Sybill (30 page)

Her eyes rose to meet Trevor's concerned ones. Then she looked past him to where the men had been laboring. Their project is what had brought this swoon upon her. She stared at the portrait of Edith Wythe on the floor. Now the painting of Owen's current wife was being hung next to his. As he had said, he planned this to happen three years ago. In her ignorance, she had been a willing pawn in this match with a master. While she and Trevor worried about hurting Owen, he had been delighting in knowing he would have his satisfaction.

“Are you ill, my lady?”

“No, Trevor. I am fine. I-I-I did not sleep well last night. Nothing more.” It was a lie, but he would not refute it.

“Why don't you rest? I can handle the household tasks today. Since the harvest, there has been little work. Rest until you are yourself again.”

The words “I love you, Trevor” struggled to escape her lips. She wanted to reach up and draw his mouth over hers. To feel his skin rough against hers as he took her to paradise on his love. She said only, “Thank you.”

Sybill did rest. Soon she found herself doing less and less of the chores she once enjoyed. She clung to her room where she did not have to see Owen's knowing smile or listen to Trevor's painful attempts to act as if everything were as it should be. She seldom saw Goldenrod, for Owen refused to allow “that beast,” as he called him, into their suite. When she heard that her pet was moping about as she was, she made a point of taking him outside daily for a brief run in the dead gardens. She did not play with him. She simply watched as he halfheartedly barked at the few birds remaining as the weather turned chill. The rest of the day, he slept before the small hearth in the kitchen, while she remained behind the latched door of her room.

Finally, she could accept her self-imprisonment no longer. She had to talk to someone. The only one to help her would be Mrs. Beckwith. Again she must embroider her story with fanciful lies, but she had to discover a way to escape the doldrums which might injure the baby.

The foyer was vacant when she came down the stairs in her riding habit. She was glad, for she doubted anyone would miss how snuggly it drew across her middle. In her heavier gowns, she could hide the changing form of her body, but this outfit emphasized it as if with a shout. She accepted her horse from the groom with a smile, but mounted alone. With a touch of her handheld whip against the horse's flank, they burst from the stable yard onto the road to the gate. She did not know how much time she would have until Owen discovered she was gone.

A few miles past the main gate, she saw the dust of an approaching party of riders. She drew her mount to one side to let them pass. Although this road led primarily to the Cloister, she was not curious who might be calling on Owen. The speed at which they were traveling reminded her of the reckless style in which her husband roamed over his lands. As they neared, the lead rider held up his hand in a greeting. She nodded her head and prepared to ride past.

Suddenly she found her way blocked as the riders formed a straight line across the road. She pulled back sharply on her horse's reins. He reared, but she clung to her seat. Only when he was quiet did she look at the men surrounding her.

One rode closer. He stated, “You ride very well.”

“Thank goodness for that!” she snapped as she continued to pat her horse's shivering neck. “Your foolish tricks could have injured us. I can assure you that Lord Foxbridge would not be pleased.”

That was the truth. If something happened to cause her to lose the child he desperately wanted, Owen's rage would be uncontrollable. She did not know what horror he would inflict on the one who caused the accident, as well as on her for being so foolish as to ride without his permission.

“Lord Foxbridge? So you are the new Lady Foxbridge?”

As she looked at him, she held her crop at ready in case she found it expedient to leave this man behind her in the dust of her horse's hoofs. “And who are you?”

His laugh sounded remarkably familiar. As his blue eyes crinkled in wrathful amusement, he asked, “Don't you recognize me, Mother? I am Christopher Wythe, your beloved stepson.”

“Christopher?” Her eyes searched his face and saw much of Owen there. The same pointed chin, softened only slightly by his blond beard and cruel smile. His colorful clothes were of the highest and most bizarre fashion. Involuntarily, her eyes went to the ones riding with him. They were enjoying her discomfiture. Swallowing her shock, she fell back on etiquette. “This is quite a surprise. Your father was not expecting you until …” Her voice trailed off as the man guffawed.

“Until my funds ran out? Well, Mother dear, that is the case. With his orders to Mallory not to advance me any more, I decided it was time to bring the party to Foxbridge Cloister.” His eyes slid along her, making her feel as if several of the hooks were undone along the front of her gown. “Once I learned Sybill Hampton was now Lady Foxbridge, I suggested to my friends that it might be fun to spend some time in the country. God's breath, woman, you are as lovely as I have heard.”

His hands grabbed her arms just above the elbows. She could not lift her riding crop high enough to strike him as he drew her to him and kissed her leisurely. When she struggled to escape him, he simply picked her up from her saddle and placed her before him on his horse. “Mother,” he continued in his mocking voice, as his friends laughed, “don't you want to welcome your son home from London? Would you deny your loving son a kiss?”

“Let me go!” Drawing her crop back, she slashed it toward him.

His arm blocked the motion, but could not stop the small whip. The edge caught him on the cheek, slicing open a cut along his cheekbone. His shout of pain resonated through her head seconds before he gripped her hair at the nape of her neck. Twisting her face toward him, he smiled. When he placed his mouth over hers, she moaned in horror.

“I won't forget this, Sybill.” Without warning, he shoved her off the horse. When she fell harshly onto the rock-strewn road, he leaned toward her. “Don't think you have won, Mother dear. Foxbridge Cloister won't be yours.”

The words rang in her mind, but she did not understand them. Her eyes would not focus as she stared at the blurred men. When she heard the sound of their horses retreating in the distance, she tried to rise and found she could not stand. Not only was her ankle aching with a cacophony of pain, but any motion made her nauseous. Instinctively, her arms wrapped around her abdomen.

She fell back into the dirt, adding a scraped elbow to her list of injuries. Her hands clawed through the dust to seek the reins which must have fallen to the road. When she found nothing, she forced her eyes to discover what her hands could not.

“The bastard!” she whispered as she saw the road was empty. Christopher Wythe knew he might have hurt her badly, but had taken her horse. She doubted if he would be foolish enough to take it past the front gate. He only wanted to assure himself that she would not return there to warn his father of his impending arrival.

Pushing her hands against the sharp pebbles in the road, she struggled to her knees and finally to her feet. She swayed and reached for a tree by the side of the path. As she leaned against it, she fought to regain her breath. How she would get back to the Cloister she did not know. Each time she put weight on her ankle, pain coursed along her leg. Her head continued to weave, and she could not clear her eyes of the residual blur.

As she felt the cold pricking of icy rain, she yearned to join the sky in weeping. If she had been a bit closer to the Beckwiths', she would have sought shelter there. This section of road was deserted. Only the sea marshes surrounded it. She had no choice but to find her way back to the Cloister.

Reeling, panting, tears mingling with the rain, she fought her way from one tree to the next, grasping shrubs to stay on her feet. Darkness further hampered her, but she had no idea if it was the ebony of night or simply the storm. It seemed as if she had been wandering for an eternity. The sound of hoofbeats intruded into her pain, but she continued. Her ears could not determine from which direction the rider approached, and she was past caring.

“Sybill?”

When she heard the beloved voice as if from the bottom of a well, she knew she was safe. Before she could do or say anything, she felt consciousness fading. Loving arms captured her as she dropped toward the ground.

Sybill felt a cool hand against her head. Slowly her eyes opened to see a face over hers. Her mind seemed fuzzy and disconnected. “Trevor!” she breathed.

“Sweetheart, are you awake? Are you hurt?”

Instead of answering the question, she asked one of her own. “Where am I?”

Trevor smiled. “In the stable tack room. It was the closest place to find a pallet without being seen. If I brought you unconscious into the Cloister, I don't think Lord Foxbridge would forgive me quickly. Now that you are awake, I will help you back to the house.” He brushed tangled hair from her eyes. “Sybill, you call trouble upon yourself without trying.”

“I had help.”

“I can guess who.”

She made no effort to hide her rage. “I'm sure you can. Christopher has arrived home?”

He did not pretend not to understand. “He is trying to do to Lord Foxbridge verbally what he did to you. It should be no surprise he hates the idea of his father remarrying. I think he will find both of you equally difficult to break to his will.” All humor left his voice as he asked, quietly, “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Tell you?” Her eyes rose to meet his. With difficulty, she swallowed her urge to bring his mouth against hers. “But, Trevor, I just woke. It was nothing. Christopher was just trying to impress—”

“No, my love.” His hand settled on the small mound revealed by her wet and filthy dress. “Why didn't you tell me about my child?”

She tried to rise, but his hands held her to the pallet. “Trevor, you can't know. If Owen—”

Again he interrupted her. “Hush. Why are you so frightened? Did you think I would be angry that you bear my child?”

“No!” She shook her head violently, until she moaned in pain. In a softer voice, she begged, “Please don't ask me anything about the child.”

“It must be mine.” When she started to deny it, he said, emotionlessly, “You need not lie. I know the truth. I know Lord Foxbridge could not have fathered a child with you. He used us, didn't he?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

She clutched his arms as she cried, “He threatened you if it is discovered my child is not his. Trevor, if he learns you know, he will do something horrid to keep you from telling anyone else.”

“He is simply threatening you.”

“Simply? Trevor, you have no idea how intricate his plot was.” Quickly she outlined the story Owen had bragged about so proudly. She finished, “He virtually killed Father. He won't hesitate to do the same to you to be sure he gets what he wants.”

He bent and kissed her trembling lips lingeringly. “No one but you will be aware of my knowledge. Is this why you have been acting as you have? You married Owen to give my child a name when you thought I had left you forever.”

“I don't doubt Owen arranged for that note.”

He nodded. “That I am sure of. Didn't you tell me it said I was leaving you to marry another woman so our supposed child would not be a bastard? He so adroitly planted the idea in your head that you were ripe for his plots.”

“Oh, Trevor, I feel so foolish. I did not suspect Owen of subterfuge. I was so busy worrying about losing you that I did not think of anything else. He doesn't care about me or about you. He is desperate to disown Christopher.” A flush filtered along her pale features. “If I had known what he is truly like, I would never have agreed to marry him.”

“It is just as well you did, sweetheart. If you had balked at that point, I do not know what he would have done in his obsessed state of mind. Right now, you being married to him is the safest course.” Bitterly he added, “He hasn't struck you again, has he?”

“Not hard. It is only when he is drinking. Most of the time I lock myself in my room before he begins to taunt me. He would like to hurt me because it is you I love.”

Framing her face with his fingers, he vowed, “Soon we will devise a way to help you escape. It will be impossible to get your marriage annulled. In your condition, few would believe it was unconsummated.”

“Trevor, I am so sorry. I just wanted the best for our child. I fear I have created the worst life for him.”

He drew her into his arms. Into her hair, he whispered of his love. All the misunderstandings and forced hatred disappeared as he touched her again. Clutching his doublet close to her face, she did not want to leave the haven of his arms. Here she was safe from the manipulations rumbling through Foxbridge Cloister.

Sitting next to her on the floor, he brought her head against his chest. She closed her eyes and pretended this was one of the stolen hours they had in the hut by the beach. The same aromas of damp earth reeked through the small outbuilding. Closer to her was the softer smell of the wool of Trevor's clothes.

She laughed as she felt his fingers rove along the barely visible mound. Over his hand, she placed her own. “It is really there.”

He tilted her face. “Why didn't you tell me before I left for London? You must have known then if Owen was able to arrange the wedding so quickly.”

“I-I—” She took a deep breath to steady her voice. “Trevor, I was scared. You never said you wanted me forever. I was afraid the truth would force you to leave Foxbridge Cloister. Even then I was sure Owen would not accept my choice of you over him graciously. Graciously? He would have you murdered if I attempted to escape his domination.” Her eyes slid from his to look at a button in the center of his doublet. “I know I was a fool, but I didn't want to risk you facing Owen's wrath.”