“I suppose not,” she said grimly.
His eyelids fluttered open, and his eyes rolled back in his skull as if attempting to ascertain the damage sustained with his pitifully small brain. He blinked his gaze aright with effort and then seemed to try to focus on her.
“Lady Cecily?” he whispered incredulously, then he squeezed his eyes shut again slowly as if in great pain. Cecily supposed that he was. “Fuck me!” he gasped, bringing his left hand across his chest to grab at his right bicep.
One of Cecily’s eyebrows lifted.
Oliver’s head swam a bit. His arm hurt. He felt a pinching of sorts on the right side of his ribs with every breath. He looked up at the serene woman still looking down at him from her perch upon the wide slab of rock.
Saint Cecily Foxe.
In that moment, Oliver had never seen the woman look quite so ... unconcerned. Considering that he had just been thrown from his horse and now lay sprawled on the ground in pain, he was surprised at her lack of empathy. Wasn’t she honor-bound to aid those in need? Yet she only looked down upon him as if he were little more than an interesting breed of dog that had wandered over and flopped down at her feet.
“Aren’t you going to help me up?” he asked.
Her brow creased slightly, perhaps tardy concern at last, and Oliver couldn’t help but notice again how much she resembled her older sister, Sybilla. They shared the same ivory face, the same thick, mahogany hair. But where Sybilla Foxe’s eyes were eerie, blue ice chips, Cecily’s face boasted big, warm pools of chocolate. Sybilla was charming, bold, seductive, powerful; Cecily was meek, dutiful, chaste. Even his older brother, August, had sung Cecily’s praises while head over heels in love with the Ice Queen, and so Oliver could not understand the chill coming from the woman now.
She gave a little sniff, and her forehead smoothed as she turned her face up to the sky. “I do think it’s beginning to rain.”
In the next instant, he felt a cold splash on his cheek. Perfect.
He levered himself onto his left elbow and then struggled to pull his knees beneath him. The right side of his chest seared. Keeping his right arm close to his side, he pushed off from the ground with his left hand and rose slowly, his whole body swaying and his head spinning sickly while two more drops plopped onto his scalp through his hair. His cloak seemed to be attempting to choke him, topple him, and so he reached up with his left hand and jerked the clasp loose, letting the heavy garment fall to the ground.
“Where’s my horse?” he muttered, looking around him, and wondering how he had managed to be found inside an old ring of stones alone with Cecily Foxe, who continued to eye him coolly.
“It wasn’t actually your horse though, was it?” she parried. “Any matter, he ran off the instant he had unseated you. He’s likely halfway back to Fallstowe by now.”
“Perfect,” he said, aloud this time. Then he turned his head back gingerly to look at the supposedly godly woman seated on the stone slab. “What about your mount? Or did you come on your broom?”
She shook her head and then smiled serenely. “I walked. Human legs work in nearly the same capacity in moving one from place to place as horses’, in case you didn’t know.”
He shot her what he hoped was a sarcastic smile. “Helpful. Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome.” She nodded toward his upper body. “It’s broken.”
“It isn’t,” he argued curtly. “Only sprained. Fuck!” The rain now made little pitter-patters on the stones and ground at his feet. The flame in the oil lamp sputtered. She was sliding off the stone now to her feet, and so he took a step toward her. “I seem to have lost my bearings. Which way to Fallstowe?”
She casually picked up the oil lamp and then turned to face him. After a moment, she extended her free arm to point generally behind her.
“And it is broken,” she insisted. “I’ve tended many injuries like it, and so I can tell you with a fair amount of certainty that, combined with the bump you took on your empty skull, you are in shock. If you attempt to walk back to Fallstowe in the cold rain, you’ll likely die.” She blinked, gave him that serene smile again. “Please, be my guest, though.”
Oliver frowned. “I know I’m drunk, but what’s come over you, Lady Cecily? On every other occasion of our meeting, you have only been sincere and accommodating. What have I done to offend you so besides getting thrown from my horse?”
Cecily shrugged. “Oh, I am quite sincere, I promise you. Perhaps I simply have run through my stores of hospitality for Sybilla’s addlepated and selfish guests. And as for you getting thrown from your horse, what kind of sympathy do you expect from me? Apparently you yourself have no regard for the possible outcomes of such an accident. That is the way in which your brother only very recently died, and yet you cavort about Fallstowe in the dead of night, soaked in drink, and on an unfamiliar horse.”
Oliver’s blood, until very recently heated by drink and pain, ran cold. He shook his head, hoping the motion and the cold rain would clear it, but it only brought a sickening ache.
“What did you just say to me?”
“Why? Did you find it cold?” She gave a little chuckle, but her eyes were hard. “You heard me correctly, Lord Bellecote.”
“What a right bitch you have turned out to be, when away from your den,” Oliver said hoarsely, more than a little nonplussed.
“Then that shall be yet another trait Sybilla and I have in common, no?” She turned and began to walk in the direction opposite from where she had indicated Fallstowe Castle lay.
“You’ve had everyone fooled, haven’t you?” he called to her retreating back, even though he still felt that he was in the grip of some nonsensical nightmare. “Pure, sweet, innocent Saint Cecily—so far removed from her sisters and the rumors of witchcraft! And where do I happen upon you?” he demanded, looking around him and recognizing at last where they were. “The magical Foxe Ring, with your prayer beads clasped in your hand! I can see the damp patches on your skirts, Lady Cecily—giving the Devil his due, were you?”
Cecily Foxe stopped, and for a moment she was absolutely still. Then she slowly turned to face him, holding the lamp in one hand, the flame revealing her face in an almost ethereal glow. The rain came down in a steady shower now, and yet her hair, her shoulders, did not appear the least bit damp.
“Jealous?” she asked, and then gave him a slow smile.
Oliver felt his head draw back as if she had reached out the twenty or so feet that separated them and slapped him. A strange sensation tingled in his spine, and perhaps it was only the drink and the pain that was affecting him, but the front of his breeches felt uncomfortably tight. He had the odd compulsion to march up to her and insult her again, so that she might truly strike him.
He suddenly craved a very physical altercation with Cecily Foxe.
She turned once more and began walking away.
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
She didn’t answer him. The light of the oil lamp bobbed, dimmed, and then seemed to disappear altogether.
Oliver was left in the cold rain, the darkness pressing against him like an invisible, malevolent entity.
“Cecily!” he shouted, and then winced and brought his left hand to his head briefly.
The only reply he received was the shush of the rain on the stones of the Foxe Ring, as if they were warning him to be quiet, be still.
Oliver felt as though his world had been poured into a sack, shaken enthusiastically, and then dumped out on the wet ground. He had left Fallstowe pleasantly inebriated, able-bodied, on horseback, and chasing after Joan Barleg—the very reason he had drank so much in the first place. But the blasted woman had taken his pursuit as nothing more than another game.
Now, he was injured, afoot in the rain, and was fairly certain he had just revealed Cecily Foxe to be an evil, black-hearted succubus.
His arm wasn’t broken—he wouldn’t allow it. He thought he could find his way back to Fallstowe with only margi
nal effort, although he would return quite wet and cold. No matter, he would simply delay speaking to Joan Barleg until he had warmed up—and sobered up—properly.
He looked back to the darkness into which Lady Cecily had disappeared.
Jealous?
Her parting word to him seemed to echo in the cold wind that blasted through the stones, and Oliver shivered. Lewd and heated images of the middle Foxe sister sprang into his mind as if planted there by the Devil himself—images that even an hour ago, Oliver would have forced himself to the confessional for.
His arm no longer hurt at all.
He walked into the darkness after her.
Chapter 3
Cecily practically dove through the old stone doorway of the ruined keep, then spun and flattened her back against the wall. Her chest heaved as though she had just run the entire way from Fallstowe, the oil lamp rattling in her shaking grip. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to breathe through her nose. Her cheeks were afire and even her teeth clicked together as her jaw trembled.
What on earth had come over her just now, speaking to Oliver Bellecote in such a manner? Never in her life had such cold, hateful, and even lascivious words fallen from her lips. The man was a wastrel, yes, and perhaps a bit of an insensitive dandy, true, but he had just lost his brother in a terrible accident, and had only moments ago nearly been killed in the same manner himself. He had spoken rudely to her, but only after Cecily had baited him.
And now he was alone, injured, and quite drunk, in the cold rain. She had spoken the truth when she’d said he was in shock, and now he could wander off from the ruin and die, and it would be Cecily’s fault.
What was wrong with her tonight?
She opened her eyes and listened, but could hear nothing beyond the rain now falling in a roar beyond the jagged bones of the old keep. The oil lamp illuminated the inside of the dubious shelter only to the point that it was not pitch black, and Cecily could barely make out the ghostly shadow of the old stone stairs clinging to the wall on the far side of the doorway. The short flight went nowhere now, of course, the old wooden floor that was once the great hall above having rotted away years ago. She reminded herself to keep her wits about her—only four or six paces straight ahead was the stone-lined pit of the keep’s foundation—the dungeon. She could hear the rain running into it like a waterfall, hidden away in the night.
At least standing against the curved exterior wall she was sheltered from the downpour. Over the decades, half of the old conical roof that topped the keep had fallen in, but the other half had merely sagged against the ancient, massive center cross support, collecting a variety of leaves and seed that had colonized the rotting wood and, in the spring and summer, appeared from afar to be a jaunty, grassy green cap. Now it contained enough dead vegetation to keep Cecily dry.
In other circumstances, Cecily would have breathed a prayer of thanks for the little miracle of the ancient ruin sheltering her, but tonight she felt as though she were trapped here. Outside was the rain, and Oliver Bellecote. Outside was the Foxe Ring, which Cecily fancied was still whispering echoes of the scandalous words she’d spoken. Far beyond was Fallstowe, and the ghost of the Cecily she had obviously abandoned at the Candlemas feast.
She felt as though during those few moments in the Foxe Ring between being happened upon by Joan Barleg and then Oliver Bellecote she had changed in some fantastic, supernatural way. Who was she now? Was that woman brave enough and humble enough to go into the storm and search for a wounded man? Or would she crouch in the ruin like a vain coward and wait for the rain to stop so that she could hurry home to her rooms, pretending that this night had never happened?
She was afraid of Oliver Bellecote. Afraid of what he stood for, who he was, and the shameful way she had reacted to him only moments ago. According to Joan Barleg, he mocked Cecily to his friends, thought her cold like Sybilla. He did not even view her as a woman, only a joke, or perhaps a useful piece of furniture.
“‘Aren’t you going to help me up?’” she sneered into the dark. “ ‘Which way to Fallstowe?’ Pig.” Cecily gasped and then clapped her free hand over her mouth.
Definitely, definitely going to hell.
She would visit Father Perry at sunrise, her letter of intent in hand. Obviously she had been possessed by a demon while praying inside the pagan Foxe Ring, and it would be quite necessary to have the evil cast out of her before cloistering herself at Hallowshire. She hoped the process wouldn’t be very painful.
Before she could contemplate further on the mysteries of her impending exorcism, Oliver Bellecote lurched through the doorway of the ruin to her right, charging straight toward the center of the keep, and the subterranean pool below.
“Cecily!” he called drunkenly.
Cecily didn’t think, she only reacted. She dropped the oil lamp and with a crash the ruin was pitch black, but Oliver was still clear in her mind’s eye. She shouted his name as she rushed forward, reaching out with both hands to grasp his tunic from behind. Her feet stumbled across the oil lamp, and it rolled into the pit with a rattle and a tinkling of glass as she jerked Oliver back with all her strength. She could feel the seemingly magnetic draw of the cavernous opening below pulling at them both, and Oliver gave a surprised yell as he spun round to face her. His left arm wrapped about her waist in a blink, and locked together, he ran her backward into the stone wall once more.
His full weight pressed against her, his breath—perfumed with wine and danger—blasted down into her face. She noticed her hands rested on his chest. It was quite an intimate pose, and so she was taken aback by his next words, panted near her mouth.
“Did you just try to kill me?”
“Yes, that’s why I pulled you instead of pushing you, you miserable wretch.” Cecily squeezed her eyes shut, and she wished she could afford her mouth the same command. “One more step and what few brains you possess would have been spilt like porridge.”
He pulled her closer, his breathing shallow and ragged. “What’s possessed you so, Saint Cecily?” he demanded. “Something in the stones, perhaps? Is this place infested with the ghosts of those you’ve already sacrificed?”
“Perhaps,” she shot back, and she was shocked to hear her voice coming from her in a seductive purr. “Are you frightened?” She could feel the heat of his face, his nose hovering over her cheek, then by her ear, her jawline, and then back to her mouth as if he was exploring the scent of her.
“Do I seem frightened?” he demanded in a low voice, and pushed his groin into her belly.
Cecily gasped and turned her face away from him. But then she arched her hips forward.
“A man with a broken arm should not make threats he is unable to carry out,” she challenged him, her face heating, stinging, tears swelling behind her eyelids. It was all so sordid, so base, so—
Delicious. He wanted her. This was madness.
“Arm’s fine,” he half slurred. “And so is another part of me, you deceiving witch.”
Cecily slid her hands up his chest and when he brought his mouth to her neck, she raised her face and gave a throaty laugh, sounding so unlike herself that she almost wondered if they were being watched.
With the Foxe Ring just beyond the open doorway, perhaps they were.
“Wasn’t it said only recently that I would not have you wrapped in the holy shroud?” Cecily taunted.
“Mmm,” he acquiesced into her neck, and then nipped at it roughly. Cecily felt her skin snap back against her throat and she whimpered as he continued. “We shall see if you’ll have me or not as I slide into you.”
He pulled her away from the wall suddenly and then brought his ankle to her heels, sweeping her feet from beneath her. In a blink he had lowered her with one arm to the ground, the stones somewhat softened by a thin carpet of old leaves and moss. He lay atop her, his right arm held to his side, his left elbow supporting him.
“I could scream,” she said, but her tone was not at all sincere. She had never felt as aliv
e as she did just then.
“I fully intend for you to,” he confided. He hissed softly as he leaned more fully onto his left side and reached down with his right arm to snag the hem of her skirts. Cecily felt the material sliding up her legs until her thighs were bare to the bite of the cold air.
What am I doing? she screamed inside her head. This was not how a woman intended for the convent behaved—mating like an animal in an abandoned, cursed ruin with a man not only known as a careless womanizer, but who was also drunk, with a broken arm, and betrothed to another woman!
“Oliver,” she whispered, as he ran his face up between her breasts and then suckled at her neck again. He was nudging her legs apart with his knees, and Cecily was aghast at the fact that she did not resist.
“What?” he mumbled.
She had to stop this while she still had some shred of sanity left. “We can’t do this.”
He went still against her, but she could feel his breaths against her skin, swirling in the hollow behind her ear.
“Yes, we can,” he whispered as he began kissing her once again, beneath the clasp of her cloak across her collarbone to the base of her throat, then down between her breasts. He paused. “You lure me out here in the middle of the night—”
“I did no such thing!”
“—tempting me with your old family magic, your angelic face, offering me your body—”
“No!”
His mouth was at her breast now, wetting the fabric of her gown over her nipple. He pressed his groin into the juncture of her legs as he raised his head once more, and Cecily gasped as she felt the hot contact of his hardened flesh.
“You cast a spell over me with your body, your luscious mouth.”
“I’m not a witch, Oliver,” she said, her words rough little pants. “You’re only drunk. You’re not thinking clearly.”
“I’m drunk, yes,” he admitted, moving his hips in a way that breached her slightly and Cecily gave a little cry. “But I’ve seen a side of you tonight that has at last made me understand my brother’s obsession with your sister—cold, heartless, brazen temptresses! Think you can say such hurtful things to me without consequence?”
Never Seduce A Scoundrel Page 3