Page 9 of Never Love a Lord
Ice. The bitch had filled his bath with ice water.
Julian lifted one arm beneath the cape-like blanket and sniffed. He quickly turned his head away with a grimace. Hehadto wash. He stomped to the overturned stool, righted it, and sat down at the side of the tub. Steeling himself, Julian threw off the coverlet, snatched up one of the ridiculously small rags and the bar of soap, and dunked both of them in the frigid water. He was not looking forward in the least to washing his hair.
And he no longer thought that Sybilla Foxe fancied him.
Sybilla lay in her bed, staring up at the canopy. She was completely exhausted. The last three days had seen her younger sister kidnapped, rescued, and wed—with Sybilla herself deeply involved in each event. She’d ridden hard to and from Hallowshire Abbey, organized the defense of Fallstowe in preparation for an attack by the king’s men, nearly gotten herself killed on the battlements, and now had to contend with Edward’s own emissary as a guest. Along with hisinfant. Dawn was two hours away, and yet her eyes would not close.
Why had she agreed to this nonsense? Why hadn’t she simply given the command for her own men to open fire on Julian Griffin at first light?
Perhaps, she thought, it was because she knew that no matter how well prepared they were, they would not triumph. The king had a near endless supply of soldiers at his disposal, and even if Fallstowe’s army struck down company after company, there would always be another to follow, until all of Sybilla’s soldiers were dead or everyone within the castle walls had starved to death. She had precious few friends, and those she did claim would never sacrifice their own status within the realm by going against the monarch, especially if they suspected the grounds for the conflict.
So, in her eyes, she had been faced with seeing Fallstowe and her good people destroyed starting with this night, or agreeing to the unexpected interview, perhaps buying her more time to think of an alternative to surrender. Forthat, she could never do.
Escape? Perhaps to Bavaria, or Persia even. But not France. She could never flee to the land of her mother’s birth. Fallstowe was unguarded as far as was directly visible, and Sybilla knew it would not be difficult to gather all the coin she could assemble and simply disappear into the night with old Graves, leaving the entire mess of Fallstowe behind her.
But then she would also be leaving her sisters, and their children. Her family. Sybilla would never again have a home of her own. And she could never, ever return to England.
Perhaps she simply wanted to tell someone at last, although she couldn’t imagine confessing the sordid details of her family to Julian Griffin.
I will do all I can to help you.
Sybilla sighed and turned over on her left side, so that she stared through the bed-curtains which she had left tied. Her big windows were painted with night and diamonds.
She didn’t believe him. She didn’t trust him. He had something to gain from fulfilling his obligation to Edward, else he wouldn’t have agreed to send his men away. Julian Griffin needed Sybilla’s cooperation. Perhaps she would engage the spindly little nursemaid in some espionage of her own. Sybilla always felt better knowing exactly what she was up against.
If your mother was who I suspect she was, then Fallstowe does not belong to you.
How much did he know, and how had he come by that knowledge? Sybilla decided she would play with Lord Griffin awhile, talk a little if he wanted to talk. Tell some truths.
Upon that thought, it was as if she could feel the weight of her mother’s body upon the mattress behind her, sense once more the crippled old woman’s bitter and frightened urgency.
“Not all the truth, Maman,” she sighed, hearing the sadness in her voice that she felt all the time but only allowed to manifest itself when she was alone. “I keep my promises.”
The tension on the mattress behind her eased, but Sybilla’s shoulders did not. She commanded herself to sleep, and eventually she did.
Sybilla was used to getting her way.
Cecily Bellecote sat straight up in bed from a sound sleep, a sob catching in her chest. In the chill air of the bedchamber, where it had been warm from lovemaking only a short time ago, she could feel the icy streaks of tears on her cheeks.
Oliver stirred on the mattress at her side. “Cecily? Are you all right? Does your arm pain you?”
Cecily tried to slow her breathing, gain control over the spasms that wanted her to wail. She covered her face and eyes with her hands, took a deep breath, and then wiped the wetness firmly away.
“No, my arm is fine. I don’t know. A nightmare, perhaps.” She glanced toward the bank of windows in their chamber and saw the sun rising.
Oliver was nestling his face back down into the pillow, his words stretched and sleepy by the yawn that seized him. “You’ve experienced quite a bit of excitement the past few days,” he ventured.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Of course you’re right.” She felt a gentle smile come to her lips at the thought that she was being comforted by her husband in their marriage bed. She turned her head to look down at him and something wet splashed onto the back of her hand. Cecily frowned at the water she saw there, and then brought her hands to her face again. She pulled them away and stared.
Her eyes were still leaking.
“Oliver,” she whispered, “I think something’s wrong.”
He rose up again immediately, his eyes still full of sleep but looking at her intently. “The baby?”
“No,” she said, but still laid one hand protectively over her midsection. She glanced out the brightening window again. “I think perhaps it’s . . . it’s Sybilla.”
Oliver sat up fully in bed now. “What do you mean? That she is injured or . . . ?”
