Never Kiss A Stranger (6 page)

“My, that
does
sound dangerous. Where are you going?”

“That is not your concern.”

“As your wife, I think—”

“You are not my wife!”
Alys jumped at the ferocity of his words. “You are a spoiled little girl who has had a row with her sister and thinks to spite her by running away.”

“I am not spoiled,” Alys said, completely offended. “And I am not a girl.”

“Look at you,” Piers demanded, gesturing to where she sat in her puddle of skirt and cloak. “Your gown is fit for royalty—what is it? Perse?”

Alys was too shocked to answer. Any matter, he continued.

“That looks to be sable inside your cloak. You’ve run away from grand Fallstowe Castle in your jeweled headdress with your exotic pet and an embroidered silk bag, likely because your sister wouldn’t let you have a new pony or some other nonsense. You’ve convinced yourself that you’re married to me, a commoner who doesn’t have two coins to rub together, and you’re
happy
about that because it will perturb your sister. You would
thoughtlessly risk a vast fortune such is your family’s out of childish, petulant spite. You
are
a foolish
girl,
and I take no responsibility for your asinine judgment, or lack thereof.”

Alys had been on the receiving end of stinging dressing-downs since her mother had died, so Piers’s lecture should not have fazed her. But it did. Here he was, a veritable stranger, and yet he had used many of the same words her sister had. Spoiled. Childish. Foolish. Somehow, the terms stung more coming from this man than they ever had flicked from Sybilla’s cool tongue.

“I am only dressed this way because Sybilla and I had a falling-out during the winter feast. I didn’t take time to change. I don’t wear clothing like this all the time—I even brought my everyday gown with me.”

“Oh, your
everyday
gown! What is it made of? Gold?”

“No, it’s woolen,” she said calmly. “And I didn’t leave Fallstowe because I was denied a pony, you heartless ass. Sybilla is to see me married to the Lord of Blodshire in thirty days because I would not cow to her unreasonable demands. If anyone acted out of spite, ‘twas her.”

“I know of Blodshire. ‘Twould be a noble enough match for you, a younger sister. Why would you take such a pairing as spiteful?”

Alys blinked. “Have you
met
Clement Cobb?”

“I’ve not had the pleasure of Clement’s acquaintance in some years, but I do know of his mother. Nasty old bitch.”

“Isn’t she?”

“Indeed.”

She shrugged. “Well, at least we have something in common. Sybilla only did it because I refused to bow and scrape to her in front of our guests. Because I would not stand to be insulted by Clement’s awful mother. Because I would not allow Etheldred to further abuse poor Layla.
And because I would not apologize for speaking the truth. So if that is childish, then I suppose I am.”

“You’re certainly headstrong. And yes, it likely is childish.”

“Go to hell, Piers Whatever-your-name-is.”

There was pity in his eyes. “Go back to Fallstowe, Alys Foxe.”

“I won’t. Not today,” Alys hurried when Piers lowered his brow. “I can’t face Sybilla and what she’s done today. I’m too weary, by far. I must think of some way to change her mind before I confront her.”

“As you wish, but find somewhere else to think, eh?”

“You really intend to send me off alone, don’t you?”

“Yes.” He put his hands on his hips and stared at her. After a long moment, through which Alys was determined to hold his gaze, he cursed softly and dropped his eyes. “Fine, dammit. You may rest here for the day.”

Alys smiled triumphantly.

“But don’t think for one moment that this”—he waggled a finger between them—“is to continue beyond the time it takes for the sun to set over yonder hills. I am no child’s nurse.”

Alys raised her eyebrows. “And I am no child.”

“Well, that is debatable, isn’t it?”

“Not at all. Very well then, crawl back inside your hole and get your own rest. You look as though death wouldn’t have you—I do hope that’s due to your fatigue and injuries, and not how you look all the time.”

“You shan’t have to worry about that though, shall you?”

Alys shrugged and gestured to the monkey, who was picking beneath the peeling bark of one of the trees. “Layla and I shall fare quite well with my cloak to
shelter us.” She couldn’t help but add, “‘Tis quite warm—lined with sable, you know.”

Piers shook his head, letting her playful goad pass ignored. “No, you take the lean-to. If your hair or gown should peek out, you’d be a banner to any passers-by. Your very presence here is a grave liability to me, Alys.”

“Oh, come now,” she scoffed with a smile as she passed him. “It can’t all be so dire. Who would care so much to see a simple commoner such as yourself dead?”

“He’s not dead.”

It was quite obvious to Judith Angwedd Mallory, Lady of Gillwick, that the peasant was petrified of delivering this piece of news to her. And if ‘twas true, then right he was to be frightened.

Judith Angwedd did not adhere to the tradition of sparing the messenger.

She calmly leaned back in her chair at the dining table, her chalice still in her hand. There was no need to become alarmed as of yet. She dismissed the only servant from the room with a practiced wave of her other hand, leaving her and the messenger alone save for the new “steward” who stood behind her. Judith Angwedd had only hired the enormous man with the shaved head two days ago, when he’d come ‘round the manor looking for work. He had no experience running a hold—she suspected he was some sort of criminal by the old and multitudinous array of scars across his wide back, but Judith Angwedd was confident she could train him properly in her preferences for running Gillwick. Especially since the majority of his duties would take place in her bed.

She asked the messenger, “How can you be certain he is not dead?”

“The body was gone,” the man began in a stutter, his eyes seemingly unable to meet his mistress’s.

“It’s been several days. Perhaps ‘twas washed away by the river,” she suggested. “Or carried off by animals.”

It looked as though it pained the man to shake his head. “No, milady. When I couldn’t find him, I went ‘round to the abbey, making as if he was a dear friend o’ mine.”

Judith Angwedd ran her tongue along the front of her teeth behind her lips, swallowed. “And?” she queried quietly.

“They’d had him. The monks,” the messenger clarified. “One of ‘em found a man calling himself Piers by the river and took him in to nurse him.”

Judith Angwedd took a deep breath, but so slowly that her chest didn’t seem to move. It was important to stay calm. “He is no longer at the abbey?”

“No, milady. He left only yester morn.”

She rolled her lips inward, stretched her cheek with her tongue. “I see. Do they know we seek him?”

The man shook his head rapidly. “I give ‘em a false name, milady. Said him and me was just travelin’ companions what had been separated.”

“Wise,” she praised coolly and nodded once. She almost smiled when she saw the messenger visibly relax. “No one will be able to trace you to Gillwick Manor—or to Bevan or me.”

“That’s right, milady. I done everything just like you said.”

Judith Angwedd’s nostrils flared, and she nearly lost her composure. If the man had done as she’d commanded, her dead husband’s bastard would be in pieces, burning on a pyre at this moment, instead of running loose about
the land, likely in a straight line to the king. But she smoothed her tongue along her fine teeth again, and it calmed her enough to summon a hint of a smile for the doomed man.

“Of course you did. Well done.
Well done,”
she praised.

“What shall I do now, milady?” the man asked, wringing his cap all the harder, obviously anxious to please her.

“You have done quite enough,” Judith Angwedd assured him. “You are dismissed. Phineas will meet you at the road with your payment.”

“Of course, milady.” The man began backing away, bowing the entire time. “Thank you.”

When he was gone, Judith Angwedd turned her face slightly to speak to the fierce looking man still standing behind her chair. “Send for Bevan right away, Phineas. He must come no matter how drunk he is. Mayhap the bastard Piers is still bothered enough from his wounds that we might gain him, but if not, we shall inquire of the holds from here to London to see if any might have given him refuge. He will not hide from me, the cowardly filth.”

The man bowed.

“And Phineas?”

“Yes, my lady?”

“That messenger who was just here …”

There was only the briefest pause. “You mean the thief, my lady?”

“Yes, Phineas. That is exactly who I mean. That man was most certainly a thief.” She held her chalice up near her ear and in a moment it was taken from her hand. “He has stolen my favorite cup.”

“I know how to handle thieves, my lady. Think upon it no more.”

Judith Angwedd listened to Phineas’s hollow footsteps as he left the room, and she waited for her son.

* * * 

Sybilla Foxe watched from the comfort of her bed as the man dressed himself. She liked the way the long, thick muscles to either side of his spine swelled and bunched as he bent over to pull up his pants. The morning sunlight streaming through the bank of windows in her bedchamber lit him afire—his dark hair, his hollowed cheeks. Lord Bellecote was a beautiful specimen of a man, and he had proven himself to be an enjoyable and adventurous lover. August had become a welcome friend and confidant, and so Sybilla was glad that she had put off sleeping with him these many months—the anticipation had been quite delicious—but at the same time, she was feeling a bit melancholy now before he left her.

She would never have the pleasure of him in this capacity again. By her own edict, true, but that was the way things were.

He was lacing up his blouse now, his tunic folded in half over one thick forearm, and smiling at her. She let herself smile back, if only to enjoy these last moments, and to perhaps pretend that there was a chance she and August Bellecote would meet under these circumstances again. Sybilla’s dark hair was undone over her shoulders, and she could still catch a whiff of the fresh cologne the maid had dressed her with before the feast last night. The silk pillows beneath her bare back were warm and smooth and deep, her coverlet weighty and smelling of sunshine. Beyond the stone walls of her chamber, all of Fallstowe waited for her to emerge from her rooms and direct the day. Sybilla should have felt like royalty. Instead, she felt damned and burdened.

She would have to face Alys today. Her youngest sister, still so naïve and fiery in her youth, who resented Sybilla
for taking their mother’s place. Headstrong, reckless Alys, whom Sybilla was only trying so desperately to protect before time ran out for all of them.

Lord Bellecote picked up his boots with one hand and strolled toward the bed, that sleepy, sexy smile still on his sculpted lips. His lashes were so dark, his eyes seemed to be lined with kohl. He sat on the edge of the bed to don his footwear, causing Sybilla’s hip to roll toward him and her coverlet to threaten to slide from her breasts. She clutched at it and covered herself once more.

“No point in being shy now, is there?” August teased, lacing his boots with firm pulls and jerks.

“Not shy, only chilled,” Sybilla said.

“Hmm. Well”—he dropped his booted foot to the floor and turned to lean over her, bringing his face to her neck—“shall I warm you up a bit before I go?”

Sybilla placed a palm against his chest and turned her face away. “I have many duties to attend to this day, August. The remainder of my guests depart, and I must see to my sister.”

“The nun or the heathen?” he asked jokingly.

Sybilla’s small smile dropped from her face and she pushed at him more firmly. “I don’t believe either are any of those things.”

“Sybilla, I tease you,” August cajoled. He raised a hand as if to caress her cheek, but she moved her face away from his reach. “I’m sorry. Let’s not quarrel.”

“We’re not quarrelling,” she replied coolly. To quarrel with a man would imply that Sybilla held passionate feelings for him, and she could not afford that, not even with a man such as August Bellecote.

“Good,” he said emphatically, although his lowered brow betrayed his doubt in her sincerity. “Good, for I would not
want this beginning to be marred by resentfulness over some silly thing I said in jest.”

This beginning. Sybilla would have laughed were the whole thing not so very sad.

“Shall I call on you tomorrow?” he continued. “After your guests are departed and Fallstowe is once more at peace?”

At that she did laugh. “Fallstowe is never at peace, August. But no, my schedule is quite full for the next month.”

His frown deepened on his handsome face. “The next month? Surely you cannot expect me to wait that long to see you.”

And off we go,
thought Sybilla. “There is much to do before Alys’s wedding. I do hope you and Oliver will come.”

August laughed. “My brother would not miss a chance at a hall populated by women whose heads are full of domestic notions. He feels it makes them romantic and reckless, therefore bettering his chances of a conquest. He was sorely put out at missing the feast due to the unfavorable winds that kept him abroad.”

“I shall look forward to seeing him—and you—in one month, then,” Sybilla said.

At her words, her meaning quite clear, August sat up fully, his wrists resting on his lap. His expression was almost incredulous.

“So that’s it, eh? I am no better than the others?”

Sybilla turned her face away, so as not to have to meet his eyes.

“I thought perhaps you waited so long because we would be—”

“Different?” Sybilla supplied, looking at him now. He would become angry now, and Sybilla could accept
anger. “You thought that one night with you would cause me to fall helplessly in love with you? That we would be married and have children and live out our joined lives in incomparable bliss?” Sybilla forced a laugh. “‘Twas good, August, but not that good.”