My Lady De Burgh. Deborah Simmons
For one brief moment, Robin was so stunned by her words that he simply stared, then he threw back his head and burst out laughing. Obviously, her life as a novice had not dulled her wits or her tongue, and Robin couldn’t help but feel a rush of pleasure. There was nothing he liked more in the world than to laugh, well, almost nothing, and in his experience few women had a talent for amusement. Not this one, however. She annoyed him and challenged him, yet did not fail to keep him entertained.
Robin was tempted to tell her that the problem with his clothes lay in the fact that he was wearing too many, but that hardly seemed appropriate banter for these surroundings. Instead, he assumed a sober expression and stepped toward where she sat on the bench watching him warily.
“Indeed, you have guessed it aright, and well I could use some help with a certain itch that needs be scratched,” Robin drawled. He saw her eyes widen and her cheeks grow pink, but his own face betrayed nothing as he turned and pointed behind him. “There’s a spot on my back that I can’t quite reach…. If you wouldn’t mind?”
Robin heard her snort and bit back a grin. “What? Are you not sworn to tend to the ailing and unfortunate?” he asked over his shoulder. “I assure you that it is not contagious, at least I do not think so, though I cannot quite be sure, of course.”
He lifted his brows at Sybil, who, by now, was actually sputtering, and decided that she was not well versed in jests, which made her a perfect foil for him. It was almost if he were young again and tormenting his brothers—only better. He turned around to face her once more.
“Perhaps this spot suits you better?” he asked. “If you could just rub my chest.” Or lower. Robin put a hand over his heart to indicate his need, but his grin faded as wide blue eyes met his own and held. For one, long breathless moment, they stared at each other, aware of an underlying attraction so powerful that it seemed the very air around them conspired to force them together. Indeed, Robin nearly took a step forward, but the door opened, echoing loudly in the silence.
He whirled around, with a combination of irritation and relief, to face the new arrival. She was older and shy and quiet, just the kind of female Robin thought of as suiting her vocation. Glancing at Sybil, he lifted his brows slightly. Now here was someone she ought to emulate. Not surprisingly, she appeared to be in disagreement, for she gave him a mulish frown that made his lips twitch.
Robin couldn’t help it; he was beginning to find her indefatigable scorn amusing. After all, how many women disdained a de Burgh? Of course, this one was a novice, and could be excused on that score, even if she didn’t act a bit like a religious woman. And that probably was just as well, Robin decided, as he began questioning the new arrival, for Sybil was far more interesting.
The decorous nun was just too quiet, shaking her head in answer to every one of his queries. Robin was beginning to wonder if she could speak at all when she finally lifted her head. “Elisa was the treasuress, and I am the sacrist, so we did not have reason for speech,” she said. Privately, Robin revised his original opinion of her, for what kind of woman required a reason to talk to another? Aloud he echoed, “Sacrist?”
“I care for the church fabric and plate,” she said, lowering her head demurely.
“So you don’t have much contact with outsiders or strangers?” Robin asked.
She shook her head.
“What about those within the order? Have there been any quarrels recently?”
She looked horrified, as if he had suggested some kind of sacrilege, and Robin decided that he definitely preferred Sybil’s plain speaking to this female’s delicate sensibilities.
After a few more useless questions, he let the paragon go and leaned back against the wall, brooding, as he once again considered what kind of life these women had. He had known that some orders didn’t encourage conversation, but knowing and seeing for himself were two different things, and the discovery unsettled him.
He had never given much thought to the religious world, none of the de Burghs having the least inclination for that sort of calling. They didn’t have the temperament for it, but then, neither did Sybil. How had she ended up here? Holy houses offered a home for those who were devoted, a haven for those who had not the money or prospects for marriage, and a possible route to power for those without their own. Which had brought Sybil here? Robin was inclined to think the latter, but then, why hadn’t she taken her vows?
She was a curious conundrum, he thought, letting his gaze slide back to her once more, and though he had always been attracted to puzzles, never before had he met the female kind. Evidently intending to rebuff his interest, Sybil gave him a glare that only sparked it further. Robin wondered what had happened to her infamous contempt when they had stared at one another, for he had seen no sign of it then.
Before he could pursue that intriguing line of thought, the next nun appeared. Although not as quiet as the previous member of the order, she appeared to be even more timid. She was older than Sybil, but kept darting glances at the novice, especially when Robin asked about Elisa’s personal life and possible quarrels within the order. Was she loathe to speak in front of Sybil?
“Have you seen any strangers about?” he asked, but the woman only appeared shocked by the idea. And afraid. Her fear struck Robin with new resolve, for holy women should not have to suffer such fright within the very cloister walls. “Very well. Thank you. And I promise you that I shall see to it that no one here is harmed,” he said.
She nodded, a tiny movement of her head, but it was that small motion that made Robin realize she was not just frightened by a nameless murderer, but by himself. And he was taken aback by the discovery. No man had cause to fear the de Burghs except their enemies, and women…well, women had always been thrilled by the presence of his family members and grateful for the protection they offered.
Never had he incited anyone to horror, and Robin didn’t like the feeling. He frowned. Was it because he was a man inside the sheltered world of the nunnery, or was something else involved? With a curt word, he excused her, and as she scurried away, he wondered how the devil he was going to find out anything from women like these.
“They are not accustomed to…knights,” Sybil told him, spitting out the last word as if he were some kind of monster. He was tempted to ask her if he would be more acceptable if he were unable to defend himself and them, but he kept his mouth shut as he mulled over this disturbing development.
He was still lost in thought when Sybil stood to greet the woman at the door. This nun was quite elderly, to the point of deafness, so Robin was forced to nearly shout into her ear. He repeated his questions over and over until Sybil saw fit to point out that the old woman had her own room from which she rarely ventured forth, so saw little of others. Upon receipt of that information, Robin ushered the elderly nun out, while casting a dubious glance over his shoulder at his companion. As he suspected, Sybil appeared to be fighting back her amusement at his discomfiture.
With a scowl, Robin turned his attention back to the nun who was leaning on him and called to a servant passing in the corridor. He asked the girl to escort the elderly woman back to the chapel and to fetch him some paper and quill, so that he might better record the names of those he had already seen. His scholarly brother Geoffrey had often made notes when he was studying, and Robin equated this tedious investigation to a learning experience.
When he again entered the room, Sybil was wearing a look of surprise instead of her usual surly glare. “You can write?” she asked.
“Of course, I can write,” Robin said. “My father, the Earl of Campion, sets great store by learning. Can you not?”
“Of course, I can write! I have been schooled by the nuns since I was very young,” Sybil said.
“Too bad they couldn’t teach you better manners,” Robin observed dryly. When she looked as though she was going to make a sharp retort, he spoke again. “I thought you religious women were supposed to be humble,” he added, his expression all innocence. Was that a tic in her cheek? Robin decided that goading her was far better than fighting with her,