Never Seduce A Scoundrel

by Heather Grothaus

  “What are you talking about, Joan?” Cecily demanded. “Fallstowe is Sybilla’s.”

  Joan stared at her thoughtfully. “I wanted to be like you, at one time. I wanted to be sweet and meek and charitable. Perhaps Oliver would have loved me like he loved you. But I was so wrong. You are no different from me after all. At least he never took me drunk, on the ground.” She began to turn away.

  “Wait!” Cecily shouted. “Where are you going?”

  Joan paused and turned back slowly, a small smile on her face. “I already told you—I’m going to Hallowshire. I have heard they will grant anyone asylum, even criminals. And no one can reach them, not even the king. Ever.”

  “Don’t leave me here, Joan,” Cecily begged.

  “Thank you for the horses,” Joan said with a smile, and then she turned away completely and disappeared from the rim of the pit.

  “Joan!” Cecily screamed, her breath clouding in the gray cold. “Joan!”

  In a moment, Cecily heard the muffled hoofbeats of the horses fading into the morning.

  And then she heard nothing at all.

  Chapter 24

  Oliver rode as fast as he dared to Fallstowe, and still it was late afternoon when his horse galloped loudly onto the drawbridge. The gates were still open and the guards clearly recognized him. They did not stop him as he entered the bailey, although had they known what was on his mind as he rode through the gates, they would have likely shot him dead.

  He was so furious, he thought he might strike Sybilla Foxe when he laid eyes upon her. And he was humiliated, too. Had no one thought he was worthy to know? Not even his own brother?

  Were you worthy to know, then? An annoying voice challenged him from inside his head. He ignored it. He was furious, and his rage would find an outlet.

  He swung down from his mount in front of the great hall doors before his horse had pulled to a complete stop. His boots hit the dirt with a satisfying stomp and he threw the reins across the saddle as a young boy came from the stables toward his horse.

  Oliver was nearly to the steps when he saw the figure of Father Perry skimming around the side of the keep, one hand helping him along, his gray head bent. The normally spry old priest seemed unsteady on his feet, and although Oliver wanted nothing more than to storm through the doors without so much as a word to the holy man, Father Perry raised his head just then and signaled to Oliver.

  “Thanks be to God that you’re here!” Father Perry rasped. “And just in time.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m in a terrible hurry, Father. Please excuse me,” Oliver said brusquely.

  “You’ve come for Lady Cecily, haven’t you?” Father Perry called out, and then Oliver did stop.

  The old man had paused and leaned against the stones. He looked dreadful.

  “I have. But it was my understanding that—Father, are you all right?”

  The old man squeezed his eyes shut. “I think I took some bad wine last night before bed, and I must warn Lady Sybilla, as it came from her own stores. I can’t risk Lady Cecily taking it. I’m just not going as quickly as I would like.”

  “Let me help you,” Oliver said with a frown, and went to the priest to take his arm. He helped the old man up the steps. “Father, I was led to believe that Lady Cecily had left for Hallowshire.”

  The old man stopped to look up at Oliver through his wheezing. “Who told you?”

  “The vi—John Grey,” Oliver corrected himself.

  Father Perry closed his eyes and raised his face to the sky. “That man surely is a saint.” Then he looked back to Oliver. “She was to leave this morn—I was to accompany her.”

  “She never went?” Oliver said quietly, his stomach suddenly leaping amongst his guts like deer over a log.

  Father Perry gave him a weak but knowing smile. “I’m still here, aren’t I? I’m certain she is quite put out with me, although, of course, she will never admit it. And I do hope that after she sees you, she will forget the whole thing immediately.”

  Oliver looked up the sheer, gray walls of Fallstowe, and suddenly all thoughts of Sybilla Foxe, of his brother, and the scheming the two had orchestrated ceased to matter. Somewhere within, Cecily waited. Waited for him. He didn’t know what he would say to her, but he would find the words somehow. He must. This time, she must believe him.

  Oliver smiled at the aged priest. “Let us go in together then, and take our punishment.”

  Father Perry’s watery blue eyes carried a dim spark of mirth. “And may God have mercy on us both.”

  Oliver grinned. “Amen.”

  The shadows were creeping long once more across the ruined skeleton of the old keep, and the pit that was Cecily’s prison grew darker still. She sat against the seam of rock and ground, covered in filth and blood, shivering, clutching Sybilla’s letters between her drawn-up knees and her chest beneath her cloak.

  No one knew she was here. No one would know until it was too late.

  She had scoured every rough and craggy surface of the circular pit for hours, seeking escape. She had found only a single handhold, the width and depth of three fingers, at the very limits of her outstretched arm. There were no crumbling stone steps, as there were on the first level of the ruin, no holes where old wooden supports had rotted away. Just a circle of very well-constructed stone, as long as eternity, and as high as heaven itself.

  The bleeding had mostly stopped, leaving her torn sleeve and the flank of her bodice sticky wet. What was not tinged a terrible brown color was soaked in the wet compost of the dungeon floor. Her skirts and cloak were wet to her knees. Her back was damp, her chest, from her exertions. She was so cold now, and would be colder still once night was fully upon the stones.

  She had read Sybilla’s letters to August Bellecote over and over, straining her eyes in the gloom, and then running her fingers over each word when the light had grown impossibly dim, as if she could in that way reach out to her sister. She had prayed aloud until her throat was raw, and then she had prayed silently, her lips moving, her heart moving, but her words for God’s ears alone.

  What a vain fool she had been! She had used Oliver Bellecote, she realized that now. She had used him out of fear of who she was, what she was slated to become. She had used him to defy the persona of Saint Cecily, and her moment of reckless sin had grown into something not damning and shameful as she had once thought, but bigger than herself and involving her whole heart.

  She loved him now, just as he was. Perhaps she had loved him even since he had jokingly refused her at the Candlemas feast, but in her fear and pride, she had run. Cecily Foxe with such a scoundrel as Oliver Bellecote? No! Cecily needed a man completely above reproach. He would never make a mistake or a wrong decision. He would have no human feelings or desires. He would be pure and righteous and godly above all else.

  And then when that ideal man had seemingly been placed at her hand, she had too late realized that John Grey wasn’t at all what she wanted. She wanted someone irreverent, someone who would bring joy and laughter and color into her life. Who knew she wasn’t a saint and did not care. Who loved her passionately, her heart, her body.

  She had wanted Oliver Bellecote all along.

  And now she had committed the gravest sin against him in sending him away ignorant of the fact that they had created a child together. She had stolen that which was not hers to steal, a gift given to them both. She had prayed for an answer that night at the Foxe Ring, and shortly thereafter Oliver Bellecote had literally fallen at her feet. At every turn, she had asked for guidance, and when faced with the clear answer, she had childishly turned away.

  She was very cold now, and sleepy. Perhaps the next time her eyes closed, they would never again open. And the idea scared her, not that she would die, but that there were so many things left unsaid, undone.

  She let her knees fall to the side within her cloak and then fell forward onto one hand, dragging her legs beneath her. Stacking her palms atop one another in the wet dirt, she lowered her
forehead to her hands to whisper a prayer into the cold, black ground.

  “My God, my God,” she rasped. “Please forgive me. Should I die this night, receive me and this innocent child, and judge this babe not on its mother’s deceit and cowardice. I ask that you bless Sybilla; be with Alys and Piers and their child—bless them in all their days.”

  Cecily swallowed. “Please bless Oliver Bellecote richly. I love him, and I realize now that it was I who was not worthy of the gift of him all along. Thank you for bringing him into my life. Guide him to be the man that he can be, and bring him happiness and love through you. Should it be your will that I die, please heal any wounds that I have caused in him, and bring him peace.”

  She paused, thinking hard about her next request.

  “And I ask that you forgive me for what I am about to do, if it is an affront to you.”

  Cecily stayed in that position, on her knees with her forehead to the ground. She was so tired, it seemed too much of an effort to move. So she simply turned her head and laid her cheek against her hands, staring into the black until the darkness seemed to swirl with shimmering color. Tears leaked silently from her eyes, sliding over the bridge of her nose, into her hairline, the shell of her ear.

  “Sybilla,” she whispered. “One, two, me and you ...”

  Chapter 25

  It was as if they had been waiting for Oliver.

  Sybilla Foxe stood in the square stone entry just inside the doors, her decrepit old shadow, Graves, at her shoulder.

  “Oliver,” she said in what sounded like a relieved sigh.

  He stepped into the entry fully, letting the guards take Father Perry’s arms and help him past the threshold.

  “Where is she, Sybilla?”

  “Didn’t John tell you? She left for—Father Perry! What are you doing here?”

  The old priest was half dragged in behind Oliver. “My lady, you must not drink any of the wine you sent to the croft last eve—I do vow that it has made me very ill. I could not so much as pull myself from my pallet this morn.”

  “What wine?” Sybilla demanded. “I sent no wine.”

  “Where is Cecily, Sybilla?” Oliver repeated. “I do have great want to speak with you about some very interesting discoveries I have made, but before that you must give me your word.”

  “Oliver, she—”

  “You will give me your word that Cecily is free to marry me,” Oliver spoke over her. “As soon as can be arranged.”

  If Sybilla was surprised at the demand, she hid it well. “Of course. But, Oliver, Cecily is not here.” She looked to the priest. “Father, who brought you the wine?”

  “Lady Cecily cannot be allowed to partake of it,” the old priest wheezed. “I fear that—”

  “Who brought it?” Sybilla all but shouted.

  Oliver stepped between Father Perry and Sybilla. “What do you mean, she’s not here?”

  “I didn’t see who left it,” Father Perry admitted in a curious tone. “There was a knock on my door late in the eve and the jug was leaning against the stoop.”

  “Sybilla!” Oliver shouted.

  “I knew I was right,” Sybilla breathed to no one in particular, and then Oliver saw the Foxe matriarch’s chest rise and fall with a deep breath. She looked at him then, her icy blue gaze seeming to bore into his skull.

  “Cecily left Fallstowe before dawn. I assumed with Father Perry, as the stable master noted two mounts missing from their stalls.”

  “Who else would she have left with?” Oliver asked.

  “Joan Barleg is also gone. Her room has been emptied, save for this.” She held up the long finger of crystal Joan had coveted so. She spoke over her shoulder. “Graves?”

  “Madam?”

  “Have Octavian saddled, as well as a fresh mount for Lord Bellecote. Call to arms a score of soldiers with torches prepared to search in the night. We will come to the stables to join with them in moments.” As the old steward turned away to do his mistress’s bidding, Sybilla Foxe looked to the guards still supporting the priest. “Take Father Perry to a room and arrange for his care from the kitchen. Also, go to the croft and search for the jug he drank from. Bring it to Cook so that she might ascertain the poison used and concoct a remedy.”

  The guards began to help Father Perry toward the stairs leading to the upper floors, but the old man was resisting. “Lady Sybilla, what do you—”

  “Go and rest, Father. Pray if you can.” She turned to Oliver. “If Joan Barleg is with her, Cecily is in great danger, Oliver. We must try to track them, to Hallowshire or wherever Joan has led her.”

  “Sybilla, Joan is not going to kill Cecily. Perhaps she was privy to some information that you and August wished to keep secret, but she was in my bed the morning August was found. You don’t know for certain that she had anything to do with his death!”

  “I do know it for certain,” Sybilla argued.

  “How could you possibly?” Oliver asked in exasperation.

  Sybilla held up the crystal again. “Because she dreamed of it every night.”

  Oliver was silenced. He swallowed. Sybilla continued.

  “This was no pretty bauble I gifted Joan with. It is a powerful dream crystal, from deep within Fallstowe’s lands. I broke off a shard and kept the mother rock for myself, giving me the opportunity to see firsthand through Joan Barleg’s eyes August’s twisted body, his tears, his pain. His last hour on earth.”

  Her voice was breaking, and so she paused. “August was to leave for Fallstowe in the early afternoon, after he had met with you. It would have been no great trick for Joan Barleg to have followed him, and then after his death, be safely returned to Bellemont before you were sober enough to realize she had not been with you the entire night.”

  Had Joan begun the evening festivities with him? Now that Oliver tried to recall, he found that the details were fuzzy. He didn’t remember.

  Sybilla continued. “Joan knows you are in love with Cecily. And if you have found what I suspect you have, only think upon the benefit for Joan Barleg had she married you, and you will understand my concern and my haste.”

  Oliver’s heart grew so cold, it felt like a block of ice in his chest. “August was dead, and I was his heir.”

  Sybilla continued quietly. “I was certain Joan was in possession of letters that I wrote to August, detailing my suggestion that you and Cecily should wed.”

  Oliver’s breath caught in his throat, causing his words to come out as a croak. “What?”

  Sybilla nodded. “Yes. You were never consulted because, frankly, August refused in no uncertain terms. I think the idea of it was why Joan would never leave your side while you recovered at Fallstowe. And then you ended up actually falling in love with Cecily any matter.”

  Oliver felt a sheen of sweat blanket his neck as he recalled every minute instance in Joan’s company while they had been at Fallstowe, every word of every exchange.

  “My God, we ruined her plans but good, did we not?”

  Sybilla nodded. “But in Joan’s mind, it is all Cecily’s fault. Joan even dreamed of the morning we found the two of you at the old ruin—I could see clearly the edge of the pit where you were lying, just inside the door. It was eating at Joan, even in her sleep.”

  “Sybilla, did Joan cause August’s death?” He knew his voice sounded pleading, but he didn’t care.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know, Oliver. I simply don’t know.”

  Oliver nodded and then swallowed hard. “Let’s go, then. Quickly, while there is still some daylight.”

  The daylight didn’t last long. No more than an hour after they had departed Fallstowe, the land was blanketed in indigo. Two mounted soldiers flanked Oliver and Sybilla as they traveled the worn road northwest, in the direction of Hallowshire.

  There had been no sign. The women had left Fallstowe more than twelve hours ago, and there was no way to discern their passing from the scores of other travelers’ marks on the packed dirt. It was assumed that nei
ther woman would stray from the road, and unless there was sign to the contrary, they could do nothing more than follow in the wake of the eighteen soldiers who rode ahead at top speed.

  “I do love her, you know,” Oliver said abruptly. “She is not simply another dalliance to me.”

  Sybilla nodded. “I know.”

  “I will never forsake her, should she have me. I vow this to you now.”

  “I know,” Sybilla repeated. “Oliver, you are more like your brother than you realize. It is widely known that you have been little more than a popinjay for much of your life, but I can’t help but think now that it was through August’s own fault. He never required anything of you.” Sybilla was quiet for a moment. “Someone very dear to me once said she had never been responsible for anything, because she’d never had anything to be responsible for.”

  “That’s very wise, I suppose,” Oliver ceded.

  “It is. And I believe it is the case with you. What care should you have for marriage when it would not benefit you? When you had scores of women throwing themselves at you, plenty of money, and no title to defend?”

  “You make it sound as though I was rather useless.”

  “Weren’t you?”

  “Yes. I suppose I was.” Oliver looked to his right, over the black hills. His jaw clenched, his teeth aching. “I was never jealous of him. I only admired him greatly. And I ... I miss him, very much.”

  “So do I,” Sybilla said quietly. “And I’m sorry that”—her words broke off in a soft gasp. Sybilla pulled abruptly on the reins of her horse.

  Oliver and the pair of soldiers also stopped. “What is it, Sybilla?”

  She held up a palm with an annoyed frown. “Shh!”

  She seemed to be listening for something, and so Oliver, too, raised his chin, quieted his breathing in the still night.