Sybill

by Ferguson, Jo Ann

  A spasm of fear raced through her. She did not like the possessive sound in his voice. Looking at his time-lined face, she saw his bland expression had been replaced by one which added to her fright. She wanted to step away, but his hand over hers on his arm tightened to imprison her.

  “You are a charming child, Sybill,” he continued softly. “You have your father’s love of life, but you have not yet tested its many adventures.”

  “Owen—”

  He ignored her distress. Lifting her captured hand to his lips, he kissed it lightly as his eyes bore into her. “Yes, you are yet a child, dreaming a child’s fantasies, believing totally in the uncompromising colors of truth. It will be delightful to have you beside me as you grow into your womanhood, Sybill.” Releasing her hand, he patted her cheek as he had so often. “I’m alienated from my son, but I have you with me.”

  Sybill did not know what to say. This was not the first time Owen had spoken of her being with him forever. In the beginning, she could pretend she had misunderstood his fervor as he regarded her. Most of the time, he acted as her kindly uncle. Only on occasion did he show that he wanted far more than her companionship.

  Her concerns about how to respond were needless. Owen took over the conversation as he walked with her to view the awakening gardens. Despite his return to the friendly posture he had shown upon her arrival, she used the first excuse she could to escape him. Seeking a haven in her room, she bolted the door so she did not have to worry about an intrusion from Kate. Her life was being flung out of control. When the invitation came from Foxbridge Cloister, she had been sure it would be a mistake to accept it. Now she was even more sure of that, but she was effectively the captive of one man who wanted, her to replace his lost child and another who detested her. She longed to go home, but her only choice was to dress to go to the stable.

  The ride began in silence. Sybill could not think of anything to say that would not be thrown back into her face. Sitting with her back rod-straight, she tried to dampen her unhappiness by enjoying the beauty of the spring day.

  Once winter had been convinced to leave western England, the warm weather swiftly brought blossoms to the trees and the fresh aroma of early flowers. Birds flocked to sing in the hedgerows and called from their nests in the marsh grass. Along the road, the mud was drying into a rocklike hardness. By the middle of summer, it would be a powder to rise in a dusty cloud. She watched as workers prepared the fields for planting. Although she wanted to ask questions about what would be sowed in which field, she was sure she would be snapped at in response.

  After an hour of the wordless journey, Trevor motioned for her to pull her horse to the side of the road. She followed him into the shade of some spring green trees. Her eyes widened when he dismounted and held up his hands to her.

  She placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned forward to slide from the saddle. As his broad hands gripped her at the waist, she was shocked by the strong, increasingly familiar reaction hurtling through her. No touch ever had elicited such a response from her center. The stressful tightness in her stomach altered abruptly to a flutter of anticipation.

  Fiercely she told herself to stop being so foolish. Despite Trevor Breton being intensely appealing with a dark handsomeness which she found impossible to ignore, he despised her. She could easily imagine his jeers if he discovered how the caress of his hands warmed her.

  “Thank you,” she said coolly. Inwardly she congratulated herself on her ability to act as if everything were normal. She was grateful the brim of her beaver hat hid any betraying blush on her overheated cheeks. Such coloring she could not blame on the spring sunshine.

  “My pleasure, Miss Hampton.”

  “Can’t you say something to me just once without it reeking of sarcasm?” she demanded, more angry at herself than at him. She could not imagine why this man’s touch wrenched away all her self-defenses.

  “Why?” He took the reins of both horses and walked them to a nearby bush. Tying them to the briars, he returned to where she stood. He asked again, “Why should I be pleasant to you?”

  “I am Owen’s guest.”

  “You are his ward!” He laughed as he saw her wince. “Simply because you are Lord Foxbridge’s pampered pet, I do not have to like you.”

  Hurt by his vicious words, she put her hands on her waist and glowered at him. “Not liking me would be a decided improvement on the present situation. Of course it really doesn’t matter to me whether you like me or not! I am not the one who hired you.” She raised her riding crop to emphasize her point. “Just remember—”

  He grasped the small whip. When she moved backward in shock, he put his arm around her waist and kept her motionless. Twisting the wooden handle from her fingers, he threw it onto the ground. His fingers caught her cheeks in his viselike grip, and he forced her to look up at him. “I will tell you this only once, Miss Hampton. I won’t allow you to threaten me or Foxbridge Cloister. Your coy games haven’t fooled me. Play the strumpet if you wish, but do it elsewhere. Lord Foxbridge has few years left. I don’t wish you to shorten those years with your pranks.”

  She tried to speak, but no intelligible words emerged past her lips, distorted by his grip. Rage gave her a strength she normally did not possess. She ripped her head out of his hand. Pushing on him, she broke his hold around her. Her chest heaved with the enormity of her efforts, but she was free. “You misguided misanthrope!” she spat.

  Coldly he laughed. “I don’t hate everyone, Miss Hampton. Just pretty ladies who try to gain a title by seducing men older than their fathers. I can see you don’t intend to be like your father and end up with nothing.”

  “I don’t want to listen to you! I don’t want to hear your insults to my father. He was a good man, not wise in the ways of financial dealings perhaps, but he was a good man. He was not—not—”

  Trevor did not finish the sentence. From her expression, he could tell she was honestly outraged. He refused to believe what his eyes showed him. “Don’t you know what Alfred Hampton did for a living? Don’t you ever wonder where your mother is?”

  “My mother is dead! Father told me she died when I was born. He always was very sad when he spoke of her. He loved her so much. I think that is the reason he never remarried.” Her chin rose in pride as she stated, “My father was a courtier at the court of Queen Elizabeth. He was renowned for his wit and his charm. If that is a crime, sir, then he was guilty to the highest degree.”

  The fury which had controlled him from the moment he heard this woman was invading Foxbridge Cloister ebbed. She meant her words sincerely. How she had stayed so innocent in that house was a great mystery. It seemed Hampton had been determined his daughter would never learn of his sordid life while he was alive. Suddenly he discovered he did not want to be the one to tell her the truth. Swallowing the bile filling his mouth, he smiled as realistically as he could.

  “Forgive me, Sybill.”

  She frowned, as he used her given name, not trusting this abrupt amiability. Gazing up into his eyes as black as a windowless room, she felt a quiver within her. “Forgive you? After all you have said? You ask quite a bit.”

  “I can forgive you for accusing me of cheating Lord Foxbridge. Now that you have checked so thoroughly, you know that is not the case.” He smiled as she blushed. “If I can forgive you for that defamation, can you be any less benevolent?”

  She bent to retrieve her riding crop. Clutching it in her fingers to keep them from trembling, she answered, “Are you saying you don’t wish to be my enemy, Mr. Breton?”

  “Trevor.” He sighed as he regarded her stiff features. This was his fault. If he had taken the time to check into Sybill Hampton’s past, he would have learned immediately what he was being taught too late. Softly he said, as he closed the distance between them, “You were right from the beginning. There’s no need for us to spat like two cats. Can we be friends?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered with her characteristic honesty. “You have said
many things which are unforgivable. I do know I can work with you to help Owen. I am in debt to him for offering me a home when I had no other.”

  “Sybill, I can only say I am sorry.”

  As his hands settled on her shoulders, she tried to move away. “Sir, you are overstepping the bounds of propriety.” Her stilted words covered the uneven beat of her heart.

  He felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. Only a blow like that would take his breath away as harshly as her genteel reprimand. Taking his hands from her, he looked into her uneasy face. “Why was Foxbridge Cloister the only place open to you? You must have many friends.”

  “Friends?” She sighed as she gazed out at the sea visible through the trees. “I have no friends, although I had many offers.” When he began to speak, she held up her hand. “Don’t ask. None were of the type a lady can accept, Trevor. More than a dozen men called on me to invite me to live with them, but only Owen did not require me to sleep with him for the roof over my head. Do you wonder now why I came out here to this desolate place instead of staying in London?”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Why? Because you thought I am no different than what they guessed me to be?”

  Trevor did not reply. Instead he suggested they continue with their ride. As they walked to where the horses were, he was careful not to come close enough to brush her sleeve. When he lifted her onto her horse, he was amazed at how easily she fit into his arms. She did not meet his eyes as he remounted, so he could not guess at her feelings. His own blared through his head as if they were being trumpeted to announce the queen.

  Softly he said, “I must show you the marsh. It’s easy to get lost there, and there are some spots where you can be mired.”

  “It sounds like a place I should see.”

  He glanced at her as he heard the breathless tone of her voice, but her eyes remained on her hands gripping the reins of her horse. Wondering if her thoughts were as confused as his, he simply signaled for her to follow.

  Sybill realized quickly that Trevor was intent on charming her. Why he suddenly believed she was not the wicked woman he had labeled her, she could not guess. All she knew was that the circumstances were not comfortable. She had feared he would find a way to force her from Foxbridge Cloister. Now she did not know what to think.

  With his obvious effort to be conciliatory, she decided she could not be as crass as he had been and reject the offer of truce. As they rode, she felt the fear within her thaw. “I never thought anything could be this beautiful outside of London,” she said as he pointed out the softly rolling hills leading to the horizon.

  Trevor laughed lightly. In astonishment, she glanced at him. His eyes twinkled like dark stars as he teased, “You are very parochial. Are all those who live in London like you? There are many regions beyond the city which are far prettier than the dirty, scum-filled streets of London.”

  “London isn’t—” She paused as she automatically reacted with anger. A slow smile spread across her face as she saw his grin. “Pardon me.”

  “It isn’t easy to be friends after all the words we have exchanged so loudly and so viciously.” He reined in his horse. When she stopped hers beside him, he said sincerely, “I only can say again that I am sorry, Sybill.”

  “Why the sudden change?”

  “You have proven you are a lady.”

  “A lady, and not a strumpet as you so kindly called me?”

  His eyes roved her face, noting as if for the first time the gentle curve of her lips beneath the slender line of her slightly upturned nose. Shadowed by her hat, her rose-tinted cheeks appeared as soft as a flower petal. When his gaze reached her eyes, he saw her surprise mirrored in the sea-blue depths. His hand reached out to her cheek. Beneath his work-roughened fingers, he felt the downy texture of her face. Her lips parted as she regarded him steadily.

  Sybill wondered if Trevor guessed she was frozen in her saddle. Captured by his sable eyes, she melted as his tender caress awoke dangerous feelings. Only her irritation had kept her from acknowledging these longings since their first meeting. That barrier had collapsed before his kindness.

  The whoosh of a horse’s breath broke the enchantment. She was pleased her voice was strong as she said, “I think we had best go on, Trevor. It will be dark early.”

  “Yes.” He did not attempt to hide his regret. “Watch where I am riding. To stray from the path is ill advised.”

  She did not speak. To be mired in the marsh could be safer for her than to remain here on this windswept road with Trevor. They circumnavigated the most vile parts of the wetlands. She noted the risky spots pointed out to her. By concentrating on their location, she could avoid thinking about the man and his intoxicating touch.

  The sun was dipping toward its rendezvous with the hills when they turned toward Foxbridge Cloister. As they rode into a small valley, she saw a man emerging from a primitive house. It stood alone at the edge of the marsh. As they neared, the man called out. Trevor waved to the lone figure.

  “I must interrupt our ride for a moment.”

  “Of course,” she replied. “Is there a problem?”

  He smiled. “I think I will find that out from Mac.”

  “Mac?”

  “Come. I’ll introduce you. Without meeting the Beckwiths, you can’t be warned of all the potential problems associated with the estate.”

  Nodding, Sybill did not ask the questions bouncing through her mind. Curiosity was a trait she could not control. She wondered why this man near the small cottage would present a risk for her. Quietly she sat on her horse as Trevor dismounted. With the greatest force of her will, she kept her smile hidden as he lifted her from her mount. Each time he touched her, she felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the spring sunshine.

  Brushing her rumpled riding habit, she glanced at the approaching man. Trevor made the introductions quickly. Despite his strange words, it was clear he considered this man a friend. “Sybill, this is Malcolm Beckwith, but all call him ‘Mac.’ Mac, this lovely lady is Miss Hampton, the lord’s guest.”

  “Nice it is to meet you, miss,” he said in his country accent, which was nearly impossible to understand. He bent his head with its shock of startlingly red hair. When he looked up again, his green eyes reflected his broken-toothed smile.

  “How do you do, Mr. Beckwith?”

  “Mac, miss. Like Trevor says, all call me Mac. I would be pleased if you would also.”

  Charmed by his rustic manners, she smiled sincerely. “I would be pleased to do exactly that.”

  Trevor asked, “What is the problem?”

  “I need to talk to you about the marsh hay crop. There is some gossip that the lord will not—”

  Trevor interrupted him. “It’s cold for Miss Hampton to be standing out here while we talk business. Is your mother or sister home? Miss Hampton could use a mug of mulled cider.”

  “Aye.” His grin widened. “They both be home. Ma sure would be happy to meet Lord Foxbridge’s lady.”

  He had turned toward the house and did not see the reaction of the others at his words. Sybill noted the tightening of Trevor’s lips at the description they both knew was the locals’ opinion. It bothered him as much as her.

  Mac called them into the house, so she had no chance to voice her disgust. As she walked toward the crudely carved door under its ornate lintel, she decided it was just as well. Warmth welcomed them. To one side of the huge hearth, which composed the back wall, stood a ladder leading to the only other room, a loft above their heads. From the rafters hung dried herbs and meat. Below stood a table with two benches, a bed, and a chest. It was a simple home, but clean.

  Two women rose as they entered. They were clearly related to the young man. The older one had a kerchief over her white hair, but the younger was as fiery topped as Mac. Both wore simple, woolen gowns covered by stained aprons.

  “Good day, Mrs. Beckwith, Nancy,” Trevor said warmly. “This is Lord Foxbridge’s guest, Sybill Hampton. Sybill
, Judah and Nancy Beckwith.”

  The girl dipped in a curtsy. Her mother bowed her head, as she said, “Welcome, Miss Hampton.”

  “Ma,” came Mac’s enthusiastic voice, “I need to speak to Trevor. He thought Miss Hampton would be more comfortable out of the wind.”

  “Of course,” gushed the round woman. She took her unexpected guest by the arm. “Sit, Miss Hampton. Nancy, go get a pitcher. We shall have a drink to warm our bones. Go about your business, son. Then you and Trevor can join us.”

  “Yes, Ma.”

  If Sybill had any concerns when she saw Trevor leave the cottage, she did not have time to think of them. Mrs. Beckwith urged her again to sit and began to chat as if they were friends of long standing. “From London,” Sybill replied to the woman’s first question. “I lived there all my life until the last few weeks.”

  “And how do you like our western coast?”

  “It’s different.” She laughed. “It’s very different, but I like that. I think I will like living here.”

  Mrs. Beckwith nodded. “Aye, that’s good, it is. ’Twould be no good to have another lady like the last Lady Foxbridge. Never did like the Cloister. Didn’t like the sound of the ocean. Pined all the time for the city and the high society trappings she left behind when she married Lord Foxbridge.”

  Not quite sure which statement to respond to first, Sybill said quietly, “I’m not the lady of Foxbridge Cloister. I’m just Lord Foxbridge’s guest.”

  “Aye.” The older woman did not seem convinced.

  “I came here when my father died.” Sybill felt a need to explain. If Trevor listened to this, he might disbelieve her again. She preferred him as a friend rather than an enemy. “My father was a friend of Lord Foxbridge.”

  “Oh,” murmured both Beckwith women in unison. Mrs. Beckwith added quickly, “Excuse us, Miss Hampton. ’Twas just that one believes the stories from the Cloister. We should know better than to think the lord has marriage on his mind.”

  “Marriage?”

  Nancy handed her a mug of steaming beverage. The pungent odor of the cider and spices wafted through the room. With a smile, the redhead said, “No one could understand why a fine, London lady would come out here except to marry Lord Foxbridge. He has been alone for a long spell.”