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Authors: Heather Grothaus

BOOK: Never Seduce A Scoundrel
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“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sybilla demanded.
“Because it was none of your bloody business!”
Sybilla pressed her lips together. “I see.”
“You see too much,” John Grey accused. “You see too much that you have no business looking for. You are not God, Sybilla Foxe. You are a mortal woman. In taking on the role of supreme ruler, you have ruined my life, and quite possibly your sister’s.”
“I hope that’s not true.”
“It is true!” He stomped toward her suddenly and seized her upper arms. “Why would you do such a thing to me? Show me the very thing I had been seeking, my way out, only to then have it ripped away from me in a blink?” He shook her briefly. “Why?”
Sybilla let her eyes search his face, and she could feel the pain weeping out of him like spring water from stones. She understood his despair more than she could ever explain to him with words, so she brought her hands up, her palms cradling his face.
“I’m sorry, John.”
He closed his eyes and dropped his forehead to hers. “Why?” he demanded in a harsh whisper.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, and pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth. “You’ll never know how sorry.”
He turned his mouth to hers again and kissed her, almost hesitantly. His breathing was labored. His scent was hypnotizing, and Sybilla felt their mutual mourning for what might have been tangle together like an omen.
When he pulled away, Sybilla stroked the side of his face, searched his eyes with hers. “Forgive me, John. Please.” She leaned up and kissed his mouth again briefly, firmly. “Forgive me.”
He stared at her as she dropped her hands to his shoulders, pulling him closer.
“Close your eyes,” he demanded. “They are too blue.”
Sybilla understood. Cecily’s eyes were brown.
And then she closed her eyes. Because in that moment she needed John Grey as much as he needed her. Perhaps she needed him more.
 
 
Sybilla was breathless when John Grey rolled away from her, and although she expected him to immediately depart from the taint of her bed, after only a moment he sighed and drew her to his side. She curled over him hesitantly, laid her head upon his chest, let her hand come to rest cautiously on his stomach.
It had been a long time since August, both figuratively and literally, and both Sybilla’s body and heart ached. Even with August, she had not allowed this closeness after lovemaking. But there was no risk with John Grey. He did not love her. In fact, he probably was as close as a man of his character could come to hating her. They had a mutual interest in Cecily, and had given each other a tiny bit of comfort.
“What are you going to do now, Sybilla?”
She shook her head against his chest, hearing her hair rustle loud in her ear. “I was very wrong about a lot of things. Joan Barleg obviously knows nothing. It’s quite possible that August burned all of our correspondence, and that is why Argo could not locate the letters. It seems something August would do. He was always very careful to destroy anything of import if he could not keep it directly under his hand.”
John sighed. “So Joan Barleg was naught but another innocent casualty.”
“I would not go so far as to call her innocent, yet. But I shall give her some money when she leaves.”
John was quiet for a long time. “Oliver Bellecote needs to know that Cecily is not going to marry me. That she is going to Hallowshire.”
“I know. He also needs to know about his child. Cecily says she will send word to him, but I know that she is very frightened of everything happening to her now.” John Grey’s warm skin felt so good under her palm, she could not help but smooth her hand over his stomach. It was as if she could feel the vibration of his aliveness into her bones. “Oliver is beyond furious with me. He would likely fire on a messenger from Fallstowe.”
“Perhaps you should go yourself, then.”
Sybilla chuckled. “Vicar, I am surprised you would knowingly send a child of God to her own certain death.”
“You now claim to be a child of God?” John Grey snorted easily. “I’m not really a vicar, any matter. It’s only a courtesy title.”
“Allow me my little fantasy, hmm?” She smiled against his skin, and then went still. “He wouldn’t fire on
you,
John.”
He was quiet for several heartbeats. “Sybilla, you ask too much of me.”
“I know.” She said no more, only continued to marvel at the warmth of him beneath her hand.
“Why? Why me?” he asked at last.
“Because no matter how badly she has hurt you, you care what happens to her and her child.” She turned her face up to look at him in the growing gloom of her bed. “Don’t you?”
He was staring at the canopy. “Yes. God help me.” He was quiet again, as if considering the idea, and Sybilla let him be. “But why would he come to Hallowshire to see Cecily? What if Cecily is correct in her summation of him as little more than a scoundrel and a liar? I happen to think that it’s true, myself.”
Sybilla thought for a moment. “If he refuses to come, well, we have lost naught for the attempt.”
“Perhaps ... perhaps she will change her mind about me then, given some time.”
Sybilla thought there was little chance of that happening, but she kept her thoughts on the subject to herself.
“I’ll go,” he said at last. “But I will not tell him of the child. I can’t. It’s too much to ask of me.”
Sybilla nodded against his chest again. “I accept that.”
Then he was sliding away from her, off the edge of the bed. Sybilla pulled the covers over her bare breasts and watched him as he dressed quickly in his plain vicar’s clothing and religious medallion. She felt her desire to be loved again rising along with her feelings of impending loneliness and responsibility, and she hoped he left straightaway.
He turned to her, glanced down the length of her body stretched beneath the thin covering and then back at her face.
“Did you make love to me to persuade me to do your bidding?”
No
, Sybilla said to herself.
I made love to you because you are handsome and strong and good. Because you were sad, and I was sad, and I wanted to taste a little of your peace. Because I was sorry for hurting you. Because I knew you would be a good lover.
“Yes.”
John Grey nodded as he dropped his gaze to the floor. Then he turned and strode toward the door. Once there he unbolted the latch and paused, speaking over his shoulder.
“I’ll do my best with Lord Bellecote, and send word if there is anything you need to be informed of. Afterward, I shall return briefly to Hallowshire before going on to the bishop to resign my mission. I don’t know what I shall do with myself then. Perhaps we shall see each other again, Lady Sybilla.”
“Perhaps we shall. Godspeed, Vicar.”
He opened the door without returning the blessing, but Sybilla did hear his muffled “Pardon me” as he departed, leaving the door standing open.
Alys swept into Sybilla’s chamber, Graves at her back. Sybilla closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of dismay.
The youngest Foxe sister came to a sweeping halt in the center of the floor, one hand on her hip, the other pointing toward the door Graves was closing decorously. Her eyes were wide and she stuttered in her words for a moment.
“Was that ... did you ... ” She paused, drew a breath. “Sybilla, did you
sleep
with a
priest?
”
Sybilla sat up in bed with another great sigh and took the robe Graves handed her before he turned his back. Sybilla stood and covered herself, cinching the belt tightly while she walked to her table.
“Oh, shut up, Alys—it’s only a courtesy title.”
Chapter 22
Cecily leaned against a stable wall as she waited for Father Perry the next morning, her heart in her slippers. A single lantern cast a flickering circle of golden light at her feet as if in effort to keep the creeping darkness of predawn away, while her horse stood in the aisle patiently, quietly, Cecily’s leather satchel strapped to its saddle.
Alys and Piers had left the previous afternoon, and Cecily had bid Sybilla a brief and stilted farewell last night. There was no one else to say good-bye to, and so when someone had knocked timidly on her chamber door this morning shortly after she’d awakened, Cecily had ignored it. She wanted no tea, no apple tart this morn. She only wanted to be gone. She was so tired, and yet anxious to the point of trembling.
She heard shuffling footsteps in the stable yard beyond the circle of light and so she stood aright, drawing a deep breath. A shadowy figure stepped into the main aisle.
“Good morrow, Lady Cecily.”
“Joan?” Cecily said, not bothering to conceal the surprise in her tone. Her eyes went to the satchel over the blond woman’s shoulder. “Good morrow. Are you only now taking your leave of Fallstowe? Forgive me—I thought you had already left.”
Joan Barleg came to stand perhaps five paces from Cecily, an uneasy smile on her face. “I’ve kept myself hidden away, licking my wounds, you could say. But I think I’m ready to leave today. There’s no reason at all for me to stay now, is there?”
Cecily swallowed. “I’m sorry. Of course.”
“It’s all right,” Joan said lightly. “Your sister has given me a weighty purse for my humiliation. It’s something, I suppose.”
Cecily frowned. “Are you to return to your family?”
Joan shook her head. “I think not. Actually”—her eyes went to Cecily’s horse—“I was rather hoping I could accompany you, Lady Cecily.”
“Ah, well ... ” Cecily licked her lips and looked over Joan’s shoulder to the darkened doorway. Where was Father Perry?
“You’re going to Hallowshire, are you not?” Joan pressed, taking another step toward Cecily. “I don’t mean to pry, but I saw the vicar leave last night. He seemed to be ... in quite a rush. And, of course, everyone is talking.”
She took a deep breath. It wasn’t as if she needed to keep her estrangement from John Grey a secret, only the why of it. “Yes. It appears you are not the only woman at Fallstowe whose plans of matrimony fell apart.”
Joan Barleg pulled a sympathetic frown, and then she fished a purse from inside her cloak and held it up. “I thought mayhap this might buy me a small reprieve at the abbey. It seems a good place to ... think. I may even decide to take the veil myself.”
“Hallowshire is a wonderful haven,” Cecily admitted. “But, Joan, have you any desire for the religious life?”
“Not really,” Joan admitted with a wry smile. “But what else is there for me? My family is not wealthy or well connected. I’m not exactly eligible. Oliver was ... Oliver was my future, and now that future is gone.”
Cecily winced. She did not want Oliver’s old lover as company on the way to Hallowshire Abbey.
Joan continued as she tucked the purse away again. “It may be the only recourse left to me, unless I would go to a town somewhere and take a position in a household. But even then, I have not the skills to be of any use to a family of means. I could be little more than a scullery maid. At least at the abbey I would not feel that humiliation.”
Cecily could see the logic behind the woman’s reasoning, and she had to admit that, were she in Joan Barleg’s slippers, the choice would hold some appeal. But even so, how could Cecily continue to keep her condition a secret should Joan decide to stay on at the abbey for any length of time?
“Perhaps you should return to your family first, though,” Cecily began. “Discuss it with them. It is a weighty decision, and perhaps they have other plans for you.”
Joan shook her head. “They don’t care where I am as long as they don’t have to feed me or pay my notes. Dare I return with coin, it would disappear into their coffers even before I could count it, and then they would likely only turn me out with nothing.”
Cecily was dismayed. It seemed as though Joan Barleg’s familial circumstances left much to be desired. After all the poor girl had been through, didn’t she, too, deserve some peace?
“I do hope you’ll grant me permission,” Joan said with another hesitant smile. “I’d wager there would be many people aggrieved at the thought of Saint Cecily making such a long journey on her own.”
“Oh, no—Father Perry is accompanying me,” Cecily rushed to explain. “He should have been here a quarter hour ago, actually.”
Joan’s eyes widened. “Didn’t you hear? There was an outbreak of sickness in one of the villages. Father Perry was summoned in the night. I would have thought that he’d sent word to you straightaway.”
Cecily winced as she remembered the unanswered knock on her door. “I believe he did.”
“Well,” Joan sighed. “I suppose you can wait for his return if it better suits you.” She looked at Cecily. “Or we can go now, just the two of us. You know the way, do you not?”
“I do.” Cecily answered grudgingly, and looked at her horse and then the doorway again. She thought of facing Fallstowe in the light of another day, the empty places where Oliver had walked. The castle had turned into a sort of graveyard for Cecily, where she was haunted by the sham of her old life, her broken heart, her failures.
She looked back to Joan, so hopeful, so desperate, so sincere.
“Can you help me saddle a horse?”
 
 
Oliver began the tedious tasks of familiarizing himself with Bellemont’s affairs straightaway after breakfast in the hall. Flanked by Argo and the head clerk at the lord’s table, reams of accounts and thick ledgers littered the table like fallen bodies on a battlefield. But Oliver was not intimidated by the chaos. In fact, with his sword strapped to his side, he felt as if he had been waiting his entire life for this challenge. And he thought for the first time that not only was he competent to rule Bellemont, but would likely excel at it.
Already he had pointed out several instances where Bellemont had been overcharged for goods. Mostly ale and wine, but those were two products in which Oliver was well familiar with cost, and so he noticed right away the unwarranted inflation. Several landholders were in arrears in their dues, as well, and after careful consultation with the clerk, Oliver determined that addressing the overcharges and collecting the monies owed to Bellemont would not only increase the hold’s financial accounts, but preserve them until the next harvest season.
Argo leaned back in his chair and stared openly at Oliver as if perplexed.
“What is it, Argo?” Oliver demanded, his gaze flicking away from the ledger he was perusing long enough to convey his irritation. “Have I a bogey on my nose?”
Argo shook his head. “No, my lord. Forgive me. It’s nothing.” He leaned toward the table once more and began gathering together a fallen tower of papers.
Now Oliver leaned back. “Tell me.”
The steward stilled in his busied actions, but kept his gaze on the table before him. “I believe Bellemont is in very good hands. Perhaps even better than Lord August’s, God receive his soul. I’m sure that means little to you, of course.” He resumed his shuffling.
Oliver blinked and drew his head back. “Thank you for your confidence, Argo. I am rather surprised at some of the errors I’ve witnessed. I thought August more thorough. It’s as if some things were deliberately neglected. Had this continued, Bellemont’s coffers would have been emptied by Midsummer.”
The clerk cleared his throat and Argo inclined his head slightly. “Lord August was preoccupied in the weeks prior to his death. I don’t believe he was overly concerned for a lack of coin.”
“Well, he should have been,” Oliver said gruffly. “I’d like to know where he thought his funds would come from after everyone had robbed him blind and tarried on their dues.”
The conversation was interrupted by a guard entering the hall. The man strode down the narrow side aisle and stopped in a bow before August.
“Lord Bellecote, Bellemont has a visitor.”
Oliver’s eyebrows raised and for one wild moment, he let himself fantasize that Cecily had come. “Oh? Who is it?”
“Vicar John Grey of Hallowshire Abbey.”
Oliver’s jaw tightened.
That fucking vicar.
“What does he want?”
“He said it was of a personal nature, my lord. We dared not press him.”
“What? Why? It’s your duty to find out the intentions of anyone seeking entry at the gates.”
The man looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Well, because he’s a priest, my lord.”
“It’s only a courtesy title!” Oliver shouted, and then flung up his hands. “Show him in. I’ll find out myself!” He threw himself against the back of his chair, drumming his fingers on the armrest. “We’ll continue this later, Argo.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
In only a moment, Oliver was alone in his hall, his eyes trained on the arched doorway set in the left wall.
What in hell could John Grey want? The self-proclaimed pious man had snubbed Oliver yesterday. It seemed more than a bit odd for him to make the journey from Fallstowe—riding through the night, no less—to only harangue him further for his shortcomings.
The vicar came through the doorway in a rush, but then slowed to a stop as his head turned and he seemed to see Oliver sitting alone at the table. The two men stared at each other for a moment. John Grey dropped his gaze to the floor, as if in prayer, and then made his way determinedly toward the table.
“Lord Bellecote,” John Grey said as way of greeting. He did not bow.
“Vicar,”
Oliver said pointedly. “To what do I owe the honor of this unexpected visit? Have you brought the wrath of God with you? Am I to be excommunicated for my supposed transgressions? Or has Sybilla Foxe consulted with her crystal ball regarding the message I sent to the king only this morn?”
“Unfortunately, I do not possess the authority for excommunication,” the man quipped. “Your business with the king is your own. But my conscience has moved me despite my sinful will. I must do the right thing.”
“The right thing, eh?” Oliver said, and slouched down in his chair, as if the entire scenario was of absolutely no interest to him. What he wanted to do was ask of Cecily. Why would the vicar leave her side so soon? “What do you want, Grey?”
“First, I must pose a question to you, and I do hope that you can put aside any animosity you feel toward me long enough to answer honestly, if indeed you are capable of honesty.”
“You try my patience, Vicar,” Oliver growled. “I don’t owe you an answer to anything, honest or otherwise.”
John Grey did not take the bait. “I must be certain.”
“You can be
certain
that, should you not come out with whatever it is you want to say, I will
honestly
have you removed from my hall.” He folded his hands across his midsection and stared at the man expectantly.
“Are you in love with Cecily Foxe?”
Oliver blinked. Of all the things he could have imagined the man to ask, this was the very last.
“What kind of a fucking question is that?” Oliver demanded quietly. “You come all the way from Fallstowe to mock me?”
“I do not mock you. I need to know.”
Oliver bolted to his feet and pointed toward the doorway. “Get out.”
“Lord Bellecote—”
“Argo!” Oliver bellowed.
“Oliver, listen to me!” John Grey demanded. “I heard you admit as much the night Cecily and I became betrothed. I simply need to know if your profession of love was only a ruse stemming from your base desire of her, or in fact, sincere feeling.”
“Why?” Oliver shouted. “So you can rub your triumph in my face? So that we can finish the brawl we started that night? Because, I assure you, I am not so surprised and dejected as I was when you struck me, and I will be happy to hand your arse to you.”
“You deserved that blow, and well you know it. I had no fear of you then, and I have none now.”
“Then you are a fool.”
“Do you love her?”
“Of course I do!” Oliver hissed, and then with a startling blasphemy, he swept his arm across the table before him, sending reams of parchment and his own cup sailing to the floor. The vicar didn’t flinch. “Have you come to humiliate me then? Foolish, drunken wastrel, Oliver Bellecote, pining for the aloof Saint Cecily, who, because she could not marry God outright, chose the next best thing to a fucking priest?”
“It’s only a—”
“A courtesy title,
I know,
” Oliver shouted. “For the love of your sweet God, John, what the hell do you want from me? You have the woman I love, already!”
“Cecily loves
you,
Oliver,” John said.
Oliver felt his teeth grind together. “You know, for a man of God, you are quite cruel. Cecily doesn’t want me.”

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