Deborah Simmons - My Lady De Burgh

Sybil’s brow furrowed at that puzzle. She didn’t care to be caught at a loss, and her reaction came swiftly and automatically, outrage pushing aside her guilt and pain. How could the abbess ask her to work with this, this man? Not only was he a member of the outside world, but he was a male! He had no business involving himself in the affairs of the nuns. He was an intruder into this sheltered place, a reminder of what existed outside, bold and untamed and unknown.

Sybil seethed. She had taken exception to him the moment he strode into the garden, free and strong and confident, his clothes boldly declaring his station and the set of his wide jaw bespeaking his arrogance. He represented all that she was not, and Sybil was honest enough to admit that she resented his power and his sex. But there was more to her rancor than simple envy.

What she most disliked about Robin de Burgh was the way he made her feel, for he affected her as no one ever had before. It was apparent the instant she laid eyes upon him. She had been kneeling over Elise, shocked and stunned, Catherine’s screams ringing in her ears, when she lifted her head. And there he had been, bigger than life, bigger than anything she had ever seen. She had noticed men before, monks and clerks and laborers from the home farm, even villagers, but never had she seen anyone like Robin de Burgh.

His chest was broad, his shoulders massive, his arms and legs thick with muscle, and yet he moved with a grace that belied his form. A knight, the abbess had called him, which explained the strength of his body, but not the reaction of her own. Sybil felt as though she had taken a blow to the chest, her heart pumping, her lungs struggling for breath, and then she had looked upon his face….

He was beautiful.

Sybil had slipped back upon her heels, dumbstruck that a mere man could exhibit such perfection: thick, dark hair, a comely brow over wide cheeks, tanned and unmarked, and eyes that reminded her of burnt sugar, rich and clear and sweet. As if they weren’t bad enough, then there was his mouth, which made her own feel dry and wanting. Indeed, her entire being seemed seized by unruly desires, and, not one to meekly accept such disturbing sensations, Sybil had spoken, drawing his ire, eager for it, in the hope that his hold over her would be broken.

But it wasn’t. Even now she burned with an odd sort of need for this man, and this man only, a feeling that made her even more resentful of his presence here and the task the abbess had laid before her, to work with him. It was intolerable, Sybil vowed, and would soon be put to an end. He might be coroner, but she would find Elise’s murderer herself and be rid of Robin de Burgh and the havoc he wrought.

Just thinking of him had quickened her heartbeat, and Sybil glared across the small expanse of the garden at him, but that did little to ease her distress. Indeed, her gaze was caught by the shift of his wide shoulders as he began to move, and she trembled like a weakling as her attention drifted down his tall back to the narrow hips that were hidden beneath his mail coat. Cheeks flaming, Sybil drew a deep breath and shook off this unhealthy preoccupation with a male form, quickly transforming her dismay into anger.

“Where are you going?” she demanded even as she hurried after him.

He didn’t bother to stop and acknowledge her, but spoke over one of those massive shoulders of his. “Outside to have a look about the grounds.”

Sybil hesitated a moment, seized by a cowardly urge to quit his company, but it was swiftly overwhelmed by curiosity. And determination. Should this knight find something, she refused to remain ignorant of it. Besides, she was to keep an eye upon him. Although her instincts told her he was not a killer, still she owed it to the abbess to do her duty. And right now her duty was Robin de Burgh.

And so she followed. He did not wait for her, and she cursed his long legs that seemed to eat up the ground as he strode through the passage to the great hall. Oblivious to the stares of those around him, he continued out the main doors and around the building, unerringly heading toward the walls of the herb garden, which looked out over the orchard.

There she found him pacing along the stone barrier, head bent, as if he expected the murderer to have left his mark upon the grass. He paused, here and there, just as he had in the garden, kneeling to inspect the ground, though Sybil could see nothing. Finally, he lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes so beautiful that Sybil nearly swallowed her tongue.

“There’s nothing here,” he said, with a grimace.

Sybil could do no more than stare stupidly at him while she tried to control the sudden trembling in her limbs.

“Have there been any strangers about?” he asked.

Sybil shook her head. She found it difficult to concentrate on his words when his mouth moved. She had torn her attention away from his eyes only to find it engaged by his lips. Out here in the vast expanse of the grounds, he seemed more approachable, more real, as the sunlight dappled his features, and somehow the notion made her heart pound erratically.

Then his mouth moved again. “No one unusual?” he prompted, and his questioning look made Sybil wrest control of herself from whatever forces were affecting her.

“No. None that I am aware of beyond the occasional cleric, but I deal mostly with boarders, not travelers. We should check with Elizabeth, who handles lodging for the poor, pilgrims and others seeking but a night’s stay. And the abbess would have more contact with visitors.”

“And the servants knowledge of packmen and the sort,” Robin mused. Rising to his feet in one graceful motion that almost stopped her breath, he glanced toward Sybil again, and she felt his attention clear down to her toes. He seemed to study her with a wary sort of animosity, that had Sybil wondering just what his complaint was before she realized he probably disliked being paired with a woman.

“If you’re to help, then let us be about questioning these people while their memories are fresh,” he snapped, confirming her suspicions.

Well, she didn’t care to be stuck with him either, Sybil thought, lifting her chin, but the abbess had decreed that they must work together, so she would obey. She could only hope that the killer would be found soon, for once the murder was solved, Robin de Burgh would be on his way.

And Sybil would be glad of it.

Although Robin didn’t like spending any more time than necessary with the One, she appeared to be not only his assistant as coroner, but his sole contact within the nunnery—unless he wanted to go chasing after the abbess. Striding away from the orchard after an especially long, unsettling glance at her, Robin had to slow his steps for her to catch up with him, even as he tried to avoid looking upon her. It was a nearly impossible task, but he managed it while barking out a request for a messenger.

After all, he couldn’t remain here indefinitely, when no one at Baddersly knew his exact whereabouts. He had promised the solicitous steward there that he would not hare off without a word, as his brother Simon had done before him. God knows he didn’t want Florian to think he was entangled with a female, as Simon had been. And anyway, he needed some clothes and personal effects, more than the few he had brought with him, for he had no idea how long he would be staying.

That thought made him frown. For the sake of the residents here and his own peace of mind, Robin hoped that he could soon find the murderer, ask about Vala, and be on his way—far away from Sybil. In the meantime, however, he had to suffer her to show him a chamber in the guest house; simply following her into the building was an exercise in both restraint and agitation.

Watching the subtle sway of her hips, Robin gritted his teeth in an effort to control his baser impulses, even while he wondered what the abbess was thinking to put someone like Sybil in charge of tenants. No wonder the old woman thought her destined for the world! A beautiful young novice like his One had no business being anywhere near the guests, let alone taking them to their rooms.

If he were running things, Sybil would find herself cloistered as far as she could be from outsiders. Why, he could just imagine some lecherous old nobleman leering at her, or worse, and the thought wrought havoc with his temper. Although he usually took a lighthearted view of nearly everything, Robin suddenly found himself struggling against a fierce surge of possessiveness.

Sybil ought to be protected instead of flaunted before the eyes of any stray man, whether tenants, clergy, servants or whoever. And Robin certainly didn’t trust the nunnery walls to secure her. Indeed, he was surprised that she wasn’t the one lying dead, murdered by some jealous admirer or unwanted suitor. The thought made him suck in a harsh breath, as if someone had kicked him in the gut, and it was all he could do not to reach out and grab her to him, just to keep her safe.

Robin shook his head, struggling to gather his straying wits. In all probability, if he were to touch her, the One would scream her head off, and then she wouldn’t be the only one suspecting him of murder! Deliberately, he backed away, though his whole body seemed to rebel against such a course. Robin tried to reason with it.

Just because he felt this odd sense of recognition in connection with Sybil did not mean that she was his responsibility. Why should it matter to him what happened to her, if she got herself in some kind of trouble or even was involved somehow in the death of the nun? She was not his concern, Robin told himself. Still, he felt atypically disoriented as she led him through the guest house to a private chamber, as if his mind was at war with the rest of him. And losing.

Robin took a deep breath and looked around. It was a well-appointed room, better than the average wayfarer could expect, and he nodded in approval as he dropped his pack upon a low stool. The bed was larger than he had anticipated, and he stared at it long and hard before his gaze swung back toward Sybil. Although the door remained open, the knowledge that they were alone together sent his blood rushing to nether regions.

Along with the surge of lust, Robin felt that curious sense of familiarity, as if he had known this woman forever, that despite her black looks and tart tongue, they were made for one another. For a long moment, he even had the notion that should he hold out his hand, she would take it, joining him eagerly. But instead of extending his fingers toward her, Robin lifted them to the neck of his tunic, where he tugged hard. Tempted as he was by the sight of that bed, he knew that such urges led to madness, or at least to marriage. And with a groan of panic, he hurried from the premises so swiftly that his companion was forced to run after him.

Once back in the main building, they were met by a grim-looking older nun with a coarse complexion. A forbidding creature, she nodded stiffly at them and without a word, led them down the corridor once more to what she called “the day room of the novices,” a spare chamber with little more than a narrow table and benches.

It hardly seemed a cozy place, and for the first time, Robin wondered what kind of life these nuns, even the novices like Sybil, must have. As a de Burgh born into wealth and privilege, he was well used to his comforts, but what comforts did Sybil have? The question disturbed him, and he sank down onto a bench irritably. What did it matter to him how she lived?

“Although the order is gathering in the chapel to say prayers for the dead, as is only proper, the Reverend Abbess has decreed that each must leave, one at a time, to speak with you,” the old nun said, her fierce expression leaving no doubt of her disapproval.