Never Seduce A Scoundrel
Page 6
As if reading Sybilla’s mind, Alys spoke. “It’s almost as if she hates him, although I can’t understand the why of it.”
The two sisters were bringing up the rear of the party. Ahead of them, where Sybilla could keep close watch, Oliver Bellecote sat his horse, flanked between Piers Mallory on his right and Lady Joan Barleg on his left.
Sybilla nodded. “She was unusually catty toward him last night at the feast, as well.”
“So unlike Cecily—she loves absolutely everyone. Do you have any logical explanation?” Alys continued in a whisper.
Sybilla thought to herself for several moments before answering. “Perhaps it is because Oliver is the precise antithesis of everything our dear sister lives for. Where she is holy, he is irreverent. Where she is meek, Oliver is brash. Cecily loves rules and order and courtesy. Oliver ...” Sybilla broke off with a shrug.
“Oliver does not,” Alys supplied with a wry smile. “I think he is wonderful.”
Sybilla smiled. “As do I.”
“It seems dangerous to me though, Sybilla. The king was quite adamant in the message Piers and I carried to you from London: he is coming for Fallstowe. Would it not be best to see Cecily safely away to Hallowshire rather than be happened upon by Edward’s soldiers? He could descend upon you in a fortnight, or on the morrow!”
“I feel we have some time yet,” Sybilla said. “I have been summoned to the court at Midsummer with Fallstowe’s troops. It is still only February. Any matter, Oliver Bellecote is not the only guest Cecily shall soon be entertaining at Fallstowe.”
“Who?” Alys demanded, intrigue high in her voice.
“A member of the religious. He is being sent by the bishop to oversee some of the goings-on at Hallowshire, and wishes to meet our saintly sister.”
Alys gave an exasperated sigh. “Then would it not be more convenient—and safer—for him to do so at Hallowshire?”
“Yes,” Sybilla conceded with a slight smile. “But Cecily could not care for Oliver Bellecote if she were away at Hallowshire.”
The hoof-falls of the horses were muffled by the slow pace and cold, wet grass. The wind blew from the Foxe Ring, seeming to push them toward Fallstowe. The party breached a slight rise, and the castle came into sight, small and far away, dark gray and still. Sybilla drew Octavian to an impatient stand to look at it, and Alys stopped alongside her, while the other three riders carried on slowly ahead.
“This isn’t entirely about Cecily though, is it? August, then?” Alys asked quietly. “Sybilla? I know the nature of Oliver’s accident is a macabre coincidence, but it was truly just a drunken, stupid accident. You are no more responsible for Oliver’s spill than you were for August’s death, and caring for Oliver will not bring back his brother.”
“Are you still leaving today?” Sybilla asked briskly, signaling that the conversation was over. She kicked Octavian into a walk once more.
Alys waited a moment before matching pace with her again. “Yes. Piers’s grandfather is watching over things while we are away, but my husband is anxious to return to our home. As am I. This is the first time I’ve been on a journey without Layla and I miss her.”
Sybilla chuckled and rolled her eyes. “You and that damned monkey. You treat her as if she were your child.”
“Well,” Alys drew out slyly, “perhaps it is good that I had her to practice with.”
Sybilla looked quickly to Alys.
Alys nodded happily. “You’re the very first to know. I suspected before we departed Gillwick, but I didn’t want to say anything to Piers.”
“He would have never let you come,” Sybilla guessed.
“I’ll tell him once we’re nearly home, when it’s too far from Fallstowe to turn back, and yet too close to Gillwick for him to have a cart fetched for me.”
“Will you tell Cecily before you go?”
“I couldn’t keep it in any longer while you and I were alone, but I dare not tell another soul before my own husband,” Alys said. “Keep my secret for me, Sybilla—I so wish to share the news personally, when Piers deems it is safe for me to travel again.”
“He’ll never allow you to ride while you carry his child, you know that, surely.”
Alys nodded and giggled. “It will give him enough time to have a cart outfitted splendidly for my conveyance.”
Sybilla reached across the space separating her and Alys to grasp her hand. “I am happy for you.”
“Thank you, Sybilla.” Alys squeezed her hand and then gave her arm a gentle tug. “And I am sorry about August.”
Sybilla pulled away from her sister’s grasp and looked ahead to the younger—alive—Bellecote brother, swaying in the saddle ahead of her.
“So am I,” she said quietly.
Chapter 6
Oliver had never been formally interred in one of Fallstowe’s grand guest chambers before, although he had snuck into one or two of them with a willing female companion at his side during the many feasts held at the castle. In any matter, he’d never been witness to the lavishness in the daylight, and had he not been in so much pain, he might have been more properly impressed by the rich tapestries, plush upholsteries, and towering wardrobe.
But all he could think about outside the searing pain in his arm and the tearing in his chest was Cecily Foxe’s lovely, frowning face. Now, his throbbing eyes continuously glanced about him, searching for her presence.
He could not wait to see her again.
His newest mate, Piers Mallory, helped him onto the tall, wide bed and Oliver could not help but cry out as he half collapsed onto his left side. His lung felt as if it would be ripped open with his next breath.
“Easy there, friend,” Piers said, as he moved to the end of the bed and began unlacing Oliver’s boots.
“My thanks,” Oliver wheezed.
“Think nothing of it.” Piers dropped the boots to the floor and moved up the side of the bed.
Oliver raised his head at the sounds of the chamber door opening and saw a line of servants, no fewer than six, streaming into the chamber, bearing all manner of trays and baskets and stacks of linen.
Piers attracted Oliver’s attention once more. “I wish you a quick recovery,” the man said mildly. “And before I leave you in the capable hands of your nurse, I have but one piece of advice for you.”
“I am rapt, I assure you,” Oliver quipped, closing his eyes. He was so tired.
He felt rather than saw Piers Mallory lean over him, to speak low near his ear.
“Your reputation is known so vastly that it has reached even my ears at humble Gillwick,” Mallory began. “And what I have not heard through idle gossip has been relayed to me by my sweet wife, who is never idle.”
Oliver’s eyes opened, and he was surprised at the scowl on the Mallory man’s face. In such a vulnerable position as Oliver was at the moment, the simple farmer seemed quite intimidating.
“Sir?” Oliver queried.
“Alys loves both of her sisters. I had no family until marrying into Fallstowe’s rather peculiar trio, and so I am also a bit protective of both Lady Sybilla and Lady Cecily. You are going to be in very intimate proximity to the most vulnerable of the two, you ken my meaning?”
“I do,” Oliver said warily. “But I can assure you that—”
“Good,” Piers cut him off without apology. “It has been many months since I have pounded a grown man into pulp. I do feel the urge. And Fallstowe is not so very far to satisfy my craving, you ken?” he repeated.
“That I have the utmost respect for Lady Cecily, you can’t know how much,” Oliver said. “And my own brother, August, was in love with Sybilla.”
“Rightly so,” Piers growled. “But even as strong as Sybilla is, and as capable as she may be of fashioning your liver into a hassock, I feel I need make you aware that, should you make but one untoward comment to Lady Cecily, I will not hesitate”—Piers Mallory brought up one meaty fist beneath Oliver’s nose—“to turn your scrawny frame inside out. You k—?�
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“I ken,” Oliver insisted through clenched teeth.
“Good.” Piers thumped Oliver’s breastbone twice with the flat of his palm, as if in a show of good faith, and Oliver cried out.
Piers gave him a lopsided grin. “Sorry about that, friend. You get well.” He saluted Oliver with a wave of his hand and then turned to quit the room.
Oliver presented his middle finger to Piers Mallory’s back.
As soon as the stocky farmer was gone, Oliver was descended upon by three of the maidservants who had entered his chamber. With murmured “milords,” and several stifled giggles, they began to efficiently tug at his clothing. In the midst of the fog that seemed to have enveloped his brain, Oliver realized they meant to undress him, and for the first time in his adult life, he felt moved to resist.
“Hello there, yes, now—what’s all this?”
A dark-eyed maid replied, although neither she nor the other two women slowed in their tasks. “You’re to have a bath, milord.”
“A bath?” Oliver cried. “My arm’s broken!”
“Oh, not to worry yourself, milord,” the youngest-looking maid cooed with a coquettish smile. “You shan’t have to lift a finger.”
“Well, now,” Oliver stuttered as the maid withdrew a slender blade and pulled the front of his shirt from his pants. She gripped the end of the garment in one fist. “I don’t see that as necessary at this point. What are you—I say! ”
The woman drew the knife up the center of his shirt, splitting it cleanly in two.
The maid gave a happy little sigh. “There we are, milord. Can’t have you twisting yourself up in knots to get out of this thing, can we?”
“I do think perhaps we should”—he broke off as he caught sight of the other two maids at each of his feet, both wielding identical blades. “What are you two about? No, no, no! That’s not called for. I—”
In a blink, his legs felt the cool air of the chamber.
“I’ve no other clothes!” Oliver cried. “Lady Cecily is to see that—”
“We’re acting upon her ladyship’s command,” the dark eyed maid said, calmly sawing a ragged yoke around his groin. “I would ask that you hold quite still now, milord. I have no desire to ... nick you in such a manner.”
All three maids giggled.
Oliver lay his head back and closed his eyes, praying that Cecily Foxe would not choose that moment to walk into his chamber. The innocent would likely faint dead away at the sight of him so unclothed.
And then the idea of her seeing him naked caused other unbidden fantasies to flood his mind. The feel of her skin on his, the scent of her hair—it would smell like honeysuckle and sandalwood, Oliver thought. A strange combination in reality, likely, but for some reason it seemed to fit.
“For all his protests, I do believe milord is quite anticipating his bath,” one of the maids said lightly, followed by a shower of giggles from the other two.
Oliver realized that he was experiencing a dreaded physical manifestation of his bawdy imaginings, and was so atypically mortified that he could not open his eyes.
He felt a breath near his ear.
“We could perhaps take a bit of your pain away if you please, milord,” a maid whispered into his ear. “Soothe your aches ... ?”
Oliver had never had sex with three women at once before. Two, yes. And, before this morning, he had always been of the opinion that one could never have too many enthusiastic participants in such a friendly pursuit. But now, the only thought that filled his mind was of what Cecily Foxe would think of him should she happen upon—nay, even find out about—him having intimate relations with the chambermaids in her home.
“No, thank you,” he ground out through his teeth, his damned manhood nodding as if in agreement. He felt a small, cool hand slide up his thigh. “Very kind of you, but—”
He heard the scrape of the chamber door opening, and his stomach seemed to collapse onto his spine in a quivering knot. His nightmare was about to come into reality. Cecily would see him in such a state and know him truly for the cad he was. She would never speak to him again, let alone deign to tend him. He might not ever see her again.
A woman’s merry laugh rang out. “Of course. Word gets ’round that Oliver Bellecote is abed at Fallstowe, and the tarties come out hot and fresh.”
Relief flooded Oliver’s body at the sound of Joan Barleg’s voice, and his erection surrendered at once. But his consolation was short-lived as the reality of the situation dawned on him.
“Joan, no! I’m unclothed!”
She laughed again as she came to stand at the bedside, looking into his face indulgently. “I can very well see that, Oliver.” Her attention went to the now sulking maids who were removing his sleeves from his arms. “Off with you now, you shameful wench-lets. I am certain this is not what Lady Cecily had in mind when she bade you to comfort and reinfresh-enate Lord Bellecote. I shall take over from here.”
The women seemed to dawdle in bundling the rags that had once been Oliver’s clothes, but Joan was insistent.
“Shoo!” she cried, flapping her hands at them and chasing them toward the door. “Brazen cows!”
The door slammed shut, and Oliver reached his left hand to snag a wrinkle in the heavy coverlet at his side. With a sharp intake of breath through his teeth, he jerked it toward him, mostly covering his lower half.
“It’s your own fault, you know.” The screech of wood on wood accompanied Joan’s chatter as she pulled a small table laden with a wide shallow bowl, fine-edged cake of soap, and a stack of soft-looking linens near the bedside.
He looked up at her, her blond plait over one shoulder as she efficiently readied a rag by dunking and wringing it in the water and then taking hold of the soap. She was still the same Joan he had known yesterday—pretty, friendly, free with a smile and a laugh.
“What’s my own fault?” Oliver muttered crossly.
“The maids.” Joan wrapped the rag around the cake of soap and rubbed the wet package between her hands briskly. “You can’t expect to tumble about the land in such a gay manner and then not have everyone take you for a circus, Oliver.” She opened the rag over the bowl and the cake of soap dropped in with a plop and a splash.
“Joan, no.” Oliver held up his left palm when she approached him with the soapy cloth.
“Why ever not?” she demanded. “It’s not as if I’ve never seen you naked before. Your lovely nurse wishes you clean, and you wouldn’t want to offend Lady Cecily by demanding she wash you, would you?”
“God, no!” Oliver felt his face glowing.
“Well, then I do not see that you have a choice.” Thankfully she began by swiping at his face and neck.
“It’s just that—” He sputtered and turned his face to the side ineffectively as Joan ran the sudsy rag across his mouth.
“Sorry,” she chirped.
Oliver spat and blew the soapy film from his lips. “I know that I can be rather ...”
“Tarty yourself?” Joan offered.
“Friendly,” Oliver corrected her with a frown. “And I don’t wish to shock Lady Cecily after what she’s done for me.”
“Oh, I agree completely,” Joan said, dunking the rag and then repeating her earlier motions with the soap. “The woman is too innocent to be true. Do you know, even now, as word is spreading about your accident and her rescue of you, not a single person has batted an eye about the two of you being alone together?”
“I should say not!” Oliver growled. “How could anyone even suspect—”
“They don’t,” Joan said simply. “It’s not Lady Cecily’s nature, even when thrown together with a friendly humor such as your own.” She smiled at him indulgently as she began to wipe his chest. “Obviously they feel that she could withstand the most vile onslaught of her dignity and still be untouched. Not that you would seek out a woman such as she, any matter.”
“Of course. But—” Oliver broke off. “What do you mean by a woman such as she?”
A picture of Cecily Foxe, as he had seen her this morning, bloomed in Oliver’s mind. She was anything but plain. She was exquisite. Stunning.
“Wait, I never said I thought her cold,” Oliver argued. “Or plain.”
“If it were me though,” Joan continued, unfazed, “I do believe I would be a bit crossed that you hadn’t tried to seduce me. Even if I were Cecily Foxe, in all her holy sweetness.”
“No man in his right mind would even think it,” Oliver said decisively.
Joan shrugged, and then laid the wet cloth aside in favor of a small, soft towel, which she pressed to the damp skin of his chest and face and left arm.
“Well, you certainly were into your cups last night. Oh, lover—your arm looks simply dreadful. Does it hurt very much?”
“Yes,” Oliver bit off. “Don’t touch it.” He was beginning to become quite annoyed with Joan Barleg’s insistent presence.
“All right, poppet,” she said condescendingly. She laid the towel aside and wrung out the rag again, moving to his legs and quickly flipping the coverlet back. “Whatever happened to your knees, though?”
Oliver knew it would be useless to protest her uncovering of him, and he certainly could not win a physical contest with the woman at that moment so he let it go unchallenged, fixing his eyes on the canopy above him. He was spared complete humiliation by the fact that the maids had failed to remove the yoke of his pants by the time Joan arrived, and so he still sported a loincloth of sorts.
“I don’t know.” He started to bring his left forearm to cover his eyes, but it pulled at his chest and so he lowered it again. “I have no recollection of anything after my fall. I assume I landed on my knees.”