Sybill (39 page)

The hours sped past too quickly. True to his promise, Trevor did not allow her to leave the bed. With the blankets wrapped around them, they laughed as he told her of his attempts to find a position in Liverpool. Few had heard of Lord Foxbridge's death when he first arrived in his native city. Leery of hiring a man out of favor with the possessor of the title which carried much weight in the shipping city, it had taken him days to convince someone to hire him. “As a warehousing clerk,” he finished.

“Why? With what you have learned here, you should be working in the office dealing with accounts and customers.”

“Thank you for the belated recommendation, but without it on paper, I found the best position I could. Because I can live with my sister's family, I'm managing. Barely.”

“I'm sorry, Trevor.”

He tasted the contours of her lips. “Don't be. None of this is your fault. If it wasn't for you, I would have spent the last three years working in a dank warehouse instead of Foxbridge Cloister. This is only temporary,” he added quickly, as he felt her shiver as she did each time he alluded to her late husband.

When the time came for him to leave, Sybill knew no pleading would urge him to stay. He could not delay, or he would miss the party he was traveling south with. To ride the winter roads alone, even for a strong man like Trevor, was an invitation to attacks and death by thieves or the capricious weather.

Her voice was muted as she tried to talk of mundane things. Nothing mattered when this wonderful interlude was ending. Finally she could delay no longer asking the question shouting through her mind. “When—Do you—Will you be able to come back?”

Taking her fingers between his, he looked into her tear-filled eyes. “I don't know, sweetheart. More than before, this is stolen time. Only because of the quiet days for Christmastide was I able to have these five days I needed to travel here to spend the last few hours with you.”

“Trevor, take me with you. I don't care about Foxbridge Cloister. I don't care who knows the truth.” Her voice broke as she whispered, “Please!”

“I can't, my love.” He loosened her convulsive grip on his arms and placed her icy hands between his. “If Lord Foxbridge learned I dared to ignore his royal edict, he would have me hunted down. He wants you more than his father did.” He scowled. “He won't willingly let you come to me.”

“If we told him the truth! He wouldn't want me knowing I am pregnant with your child.”

Sadly he shook his head. “Sybill, I know Owen Wythe better than you. When that will is read, there will be a reason for Christopher to want to find you quickly and renew his offer of marriage. Don't forget that your husband married you to disinherit his son.”

“I don't care.” She pulled her hands away. “I don't want the Cloister. I certainly don't want to help Owen complete his revenge on Christopher.”

“You're involved. Whether you want to or not, you're involved. I can guarantee that the late Lord Foxbridge has left you a share of the Cloister, so you will be a thorn in his son's side.” His mouth tipped down in a frown as he said, “You can't flee from this. Your stepson will seek you out to the farthest corners of the earth because I am sure Lord Foxbridge tied up his inheritance to you being at the Cloister. Why else do you suppose he has insisted you stay this close?”

She watched silently as Trevor rebuttoned the wool vest over his plain doublet. Her vision became wavy as he reached for his cape. It was senseless to beg him to stay. Soon Christopher would hear of his presence and come to slay him. When he finished tying his cloak, he held out his arms. She leapt to her feet to press her face to his chest. The tears she had not wanted to blemish their farewells flowed steadily along her face. She sobbed for their tortured love.

“Hush, darling,” he murmured against her hair. “I will be with you again as soon as I can. You know I don't wish to be away from you one second longer than necessary.”

“I know. Trevor, I—” She spun out of his arms as a fist struck the door. Fear bleached her face.

Silently he signaled that he would hide in the loft. From there he could watch and not be seen. If the caller proved dangerous, Trevor could aid her immediately. With a quick kiss to strengthen her, he scurried up the ladder.

Only when she was satisfied that he was hidden did she go to the door, where the rapping had taken on a hysterical tempo. Too late, as the storm whipped around her legs and twisted her robe against her, did she realize how little she was wearing. “Yes?” she asked in a voice as frigid as the day colored by the fading light of the afternoon sun. She recognized the man as one of Christopher's friends.

“Lady Foxbridge, how charming to see you!” He reached for her hand, but she snatched it away to grip the edge of the door. She kept the door nearly closed to give her some modesty.

“What do you want, sir?”

“Only to speak to you. May I come in? This damned wind is slicing through me.”

She began to close the door. “No, I don't think so. I do not choose to speak to Lord Foxbridge or any of his friends. Good day, sir.”

“But you see, my lady, it isn't your choice.” With a smile, he steadily pushed on the door. His palm on her shoulder shoved her back into the room as he entered as if he owned the cottage. Sweeping his beaver hat from his head, he bowed deeply. “My dear Lady Foxbridge, Delaine Hartford at your service.”

“I repeat, sir, I don't want to speak to you. Will you please leave before I do something I might regret?” She looked significantly at her dog, who was watching the exchange with little interest. As far as Goldenrod was concerned, she was safe with Trevor in the house. Coldly, she added, when Hartford did not move, “Good day.”

As she turned, he caught her arm just above her elbow. The dog made a threatening sound deep in his massive throat, but did not rise. When she ordered Goldenrod to calm himself, the man forced her to look at him. Hartford smiled as he saw her clutch the neckline of her robe closed. It affirmed what he had guessed. Alone in her cottage, she dispensed with the heavy clothes women chose to wear in public. His eyes slid along her form until he forced himself to remember the reason for his errand. “I have something to say to you, my lady, and only after I have said it will I leave.”

“Then say it!” she commanded. “I want you out of here!”

“Lord Foxbridge's patience grows thin. There's little at the Cloister to amuse him. The supply of those maidens who interested him has been exhausted. He is fatigued with cards since he has no more money to lose. Even the fine wines stored in the cellars pale after one enjoys them each night.”

Snidely she stated, “Extend to Lord Foxbridge my sincerest grief at his boredom in the country, but I don't intend to provide him with sport.”

His blue eyes narrowed as she perceived exactly what he had been sent to say. Christopher was underestimating the intelligence of this pretty woman. Knowing her parents, it was understandable to expect Sybill Hampton Wythe was much the same. It was clear she was not. That she had made a home for herself out of this hovel and not returned to the Cloister should have shown Christopher that.

“Well, Mr. Hartford? Do you have anything else to say?”

“Only this. If you are wise, you will make no attempt to have correspondence with Trevor Breton.”

“Why?” she gasped. She did not want to hear Trevor's name discussed when he was so close. If she allowed even a hint of her fear to betray them, Christopher would be certain that the man she loved would not survive to meet his traveling companions this evening.

He smiled, discovering he had cracked her facade slightly. “His lordship regrets his rare moment of benevolence in allowing Breton to leave Foxbridge Cloister alive. If he suspects you are plotting with your late husband's assistant, he will punish you both.”

“Punish?”

“Yes, my lady. He told me to tell you exactly this. ‘Sybill, you wouldn't like to watch Breton die as slowly as he could under my hand.'”

When she tugged her arm away, he released her, sure she would plead with him to take her to beg clemency. Instead she spat, “You have given your message. Now I give you one to take back to my stepson. Tell him I'm not intimidated by his childish threats. He should remember that nothing is decided until my husband's will is read. I think he can understand that.”

“My lady, under the circumstances—”

“I bid you good day, Mr. Hartford.” She opened the door. “Get out, and do not come back to invade my home with your churlish threats. Christopher should do his dirty work himself instead of sending his inept lackey.”

“My lady, I—” he began again.

“Get out! Get out, or I will have Goldenrod show you the door.” The dog raised his head as he heard his name mentioned in her distressed voice. A soft growl resonated through the room. As Hartford looked from her unbending stance to the dog, he decided there was no reason to stay and fight off that giant cur.

Sybill folded up into the chair as the door closed. Before she could draw a relieved breath, she leapt to her feet and slid the bolt into place. Drawing aside the tattered curtains, she peered through the slats in the shutters. Only when she saw Hartford ride away did she relax.

“Lord Foxbridge has no idea I am here.”

She spun to see Trevor's grim smile. With a sigh, she sat on the edge of the rumpled bed. “If he did, he would have come personally.” She cradled her face in her quivering hands. “Oh, I hate all this.”

“Aye,” he breathed. “It is horrible. Sweetheart, I must leave.”

“Stay safe, Trevor, please.”

Slowly he brought her to her feet and into his arms. He would have preferred to hold her against the soft mattress where she would sleep alone until he could return for her. For a moment, he was tempted to steal her from this house and continue with his aborted plans to take her to the continent. That was a futile wish. The new Lord Foxbridge would not let his stepmother leave. Unlike his father, who wanted Sybill for the child her slender body could produce, Christopher wished to possess all of Sybil. If she attempted to flee his domination, he would not rest until he found her and broke her to his will by murdering the ones she loved. Their only choice was to wait for Mallory to bring the will to the Cloister. Once they learned Owen Wythe's plans for his wealth, they would deal with Christopher Wythe.

He placed a last kiss on her trembling lips. “Farewell, my love. Remember, you can send for me anytime you need me.”

“I need you now,” she sobbed.

“If you need me to help deal with Lord Foxbridge, I should have said.” He ran the back of his gloved hand against her cheek dampened with her tears. “Soon, sweetheart. Soon, I will be with you forever.”

“Forever. Trevor, I love you.”

“I love you. The Beckwiths will help you. Don't forget that.”

Biting her lip, she nodded. “I won't.” She watched as he ruffled Goldenrod's thick fur and walked to the door. When he paused for a moment, she launched herself into his arms for a final, soul-wrenching kiss. Then, as the bolt rattled in the latch, he was gone. She stood in the open doorway, ignoring the cold beating on her. It was not as frigid as the ice within her while she watched Trevor stride away to be swallowed by the night.

How long she remained there, she did not know. Her teeth chattered, and her hands had become numb, but she could not bear to close Trevor out of her life. Only Clara's arrival with Mac broke her bewitchment with the empty road.

Her maid began to admonish her for being so foolish, but when she noted the frozen tears on Lady Foxbridge's sad face, she did not continue. Bringing her into the house, she bid her own sweetheart a quick good night. She sent the shivering woman to bed while she prepared heated cider to warm both of them. Once she was sure Lady Foxbridge would drink it, Clara started to straighten up the house.

She smiled at the lady resting against the headboard of her bed. Mac had confided in her a secret which she could tell no one, not even the ones who shared it. The only reason he had told her was because he knew Lady Foxbridge would be shattered when Trevor left. What Mac knew explained many things she had not understood before, such as why the old Lord Foxbridge never slept with his wife and why he delighted in taunting her about her unborn child.

Padding across the floor in her cloth slippers, Clara patted the covers of Lady Foxbridge's bed. “Why don't you just go to sleep, my lady? Look, even Goldenrod has gone to sleep.”

“He sleeps all the time,” Sybill replied with a hint of a smile. “So Mrs. Beckwith and Nancy know the truth?”

Clara was not overly surprised that Lady Foxbridge had guessed she knew what no one should know. “No, my lady. We told them only that you have a friend coming to spend Twelfth Night with you. When Trevor came to the house, they were busy delivering a baby in Foxbridge.”

“Thank you, Clara. I owe you and Mac more than I can ever hope to repay.”

“Nonsense,” she retorted in an easy echo of her future mother-in-law's sturdy common sense. “We only do as you and Trevor would for us, if the situation were reversed. I want you to sleep. Mother Beckwith would be enraged with me if I let you get ill.”

“Yes, ma'am,” she answered, with mock servility.

Giving Clara her cup, Sybill nestled into the bed. She clutched Trevor's pillow close as she imagined the warmth of his hard chest beneath her face while she slept next to him. Many days would pass before she could see him again, but the promise of being with him forever strengthened her to face the trials still ahead.

Chapter Twenty

The knock was muted by the screech of the wind clawing the small house that stood in its way on its journey from the sea. Clara turned from the partially opened door to say, “My lady, do you wish to see—?”