Sybill (49 page)

He saw, out of the corner of his eye, the motion of guns raised in his direction. He reacted instinctively as only one fired. There was an exultant cheer when he fell to the ground, and he knew they thought him dead. As his head rang with the concussion of a blow he had not been able to avoid, he wondered if they were correct.

The scene before him swelled and waned into blackness. His fingers came away from his aching forehead covered with blood. How badly he was injured, he could not tell in those first seconds. All he could think of was the safety of his children and Sybill. That he was alive satisfied him. Nothing else mattered but keeping the others alive also.

When he saw a hand reach from the underbrush for the baskets, he clamped his over the wrist. He groped for his knife, but his body answered his demands imeptly. His fingers could not close on the hilt as he fell into a darkness punctuated by Sybill's screams.

She screamed again as she turned in another direction and tried to flee. Triumphant laughter was louder than the sounds of horses' hooves. When hands reached down to scoop her from her feet, she cried Trevor's name in desperation.

“He's dead, Sybill. At last, he is dead.”

Her shrieks stopped instantly. She looked up to see it was Christopher who held her. The smile on his face seconded his cruel words. “No! He can't be dead.”

“Yes, my dear wife-to-be. He is dead, and your bastard soon will be.” He signaled to his friends to turn toward the Cloister. “No brat is going to steal my birthright. Come with me, darling. If you want a baby, I will give you one.”

“You can't leave them here! Trevor may be only wounded. Christopher, no!”

In response, he entwined his fingers in her hair and pulled her head back to meet his mouth. More eagerly than he ever had, he kissed her. Her hands clawed at him as she fought to escape his strong grip. He screeched as her dirt-encrusted nails scratched his skin. Although he heard his companions shout not to hurt her, he did not hesitate as he struck her viciously. She sagged against him, halting the second swing of his fist. He swore vehemently.

“Wythe, you fool!” cried Pearson. “If you have killed her now …”

“She lives,” he snarled. “This will just make her a little more cooperative when she wakes. Let's go.”

He rode a short way before he realized his companions were not following. Turning in the saddle, he nearly dropped the slight form in his arms. He balanced Sybill across his lap and called to them. Reluctantly they came toward him.

“Are you really going to leave the babe to the beasts?”

Christopher laughed triumphantly. “What do you suggest, Hartford? Do you want to take it back and strangle it?” With a sneer, he viewed their uneasy faces. “I didn't think any of you had the courage to fire at Breton. I was the only man among us.”

“'Tis murder.”

“Nay, this is only business. Breton stole what is mine. He paid the price. Now I have my pretty Sybill.”

“But the babe—”

He growled an order to ride. With an exchange of disquieted looks, the men obeyed. Each knew the ghost of a young child would haunt them forever as they recalled that they had played a part in leaving the helpless child to starve or be eaten by forest scavengers.

Sybill heard a voice before she opened her eyes. Her chin, bowed against her chest, was too heavy to lift to respond to the soft call of her name. A dull ache etched itself across her face. Even the thought of moving was too painful. Her slowed mind tried to determine where she was. She knew she was fleeing from something or someone, but she could not remember why. The more she sought to discover the truth, the more it eluded her. Only one thing remained constant in her mind. “Trevor?” she whispered. She moaned as the lisp of her own voice rumbled through her head.

“My lady, wake up. Please!”

The fear in the voice cut through the mesh binding her. Inch by painful inch, she raised her head. When it bumped into a hard surface behind her, she gasped. Her eyes creaked open to reveal a scene which was far too familiar. The hut where she had met Trevor for the brief hours of bliss had not wintered well. It looked as if someone had used the small room for private quarters since she and Trevor were there last. The dishes once sitting so prettily on the mantel were shattered on the floor. One chair was broken, and the thick smell of mildew permeated the whole area.

“Trevor?” she asked again, more hopefully. Her voice cracked on the single word, and she began to cough. As she attempted to put her hand over her lips, she gave a cry. Her wrists were bound to the headboard of the bed. She realized she sat propped against pillows. She tried to move into a more comfortable position, but her abused body protested. Again she moaned.

“My lady, drink this.”

As Sybill compliantly sipped the mulled cider, her eyes locked with Clara Beckwith's. She nodded when she had swallowed enough to loosen her throat. “What are you doing here?” she whispered as the maid lowered the cup.

“Lord Foxbridge brought me to watch over you.”

Shock gave her a stamina she had not had upon waking. “Clara, not you!” It was the ultimate perfidy that her dear friend would help Christopher.

The young woman understood immediately. “No, my lady. I am here against my will.” She glanced toward the door. “They guard us well. They are determined we won't escape.”

All the events of the day came back in a thunderclap of comprehension. Trevor dead by Christopher's hand, and her children left in the woods to starve. “No!” she screamed. With her legs beneath her, she rose as far as the ropes binding her arms would allow. “No, don't let them be dead!”

Clara put calm hands on the distraught woman's shoulders. Gently she brought Sybill down against the head board once more. “Rest, my lady.”

“Do you know—?” Her voice broke.

She shook her head. “I don't know what is happening. I was brought here and locked in. Then Lord Foxbridge carried you in and told me to take care of you.”

“He has murdered Trevor and my children.”

“The children, too?”

Sybill's grief was etched into her face as she looked directly at Clara. It did not surprise her that Mrs. Beckwith had shared the secret with Clara. “Christopher ordered them abandoned in the woods.” Desperately she glanced at the starlight trickling through the slats in the shutters. “How long have I been here?”

“Only a few hours, my lady.”

“The children might be unharmed yet. Can you—?”

Sadly she shook her head again. “I can do nothing, my lady. I'm not allowed to leave this hut. Mac will become concerned when I do not meet him tonight as we had planned.” When she saw the baffled look on her lady's face, she said, “We had decided to follow you and Trevor, my lady. Neither of us have any desire to work for Lord Foxbridge.”

With a gasp, Sybill demanded, “Christopher did that to your face?”

Clara touched the wide bruise with cautious fingers. “Aye. He made his displeasure with your escape very clear to anyone within range of his fists.” Her gentle face metamorphosed into rage. “Mac will make him pay. If he gets his hands on Lord Foxbridge, there will not be enough left to bury. The Beckwiths take care of their own.”

“Do you know why he is keeping me here?” The stringent desire for revenge burned away all other thoughts as she imagined Christopher Wythe receiving his just reward for hurting those she loved.

“You have too many allies at the Cloister,” said Clara as she sat on the side of the bed. “Since you and Trevor left, everyone heard Lord Foxbridge plotting to bring you back. He plans to force you to marry him right away.”

Sybill gritted her teeth to imprison the oaths rolling on her tongue. Such anger would not aid her. She must be calm and find a way to free herself before harm came to her children. “Untie me, Clara.”

“My lady? If I do, Lord Foxbridge will—”

“He will do what he threatened anyhow.” She wanted to shake the young woman when she saw the fear in her eyes. “Clara, you have experienced firsthand how he treats his enemies. If we don't escape, Trevor will not be the only one who is de …” Her voice faded as she could not bring herself to say what she knew must be true.

Clara's fingers fumbling with the knots brought the rope more harshly against Sybill's wrists. The thistle-like roughness of the rope pulled her out of her morass of despair. She had to think of the babies. Later would be the time to mourn for Trevor. That hard-hearted thought sent a wrenching pain through her, but she fought to ignore it.

The first problem was how to trick their guard. Her eyes alit on the poker by the hearth. A devilishly simple plan burst into her mind. “Who is our guard?”

“The one named Pearson.”

Sybill smiled more broadly. That man owed her for the many cruel things he had urged Christopher to do. A headache would be small retribution, but enough to allow them to escape. Quickly she outlined her plan and saw Clara's eyes glow with vengeful delight. They might yet best Christopher.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Fuller Pearson cursed. He had not come to Foxbridge Cloister to stand near a hovel, listening to the crash of the waves while night insects plagued him. Christopher was his friend, but murder and abduction were too much even for fun. Taunting the prim Lady Foxbridge had been entertaining, but to kill her child and lover and force her into a marriage she did not want bothered him. At sunrise, he would ride for London. Let Christopher have his amoral fun. He would seek his own enjoyment in the gaming halls and brothels.

When he heard a shriek from within the hut, he ignored it. Earlier, he had heard Lady Foxbridge's cries and knew she had recovered her senses. He swore as he realized it was the Beckwith woman and that she called to him. “What is it?” he demanded through the door.

“I need help. Lady Foxbridge—she is bleeding!”

He sniffed delicately. “Don't worry. She must have hurt herself. It'll heal.”

“No!” Desperation raised the pitch of her voice. “Not that kind of bleeding! Sir, I must get the midwife. If she does not come, I think Lady Foxbridge will die.”

Fearfully, he straightened. Christopher had intimated there would be trouble if his captive were not alive and well when he returned from calming the insurrection boiling in the Cloister. If Lady Foxbridge died, the estate would go immediately to the crown. Then Pearson would feel the edge of Foxbridge's maniacal wrath. He pulled back the bolt and swung the door open. His eyes went from Clara's expectant face to the empty bed. The question half-formed in his mind vanished as he felt a sharp pain, then nothing.

Sybill tossed the poker aside. Blowing out the candle, she grabbed Clara's hand. Together they ran from the cabin. By mutual, unspoken assent, they headed in the direction of the Beckwith cottage. There they would find allies to hide them from those hunting them.

“Not on the road!” hissed Sybill.

“The only other way is through the marsh.” Clara shivered. Nobody raised in the shadow of the Cloister could forget the dangers of the swampy lands. To dare those wet fields in the sunlight was foolhardy. To do so at night, with only starlight overhead, approached insanity.

The only other choice was surrender to Lord Foxbridge.

Hand-in-hand, they left the solid safety of the road to follow an invisible path through a maze of unseen perils. Remembering the lessons she had been taught as a child, Clara found a long stick to test the ground. Slowly, they faded into the dark anonymity of the grasslands. It was nearly three miles to the Beckwiths' home, but their progress was retarded excruciatingly by their need for caution.

An hour passed, then a second one as they longed to see the lights from the cottage windows. The rain Trevor had predicted came and went without them noticing the additional discomfort. Their clothes already clung to them with the mud and slime of the swamp.

“Stop. Shh!” ordered Sybill. “Look!” She pointed to their left. A pinpoint of light moved in a steady rhythm. “Someone is looking for something. It must be Christopher.”

“Maybe it's Mac. We can't be too far from the cottage.”

Fatigue and fear honed her voice as she stated, “Do you want to risk being wrong?” She did not wait for an answer to what was essentially a rhetorical question. “Let's just keep going. Getting to your in-laws is still our best hope.”

She heard a soft cry of despair as she started to step forward. Spinning, she saw Clara up to her knees in the mud. “Oh, no!”

“The ground just fell out from beneath me. Help me, Lady Foxbridge!”

“Don't panic!” Sybill pulled on Clara's arm, but the taller woman was sinking deeper into the thick mire. “I can't, Clara! Can you move in any way?”

“Go, my lady! I can hear them coming! Lord Foxbridge will kill me anyhow. Save yourself!”

“Nonsense!” she snapped, frustrated. “I won't leave you here.” She hesitated, allowing Clara to be swallowed slightly more by the marsh. “Let's try this.”

Lying on the ground, Sybill winced as her abused body struck the sharp stones. Grasping Clara's wrists, she rose into a squatting position. Instead of pulling directly upward, she began to creep backward, straining every muscle as she used her legs as a lever.

“It's working,” gasped Clara.

She did not reply. All her energy funneled into her effort to save her friend. A thick, sucking sound like a marshsized monster regurgitating its victim seemed overloud in the night. Suddenly she fell back. She lay there, not moving, panting. When she recovered her breath, she managed to get to her hands and knees. She crawled to where the other woman was spread-eagled on the mud. “Clara? Clara?”

Her face lifted from the mud to meet Sybill's worried eyes. “I'm fine.”

“Can you stand?”

She nodded, but discovered she had been optimistic. Only with Sybill's help could she get to her feet. She moaned. “I hurt my ankle.”