Page 40 of Stay with Me

Sybil had to put an end to this nonsense before it got further out of hand. She started to slip her leg over the saddle intending to descend the way cowboys did in the movies. But her foot caught in the cloak, tangling her, so that she tumbled against Nicholas’s broad chest again.

He steadied her, then he slid down with a grace and ease that put even the best cowboy to shame. When he reached up for her, he settled his hands on her waist. As he lifted her down, she held her breath, expecting him to take advantage of the closeness by brushing against her. Dare she admit she was hoping for the contact?

Although his eyes turned to dark brown liquid fuel, he set her down a respectable distance away. He didn’t immediately release his grip on her waist, and for a second he seemed to be waging an inner war, forcing himself to let go and take a step back.

All the while, Beatrice and Father Fritz continued to watch them with goofy grins.

“I agree, Father Fritz.” Beatrice stepped up to Nicholas and patted his cheeks like a proud mother would do. Maybe in some ways, he’d been a son to her after she’d lost her own. “After all these years and all the heartache, you deserve some happiness of your own.”

Nicholas didn’t contradict Beatrice. And Sybil guessed this again had to do with the woman he’d lost, the one he’d admitted he’d loved. Did he still love her?

Beatrice turned to face Sybil, bringing large hands up to her cheeks and patting them just as she’d done to Nicholas’s. The woman’s fingers smelled of onion, as though she’d just come from the cutting board. But Sybil remained where she was, sensing Beatrice’s acceptance was important in this outlaw community.

“You come with me now.” Beatrice clutched Sybil’s arm. “I’ll take good care of you and get you ready for the wedding.”

Was this woman really serious about a wedding today? She couldn’t be. Things like this didn’t happen, did they?

Nicholas caught Sybil’s gaze and nodded, his eyes reassuring her as his words had a moment ago that he wouldn’t force himself or a marriage upon her no matter what anyone else might say.

She blew out a breath and allowed the woman to pull her along toward the open door of a home that reminded her of the displays at the living history museum in West Sussex. Gone were the bright-white paint, smooth walls with perfectly aligned beams, and neatly woven thatch. Instead, the daub—the hard mixture of clay, dung, and straw that covered the home—was rough and grainy and even crumbling in places. The wattle posts were coarse. And the thatch was misshapen, straw poking out at odd angles.

“Sustenance first, Beatrice.” Nicholas’s statement held the authority of one used to ordering people around. “She has not eaten all day.”

“I’m guessing you haven’t eaten all week,” Beatrice quipped over her shoulder.

“I would not turn down a meal.”

“Then come in with you, and I’ll feed that bottomless stomach of yours.” Beatrice spoke with false exasperation, since it was obvious she doted on Nicholas and would give him every crumb in her house.

As Sybil entered the dark interior, a pungent scent greeted her, like bacon fat but much stronger. Though the day was warm, a low fire burned upon the center hearth. There was no chimney to capture the smoke. Instead the haze lingered throughout the room, appearing to exit out windows as well as a hole in the roof.

“I was nearly finished making rushlights.” Beatrice crossed to a kettle where some of the rushes were still soaking. She gathered them up and laid them next to the others drying on a rack.

From what Sybil could quickly glean, the rushes somehow accumulated the fat in the hollow pith. She guessed that once lit, the tallow inside burned similar to a candle.

Nicholas entered the cottage behind them, and Beatrice nodded at a trestle table with benches on either side. “Sit down, and I’ll have some pottage heated in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

The home was about the size of Sybil’s bedroom in her flat, with only crudely made furniture and the barest of kitchenware. There was no sight of a bed, and she guessed Beatrice and Ralph slept on pallets on the earthen floor.

Instead of crossing to the table, Nicholas came directly toward Sybil, only stopping when he was but a hand’s length away. In the low lighting and with the tight confines, his presence was overpowering and yet strangely exciting.

“Sybil will sit and eat with me.” As he spoke the words to Beatrice, he held out a hand to Sybil, both his words and actions setting in place a precedent, one that said he considered her his equal and positioned her in a hierarchy above Beatrice.

Sybil hesitated. “I can serve myself.”

“As my future wife, you are a guest here just as I am.”

Future wife.Did he want to marry her?

His eyes were dark, and the dim lighting kept her from reading them.

Regardless of this marriage issue, she had to make a choice. How did she want the people to view her? As nobility? Equal to Nicholas?

She didn’t exactly like that prospect. Having had a single mum while growing up, she’d never had much extra. She’d learned to work hard for everything she accomplished and earned. The truth was, she could relate better to Beatrice’s and the other laborers’ way of life than to Nicholas’s.

Nicholas didn’t wait for her to protest again. Instead, he placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her to the table. Once she was situated on a bench, he took the spot next to her.

All the while Beatrice heated the pottage, she peppered them with questions about how they met and how they managed to escape. Sybil let Nicholas do most of the talking, curious how he would explain her presence and where she’d come from. He didn’t mention the holy water or his visions of her, only that she was a family friend staying at the castle and had been able to use her fighting skills to throw the guards off.

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