Sybill

by Ferguson, Jo Ann

  Owen’s arm encircled her shoulders, and she glanced up at him and quickly away. She could not show him how abhorrent his touch was. Through terrifying lessons, she had learned he would punish her severely for showing her revulsion.

  It was to Trevor her anguished gaze instinctively went. He felt her eyes and turned to meet them. As Owen had said on their wedding night, Trevor was having a difficult time hiding his joy with the news of her pregnancy. She wanted to ask him why he was here. Owen must have changed his mind about allowing his estate manager to dine with them. She feared his presence was only the harbinger of more woe. She relaxed as she saw the strength on his loving face. Her soft smile flashed in his direction for the briefest second. Nothing would harm her while Trevor was at Foxbridge Cloister.

  Christopher’s three companions broke the silence. As they spoke of gossip of people she did not know, Sybill clung to her calm. Except for Trevor’s love, it was her sole weapon. Not even as a last resort could she betray the man she loved and the existence of the child within her. A glass was pressed into her hands, but she did not raise it to her lips. After the scene in her room, she did not intend to be lulled by the false comfort of the wine into believing Owen thought that incident finished.

  Her husband was called away to confer with Marshall about some detail. Not wanting to talk to anyone but Trevor, and not daring to speak to him, she moved to stand by the hearth. That she would not be allowed her time alone she realized as soon as she heard the hollow sound of cork heels on the floor behind her. “So you do not miss the gaiety of London?” came a voice so close its passage teased her hair.

  “No.”

  “You actually like this place?”

  “Yes.”

  Christopher laughed at her terse replies. Placing his hand on her sleeve, out of view from the others, he said softly, “I should apologize for treating you so roughly.”

  “You should, but you aren’t going to apologize.” She tried to shrug off his fingers, but he refused to relinquish her arm.

  “My dear mother, you are very wise.”

  “Go away,” she hissed. “Leave me alone. I want nothing to do with you!”

  His hand stroked her arm eagerly. “But, Sybill, I want something from you. Don’t you tire of an old man’s caresses?”

  “He is your father!” Involuntarily she faced him. She could not hide her shock at his candid offer. “Owen also is my husband, Mr. Wythe. If you will excuse me, please.”

  Although he wanted to keep her, he saw his father was looking for her. Jealousy blared like a trumpet through him. Sybill, who breathed sensuality, belonged to an old man who could not entertain her as she should be entertained. He was tired of his father being in control of everything.

  “Shall we sit down, my dear?”

  “Of course, Owen,” she replied correctly. She would play his compliant puppet unless he pushed her too far.

  He seated her on his right at the head of the table. Christopher urged one of his friends to sit next to his father. He claimed the chair on Sybill’s right. When his father glared at him, he merely smiled as if he wanted to do his friend a great honor by allowing him to sit beside Lord Foxbridge.

  When all the shuffling of seats was completed, Sybill glanced along the table quickly to see where Trevor had been placed. Despite her best efforts, she gasped when she saw he had been given a seat at the edge of the candlelight. There were two empty chairs between him and the others. Even across that distance, she caught his rapid wink. Just having Trevor here, although he was far from her, was better than trying to deal with the Wythes and their friends alone.

  She exerted all her charm on Christopher’s four companions. She recognized them instantly as young peers short on money and long on the desire to spend the inheritances they had yet to gain. Flattery was the best way to bring them to do her bidding. As the meal was served and eaten in the most formal style, both Owen and his son frowned while she ignored them. She acted awed by the boasts of the young men eager to win her favor. Wide blue eyes and softly parted lips suggested an invitation they yearned to accept.

  While the plates were being cleared before dessert was served, she looked once more at where Trevor had been sitting. As he tilted his wineglass in her direction in a subtle salute, she smiled. He could see the falseness of her London facade, which had gained her four conquests between the serving of the meat and the final course.

  Beside her, Christopher was determined to be included in the sparkling conversation that had centered around Sybill. “Father, there are a few advantages to being in this wasteland. You did not have to petition Elizabeth to wed as do the peers at court.”

  “Because she could not wed Dudley, she wants no one else to sample the joys of connubial bliss.” Owen raised his glass. “Yet she is our Virgin Queen and has the wisdom to appoint brave men to keep the Spanish yoke from descending onto our neck.”

  “Yes,” mused his son, “Dudley was her rare mistake. If Dudley’s wife had not been murdered so sensationally, she might have married the Earl of Leicester and made him her king. A broken neck from a fall down a staircase in an empty house suggested murder too strongly.”

  “He did not murder her!” asserted Sybill.

  “What makes you so sure of an event which took place before you were born, my dear?”

  She turned to face her husband. His eyes were reddened and his face flushed. Both were signs of overindulgence. She would face his abuse, no matter what she said or did. With nothing to lose, she decided to tell him exactly what she felt. “Robert Dudley may have loved Gloriana enough to wed her, but he was married to Anne. Although he pined within a marriage he did not want, he would not resort to murder to gain what he wanted. He knew his wife was sickly. If he waited patiently, he guessed Anne would do him a favor and die. Then he could have the one he truly wanted.”

  Silence ached in their ears as her voice faded. She picked up her goblet and took a sip of the crystal beverage. It was so quiet in the room that the voices from the kitchen far along the passage could be heard. All eyes rested on Owen as he glared at his wife, who was proving to be far less tractable than he had expected. His reply was as tranquil as her words had been, but contained no less threat. “Yet Anne Dudley tragically died before her time. Dudley married another who gave him the heir he needed. Such a horrible tale, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. A month into their marriage, he knew she was waiting for him to die so she could marry the man she truly loved. At the same time, he warned her that if she acted foolishly he would see her dead and another unfortunate woman in her place.

  The serving of dessert interrupted the uncomfortable conversation. “Thank you,” she said softly as a piece of cake was placed before her. She truly did not want to eat the dessert. Sweets did strange things to her stomach. She would leave it on her plate untouched.

  “You do not like Mrs. Dailey’s walnut cake?” Christopher asked softly as she did not reach for her spoon.

  “I fear I overate already.”

  He smiled. Like a snake, his blue eyes held hers. They did not blink as his hand settled on her knee. As if he was a well-favored lover, he slid his fingers beneath the thick material of her overskirt. They moved along the slender line of her leg, which he could feel easily through the fine linen of her petticoats. Suddenly he shrieked and leapt aside as wine sprayed over him. He grabbed a napkin and dabbed at the spots on his satin breeches.

  “Oh, excuse me,” gushed Sybill. She held up her napkin. “Do you want to use this one, too? Forgive me, Christopher, for being so clumsy. I can’t believe I could knock both of our glasses of wine over like that.” She rose and turned toward her husband. In the same sweetly innocent voice she said, “Owen, my dear, I fear I have soiled my gown. Will you excuse me?”

  He regarded her steadily as he rose. She wondered how both father and son could share the delusion of thinking they could daunt her with a single glare. When he took her by the shoulders and jerked her into his embra
ce, she did not protest. Owen would learn he could not subdue her with his physical strength, despite the bruises he left on her. She heard the murmur of disquiet from Christopher’s friends as her husband kissed her in the same vicious manner he had in the foyer. When she did not fight him, Owen released her.

  “Good-night … for now, wife.”

  “Good-night, Owen.” She would not allow him a chance to continue this in the privacy of their room. She intended to be locked in her room before he found his way upstairs. “Good-night, gentlemen.”

  To their soft chorus of good nights, she walked toward the door. She risked a quick glance toward Trevor’s seat and was surprised to see it empty. A flush of fear filled her. She would not have dared so much if she had realized he was not in the room. Her terror ebbed as she heard his voice as he emerged from the shadows carrying a tray. He placed the carafe of wine and six glasses on the table. As she left the room, she heard his silken voice urging the men to enjoy an after-dinner beverage.

  As she climbed the stairs, Sybill wondered what the morrow would bring. Both of the wolves portrayed in the stained glass window were within the hall. Only one would emerge the victor, and she was not sure which it would be. All she wanted was to be left out of the battle between father and son.

  The icy wind of the early afternoon cut through her thin cape, but Sybill did not mind as she watched Goldenrod cavort through the tired looking gardens. She took the stick the dog had retrieved and threw it as far as she could. Since the bouts of morning sickness had heralded the tremendous changes in her life, she had not had time with her pet. With the cold of the winter settling on the land the queasiness of her stomach had eased to a general fatigue.

  Panting exuberantly, the dog dropped the foot-long branch at her feet. She bent and stared into innocuous brown eyes. So different were they from the other dark eyes she loved. Biting her lip, she buried her face in Goldenrod’s abundant fur and wished for the love she was denied. The heavy breath of the dog was warm against her hair as she thought of Trevor. He had allowed no one to suspect he knew the paternity of her child.

  Sometimes she thought Owen must be stupid to think he had fooled Trevor. Then, with a pulse of fear, she reminded herself that her husband was far from stupid. Owen knew the exact extent of Trevor’s knowledge. As her husband made no attempt to hide that he cared for her only as the mother of his child, he found fault with everything his assistant did. Work that would have brought praise in the months past received only reprimands or silence.

  Any efforts she made to speak to Trevor alone were stymied by Kate or Lord Foxbridge himself. She had to warn the man she loved to be wary of the man she had wed. Trevor’s value to his employer had gone instantly to nil when Owen was sure that Sybill had conceived. She did not trust him not to rid himself of Trevor at any time. That was why she was shivering in the cold. If she met Trevor in the gardens, it would seem like a chance meeting. She might have the time to speak to him before Owen could send one of his spies to interfere.

  A growl deep in Goldenrod’s throat could be felt through his thick fur before Sybill heard it. So seldom had she known the animal to react like this, her head jerked up to see what was threatening them. She gasped as she saw Christopher strolling toward her. “No, Goldenrod!” she cried as she felt the dog tense to leap at the unsuspecting man. “No, boy!”

  Although the dog reluctantly obeyed her orders to stay, he bared his teeth at the man who wisely did not come any closer. She kept her hand on him, afraid he would attack if she released him. Not that she could stop the dog, which weighed nearly as much as she did.

  “Where did that cur come from?”

  Irritated by Christopher’s officious question, she stated in a tone as threatening as the dog’s stance, “This is Goldenrod. He is my dog.” She smiled icily. “I should say he is my very intelligent dog. He is quite able to see when there is danger.”

  “Danger?” He laughed, disparagingly. “Why, Sybill, you let a little thing convince you that your stepson means you harm?”

  “Little thing? I bear the bruises to show how vicious your treatment truly was.”

  His eyes glittered maliciously. “Do you? Why don’t you show me, and I will make you forget that incident?”

  “You are disgusting. If your father had any idea what you did—”

  “He would throw me off the estate. Yes, I know that. So why haven’t you told him?”

  “Maybe I will. Leave me alone, or you will force me to do so.”

  He started to step toward her, but paused as the snarl in Goldenrod’s throat accelerated. Glowering at her four-legged protector, he vowed to rid the estate of the dog at the earliest opportunity. There were enough problems here without worrying about this mongrel. “Threaten me again, Sybill, and you may be sorry.”

  She laughed loudly. “I am not intimidated by you, Mr. Wythe.”

  “Christopher!”

  “Why should I call you that, sir? I have no intentions of establishing any sort of friendship with you. Only because I am married to your father do I have to tolerate your presence.” She turned toward the house. Tugging on Goldenrod’s collar, she convinced her dog to follow.

  “Sybill—”

  “Mr. Wythe, I suggest you come in the house if you do not wish to worry your mother by catching your death of cold.” She sneered at him. “What a terrible, terrible shame that would be!”

  Her laughter drifted across the dead grass. Christopher swore eloquently as he heard the door close. If he did not succeed soon in bedding his pretty stepmother, it would cost him dearly. That foolish bet he had made that he would woo Sybill Hampton Wythe into his bed before his first week at the Cloister was over had been for high stakes. Yet, as the week was drawing to a close, he knew it was not only the wager that urged him to steal her from his father. She was the most gorgeous creature he had ever seen. Her sultry voice caressed him like well-practiced hands and drove him to desperation as he yearned to follow her lures into her arms.

  She despised his father. That he had seen within hours of his arrival. She had married him simply for his title and the chance to be chatelaine of Foxbridge Cloister. If she had been willing to wait a bit longer, she could have had the son who would be better able to satisfy the fires searing unquenchable in her eyes.

  The old man would not live forever. Sybill would be a lovely widow. Many would come calling for her, but her fate would be in the hands of her stepson. Then she would pay for snubbing his offers. He smiled. That would be fun.

  Sybill spun on the bench as she heard the door opening. No one should have guessed she came to the old chapel. After the surprise meeting with Christopher in the garden, she needed time alone as desperately as a swimmer craves air. With a sinking heart, she knew there was no place to hide in the plain room. Slowly she rose to her feet to face the one who breached her sanctuary.

  Her frown abruptly became a smile as she ran forward to be enfolded in welcoming arms. With a laugh, Trevor pushed her back a step so he could close the door. His lips teased hers with the same lightness. Then they asked the loving question she longed to answer. She came to her senses too quickly. Breaking his embrace, she moved away. She did not look at him, for she could not bear to see the wounded expression on his face. “Trevor, there are too many who watch me.”

  “I know, sweetheart,” he replied resignedly. “I feel their eyes on me as well. They wish to hurry to your husband with a tale of adultery.”

  When he put his hands on her shoulders, she flinched. “Then why are you here?”

  “I had to see you. I love you so much, and this is hell never to be able to touch you. I can’t speak to you without guarding every word. Under no circumstances will I risk you and your child.”

  She bit her lip. Like her, Trevor had become accustomed to calling the baby solely hers. “I hate all of this,” she whispered. “Owen is more hateful with Christopher here.”

  “He is drinking too much.”

  “I cannot convince him to
be more temperate.” She whirled away as she recalled her husband’s rage when she tried to discuss that with him.

  Regarding her terrified face, he scowled. Although Sybill said nothing of her suffering, rumors circulated about the Cloister of how Lord Foxbridge continued to abuse his wife. He took her hands in his. “Sybill, this has gone on long enough. It is time to leave.”

  “Leave?”

  “Yes, we are going away from here. You and I and the one who belongs to both of us. I have enough background in the shipping industry to find a position in one of the maritime countries on the continent.”

  She blanched. What he was suggesting was beyond her wildest dreams. When she thought about where he hinted they would go, her fear grew to near panic. In a whisper, she gasped, “Do you mean Spain?”

  “Or Portugal! Or the Low Countries! The Dutch are becoming increasingly interested in the furthering their explorations. Sybill, there is nothing for us here.”

  “I’m scared.”

  His eyebrows arched in surprise. “You were not scared when you came here.”

  “Oh, yes I was!” she retorted, heatedly. His taunt broke the cloying cobwebs of panic. “I was terrified!”

  “You certainly did not act that way.”

  Suddenly she laughed. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him. When she felt his arms around her, she compliantly leaned her head against his chest. “I was so frightened, Trevor. Then you started bullying me, and I discovered I had the strength to prove you wrong.”

  “I am glad you did, sweetheart.” He caressed the silken fullness of her curls. “You must be as strong again. I have begun the work for our escape from Foxbridge Cloister.”

  Looking up at his loving face, she begged, “Be careful. If Owen discovers what you’re doing, he’ll kill you.”

  “I am quite aware of my current worth to Lord Foxbridge,” he stated, bitterly. “I have served my master well. Damn it! What a fool I was to believe the great Lord Foxbridge actually appreciated the work I did for him! All he wanted was for me to act as stud for his heir.”