Cecily swallowed and managed to nod dumbly. Why did she feel like the guilty party?
“Well, I’m not really a vicar,” John amended humbly, his tone an obvious attempt to rescue her from the awkward display Oliver was presenting. “It’s only a courtesy title from the bishop, actually.”
“Oh, it’s only a courtesy title from the b—” Oliver broke off his snide words and then shook his head abruptly. “You’re not even a priest?”
“Oliver!” Joan chastised. “How could you be so rudimentary toward Lady Cecily’s intended?”
To Cecily’s horror, Oliver spun on the pretty blond woman—now his betrothed, she was forced to remind herself.
“Shut. Up. Joan. This in no way concerns you.” He looked away for a second and then seemed to think better of it, turning back to the slack-mouthed woman. “And that is not how the word rudimentary is used!”
Joan’s face reddened and a breathy squawk came from her rounded lips. She fled past them all and disappeared up the stairs.
“Enough!” Sybilla pushed into the center of the little knot they had created, and for the first time in Cecily’s life, she found herself thanking God for her older sister’s brazen wielding of power.
“Lord Bellecote, it must have escaped my notice the amount of wine you consumed this night, for certainly you had no intention of insulting not only an honored guest of Fallstowe and my future brother-in-law, but also your own betrothed.”
“I was led to believe that this man, with whom your sister was spending so much of her time, was a man of God!” Oliver challenged her, pointing once more at John.
“Aren’t we all men of God, Lord Bellecote?” John suggested.
Cecily saw Piers Mallory approach, and he quietly took Alys’s arm and led her from the hall against her struggle and whispered protests.
Sybilla stepped into the space separating Cecily and Oliver, her frosty words were meant for Oliver alone, but Cecily heard her sister clearly.
“Control yourself, Lord Bellecote, I beg you,” she said, and although the words were a calm request, her tone conveyed the sincerity of her demand. “I must see to Lady Joan before she convinces herself that you are so boorish that she must escape Fallstowe to be rid of you!”
“I most desperately hope that she does!” Oliver shouted.
Sybilla spun on her heel to face John. “Vicar, I apologize for leaving you in such poor company. I do hope Lord Bellecote’s atrocious behavior does not reflect too poorly on Fallstowe’s charity, as a whole. Please excuse me.”
And then it was only Cecily, Oliver, and John left in the hall.
Cecily could not hold her tongue any longer. Although the emotions she was feeling at the moment had turned her logic to the mutterings of a lunatic, she would not allow Oliver to slander John Grey.
“Do you dare insinuate concern for my honor with this man?” she accused him. “I spent more time with you when you first came to Fallstowe, Oliver, and you most certainly are neither chaste nor honorable! Where was your concern for me when you were demanding my presence to serve you?”
Oliver looked at her again, and although he no longer shouted, Cecily sensed that his anger had not diminished. Nay, it had multiplied.
“How could you do this?” he accused her, ignoring her questions.
“How could I do this?” Cecily shot back. “Why, I have no idea! Perhaps you could ask your betrothed!”
John intervened. “Lord Bellecote, I do understand that you and Lady Cecily had a brief ... ah, romantic episode, and so this announcement may be somewhat of a shock to you.”
“A shock?” Oliver shouted on a laugh. “A shock?” He turned to Cecily again. “You leave Fallstowe with no word to me, without anything between the two of us resolved. You’re gone two weeks with a man you led me to believe was an aged old priest.”
“I told you no such thing,” Cecily argued quietly.
“What else was I to think?” Oliver demanded. “And this entire time that you are away—supposedly on the pretense of doing God’s holy work,” he added snidely, “you have been cozying up to a title-less dandy, soliciting an offer of marriage!”
“Lord Bellecote,” John said in a low voice. “I warn you, my sympathy for your state has a threshold.”
“I did not solicit anything,” Cecily said. She had to stop Oliver immediately, before any more damage was done to any of the three people now gathered together. “John and I developed a friendship. I value him above any other man,” she said pointedly, ignoring the way her heart squeezed when Oliver flinched.
Oliver took a step back and his chin thrust forward, tilted. “A friendship, eh?”
John drew closer to Cecily’s side, and his hand grasped her elbow. “Lord Bellecote, I am giving up the priesthood in order to marry Cecily. She is an amazing woman, with extraordinary talents unlike any I have ever been privileged to witness.”
Oliver nodded pensively and his eyes narrowed, his gaze locked on Cecily’s face. “Talents. I see. Yes, yes—I see now.” His face swung to look at John. “She gets in your head after you fuck her, doesn’t she?”
Cecily gave a gasping cry of horror, but before she could say anything, John Grey took a single step forward and punched Oliver soundly in the mouth, whipping his head around with a nearly audible cracking of his neck.
Oliver brought his left hand up to cradle his chin for a moment. “Come on with you, then, Vicar,” he challenged him.
John was not intimidated, and in fact, he took another step forward as he pointed a finger in Oliver’s face, while his other hand rested on the hilt of his short sword. “You would do well to remember that I am under no priestly vows, Lord Bellecote, and that you are currently without the use of one of your arms. Should you have anything else to say of a defamatory nature against the woman I am to marry, as God is my faithful witness, I will run you through.”
Oliver turned his eyes to Cecily as his hand fell away from his mouth. His upper lip was swollen, his lower lip, split.
“I’m sorry. But I was in love with you, too, Cecily. I was in love with you first, actually.”
Her knees felt watery, her head swam. Perspiration pricked coolly at her hairline. “You’re only saying that now because you can’t have me,” she said quietly. “You never wanted me in this way.”
“I wanted you in whatever way I could have you,” he shot back. “Forgive me for making such a misstep—I’ve never been in love before. Only remember that you left me.” He turned to John Grey and gave a short, mocking bow. “I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t attend the ceremony, Vicar.”
“You aren’t invited,” John retorted. “I’m sure you understand. Good evening, Lord Bellecote.”
Oliver didn’t look at her again as he left the hall, and Cecily was glad for such.
Although when John took her into his arms to comfort her, she could not help but gaze fearfully into the darkness where Oliver had gone, searching the grim shadows, listening to his fading footfalls.
Chapter 17
Oliver stormed through the dark upper corridors of Fallstowe Castle, suspecting that Joan Barleg’s rooms were in proximity to his own within the guest wing, but unsure as to their exact location.
“Sybilla!” he roared. He zigzagged between the walls, pounding on doors, jerking at the latches, throwing open the barriers that yielded to his attempts and leaving the doors swinging wide.
“Sybilla!”
While he raged, Cecily’s words circled through his mind like a mill wheel, over and over.
I am also to be married.
You most certainly are neither chaste nor honorable!
I value him above any other man.
Oliver threw himself against a locked door, paused with his forehead resting upon it, his eyes squeezed shut. Then he pushed away with an explosive crash of his fist to continue his rampage down the corridor.
“Sybilla!” He rattled the next door’s handle so soundly that the wood screamed against the iron. How man
y fucking chambers were there? He backed up and kicked at the door twice with the bottom of his boot.
“Is aught amiss, Lord Oliver?”
Oliver staggered onto both feet once more and swung around, his chest heaving, his hair fallen over one eye.
Graves. Perfect.
The old man stood calmly against the wall opposite Oliver and one door down, as still as if he had been there waiting patiently for Oliver the entirety of his tirade.
“Where is she, Graves?” Oliver demanded.
The old man blinked. “Where is who, my lord?”
Oliver stomped toward him, coming to stand threateningly before the steward. “You know very goddamn well who! Where is Sybilla?”
“Madam did not inform you immediately of her intended whereabouts?” Graves pulled an expression of mild shock.
Oliver put his nose level with the old servant’s. “I’ve had enough of your snide insults. As well as your meddling and trickery! Now, you will tell me where Lady Joan has been interred so that I might have a word with Madam, else I will lay your thousand-year-old corpse across the stones of this corridor!”
Graves nodded sympathetically. “Perhaps my lord will permit me to escort him directly to Madam?”
“Bloody right he will,” Oliver growled.
Graves gave him a faint smile while raising his left hand, his forefinger and thumb extended. Before Oliver realized the old man’s intention, Graves had latched on to Oliver’s right arm through the sling, directly above Oliver’s elbow joint.
All the breath went out of him in a rush as blinding pain exploded in his healing humerus. His knees buckled, and Oliver only remained upright through the surprisingly steady grip of the old steward as Graves began to stride down the corridor.
“Let ... go!” Oliver wheezed.
Graves shook his head mildly. “We wouldn’t wish for you to lose your way again now, would we, my lord?”
“Graves, my arm!”
“How is your arm, my lord?”
“It’s ... still broken!” Oliver choked out.
The old man came to a halt before another featureless door, but he did not yet turn Oliver lose.
“Shall I accompany you inside?”
“No. No, just ... let go!”
Graves quickly rapped on the door twice and then raised the latch, holding on to Oliver’s elbow until the very instant he was over the threshold.
Oliver gave a short cry as his arm was released. He spun to face the old man, but the door was already swinging shut. He turned back to the center of the room to see Joan Barleg curled on her side on the large postered bed, her back to him. Sybilla Foxe perched on her hip at the far end of the mattress.
“Sybilla, I am going to kill that old bastard servant of yours!”
“Were I you, Lord Bellecote,” Sybilla replied coolly, “I would be more deferential of Graves in the future. He is aged, but you should look at his many years as a resource of experience and wisdom rather than a liability to his function.” She raised her face to appraise Oliver. “Should you challenge him again, a bloodied mouth would be the least of your troubles, and he would need not lift a single finger to bring you to heel.”
Oliver realized she was referring to his swollen lip and he raised his left hand to test the cut gingerly. “Graves didn’t gift me with this—that deceitful bastard John Grey did.”
Sybilla’s slender eyebrows rose. “I’m impressed. Though it’s less than you actually deserve, I’m certain.”
Joan Barleg levered herself from the mattress and turned her head to look over her shoulder at Oliver. “Have you come to apologize, Oliver?”
Oliver let his hand fall away. “No, Joan. I have not. I’ve only come to inform our most gracious hostess that I will be taking my leave of Fallstowe this night, so you will have to make do with her apologies for whatever slights you feel you have suffered while under her roof. I can assure you they were all, in one way or another, her doing.”
Sybilla’s brows lowered.
“You’re leaving?” Joan whispered, coming to sit fully on her bottom, strangling her long golden plait with both hands.
“Leaving,” Oliver reiterated. “I have had my fill of deceit.”
“Deceit?” Joan’s eyes darted from Sybilla back to him. “What are you talking about? Whose deceit?”
Oliver leveled an arm at Sybilla. “I’m afraid you’ll need to ask her, for I am not completely certain what is going on here myself.”
“Lord Bellecote,” Sybilla emphasized, “you are overreacting. I don’t believe you’re yet well enough to depart the haven that Fallstowe has been for you.”
“Haven?” Oliver shouted incredulously. He pointed at the dark-haired woman again. “All this is on your head, Sybilla—all of it. I hope it drowns you, you conniving bitch. You’ve cost me the one thing I ever truly wanted in my life.”
Sybilla said nothing, only looked at him coolly. But Joan Barleg became immediately alarmed, scooting herself from the edge of the bed and standing, seeming unsure as to whether she should approach him or not. She chose to remain by the bed.
“What do you mean, Oliver? Surely you can’t intend for—” She held her hands before her. “Shall I gather my things, as well? I am coming with you, am I not?”
“No. No, you are most certainly not,” Oliver said. “I told you when we first arrived at Fallstowe that I had no intention of marrying you, and those intentions have not changed.”
“Oliver,” Sybilla warned.
“But you ... you proposed to me!” Joan said on a huff of laughter. “We are betrothed.”
Oliver turned, intending to quit the chamber. But Joan Barleg’s next words halted him in his steps.
“It’s Lady Cecily, isn’t it?” she called to him. “You’re in love with her.”
Oliver did not turn.
“It’s all right, Oliver,” Joan continued in a cajoling, unsure voice. “It’s all right if you are. She was ... she was your nurse. It’s common for men to have feelings for those who care for them in an intimate manner, and—”
“That’s not why, Joan,” Oliver said to the door.
“Not why what?” she pressed, and he knew she was drawing closer to him by the increasing volume of her voice. “Not why you don’t want to marry me, or not why you’re in love with her?”
“As soon as I’ve gathered my things from my chamber, I shall depart,” Oliver said over his shoulder, his words meant for Sybilla.
“You can’t discard me like this, Oliver!” Joan said, her voice growing stronger. “You are mine, by your own vow! You owe me for my faithfulness!”
“I never asked for your fidelity, Joan,” he reminded her gently. “In fact, I warned you against it. The only thing I owe you is a good-bye.”
Sybilla’s words stopped him at the door. “I’d be interested to learn how you plan on returning to Bellemont, Lord Bellecote.”
Oliver turned. “How I—? Well, since I can’t fly, I reckon I shall be traveling by horse.”
Sybilla shook her head slowly, and even from across the room, Oliver could see the icy glint in her blue eyes. “I had hoped to inform you later, when you were in a more receptive mood, but you leave me no choice. Your horse had to be put down. It became quite ill after your accident at the Foxe Ring. I couldn’t risk the sickness spreading, you understand.”
“You put my horse down?” Oliver asked incredulously. “Without my counsel? When?”
Sybilla’s gaze never wavered from his. She blinked. “Just now, I’m afraid.”
“Bullshit!” Oliver felt his teeth grinding together. “Even if what you say is true, certainly you will be kind enough to lend me one of—”
“No,” Sybilla cut him off. “No, I can’t do that. I am quite fond of all of Fallstowe’s beasts, and as both you and your brother have proven yourselves less than accomplished horsemen, I cannot in good conscience surrender one of my mounts to you. Especially after this most recent incident.”
Even Joan Barleg ga
sped.
“So I am your prisoner?” Oliver challenged her, taking a step toward Sybilla. She did not flinch.
“Not at all,” she replied coolly. “You are free to leave Fallstowe whenever you wish. If you are that determined to quit my hospitality, well, then I suppose you will walk. Or, if you prefer, I will send a messenger to your man at Bellemont, and he may bring you one of your own horses to carry you to your home.”
“I will repay you for all you’ve done for me, Lady Sybilla,” Oliver threatened.
“Oh, I think you have done quite enough already.”
Oliver felt impotent, faced with two women who held such obvious loathing for him at the moment. He was trapped. He could not leave Fallstowe.
“Send for Argo,” he growled.
“Right away,” Sybilla promised calmly. “Although I do hope that by the time your man arrives, you might have changed your mind.”
“Oh, I am most certainly leaving,” Oliver vowed. He jabbed his finger first at Sybilla and then Joan Barleg. “And once I am away, I hope to never again lay eyes upon the likes of either of you. Mad, the whole lot!”
He turned and wrenched open the door, leaving it to swing wide and crash against the wall behind it.
Sybilla heard Oliver’s diminishing warning of, “Keep your distance, you evil old cadaver!” She could only assume he spoke to Graves, and she hoped that Graves did not take too much offense. When this was all over, she might kill Oliver herself.
She closed the door deliberately, quietly, and took a moment to compose herself. Things were unraveling now, faster than Sybilla could collect the tangled strands.
“Sybilla?” Joan’s timid call roused her from her reverie, although she did not turn away from the door just yet. “What am I to do now?”
What am I to do now? Sybilla wanted to laugh. She was a bold one, Lady Joan Barleg. Very bold.
Sybilla turned. “Don’t worry yourself about Oliver’s strange behavior, Joan. It will be days before he leaves. Mayhap he will come to his senses.”
Never Seduce A Scoundrel Page 18