Sybill (34 page)

“Why did you send her away? I was not done.”

“You are done with reprimanding my staff, Christopher.”

“Your staff?”

She smiled condescendingly. “Of course, they are my staff. Before I married your father, I ran the household in his name. Now they are my servants.” With a motion toward the goblets of wine, she said, “Tonight we will drink only with dinner. That is my order.”

“Do you think I will follow your orders, Sybill Hampton?”

“My name is Sybill Wythe. As a courtesy to you, I do not require you to call me by my title. Foxbridge Cloister is my domain. Here, with your father, I rule supreme. I suggest you remember that,
Mr
. Wythe.”

He scowled as she went to speak to Breton. The estate manager handed her a page to read. She smiled graciously and affixed her signature at the bottom of it with the quill he produced along with a bottle of ink. Sybill treated everyone sweetly except her stepson, who longed to feel her soft in his arms. His father could not live forever. Then he would deal with Lady Foxbridge and show her exactly what Christopher Wythe's place was in Foxbridge Cloister.

Chapter Seventeen

Sybill ignored the sound of raised voices beyond the heavy door of the master suite. It was too familiar. Owen disagreed with everyone. She was not interested in why he was berating someone this evening. All she wanted to do was sleep. The voices silenced immediately as she entered. Surprised, for Owen never interrupted his tirades because of her, she glanced across the room. Her eyes widened as she saw her husband was arguing with his son.

“What are you doing here?”

She recoiled physically from the bitterly spoken words. Even before he shouted, she could tell Owen had been drinking steadily. Fear was a pain deep within her. When he was like this, there was no telling what cruelty he would devise.

Conciliatorily, she said, “Owen, these are my rooms as well.”

“For now,” he spat.

“I will leave if you wish.” She wondered why he wanted to spare her. Then she decided this was another of his twisted ideas. He would hold the hint of freedom in front of her and tease her with it.

Christopher answered with uncharacteristic kindness, “No, Sybill, that isn't necessary. I'm going.”

“You are staying until we finish this conversation.” His father refocused his wrath on him. “Or are you ashamed to let Lady Foxbridge see the useless son she inherited when she married me?”

Edging toward her room, Sybill smiled unevenly. “I will leave you.”

Owen moved more swiftly than she expected. Despite her intentions to keep him from discovering how he hurt her, she cried out as he grasped her arm in his iron grip. Swinging her back to face him, he was struck by the thick material of her overskirt. “Dear wife, I said you will stay.”

A harsh laugh halted her reply. Her terrorized face went from her husband's drink-distorted eyes to his son's superior grin. “Father, haven't you discovered that a lady does not appreciate being treated like that?”

“Be silent, Christopher!”

“Owen, please—”

He shook her and snapped, “I don't wish to hear from you, woman.” Although she was afraid he might strike her, he did not raise his hand. Instead he continued to taunt his son. “I will have you remember, son, that this is
my
house! I don't wish to be told what to do or not to do in my home. Your stepmother is learning that. I think it's time you did.”

Christopher glanced at the woman. Only the wine could have clouded his father's mind enough to let him believe he had daunted his pretty wife. The fear on her face mingled with rage. Something was causing Sybill to accept his father's despotic rule. What hold he had on her, Christopher was unsure. He would find out what it was. Then he would use it to his own advantage.

Leaning on one of the chairs, he stated, coolly, “I will never bow down to the great Lord Foxbridge! Your days are numbered, Father. When you do us all a favor and go to your reward in Hell, I will possess this title you have held before me all my life. As you lie moldering in your grave, you can know that all your efforts were futile.”

“Efforts?” He laughed humorlessly. “All I tried to do was make my useless son into a man. What are you, but some cheap whore's lover?”

“I on occasion may sleep with a prostitute, but you married one, Father.”

Sybill had been feeling strangely sympathetic toward Christopher, but his insult severed any camaraderie. When she started to step away to flee this horrible scene, Owen's bony fingers became claws around her arm. “Get out, Christopher!” he shrieked. “Get out of Foxbridge Cloister. If you ever dare to show your face here while I live, I will have you run off! Leave, and take your parasitic friends with you.”

“It is the middle of the night!”

He smirked. “What's wrong, son? Are you still afraid of the dark? Very well. Your welcome is extended until sunrise. If you are here when I awake, you will be shown the road with the help of a pitchfork in your backsides.”

Christopher alternately paled and became crimson with fury as he listened to his father's rantings. Knowing he had no choice, he glared at Owen. Without a word of farewell or even of acceptance of the banishment, he left. The slamming of the door was overly loud in the sleeping house.

Before the echo had finished reverberating through the room, Owen drew Sybill to him. He ignored her protests as he bent her back over his arm and kissed her savagely. When she struggled to escape, he simply laughed. “What is wrong, sweet wife?”

“Stop it!” she cried. The wine had soured his breath. If she did not escape him, she feared she would be ill.

His hand heavily stroked her hair. “Sybill, you need not play the innocent maiden. We both know that role isn't appropriate. What did you tell me? That you seduced Breton?”

“Why are you doing this to us? Is your revenge on Christopher so important that you will destroy us all?”

He sniffed inelegantly. His fingers grasped the material at the back of her gown. The shrill protest of ripping fabric brought a scream from her. With a drunken laugh, he reached beneath the torn overdress to do the same to her chemise.

“Owen, stop!” she pleaded, hating him more because he made her grovel. She could not let him harm the child.

“You are my wife, Sybill. You are my Lady Foxbridge.”

Knowing she had to escape him before he debased her totally, she decided attack was her only choice. Coldly she stated, “And you are Lord Foxbridge. Why don't you act as if you are deserving of the title instead of being a brute like Christopher?”

He pushed her away. Because she had anticipated his action, she did no more than bump into the door. She rubbed her bruised shoulder as she stared at him in rage. Owen was becoming more violent. Soon she feared even the child's safety would not waylay him from hurting her or dragging her into his bed for whatever perverted purposes he could design.

“Brute?” His eyes narrowed, and he stared at her as if he could not see her well. She did not doubt that was the truth. The wine bottle on the table was empty, and only one glass sat next to it. “What has my son done to you?”

“Christopher?” She could not follow the twistings of his brain.

He stepped toward her, then seemed to change his mind. Going to the table, he tipped the wine bottle toward the half-filled glass. Only a few drops dribbled from it. With a curse, he flung it at the fireplace. The bottle shattered to rain glass over the flames. Sybill cringed. Silently, she slid her feet across the floor to escape from this madness. When her skirt brushed a table, the candle on it crashed to the floor.

“Leaving?” Owen taunted. His pale eyes glittered with satisfaction as he noted her pose of fear.

“You usually do not wish to see me here.”

“Dear wife, you are mistaken. I wish to know why you have accused my son of such churlish acts.” He staggered toward her. Leaning against the wall, he imprisoned her by putting his arms on the stones on either side of her head. “Tell me, Sybill.”

“There isn't much to say,” she equivocated. She did not want to risk the wrath she had seen too often. She was too tired to play a major role in one of his games.

He laughed. “Do you think I am a total fool, woman?”

“You seem to know so much! I do not think you need me to tell you anything.” She batted away his arm. “Your spies must have kept you well informed from the time Christopher arrived.”

“But not before.”

Shaking her head, she edged away once more. “Don't ask, Owen. You do not want to know.” Again she feared he would strike her as she saw the rage distorting his drunken features. She relaxed slightly when she realized that, for once, he was not irate with her.

“The night he arrived you told me you were thrown from your horse.” He rounded on her. “You ride too well for that. It was Christopher, wasn't it? Even then, he hated you because he guessed you will cost him his inheritance.”

“Owen,” she said softly to soothe him, “it is not important. He is leaving. You have won.”

His colorless eyebrows reached for his hairline. “Have I? My son is very impressed with you, wife. Has he informed you of his desire for you?”

“Owen …” She did not add more as she felt the heat of her blush. As too often in the past, it betrayed her.

“Go to bed. I will see you in the morning.”

As he turned toward the door, she ran forward to grasp his sleeve. “Owen, he is leaving! You have won!”

He gazed down at her tear-streaked face. Sweet, serpentsly Sybill wore her emotions for all to see. Although she was an innocent when he brought her to Foxbridge Cloister, she had learned quickly. He could trust her no more than any who wanted what he possessed. Fury further blinded him. He would deal with her tomorrow. Tonight he must make his son rue his attempts to seduce his stepmother. Christopher would learn that no one harmed anything belonging to Owen Wythe without being repaid in kind.

Wringing her hands impotently, Sybill watched as her husband whirled out of the room. She stared for a moment at the closed door, then started to reach for the bellpull. As if the velvet had burned her, she wrenched her fingers from it. To involve anyone when Owen was so insane with jealousy would be dangerous. Already he had accused her too many times of collusion with Trevor. Her feet were heavy as she went to her room. Inside Kate waited. The maid did not pretend to be busy.

“Go away, Kate,” ordered Sybill listlessly.

“I will help you ready for bed first, Lady Foxbridge.”

She winced. Kate enjoyed using her title to remind her of her hateful place. There had been too much arguing in these rooms. She did not feel like more, so she allowed the woman to help her remove her clothes.

Satisfaction was a triumphant sound in the maid's voice as she stated, “You and Lord Foxbridge will have to make an announcement soon, my lady.”

“Good-night, Kate.” Her words showed clearly that she would not let Kate twist her into talking about what must be no secret from the maid. She was simply too fatigued tonight to talk to anyone about anything.

Although Kate wished to continue, she could see by the set of her lady's tight lips that such a course would be a waste. She vowed silently to herself to confront Lady Foxbridge while she helped her dress in the morning. If she thought to hide her pregnancy, she would learn how mistaken she was.

With an insolent curtsy, she smiled. “Good-night, my lady. Sleep well. Rest is important for you, you know.”

Sybill waited until the woman left. Running to the door, she pushed the bolt in place. She leaned against the carved wood surface and gave her tears the freedom to fall.

“I hate it here! I hate it!” she whispered as she reeled to her bed and the sanctuary of her dreams. Only there could she find the surcease of the insanity possessing Foxbridge Cloister. Into her pillows she whispered, “Take me away soon, Trevor.”

Kate pounded on the door with her fist until a bleary eyed Sybill came to answer it. “My lady, there has been an accident.”

Involuntarily, she whispered, “Trevor?” Her face became as gray as the stones of the Cloister. Had Owen discovered that Trevor knew the truth and was planning to leave Foxbridge Cloister? The maid caught her lady as she swayed. Gently she sat her on a chair in the antechamber. Pouring out a glass of wine, she pressed it into Sybill's shaking fingers.

“My lady, it is Lord Foxbridge. He—he—”

“Owen!” Her head snapped up to regard the distraught face of the older woman. In a rush, color flooded back into Sybill's face. She placed the untouched goblet on a nearby table. “Take me to him, Kate!”

“My lady—”

“Now!” she ordered emphatically. There was no time when it could have been worse for Owen to decide to wander about in a drunken stupor. Christopher would be thrilled to prove his father incapable of running Foxbridge Cloister. Then he could take over the management himself and live well until the estate was bankrupted.

Fearfully, Kate quelled before her lady's vehemence. That shocked Sybill. Since the wedding, Kate had paraded her victory before her. Owen must have made a bigger fool of himself than she had suspected. She hoped she could smooth over the situation quickly.

The maid went toward the staircase, but did not step onto the first riser. Pointing over the ornate railing, she said, “There, my lady.”

A hand over her mouth kept Sybill's scream from erupting from her lips as she saw the crumpled mass at the bottom of the stone stairwell. Gathering up the full skirts of her dressing gown, she raced down the steps.

A crowd of servants stood silently in a half circle at the base of the stairs. They were speaking in whispers and wringing their hands in despair. Most moved aside as she dropped to her knees beside the twisted man.

“Owen!” she cried in terror. She reached to touch him, but pulled back before her fingers could touch his skin, which would be too cool.