Sybill (50 page)

“There's nothing we can do for it now.”

“I know, my lady. Don't worry. I will get to Mac's house if I have to crawl on my belly.”

“Lean on my shoulder. Just think of me as a crutch.” Clara put her arm around Sybill as they stood together by the sides of the mud pit which would have pulled them both into death. When Sybill asked if she could walk this way, the maid assured her she would try. They froze as they heard the sound of hoofbeats not far from them.

They sank to their knees behind the thick underbrush. Sybill bit her lip as she heard Christopher's enraged voice berating her. More than ever, she knew she could not allow him to recapture her. Until she learned what had happened to her babies, revenge would have to wait. When the lord had passed them, Sybill said, “Wait here, Clara.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the Beckwiths'. We need help, and I cannot carry you and be silent at the same time.”

“Go. I will find a place to hide. The lord doesn't come too far into the swamp.” She grimaced as she moved her painful leg. “Be careful.”

Carefully, Sybill stated, “If I meet Christopher, I will lead him on a merry chase. If I pause anywhere, he will find me as soon as it is light. Perhaps if Mac can round up some of the men from the farms and the Cloister, we can make a show of strength against Christopher.”

“My lady, I don't want to leave you alone against him.”

“I will manage,” she said grimly. “You cannot do it.” She put her hands on Clara's mud-caked sleeves. “It is the only way. If I am not back for you by sunrise, you can guess I have been caught by Lord Foxbridge. Then you will have to get to Mac and find allies to storm the Cloister. It will take Christopher time to find a clergyman willing to marry him to such a reluctant bride.”

“Lady Foxbridge …” She paused, knowing she could not convince the woman to change her mind. “Be careful.”

Sybill smiled without humor. “I will be. I want to see Christopher pay for his crimes.”

Clara crouched in the grass as she watched her lady slip into the night. Praying for their safety with a madman ruling the estate, she let her tears roll along her face.

When more solid ground signaled the edge of the marsh, Sybill sighed in relief. She felt as if she had spent the last dozen years of her life crossing that bleak place. She scanned the road in both directions. The clouds had vanished farther inland and revealed the dim light of the stars. Although it lit little, she was glad of its cool glow to accompany her.

Sneaking down the hill toward the back of the Beckwith house, she paused. Shadows moved ahead of her. Clinging to a tree, she tried to slow her rapid breath. She was sure the others would be able to hear her frantic heartbeat. She recognized the voices as they called to one another. These were Christopher's friends. That she and Clara would head directly for this house had been easy for them to guess. If she had not seen their movements, she would have found herself her stepson's captive once more.

More quietly than she had approached the house, she backed away. Mac must not be at his mother's home. He would not have allowed the men to lurk in the barnyard. Going to the Cloister was too risky. She needed a place to hide until the daylight let her find help. Along the beach cliffs there were many caves carved by the pulse of the waves. She could wait in one of those. Even if Christopher thought of that, he could not search all of them. She must rest. Her body ached. In a cave, she could sleep to regain her stamina.

The black of the sky was lightening to gray. She had little time. The stars faded from the sky as Sybill circled the marsh, keeping within the vanishing shadows. As the last star was swallowed by the twilight, she hid behind a hedgerow and watched as Christopher rode, full speed, toward the Cloister. Whether he went for assistance or simply so he would not miss his breakfast, she did not know.

She waited for the dust to settle. Pushing her way through the thick shrubs, she ignored the scratches and the rips in her ruined clothes. She ran toward the path leading to the beach. As she passed Joaquin's grave, now hidden by a year's growth, she prayed she would not share his fate of dying in the arms of her greatest foe. Pressing her face to the wind-scoured siding of the hut, she listened for any sign of life. Until she reached the safety of her cave, she could not feel safe. Her breath, loud in her ears, was drowned by the rapid pumping of her heart.

“I expected you would return here.”

Sybill spun to see the smiling face of her stepson. Behind the full skirt of her ragged dress, her fingers clenched in anger. The rose tint on the eastern hilltops warned of the coming dawn and Clara's attempt to find Mac. If she did, it would come to violence here.

“How incredibly intuitive of you, Christopher!”

“Did you find your bastard?” he snapped, outraged by her insult. “My weak-stomached friends went back for her. The basket was gone.”

She shrugged broadly, although her middle ached with fear for the children. “I don't know where they are.”

“I know where Breton is, darling. Dead.”

Closing her eyes, she fought to force her sorrow deep within her heart. She could not allow her grief to blind her wits when they were all she had to depend on to save her. With her arms crossed in an outrightly belligerent posture, she smiled at the man she despised. “Yes, I know you murdered him. Even for Lord Foxbridge, such a crime can bring execution.” She laughed lightly. “I know you plan to make me marry you. Then I may not speak against you, but I'm not the only witness. Where are your friends, Christopher? Or have they had enough of your attempts to murder a man and two small children?”

His eyes narrowed as he pounced on her last words. “Two? How many bastards do you have, my lady?”

“You have a sister and a brother, my lord.” She held up two fingers as she continued to talk as if he was a dull child. “Edith Sybill and Alfred Owen Wythe. We hid Alfred from you immediately, for we knew a worm like you would try to hurt an innocent babe who is the heir of your title.”

“No bastard will inherit my title,” he snapped. “It will go to my son.”

She smiled condescendingly. “First you have to have such a child.” When he took a step toward her, she raised a single finger in his direction. “Let me warn you, Christopher, that any child you beget with me will not live to be born.”

When he laughed, she feared she had pushed him too far. “You won't give me a living child, Sybill? Then there is no need of you. I will find your bastards and rear them under the tender tutelage of doting uncle. As soon as they reach their majority, they will die.”

“You will kill your brother and sister?”

“Tell me the truth, Sybill, and I will let the girl live. As she is not my blood sister, I will marry her. The will's codicil is satisfied, and Foxbridge Cloister is mine as it should have been from the beginning.”

“No!” she screamed, as her composure vanished. She did not think of his threat to her as she imagined the horror her children would be condemned to if Christopher had his way.

“Oh, yes, Mother dear.” Slowly he withdrew his sword from the scabbard by his side. “Say farewell to the dawning of this day, for 'twill be the last you see.”

As he stepped toward her, she moved backward. Spinning, she lifted her dress high and raced away from his madness. The uneven ground hampered her terrorized flight. It did not take her long to know he was playing yet another of his sadistic games.

As she struggled through the high grass which caught on her skirt to imprison her in waving fingers, he was steadily herding her toward the cliffs. Only when she turned to go inland did he cut off her escape. Otherwise, he advanced on her with perverted precision. Sybill gave a cry of horror as she felt the sharply sculptured rocks at the edge of the cliffs beneath her ruined slippers. When she saw the expression of satisfaction on his face, she began to race along the stones slippery with rain and sea spray.

Her feet skidded on the slick surface, and she screamed hysterically. Throwing out her arms, she grasped the twisted trunk of a wind-broken tree. It creaked ominously as she used it to halt her fall from the rim of the cliff. Hearing laughter, she turned to see Christopher directly behind her. As her chest heaved with fatigue from her race, she vowed to herself that she would not beg him to spare her.

“So here is where it ends, Sybill.” He lifted his sword and placed it against the laces in the middle of her bodice. “You need not mourn for your late estate manager. I send you back to his arms. Like my father, you will not stand between me and Foxbridge Cloister.”

“Like your father?” she choked through her uneven breathing. “Then it wasn't an accident?”

He smiled as he bragged, “I fooled you, didn't I, Sybill? I thought you would remember the conversation at dinner several nights before my father's most unlamented demise. Like Robert Dudley, I used the stairs as a convenient site to rid myself of an unwanted relative.”

“You murdered your own father?”

“He did not deserve to live,” Christopher said without emotion. “After destroying my mother's life with his cruelty, he turned his attention to me. To the world, he was a perfect father with a dissolute son who shamed him, but we know the truth, don't we, Sybill?” His eyes roved along her with an intensity that froze her. “Do you bear the scars of his abuse, or did he spare you because he did not wish to risk the child he wanted? When I take you to my bed, shall I find scars on you to match mine?”

Sybill started to speak, hoping to offer him compassion in exchange for her life, but cried out as she felt the tree shift beneath her. All hopes of a truce sealed with their common hatred of Owen Wythe disappeared as he laughed. His foot rose to rest against the wood. One sharp push would break its tenuous hold on the cliff.

Fear was bright on her face, highlighted by the glow of the morning sun. She was about to die. If she did not fall to her death with this tree whose rotted roots could not support her weight, her stepson would run her through with his sword. Christopher would never rue her death. He had killed too many to let another murder worry him.

“Tell me,” he ordered. “Who was your lover? I heard tales of your rescue of the dead man buried yonder.”

“Who told you?”

He chortled. “You have enemies, Sybill. Not everyone was pleased to see a prostitute's daughter raised to be Lady Foxbridge. You were seen with the priest and the Spanish man. Did you pleasure both of them? Or was it simply Breton who was your lover from the beginning?”

“Edith and Alfred are Owen Wythe's children.” She screamed as he slit the laces of her bodice.

“Tell me, Sybill. You can die easily, or you can die in the method I had prepared for Breton. Continue, and you will pay the price.”

“Christopher, I can tell you nothing but the truth.”

He moved closer. “Good, then tell me.”

Suddenly she knew that he would revel in her murder no matter what she said. If she spoke the truth, he would invalidate the will and rid himself of her children if he found them. Praying she had the strength to bear his tortures, she stared directly at him. “No,” she said softly. “I have discussed this with you until I am sure I want to speak of this no more.”

His handsome face distorted to reveal the evil within him. A curse was interrupted by a sound which echoed weirdly across the open countryside. Goldenrod's baying was instantly recognizable. Neither had to guess what the dog was hunting.

Christopher hesitated a moment too long as he looked about in horror. The bounding form of the dog was visible, as well as those of two men following him on horseback. He turned to swing the sword wildly at Sybill, but she had used his lack of concentration to fling herself to the other side of the acutely leaning tree. The well-honed blade bit into the dried trunk, spraying her with fragments of the insect-gnawed wood. As she crouched behind her flimsy shelter, he raised the sword again. He did not slash toward her. Instead he screamed in panic. He began to race along the cliffs.

When Sybill saw Goldenrod chase him, she tried to pull her eyes from the desperate scene. Knowing she must call off the rampaging dog, she struggled to her feet. “Goldenrod!” she screamed. “Goldenrod, don't!” Even as her voice carried through the crystal air of the morning, she saw the large dog leap forward. The man's shriek swallowed her words.

She screamed again as she heard the vicious growls of the dog. Christopher's voice was unrecognizable as he fought the animal. Running to pull off the maddened dog, she did not see the riders jump from their horses. One sped toward where the man struggled with the dog. The other man caught Sybill before she could reach the two blood-coated forms. Pulling her into his arms, he turned her so she could not see the horrible scene.

“Sybill, sweetheart, are you hurt?”

Her head jerked up as she heard the beloved voice she had feared silenced forever. Although her lips formed his name, no sound came from them. Before her, his arms around her as they struggled against the tides of the hate surrounding them, stood Trevor. A small bandage was white against the sable of his hair, but he was alive. That joyous thought fled from her mind as she gasped, “Stop Goldenrod!”

“It's too late,” came another familiar voice. An ashen-faced Mac stood behind them. In his hand was a bloodied sword. “They both are dead.”

“On, no!” cried Sybill. Tears sprang into her eyes, but they were solely for her precious dog. She could not mourn for Christopher.

“What happened?” asked Trevor quietly.

Holding up the sword, the red-haired man sighed. “Lord Foxbridge used this, but too late. Your dog protected you well, Lady Foxbridge.”

Sybill tried to control her stomach, which roiled within her as she thought of Christopher's ignoble death. As she leaned against Trevor, she did not notice that the men's faces were as colorless as hers.