Sybill (17 page)

Quickly he glanced in each direction and grinned. No one was in sight. Not that he expected to see anyone. He had given instructions to work in the field a half mile away. The workers would be busy all morning hoeing out the weeds which tried to strangle the plants.

“Sweetheart?”

“What did you call me?” she gasped.

Reaching up, he took her hands and tugged on them gently. With her eyes centered directly on his, she stepped down the short stairs to sit next to him on the ground. His arm slid around her shoulders as she continued to gaze into his eyes.

When his mouth touched hers, it was as if the sun had splintered to drench them in its fire. His skin tingled where her pliant body was pressed to him. The fragrance of her perfume drifted lazily about them. Her hands rose to his bare shoulders as she faded into his kiss. The soft texture of his beard teased her skin while his lips moved along her throat. From deep within her came strong quivers. She surrendered herself to rapture as she breathed the musky scent of his work-dampened body.

A tickling sensation against her cheek broke the enchantment. She reached to brush away whatever was on her skin. As her fingers touched the thick grass, her eyes opened wide to see Trevor's face above hers. She froze as she realized how intimately they were lying together in the dusky bower. His fingers were drawing her hat from her hair. Even that chaste touch delighted her.

“I think I should—I think I …” Her words faded into a murmur of pleasure as he bent to stroke her skin with the moist warmth of his tongue. Fighting her way back to possession of her own senses, she whispered, “Trevor!”

With a laugh, he leaned across her, keeping her pinned lightly to the ground. He smiled as he saw the happy light had returned to her eyes. His hand gently brushed away the loose curls encircling her face. “Sweetheart, this is the way I would spend each morning. In your arms, discovering the wondrous tastes of your skin.”

“‘Sweetheart'?”

He kissed her lips teasingly. “Do you object to such an appropriate name? As sweet as your skin is, you must be equally delicious all the way to the center of your being.”

A thrill of flame slashed her, branding her with the desire shining in his eyes. She was not an innocent. She recognized the expression she had seen in the past on other men's faces when they had looked at her and asked her to live with them as their favored mistress. This time she was pleased. For the first time, she wanted a man to want her. Her hand caressed his face. She chuckled lightly as the bristles of his beard rubbed roughly against her palm. As she wondered how the beard would feel against the rest of her, her laughter disappeared. Staring at him, she seemed incapable of doing anything else.

“Well?”

“Well what?” She breathed the words as her fingers curved to the shape of the back of his neck. Her other hand moved along his smooth back, and she wondered if anything else could feel as wonderful as his skin against hers.

“Do you object to me calling you ‘sweetheart'?”

As she shook her head, she heard the grass rustling against her hair. “Why should I?”

“You acted astonished.”

“I was.”

Her honesty no longer surprised him. Framing her face, he bent to kiss her. Although he had intended merely to joke with her, he found himself enraptured by the delicate flavor of her mouth. All conscious thought drifted away as he delved deeper to unleash the power of her passions.

Her soft cry of delight was swallowed by the man pressing her so lovingly to the ground. Following his lead, she engaged his tongue in a merry, swirling chase. All other sensations disappeared as she savored his closeness. “No,” she whispered when he started to move away. Insistently she pulled his lips back to hers. She smiled before her mouth was busy again. As much as she longed for Trevor's soul-searing kisses, he wanted her. Her behavior would label her wanton, but she cared for nothing but this joy.

When his hand slipped along her side, he drew her closer to the lean line of his body. “Look at me, sweetheart,” he ordered in a soft voice.

Slowly her eyes opened. As she saw his face so near hers, she smiled lazily. Only the studied blink of his eyes warned her of his intent as his fingers moved to caress the curve of her breast. Her startled cry was muffled by his mouth seeking to share her ecstasy. As his palm pressed against her bodice, his fingers formed an arch along the rounded surface. When he drew his hand away, her trembling fingers found his and brought them back to rest against her.

“I want you to touch me,” she whispered. “I—” Again her voice was swallowed by her soft sigh of delight. The gentle stroke of a single finger around the circumference of her breast was an alluring agony. She longed for something she could not name.

His eyes did not move from her face as her lips tilted up in a soft smile. Her fingers touched him tentatively, but slowly grew more bold. Leaning forward, he placed his mouth against the crook of her neck and felt her reaction all along her slender form. With a sigh, he drew away. He wondered if she knew how much he longed to love her. More than he wanted her, he did not want to hurt her. The jealousy Lord Foxbridge felt was influencing his actions. If he learned that Sybill had given herself to his estate manager, the jilted lord would make life intolerable for his ward.

When she felt the change in his touch as his fingers caressed her cheeks in sorrow, she looked up into his face. She searched for the passion she felt ebbing within her as she realized her dreams would not be given life in his embrace today. “Trevor?”

“He stands between us, sweetheart, even when I hold you like this.”

“I know,” she whispered sadly. Sitting up, she turned her back to him. She did not want him to see the tears that clung thickly to her eyelashes.

His broad hands brought her back to rest against him. She put her face on the soft matting of hair on his chest as he wrapped his arms around her. “I am sorry.” He kissed the top of her head. “I will do nothing to harm you.”

“He asked me to marry him yesterday while I was going over the accounts with him.”

Trevor spat an oath, then apologized hastily. “Forgive me. I shouldn't say that in your presence.”

“I have heard that and worse,” she retorted with a tight laugh. Her efforts at levity fell flat. Tilting back her head, she gazed at his grief-dulled features. “Remember? I got my education in what amounted to a bawdy house in London.”

Viciously he shook her. “Stop it, Sybill! Why are you worrying about that when Lord Foxbridge is attempting to steal your future from you?”

She put her hands over his on her upper arms. Peeling them off her, she shoved them away. “Don't patronize me, Trevor Breton! I know how delicate this situation is. Owen accepted my refusal, but only for now. His proposal is merely a formality. When he decides I will marry him, will I have any choice?”

“Yes!”

“No!” she answered at the same time. “He's my guardian. What he orders, I must do.” She placed her face in her hands and moaned, “Oh, why did I ever come to Foxbridge Cloister?”

Trevor did not bother to answer. Sybill had had no more alternatives then than she had in choosing whether she married Lord Foxbridge. As he stared at her shoulders shaking with the emotion pent up within her, he wished he could offer her another option. He knew exactly what would happen if he tried to take her from the Cloister. Lord Foxbridge would alert the sheriff, and Trevor Breton would be labeled a criminal. When they were found and dragged back, Sybill's fate would be the same, but she would be left without her most loyal ally. Justice would be served, and Sybill would weep over his grave. It was something he would risk only when there was no other way to protect her. He prayed for another, less desperate solution.

“I am glad you came to the Cloister,” he said softly. When she glanced at him, he was astonished to see that, even with tears weaving along her cheeks, she remained lovely. “I am so very glad.”

“So am I!” With a sob, she flung her arms around his neck. “Trevor, what are we going to do?”

He considered lying, but that would not offer her solace. Like him, she appreciated the honesty which had underlined their friendship from the beginning. When he spoke, it was the truth which broke his heart and kept him tossing on his narrow cot through the endless hours of the night. “I don't know, sweetheart. I truly don't know.”

The days at the Cloister continued to pass slowly and uncomfortably. Owen did not pay any attention to Sybill's unhappiness. With Trevor working all the daylight hours on the early harvest, she had no time with him. Her hours were monopolized by her guardian. If she wanted to go riding, Owen always accompanied her. Soon it was easier just to remain out of the hot sun except when she was playing with Goldenrod on the brown grass.

Everyone in the huge house was caught in the grip of war terror. M. Sievers hurriedly finished the portrait and collected his commission without waiting for the unveiling. Only Owen had seen the finished painting and apparently was satisfied. He insisted no one else see it until the party he planned for their neighbors. When that would be, no one could guess.

The news coming from the opposite side of the island was sparse and often contradictory. Although the less well equipped English navy was inflicting damage on the Armada, whether it was enough to defeat the massive array of ships was something no one seemed to know. In the night Sybill heard footsteps from the servants' quarters. She knew she was not the only one unable to sleep. Often she would spend the breathless, summer nights staring out her seaward window. More than once, she was sure she saw lights along the shore, glittering in the ebony gloss of the sea.

When she mentioned it to Owen, he merely laughed and patted her hand paternally. “Don't worry,” he commanded.

“But—”

“I said you do not need to worry. I do not like to see you anything but happy, my dear.” He put his arm around her and drew her closer. Although she stiffened, he acted as if she was pleased with his fingers gently caressing her arm. “Let me make you happy, Sybill. You have been very disconsolate this week.”

She stared at him as if he were insane. “I am worried about the war.”

“We won't be attacked by the Spanish, if that is what you fear.” His fingers rose to the stubborn line of her chin. “I wouldn't let some black-hearted, Spanish cur steal you from me. My dear, why don't you marry me? I will keep you safe.”

Biting her lip, she closed her eyes as pain swelled through her. She did not want to hurt him. Although he snapped at her and chided her for her youthfulness, he always treated her well. That she could not return his love made it doubly imperative that she turn him down gently. “I can't,” she whispered.

“Is it because your age and mine are so different?”

She shook her head. “No. It is simply that I don't love you any differently than I did when you opened your home to me.” When she pushed against his arms, he released her. She bid him a good day as she left the library to seek the haven behind the closed doors of her rooms.

Thinking of that as she stood in the light of the crescent moon, she wondered how much longer Owen would continue courting her like a lovesick lad. For him, it was a game, but it tormented her. She wished she could repay his generosity, but this was not the way.

A knock sounded on her door. She opened it to see Kate. “What is it?”

“We beat them, Miss Sybill!”

Kate did not need to explain any more, but she babbled on as Sybill drew on her dressing gown. Kate shouted the rest of the news to her mistress' back as Sybill sped toward the stairs. The tidings, for a change, were all good. The English under the command of Howard and Drake had harried the larger ships of Spain, picking them off one by one or maneuvering them into situations from which there was no escape. The Armada was decimated, and the remnants were fleeing north in a futile attempt to escape the relentless English.

Sybill paused on the steps as she repeated, “North? Where do they plan to go?”

“Toward their Catholic allies in Ireland, I would guess,” came the answer from the first floor.

She glanced down the stairs to see Trevor leaning on the banister. From the vivid grin on his face, she could tell he was as delighted with the end of the hostilities as she was. She ran down the stairs. When she held out her hands, he whirled her into his arms and spun about the wide foyer.

“We won!” she crowed.

“Aye. You shouldn't have doubted that, Sybill. The English have proven to all the world what we have always known. We have the finest seamen the land has spawned.”

In a quieter tone, she said, “I'm simply glad it's over. Perhaps we can have peace now.”

“That would be grand.” He placed her on her feet. Putting his finger beneath her chin, he raised her mouth toward his.

She closed her eyes as she awaited the rapture of his kiss. When his mouth settled on her cheek, she glanced at him in surprise. His tight smile warned her silently of what she should have guessed. She placed an equally insincere expression on her face as she moved to greet Owen, who was standing behind her. How long he had been there, she could not guess. As if it were perfectly natural, she stood on tiptoe and kissed the older man on his age-dried cheek.

“Congratulations to all of us and England!”

Owen's blue eyes twinkled with happiness. Draping his arm over her shoulder, he smiled. “I think this calls for a few toasts to Gloriana and her brave sailors. Would you like to join us, Trevor?”

“Certainly, m'lord.”

“Marshall?”

The butler appeared as if out of thin air. “I took the liberty of arranging for some wine in the solarium, m'lord.”

As the man holding her urged her toward the back of the house, it was Sybill who thanked Marshall for his thoughtfulness. The butler gave her a slow wink, and she giggled. Tonight they had thrown off their most solemn natures to enjoy the victory over their oldest enemy.