Sybill (7 page)

Softly he said, “I must show you the marsh. It's easy to get lost there, and there are some spots where you can be mired.”

“It sounds like a place I should see.”

He glanced at her as he heard the breathless tone of her voice, but her eyes remained on her hands gripping the reins of her horse. Wondering if her thoughts were as confused as his, he simply signaled for her to follow.

Sybill realized quickly that Trevor was intent on charming her. Why he suddenly believed she was not the wicked woman he had labeled her, she could not guess. All she knew was that the circumstances were not comfortable. She had feared he would find a way to force her from Foxbridge Cloister. Now she did not know what to think.

With his obvious effort to be conciliatory, she decided she could not be as crass as he had been and reject the offer of truce. As they rode, she felt the fear within her thaw. “I never thought anything could be this beautiful outside of London,” she said as he pointed out the softly rolling hills leading to the horizon.

Trevor laughed lightly. In astonishment, she glanced at him. His eyes twinkled like dark stars as he teased, “You are very parochial. Are all those who live in London like you? There are many regions beyond the city which are far prettier than the dirty, scum-filled streets of London.”

“London isn't—” She paused as she automatically reacted with anger. A slow smile spread across her face as she saw his grin. “Pardon me.”

“It isn't easy to be friends after all the words we have exchanged so loudly and so viciously.” He reined in his horse. When she stopped hers beside him, he said sincerely, “I only can say again that I am sorry, Sybill.”

“Why the sudden change?”

“You have proven you are a lady.”

“A lady, and not a strumpet as you so kindly called me?”

His eyes roved her face, noting as if for the first time the gentle curve of her lips beneath the slender line of her slightly upturned nose. Shadowed by her hat, her rose-tinted cheeks appeared as soft as a flower petal. When his gaze reached her eyes, he saw her surprise mirrored in the sea-blue depths. His hand reached out to her cheek. Beneath his work-roughened fingers, he felt the downy texture of her face. Her lips parted as she regarded him steadily.

Sybill wondered if Trevor guessed she was frozen in her saddle. Captured by his sable eyes, she melted as his tender caress awoke dangerous feelings. Only her irritation had kept her from acknowledging these longings since their first meeting. That barrier had collapsed before his kindness.

The whoosh of a horse's breath broke the enchantment. She was pleased her voice was strong as she said, “I think we had best go on, Trevor. It will be dark early.”

“Yes.” He did not attempt to hide his regret. “Watch where I am riding. To stray from the path is ill advised.”

She did not speak. To be mired in the marsh could be safer for her than to remain here on this windswept road with Trevor. They circumnavigated the most vile parts of the wetlands. She noted the risky spots pointed out to her. By concentrating on their location, she could avoid thinking about the man and his intoxicating touch.

The sun was dipping toward its rendezvous with the hills when they turned toward Foxbridge Cloister. As they rode into a small valley, she saw a man emerging from a primitive house. It stood alone at the edge of the marsh. As they neared, the man called out. Trevor waved to the lone figure.

“I must interrupt our ride for a moment.”

“Of course,” she replied. “Is there a problem?”

He smiled. “I think I will find that out from Mac.”

“Mac?”

“Come. I'll introduce you. Without meeting the Beckwiths, you can't be warned of all the potential problems associated with the estate.”

Nodding, Sybill did not ask the questions bouncing through her mind. Curiosity was a trait she could not control. She wondered why this man near the small cottage would present a risk for her. Quietly she sat on her horse as Trevor dismounted. With the greatest force of her will, she kept her smile hidden as he lifted her from her mount. Each time he touched her, she felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the spring sunshine.

Brushing her rumpled riding habit, she glanced at the approaching man. Trevor made the introductions quickly. Despite his strange words, it was clear he considered this man a friend. “Sybill, this is Malcolm Beckwith, but all call him ‘Mac.' Mac, this lovely lady is Miss Hampton, the lord's guest.”

“Nice it is to meet you, miss,” he said in his country accent, which was nearly impossible to understand. He bent his head with its shock of startlingly red hair. When he looked up again, his green eyes reflected his broken-toothed smile.

“How do you do, Mr. Beckwith?”

“Mac, miss. Like Trevor says, all call me Mac. I would be pleased if you would also.”

Charmed by his rustic manners, she smiled sincerely. “I would be pleased to do exactly that.”

Trevor asked, “What is the problem?”

“I need to talk to you about the marsh hay crop. There is some gossip that the lord will not—”

Trevor interrupted him. “It's cold for Miss Hampton to be standing out here while we talk business. Is your mother or sister home? Miss Hampton could use a mug of mulled cider.”

“Aye.” His grin widened. “They both be home. Ma sure would be happy to meet Lord Foxbridge's lady.”

He had turned toward the house and did not see the reaction of the others at his words. Sybill noted the tightening of Trevor's lips at the description they both knew was the locals' opinion. It bothered him as much as her.

Mac called them into the house, so she had no chance to voice her disgust. As she walked toward the crudely carved door under its ornate lintel, she decided it was just as well. Warmth welcomed them. To one side of the huge hearth, which composed the back wall, stood a ladder leading to the only other room, a loft above their heads. From the rafters hung dried herbs and meat. Below stood a table with two benches, a bed, and a chest. It was a simple home, but clean.

Two women rose as they entered. They were clearly related to the young man. The older one had a kerchief over her white hair, but the younger was as fiery topped as Mac. Both wore simple, woolen gowns covered by stained aprons.

“Good day, Mrs. Beckwith, Nancy,” Trevor said warmly. “This is Lord Foxbridge's guest, Sybill Hampton. Sybill, Judah and Nancy Beckwith.”

The girl dipped in a curtsy. Her mother bowed her head, as she said, “Welcome, Miss Hampton.”

“Ma,” came Mac's enthusiastic voice, “I need to speak to Trevor. He thought Miss Hampton would be more comfortable out of the wind.”

“Of course,” gushed the round woman. She took her unexpected guest by the arm. “Sit, Miss Hampton. Nancy, go get a pitcher. We shall have a drink to warm our bones. Go about your business, son. Then you and Trevor can join us.”

“Yes, Ma.”

If Sybill had any concerns when she saw Trevor leave the cottage, she did not have time to think of them. Mrs. Beckwith urged her again to sit and began to chat as if they were friends of long standing. “From London,” Sybill replied to the woman's first question. “I lived there all my life until the last few weeks.”

“And how do you like our western coast?”

“It's different.” She laughed. “It's very different, but I like that. I think I will like living here.”

Mrs. Beckwith nodded. “Aye, that's good, it is. 'Twould be no good to have another lady like the last Lady Foxbridge. Never did like the Cloister. Didn't like the sound of the ocean. Pined all the time for the city and the high society trappings she left behind when she married Lord Foxbridge.”

Not quite sure which statement to respond to first, Sybill said quietly, “I'm not the lady of Foxbridge Cloister. I'm just Lord Foxbridge's guest.”

“Aye.” The older woman did not seem convinced.

“I came here when my father died.” Sybill felt a need to explain. If Trevor listened to this, he might disbelieve her again. She preferred him as a friend rather than an enemy. “My father was a friend of Lord Foxbridge.”

“Oh,” murmured both Beckwith women in unison. Mrs. Beckwith added quickly, “Excuse us, Miss Hampton. 'Twas just that one believes the stories from the Cloister. We should know better than to think the lord has marriage on his mind.”

“Marriage?”

Nancy handed her a mug of steaming beverage. The pungent odor of the cider and spices wafted through the room. With a smile, the redhead said, “No one could understand why a fine, London lady would come out here except to marry Lord Foxbridge. He has been alone for a long spell.”

“Tell everyone the truth,” Sybill urged. Taking a sip of the cider, she smiled. “This is wonderful after the cold breeze from the sea.”

Despite their differences, the women talked easily. Sybill was struck immediately by their uncompromising love for this land. As wild and unpredictable as the marsh, the Beckwiths reflected the strength of this land.

A strange sound teased Sybill's ears. It was a peeping noise barely audible above the women's voices and the crackling of the flames on the hearth. “What is that?”

“Look over there!” Nancy ordered with a grin.

“Puppies!”

Nancy's smile widened. “Aye, she had a litter over two fortnights ago.”

“May I?” asked Sybill, unable to hide her excitement.

Mrs. Beckwith seemed shocked anyone could be so thrilled over a mere batch of mutts, but nodded. “Of course, Miss Hampton.”

Crossing the room, Sybill squatted by the wooden box. Her full skirts ballooned around her as she saw a mass of rolling, crying puppies. Gingerly she put her hand out to them. The softness of their golden fur was wonderful against her fingers. Never had she seen such small creatures.

One pup, more agile than its siblings, crawled over the others to sniff her fingers. The tip of its startlingly pink, velvet tongue stroked her finger. Sybill's smile widened as she picked it up and held it close to her face. It smelled of the wood chips which lined the box. As if its birdlike bones were fluid, it wiggled in her hands. She petted its narrow head and felt the warmth of its tongue against her again. A giggle bubbled from her lips as she gazed into its blind face.

“You are so sweet,” she murmured. A breath of cool air flowed into the room. She could see that the men were returning. “Look, Trevor!”

His reply was lost amid shouts of warning. As a gold blur exploded toward her, Sybill had no time to place the puppy in its box. She screamed and clutched it to her chest as she cowered against the floor. Confused images of bared, yellow teeth and glowing eyes flashed through her mind as she sought to protect her and the whining pup. A snarl was loud in her ear, and she heard her dress rip.

The pain of the dog's teeth biting into her never came. She did not move as she heard shouts over the sound of growls and scratching nails on the wooden floor. The slamming door did not convince her to move. She felt gentle fingers on her shoulders as a soft command urged her to sit up straight.

“Trevor!” she gasped and stared into his concerned eyes. She leaned her face on his chest as she cuddled the golden ball of fur close to her. Shivers erupted across her with the rhythm of the wave against the shore.

“Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. Hearing the puppy's cheeps of distress, she placed it carefully into the box. Her trembling hands clenched in her lap. Softly she whispered, “Is it gone?”

“Mac is putting the dog back outside.” With his hand under her elbow, he aided her to her feet. She swayed, and he drew her close again. “Sit down.”

“Thank you,” she whispered as he helped her to a bench. A mug was pressed into her hands. She gulped heated cider gratefully. The heavy taste of ale cut through its sweetness, but she did not hesitate as she drank. Only when Mrs. Beckwith handed her a damp cloth did she realize her shaking hands had caused her to spill some on her skirt. Inwardly she moaned. She would return to Foxbridge Cloister with her riding habit torn and reeking of ale.

Mac rushed to her side to apologize for letting the dog in the house. “She is protective of her pups, Miss Hampton. She don't mean you any harm.”

“I know,” she mumbled. “No,” she added, as Nancy was about to refill her tankard. “I must ride back to the Cloister. If I drink that, I will not be able to stay upright in the saddle.”

“Nonsense!”

“Excuse me?” she asked Trevor. He had not moved from her side. She had been aware of his eyes appraising the damage to her gown.

He patted her shoulder. “You wait here. I don't want you riding after your scare. I will go and get the wagon.”

“Nonsense!” she retorted in exactly the same tone. “I can ride perfectly fine. I'm not hurt, and there's no reason to treat me as if I have been injured gravely.”

Ignoring the Beckwiths, he stated, “Sybill, you must listen to reason.”

“You're not my boss, Trevor Breton!” She stood and handed the chipped, wooden mug to Mrs. Beckwith. “Thank you for your hospitality. I'm sorry to cause such a ruckus. If you will excuse me, I am going home before it is dark.”

She walked to the door, then paused. When she was about to reach for the latch, she thought of the wolf-creature waiting on the other side. If she went out of the house, she was afraid she would be attacked.

“All right,” came a voice just above her ear. She turned to see the grim expression on Trevor's face. “Let's go home. Just promise me you will let me know if—”

“I am fine.” She put her hand on his arm to emphasize her words.

Unprepared for either his or her own reaction to her simple motion, she stared up into his face. It slowly altered from worry to another expression she knew matched the one on her face. She could not understand the strong sensations overwhelming her. “Trevor?”