The Husband Test by Betina Krahn

Author:Betina Krahn
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: 0
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

ELEVEN

WHISPERS BLEW LIKE Spring's first gale through the hall the next morning: Sister Eloise had kept a vigil in the old chapel all night. Gratitude, some said, for the marvelous fortune of finding and retrieving Whitmore's treasures. Intercession, others conjectured, for Whitmore's luckless lord and for Whitmore's blighted but improving fortunes. Near a nuptial decision and seeking guidance, the few acquainted with her mission as husband judge presumed. Only one person on Whitmore had a clue as to the true state of her heart as she knelt all night in prayer: the earl himself, who was sunk into a bottomless pit of a mood and had spoken scarcely a word since the cellars.

That night, he climbed to the uncompleted top of the tower and paced in the moonlight, drinking wine from a small barrel they had hauled through the underground passages and into the kitchens.

The turmoil in his thoughts and in his blood were all but unbearable. He'd given in to the lowest and basest of human instincts and set hands to the nun sent to test and judge his character, his morality and rectitude. A holy sister. A handmaiden of the Almighty Himself.

Never mind that she hadn't resisted or even protested. He was a knight sworn to a stringent code and bound by his own word to protect her as if she were his nearest kin. And at the first flicker of a lamp, he had abandoned a lifetime of honor and sprung at her like a randy hound. He'd be fortunate if she didn't bring charges against him in the king's or church's courts.

He tossed back another whole cup of wine.

Violating a nun. It was probably grounds for going straight to Hell. Not that the Almighty needed any more grounds; his soul had been hanging by a thread for most of his life anyway. He had fought and killed in battle and lived the raw and punishing life of a soldier. He couldn't recall how long it had been since he confessed or took the Holy Eucharist, and couldn't remember a single proper prayer all the way to the end. He was damnation bound, all right.

But just now he couldn't imagine that Satan's future torments could be much worse than the agony of longing and loathing he was presently enduring.

By the next morning he was sprawled across his bed slack-jawed and snoring, looking very much like a member of his garrison on the morning after a rout. Michael strode into his chambers with a sympathetic grimace and a bucket of water, and Peril came up sputtering, gasping, and holding his head.

“You'd better have a damned good reason for this!” he roared, though it chastened him more than Michael.

“Sister Eloise.” The words tore through Peril's head like a javelin through a straw target. “She's in the hall. She wants to see you.”

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