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Though three days had passed since they had spoken, she continued to eschew the chapel. Thus, all Christian had to show for these past days were cuts and abrasions delivered by Sir Everard’s sword in the darkness of the cellar. Hardly a loss, for he was beginning to sense sounds and movements that had previously eluded him, but neither was it the gain he had expected.
    Not for the first time, he wondered if Lady Gaenor had told her brothers of their meeting, but he again rejected the possibility. Had she spoken of it, the Wulfriths would surely have confronted him.
    Accepting that his betrothed would not return to the chapel this day, he looked to the altar that beckoned each time he entered. And nearly turned away.
    Setting his jaw, he strode from the shadows and knelt before the cross. He confessed his sins, from the private lusting of his body to the godless thoughts that aspired to his tongue. Every sin that came to mind he laid down, excepting the deception worked on Lady Gaenor. That he stored up for last. And yet, when he could think of no more sins to list, he hesitated. No sooner did he accede to its confession than he heard footfalls in the corridor.
    Though tempted to stand that he would not be found kneeling, he remained with his back to the door. It whispered open and Lady Gaenor—it had to be her—entered.
    Whether it was surprise at finding him inside that made her footsteps falter, or the unexpectedness of seeing him before the altar, he could not know, but she resumed her stride and knelt beside him.
    “Sir Matthew.” She looked at him, the hostility that had previously shone from her eyes no longer in evidence. Still, there was wariness beneath the sweep of her lashes.
    “Lady Gaenor.”
    She averted her gaze and, for a moment, he thought she might smile. “Now ‘tis I who interrupts your solitude.”
    “A welcome reprieve, my lady.”
    She clasped her hands and closed her eyes. Unlike when he had watched from the shadows, she did not speak aloud her prayers, the only evidence of her conversation with God a slight movement of her lips.
    As it would be unseemly to repent for his deception until he committed to revealing the truth to her, which he was now loath to do, Christian did not bow his head again but used the opportunity to observe her.
    He liked the curve of her eyebrows that were darker than her hair, her lashes that threw long shadows across her cheeks, the bow of her upper lip that was not as unyielding as first thought, and the slender column of throat that was surely smooth to the touch.
    “If I distract you from your prayers, Sir Matthew,” she said, eyes remaining closed, “mayhap I ought to leave.”
    It seemed her senses were as keen as Sir Everard’s.
    Christian straightened from the altar. “I had only just finished when you entered.” Though he did not wish to withdraw, having waited days to see her again, he said, “‘Tis I who ought to leave.”
    She looked up. “It is not necessary. Indeed, if it would be of little imposition, I would have you wait on me.”
    This he had not expected. “I shall, my lady.” Once again, he settled on the lone bench. It was not long before she joined him, and this time she left only three feet between them.
    When Christian smiled, she looked down. Intrigued by the flush that warmed her cheeks, he said, “I had only just accepted I would not see you again when you entered.”
    “I did not intend to return.”
    For fear of him. “And yet you came.”
    After a long moment, her eyes rose to his. “You and my brother, Abel, no longer practice at swords beyond the castle walls.”
    Dare he believe his absence bothered her? “We do not. It is with Sir Everard I now train. He has set me the task of sharpening my senses to the sounds and movements of the dark.”
    Her mouth quivered as if tempted to smile. “The cellar.”
    “Aye.”
    “That would account for…” She touched her cheek and chin to indicate two corresponding cuts on his