“Come up here properly.” He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Come on, come on—it’s not as if the worst hasn’t already happened between us. I can’t take your virginity twice now, can I?”
Cecily paused in maneuvering herself farther up on the bed to give him a warning look. “Oliver ...”
Then she was seated next to him, mirroring his position with her back against the ornate headboard. She turned her head to look at him expectantly.
“Why did you make love with me two nights ago?” he asked.
Cecily tried to feel more taken aback, but as she had done little more than mull that very question around in her own head for days, it did not shock her.
“I was very lonely,” she said quietly. “And perhaps scared. The time had come for me to make a commitment to Hallowshire or nay, and perhaps I was having a very bad case of nerves.” She didn’t know why she was telling Oliver this. For all his seductive charms, it wasn’t as if he truly cared.
“I don’t think you belong there,” he offered.
Her eyes widened. “Why not?”
“Because you would have gone long ago, at least shortly after your mother passed,” he said gently. “You have been waiting for something. A sign perhaps.” He paused, and then his left hand moved so that the backs of his fingers brushed her thigh through her skirts in a soft caress. Cecily’s eyes went to his hand. “Perhaps I am that sign.”
“Oliver, I do not mean this in jest, or to hurt your feelings in any way. But I think perhaps you were merely a convenient way for me to rebel against my own life that night. I have not decided against Hallowshire, I’m only still undecided. One night with you has not changed anything.” It’s changed everything.
“Give me time, then,” he suggested.
Cecily had to remind herself to breathe. What was he proposing?
“Time to what?”
“Time to convince you beyond any doubt that Hallowshire is not where you belong. There is something between us—something deep. How else can you explain a pair such as us, on the surface so very different, experiencing such passion? I have seen a glimpse of the woman you could be, the woman you want to be. You only need someone to help you bring that out.”
She couldn’t help her wry grin.
But his face remained solemn. “Perhaps one night with me was not enough to convince you, but something has happened to me, Cecily. As I said, I am no longer the same, and in some ways I regret that. But it cannot be changed, nor would I choose to even were I able. I want to pursue you.”
“That’s madness,” Cecily said on a breathless laugh. “Oliver, what would people say?”
“I don’t give a damn what anyone would say,” he answered fiercely.
“Because I am only a challenge to you,” she countered, unable to bring herself to believe he was sincere. “Our affair was a fluke, and now you want a chance to do it on your own terms. Once the novelty of Saint Cecily wears off, you will discard me, as you have so many other women.”
She saw him wince slightly as he shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
He hadn’t denied it outright, which gave Cecily pause.
Oliver continued, “Let me become your friend. Perhaps you will feel differently by the time I am well enough to leave Fallstowe.”
“I cannot do that in good conscience, Oliver, and you know why,” Cecily said, and even to herself, her words were prim, bitter.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” he said. “Enlighten me.”
Cecily gave a short, irritated huff. “Joan.”
Oliver’s eyebrows rose as his gaze rolled over her face. “Joan who?”
“Joan Barleg?” Cecily said pointedly. “The woman you are to marry?”
“I’m not marrying Joan Barleg,” he exclaimed. “Who told you I was?”
Cecily felt her lips purse. “Joan Barleg did.”
“Cecily, I have not proposed to Joan, and as a matter of fact, I told her when last she was here that I would not. I broke it off with her, even before I recalled what had happened between you and me.”
Cecily stared at him for a moment, her stomach doing a funny little tumble. He wasn’t marrying Joan?
“Why?” she blurted.
“Why?” Oliver repeated, and gave her a confused look. “Because I don’t wish to marry.”
Cecily felt her eyebrows raise and she tore her gaze from Oliver’s face, looking instead to the coverlet. “I see.”
“Wait, that came out wrong,” Oliver rushed. “What I meant was—”
“No, don’t explain,” Cecily interrupted. “If you’ve no wish to marry, then that is certainly your prerogative. We are simply too different, you and I.”
“Cecily.”
“Vicar John was right—we must try to avoid each other’s company for the remainder of your time at Fallstowe.”
“Cecily!”
“For even though you say that you have no wish to marry, Joan Barleg is under the impre—”
“Cecily!”
She stopped with an annoyed sigh and gave him the sparest glance. “What?”
“Cecily,” he said again, softly now, his voice low and rough.
The room fell silent around them when he didn’t say anything further. After a moment, Cecily could not bear the tension, and she grudgingly turned her head to look into his eyes.
“Just kiss me,” he whispered.
Cecily wished what Oliver had said moments ago could be true. That they could be two new people, learning each other as if for the first time. The way he was looking at her was causing an ache in her chest; his gaze seemed to have taken hold of her heart and was squeezing it ever so gently. It was exquisite agony. She wanted him then, perhaps more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. More than when she had let him take her in the Foxe Ring. It was sapping all of her self-control, her mastery of her will, to simply keep from touching him.
“Please,” he breathed. “If you don’t, I’ll simply die.”
The words were her undoing. She turned on her hip as if in a trance and leaned into him slowly, closing the distance between their lips in agonizing eternity. She caught his scent, the smell of man, and sweaty sleep, and faint soap, and then she caught her breath as her heart skipped.
He raised his head to meet hers, and their mouths touched lightly, both half opened. Cecily withdrew slightly.
“Again,” he commanded in a whisper. “Please.”
She leaned forward once more, and this time their lips met fully in a slow, lazy kiss. She tried to once again pull away, but his head followed hers, deepening the kiss and denying her retreat.
Cecily surrendered with a silent sigh. It was so much better this time, so much more tender....
The rapping on the chamber door nearly startled Cecily’s spine from her body and she jumped away from Oliver, breaking their kiss abruptly.
“Who in the devil ... ?” he growled, casting a furious glare at the door.
“Oliver?” a female voice called gaily from the corridor. The latch rattled. “Why is the door bolted?”
Chapter 12
“Oh-my-god, oh-my-god,” Cecily stammered in a horrified whisper, fighting her legs in the long tangle of her skirts to disembark from the wide mattress. She was having a terrible go of it. “What am I doing?”
Oliver cursed softly. Perfect!
“Calm down, Cecily, I beg you, before you bring injury to yourself—Joan can neither see nor hear us. Your dignity is safe.”
Cecily fell off the side of the bed with a little cry and a larger thud.
Well, it was safe, until that.
“Oliver?” Joan called through the door again. “Oliver, are you all right? Who’s in there with you?”
Cecily appeared abruptly on the side of the bed, her face a startling contrast of red and white. She was wringing her hands.
“She can’t see me here like this,” she whispered desperately. “Should I hide in the wardrobe?”
“Whatever are you talking about?” he as
ked, completely confounded.
“No, of course not—the wardrobe is all wrong.” Her mouth pinched in a worried frown and her eyes flitted around the room. “Perhaps under the bed, then?”
“Cecily!” he said on the breath of an incredulous laugh. “You are my nurse. Your presence here is more than dignified.”
“I would not call what just happened between us dignified,” she hissed.
“But Joan doesn’t know that, unless you tell her, does she?”
Cecily gave him a strange look, her expression morphing in to one of semidisgust.
“You are exactly the person I thought you to be, Lord I-Don’t-Wish-To-Marry,” she said in a ferocious whisper. “And I am a fool, in more ways than one.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” he demanded.
“I will not be another conquest for you to boast of, and I will have no part in your breaking of Joan Barleg’s heart. As of this moment, I am no longer responsible for your care.” She stood upright, her shoulders back, her chin tilted. “I hope... I hope your arm falls off!”
“What the devil?”
But her answer was not for him as she spun on her heel and strode to the door, calling out, “One moment, Lady Joan!” She fumbled with the bolt for longer than was called for, and Oliver reckoned that her hands were less than steady by the outrageous reaction she was having to a simple knock at his door.
“Good day, Lady Joan, come in! I apologize for the delay,” Cecily gushed as she swung the door wide, revealing the blond interruption that turned Oliver’s mood to black. “I was only finishing with an examination of Lord Bellecote’s arm. I’m quite done now, though. Quite, quite done.”
Joan gave Cecily a quizzical smile as she stepped into the room, and Bellemont’s steward at her heels was a welcome sight to Oliver.
“Good day, Lady Cecily. I do hope Oliver is not giving you too many troubles. Oft times I am convinced that he has no control over his mouth.” She flashed him a sweet smile and approached the bed, while Oliver noticed Cecily blanch further. “Good day, my dear. How are you feeling? I’ve brought Argo, as well as your favorite nightclothes—does that earn me a hello kiss?”
His chamber door slammed, and Oliver knew that Cecily had gone to flight.
Dammit!
“Oliver, aren’t you even going to greet me?” Joan demanded piqueishly.
He swung his face toward her and let his irritation come through in his tone. “Hello, Joan. What are you doing here? You said you were going home.”
“What am I—? I told you two days ago that I would be coming back, and I did go home. To Bellemont. I took much care in gathering the things I thought you’d be in most want of, and this is how you thank me?”
“Bellemont is not your home,” Oliver growled.
“Not yet,” Joan said with a sly wink.
Oliver clenched his teeth together and then looked to his steward—formerly August’s steward— and he caught the man rolling his eyes behind Joan’s back. “Argo.”
He gave a curt, shallow bow. “My lord.”
Unlike the Foxe family’s obvious penchant for tradition if ancient Graves bore any indication, August Bellecote’s preference was to only surround himself with the best at Bellemont—the youngest, most virile; the fastest, most cunning, and capable. Even the chambermaids were sharp, swift. Which was perhaps why August was only too happy to have Oliver spend so much time abroad.
Oliver guessed Argo to be in his late thirties, and although the man appeared to be of only average height and build, Oliver knew from personal experience the sculpted and sinewy muscles that lay hidden beneath the man’s plain dress, as well as the lightning-like reflexes that could easily restrain a maudlin-drunk younger brother from engaging in a brawl that would have been the neat end of him.
In all of Argo’s years at Bellemont, he and Oliver had never quite been fast mates, but since August’s death, the steward had become Oliver’s anchor. The sight of the man’s long, reddish hair and beard—which gave him the appearance of a very angry and very tall troll—brought back some stiffness to Oliver’s spine.
“How fares Bellemont in my absence?” he asked.
“All is well in hand, my lord,” Argo said, giving a barely noticeable sideways glance toward Joan. One thing Bellemont’s and Fallstowe’s stewards shared was a distaste for anyone not of their respective holds, and Oliver knew that if there was news of any import to be had about his home, Argo would not share it in Joan Barleg’s earshot.
Nor did Oliver want him to.
Oliver looked to Joan, who was now flitting about his chamber as if they were in truth man and wife—straightening the items on his side table, tugging at the coverlets, pouring him a cup of wine, which she brought to his side with a bright smile. He wanted to swat at her as he would a persistent gnat.
He had been kissing Cecily, and she had interrupted them.
“Would you mind, Joan?” he said pointedly, ignoring the chalice. “I’d have a word with my man in private to discuss Bellemont’s affairs.”
She gave a little huffing sigh and drew the cup to her own bosom. “I don’t see why you should be so secretous about such borifying topics as goats and peas.” Then she looked at him indulgently, as if to say, You boys and your games.
“Very well.” She pulled the coverlet up higher around his waist and bent over him to kiss his temple. “I happened to see Lady Sybilla on my way up and she has invited me to sup with her. So, see? You are not the only important guest at Fallstowe, lover.” Oliver tried not to wince at her satisfied grin. “Shall I bring you a tray?”
“I shall see to the lord’s meal, my lady,” Argo offered solicitously, if a bit impatiently. “Don’t trouble yourself.”
Joan’s merry eyes turned frosty. “I don’t believe I was addressing you, Argo. It does not trouble me in the least to see to Lord Bellecote’s sustenance.”
Oliver did not miss the steward’s clenched jaw. It was as if Joan was purposefully reminding the man that his friend and lord was dead, to goad him.
She turned her gaze back to Oliver, her eyebrows raised expectantly.
“Go, Joan. Enjoy your time with Lady Sybilla. I will likely be engaged for the remainder of the evening, so we can say our good-byes now.”
When he expected her to move closer, she set the chalice on the side table and began walking toward the door with a cheery laugh. “You shan’t miss me so soon, silly! I’m free to stay at Fallstowe until you’ve recovered, upon Lady Sybilla’s own insistence!” She paused at the door to waggle her fingers at him and then was blessedly gone.
Oliver looked to Argo, his own eyebrows raised in question now.
The steward nodded grimly and stepped forward. “She’s brought everything she owns, I believe, my lord. And I was hard pressed to keep her from bringing most of what you own. I needed to set two maids upon her while she was at Bellemont—it was her intention to peruse each chamber for anything she deigned necessary to your survival at Fallstowe—even Lord August’s rooms.” Argo set a large leather satchel on the floor and then held up the weapon he’d been holding—August’s sword.
Oliver’s sword, now.
Oliver sighed and shook his head before dropping back against the pillow. “My apologies, Argo. And thank you for protecting the integrity of my home as well as my brother’s personal belongings. Put the sword atop the wardrobe—I hope I will have no need of it while at Fallstowe, and I’d not have it disturbed.” In truth, Oliver had no wish to look upon it.
Argo harrumphed as he dragged a chair to the wardrobe. He stepped onto the seat in one fluid motion and slid the weapon carefully along the top edge of the wood, obviously still very much put out by Joan Barleg’s antics. “If any at all has leave to go through his lordship’s chamber, I daresay it would be you. Or mayhap Lady Sybilla.” The sword fell to the top of the wardrobe with a loud, hollow-sounding thud.
Oliver turned his head to look at the steward. “Think you Sybilla would have any care for a memento
of him? As I understood it, she broke his heart—threw him out of her bed practically.”
“They were not so estranged,” Argo said slowly. “I do believe August was advising the lady on her troubles with the king.”
“Was the lady listening?” Oliver asked with a wry smile, doubting that Sybilla Foxe would take counsel from any, especially a man she had rebuffed romantically.
“I believe she was,” Argo said solemnly. “They had become ... reconciled before the lord’s death.”
The corners of Oliver’s mouth turned down in surprise. These Foxe women—so many facets. Oliver would never figure them out.
“Now that we are alone, tell me—what news is there from Bellemont?”
Argo’s posture straightened, and at once the man went from casual confidant to capable servant. He withdrew a folded parchment from his tunic and handed it to Oliver. “The king has responded to Lord August’s death.”
Oliver cast a wry eye to the steward when he saw the wax seal on the document was broken.
“I had just received word of your accident and was unsure when you would return, my lord. If the king was not for you, I wanted to prepare our defiance.”
Oliver laughed out loud. “You would rally against the king for not recognizing a notoriously lackadaisical and feckless younger sibling’s rights to the lordship of Bellemont? Argo, I fear my leadership is not nearly worth such loyalty.”
The steward did not crack a smile. “It is what Lord August wanted.”
So it was not loyalty to Oliver the man was professing at all, but still August. Of course.
“Perhaps. And so this”—Oliver rattled the parchment in his hand for emphasis—“shall not happen again, ken? I’ll have anything of import brought to me—and only me—directly.”
“As you wish it, my lord, of course.”
Oliver shook the parchment open and read, tossing Bellemont’s steward a grateful glance when the man brought a brace of candles near the bedside to bolster the weak evening light against the gloom creeping up the deep stone window seats. After several moments, reading the entire document through twice, Oliver dropped the page to his lap and looked to Argo, who was waiting patiently.
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