Sybill (18 page)

The iron chandelier was glowing with candlelight when they entered the room. Some of the long windows had been opened. A myriad flurry of flying, night insects hovered around the candles, but the brisk air from the sea freshened the room. Owen portrayed the genial host as he handed each a silver goblet filled with aromatic wine. Lifting his high, he stated, “First to our most gracious lady, Queen Elizabeth. May her reign be ever lasting and ever successful. And to her brave lads, who put to sea risking death for the land and the queen they love. And lastly, to all the lovely ladies of England who give their men the reason to safeguard these precious shores.” He tilted his goblet in Sybill's direction.

She smiled uneasily and took a sip. When Owen drained his goblet, he refilled it without offering more to the other two. She placed her cup on the table. There was a question she had to ask. “Is it over for us or just beginning? If what remains of the Armada is sailing around the Orkneys, are we safe?”

Trevor longed to take her into his arms and soothe her fears, but simply said, “They won't sail through the Irish Sea unless they are more desperate than we have been led to believe. To do so would bring them too close to the English vengeance again.”

“Let them come! They will fertilize the soil of Foxbridge Cloister with their blood.”

As she heard Owen's fanaticism, Sybill's face mirrored her horror. “No, don't say that. Let them go home. I don't want to think of more dying.”

“They would have no such compunctions about pillaging England.” His eyes pinned her to the floor as he spat, “You have compassion for those who would overrun your home, steal all you value, and torture those you love? Would you forgive them after they raped you?”

“Owen!” she gasped.

With a muttered curse, he swallowed his wine. When he reached for the bottle again, she nearly suggested he drink slower. Her words died on her lips as he glared at her as if daring her to challenge him. She glanced at Trevor, but he seemed equally awed by this change in the man. Calming the rapid beat of her heart, she told herself that Owen had been so worried during the time when all of the island was held hostage by fear. He deserved this celebration. Into the silence, she said softly, “I think I'll go to bed. It'll be nice to sleep without the threat of attack over our heads.”

“You aren't going to finish your wine?” Owen made it sound like the most grievous crime.

“I just want to sleep. Good night.”

She paused on the steps leading into the hallway. As she looked back at the two men watching her, she tried to think of something to say, but there was nothing. One war might be over, but the unspoken one raging within these walls was far from completed.

Chapter Nine

Sybill stared at the blue-green of the rolling waves and was grateful for this time alone. She needed to sort through her thoughts. Owen continued to press her to marry him. Trevor wanted her to be his lover. She could not be both. When she was by herself, she was not sure if she wanted either. The ramifications of each were terrifying. One thing she was positive about. Trevor would be enraged that she had come to the beach below the cliffs, but nowhere else could she be guaranteed that she would not be interrupted by one of the many people who called the Cloister their home.

Last week, in the aftermath of the strange victory party in the solarium, she had discovered a safe path to the base of the cliffs. With her horse hidden in the trees above, she was sure no one would guess she found peace on the beach. Only the sounds of the sea and the birds croaking as they quilted the sky with their quick, darting motions were her companions on the strand.

Lifting her skirts out of the sand, she walked gingerly to a huge boulder. She took off her slippers and stockings and put them in her apron. A smaller stone weighted the apron so it would not blow away. She kilted her skirt to keep it clean. If she returned to the Cloister with a betraying hint of sand, she would be forbidden from coming again.

With her footwear secure, she raced along the beach. Spinning, leaping, she left her problems behind her. To the music in her head, she chased the thick foam along the beach. When a wave splashed higher than she had anticipated, it sprayed her with the salt. In dismay, she paused. Perhaps she could hide the gown until she could clean it herself. Clara would help. Deciding she would not worry about it, she paid no further attention to the staining line along her hem.

She skimmed rocks across the water. So intent was she on trying to make one skip that she did not hear the soft call for aid immediately. Her own voice counting the number of tiny waves circling out from the kisses of the stone upon the water drowned out any other noise. She cheered with delight when one small, flat pebble made several leaps before dropping into obscurity beneath the waves.

When she heard the breathy sound and realized it was not one made by the wind, the water, or the birds squawking overhead, she called out, “Who is it? Where are you?” She scanned the beach, but it appeared as empty as when she had descended.

“
Dios
, help me. Here.”

She followed the words around one of the larger rocks, which had been broken from the sheer face of the wall. When she saw the hulk of a man reclining half in and half out of the water, she gave a soft cry of alarm. She dropped to her knees by his side. “How did you get here? Can you walk?”

The man looked up at her, but she could tell he was having a hard time focusing his eyes. When he spoke, she knew exactly who he was. The accent on his English betrayed him as one of the Spanish who had been determined to punish those they saw as heretics. She placed her hands over her mouth.

“I can't walk. I can do nothing.
Senorita
, I beg you. Find me a priest. I must make my final confession before I die.”

Wanting to refute his words out of simple kindness, she knew they were true. As emaciated and sunbaked as he was, it would take a miracle to bring him back to health. Such would be a futile exercise, for if he survived, he would be hanged. She recalled Trevor's words. Desperate men had gambled on the shorter route through the Irish Sea. This one was losing that wager with the whims of the ocean and wind.

“Let me get you out of the water. Then I shall try to do as you wish.” She put her hands under his arms and tried to drag him from the pulse of the waves. Although he was not a large man, she could not move him more than a few inches.

“Go!” he ordered. His voice retained a trace of the authority which he must have been accustomed to exercising. “I must have a priest before I die. Do not kill me with your efforts to aid me,
senorita
.”

Reassuring him that she would be back as soon as she could, she ran up the path. Without putting her shoes on, she clambered on her horse and turned it full speed toward Foxbridge Cloister. At the stiles, she urged the horse over, although her nose came into painful contact with its neck on one jump. She knew where Trevor would be. When she saw him in the field where the wheat was to be harvested, she waved. Impatiently she clenched the reins as he finished giving instructions to the men and women who would be gathering the grain. Only then did he come to greet her.

“What is it, Sybill?” As he leaned on her horse, his eyes were caught by the strange sight of her bare legs showing beneath the immodest height of her skirt. “Why are you out without your shoes?”

Leaning down, she whispered, “Hush.” She glanced at the others who had not paused in their work. Thankful for their lack of interest in what they had seen so often in the past months, she urged, “Listen to me. I need your help, if you can give it to me.”

He placed his much larger hands over hers. “What's wrong?”

“What is more important to you, Trevor? Your political beliefs or a man's life?”

“Is this a joke?” He frowned. It was not like Sybill to play games. When he saw the tightness of her lips, he knew his question was a foolish one. Her response proved that.

“No,” she cried. When she saw the odd looks the workers gave her, she lowered her voice. “Answer me, please!”

“A man's life must be more important. Sweetheart, what is it?”

“Then help me help him.”

“What him, Sybill?”

Quickly she explained. His dark eyes grew dim with disquiet. It was treason she was asking him to commit. If it was suspected they were trying to help an enemy, they would be hanged next to the sailor. Not even Lord Foxbridge's influence could halt the vengeance of a war-besotted nation celebrating its triumph. When she was finished, he nodded. “Very well, Sybill. You know the cost?”

“He will die if we don't help him.”

“He will die anyhow if he is in the condition you say he is.”

Her eyes filled with compassionate tears. “Trevor, if it was you dying on a strange shore, I would want the woman who found you to grant your last wish. He is alone. Can we let him die without bringing him a priest?”

With a sigh, he admitted she was correct. That he had known from the beginning of her explanation. “No, but—”

“If you don't help me, I will—”

He interrupted her as she had him. “Calm down, Sybill. I will help you. You can't carry him from the beach alone.”

“Thank you,” she breathed in relief.

“I just hope you feel that way if we are discovered in this,” he retorted grimly. Telling her to push forward in the saddle, he sat on the saddle blanket behind her. He took the reins and brought the horse about to face the shore road. With one hand around her waist, he urged the horse to its fastest speed along the summer dusty road.

Sybill leaned back against him. In spite of her concerns for the nameless man, she savored the strength of Trevor's body. The hard line of his sun-heated chest was warm against her back. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the sweet sensation.

All her happy thoughts disappeared as he demanded, “What in hell were you doing on the beach, Sybill? I thought I warned you about the dangers.”

“You warned me. I listened, and I was careful.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“About a week.” She twisted to look at him. “Trevor, I'm very cautious.”

His frown did not lessen as he stated brusquely, “You must be. You are still alive.”

“Don't treat me like a child!”

“Then don't act like one.” He relented slightly as he added, “Sweetheart, I simply don't want to think of you lying at the base of the cliffs, broken from a fall.”

She shivered, despite the sun searing the top of her head. The picture he created in her mind was gory. When she heard his soft chuckle, she looked into his face. “You like scaring me, don't you?”

“I want you safe. If this is what it takes to keep you that way, then, yes, I like scaring you.” He leaned forward to kiss her, then remembered their errand, which could end in their deaths. “Later, sweetheart,” he promised as much to himself as to her. “Now let's rescue your Spanish sailor.”

He insisted she hold his hand while they climbed down the precarious path. Although Sybill longed to tell him she had come this way alone many times, she was silent. As he said, this was the time to think of the dying man and nothing else. She led him along the beach to where she had discovered the sailor.

She gasped as she saw the man. There was less of his body out of the water, so she knew if she had not discovered him, he would have drowned. Dropping to her knees, she put her hand close to his mouth gritty with sand. “He's breathing, but only just.”

Trevor did not move him immediately. He checked for broken bones, for to move a man shattered by the waves would bring instant death. Once involved in this perfidious game, he would do all he could to make the last hours or days of this man comfortable. “Step away, Sybill. He is not much bigger than you. I can carry him.”

Involuntarily she looked at the steep cliffs. “All the way up there?”

“Can we leave him here to the waves and the carrion eaters?”

She rose and clasped her hands in front of her, but could not stop their trembling. With little strain, Trevor lifted the bedraggled form. As he saw the distress on Sybill's face, he knew it was useless to caution her again that to give succor to this man would be considered treason. She did not see things in such clear-cut shades of black and white. For her, there were many tints between that enabled her to see this enemy as someone needing help. “Sybill, we can't take him to the Cloister. Lord Foxbridge would order him killed.”

She did not argue. What Trevor said was true. Owen was determined to drive any Spanish invaders back into the sea. Even shipwrecked men would be given no quarter. Quietly, she said, “There is a small hut to the south of here. It's abandoned.”

He smiled. “I know the one you mean. Come. It won't be easy to keep him alive long enough to locate a priest.”

She scooped up her nearly forgotten clothes as she walked backward toward the path. Although she did not know how she could help, she wanted to be prepared to aid Trevor. Softly she urged him to place his feet carefully, for it soon became clear he could not balance the unconscious man and, at the same time, watch his steps along the uneven path.

Quickly she unhooked the horse's reins from the briar where Trevor had tied them and brought the animal to the edge of the cliff. He placed the limp body over the saddle. Sybill winced as she saw the bloody stains on the sailor's clothes. “Trevor, do you think—?”

He shook his head. “I don't know what to think. I only hope we can keep him alive long enough to provide him with his dying wish.” Taking the reins from her numb fingers, he put his arm around her shoulders.

Side by side, with the steady sound of the horse's hoofs behind them, they walked to the hut on the promontory. Why it had been built was a fact lost in history. It leaned with the strength of the wind, but its interior was dry and was used occasionally during a fishing expedition. Sybill went in while Trevor lifted the man from the saddle. With a sigh, she gazed at the filth encrusting a pallet under the window. It would have to serve, for there was no other place to take this stranger.