Sybill (46 page)

“No, Christopher!” Sybill screamed. She gained her feet awkwardly, but hands kept her from stopping him.

He leered over his shoulder at the woman being held by his friend Pearson. With a laugh, he raised the knife and cut through the canvas. Shreds of the material drifted to the floor as long strips hung haphazardly, distorting the portrait.

Sybill put her hands over her mouth and turned her head against the velvet of Pearson's doublet. Christopher's malicious decimation of his father's picture made her nauseous. She had not suspected even Christopher Wythe was capable of this. When she heard a crash, she looked up involuntarily. He had taken the frame off the wall and was breaking it against the stones of the fireplace. Tossing the pieces into a corner of the room, he leapt down from the chair. At his command, she was released.

“Lord Foxbridge, Owen Wythe, exists no longer, my lady. I am all that is left of him on this earth.” He held up his hand as she opened her mouth. “Be done with it, Sybill. I won't listen to your falsehoods of your child's father. When we are married, that bastard child will be guaranteed employment in this house as long as it lives.”

“Married?” Her calm exterior broke to reveal her terror as she heard his calm pronouncement. She searched back into her mind for the words of the will. There was nothing to prevent him from doing what he suggested. If he could not possess the Cloister outright, he would obtain it through marrying the widow who held it for the child within her.

He swaggered over to her. With an imperious wave of his hand, he motioned his friends to leave. Only when the door of the drawing room was closed behind them, did Christopher speak. “There is Lady Foxbridge, the lovely Sybill Hampton Wythe.” He pointed to the unharmed portrait which seemed so alone. “The daughter of a man who catered to the needs of wealthy women, the wife of an ill, old man who could not perform his marital duties, the mother of a child whose father can be one of several men, and the lover of her estate supervisor. Blue eyes, as innocent as a spring sunrise, covering the black heart of a demon spawn.”

Coldly, she demanded, “Are you through?”

“No, for there are many other things you are, Sybill. One is incredibly beautiful, even though you are as round as a wagon wheel.” His eyes raked her. “That, fortunately, isn't permanent. Soon you will be my pretty Sybill again.”

“I'm not yours! I won't marry the man who has been sleeping with my mother!”

He placed his hand against her stomach. “Is that any different from you sleeping with my father?”

“I don't want to marry you!” she asserted as she stepped back from his questing fingers.

“Go ahead. Finish.”

“Finish what?”

Again he laughed. “You don't want to marry me, and you never slept with my father.” When she refused to answer, he wrapped his arms around her and forced her mouth beneath his. Easily he kept her clawing fingers from him. He chuckled as she found she could not escape him.

Sybill stared at him in helpless misery. She had no choice. She must flee from Foxbridge Cloister. There was no time to waste waiting for Mac to find Trevor. Christopher might hurt her seriously.

“Tell me,” he demanded. He forced her to sit by him on the bench. Putting his nose against hers, he ordered, “Tell me whose bastard my father has given Foxbridge Cloister to. I have heard you rescued some Spanish dog from the waves. Is it his? Or Breton's? Or Beckwith's? Do you and your maid share him?”

“You are disgusting!”

“Tell me!”

“This is Owen's child. It is!” Her voice rose into a scream as he gripped her hair painfully.

“Tell me!”

“I did.”

He pushed her against the cushions. Leaning over her, he said, “You will tell me the truth, Sybill. If I can't convince you before Breton returns, he will tell me then.”

“Trevor? He can't tell you anything but the truth, and I have told you that already.”

“He will tell. He adores you. Even if my dim-witted father could not see that, I knew. He certainly wasted no time solidifying his hold over you once he knew you possessed the Cloister.” He smiled coldly. “He will tell me. I promise you that.”

Her eyes widened in horror as she guessed his plans. Christopher would threaten to harm her if Trevor did not reveal what he knew. As Owen's manager, he was sure to know the truth.

When he stood, he made no effort to aid her. “Think on it, Sybill.”

She did not hear his words as she pushed herself up. The twinge in her side grew to streak across her body in a way she knew too well. Biting her lip, she recalled Mrs. Beckwith's words not to strain herself. She prayed this was false labor. Although she wanted to send for the midwife, Christopher would refuse her request when he was so angry.

“Did you hear me?” he grumbled.

“I heard you.” Her voice was breathless as she fought to contain her pain.

“And?”

She looked at him. She had no idea what he had been saying. From the way his mouth twisted beneath the yellow line of his mustache, she was sure it had been another order. Whatever he wanted her to do, she was sure not to do when she felt better. For now, she did not want to argue. “I will,” she whispered, hoping that was the correct answer.

When he smiled triumphantly, she knew she had guessed correctly and wondered what she had promised. He held out his hand. Weakly she placed hers in it. She needed his help to rise. The pain began to ebb as she stood, and she sighed in relief. During the wedding, the contractions had been much stronger. Hoping that was a good sign, she walked by Christopher's side to the dining room.

He sat her in her regular seat. Dropping into the chair at the head of the table, he put his feet up on the one opposite her. His friends drifted in as they realized it was time to eat. While they gossiped around her, Sybill stared at the center of her plate. A second contraction had appeared almost immediately on the end of the first. This one was much stronger. Beneath the table, her fingers clenched in agony. She would not be able to tolerate this anguish silently much longer.

Christopher continued to enjoy his friends' bawdy jokes. While the wine was being poured, he paid no attention to Sybill. Raising his glass, he turned to her. “Come, Sybill. Drink to Foxbridge Cloister's newest Lord Foxbridge.”

Her eyes closed. As the wave rippled from her middle to consume her, she could pretend no longer. Hands jerked her to her feet, and she shrieked. As if from a great distance, she heard Christopher's childish voice demanding that she obey. When he released her, she put one hand on the table to balance herself. Her face twisted to regard the one so like Owen's.

“What game are you playing now, woman?”

“It's the baby,” she gasped. “Christopher, I need help. The baby! It's coming.”

In fear and disgust, he backed away. The other men surrounding the table stared at her as if she had contracted some horrible disease and was changing before their eyes. One urged, “Send for the midwife, Wythe. If she dies in childbirth, all this goes to Gloriana.”

The mention of the loss of his birthright was enough to jolt Christopher from his catatonia. To lose everything simply because he delayed would be too ironic. He reached for the bellpull. Sending for Mrs. Beckwith, he scooped the suffering woman into his arms. As the contraction passed, she sagged against his chest. He managed to climb the stairs to the master bedroom. Placing her on the bed, he stepped away as Clara came running.

“My lord, I think you should leave.”

“Leave?” His eyes narrowed with rage. “I should leave so she can be sure a living child is called hers?”

Sybill pushed herself upright against the pillows. Her pale face flushed crimson with the rage she did not feel well enough to hide. “Get out of here, Christopher!” she snapped. “If you do anything to endanger my child, I will kill myself as well. Then you will never have Foxbridge Cloister!”

He glared at her, but knew he was powerless. The forces reshaping her body determined his future. Many women as petite as Sybill did not survive the birth of a child. If this one died, so did his aspirations. “I will wait in the antechamber.”

“Just get out!” She threw one of the pillows at him.

Ducking, he left. She dropped against the mattress as another contraction began. Not hearing Clara's sympathetic words or feeling the cooled cloth placed on her forehead, Sybill was thinking only of the man who was too far away.

Trevor
, her heart called out into the night.
Trevor, where are you
?

“It's over, my lady,” came the compassionate voice of the midwife.

Sybill opened her bleary eyes to see Mrs. Beckwith's smile. Sometime in the memory laced with pain, she recalled the midwife bustling into the room to relieve a fearful Clara. The remembrance of Mrs. Beckwith's warm voice giving her instructions to ease the birthing flitted through the caverns of her fuzzy brain. She tried to ask a question, but her voice was as exhausted as the rest of her.

“It's a boy … and a girl!” The woman's laugh was bright as she saw Sybill's shock. “Twins, my lady. 'Tis not unusual for twins to decide to make an early appearance.”

Her eyes closed as she drifted away into happiness. Now she understood why the pains had continued so harshly after she heard a baby's cry. She smiled. How disgustingly proud Trevor would be! The buttons on his doublet would strain as he strutted about like a proud peacock. All joy faded as she realized he would never be able to show how he felt, except with her. These children could never be known as other than Owen Wythe's offspring. The truth would bring tragedy.

Now was not the time to think of that. Now was the time to rejoice that her children were born alive, and she had not succumbed to the myriad perils of pregnancy. She wanted to touch them, count their tiny fingers, feel the feet which had woken her in the middle of the night with their antics. She asked softly, “Can I hold them?”

“Aye.” The midwife smiled as she picked up a swaddled bundle.

Tears filled her eyes as she looked down into the sleeping face of her child. When she heard Mrs. Beckwith whisper this was her son, she murmured, “Hello, Alfred Owen Wythe. It is so good to see you at last.” In awe she stared at his finely formed features, which seemed too small to be real. His skin was soft, and, as she touched him, she could not believe this wondrous child could be born of her love for Trevor.

She placed him beside her on the large bed and reached for the other. Her smile broadened as she saw that her daughter's eyes were open. The baby's rosebud mouth was working to seek what it wanted. Sybill did not hesitate as she loosened her gown. As if both of them had done this many times, the baby nursed with ease. Wide brown eyes stared up at her. Across her oval head, thick black curls twisted with baby fineness, still moist from her first bath. Holding one, with her hand on the bundle of the other, Sybill felt a thickness in her throat as she was suffused with a bliss she could not have imagined.

“They are perfect,” she breathed.

“That they are,” agreed Mrs. Beckwith too quickly.

“What is wrong? Is something wrong with them?”

“No, my lady. They are both healthy.”

“What is it, Mrs. Beckwith?”

She hesitated, glancing at her daughter who had not said a word. Roughly, she swallowed, then said, “'Tis their eyes.”

“Their eyes?”

“They are brown, my lady. Both you and the late Lord Foxbridge have blue eyes. Your children should not have brown eyes.”

Looking down at the beautiful child, she knew she could never hide from the truth. The rumors of her affair with a Spanish sailor would resurface. Christopher would use them to try to invalidate his father's will. Instantly she knew what she had to do. “Mrs. Beckwith?” she whispered.

“Yes, my lady?”

“Can you find a wet nurse easily? A good woman who will provide proper nourishment for my child?”

The woman's auburn brows, which contrasted so sharply with her white hair, came together in bafflement. “Child? My lady, you should be able to nurse both if you wish.”

Wincing, as her fatigued body protested, she sat and looked directly into the woman's eyes. “I want you to take one of my babies and hide it. I don't trust the lord not to murder my children.”

“Which one?” Comprehension was instantly clear on the midwife's face. Lord Foxbridge did not want his stepmother to have any children. That she had borne twins would more than double her sin.

“Take Alfred, Mrs. Beckwith. Hide him somewhere safe. It should be only for a few days.”

“It can be done, my lady. Goody Johnston gave birth last week. She can take care of your baby as well. Her husband is a lazy lout, but he will be silent, if you pay him well. No one will know.”

Sybill agreed reluctantly. She bit her lip as she watched the midwife pick up the baby. Despite her brave words, she feared it would be a long time before she saw her son again. She whispered a silent farewell. Mrs. Beckwith handed the sleeping child to her daughter. Nancy took the baby carefully and picked up the bag of instruments. What the midwife whispered to her daughter, Sybill could not hear, but the young woman nodded.

Determined no one would learn of her distress, Sybill was outwardly calm as she heard the midwife announce the birth to the men in the antechamber. While Mrs. Beckwith was busy answering their questions, no one but Sybill noticed Nancy scoot across the sitting room.

Knowing her son was temporarily safe from Christopher's machinations, she was able to smile as he crossed the room with as much ease as if he were the father of the child at her breast. At that thought, she drew the blanket wrapping the baby over her to cover her bared skin. As eager as he was to possess her, she did not need to entice him further.

When he stood by the bed, he laughed. “Your bastard is a girl. What a joke, Sybill! Did you promise Father a boy? It's a shame you failed him.”