Never Kiss A Stranger (36 page)

“I know I do,” Alys said softly.

After a long, peaceful silence, Piers said, “On our return, I would go to Ira’s town. See who would join us at Gillwick.”

“I think that is a wonderful idea,” Alys said firmly.

“It will be more difficult than just that,” Piers said, and Alys could hear his doubt. “There are so many, and Gillwick is modest. I don’t know how I will house them all, how much strain Gillwick’s coffers can withstand.”

“Worry not about it, husband,” Alys said, squeezing his arms to her, snuggling her head into the pillow and closing her eyes with a sleepy yawn. “We’ll visit Sybilla en route to Gillwick.”

Piers was quiet for a moment before he gave a wary, “Why?”

“Besides the fact that I carry the king’s message, you still have to claim my dowry,” Alys murmured. “I’m certain Sybilla will have it ready for us when we arrive. It is quite a large amount.”

Piers gave a disbelieving huff. Then he kissed Alys near her ear. “I will do whatever I can to help your family,” he said. “I’ve never had one before. Barring an act of outright
treason, I will stand with Fallstowe when the king sends his man.”

“I know,” Alys said quietly. Her eyes were open once more, and she was staring out the window. “I know you will, my love.”

But there was much Alys had failed to ask Sybilla in all their years as sisters. The eldest daughter had kept her mother’s secrets well, but if the Foxe matriarch was to survive the king’s wrath, she would have to learn to trust someone other than herself.

Alys did not know if she honestly wanted to learn the truth.

Edward was coming for Sybilla, true, but that meant sweet Cecily was also at risk. The sooner Alys’s quiet, pious middle sister was safely ensconced in her beloved nunnery, the better.

She closed her eyes again. No matter now. She had her husband, and at his side, they could do anything. Anything at all. She was drifting off to sleep now.

“I love you, Piers,” she murmured.

“Love you, my woman.” He kissed her temple.

That night Alys dreamed of sweet music, and her mother, and her husband’s babies. And she dreamed of Fallstowe—beautiful, grand Fallstowe.

Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Heather Grothaus’s

NEVER SEDUCE A SCOUNDREL,
coming soon from Zebra Books!

February 1277
Fallstowe Castle, England

Cecily Foxe was fairly certain she was going to hell.

She had been standing alone for the better part of two hours following the lavish supper, struggling to maintain a serene expression while she watched the revelers and their atrocious behavior. It was proving increasingly difficult. Men drank so heartily and hastily that the fronts of their tunics were dark with wine, and most women recklessly attempted to match pace with them. Unmarried couples danced, although the lewd displays of bodies touching so intimately could hardly be defined as such a supposedly innocent activity.

Cecily bristled as she watched even the least of the nobility, the humble, the homely, the meek, carry on with members of the opposite sex. Even poor Lady Angelica, who had a lazy eye and spat upon anyone unfortunate enough to be engaged in conversation with her, was being twirled about Fallstowe’s great hall with sordid abandon. Cecily had
clearly seen the young man currently in possession of Lady Angelica unabashedly grasp the woman’s breast.

Only Cecily stood alone.

No one had asked her to dance. No young lord dare come near and whisper lurid suggestions to her, proposing they steal away from the hall for an hour of private sin. She was a lady of Fallstowe, wealthy beyond comprehension, powerful by her connection to Sybilla, perhaps even wanted as a criminal by the crown. Unmarried. Both her eyes pointed in the same direction and she kept her saliva properly in her mouth when speaking.

And yet they all simply pretended she wasn’t there.

To everyone who knew her—nay, even knew
of
her—she was Saint Cecily. Middle daughter of Amicia and Morys Foxe. Slated for a life of quiet, gentle sacrifice. Although she had yet to formally commit to the convent, Cecily already fulfilled many of the obligations put upon one under holy orders. Up to even the wee hours of that very morn, she had assisted Father Perry in the countless and tedious preparations for the Candlemas feast, and in general, she looked over Fallstowe’s charitable responsibilities, tending the ill and dying, duteously prayed the liturgy of the hours.

Most of them, any matter.

She seldom raised her voice in a passion of any nature. She did not lie, nor indulge in gossip. She was obedient to her older sister, Sybilla, the head of the family now that both of their parents were dead. She was not ostentatious in either dress or temperament, preferring to wear costumes so closely akin to the habits of the committed that strangers to the hold often greeted her with a deferential incline of their heads and a murmured, “God’s blessing upon you, Sister.”

Cecily knew she was admired and even revered for her
restraint and decorum. She was not outwardly bold, like young Alys, seen now dancing gaily with her new husband in the middle of the crush of guests. She was not obviously ambitious like the eldest, Sybilla, who ruled Fallstowe with a delicate iron fist. Cecily had spent the greater part of her score and two years carefully cultivating her gentle qualities. Molding herself to them.

And yet, at that very moment, her supposedly meek heart was so full of discord, she was quite surprised that she had not already burst into flames where she stood.

The dancers continued to whirl past, little carousels of gaiety and color around massive iron cauldrons which blazed with fires fed by the brown and brittle swags of evergreen and holly that had festooned Fallstowe’s great hall since Christmas. Although the blessed candles burned in their posts, the remainder of the celebration was largely pagan, bidding farewell to the barren winter while at once beckoning to the fertile light of spring. Cecily knew that her elder sister had purposefully sought to emphasize the heathen aspect of the celebration—unfortunately, Sybilla seemed to thrive on wicked rumor.

The Foxe matriarch herself weaved through the crowd now, both adoration and jealousy following close at her heels as she made her way toward Cecily. The men hungered for Sybilla—those few who’d once held her let their eyes blatantly show the aching memories of their hearts, and the many who had not been honored with the privilege of her bed pursued her without care for their pride. Sybilla was powerful, desirable; Cecily was not.

As if to emphasize this point, Cecily again caught a glimpse of the primary object of her bitterness.

Oliver Bellecote.

He could have been your husband,
a wicked little voice whispered in her ear.

“Hello, darling.” Sybilla had at last fought her way through the pulsating throng to stand at Cecily’s side, her slender arm pulling the two sisters together at the hip. “I would have thought you to be abed an hour ago.”

Cecily was careful to keep her tone light. “This may well be my last feast at Fallstowe, Sybilla. I would remember it.”

Sybilla gave her sister’s waist a gentle squeeze, but did not comment on Cecily’s reference to Hallowshire Abbey. The two women observed the debauchery that ruled the supposedly holy day feast in silence for several moments. Then Oliver Bellecote whirled past once more, causing Cecily to lose control of her suddenly wicked tongue.

“I am quite surprised to see him,” she said, thankful that, at least, her tone was casual.

“Who? Oliver?” Cecily felt more than saw Sybilla’s shrug. After a moment, she said quietly, “I suppose I must call him Lord Bellecote, now.”

Cecily’s heart thudded faster in her chest, and her indignation made pulling in her next breath difficult. “August has not been dead a month, and yet he is here—still behaving as if he hasn’t a care in the world or one whit of responsibility. It’s indecent and disrespectful. To his brother and to you.”

Sybilla drew away slightly, and Cecily could feel her sister’s frosty blue gaze light the side of her face. Cecily’s ear practically tingled. She hadn’t meant for her comment to come out that way at all.

“I am not offended by Oliver’s presence, Cee, nor by him enjoying himself at Fallstowe. Although ‘tis no secret that Oliver oft exasperated him, August loved his younger brother. And Oliver loved August.”

Cecily turned to look at Sybilla, the question out before she could restrain herself. “Did
you
love August?”

For the briefest instant, Sybilla’s lips thinned and a fleeting fire came into her eyes. But then it was gone, replaced by a washed out melancholy that wrenched at Cecily’s heart.

“No, Cee. I did not,” she admitted as she turned her attention back to the crowd, now dispersing from the center of the hall as the music came to an end. The guests seemed only able to communicate in shouts and shrill laughter that sounded to Cecily like tortured screams. Yet she heard her sister’s low murmurs as if the two women stood alone in a cupboard. “I’m certain you pity me now.”

“No, not pity,” Cecily insisted. “I only worry for you. I was with the two of you the last time August was at Fallstowe, Sybilla—I remember.”

“As do I.” Sybilla’s eyes scanned the crowd disinterestedly. “I told him not to come back.”

“You didn’t mean it, though.”

“Oh, but I did,” Sybilla argued, quickly but with her signature coolness. “And now he never
will
come back. Now Oliver is Lord of Bellemont, a position I know from his brother that he never wanted, and is perhaps ill-equipped to fill. Oliver deserves a final farewell to his carefree existence before he truly dons the mantle of responsibility over such a large hold. Perhaps he’ll marry Lady Joan Barleg now—Bellemont needs heirs.” She paused as if thinking, and when she again spoke her voice was low. “It gladdens me to see him at Fallstowe.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Sybilla.” Cecily had forgotten her selfish pity at the thought that she had caused her sister to relive such sad memories. “You did nothing to cause August’s death. ‘Twas a terrible accident, and that is all.”

“Hmm. Well, perhaps you should pray for my soul, any matter.”

Cecily tore her gaze away from her sister’s pale, enigmatic
profile as the dancers reformed at the opening notes of the next piece. “I do hope he
does
marry Lady Joan,” she said abruptly. “He’s been toying about with the poor girl for the past year. She must be completely humiliated. Are they already betrothed?”

Sybilla chuckled. “Oliver took nothing from Joan Barleg that she didn’t freely offer him, and now that he’s Lord of Bellemont, she has chance to better her station immensely. Had Oliver been firstborn instead of August, Lady Joan would have had little chance of winning him.” A faint smile remained on her lips. “You likely don’t remember, but there was talk of a betrothal between you and Oliver when you were children.”

Cecily indeed remembered, but she gripped her tongue between her teeth painfully. Should Sybilla continue to goad her so, Cecily would end up as Lady Angelica, spitting her words rather than speaking them.

Sybilla continued in a bored tone when Cecily gave no comment. “It would be quite the
coup d’etat
for Joan. But I have heard no formal announcement from either of them as of yet, so who can know?”

As if their talk had summoned him, Oliver Bellecote himself slid between a pair of dancers, becoming momentarily entangled in their arms. The three shared a raucous laugh as he extracted himself with a lewd pinch to the woman’s buttock, his chalice held high above his head to preserve the wine contained within. Cecily felt her diaphragm shrivel up uncomfortably at his approach.

Then he was before them both, bowing drunkenly, his lips crooked in a cocky grin beneath the close shadow on his face. His brown eyes were like muddy pools powdered with gold dust—dark and dirty and deep, the bright sparkle hiding what lay beneath. His thick black lashes
clustered like reedy sentries, both beckoning and guarding at once.

“Lady Sybilla,” he sighed, drawing up Sybilla’s hand beneath his face and kissing the back of her palm loudly three times.

Cecily rolled her eyes and sighed.

Sybilla only laughed. “Lord Bellecote, you flatter me.”

He should have risen then. Instead, he dropped to one knee, pulling Sybilla’s hand to his bosom and then lowering his chin awkwardly to kiss her fingers once more before raising his slender, strikingly handsome face to gaze adoringly at Cecily’s sister.

“Lady Sybilla Foxe, my most gorgeous, tempting hostess! Won’t you marry me?”

Cecily gasped.

Sybilla threw back her head and laughed even louder, and although it was likely only the candlelight and smoke, Cecily thought she saw a glistening of tears in Sybilla’s eyes.

“Is that a no?” Oliver asked, feigning shock.

“Guard your honor well, Lady Sybilla!” a female’s gay shout rang out, and Cecily looked up in time to see the comely Joan Barleg skip past them in the arms of her dance partner, her golden curls spilling recklessly from her simple crispinette. She looked so carefree and … at ease. Cecily’s spine stiffened further.

Sybilla gave the woman a wink, and raised a palm in acknowledgement. She then looked back down at the still-kneeling Oliver Bellecote.

“It is a no,” she affirmed.

To Cecily’s horror, Oliver Bellecote gave a horrendous wail—as if he’d been shot with an arrow—and then collapsed fully onto his back, the drink inside his chalice still miraculously maintaining the level.

“I am crushed!
Defeated!”
he shouted in mock agony. Several guests were now pointing and laughing at the display he presented on the stones. He raised his head abruptly, took a noisy swallow, and then looked at Sybilla. “Will you at least sleep with me then? Completely inappropriate, I know, considering our very slight degree of separation, but I fear I am now considered quite eligible.”

“Oh, this is truly too much,” Cecily gritted out from between her teeth. Her cheeks felt as if they were on fire.

Sybilla cocked her head and gave him a sympathetic smile. “Sorry, Oliver.”