Magic in His Kiss Read Free Page A

rather King Stephen didn’t remember her name or where she resided. When she wanted Mother Abbess to live.
    Mother Abbess squeezed her hand. “The way is never easy, my dear. Remember this. When times seem the most confusing, point your bow to either sunrise or sunset and follow your heart.”
    Appealing images—in opposite directions.
    And neither course guaranteed a welcoming shoreline or safe harbor.

Chapter Two
    M idday sun streamed through the infirmary’s open shutters, somehow brightening the prayers the nuns murmured at Mother Abbess’s bedside. Kneeling on the plank floor, Nicole knew the perpetual vigil and the earnest invocations for God’s mercy would do nothing to halt Mother Abbess’s death. But since the Latin chants comforted the dying nun, Nicole strove to concentrate.
    Unsuccessfully.
    Chanting appeals to God, Christ, Blessed Mary, and every saint she’d ever heard of couldn’t halt Nicole’s restlessness.
    Shifting on knees gone sore on the hard plank floor, Nicole remembered the day she’d first entered the infirmary. It was on the day of her arrival at Bledloe Abbey, her despair acute and her belly aching. Sister Enid, a short, plump woman with kindly eyes, had smiled at the distraught little girl of ten and given her a mint leaf to suck on. Ever after, Nicole had felt more at home in the infirmary than anywhere else in the abbey.
    Immediately she’d been fascinated by the hanging bunches of dried herbs, the mixing of unguents, and the brewing of potions. Over the years she’d tended the sick, held the hands of the dying, assisted at the birth of babes, and learned herb lore.
    Unfortunately, nothing in the sacks of mixed herbs, little pots of scented unguents, or sparkling bottles of potions could cure Mother Abbess. Still, Nicole agonized over whether there was something more she might have done to slow the nun’s decline.
    Nicole struggled with the guilt even though she knew Mother Abbess was old, her earthly body worn out, as Sister Enid had been near her death. Though Sister Enid hadn’t spoken to her in over a sennight, Nicole was aware the nun’s spirit hovered nearby, waiting for Mother Abbess. Too soon both women would fully depart, and for their absence in her life, Nicole mourned.
    A light hand landed on Nicole’s shoulder, startling her. Sister Claire, who would become Bledloe Abbey’s next abbess, bent down and whispered, “Come.”
    Nicole dutifully rose and followed the thin, sharply angled woman into the passageway, where Sister Claire stopped a few feet beyond the infirmary’s door.
    “You have a visitor,” Sister Claire announced.
    Despite Nicole’s grief, excitement bubbled up. “One of my sisters?”
    Sister Claire’s mouth thinned. “Nay. A Welshman by the name of Rhodri ap Dafydd. Do you know him?”
    Taken aback, Nicole swiftly sorted through memories of her only visit to Glenvair, her Welsh uncle’s holding. When she remembered Rhodri—whom Gwendolyn had also mentioned in her letters a time or two over these past years—Nicole’s cheeks warmed with embarrassment.
    Their last encounter hadn’t gone well. True, she’d been very young, but she’d also behaved very badly, and ’twas Rhodri who’d suffered the punishment for her show of childish, imprudent temper.
    “I know him.” Then her heart sank, fearful of the most likely reason why a Welshman would risk a dangerous journey so far into England. “Did he say why he came? Has aught dreadful befallen my uncle Connor?”
    Sister Claire crossed her arms, her hands disappearing up into the wide sleeves of her black robes, her mouth twisting with ire. “He said only that he brings greetings. I shall take your place at vigil while you send him on his way. Be quick, Nicole.”
    Still apprehensive, Nicole rushed to the small receiving chamber near the abbey’s main entry. Even if Rhodri hadn’t come to tell her of Connor’s illness or death, he surely brought news of grave import. A Welshman would