“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 midwi
fe. 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.”
“There’s nothing we can do for it now.”
“I know, my lady. Don’t worry. I will get to Mac’s house if I have to crawl on my belly.”
“Lean on my shoulder. Just think of me as a crutch.” Clara put her arm around Sybill as they stood together by the sides of the mud pit which would have pulled them both into death. When Sybill asked if she could walk this way, the maid assured her she would try. They froze as they heard the sound of hoofbeats not far from them.
They sank to their knees behind the thick underbrush. Sybill bit her lip as she heard Christopher’s enraged voice berating her. More than ever, she knew she could not allow him to recapture her. Until she learned what had happened to her babies, revenge would have to wait. When the lord had passed them, Sybill said, “Wait here, Clara.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the Beckwiths’. We need help, and I cannot carry you and be silent at the same time.”
“Go. I will find a place to hide. The lord doesn’t come too far into the swamp.” She grimaced as she moved her painful leg. “Be careful.”
Carefully, Sybill stated, “If I meet Christopher, I will lead him on a merry chase. If I pause anywhere, he will find me as soon as it is light. Perhaps if Mac can round up some of the men from the farms and the Cloister, we can make a show of strength against Christopher.”
“My lady, I don’t want to leave you alone against him.”
“I will manage,” she said grimly. “You cannot do it.” She put her hands on Clara’s mud-caked sleeves. “It is the only way. If I am not back for you by sunrise, you can guess I have been caught by Lord Foxbridge. Then you will have to get to Mac and find allies to storm the Cloister. It will take Christopher time to find a clergyman willing to marry him to such a reluctant bride.”
“Lady Foxbridge …” She paused, knowing she could not convince the woman to change her mind. “Be careful.”
Sybill smiled without humor. “I will be. I want to see Christopher pay for his crimes.”
Clara crouched in the grass as she watched her lady slip into the night. Praying for their safety with a madman ruling the estate, she let her tears roll along her face.
When more solid ground signaled the edge of the marsh, Sybill sighed in relief. She felt as if she had spent the last dozen years of her life crossing that bleak place. She scanned the road in both directions. The clouds had vanished farther inland and revealed the dim light of the stars. Although it lit little, she was glad of its cool glow to accompany her.
Sneaking down the hill toward the back of the Beckwith house, she paused. Shadows moved ahead of her. Clinging to a tree, she tried to slow her rapid breath. She was sure the others would be able to hear her frantic heartbeat. She recognized the voices as they called to one another. These were Christopher’s friends. That she and Clara would head directly for this house had been easy for them to guess. If she had not seen their movements, she would have found herself her stepson’s captive once more.
More quietly than she had approached the house, she backed away. Mac must not be at his mother’s home. He would not have allowed the men to lurk in the barnyard. Going to the Cloister was too risky. She needed a place to hide until the daylight let her find help. Along the beach cliffs there were many caves carved by the pulse of the waves. She could wait in one of those. Even if Christopher thought of that, he could not search all of them. She must rest. Her body ached. In a cave, she could sleep to regain her stamina.
The black of the sky was lightening to gray. She had little time. The stars faded from the sky as Sybill circled the marsh, keeping within the vanishing shadows. As the last star was swallowed by the twilight, she hid behind a hedgerow and watched as Christopher rode, full speed, toward the Cloister. Whether he went for assistance or simply so he would not miss his breakfast, she did not know.
She waited for the dust to settle. Pushing her way through the thick shrubs, she ignored the scratches and the rips in her ruined clothes. She ran toward the path leading to the beach. As she passed Joaquin’s grave, now hidden by a year’s growth, she prayed she would not share his fate of dying in the
arms of her greatest foe. Pressing her face to the wind-scoured siding of the hut, she listened for any sign of life. Until she reached the safety of her cave, she could not feel safe. Her breath, loud in her ears, was drowned by the rapid pumping of her heart.
“I expected you would return here.”
Sybill spun to see the smiling face of her stepson. Behind the full skirt of her ragged dress, her fingers clenched in anger. The rose tint on the eastern hilltops warned of the coming dawn and Clara’s attempt to find Mac. If she did, it would come to violence here.
“How incredibly intuitive of you, Christopher!”
“Did you find your bastard?” he snapped, outraged by her insult. “My weak-stomached friends went back for her. The basket was gone.”
She shrugged broadly, although her middle ached with fear for the children. “I don’t know where they are.”
“I know where Breton is, darling. Dead.”
Closing her eyes, she fought to force her sorrow deep within her heart. She could not allow her grief to blind her wits when they were all she had to depend on to save her. With her arms crossed in an outrightly belligerent posture, she smiled at the man she despised. “Yes, I know you murdered him. Even for Lord Foxbridge, such a crime can bring execution.” She laughed lightly. “I know you plan to make me marry you. Then I may not speak against you, but I’m not the only witness. Where are your friends, Christopher? Or have they had enough of your attempts to murder a man and two small children?”
His eyes narrowed as he pounced on her last words. “Two? How many bastards do you have, my lady?”
“You have a sister and a brother, my lord.” She held up two fingers as she continued to talk as if he was a dull child. “Edith Sybill and Alfred Owen Wythe. We hid Alfred from you immediately, for we knew a worm like you would try to hurt an innocent babe who is the heir of your title.”
“No bastard will inherit my title,” he snapped. “It will go to my son.”
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