brown eyes, her mouth a round o of surprise. The clicking and the soft monotony of her words were still.
"Signore!" she whispered. "You are awake. Our Lady be praised!"
He turned his head on the pillow, and tried to move himself into a sitting position. His bones and muscles ached, and seemed turned to useless porridge-like mush. It was impossible agony even to shift. He cried out in raw agony, frustration.
The nun leaped up from her seat and slid her hands beneath him, helping him to sit up against the pillows with practiced efficiency. She smelled of clean lavender and fresh water, and her habit was rough on his skin. Not like the rose-scented silken softness of his dream princess.
"Is this heaven, then?" he whispered hoarsely. "Am I dead?"
The sister chuckled as she smoothed the sheets over him. "Not quite, signore. But this is the Convent of the Queen of Heaven. And it was a very close thing. Fra Fillipo administered the last rites to you twice. I'm very glad to see you awake at long last."
She poured out a cup of water and held it to his lips. Only then did he realize how deeply parched he was. He drained the cup, the liquid like a healing miracle to his shriveled throat.
"More," he croaked when it was gone, but she shook her head.
"Slowly at first," she said, replacing the cup on the table and returning to her chair. She took up her abandoned beads and tucked them neatly into her rope belt.
He forced down a sudden rush of hot anger that she dared refuse him. She was a nun —he shouldn't strike her. Besides, he was so weak he couldn't kick a kitten. He had to regain his strength, to save it for what was truly important. Finding his princess, wherever she was.
"How long have I been here?" he asked tightly.
"Oh, a very long time. Several months."
"Months!"
She nodded serenely. "You washed ashore on a beach not far from here, after a great and sudden storm. The men who found you brought you here to us, for we are a nursing order. Do you remember any of this, signore?"
He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, struggling to find images that would bring her words to life, that would tell him how he came to be here in this damnably weak position. But there was nothing. No memory of the ocean, of coming here to this place of cold prayer and piety. He could only remember her , her soft touch on his hand, her dark eyes, whose gaze told him that they belonged together, that they had loved in many lifetimes before and would again.
"No," he muttered. "I don't remember."
"Oh," the sister clucked sympathetically. "That is hard, I know, but it often happens that way with such dire injuries. The memories will return soon. In the meantime, you must rest." She reached out to smooth the bedclothes again, drawing a woolen blanket over his shoulders. "I am Sister Maria Clare, by the way. Do you even remember your own name, signore?"
He did remember that, he found. It was balanced on the tip of his tongue. "Julian," he answered. "I am Sir Julian Kirkwood."
Chapter 7
The schoolroom was not large, but it was very pleasant, Kate thought as she studied the space. It was no cramped attic, lightless and chilly. Several tall windows, draped in pale green, let in the daylight, and a fire burned cheerfully in the polished grate, chasing a lingering morning draft from the corners. The room had obviously once been a sitting room, attached to Kate's chamber, but now settees and armchairs were moved out and neat desks, stools, and cushioned wooden seats were brought in. Bookshelves lined the walls, and a comfortable chair was placed next to the fire with an embroidery frame and a small worktable within easy reach.
Yes, it was a nice space. Cozy, clean, and, best of all, quiet. Kate let the blessed silence soak into her conscience. This was a room that could be her own—hers and the girls she was to teach. The past, the future, they were both far away in here. Only the present mattered.
She sank down onto the soft seat by the fire, running
"Signore!" she whispered. "You are awake. Our Lady be praised!"
He turned his head on the pillow, and tried to move himself into a sitting position. His bones and muscles ached, and seemed turned to useless porridge-like mush. It was impossible agony even to shift. He cried out in raw agony, frustration.
The nun leaped up from her seat and slid her hands beneath him, helping him to sit up against the pillows with practiced efficiency. She smelled of clean lavender and fresh water, and her habit was rough on his skin. Not like the rose-scented silken softness of his dream princess.
"Is this heaven, then?" he whispered hoarsely. "Am I dead?"
The sister chuckled as she smoothed the sheets over him. "Not quite, signore. But this is the Convent of the Queen of Heaven. And it was a very close thing. Fra Fillipo administered the last rites to you twice. I'm very glad to see you awake at long last."
She poured out a cup of water and held it to his lips. Only then did he realize how deeply parched he was. He drained the cup, the liquid like a healing miracle to his shriveled throat.
"More," he croaked when it was gone, but she shook her head.
"Slowly at first," she said, replacing the cup on the table and returning to her chair. She took up her abandoned beads and tucked them neatly into her rope belt.
He forced down a sudden rush of hot anger that she dared refuse him. She was a nun —he shouldn't strike her. Besides, he was so weak he couldn't kick a kitten. He had to regain his strength, to save it for what was truly important. Finding his princess, wherever she was.
"How long have I been here?" he asked tightly.
"Oh, a very long time. Several months."
"Months!"
She nodded serenely. "You washed ashore on a beach not far from here, after a great and sudden storm. The men who found you brought you here to us, for we are a nursing order. Do you remember any of this, signore?"
He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, struggling to find images that would bring her words to life, that would tell him how he came to be here in this damnably weak position. But there was nothing. No memory of the ocean, of coming here to this place of cold prayer and piety. He could only remember her , her soft touch on his hand, her dark eyes, whose gaze told him that they belonged together, that they had loved in many lifetimes before and would again.
"No," he muttered. "I don't remember."
"Oh," the sister clucked sympathetically. "That is hard, I know, but it often happens that way with such dire injuries. The memories will return soon. In the meantime, you must rest." She reached out to smooth the bedclothes again, drawing a woolen blanket over his shoulders. "I am Sister Maria Clare, by the way. Do you even remember your own name, signore?"
He did remember that, he found. It was balanced on the tip of his tongue. "Julian," he answered. "I am Sir Julian Kirkwood."
Chapter 7
The schoolroom was not large, but it was very pleasant, Kate thought as she studied the space. It was no cramped attic, lightless and chilly. Several tall windows, draped in pale green, let in the daylight, and a fire burned cheerfully in the polished grate, chasing a lingering morning draft from the corners. The room had obviously once been a sitting room, attached to Kate's chamber, but now settees and armchairs were moved out and neat desks, stools, and cushioned wooden seats were brought in. Bookshelves lined the walls, and a comfortable chair was placed next to the fire with an embroidery frame and a small worktable within easy reach.
Yes, it was a nice space. Cozy, clean, and, best of all, quiet. Kate let the blessed silence soak into her conscience. This was a room that could be her own—hers and the girls she was to teach. The past, the future, they were both far away in here. Only the present mattered.
She sank down onto the soft seat by the fire, running
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