Margaret Moore - Scoundrel Of Dunborough

They were never going to kiss again. She would see to that.

They must never kiss again. She was going to be a nun. She wanted that more than anything in this world or the next. Then she would be protected, secure and close to God. She would be free of worldly cares and concerns and no longer troubled by the desires of the flesh. She would be away from violence and hatred and quarrels, men and women arguing far into the night regardless of the children who could hear, trembling and clutching each other for comfort in the dark.

She would be safe and maybe even happy, and if she had to give up certain longings and desires, it would surely be worth it.

* * *

The two guards at the inner gate snapped to attention as Gerrard approached. The garrison commander frowned when he saw that one of the guards was Verdan.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “I gave you leave from duty.”

“Well, sir, it’s like this,” Verdan replied, shifting his spear from one hand to the other. “The roster was all made up and one of the lads has a sweetheart in the village and he was plannin’ to see her, and he’d have to take my place, so—”

“Oh, very well. Spare me your explanation. I, too, am going to the village and I likely won’t be back until morning. And the next time you’re excused from duty, Verdan, stay excused. I won’t make such an offer a third time.”

“Yes, sir,” the soldier gruffly replied as young Hedley opened the smaller wicket gate.

After Gerrard had passed through and Hedley closed the gate, Verdan regarded his fellow soldier with dismay. “I didn’t think he’d be cross because I was on duty. And where’s he goin’ this time o’ night? You don’t think he’s goin’ back to his old ways, do ya?”

“I hope not,” Hedley glumly replied. “Maybe Sister Augustine was trying to talk him into staying in the castle.”

“What?”

“He was talking to the nun who came today, there by the tree.”

“Never!” Verdan exclaimed, although Hedley was famous for his eyesight. He could hit an apple with an arrow from fifty yards.

“Aye, he was. At least he met her there,” Hedley said. “Then they moved under the tree. I couldn’t see them after that.”

“Maybe you’re right, and she got wind he was goin’ to the village and tried to put a stop to it. He wouldn’t like that. No wonder he looked so peeved.”

“Aye,” Hedley agreed, leaning on his spear. “I could have sworn it was Sir Roland standing here.”

“Reckon there’s anything we ought to do?”

“Like what? We can’t stop Gerrard if he takes a notion to go to the village at night. He’s the garrison commander. And he might only have said he was going to the village and won’t be back till morning to see if we’re slack on the watch, and he’ll circle round and check again. He’s a clever one, after all, and takes his duties serious.”

Verdan hitched up his sword belt. “Aye, that’s true enough. Still, we’d best keep our eyes open. I like Gerrard, but our first duty’s to Sir Roland. He’s the lord of Dunborough, and he ought to know if his brother’s a sot or up to no good, no matter how much we hope he ain’t.”

* * *

The proprietor of the Cock’s Crow smiled broadly as Gerrard entered the smoky confines of the tavern. “Greetings, Gerrard! It’s been a while since you’ve darkened our door.”

“A mug of ale,” Gerrard said as he sat at a table in a far corner of the taproom, which smelled not only of smoke from the fire in the hearth, but also ale and beef stew, herb-strewn rushes on the floor and the bodies of hardworking men taking their ease after a day of toil.

“Aye, sir, aye!” Matheus replied. He hurried to bring it, setting it down and standing back. “Anything else you want?”

“A bed for the night—and just a bed,” Gerrard added when he saw Matheus’s expression. There had been times a woman had joined him there, but not tonight and not for days. Not since he’d returned from DeLac after Roland had been attacked.

“Of course, sir! And more ale when that one’s finished?”

“Perhaps.”

Ignoring the curious looks from the other customers, Gerrard 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.