Never Seduce A Scoundrel

by Heather Grothaus

  “Forgive me, Lady Cecily,” he said.

  “Forgive you for what?” she replied, gaining her feet once more to shake the cup dry and then return it to her tiny pouch. She turned her back to him as he spoke.

  “I can’t imagine your embarrassment.”

  Cecily froze, but did not turn. “Why, Lord Bellecote, whatever can you mean?”

  “You know what I mean,” he said in a low voice.

  Cecily turned slowly, the blood leaving her face, her heart quickening.

  “An innocent, such as yourself.” He looked away, as if shamed. “Forced to care for a drunken sot, forever overcome by foolishness. I only hope that I have not damaged you irreparably.”

  Cecily huffed out a laugh, her heart still pounding in her chest. “We all make mistakes, Lord Bellecote.”

  “Not you,” he argued.

  “Yes, even me.” She cinched her pouch closed with more force than was necessary, although she kept her slight smile. “I can assure you that any embarrassment I am enduring is of my own making. Had I not ventured from Fallstowe last night, I would not be here now.” She let her bag thump against her hip, and then swirled her ruined cloak from around her shoulders and held the fragile material between her hands. It made a weak cry of resistance as she tore the cloth up the back.

  “Thank God you were!” Oliver choked. He still directed his gaze to the floor, and Cecily saw the muscles along his jaw bulge.

  Cecily frowned and glanced at him, as her hands worked to liberate the faded trim from her cloak. “Lord Bellecote?”

  At last he looked at her, and Cecily was taken aback by the raw anger she saw in his face. “My brother, August—he ... it was the same manner of accident that took his life. Only there was no one there to care for him. Certainly not I.” He looked away again.

  Cecily could no longer resist. She tossed the scraps of her cloak away and then went to her knees once more, only a large, ragged square of cloth in her hands now. “Lord Bellecote, your brother broke his neck in his fall. There was no help for him.”

  Oliver shook his head absently. “He didn’t die immediately though, did Sybilla not tell you?” His eyes—piercing, full of pain—went to her face.

  Cecily shook her head as she folded the material into a triangle and worked two ends into a knot. “No. How could anyone know that?” She motioned him to lean forward and then slipped the makeshift sling over his head, helping him to seat his injured arm.

  “Thank you.” Oliver leaned his back against the stones and closed his eyes. “It’s too gruesome. You’ve had enough forced upon you.”

  “Tell me,” Cecily insisted. “I am not made of glass, Lord Bellecote.”

  His throat convulsed as he swallowed. He did not open his eyes. “The way he landed. Face down in a wide ditch. It was obvious that he had been paralyzed by the way his limbs remained pinned beneath him. But his face—” Oliver broke off as his voice went rough. “His face was turned upward, toward the sky. I will never know the effort that took, to turn his face in such a manner. No one save our mother and I knew, but August was frightened of the dark. He lay there alone, helpless. Staring hungrily toward the daylight even as night fell around him. Then he died.”

  Cecily swallowed and blinked away the stinging in her eyes. This was a side of Oliver Bellecote that she had never even guessed existed, much less witnessed herself.

  She thought instantly of the hateful things she’d said about him, thought about him, only the night before at the feast. Things she’d said to Sybilla, August’s lover, who had known the details of the man’s death. And then Cecily combined it with the memories she had of the way Oliver had loved her, so fiercely, so passionately.

  And she knew a shiver of discontent in her heart.

  “I was to meet with him that day,” he continued. “I had only just returned from France, and he had wanted to speak to me of family business. I was late for our appointment, and August was already gone from his rooms when I arrived. I was impatient to be reunited with my friends, and did not inquire of him. I didn’t care what had transpired at Bellemont in my absence. It mattered not to me, any of it. His man, Argo, fetched me from my bed, still half drunk.” He paused and his voice grew wistful. “And now he is gone, and Bellemont is mine. And I do not want it.”

  Cecily swallowed again. “I am sorry for the loss of your brother, Lord Bellecote.”

  Oliver chuckled. “Each time someone addresses me as Lord Bellecote, I think that August must be in the room.” He opened his eyes, his head still tilted back against the stones, and looked at Cecily down the length of his nose. “Any matter, I thank God for your foolishness, Lady Cecily. I believe it is only through His grace that you were there last night. You saved me.”

  Cecily shook her head. “I didn’t. Don’t martyr me, Oliver.”

  “Saint Cecily,” he sighed, and closed his eyes again. “So sweet. So forgiving. Indeed, I should witness at your beatification.”

  Cecily’s cheeks burned. “You’re tired, in pain. Rest a while,” she suggested.

  His eyes snapped open and he frowned slightly.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I believe we are about to be rescued.”

  Cecily turned her face toward the jagged stone doorway and indeed, heard the sound of riders approaching. She gave a short sigh and a frown that matched Oliver’s.

  Now, she would know the beginning of the rumors. Perhaps then ...

  “I’ll wave them over,” Cecily said, and prepared to rise. But before she could gain her feet, Oliver Bellecote seized her wrist.

  “Forgive my boldness in touching you,” he said. “But I swear to you now, no matter who is without, I will not allow a whisper of scandal to touch you. Any who speaks against you will answer to me.”

  Cecily tried to smile and gave him a pathetic nod. “I do not fear idle talk, Lord Bellecote.”

  He released her and chuckled again. “Of course not. Mere words cannot shake you, can they?”

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, and then rose before he could see her cross frown.

  She marched to the doorway and swept from the ruin. Did no one think her capable of human error? Not even the man she’d slept with the previous night?

  And then all her questions of rumor were laid to rest and her heart shriveled up and fled to her stomach as she saw the riders approaching. Sybilla, racing toward the Foxe Ring, leading the party upon the wild Octavian; Alys and her husband, Piers, each of them leading a riderless horse.

  And, almost as a spiteful afterthought, Joan Barleg rode behind them all.

  Chapter 5

  Sybilla looked like the goddess of the hunt, leading the mounted party up the hillock to the Foxe Ring. She spurred Octavian into the ring and through it, the large gray destrier’s wide hooves churning up clods of mud as it swerved tightly around the fallen down center stone. She was in a morning gown of ivory, with sheer, netted overlay that streamed out behind her, defying the wind along with her unbound raven hair and flapping cloak of deep violet.

  Cecily did not flinch as Octavian barreled toward her, and Sybilla leapt from the horse before it had even come to a complete stop. Sybilla marched to her, her arms swinging at her sides, and in the moment before Cecily felt her sister’s embrace, the tears came.

  After a brief moment, Sybilla leaned back to look into Cecily’s face, holding her by her upper arms. “I could scarcely believe it when Lady Joan said that she had seen you at the Foxe Ring last night. Are you all right?”

  Cecily nodded, unreasonably relieved to have her older sister there. “I’m fine, Sybilla. I’m sorry to have worried you. But—”

  “Lady Cecily!” Joan Barleg was trying to dismount her horse, kicking at the stirrup, which was stuck on her foot. In a moment, she was down and skip-running toward Cecily, her beautiful blond hair plaited neatly into a long rope. It was quite a contrast to her abandoned appearance of the previous night. “Lady Cecily! Have you seen Oliver?”

  Cec
ily looked back to Sybilla, unable to meet the young woman’s eyes.

  “Lord Bellecote also failed to return to the feast last night,” Sybilla explained unnecessarily.

  Cecily nodded. “He’s in the ruin. He’s alive and will recover, but he is injured. He was thrown from his horse last night, Sybilla.”

  Sybilla’s already milk-pale face faded, and it was as if the blood in her lips bloomed. She released Cecily without comment and dashed toward the stone doorway, Joan Barleg following in a swift walk. Cecily was left standing, arms dangling useless at her sides. She watched as Piers helped Alys down from her horse.

  As usual, Alys’s smile was inappropriately gay. “What an adventure you must have had!” she said mischievously, before embracing Cecily tightly.

  “You’ve no idea,” Cecily murmured into Alys’s hair before pulling away.

  “You look dreadful. Are you truly all right?”

  Cecily couldn’t help but roll her eyes at her younger sister’s appraisal of her appearance. “Yes, Alys, I’m fine.” She looked to Piers Mallory, the stocky, solid, quiet man her sister had married. “Good morn, Piers. Forgive me for bringing you out so early on the day you were to depart Fallstowe.”

  “Good morn to you, my lady. Do not trouble yourself about the hour,” he said with a humble incline of his head.

  “In truth,” Alys was laughing, “we have been up before the dawn. Life on a farm manor has changed me into quite the morning soul, Cecily. Always so much to do!” Alys raised her eyebrows and glanced toward the ruined keep. “Poor Lord Oliver. And poor Cecily, too. Did you stay with him all the night?”

  Cecily nodded and felt her face heat.

  “Oh, my darling,” Alys cooed, her eyes scanning Cecily’s face and head. Cecily knew her sister was reading her, and she hoped that her misery was not so very obvious. “You’re concerned about the talk, aren’t you?”

  “Not very, no,” Cecily said shortly, and then looked to her brother-in-law. “I hate to further inconvenience you, Piers, but it is unlikely that Sybilla and Lady Joan will be able to move Lord Bellecote—he’s broken his arm and several ribs, and taken a bump on his head.”

  Before she had completely finished, Piers was nodding and stepping away from Alys’s side to stride toward the ruin. Both sisters turned to watch him disappear through the stone opening.

  “You have married well, Alys,” Cecily said quietly, and she wondered at the little splinter of jealousy that scratched at her words.

  “Yes. I have,” Alys replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “Perhaps if the talk is very bad, Sybilla will demand that Oliver Bellecote marry you, as repayment for your mercy on him. You know Sybilla will not tolerate slander.”

  Cecily’s heartbeat stuttered at the swift change of subject. “That’s a ridiculous notion. Joan Barleg told me only last night that the two of them were to wed.”

  Alys cocked an eyebrow. “Really?” she said with mild interest. She inclined her head toward the ruin. “Well, we shall know soon enough—here they come.”

  Piers Mallory came through the doorway first, leaning heavily to his left as he bore Oliver’s weight against the length of his right side. Oliver’s left arm was stretched across Piers’s shoulders, and though he wasn’t standing upright, Oliver appeared easily half a head taller than Alys’s stocky husband. Oliver’s right arm, still cradled securely in the long piece of Cecily’s cloak, was held against his ribs. A permanent grimace seemed to have taken up residence on his slender face.

  Although Sybilla exited the keep after Piers and Oliver, she swiftly overtook them, striding toward Cecily and Alys. Cecily could tell from her sister’s face that Oliver’s accident had shaken her, and after hearing the details of August Bellecote’s recent death, she better understood the depth of Sybilla’s mourning.

  What might have been between Sybilla Foxe and August Bellecote would not ever be known. It could never be righted.

  “He shall return to Fallstowe.” As was her habit, Sybilla began letting her will be known before she had properly come upon her sisters. “I’ll send a messenger straightaway to Bellemont, so that Argo might more thoroughly oversee the lord’s interests there while he recovers.”

  Cecily frowned. Then her stomach turned as Joan Barleg came swiftly in Sybilla’s wake toward where Piers was leading Oliver to one of the spare mounts. The pretty blond woman appeared distraught.

  “He is to recover at Fallstowe?” Cecily asked. “It could take weeks, though. Surely he would be more comfortable in his own home, Sybilla.”

  Sybilla shook her head. “No. He is in no condition to make the journey to Bellemont—you of all people should know.” Sybilla cast a disgusted look toward the Foxe Ring. “And as it is through Fallstowe’s ruin that he was injured, Fallstowe shall bear the responsibility. This place is a menace. I should have it razed.”

  “Oh, Sybilla!” Alys gasped. “You can’t!”

  Sybilla shot Alys a challenging glance. “I can.”

  “Wait,” Cecily interjected. “Who is to care for Lord Bellecote?”

  Sybilla’s brows lowered and she looked quizzically into Cecily’s face. “Why, you will, of course, Cee.”

  “Why me?” Cecily demanded. “It isn’t at all proper, especially after I have already spent an entire night alone with him.”

  “It’s not as if you slept together, Cee,” Alys interjected.

  “No one knows that!” Cecily said, shocked at the words that were coming, completely unbidden, from her mouth. “Perhaps we did!”

  Sybilla ignored the very suggestion. “You are the most experienced at Fallstowe, Cecily. Nay, even in all the land, you are the most skilled. He will have no better care. It is the very least I can do for August’s brother.”

  “If it’s the very least you can do, then you nurse him, Sybilla!”

  Her older sister’s frown displayed mild annoyance. “In any other instance you would be begging me to allow you to attend an injured child of God. Are you feeling unwell, Cecily?”

  “I’m fine,” Cecily ground out. “I simply think that, under the circumstances, certain persons”—Cecily glanced pointedly toward Joan Barleg—“might find discomfort in the fact that the same woman who spent an entire unchaperoned night with a man would now attend his every private need! There will be enough talk as it is, Sybilla.”

  Cecily’s dread increased as Joan Barleg herself marched from where Oliver Bellecote had at last gained his seat atop a horse. She stopped directly before Cecily. Now would be the moment the young woman would voice her protest.

  “Lady Cecily,” Joan began quietly, intently.

  Cecily felt her chin lift, although her cheeks were afire. “Yes, Lady Joan?”

  The woman then sank into a deep curtsy, bowing her head, and Cecily was so shocked, she wanted to yank Joan Barleg aright. When at last the woman stood once more, her eyes shimmered with pretty, delicate tears.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear your protestations. It must be you who cares for him,” she said quietly. “You saved his life last night!”

  “I did not,” Cecily blurted.

  “Oh, so humble!” Joan sighed. “You did, though. How foolish of me to think, when I happened upon you in the Foxe Ring last night, that you were trying the legend, seeking a man of your own.” Joan Barleg’s chest heaved with another great sigh.

  Cecily felt her teeth grinding together.

  “God sent you there, to protect my Oliver,” Joan continued. “Had he been kept company by a monk, he would not have received such courageous and noble care.”

  A monk? Now she was not even a woman?

  Cecily shook her head. “It was only a coincidence.”

  And then Alys opened her big, big mouth. “But do you not always say, Cee, that there are no coincidences in God’s grand plan?”

  Cecily tried to kill her younger sister with only her eyes. “I have said that before, yes, but it does not apply in this instance.”

  “Well, I don’t think it was a coinciden
ce, and neither does Oliver,” Joan Barleg said decisively. “He called you an angel, and I agree with him. You are our angel, our own Saint Cecily.”

  Cecily did not know what to say. She looked at Sybilla, who stared coolly back. Next to Alys, who grinned gamely and then nodded her head in encouragement. Cecily looked back to Joan Barleg, and to her horror, the woman dropped to her knees.

  “Must I beg you?” she asked sweetly. “I would trust no other woman.”

  “Get up,” Cecily ground out.

  Joan clasped her hands in front of her breasts. “Please?”

  Cecily looked around at the faces staring expectantly at her, which quickly grew to include Piers Mallory, who held the reins to Oliver Bellecote’s horse. She dared a glance up at Oliver’s face, and to her dread, he too, stared at her intently. It was nearly bearable until he spoke.

  “You needn’t agree to this, Lady Cecily,” he said in a low voice. “If you decline, I shall yet sing your praises from here to London. I have no desire to impose upon Fallstowe, and I certainly would not heap punishment upon you, after all you have already done for me.”

  Punishment.

  Her mind went unbidden to the rough way he had taken her in the ruin only hours ago. It seemed a lifetime. He stared down at her, his eyes filled with pain and fatigue, and a hint of perhaps confusion.

  And she remembered the sad story he had shared with her about his brother’s death. How loath he was to seize the reins of Bellemont, even when she knew just how much fierce passion and daring lay within him.

  It was too dangerous. She could not agree to it.

  “Very well,” she said calmly. “I will simply postpone my departure to Hallowshire.”

  Sybilla watched Cecily ride off ahead of their little group toward Fallstowe, supposedly to arrange for rooms to be prepared for Lord Bellecote, as well as the supplies needed for his immediate treatment and care. But Sybilla was no fool.

  Cecily was immensely, royally, miraculously cross. It didn’t happen very often. And so although Sybilla had considered agreeing to Cecily’s wish that Oliver be returned to Bellemont or that someone else be put in charge of his care at Fallstowe, all thoughts of acquiescence were cast to the winds once Sybilla had seen the depth of her younger sister’s discomfiture and reluctance.