Page 4 of Never Love a Lord
“Julian—” Erik began.
But Julian turned away from his friend and general, staring once more at the lofty battlements. The figure was gone. But now, all along the crenellations of Fallstowe, balls of light burst into existence as, one by one, torches were lit. In less than a minute, Fallstowe wore a fiery crown, and the hundreds of shadow figures that were her soldiers stood looking down on the king’s men.
It was a dangerous situation, yes. And in that briefest moment, Julian considered ordering Murrin to stay behind in the carriage with Lucy. But once inside, Julian had no intention of leaving Fallstowe until he’d brought the lady to heel, and he would not be separated from his daughter in the interim.
From what Julian had learned about the Foxe women, the heeling could take some time. Perhaps decades.
“Come along, Murrin,” Julian said mildly, and began walking around the fore of the company toward Fallstowe’s drawbridge.
“Directly behind you, milord,” the nursemaid chirped.
The three stood on the road near the edge of the moat when the giant slab of wood began to lower with shuddering creaks. Once it had touched earth, Julian saw the flurry of activity within the bailey as the portcullis was raised. Scores of soldiers were falling into rank in two lines to either side of the barbican, forming an aisle of blade and armor through the bailey, up the steps of the keep, and through the open double doors. Red light from the torches bubbled together with shadows.
“Fancy,” Murrin whispered.
“Quite dramatic,” Julian agreed and then stepped onto the drawbridge.
They walked the predetermined path silently and swiftly, but still did not gain the steps of the keep for several moments. During his march, Julian was silently counting the well-armed soldiers keeping watch over them, and mentally calculating the total with the number of men he had seen atop the castle itself.
Julian came to the conclusion that Fallstowe had been more than ready for his arrival, and that troubled him. If it came down to a battle, it would not be a short one, and he’d seen enough bloodshed already in the Holy Land to last him three lifetimes.
Only one more battle, though, he told himself as he stepped into the heart of the Foxe family’s lair. The doors shut firmly behind him, and Julian steeled himself not to turn around, even as he heard the thick beams set in place.
A thin, gray wraith stood at the top of a set of stone stairs, his posture stiff and formal, his hands clasped behind his back as if in anticipation of Julian’s arrival. Julian noticed the old man’s brief and discreet glance at Murrin and Lucy.
“Might I have the privilege of announcing His Lordship’s arrival to Madam?” the old man queried.
Julian felt a faint smile come to his mouth again. “You must be Graves. Your reputation precedes you, even in lands abroad,” Julian offered with a tilt of his head. “Lord Julian Griffin for His Sovereign Majesty, King Edward, to see Lady Sybilla upon her most recent invitation. Also, my daughter, Lady Lucy Griffin.”
Graves bowed, and Julian could detect neither approval nor scorn in the man’s expressionless face. Fallstowe’s steward was nearly a legend for his poor treatment of his betters.
“Won’t you follow me, my lord?” Graves turned on his heel and made his way down the dark stairwell.
The corridor emptied into a hall so large, Julian reckoned it was as grand as any in the king’s own home. The ceiling was high, dark, domed, supported by carved buttresses which wore skirts of balconies and catwalk pleats. Huge black-iron circles hung on thick chains, bearing hundreds of dormant candles. Stacks of planked tables and benches were piled to either side of the polished stone floor, murky gray with shadows.
The only lights were a series of standing candelabras around the perimeter of the hall, and one lit iron chandelier suspended directly above the lord’s dais, where a table and a single high-backed chair rested, their occupant present and awaiting him patiently. She seemed very small from so far away, and it was quite ironic, considering the immense trouble she had caused the king.
Julian felt his heartbeat speed up in a way that no thoughts of impending battle could inspire. In only moments, he would at last be face-to-face with Sybilla Foxe, the woman whose family he knew more intimately than his own. The woman whom many thought to be only a myth.
Ahead of him, Graves called out in a surprisingly robust yet still completely refined voice, “Madam, may I present Lord Julian Griffin and Lady Lucy Griffin?”
As Julian at last began to draw closer to the dais, his heartbeat did not further increase—in fact, it slowed until Julian wondered if time itself would stop. He had heard tales of Sybilla Foxe’s unearthly beauty, her witchlike powers over the opposite sex, her frigid demeanor, but it was only when Julian was close enough to make out her features clearly, breathe the air around her, that he thought he might at last understand.
She lounged in one corner of her chair—which resembled more of a throne to Julian—her legs stretched out to one side beneath the table and her ankles crossed. One elbow rested on the arm of the chair, her forefinger along her temple. A pitcher and a solitary chalice sat on the table before her.
She wore a scarlet velvet gown which shimmered in the candlelight, the arms and bodice fitting, her chest partially bared by the deep U cut of the fabric. Her skin was alabaster, so white and smooth that it didn’t seem to be made of flesh. Her hair, in contrast, was as dark as the underside of a grave, as were her eyelashes, which framed eyes of the most blazing aquamarine. Her lips, full and motionless, rivaled the brightest summer apple—so red, Julian almost expected them to begin dripping at any moment.
She was a sculpture, a study in color and nature—snow, coal, jewels, blood. Julian Griffin’s heart stuttered to a start once more with his next breath, as if it had been startled back to life.
He shook himself inwardly. She was just a woman.
Julian reached the dais and stopped, bowing low. “Lady Foxe, it is a pleasure.”
“Lord Griffin,” Sybilla Foxe said, almost pensively, her posture not twitching. “Did you bring an infant to a siege?”
Chapter 3
Her dagger was neatly at her side, attached to her waist on a fine, gold chatelaine. In a blink, Sybilla knew that she could retrieve the dagger and fling it at the man standing before her table, who was foolish enough to enter her home with the intention of stealing it away from her. She would send the blade into his eye, and Julian Griffin would drop to the stones like a pheasant from the sky. Then she would have his body thrown from the top of Fallstowe into the midst of the king’s soldiers as a symbolic beginning to what would surely be the most terrible siege in the history of England.
