and the noise and bustle of the forecourt. At the heart of Winchester, they had for a few moments a world to themselves—albeit a small one—bounded on one side by the wall of the Cathedral and on the other by a wooden fence the height of a man.

White teeth were worrying away at her bottom lip.

With careful determination, Adam manoeuvred her against the wall. When she offered no resistance, some of the tension began to leave him. And when he saw that the panic was dying from her eyes, he relaxed further, reaching up to touch her mouth, fingers as gentle as he could make them. She was so tiny. Next to her he felt huge and ungainly. ‘No need to eat yourself up with anxiety,’ he murmured, voice suddenly husky. ‘I know you are innocent, a maid. When we wed I will be gentle, take care of you.’

Her eyes were huge and fastened on his. He felt her tremble. Forgive me, Gwenn. Telling himself that Gwenn was not here, while this girl most definitely was, he slid his fingers across her cheek—so soft—and under the starched edge of her wimple. He held her head steady, keeping his touch light, and slowly, so she could have no doubt what he was about and could break free if she wished, he lowered his lips to hers.

Warm. Her lips were warm and sweet.

Adam wanted to linger, but he knew better. Pure—she is pure. Easing back after the lightest of kisses, careful to keep the rest of his body away from her, he looked into her face. Her expression was startled; her colour had risen; her breath was coming faster. But there was no fear—not of him. He’d wager Flame on that.

He smiled. ‘Lady Cecily, I make you this promise. I will marry you, but I will never force you. We shall wait to consummate our marriage until you are ready.’

‘I…I thank you, but I was not always in the convent. My mother explained something of the duties of a wife to me. Our marriage will not be a true one unless it is consummated. I will not refuse you, sir.’

More reassured by her words than he cared to admit, Adam stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers, and was startled to realise that his heartbeat was not as steady as it should be. Which was odd, given that she was the one lacking in experience, not he. ‘Adam—my name is Adam,’ he reminded her once again. ‘And, since you are my betrothed, it is not unseemly for you to address me by it.’

‘Adam.’

Her cheeks had gone the colour of wild roses. She lowered her gaze, but Adam would have none of that. He looked at her mouth, aching for another, deeper kiss. This was just lust, he told himself. It had been an age since he had loved his Gwenn. The tender feeling he had for this girl was not dawning love, it was mere lust. He wanted to kiss her and he would kiss her. It did not mean anything—not as it had done with Gwenn. He could kiss Cecily Fulford without putting his heart at risk. He tipped her chin up. ‘Kiss me again, little Cecily.’

‘If you would free me, S…Adam.’

Belatedly Adam remembered his hold on her wrist. He opened his fingers. ‘My apologies. I did not mean to constrain you.’

Shyly, she smiled and looked at his mouth.

Their lips met. This kiss began innocently, as the first one had, with no more than their lips touching. Adam withdrew, then kissed her again. And again. Light kiss after light kiss. Another, another.

Cecily stood passive under his measured onslaught, and then, when Adam felt his control was about to snap—for he burned to sweep her into his arms and press her against the wall with his body—he felt the touch of a hand on his. Their fingers entwined. A small response, but one that had a jolt of sensation sweeping through him to his groin.

Startled, he pulled back. He had never been profligate. Gwenn had always been the world to him. His response to Cecily’s delicate touch caught him unawares. It was hot. Urgent. Her eyes were closed, her long lashes rested against her cheeks, her lips were trustfully lifted to his. He fought down a groan. Such innocence, it could tear a man apart.

Experimentally, Adam touched his tongue to the fullness of her lower lip. He heard her indrawn breath. Her eyes remained shut. He repeated the gesture with her top lip. She leaned towards him. He took her other hand and moved closer, so they stood a mere inch apart, fingers clinging. Adam wanted to press his body close, so he could feel her breasts against his chest, but she was wearing his cloak and he his padded leather gambeson—and besides, it was full day, and they were in the middle of the old Saxon capital behind St Swithun’s Cathedral, and he was Duke William’s knight and a grown man, and he ought to know better…

It was so innocent, this gentle kissing. He was likely the first to kiss her. She did not know how to respond to a man, and had yet to open her mouth, but Adam had never felt so aroused in his life. Making certain he kept his lower body clear of her, for fear his ardour would frighten her, he rubbed his cheek against hers, pressing kisses against her neck, absorbing her scent.

She gave a soft moan. He nudged her headdress aside and managed to kiss her ear, nipping softly at the lobe. Another little moan. And when he next nuzzled her neck she turned her face into his, and he was almost certain…yes, it was only the most fleeting of touches, but she kissed his neck back.

He worked his way back to her mouth, gradually, oh, so gradually, increasing the pressure of his lips against hers. Kissing, kissing, kissing, hungry for a stronger response from her…

‘Cecily,’ he groaned. ‘Sweet Mother, open your mouth.’

Dazed blue eyes met his. ‘Wh…what?’

He dropped her hands and took her face in his. ‘Relax your jaw, sweetheart. Let me in. Like this…’

She jolted in his hands when his tongue first pushed past her teeth. She quivered, but she did not draw back. He took his time, letting her grow accustomed. And then, all at once, it was as though his kiss had brought her to life. Her arms slid up and around his neck and she held his head to hers, even altering the angle of her head to grant him better access. Her tongue flickered over his in a tentative response.

Yes! Smiling, Adam tried to raise his head, but with a murmur she held him close, and then it was she who was covering his face with kisses, it was she who was kissing, kissing, kissing…

Her fingers tunnelled into his hair. She was stroking and petting his head so much his ears burned. If this was a taste of what was to come in their marriage bed, Cecily Fulford might bring him great joy.

Closing his eyes, Adam held still while untutored fingertips explored his eyebrows, his cheekbones, the shape of his lips. Still smiling—he could not seem to stop—he gently trapped her forefinger in his teeth.

She gave a little laugh and his eyes flew open.

A curl of long yellow hair peeped out from under her wimple. Idly, still using every ounce of control not to pounce on her and devour her as he wished, he wound it round his fingers. With her cheeks flushed, her lips red with his kisses and her bosom heaving, she was temptation incarnate.

The Cathedral bell tolled.

‘Oh!’ In a trice, the dreamy expression vanished from her eyes and she stepped back, muttering, ‘Th-the Angelus bell.’

She made as if to cross herself, noticed he had her hair wound round his finger, and tugged it free. ‘I…I must tidy myself, sir.’ Hastily she pushed the curl back under the wimple and drew his cloak more closely about her.

The bell tolled on.

She continued to fuss with the sackcloth that passed as her clothing, straightening her veil, her wimple.

Adam grinned. ‘Be calm, Cecily. You are not in the convent now.’

‘I know. It’s just that it…it’s the first time I’ve missed the Angelus in four years. It feels wrong—like a sin.’

Shaking his head, he took her hand, kissed it. ‘It’s no sin if you are my betrothed. You were not made to be a nun. What age are you?’

‘Sixteen.’ Her blue eyes regarded him gravely. ‘And you, sir, what age are you?’

‘Twenty-two.’ He bent to murmur in her ear. ‘And you called me Adam a moment ago.’

‘Adam.’ She whispered his name and blushed, but would no longer meet his eyes. The Cathedral bell had reminded her of who she was, and who he was. Cecily had reverted, and was once again the shy Saxon novice he had taken from St Anne’s, and he was a Breton knight, Duke William’s man. Their tryst was ended.

Gently, Adam took her hand again and cleared his throat. ‘We ride for Fulford in half an hour, in order to make the most of the light.’ He eyed her wimple and grey veil with distaste, remembering how far Fulford was from Winchester’s market. ‘But first, if there is anything you need to buy here, I have some silver.’

She blinked. ‘I thank you, S…Adam. But until I see what state my parents’…that is…your holding is in, I cannot say what provision we may need.’

‘I’d have you better gowned. My wife will not walk around in rags.’

Cecily looked down at her skirts as though seeing them for the first time. ‘Oh.’

He tugged at her wrist. ‘Come—there’s bound to be a mercer’s stall at the market.’

She hung back, shaking her head.

‘Cecily?’

‘I would not waste your money. My mother used to keep bolts of fabric in a chest. There should be enough stuff for a gown for me.’

He bit back a smile. ‘I see I am marrying a thrifty soul.’

‘It’s the convent, Sir—’

‘Adam—remember?’

‘Adam. The convent made me so. The Rule of Holy Benedict…’

Raising her hand to his lips, Adam took pleasure in the colour that washed into her cheeks. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said softly.

‘Sir?’

‘We’ll get to Fulford tonight, and tomorrow we’ll wed.’

‘S-so soon?’

Leaning forwards, he pressed a kiss on the part of her brow not hidden by her wimple. ‘I see no reason to delay. Once at Fulford Hall you will have time to renew old acquaintance and—’ he flicked at the wimple with a grimace of distaste ‘—set a maid to see to your clothing. And then we’ll marry.’

Leading her back round the north wall of the transept, Adam marched to the Cathedral forecourt, where Richard was waiting. As he buckled on his sword he intercepted one of Cecily’s shy smiles. His heart felt lighter than it had in years.

Adam had not known what to expect when he had first gone to Normandy to uphold Duke William’s claim to the English throne. Setting out from Brittany, he had hoped for land and favours, for a new life away from the places where Gwenn’s ghost haunted him at every turn. He had thought he might win himself a new wife, but he’d never dared hope for one as lovely as this. One who might, if he were not on guard, tempt him into losing his heart again. He’d certainly not reckoned on an innocent novice for a bride either, but that was of no matter. Her smile alone was worth the crossing of several seas.

He was, he realised with baffled astonishment, feeling an emotion that was too complicated to be expressed as happiness, but it came close—damn close. And for that Cecily Fulford was entirely responsible.

His lightheartedness lasted as long as it took to walk back to the Saxon Palace, where the troop was stationed. The guards jumped to attention as they entered the main hall. Cecily kept close, white teeth still nibbling at her lip. That pretty flush was gone. ‘You’ve been here before?’ he asked.

She swallowed. ‘Once, years ago. With my father—with Thane Edgar.’

Adam nodded. This must be hard for her, and he had no words to make it easy. In her place he would be counting the differences between now and then.

He had not seen the Palace of the Kings when the Duke’s men had first entered the city, but he’d heard about beautiful wall-hangings ripped from the walls—even now the hooks and rods on which they had hung were still visible, bent awry by careless hands. He’d heard about antique arms that had hung proudly over the main dais where the Royal family of Wessex had taken their seats to break bread. Telltale white marks on the smoke-blackened limewash were all that remained of them. He’d heard about costly silver plate—looted, most likely, from the self-same sideboard that Cecily was gazing at. One of the sideboard doors hung askew on one hinge, and one of its legs was broken. He’d heard of a great shield, emblazoned with the dragon of Wessex. There was no sign of that, either. No, Adam decided ruefully, nothing he could say would make this easy.

His captain, Félix Tihell, was back, talking to Maurice on the other side of the central fire. Adam steered his betrothed to a bench by the wall. ‘Wait here,’ he said, and left her gazing up at the gallery constructed at one end of the hall, on the first-floor landing, well away from the central fire. The room on the gallery had served as a private solar for the Earls of Wessex. The garrison commander had taken it over.

It was warm by the central fire, which was a proper roaring fire, piled with dry logs, not like the sulky affair at the convent guest house. Tihell had his helm under his arm, and he was out of breath, with a light sheen of sweat coating his forehead as though he had been running. He broke off at Adam’s approach.

‘Sir Adam.’ Tihell saluted. ‘In your absence, I was about to give Maurice my report.’

‘Give it to me direct,’ Adam said, waving his squire away. ‘Don’t tell me the trail went cold?’

‘No, sir,’ Tihell said, chest heaving as he caught his breath. ‘I followed the pony tracks from the convent, out of the north gates as you directed, but they did not continue north, as we expected. Instead they circled round to the west in a wide loop. Lady Emma stayed overnight with her groom at a tavern called the Green Man, and the next day they continued, eventually hitting the road to Winchester.’

Adam tensed. ‘Winchester? She came here? Lady Emma came here today?’

His captain nodded. ‘Aye. We made good time, and I managed to catch up with her. Actually, I came through Hyde Gate behind her. Followed her straight to the Cathedral.’

Feeling as though he’d been kicked in the gut, Adam’s eyes went involuntarily to Cecily, sitting demurely on the bench on the other side of the fire, with her hands folded nun-fashion in her lap. Smoke and flames curled between them, but she intercepted his gaze and sent a shy smile across the hall. When he did not return it, her smile faltered. Something within him twisted. ‘The Cathedral?’ he repeated slowly. ‘Which one? Old Minster or New Minster?’

‘The one which holds their saint’s relics.’

‘Old Minster. Hell, I should have known,’ Adam said, closing his eyes as Cecily’s reaction when she had caught sight of him flashed into his mind. That sudden pallor…that frantic scramble for the Cathedral door.

Cecily had known her sister was in the Minster and was playing him for a fool. Had she met secretly with Emma? Were they hatching a plot between them to see to his downfall? He shoved his hand through his hair and braced himself to turn back to Félix, to confirm the worst. ‘You’re stating that Emma Fulford definitely entered St Swithun’s Cathedral today?’

‘Yes, sir.’

His belly was full of cold stones.

When Adam remained silent, Tihell added, ‘A couple of the lads are keeping watch on her, but I’d best not stay long. They’re young and untried, and I don’t want to lose her. Unless…unless you want me to bring her in, sir?’

Adam’s gaze was drawn back to the girl on the bench. So pure. So innocent. Or so he had thought. His jaw tightened. Those kisses—had they meant something to her? Or had they been a blind—a cover to hide the fact that she had been meeting with her sister? His eyes narrowed. He had let a woman close before, and her death had all but torn his heart to shreds. Grimly, he wondered which was worse: the death of a loved one, or betrayal by a loved one.