Never Love a Lord

by Heather Grothaus

  “You are as wise as you are beautiful,” he whispered so low that her ears barely registered the words. Then, louder, he said, “Call off your guards, else the moment I release you, I am a dead man.”

  Sybilla nodded. “Stand down!” she shouted up toward the darkened balconies. “There is no reason for alarm. I am unharmed and will remain so as long as you make no move to attack Lord Griffin. He is our guest now, and I order you all to stand down.”

  Although there was no discernible movement from the upper-level shadows, Sybilla knew her command would be heeded. And yet Julian Griffin did not readily release her.

  “Lord Griffin,” she said in a sharp whisper.

  “Hmm?” he breathed at her neck.

  “You may release me now.”

  “May I?” he taunted low. “What if I don’t wish to?”

  Sybilla was finished playing about with Julian Griffin. Although his touch was eliciting a physical response from her, she would not continue to be handled by him in her own hall. He was fast, as he had already proven by his agile leap across her table; he was crafty, evidenced by his swift commandeering of her blade. Perhaps she had underestimated his abilities upon his arrival, but she would not do so again.

  Julian Griffin needed to learn that, despite any physical prowess he might possess, he was ill matched in this battle.

  Sybilla thought of the standing candelabra at his back, and brought the ornate arms and slender, flickering tapers clearly to her mind’s eye while she remembered the feel of the wild wind atop Fallstowe’s turret.

  “Do as you wish,” she stated mildly, with a smile on her lips even, “but it may prove difficult for you to put out the fire without the use of both your arms.”

  “What fire?” he asked in a bemused whisper. But in the next instant, he was shouting his alarm and Sybilla was free.

  She took up her dagger at once before turning to see him slap at the small wave of flames rolling up his shoulder and back, and Sybilla struggled to keep her face serene as he turned in a circle to reach the extent of the fire, rather like a dog chasing its tail.

  His impressive mane was now at risk, and Julian Griffin glared at her. “Could you help?”

  Sybilla held out her palms, her golden dagger resting in one. “Shall I stab at the flames?”

  He had no time to answer before Graves, ever dutiful, gained the dais, the slop bucket from beneath the table in his capable and ready hands. Fallstowe’s steward tossed the contents of the wooden pail at Lord Julian Griffin, reducing the flames on his back to little more than hissing smoke.

  Sybilla had never fought so hard against laughter in the whole of her life. There stood Julian Griffin, King Edward’s own man, before her, no longer afire but now drenched with the remnants of the supper meal of hours ago: old mead, wine, and milk dripped from his hair; a chicken leg bone stuck to the front of his tunic; spongy crusts of bread tumbled slowly down his front like fat, furry caterpillars.

  Graves set the slop bucket down on the floor with a hollow thunk. “Are you injured, Lord Griffin?” he asked solicitously.

  The man swiped at his face with his right forearm, the only spot on his person not at the moment covered with either refuse or soot, and then addressed Sybilla.

  “There was a pitcher at your elbow,” he accused her.

  Sybilla turned around and indicated the empty tabletop. “Sorry, no.” She continued as Julian frowned and leaned to the side to peer around her and see the evidence for himself. “You must have knocked it over on your impressive flight across my table.”

  He leaned down straightaway but was standing aright again in an instant. “It’s not there. What did you do with it? And I am no closer than six feet from that candelabra. It is impossible that it could have touched me.”

  Sybilla raised her eyebrows. “What exactly are you suggesting, Lord Griffin? That I not only somehow managed to set you afire while you were holding me quite captive, but that I also made a pitcher and chalice to magically disappear?”

  She thought he may have growled at her for an instant. But then he continued in a slightly more civilized tone. “I have heard of your talent for sleight of hand.”

  “Really?” Sybilla mused. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

  He held her gaze for a moment, and Sybilla couldn’t help but revel in the rush of triumph she felt.

  “I’ll speak with my general, command the troops to another location away from Fallstowe, and then return with my things.”

  “I’ll have your rooms readied in your absence,” Sybilla replied.

  Julian Griffin nodded and began to turn away. Then he paused and addressed her again. “I would prefer a chamber on the lowest floor, if you don’t mind.” He did a double take as his eyes landed on the pitcher and chalice sitting on the tabletop—exactly where they had been when he’d entered.

  “I’ll most certainly see what we have available for you,” Sybilla promised.

  Then he was stalking back through the hall, beckoning to his nursemaid, who scurried after him like a little brown spider carrying an egg sac.

  From behind her, Graves spoke. “The tower room then, Madam?”

  “My thoughts exactly, Graves.” Sybilla reached down and picked up her chalice and took a lingering sip.

  Chapter 4

  Julian was not at all surprised when, upon returning to Fallstowe with his and Lucy’s things nearly an hour later, the old steward deposited Julian’s daughter and Murrin in a chamber at the bottom of a seemingly endless spiral of stairs and then began leading him up. He had to fight against the grin which wanted to spread across his lips.

  He had requested a chamber on the lowest floor. Therefore he wouldn’t be surprised in the least if the steward popped a trapdoor once they reached the top of the stairs and showed Julian to Fallstowe’s roof.

  The circular stone room was small—only perhaps twelve feet across—but it was furnished in a manner befitting its relation to Fallstowe Castle. A wide, wooden bedstead jutted into the center of the floor, its mattresses appearing freshly made with a thick coverlet and numerous pillows. A small yet ornate table and two chairs were placed beneath one of the shuttered arrow-slit windows, a deep trunk beneath the other. A single candleholder on both the table and the trunk gave the room a cozy, private glow. A narrow wardrobe stood guard near the miniature hearth which was already ablaze with a modest fire. Upon sight of the small wooden tub set before the crackling flames, Julian wondered if perhaps he had judged Sybilla Foxe too harshly.

  She had ordered a bath for him.

  He strolled over to peer down into the water, tugging already at the gold buttons of his tunic, while two of Fallstowe’s servants carried his own trunk into the chamber and set it at the end of the bed. The water was black, owing to the lack of proper illumination of the room as well as the shadows thrown by the fire, but Julian could imagine the luxury of sinking into the warm, cleansing haven. A small stool bearing a stack of woven linens and a rough cake of soap stood at the ready. The smell of soured milk and mead was bringing the bile to the top of his throat.

  The servants had quit the room save for Graves, who now stood near the door, obviously waiting for Julian’s attention.

  “Will there be anything else this evening, my lord?”

  “Thank you, Graves, but I am certain I shall be quite comfortable.”

  The old man bowed and then took his own leave, closing the door soundlessly behind him. Julian waited for a scraping of lock to reach his ears, but none came. He raised his eyebrows in surprise again as he removed his tunic and dropped it in a heap by the tub and made his way to the table beneath the window.

  Julian flipped the latch on the wooden shutter and pushed it open, shivering once convulsively at the increased breeze brought into the room. He bobbed and turned his head, gauging the extent of his view before crossing to the other window and doing the same. He sat sideways on the end of the trunk, removing his tall boots while he watched the disassembly of his army.<
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  Edward would likely not be pleased. And Erik had been furious at first. But the king had not sent Julian to Fallstowe because of his penchant for foolishness. In the midst of the commotion below, he saw Erik standing on the driver’s seat of the ornate carriage that had carried Julian and Lucy to Fallstowe, a long, blazing torch in his hand. From the castle it appeared that the man was examining the conveyance to see that it was readied for travel.

  Julian twisted around to seize the candleholder behind him and stood, leaning on the edge of the window and thrusting his arm and the candleholder through the square opening and waving it in an X fashion. He withdrew his arm and peered out. Erik was returning the X gesture with his torch. After a moment, the man climbed down from the carriage and resumed his duties of dismantling the camp.

  Julian replaced the candleholder on the trunk and smiled to himself as he undid his breeches. When the soldiers were dispersing, a pair of men would be left behind with knowledge of Julian’s location inside Fallstowe. He was very glad he had made it a point to ask Sybilla Foxe for a lower chamber.

  He kicked his breeches to the floor and then strolled to the tub in his hose and undershirt, still grinning at his cleverness. As he removed his silk shirt, he brought to mind the memory of a panting Lady Sybilla trapped in his arms. Her body had fairly pulsed against his in her surprise and fury, and the smell of her skin, wafting up warmly from the curve of her neck, had been fragrant and sweet and at odds with her frosty demeanor. Julian had barely been able to think around the bawdy imaginings of what it would be like to take her in his bed.

  Perhaps she was not the devil everyone in the land—including the king—thought her to be. Perhaps she was just protecting what was hers, what she thought her mother, and then herself, had earned. Perhaps her actions were brought about by nothing more than self-preservation, duty, and loyalty, and in that Julian could find little fault. After all, had he himself not done such things?

  He shook off the comparison, though, along with his hose, and considered that Sybilla Foxe’s acquiescence to be interviewed might have more to do with his presence than her willingness to stave off a siege against her people. It was almost as if he could feel her response to him as he’d held her in his arms.

  Perhaps she might fancy him.

  Julian stepped up to the tub. Because he was feeling quite triumphant, he leaned over and grasped the two sides with his hands and lifted both feet from the floor, swinging himself over and then lowering quickly into the water of the tub.

  He was out of the tub faster than he had gotten in, and would have likely been distressed at the very feminine sounding shrieks emanating from his mouth as he hopped around the wooden tub, water flying everywhere, except that his capacity for self-observation was completely overshadowed by his desire not to freeze to death. He snatched at the stack of linens on the stool, toppling it, and then fell upon the pile of rags. They were all no bigger than the palm of his hand.

  He kicked his way through the mess to the bed and pulled the coverlet from the mattress, wrapping it around himself, and then turned back to face the tub warily, panting.

  The fire glinted off the recently disturbed surface of the water in the tub, and now Julian could clearly make out the glistening shards floating quietly in the water.

  Ice. The bitch had filled his bath with ice water.

  Julian lifted one arm beneath the cape-like blanket and sniffed. He quickly turned his head away with a grimace. He had to wash. He stomped to the overturned stool, righted it, and sat down at the side of the tub. Steeling himself, Julian threw off the coverlet, snatched up one of the ridiculously small rags and the bar of soap, and dunked both of them in the frigid water. He was not looking forward in the least to washing his hair.

  And he no longer thought that Sybilla Foxe fancied him.

  Sybilla lay in her bed, staring up at the canopy. She was completely exhausted. The last three days had seen her younger sister kidnapped, rescued, and wed—with Sybilla herself deeply involved in each event. She’d ridden hard to and from Hallowshire Abbey, organized the defense of Fallstowe in preparation for an attack by the king’s men, nearly gotten herself killed on the battlements, and now had to contend with Edward’s own emissary as a guest. Along with his infant. Dawn was two hours away, and yet her eyes would not close.

  Why had she agreed to this nonsense? Why hadn’t she simply given the command for her own men to open fire on Julian Griffin at first light?

  Perhaps, she thought, it was because she knew that no matter how well prepared they were, they would not triumph. The king had a near endless supply of soldiers at his disposal, and even if Fallstowe’s army struck down company after company, there would always be another to follow, until all of Sybilla’s soldiers were dead or everyone within the castle walls had starved to death. She had precious few friends, and those she did claim would never sacrifice their own status within the realm by going against the monarch, especially if they suspected the grounds for the conflict.

  So, in her eyes, she had been faced with seeing Fallstowe and her good people destroyed starting with this night, or agreeing to the unexpected interview, perhaps buying her more time to think of an alternative to surrender. For that, she could never do.

  Escape? Perhaps to Bavaria, or Persia even. But not France. She could never flee to the land of her mother’s birth. Fallstowe was unguarded as far as was directly visible, and Sybilla knew it would not be difficult to gather all the coin she could assemble and simply disappear into the night with old Graves, leaving the entire mess of Fallstowe behind her.

  But then she would also be leaving her sisters, and their children. Her family. Sybilla would never again have a home of her own. And she could never, ever return to England.

  Perhaps she simply wanted to tell someone at last, although she couldn’t imagine confessing the sordid details of her family to Julian Griffin.

  I will do all I can to help you.

  Sybilla sighed and turned over on her left side, so that she stared through the bed-curtains which she had left tied. Her big windows were painted with night and diamonds.

  She didn’t believe him. She didn’t trust him. He had something to gain from fulfilling his obligation to Edward, else he wouldn’t have agreed to send his men away. Julian Griffin needed Sybilla’s cooperation. Perhaps she would engage the spindly little nursemaid in some espionage of her own. Sybilla always felt better knowing exactly what she was up against.

  If your mother was who I suspect she was, then Fallstowe does not belong to you.

  How much did he know, and how had he come by that knowledge? Sybilla decided she would play with Lord Griffin awhile, talk a little if he wanted to talk. Tell some truths.

  Upon that thought, it was as if she could feel the weight of her mother’s body upon the mattress behind her, sense once more the crippled old woman’s bitter and frightened urgency.

  “Not all the truth, Maman,” she sighed, hearing the sadness in her voice that she felt all the time but only allowed to manifest itself when she was alone. “I keep my promises.”

  The tension on the mattress behind her eased, but Sybilla’s shoulders did not. She commanded herself to sleep, and eventually she did.

  Sybilla was used to getting her way.

  Cecily Bellecote sat straight up in bed from a sound sleep, a sob catching in her chest. In the chill air of the bedchamber, where it had been warm from lovemaking only a short time ago, she could feel the icy streaks of tears on her cheeks.

  Oliver stirred on the mattress at her side. “Cecily? Are you all right? Does your arm pain you?”

  Cecily tried to slow her breathing, gain control over the spasms that wanted her to wail. She covered her face and eyes with her hands, took a deep breath, and then wiped the wetness firmly away.

  “No, my arm is fine. I don’t know. A nightmare, perhaps.” She glanced toward the bank of windows in their chamber and saw the sun rising.

  Oliver was nestling his face back down into
the pillow, his words stretched and sleepy by the yawn that seized him. “You’ve experienced quite a bit of excitement the past few days,” he ventured.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “Of course you’re right.” She felt a gentle smile come to her lips at the thought that she was being comforted by her husband in their marriage bed. She turned her head to look down at him and something wet splashed onto the back of her hand. Cecily frowned at the water she saw there, and then brought her hands to her face again. She pulled them away and stared.

  Her eyes were still leaking.

  “Oliver,” she whispered, “I think something’s wrong.”

  He rose up again immediately, his eyes still full of sleep but looking at her intently. “The baby?”

  “No,” she said, but still laid one hand protectively over her midsection. She glanced out the brightening window again. “I think perhaps it’s . . . it’s Sybilla.”

  Oliver sat up fully in bed now. “What do you mean? That she is injured or . . . ?”

  Cecily knew he didn’t wish to voice aloud anything more dire now that they both knew the king’s soldiers were en route to Fallstowe.

  “I don’t know,” she said, and her words betrayed the frustration and confusion she felt.

  Oliver got out of the bed and began searching for his pants. “I’ll send a messenger to the men I left behind. Perhaps they—”

  His words were interrupted by a rapping on the chamber door. Cecily met her husband’s gaze for a solemn instant.

  “Who calls?” Oliver commanded as he fastened his pants and strode to the door.

  “Argo, my lord.” The answer was muffled through the wood.

  Cecily watched as her husband opened the door a bit, and she was glad that he had not admitted Bellemont’s steward. She pulled the coverlets up to her shoulders and waited while Oliver murmured with his man.

  “What?” he shouted suddenly, and then seemed to forget about decorum as he left the door swinging and marched back across the room to throw the curtains over the windows, leaving them completely open. He braced his hands on the windowsill and hung his head for a moment. “Perfect,” he muttered. “Perfect!”