Authors: Heather Grothaus
Never Love a Lord (14 page)
“She does,” Julian admitted.
The child suddenly lunged toward Sybilla with a little squeal, toppling halfway onto Sybilla’s leg. She managed to catch the baby before she rolled off the couch onto the floor. The child’s middle was plump and firm, and much more substantial than she’d seemed when swaying atop Julian Griffin’s arm. Sybilla had caught Lucy under the arms, and since Julian did not reach for her right away, Sybilla pulled the baby onto her own lap and held her slightly away. She wasn’t certain how to proceed.
“That’s a lovely vision,” Julian said with a stupid smile.
Sybilla frowned at him. “You can have her back at any moment.”
“No, I think I rather enjoy watching the two of you.”
Lucy discovered the string of pearls around Sybilla’s wrist and began hinging her fingers back and forth over the small round jewels. A little coo of amazement came from her, and Sybilla was struck by the sweetness of it.
“Do you fancy jewels?” she asked.
“Pah-pah-pah-pah,” Lucy replied.
Julian laughed. “Another thing she inherited from her mother, I’m afraid.”
Sybilla could not help the slight, bemused smile that came to her mouth as she watched the baby’s continued delight with the bracelet. She suddenly pulled the child against her stomach and brought both her hands together around the child, slipping the pearls from her arm. She looped them back on themselves, making a double strand, and then carefully fit Lucy’s chubby left hand through the bracelet.
“There you are, then,” she said. “You may have them.”
Lucy squealed shrilly and then began jerking at the costly piece. “Pah! Pah-pah-pah!”
Julian seemed quite surprised. “That’s very kind of you, Sybilla, but I think that perhaps an item of such value is a bit of a flamboyant toy for a child.”
“They were my mother’s,” Sybilla said, continuing despite herself to be enchanted by the baby’s every movement with the bracelet. “Lucy fancies them. I find suddenly that I do not.” She looked at Julian. “You gave me a gift. I have nothing to give you. So this will have to do, I’m afraid.”
“Thank you,” Julian said, and his amber eyes seemed ablaze with something Sybilla could not name. “Sybilla, what if we were to marry?”
Her breathing stopped. “Marry?” she repeated, as if she had never heard the term before. “Each other, you mean?”
Julian laughed. “Yes, each other. Perhaps we could convince Edward—”
“That because I married someone with a title that he would allow me to keep Fallstowe? That’s unlikely, I think.”
“Not impossible, though,” Julian said mildly.
“I do doubt the king would allow me to marry anyone at all of the nobility once you expose what you have discovered about my mother,” she said. “And even if he did, there is very little likelihood that he would allow me to retain Fallstowe. So what then? You take me from my home to wherever it is you live in London? To host feasts and shop at the fairs?”
He stared at her for a long time. “Would that be so terrible a life?”
“As opposed to prison or death?” she asked. “I suppose not, but one never knows. We are hardly familiar with each other.”
She thought he might be offended by her remark, but he laughed instead. “The time for you to shoulder all has come to an end, whether you want to admit it or not. You will need someone to take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself,” Sybilla argued awkwardly, bringing her attention back to the baby. She noticed that her knees had begun to bounce the child gently without her permission.
“I don’t think so,” Julian said. “Not anymore. And certainly not like I could take care of you.”
The way he said it, so confidently, so intimately, made Sybilla’s stomach flutter, and she felt like a silly fool for it. Then when he slid down the seat toward her, laying his arm across the back of the couch behind her, making a little nook for her and the child on her lap, her arms broke out in gooseflesh.
“Come to my room again tonight, and let me convince you.”
Warning bells went off in Sybilla’s mind. “I don’t think that’s possible,” she said stiffly. “Haven’t you heard? I don’t carry on relationships. You may take your child now, please.”
When he didn’t move, she looked up into his face reluctantly. He was not smiling, only staring intently at her.
She swallowed. “Don’t pursue me, Julian. I am poison.”
He shook his head only slightly, moving his face nearer hers. “I don’t think so,” he repeated in a whisper, and then he kissed her softly, his lips lingering against hers.
“Bah!” Lucy shouted, seemingly delighted, and slapped her father’s cheek soundly.
Sybilla could not help her chirp of laughter. “Well said, Lady Lucy. Appalling behavior, I agree.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, milady, milord,” a voice said, startling Sybilla’s attention to the door where Murrin stood, her face ashen, dramatic, black circles beneath her eyes. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but Lord Griffin bade me tell him right away if I was feeling poorly.”
Julian stood up instantly. “What is it, Murrin?”
Sybilla saw the girl force a swallow from across the room. Her eyes were wide, wild. “I think I’ve fallen in with the sickness, milord,” she said weakly. “I’ve already packed my things for London.”
Chapter 15
It did not take long for Julian to see Murrin off. Sybilla had, at first, insisted that the nurse stay on in Fallstowe’s makeshift sanatorium with the rest of the sick victims, but in the end she relented to Julian’s cautious wishes.
That in itself gave him hope.
Even Murrin had obviously surrendered to the notion that she would be better off away from Lucy while she recovered from whatever was going around, citing that if she stayed on at the castle, Lucy would pine for her—and for the milk she provided. And so Sybilla had efficiently and without argument arranged for transport and guards for the nursemaid’s journey to London, and then spent the remainder of the day securing a source of fresh, rich sheep’s milk for Lucy.
“It is the best thing for her,” Sybilla had informed Julian crisply. “My mother did not nurse me, and yet I thrived as a child.”
Julian had wanted to ask if Amicia’s lack of maternal attention was due to a physical impediment or otherwise, but in the end decided against it. It didn’t matter at this point. And yet he did wonder how her other two daughters could have such devotion to the same mother they shared with Sybilla.
Sybilla had furthermore procured one of her own lady’s maids—a woman who had raised four children who were now of age to work outside of the cottage—to tend Lucy, and installed her in the little chamber at the bottom of the stairs.
It bothered him more and more, the rumors of Sybilla Foxe’s nature: vicious, heartless, brazen, cold. Yes, she did give that impression superficially. And perhaps her thought processes were more logical and analytical than most females, but if anyone dared to know the woman more than superficially, they could not help but see her compassion, her attention to detail, her devotion, her deep sense of responsibility to all in her care.
Sybilla Foxe was not content to ride her wave of privilege and notoriety. She did not give a bloody damn what other people thought of her. She did things as she saw fit, to the benefit of those who depended on her—nothing less would do. She did not want to be taken care of, and Julian thought the reason for that was because she had never been taken care of.
Groomed, perhaps. Girded. Tempered for battle. But never cared for, looked after, treasured, loved. Maybe Morys Foxe had loved the girl—his firstborn who was, perhaps unbeknownst to him, not of his issue. But he was long dead. Had been gone for so long that whatever gentleness or respite he had offered Sybilla was buried and forgotten, like the accounts he’d examined in the little tower room years and years ago. An old, worthless memory.
That was not entirely true, though, he argued with himself. Sybilla’s sisters loved her. Old Graves worshipped her. All of Fallstowe adored and respected and were bent on protecting her—the people and the edifice itself, it seemed. Of all the staff he had spoken to, from the kitchen to the stables to the old priest, not a cross word had been uttered. Nothing that could be considered anything less than praise.
So, more than whatever warped sense of honor she felt she owed the despicable woman who birthed her, Julian suspected that Sybilla fought as hard as she had, evaded him more craftily than any thief, in order to hold on to the one thing that brought her true, unconditional love: Fallstowe. It was her child, her lover, her beginning and end, the legacy she would leave behind like gold dust on the pages of the tomes of history yet to be written.
He shook himself from such romantic musings when Lucy took the skin she had been drinking from and threw it to the floor with a clatter. He chuckled down at her and set her up on his shoulder.
“Sorry about that, darling,” he said, standing up from where he’d been sitting on the edge of the mattress, and bouncing on his feet as he patted her back. “Preoccupied.”
She cooed her forgiveness, her fist finding her mouth, and she laid her head down on his shoulder. Julian hummed a meandering tune while he paced his chamber.
Perhaps he had mentioned the idea of marriage between them too soon—he hadn’t planned on bringing it up, and had in fact been quite surprised when the words had come from his mouth. But they were running out of time. After Julian had conducted his last interview with old Graves, he would be bound to return to London with his evidence.
A knock sounded on his door, and Julian hoped beyond hope that Sybilla Foxe would be waiting on the small stone landing. He crossed the chamber, and could not contain his smile at the sight of her in a thick, embroidered robe, a tray between her hands.
She’d come back.
“Oh,” she said coolly, her eyebrows lifting only slightly as her gaze lighted on Lucy’s limp form over his shoulder. “I apologize. I would have thought her to be in her own bed by now.”
Julian opened the door wider and gestured to the small cradle he’d moved from the nurse’s chamber downstairs.
“She is yet uneasy with the woman you’ve provided,” he explained, motioning with his head for her to come in. “I thought perhaps she would sleep more soundly in my room this night. I’m sure she’ll warm up to her on the morrow.”
“I’ve brought you a drink.” Sybilla set the tray down on the trunk near the bed, and Julian could not help but notice the two chalices next to the decanter. She straightened and turned, her posture stiff, her expression enigmatic. “I’ll leave you now so as not to disturb the child. Good night, Lord Griffin.”
“Don’t go, Sybilla,” he said, reaching out and grasping her elbow with one hand.
She looked down at her arm where he touched her, and quickly up into his eyes, as if he were some beggar grasping at her hem for a coin.
“There’s no need,” he continued, not caring at all about the icy look she gave him. “I’d like it very much if you’d stay and keep my company, talk with me.”
“So you can further interrogate me?” she accused him, and frost all but fell from her lips.
He shook his head with a smile, because he knew his mirth would goad her. “No. We can talk about anything you wish,” he said. Then he released her arm and walked to the cradle, carefully lowering Lucy into it and tucking the blankets around her. He gave the side a gentle push, and the little woven basket began to sway. When he turned back to the room, Sybilla had not moved, but her expression conveyed her suspicion.
“Anything I wish,” she stated flatly.
“Yes.” Julian gave her another smile as he passed her on his way toward the tray. He uncorked the decanter and picked up a chalice. Pouring a generous draught, he turned back to her and held the cup out. “Anything you wish.” She reached out a slender arm and took the wine hesitantly, prompting Julian to add, “As long as there will be no shouting involved.” He waggled his eyebrows toward the cradle.
“Well, knowing us, I can’t very well promise you that, can I?” she said, and then took a drink.
Julian chuckled. “Touché.”
The corners of her mouth twitched faintly, and she turned her back to him and walked toward the hearth. “Tell me how you came to be married to the king’s cousin.” She glanced back over her shoulder warningly. “The truth.”
“I would admit to nothing less,” Julian said easily and set about pouring a drink for himself.
“My family name is an old one, some saying it can be traced back to the time of Camelot,” he began as he made himself comfortable by leaning up against the post of the bed. “Old and noble, but for the last several generations, not very wealthy. By the time I was born, the family manor had long since been taken over by creditors, and my parents were renting a small house in London. I enlisted with the king’s men for the Eighth Crusade, hoping to earn enough spoils to afford my family a better life.”
“Did you?” she asked mildly.
“No. In fact, I returned poorer than when I left, if you consider the cost of outfitting and the injury I sustained.”
Her head turned quickly toward him and he saw her quick appraisal. “Not permanently, I gather.”
“No, all I bear now are scars,” he admitted. “But some of them are quite deep. Especially the mental ones I carry.”
Sybilla nodded as if she understood. Perhaps she did. “But what would then prompt Edward to promise his relation to such a penniless knight?”
“I made a good soldier,” he admitted without pride. “I fought well—as if I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. It served me well. Served the king even more, when I intervened in an attempt on his life.”
“So you saved him.”
“Him and a score of his men,” Julian clarified. “Divine providence, right place, right time.” He waved the chalice. “Whatever you wish to call it. From that day on, I traveled with him. When he was called back to England to take the crown, I led his company.”
“But could he not simply give you your home back?”
Julian shook his head. “No. The manor had been lawfully claimed, the debts too old at that point to be repaid. And both of my parents had died while I was on the Crusade. There was nothing left to return to, really.”
Sybilla’s forehead wrinkled slightly. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged, liking the soft look of her in her robe before his fire.
“So then what happened?” she asked.
“He held a feast in my honor, detailing in the invitation my feats of daring and bravery.” Sybilla laughed softly, and Julian joined her. “It was rather embarrassing. I don’t think the king expected me to garner the interest of one of his unmarried cousins—it had never occurred to him. But he was agreeable to it.”
“As were you?”
Julian nodded. “Certainly. Cateline was comely, young, wealthy, well connected. It was a fortuitous match for me, and gave her somewhat of a reputation, marrying the king’s champion, a wild and ruthless knight.”
“Did you love her?”
Julian paused, looking down into his chalice as he swirled the wine in his cup. “I loved her for Lucy,” he said simply, looking up at her again. “I didn’t dislike her, if that’s what you mean. But was our marriage a raging love affair? No.”
“Shame,” Sybilla said, and then took another drink of her wine, watching him over the rim of her cup.
“I’d not change any of it,” he confessed, and looked pointedly toward the cradle where Lucy slept on.
“And so now the king trusts you enough to secure Fallstowe for him,” Sybilla said, beginning to walk slowly toward him, considering him thoughtfully. “I assume he will pay you handsomely.”
“Yes,” Julian conceded.
“And you will secure a home for yourself with the proceeds of my crucifixion.” She stopped near him, only two paces away perhaps. “One like Fallstowe?”
“Exactly like Fallstowe, I hope,” he said. “Does that sway you? If I were to be lord over a manor such as this?”
Sybilla shrugged one shoulder. “I’m beginning to think that I might be able to tolerate you elsewhere, if need be.”
His guts twisted then, the closest thing he felt that he could expect so soon from Sybilla Foxe in the way of admission of gentle feelings. He stepped toward her slowly, carefully, and took her chalice. Then he turned and placed both cups on the trunk. He walked directly to her, placing his hands at her waist and pulling her against him.
“If need be?” He cocked his head and looked down into her face.
“I’m still waiting on you to convince me further,” she said in a husky voice, and then glanced at Lucy’s cradle. “Unfortunately—”
He began shaking his head even before she finished. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, and grazed her temple with his lips. “I can convince you very quietly.” Then he kissed her mouth deeply.
She pulled away from him after a moment, her blazing blue eyes finding his. “But I am not so certain that my acceptance would be as quiet.”
“There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” he said, and then bent down to scoop her up into his arms and carry her once again to his bed.
A strange noise woke Sybilla, and she frowned before opening her eyes. It sounded almost like some sort of animal, mewing and yowling, and so she squeezed her eyes shut all the more tightly and snuggled against Julian Griffin’s warm flank, his chest rising and falling easily with his deep, rasping breaths.
There it was again, more insistent this time, and it sounded as though it was in the very chamber. Then her eyes snapped open.
The baby. Lucy. She was crying.
Sybilla rose up on one elbow to behold the room, only faintly illuminated by the small, weakening fire in the hearth. Julian did not stir, and a glance at the cradle near the stone fireplace rewarded her with a glimpse of a little fist waving over the side.
She looked at Julian’s face and saw that he was clearly lost to a deep sleep.
Sybilla frowned. The baby had quieted, but Sybilla was uneasy. What if the child had awakened in the night, ill like her nurse? What if she had no further energy to cry out once more, alerting her caretaker that she was unwell? Children commonly died in their sleep. Could she in good conscience roll over and close her eyes?
She carefully extracted herself from the covers, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and reached down to grasp the neck of her thin gown from the floor. She slipped it over her head, the ice-cold silk bringing out gooseflesh on her skin. Then she stood and cautiously, silently, tiptoed toward the little basket, holding her breath.
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