Sybill (43 page)

She grimaced. “Me? I am an atrocious sight.”

“On the contrary, it's your shape that reminds me of the love we shared when you were slender. Don't you realize that no matter how you look, I love you more each day?”

“I love you,” she said sincerely. “It is simply that I am tired of being built like Kate.”

With a laugh, he held out his arm. “Shall we go, Lady Foxbridge? I'm sure Clara and Mac are anxious for this wedding to begin.”

He continued with his light patter as they slowly descended the stairs to go into the ancient section of the Cloister. Her eyes remained on the floor as she fought the pain tightening across her middle. This was not the baby kicking. She feared it wanted to be born, but it was more than six weeks too soon. Although she should be in bed resting, she did not want Clara to postpone her wedding again. If she sat quietly and took no part in the frivolity, she would be fine.

Trevor gave her an odd look as he seated her in the front pew. Her face was as gray as the stones. “Sybill, are you all right?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Just the baby acting up again.”

He patted her hand and smiled. Sure she meant only the active movements of his child, he turned to view the plain bride looking prettier than he had ever seen her. Clara walked along the aisle on Marshall's arm. Her russet dress was decorated with ivory lace and the prerequisite love knots prized by maidens. Each one they could steal during the feast would better their chances of being the next to marry.

By the altar, the uncomfortable groom adjusted his too-fancy clothes. With his unruly hair brushed and wearing stylish breeches, he did not resemble the Mac Beckwith they knew well. As he saw his bride, his face cracked into the familiar grin which spoke of mischief yet to come.

Reverend Sears performed the ceremony with less pomp than the last one in the Cloister. Although he had prepared a magnificent sermon when Lord Foxbridge married his ward, he spoke a short, uninspired address for this overly presumptuous wedding between two peasants. No one noticed his snobbery or cared. It was a lovely day, and there was a party to be held.

Sitting quietly, Sybill did not hear a word of the service or the happy sniffling of the groom's sister by her side. She concentrated totally on hiding her steadily increasing discomfort. The debilitating pains rippled across her body with distressing regularity. Knowing she was being insane not to announce her problem, she stared at the altar. As cheers erupted, she glanced up to see the happy bride and groom kissing as the minister pronounced them married. She swallowed a moan as she fought to stay erect. Gripping the edge of the pew, she did not realize her knuckles were white nor that her other hand was crushing Trevor's fingers.

“Sweetheart, what is wrong?”

Swaying, she felt his arms around her. She could see his mouth move, but the sound of his words made no sense. She tried to speak, and only another moan of anguish emerged from her lips.

As he saw her waver at the edge of consciousness, Trevor tugged on Mrs. Beckwith's sleeve. She was accepting congratulations and did not turn immediately. When he called her name sharply, she looked about and gasped.

“Oh, no! Not today!” she cried.

“It's too soon,” stated Trevor needlessly. He caught Sybill as she sagged against him. “Sweetheart, can you walk? We must get you to bed.”

She shook her head. In a whisper, she pleaded, “Don't let him be born now, Trevor. I don't want him to die.” The rest of her words drifted off as she closed her eyes and fought for her breath.

Mrs. Beckwith took command. “Can you carry her, Trevor?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Take her to her rooms.” She turned to the groom, who like everyone was waiting silently. “Mac, bring my kit. Nancy, Clara, I will need your help. The rest of you go outside and stay out of the way. We must keep this baby from being born.”

No one spoke as the crowd parted to allow Trevor to carry the barely conscious woman from the chapel. Fear propelled his feet along the corridor which he was sure had grown longer. In his head, he alternately cursed Sybill for risking herself and prayed she would be unharmed.

Marshall had run ahead and stood at the open door of the master suite. “Trevor, what can I do?”

“Just keep everyone who doesn't need to be here away. We don't need gawkers waiting to hear every detail.”

Grimly he nodded. “Aye, I will make sure you have quiet for Lady Foxbridge. How—how is she?”

“I don't know.” He placed her on the bed and loosened her collar. As he heard the butler bustle out of the room, he pulled off Sybill's shoes. “Oh, my love, how could you be so foolish?”

He was shocked when she answered in a breathless whisper, “I didn't want Clara to wait. I-I …”

“Hush, sweetheart,” he murmured as he wet a cloth in the ewer and placed it on her forehead. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he spoke softly, although he was unsure if she was listening or not. Even as he watched, her face smoothed from its lines of pains, and she breathed more deeply. Her hand slipped from her abdomen to the bed.

Mrs. Beckwith entered the room without knocking. Proprieties had little value when Lady Foxbridge and her child were in danger. She ignored Trevor as she put her hand on Sybill's distended belly. “No contractions.”

“No,” murmured Sybill. “It has stopped.”

The midwife glanced at the man on the other side of the bed. “Trevor, you need not stay. This may be a long session. We must make sure the pains do not begin again.”

“I want to stay.” His stern voice left no room for disagreement. It softened as he picked up Sybill's hand from the cover. “Sweetheart, I won't leave you again.”

Sybill smiled softly, but said nothing. The effort to speak took more energy than she possessed. She heard Mrs. Beckwith talking to others in the room, but she floated, half awake, through the warmth of the afternoon. When Sybill came back to full awareness, candles lit the twilight-hushed room. She heard Trevor call for Mrs. Beckwith as she opened her eyes.

The midwife's footsteps were light on the carpet. Her white hair gleaming in the yellow glow of the candles, Mrs. Beckwith smiled. “I think you'll be fine, Lady Foxbridge. There's been no sign of the pains recurring. If you aren't so silly again, you shouldn't lose this child. You have been warned, my lady, of the cost of being headstrong.”

She bit her lip at the reprimand she deserved. “I'm sorry. I just did not want to ruin the wedding.”

“You made it memorable, my lady,” said the bride softly.

Sybill glanced at Clara at the foot of the bed. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, astonishment putting an edge on her words.

“I will leave now that I know you are well.” Clara dimpled. “I have something for you before I go.” She held out the wilted flowers which had been her bridal bouquet. “For the next bride in Foxbridge Cloister.”

“Thank you,” Sybill murmured. She looked from the drooping blossoms to Trevor's smiling face. It was hard to believe that a year ago she had feared she would find no welcome at the Cloister. Suddenly she laughed. “Will you go keep your husband company, Clara Beckwith?”

“I will see you in two days, my lady.” She shocked Sybill by bounding around the bed and kissing her lightly on the cheek. “You listen to Mother Beckwith, and do exactly as she says. I'm planning on being a nursemaid this summer. Not before.” With a smile and a wave of her hand, she nearly skipped from the room.

Mrs. Beckwith's grin widened her moon cheeks. “What a happy bride!” She turned to her charge. “As for you, Lady Foxbridge, I suggest you stay in bed for a few days. If there are no more pains by Tuesday, then you should be able to do what you normally do. As soon as you feel the slightest twinge, I want you to stop what you are doing and send for me immediately. Do you understand?
Immediately
!”

Tersely Trevor said, “She understands, Mrs. Beckwith. She won't have an opportunity to be so stupid again.”

“I thought I could trust you to look after her,” she replied with a smile. “If you will excuse me, I think I will go out to the garden and enjoy dancing at my son's wedding.”

The room grew silent as she closed the door behind her. Sybill felt Trevor's rage, which was so strong it almost glowed like the heat on the hearth. When he did not admonish her, she raised her eyes to regard him watching her with a strange expression. “What is it?” she whispered.

He sat on the bed and took her fingers in his. “All the time I was carrying you here, I didn't think of our child. I thought only of you. It's a fine father I will be.”

“You will be wonderful,” she soothed. “You just need time to learn to love little whatever-his-name-will-be. I have had many months to get to know him.” She smiled. “I am glad you were more worried than angry.”

“I didn't say that. As soon as this child is born, I am going to turn you over my knee and spank you for being so childish today.” His eyes twinkled, and she laughed. Bending, he kissed her warm lips. “Sweetheart, about the baby's name. You can't name him for his father.”

She nodded and sighed. “I know. I thought to lay the gossip to rest, we could name him for my father.”

“That will lay gossip to rest?”

Batting at his hand, she retorted, “This gossip. I thought, if you don't mind too much, of the name Alfred Owen Wythe.” When she saw how he winced at the choice of names, she added, “If our baby is a girl, I selected Edith.”

“Only Edith? Not your mother's name?”

“No!”

“Sybill, what is it?”

She stared at his caring face and remembered that he did not know that she had been forced to hear the truth about her mother. “I don't want to honor Countess Northrop by naming her granddaughter for her. Don't look so surprised. Christopher was happy to rub my nose in my illegitimacy.”

“It doesn't matter,” he said as he stroked her cheek.

“You are right. It doesn't matter. I don't need a mother any longer. All I need is you and to have this dear child born healthy.”

Caressing her hand, he smiled. “That I will guarantee you if I have to shackle you in this bed to make you behave yourself.”

Sybill patiently waited for the time when she could get out of bed. Quickly she learned Trevor would not be the only one determined that she did nothing to harm herself. The staff watched her like a covey of overanxious parents. She admitted that she enjoyed the attention and the love which flowed over her.

Even Goldenrod appeared to understand that she could not do more than sit on the garden bench with the liquid rays of the sun dripping about her. The sunshine sought under each leaf and blade of grass to highlight it in a celebration of spring. As she admired the rebirth, her dog rested by her side. Only his nose twitching at the distant scent of a rabbit made him appear to be more than a golden statue.

She waved lazily at a rider coming along the road. Soon she would be able to ride again. She entwined her fingers around her belly and simply enjoyed the day. When a figure appeared against the dark walls of the Cloister, she had no trouble identifying him. One person in her life could make her heart leap with joy simply by walking toward her. She laughed as the baby moved within her.

Patting the spot where the feather-soft caress had been within her, she whispered, “So you do love him already? Wait until you are in his arms and he is cooing over you. Then you truly will love him as much as I do.”

“Who are you talking to?” Trevor sat next to her. With his arm around her, he stared up at the glistening windows of the Cloister.

She noticed where he gazed. Softly she said, “I'm talking to the owner of that building.” His fingers clenched on her arm, and she knew her thoughtless words had hurt. She wondered if they would ever escape Owen Wythe's wickedness or if they would be taunted forever by the man who had brought them together and heartlessly tried to wrench them apart.

“I'm sorry,” he said before she could apologize.

“I was telling the baby how he would love you when you two finally met,” she explained in a conciliatory tone.

“I must harden myself to realizing that our baby always will be known as the younger son of Owen Wythe.” He gave her a lopsided grin, which tipped his mustache at a rakish angle. “It could be worse.”

She shivered. “It has been.”

Taking her fingers, he turned her slowly to look into his eyes. “Sybill, I have to go away.”

“What? But, you said—”

“I know what I said.” Sorrow colored his soft voice. “A message just arrived. There's trouble in the shipyard at Liverpool. I must go. I will be gone a week at the most.”

Sybill buried her face in the sweat-scented material of his doublet. His arms encased her with the strength she longed to protect her. When she felt his lips on the sun-hot top of her head, she raised her face. His mouth was velvet soft on hers. “Kiss me, Trevor,” she begged. “Really kiss me. I am not made of china.”

“I don't want to hurt you,” he whispered against her cheek.

“You can't hurt me.”

Her words fired his scarcely banked yearning. He tasted the delicate curves of her mouth. The tip of his tongue teased hers until he felt her lips arch in a smile. With his fingers enmeshed in her curls, he held her head motionless as he sought deeper for the delight he knew waited for him. When he felt her moan of happiness, he raised his head so he could see her pretty face softened with love. With his nose against hers, he teased her with gentle kisses. He laughed when she giggled easily.

Sybill stroked the hard muscles of his back and asked, “When, Trevor?”

“Now, my love.”

“Now?” All passion vanished as she stared at him in horror.

“It's an emergency, or I wouldn't go myself. I will be home before the baby is due. Mrs. Beckwith shall check with you daily. Have Clara sleep in the suite until I return.”