Page 44 of Never Love a Lord
“Shame,” Sybilla said, and then took another drink of her wine, watching him over the rim of her cup.
“I’d not change any of it,” he confessed, and looked pointedly toward the cradle where Lucy slept on.
“And so now the king trusts you enough to secure Fallstowe for him,” Sybilla said, beginning to walk slowly toward him, considering him thoughtfully. “I assume he will pay you handsomely.”
“Yes,” Julian conceded.
“And you will secure a home for yourself with the proceeds of my crucifixion.” She stopped near him, only two paces away perhaps. “One like Fallstowe?”
“Exactly like Fallstowe, I hope,” he said. “Does that sway you? If I were to be lord over a manor such as this?”
Sybilla shrugged one shoulder. “I’m beginning to think that I might be able to tolerate you elsewhere, if need be.”
His guts twisted then, the closest thing he felt that he could expect so soon from Sybilla Foxe in the way of admission of gentle feelings. He stepped toward her slowly, carefully, and took her chalice. Then he turned and placed both cups on the trunk. He walked directly to her, placing his hands at her waist and pulling her against him.
“If need be?” He cocked his head and looked down into her face.
“I’m still waiting on you to convince me further,” she said in a husky voice, and then glanced at Lucy’s cradle. “Unfortunately—”
He began shaking his head even before she finished. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, and grazed her temple with his lips. “I can convince you very quietly.” Then he kissed her mouth deeply.
She pulled away from him after a moment, her blazing blue eyes finding his. “But I am not so certain that my acceptance would be as quiet.”
“There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” he said, and then bent down to scoop her up into his arms and carry her once again to his bed.
A strange noise woke Sybilla, and she frowned before opening her eyes. It sounded almost like some sort of animal, mewing and yowling, and so she squeezed her eyes shut all the more tightly and snuggled against Julian Griffin’s warm flank, his chest rising and falling easily with his deep, rasping breaths.
There it was again, more insistent this time, and it sounded as though it was in the very chamber. Then her eyes snapped open.
The baby. Lucy. She was crying.
Sybilla rose up on one elbow to behold the room, only faintly illuminated by the small, weakening fire in the hearth. Julian did not stir, and a glance at the cradle near the stone fireplace rewarded her with a glimpse of a little fist waving over the side.
She looked at Julian’s face and saw that he was clearly lost to a deep sleep.
Sybilla frowned. The baby had quieted, but Sybilla was uneasy. What if the child had awakened in the night, ill like her nurse? What if she had no further energy to cry out once more, alerting her caretaker that she was unwell? Children commonly died in their sleep. Could she in good conscience roll over and close her eyes?
She carefully extracted herself from the covers, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and reached down to grasp the neck of her thin gown from the floor. She slipped it over her head, the ice-cold silk bringing out gooseflesh on her skin. Then she stood and cautiously, silently, tiptoed toward the little basket, holding her breath.
Lucy Griffin had one of her feet in each hand and was quietly blowing little bubbles of spittle. Her eyes widened as she caught sight of Sybilla peering over the edge of the cradle.
“Bah! Pah-pah-da!” she said excitedly.
“Shh!” Sybilla frowned. “You’ll wake your father. It’s still night. Go back to sleep,” she said sternly.
The baby’s miniature brow crinkled, her chin dimpled, her bottom lip turned out.
“No, no, no!” Sybilla reached hesitantly to lay her hand on Lucy’s stomach. “Don’t cry, it’s all ri—my God! You’re soaking wet!” she hissed. She reached up to lightly grasp the baby’s hands and feet in turn. “And frozen through.”
Sybilla glanced over her shoulder at the bed, where Julian slept on, oblivious. Then she turned back to the child, who had managed to seize one of Sybilla’s fingers. Sybilla twisted her hand to extract herself from the little creature’s clutches and then reached in with both hands to lift Lucy from the cradle.
Once she had freed the child from the little bed, though, Sybilla had no idea what to do with her. Lucy dangled from Sybilla’s outstretched arms, kicking her feet inside her gown, and seemed quite happy to take in the view and chew on her fist. Sybilla looked around the room for some indication of the baby’s cache of clothing, but could see nothing.
“We’ve got to get you out of this wet gown,” Sybilla whispered. “But I’ve nothing to put you in.” She didn’t want to wake Julian because . . . because if she did, and Julian took charge of the infant, there would be no further reason for Sybilla to remain in the chamber. She would be forced back to her own dreaded, screeching room, or the solar, or the great hall. His warmth and the quiet lost to her.
She spied her quilted robe on the floor near the foot of the bed. Walking toward it, she caught a wrinkle with her toe and kicked it up onto the mattress.
“Shh,” she whispered as she laid Lucy down on the silk and began searching for the numerous ties holding the baby in the gown. “You really shouldn’t wet in your bed,” Sybilla said, her words little more than breath. “It’s too cold by far, and it should be quite smelly in the morning, I would guess.”
