Sybill

by Ferguson, Jo Ann

  Opening the basket which had arrived while she was washing the window in the loft room, she was surprised to find a folded piece of paper on the top of Mrs. Dailey’s fragrant bread and freshly churned butter. She tilted it so she could read it in the light from the hearth.

  Lady Foxbridge,

  You are not alone. If you need help, send Clara to the Cloister. We will help you either here or at the address of a friend in Liverpool.

  Basil Marshall

  She pressed the page to her chest as she fought tears. Although she should have known better, she had felt abandoned too often. Glancing again at the note, she saw Marshall knew how to contact Trevor. Perhaps she should simply forget everything about the Cloister and flee to Trevor in Liverpool. She shook her head in regret. She could not travel the winter roads with only Clara as a companion. She would not risk her child to escape Christopher’s sadism.

  “Come, my lady. Let us have something to eat.”

  She nodded joyfully. “Yes, we should celebrate our new home. We must be happy it’s so small. Only that way could we clean it in a single day.”

  Clara urged her to sit in the room’s only chair. She placed one of the bedpillows behind her lady’s back and offered her a stool for her feet. Handing her a slab of the bread, she also poured her a tin cup of the cider.

  “You are spoiling me, Clara,” she mumbled through her mouthful of supper.

  “Not so. I just want you to rest. You know how important that is when you are with child.”

  Sybill choked on the bread. With a large gulp of the cider, she managed to swallow it, although tears of pain splashed from her eyes. She looked up to see Clara watching her with concern. “How did you know? Did Kate tell you?”

  She snorted in derision. “That one never said anything to me but ‘Do this’ or ‘Do that.’ I have been helping you dress since you arrived, Lady Foxbridge. The changes that come with pregnancy are highly visible to me when I try to close the hooks that did not strain in the past.”

  “You never said anything before.”

  “If you wanted to talk about your baby, then you would have told me. I couldn’t help overhearing Lord Foxbridge, your husband, ordering you not to tell the present Lord Foxbridge. I knew there was a reason for silence.”

  Sybill took her friend’s hands in hers. “Thank you, Clara. It’s my dream to leave. If Christopher learns of this baby, he will never let me go.”

  “To Trevor?”

  “You don’t miss much, do you?” She smiled to soften the edge of her words. Choosing words that were not lies, but which would not reveal the truth, she added, “Shortly after I married Owen, I knew it was a mistake. I knew I loved Trevor. Now Owen is dead, and I hope to spend the rest of my life with the man I love.”

  “But the child—What about the child?”

  She shrugged. “That is the crux of the problem. I don’t know what Christopher will do when he learns he is about to have a sibling. It all depends on how Owen’s will is worded. If it says what I expect it will, the Cloister will be Christopher’s. Then he won’t care about his penniless sibling. Trevor and I can marry, and all will be as it should have been.”

  “I hope so, my lady.”

  Under Clara’s warmly maternal care, Sybill finished her meal and readied herself for bed. As she nestled under the covers warmed by bricks heated on the hearth, she decided it would not be too horrible. She would not have to worry about Christopher or about being struck by her husband. If Trevor could be with her, it would be perfect. As she drifted to sleep, she was thinking of the note she would compose to him in the morning.

  The days passed easily. Sybill never had a chance to be lonely. Mac called each evening to visit Clara, and often he brought his sister. While Sybill talked with the Beckwiths and Clara, she discovered a new family unlike any she had ever had. There was no pretense among them, and they laughed easily together. Only one topic was forbidden. No mention was made of the Cloister and its new lord.

  Christmas came and went without much notice. She went to church with the Beckwiths. Instead of sitting in the pew reserved for the Wythes, she shared the one chosen by her friends. It did not surprise her that Christopher did not attend the service. Like an infected sore, the empty pew held everyone’s attention as they tried to listen to Reverend Sears and not stare at Lady Foxbridge sitting primly among the no-account Beckwiths. Subtly the minister tried to ingratiate himself with her, but not too much. He was not sure what would be the final result of this disagreement within the Wythe family. As his living was controlled by the Cloister, he would court both factions.

  Sybill arrived home to be greeted by an exuberant Goldenrod and a feast. In her absence, the table in the cottage had been filled to overflowing with succulently steaming roast meats, pies, and baskets of breads. Tears blurred the holiday scene. She invited the Beckwiths to share the largesse from her friends at the Cloister. How they had managed to smuggle all this out without Christopher’s knowledge would make for an exciting tale.

  As she presided over her holiday table, she tried to pretend everything was perfect. She wondered where Trevor was spending this day. Was he sitting with his family around a burdened table, eating a holiday feast and thinking of her?

  Mac’s jest brought her out of her sad thoughts and into the joy again. With an effort, she put her sorrow deep within her heart as she savored the warm comfort of being with people who loved her.

  After Christmas, the weather became frigid. The wind blowing off the sea sought each chink in the cottage wall to worm its way in to freeze them. On the hearth, the fire danced to the vagaries of the moving air gusting about the room. Sybill spent much of her time huddled beneath a blanket. While she spoke with Clara, who was bundled up in the same manner, her fingers were busy sewing clothes for the child she yearned to feel moving within her. The task kept her busy and kept her fingers from growing stiff with chilblains.

  As Twelfth Night approached, she knew a festival would be planned at the Cloister. The celebration on the eve of Epiphany always was her favorite holiday. Last year, she had celebrated joyously with her father and his houseful of guests. Laughing at the memories, teasing the ones chosen as the Lord of Misrule and his lady to rule over the proceedings, and sharing the wassail were memories of her father she could savor. She could not have envisioned then the turns her life would take.

  Late in the afternoon of Twelfth Night, she urged Clara to go to the Beckwiths’ for their party. She did not want her maid to miss the excitement. At first, Clara demurred, but finally Sybill convinced her. Assuring her that she would be safe in the cabin, she watched as Clara wrapped her shawl and a cloak she borrowed from Sybill around her shoulders.

  “Be careful,” urged Sybill. “If it starts to snow again, it would be so easy to lose your way.”

  “I don’t think I could,” she answered gaily. “My heart would call out to Mac’s, and that would lead me directly to him. Are you sure you will be all right?”

  She smiled indulgently as she saw that Clara was torn between her two strongest loyalties. “Go! I have Goldenrod. He will let no one into the cottage who I don’t want here.”

  Clara nodded as she tied the ribbons beneath her chin. Her brightly shining brown eyes were the only part of her face visible as she waved. A blast of winter cold struck them, and the maid was sucked out into the frosty afternoon.

  Latching the door, Sybill hurried back to the sparse warmth of the fire. It would not be much of a Twelfth Night for her. She would go to bed early, so she could enjoy the warmth under the covers. As she sat in her favorite chair, she put her hand on Goldenrod’s head. His dark, liquid eyes gazed up at her, and she smiled. “It’s just the two of us, Goldenrod.” With a laugh, she placed her other hand over the gentle mound in her stomach. “Or I should say, just the three of us.”

  Savoring the quiet, she spent the afternoon embroidering the collar of a small shirt. When she let Goldenrod into the house from his romp, she saw the snow whirled in a p
attern only the wind knew. She shivered as she looked at the empty road and realized how isolated she was in her small home. The gray shadows of the Cloister were invisible through the swirling storm. If she were there, she would not have to worry about the cold. There would be plenty of food and no concerns about the small pile of gold pieces hidden beneath the feather bed. She would have none of those things on her mind, for she would be busy entertaining her stepson. It would be better to suffer the cold than Christopher’s ideas of fun.

  When she heard a sharp knock, she spun to look at the door. Her face was as colorless as the flakes drifting through the afternoon. No one should be coming. Everyone at the Cloister would be too busy to bother her. Fearfully she walked to the door, terrified that her thoughts of her stepson had materialized on her doorstep. Her fingers trembled as she slid back the bolt.

  “Trevor!” she gasped as she pulled her shawl tighter against the wind blustering through the door.

  “Step back, sweetheart.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  He smiled tightly. “Look out. I am covered with snow. Let me thaw a bit. Then I want to have you warm me.”

  She watched in shock as she walked to the hearth and removed his cape and gloves. He dropped them on the bench and held his hands out to the crackling fire. Even as she stood there, she could not accept what she was seeing. “What are you doing here?” she repeated.

  “I didn’t like the tone of the note you sent me. I could guess things were not going well.” He smiled as he reached for her fingers. Bringing her close, he went on, “I stopped at the Beckwiths’ to listen to the most recent rumors. They told me Lord Foxbridge had sent you from the Cloister.”

  Leaning her head against his chest, she took a deep breath of the overpowering scent of wet wool. She willed this pleasant dream to continue. “I can’t believe you are here,” she whispered. “You are insane to travel in weather like this.”

  “I had to see you, Sybill. I have been worried about you here under the tender care of your stepson.”

  “You needn’t have worried about Christopher. He has not graced me with his disgusting presence since he evicted me from the Cloister.”

  Sitting, he pulled her onto his lap. “So you and Clara have been making do by yourself.”

  It did not take her long to tell him of her days shortened by the limited light of winter. Only now did she realize how she had been simply waiting out the time until the next round of disagreements started. When Mr. Mallory arrived, Christopher would seek her out if for no other reason than to taunt her with his triumph.

  “You have plenty of food, don’t you? You shouldn’t be fasting at this time.”

  She smiled at his paternal concern. “I’m fine. Mac provides us with firewood, which is exceedingly kind of him. If it wasn’t for me, he would have married Clara by now. Until things are more stable, both of them insist that she stay with me. Such a sacrifice I would ask no one to make.”

  “Because you know how it is to be without the one you love?”

  “You know me so well, Trevor.” She unbuttoned the heavy wool waistcoat he wore over his doublet. “Open this, so some of the warmth can get through to ease the cold on your bones.”

  He laughed as he bent to tease her ear with the tip of his tongue. Her gasp of delight sent a lightning bolt through his veins. In a whisper which hid none of his ardor, he said, “I can think of better ways to warm myself, my love. In your arms, there is no cold wind cutting through me.”

  “You’re staying?”

  “Yes, my love. Clara is spending tonight and tomorrow with her future in-laws. I can stay no longer than that, my love, but I will have this time alone with you.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Lock the door, and shutter the windows. If someone comes to knock, we’ll pretend no one is here. Nothing must interfere with this short time I have with you.”

  “What if Christopher—?”

  He interrupted her by capturing her lips. Anxiety would ruin their loving, if they allowed it to prey on them. For the next few hours, he wanted her to think of nothing but the joy they could share. Against her mouth, he murmured, “He hasn’t bothered you in a fortnight. There’s no reason to expect him tonight. Come, my love, and give your love to me.”

  Turning his head slightly, she placed gentle nibbles on his earlobe in the manner she knew he adored. As his hands tightened on her, she breathed a laugh against his ear. She gasped happily as he swept her up into his arms and carried her toward the bed.

  “You are heavier than I remember,” he teased.

  “And whose fault is that?”

  He nuzzled her neck as he placed her amid the pillows. While she watched avidly, he began to undo his doublet. Anxious to help him undress quickly, her fingers replaced his on the buttons. His body was reddened from the sting of the wind cutting through even the thick wool, but her hands moved along him eagerly. As he drew her loose robe from her, she pulled back the covers. With a laugh, he joined her under their warmth.

  As the line of his chilled body touched hers, her amusement vanished into a far more potent emotion. Gently she ran her fingers along the planes of his face. Rapture burst full-blown within her as she delighted simply in having him by her side once more. “I love you,” she whispered.

  His arm slipped under her shoulders as he leaned over her to stare into her tear-brightened eyes. “I love you, sweetheart. Please do not weep.”

  “I can’t help it. I am so happy, Trevor.”

  As he pressed his mouth into hers, she understood the words he did not say. With their loving fingers and hungry mouths, they would speak the language of their hearts. She gasped with the force of the sudden fire burning in her. It reached out to send tingles of yearning to the tips of her fingers and toes. She stroked the lean length of his back, her fingers lingering on the muted curve of his hips. With her eyes closed, she allowed her hands to guide her to the sweet heaven of his love.

  Gentle, unhurried kisses along her face and neck increased her ravenous longing to know the barely veiled ferocity of the desire he created. When his tongue explored, as if for the first time, the slippery softness of her mouth and the silken line of her skin, she could not halt the enticing movements of her body against his.

  He gazed into her face and saw her need, which matched his. The long days apart had whetted his appetite, and he intended to feast often on this Twelfth Night at the banquet of ecstasy she offered him. As she quivered, he touched the fuller curves of her body. Even in the days they had been separated, her form had changed with the child growing within her. A child conceived of this unfaltering love.

  When he felt her hands pushing against his chest, he willingly rolled onto his back. She followed to look down into his glazed eyes. Her hands slid along the now warm expanse of his chest. She placed her face on the soft matting of hair and savored the memories the tickling of each individual shaft brought into her mind. Lying there, she gave her fingers freedom to discover the many textures of his male body. As she heard his muffled moan of unsatisfied desire, she smiled softly. She wanted to bring him the unbearable pleasure bubbling through her. She wanted to hear him beg her to bring him release deep within her. In the way he drove her over the precipice of sanity with his tongue, she wanted to thrill him.

  Her eyes closed with the power of the longings rolling over her, destroying any thoughts but those of seeking a cure for the ache in the center of her being. As she felt his reaction to her fevered fingers and lips, she knew that in bringing him to the peak, she found her own enchantment.

  Eager hands drew her to rest over him. She was captured by his eyes, which drilled into her to seek every bit of her essence. When she was about to whisper soft words of love, he crushed her against him. As their breaths mingled in a heated cyclone, they moved together to be wafted aloft into the clouds of swirling passion. At the moment when she surrendered herself to their love, she was swept past the storm to be swallowed by the golden glow of ecstasy.

  In the
fragrant lethargy after the triumphant crescendo of passion had eased into sweet melodies, Sybill cuddled close to Trevor. Her fingers drifted across his chest as she floated on the rhythms of his voice.

  “Are you hearing anything I say?” he murmured.

  She shook her head, enjoying the caress of his skin beneath her cheek. “I don’t want to think of anything but you beside me, Trevor. I love you, and I love our baby.” He laughed as she sat up abruptly and shouted, “Our baby! Hear that, world! This one is ours!”

  “You’re silly tonight.”

  With a grimace, she tweaked his nose. “Since when is the truth silly, Mr. Breton?”

  “Since you spoke it, Lady Foxbridge.” He grinned roguishly. “The course of this conversation gives our relationship a decidedly lurid tint. When I hold you close and you breathe with love, you call me ‘Trevor.’ Now we return to formality.”

  “No,” she retorted, “now we return to silliness!”

  “No, now we return to love.” His eyes were bright with longing as he reclined her against the pillows. As her mouth welcomed his, he dissolved into their pooled desire once more.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sybill woke to the aroma of breakfast. She was glad the days of morning distress were past. Each sunrise, she awoke ravenous. Today was no exception. She must get up and let Goldenrod out for his run. The dog would never leave until she was awake. If Clara tried to convince him to go out before his mistress was up, he would sit on his haunches and stare at her with his gentle, clowning expression. No cajoling would get him to move.

  Although she knew what she should do, she could not tear herself from the luscious bonds of sleep interspersed with the sweet flavors of love. It was far finer to bury her face in the pillows and drink in the scent of Trevor’s body, nearly masked by the smell of toasting bread.