Authors: Heather Grothaus
Never Love a Lord (5 page)
Julian Griffin was only a pace away from her, and he closed that distance with a single slow step, stopping to look down into Sybilla’s upturned face. She could feel the heat of him through the velvet of her gown, feel the corner of the leather packet brush along the curve of her waist as he stood nearly against her. The door was at her back, but she would not escape him.
“And they already know that only a person of noble blood may hold lands and title for the king,” he said in a low voice, his eyes searching her face. “I find myself intrigued by you, Lady Sybilla.”
She blinked at his sudden departure from the topic of the king, and for a moment no words would come to her. “Most men do,” she answered at last.
“It must be deliberate. Do you encourage their attention?” he asked, his voice going even softer.
“When it suits me.” She took her back away from the door, standing so that the velvet of her bodice brushed Julian Griffin’s tunic. She felt an atypical flush roll over her cheeks as she looked up at him. “Would it benefit me to encourage your attention, Lord Griffin?”
“I think it would,” he said, his face drawing nearer to hers. “But mayhap not in the way you are seeking.”
“Meaning you would not return to Edward reporting that Fallstowe is innocent.”
He shook his head almost imperceptibly. His nose brushed hers. “I promised to bring him the truth.” The breath of his words caressed her lips. “And we both know that Fallstowe is anything but innocent.”
“Then I see no benefit at all to sleeping with you,” Sybilla whispered, her body screaming at her to pull the man to her fully. “Be warned, Lord Griffin—some say I am a dangerous woman.” She tilted her head.
“What a coincidence—I had danger for breakfast just this morning.” His mouth was over hers now, his lips open, almost touching, and she took a breath of his hot exhalation . . .
“Is the door stuck again, Madam?”
In a rush of cool air, Julian Griffin pulled away from her and turned, revealing Graves standing disturbingly close behind him, a large meat cleaver dangling from one hand.
Sybilla thought it would have been quite convenient had the old steward decided to make use of the tool a second ago. Although she would still feel the unfulfilled ache gifted to her by the masculine and imposing Julian Griffin, at least he would be dead and no further trouble to her.
“No, Graves. The door is fine.” She let her breath out through her nose, slowly, inaudibly.
“I say, old man,” Julian offered, gesturing to the weapon in Graves’s hand, “those must be terribly efficient for—oh, I don’t know—killing the errant eel, or what have you.”
“Do you suppose, my lord?” Graves asked, cocking his head as if extremely interested in the idea.
Sybilla frowned at the two men facing each other like adversaries, although their conversation was completely benign—even nonsensical. One would have to go very much out of their way to find a live eel in this season.
“I shall be in the solar if I am needed, Graves. Please have a tray sent up.”
“Tea, Madam?”
Sybilla could feel Julian Griffin’s energy radiating from him like a smithy’s iron. “I think perhaps something stronger is called for, considering the topics Lord Julian insists on prying into.”
The imposing lord was still keenly regarding Fallstowe’s steward. “Why don’t you join us, old man? It’s well known that you—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Sybilla interrupted. Julian turned his face toward her, a look of curious amusement causing his eyes to gleam, and causing the hair at the nape of Sybilla’s neck to prickle. “Graves carries many responsibilities in the hold. I would not keep him from his work for something so pointless as to sate your—as well as our king’s—interest in morbid gossip.”
A tawny, quirked eyebrow was Julian Griffin’s only response.
“When you care to join me, Lord Griffin . . .” She let the sentence dangle as she pushed the door open behind her and took her racing heart into the solar.
Chapter 6
Julian let his eyes follow Sybilla Foxe’s lithe back as she ducked into the shadows of the solar beyond the doorway. He felt his nostrils flare with the lingering scent her passing left in the close corridor. He rejected his most base urge to follow close on her heels, barring the door after them both. Instead, he turned swiftly back to the old steward, who didn’t so much as flinch at the sudden attention paid him.
“Will there be anything else you require, Lord Julian?” he asked, his dark eyes seeming far too young and sparkling to be set in a face so thin and lined.
“Yes, Graves,” Julian said in a low but amicable voice. “You may stop trying to kill me.”
The old man’s pale lips actually twitched, a skeletal smile. “Whatever do you mean, my lord?”
“You know exactly what I mean,” Julian said. “It’s not going to work. Ice in the bath, live eels at the breakfast table—you must think me feeble to succumb to such frivolous threats. After hearing of your reputation, I expected more. I must say I am slightly disappointed.”
“Too subtle?” Graves asked, his face pulling into a long expression of forced concern. Then he glanced down at the small ax still dangling in his right hand before meeting Julian’s eyes directly.
The old man said not another word, only turned on his heel and slithered soundlessly into the shadows. If Graves had intended to kill him outright, he could have performed the deed in countless ways since Julian’s arrival. The old man must have ulterior motives for his rather juvenile actions; beyond encouraging Julian to depart Fallstowe, obviously. Julian watched the place where Graves had disappeared from sight for a moment more, and then turned to step through the open doorway after Sybilla.
He closed the door soundlessly behind him as his eyes searched the shadows for her. Sybilla Foxe stood at a large square window set in the stone exterior wall of the solar. Her silhouette was black against the bright gray gloom of day, only a small fire in the hearth to combat the quiet. Her chin was tilted down, her gaze seeming to go beyond the wavy panes and race along Fallstowe’s lands all the way to the horizon. She seemed completely lost in her own mind—or perhaps somewhere far beyond that horizon her eyes so desperately regarded—and Julian wondered if she realized he had joined her.
“What prompted Edward to order you to France?” she asked suddenly, indicating that she had been acutely aware of his arrival.
Julian stepped more fully into the room, his eyes seemingly unable to look away from her any longer than it took to glance down while he slid his portfolio onto a small, three-legged table.
“He didn’t order me to France.” Julian continued his stroll toward her, as if drawn, and when she turned her face slightly to regard him, he was struck by the depth and clarity of her blue eyes, cut by the bright gray light which seemed to make them glow like sea glass.
He came to stand close at her side. Julian guessed not many dared invade Sybilla Foxe’s personal space, whether out of respect or fear or awe. He was pleased to see the slight crease between her eyebrows as she was forced to lift her chin to regard him, her question clear in her eyes.
“I sought his permission to go,” he obliged her mildly, and turned to mirror her posture, looking out over the pie-shaped sliver of bailey and then to the rolling hills disappearing in the fog beyond.
“Why?” she asked quietly.
Julian drew a deep breath and sighed. There was no reason not to tell her. “Because I knew that if you were so bold—or so desperate—as to deny our king, it was very unlikely that you would simply give me the information I sought unless I had already determined a fair amount of it as fact on my own.”
He felt her turn her gaze back to the window. “I see. Like Edward, you sought to try me and my family in your mind.”
“Not at all,” Julian insisted. “Our king is not privy to all of my findings as of yet.”
“Why not?” she demanded, looking at him sharply again.
“It would be unwise of me to report a plethora of unconfirmed ideas or half-truths.”
“How noble of you.”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” she replied.
After a moment of tense silence, Julian turned away from the window and headed toward where he had deposited his portfolio. “Do you mind if I sit?” He picked up the thick leather packet and sat down on the settee, placing the portfolio on his thighs while he untied the leather string holding the bundle together.
A soft rap fell on the door, and an instant later a maid entered bearing the tray Sybilla had requested earlier. The somber-looking young woman set her burden on the table at Julian’s elbow, poured two cups and left them on the tray, exiting the room without comment. Sybilla Foxe had yet to move from the window.
Julian opened the ledger, but before flipping through the leaves of parchment contained within, he picked up the cup nearest him and took a sip.
“Where would you like to start?”
“I hope you don’t expect me to vomit the history of my family at your mere suggestion. Surely you didn’t think it would be so easy once you had breached my gates.”
“Very well,” Julian conceded with a nod. “What if I tell you what I know. If I am incorrect in any of my findings, or if you wish to offer further comment, you may instruct me.”
She turned to look at him over her shoulder, and Julian realized that she had crossed her arms over her chest and was grasping her elbows. For all of her bluster and strong words, she appeared wary, unsure.
She looked out the window once more. “Very well.”
“Your mother, Amicia, came to this land from Gascony at Christmastime, 1248.” Julian glanced up at her. “As part of the party of Simon de Montfort.” At the last words, Julian saw Sybilla Foxe’s slender throat convulse as if she swallowed.
“That . . .” She cleared her throat, then said in a low voice, “That is correct.”
Julian took a moment to consider her answer. He had not expected her to confirm this so easily. After all, this first admission was only the beginning thread to a much larger knot of yarn. He looked down at his notes briefly.
“She was received by Lady de Montfort at Kenilworth Castle, where she remained until February, when Simon returned to Gascony. She did not return to the place of her birth with him.”
“Why would she?” Sybilla said. “She was married by then.”
“To Morys Foxe,” Julian filled in immediately, not wishing to interrupt the unexpected flow of conversation between them. “They met on these very lands, inside the Foxe Ring, if the stories are to be believed.”
“They are,” Sybilla confirmed. She turned suddenly and walked across the short span of floor separating them. She stopped near the table and retrieved a cup of wine. After taking a long drink, she regarded him, although her eyes did not give the impression that she was entirely present.
“I know the tale by heart—Maman told each of us over and over, from all our earliest memories. She had been out riding with Lady de Montfort and some others, enjoying a particularly mild and sunny day for winter, when she became separated from the party. She was a stranger to these lands and quickly became disoriented. Night fell. She was cold, frightened. A moon rose, so full and bright that it seemed it would fall upon the earth and crush it, and against that brightness, she saw the outline of the ruins and mistook them for a populated place.”
“And Morys?” Julian prompted, held rapt at the melody of her voice speaking at such length. “I have been curious as to why he was out at the ruins in the dead of night, alone.”
Sybilla shook her head slowly, looking to a point seeming to be in a dark corner of the room. “Likely he was out enjoying the mild weather as well.”
“At midnight?” Julian prompted with raised eyebrows.
She turned her eyes to him, and Julian could see the coldness taking over her features once more. “Fallstowe was his life. It is said that he knew each stone, even the youngest sapling, so precious was Fallstowe to him.”
“Do you believe such a fantastic notion?” Julian prompted. “That he knew each stone?”
She stared at him for a moment. “Lord Griffin, I personally know not simply each stone of this hold but even every blade of grass that grows on Fallstowe land. If a bird should fall from the sky and land upon this dirt, I will feel the reverberation of its body in my own bones.”
Julian held her gaze, not minding the frost there at all. In fact, it seemed to rekindle a flame within him not entirely doused from their encounter in the corridor.
“An inherited trait, do you reckon?” he asked quietly.
She didn’t answer him, only took another drink of wine, her eyes over the rim of the cup sending warning arrows encased in ice. She lowered her cup and turned away, speaking to him next in a tone that conveyed that his comment was summarily dismissed.
“They met in the Foxe Ring that night. He gave her shelter.”
Julian followed her with his eyes. He could do naught else. “And they were married very shortly after.”
“Yes.”
“A rather fortuitous match for your mother.”
“Not only for Mother,” Sybilla said lightly, going once more to stand at the window. “The house of de Lairne was quite powerful.”
“I concur—the de Lairne family was powerful, and a connection to them could have been a boon to Morys Foxe, and perhaps an advantage to the king of England as well.”
“Precisely,” Sybilla agreed. “My mother was Amicia de Lairne.”
“Your mother was of the de Lairne house,” Julian conceded. “She took the de Lairne name. But she was not of the de Lairne family.”
Julian saw Sybilla Foxe go completely still. Julian paused a moment, too, wondering at the wisdom of revealing too much too soon. But it would come out any matter. May as well start at the beginning.
“She escaped Gascony with the help of Simon de Montfort after aiding him against the de Lairne house. From the moment she set foot on English soil, her life was one enormous lie. Amicia Foxe was never Lady de Lairne—she was Lady de Lairne’s
maid
.”
maid
.”
After a long moment, Sybilla turned and began walking swiftly toward him. “We’re finished for the day,” she said in a cool voice. Her face was the color of the fog beyond the square window. She did not slow as she neared the table, only set her cup down as she passed by. The clicking of her footsteps echoed behind Julian, and then he heard the scrape of the solar door opening. He did not hear it close, and so he craned his neck around to look over the settee behind him.
The door was open, and Sybilla Foxe was gone.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured to the empty, dark room. “Sorry, Sybilla.”
And he found that he was, because he knew it was to get much worse.
“Oh, come on, you stupid . . . you stupid”—Alys pushed against the hulking beast with all her might—“
cow !
” Her breath came out of her in an agitated huff when she realized her efforts were for naught. She stood aright and slapped the red and white rump.
cow !
” Her breath came out of her in an agitated huff when she realized her efforts were for naught. She stood aright and slapped the red and white rump.
“You know if I can’t get you to the barn, Piers will never let me help again.” The cow turned its head lazily, grass poking from either side of its wide mouth as it regarded Alys over its shoulder.
Alys gestured toward the cow with the thick limb in her right hand. “He told me to use this on you, you know. ‘Give her a good whack,’ said he. Is that what you want? Can’t you just mo—”
“Moo-oo,” the cow interrupted.
“Yes,
moo-oove
,” Alys cried.
moo-oove
,” Alys cried.
The cow lowered its head to the new spring grass and began to graze once more.
“Bloody good dairy wife I’ve turned out to be,” Alys grumbled and turned to lean her aching back up against the cow’s warm side. She rubbed her left hand over her growing stomach and looked down. “I do hope you’re a boy.” There was a prickling at her neck and Alys instinctively looked up.
Coming up the closest hill from Gillwick were two riders dressed in quilted leather and mail, weapons clearly at their sides, their horses wearing padded armor.
Alys felt her brows draw together. What would soldiers want with Gillwick? Alys thought she’d left all remnants of politics behind with Sybilla when she had married Piers.
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