Never Love a Lord (13 page)

Read Never Love a Lord Online

Authors: Heather Grothaus

BOOK: Never Love a Lord
12.84Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“She denied her as her sister,” Sybilla clarified. “She spoke of her so . . . so coldly. As if she was a stranger. Only she never told me her name. But now I know—she named me after the woman she considered an enemy.”
Julian frowned. “But she let you assume you were named after her, and she never revealed that Sybil was not part of her given name. Surely you must take that as some sign of her consideration for you.”
Sybilla put her cheek against his chest once more, gently this time though, without the desperation of before. He could no longer see her face, and Julian didn’t like it.
“It was a little joke to her, I think,” Sybilla said in a low voice, a dark voice. “It makes sense now. She took the name Sybil out of practicality, to lend authenticity to her stolen identity as a lady. She took a family name, that of a woman who had everything my mother wanted—money, status, privilege. Those things she did eventually gain. Then when I was born, she gave that name to me.”
“I fail to see the humor in that particular joke,” Julian hedged.
“I was a reminder of her past, the time before she was a lady. Morys Foxe would be my father, though, legitimize my birth in a way that no one could go back in time and do for her, no matter how she schemed, whom she married. So I was to be known as a lady, but Mother knew the truth all along—I was no lady. I was just like her. And she gave me this name to remind her of it every day.”
Julian was silently rocked by such an insight, and infuriated at this new information about Amicia Foxe. Infuriated at himself for introducing this new pain to her.
“It means nothing,” he said, pulling her minutely closer for emphasis. “You are who you are. She could not change it then, and she cannot change it now.” He hesitated for a moment, and then said, “For what it’s worth, Sybil de Lairne seemed a lovely, lovely woman.”
“Of course she is,” Sybilla huffed. “How could she be anything but, to have saved a memento of a woman so quietly wretched and not to have sought her out through the king? She could have destroyed my mother at any time. My mother likely knew that.”
“Sybil asked me if I had met you,” Julian said, stroking Sybilla’s back now. “Of course I hadn’t yet, but even she had heard the tales of your boldness and success. We compared stories.” He felt a smile come to his mouth. Was this a dream? Was he truly comforting Sybilla Foxe in his arms? In his bed?
Her voice was uncharacteristically hesitant. “Was she appalled?”
Julian frowned, looking down at the curve of her cheek, the crescent of her ear—all of her that he could see. “Appalled? No. She was quite pleased and intrigued, I daresay.”
“I would think it to be an embarrassment to her.”
Julian took hold of her shoulder then, and held her slightly away from him so that he could look into her eyes. “How could you say such a thing? Sybilla, how could you think yourself to be an embarrassment to anyone?”
Her eyes searched his hungrily, helplessly, and it was in that instant that Julian realized how frightened Sybilla Foxe actually was. How frightened she had likely been for so long, and how alone.
“You,” he said slowly, emphatically, “are a
legend
. You are amazing. Tremendous. Brave. Strong.” He paused, swallowed. “I would be
honored
to even call you my
friend
, to proclaim that I
know
you. I would shout it from the very top of Westminster, and I would be the most envied man in England. In the
world
.”
Julian was surprised when her chin flinched, her eyes filled with tears again. He had not wanted her to cry.
“Oh, but wait,” he said quickly, pulling a disappointed face. “There is one person you have likely embarrassed deeply.”
Her brow crinkled into a frown, but her eyes held their wetness at the brim without spilling over. “Who?”
He leaned his face close so that the tip of his nose barely touched hers. “The king, I’m afraid. I’ve seen him face a score of wild rebels alone in a foreign desert, and yet he can’t bring one tiny woman to heel in his own country. Quite humiliating for such a manly monarch, wouldn’t you agree?”
Then Sybilla Foxe actually giggled. And Julian felt such relief, even as her mirth caused a rogue tear to roll down her cheek.
“I’m not a tiny woman,” she objected.
“Oh, you give the impression that you are quite intimidating,” Julian said. “But there’s really almost nothing to you. Quite small, actually.”
She gave a short gasp of outrage.
“No, really, see?” He ran the back of his fingers down her face. “This jawline—delicate.” Down her throat and over her bare shoulder, where he encircled her bicep. “Your arms, strong, but slight.” Down to the curve of her waist, stopping just shy of the crest of her hip. “Your waist, fragile. Vulnerable. Your legs, so shapely, and yet you come only to my shoulder when you stand.” He was whispering now. “I daren’t go on.”
“Why?” she whispered back, and he could see a familiar spark in her deep and glistening eyes now. A glimmer of the Sybilla he had known since coming to Fallstowe.
“Because I want to so very much,” he choked, and skimmed his hand back up her side and to her arm, where he let the pads of his fingers swirl against the perfect satin that was her skin. “And I don’t wish to become a regret to you, Sybilla.”
Her gaze never wavered from his as her palms came to the sides of his face. Slowly, keeping him pinned with the ethereal blue of her eyes, she moved her head toward his. And then her lashes fluttered against her cheeks as she slid her open mouth onto his lips.
 
 
Julian’s eyes were open when Sybilla pulled away from his mouth. She looked up at him, their eyes little more than a hand’s-breadth apart, and she knew her desire had to be washed plainly over her face.
“Holy God, woman,” he rasped. “Sybilla, you must know, I cannot in good conscience take you when you have been so recently distraught.” The words seemed to dangle between them in the humid chill of the room.
“But?” Sybilla dared, looking at his mouth, unable now to look away from it, hungering for the taste of him on her tongue once more.
“But I am at your mercy,” he confessed, and even as he spoke he drew her even nearer to him, until her flesh was pressed against him, into him. “I beg you, have pity on me.”
His plea seemed anything but helpless, the fire in his amber eyes warming the skin of her face, and Sybilla could not slow her heartbeat. She didn’t want to. And she knew fully that it was not Julian Griffin who was at anyone’s mercy now.
“Pity you?” she said, unable to stop herself from reaching out her tongue and tasting him once more, just the slightest flick. “Julian—oh, Julian—how could I pity you when I can’t stop thinking of the things I want you to do to my body right now?”
She felt his sharp intake of breath before he said, “If they are even a shade of the things I want to do to your body, perhaps you should have pity on yourself.”
And then he rolled over on top of her, covering her chilled body with his own, pressing her head back into the mattress as his mouth descended on hers. Sybilla was lost in the hunger his kiss stirred in her, a deep, primitive want unlike any she had ever felt for a man before. It was vulnerable, frightening, consuming, and because she was so afraid of this cavernous depth of passion, she entered headlong into it, meeting it on the battlefield of Julian Griffin’s bed.
“Love me now, Julian,” she demanded in a mumble against his mouth when he drew away for a gasp of air. His right hand found her breast, stroked it too gently, making her squirm into him.
“Now?” he said in a taunting whisper. “Oh no, my lady. Not yet. Not for a while.” He kissed her hard, with a closed mouth, and only for an instant before drawing away completely and getting up from the bed.
Sybilla had no time to voice her outrage at his departure before he had seized her ankles and dragged her to the edge of the bed. Then he leaned over and lifted her from the mattress, throwing her over his shoulder. She gave a shrieking laugh.
“Julian! What are you doing?” His body turned with a jerk into a semicircle and then she was flying back through the air, bouncing as she landed on the sheet of the mattress, the coverlet still in his hand billowing up from the bed.
“What few clothes you are wearing will be off of you in a moment, and I don’t wish for you to catch cold.” His grin was pure sin and Sybilla caught her lower lip in her teeth and bit down as she watched him. He looked so delicious, she wanted to sink her teeth into his chest.
“My clothes?” she teased as he crawled onto the bed toward her. “Why, whatever for?”
“Because . . .” He reached her, pulling the coverlet up to their shoulders and then sliding his hand down her stomach. Down, down . . . He kissed her lightly. “I’m going to make love to you.” He kissed her again, and his hand slid into the junction of her legs. He pulled up firmly. “And make love to you.” Again he kissed her, and then he spoke against her mouth while he dragged up the hem of her thin gown to touch her bare skin. “And make it, and make it, and make it.”
Sybilla cried out in the back of her throat as he tortured her, and then her hands found his skin, and she sought to absorb him with her palms against his chest, his broad, sculpted shoulders. He was so warm, golden, as if he radiated sunshine, his muscles rounded and hard, the goodness of his body dripping like honey onto her skin.
She could barely hold on to her peak as he drove her, and so she ran her own hand down his front, into the loosened waistband of his pant, opening it until she had him firmly in her grip. The conflicting sensations of velvety softness and iron-hard length were heady, and when Julian Griffin gave voice to his own moan, Sybilla took her chance.
“Love me now,” she demanded against his jaw, and tightened her fingers for emphasis before sliding her palm against him. “Now, Julian.”
Then his hand was gone from between her legs, and in a moment the fingers of his right hand gripped her cheeks. He leaned close to her face, staring into her eyes. Her knees were open beneath the heavy coverlet, her gown around her waist.
“No,” he growled. His fingers tightened as he shifted his hips and she felt the length of him high up on her thigh, so close. “You may be used to getting your way, Sybilla Foxe, but not here, not with me. You asked for this, and I will oblige you, lady, but I will do to you what I please, when I want to do it.” He moved his hips again, and the tip of him touched her.
He spoke against her lips, puckered in his grip. “Do you understand me?” And then he was almost in her.
Sybilla let go then, going over the edge, her body grasping for him, her hips arching as she cried, “Yes, Julian.”
And when she was back from her journey over the edge of the world, his touch gentled. He moved over her, stroking her face, kissing her lips so softly, licking her, murmuring his praise. Then he slid into her aching flesh, still pulsing around him, and he began to push her toward oblivion again.
And again.
And again.
Neither one of them saw his chamber door open slightly in the small hours of dawn. They didn’t see the still shadow that was the brief witness to their continued passion. And they did not see the door shut again slowly, silently.
Chapter 14
Julian knew he was smiling before his eyes even opened. And he also knew that Sybilla Foxe would not be next to him.
He turned his head on the pillow and opened his eyes. He was alone in his bed, but he could still smell the scent of her on the linens where she’d lain. Where she’d loved him, and let him love her until nearly dawn. He sighed and looked back to the beamed ceiling.
This was a dangerous game, for both of them. He’d never wanted a woman more in his life, and now that he’d had Sybilla Foxe, he felt that his hunger had grown rather than been satisfied. He wanted her at his disposal, wanted access to her thoughts, her feelings, the innermost sanctum of her soul where the true woman dwelt, forgetting the tales and the rumors and the vivid portrait painted by gossip and history.
But he was here on a mission for his king, his friend, and upon the successful dispatch of his duties, Julian would be rewarded with the one thing that Sybilla Foxe held most dear—what she was willing to sacrifice heaven for: Fallstowe.
And what would Edward think, should he discover that Julian had become intimate with the accused? Julian knew one of the main reasons Edward had selected him for the mission was the assumption that Julian would not be swayed by the Foxe matriarch’s legendary wiles. He’d just lost Cateline four months ago; he had an infant daughter to think of. He would not risk returning a failure and jeopardizing his and Lucy’s future.
Would he?
No. No, if he returned a failure, they all lost: Edward would withdraw his offer of Fallstowe and likely turn Julian out, and Sybilla would lose her home any matter. The monarch was out for blood now, and he would not be denied any longer. But . . .
Could there be a future at Fallstowe for Julian, Lucy, and Sybilla? Could Sybilla trust him enough to let him be her witness to the king, to lay bare all the information the king sought, and then counter the king for the castle and the lady? Perhaps if he told her that Fallstowe would fall to him. Perhaps she would see that there was a chance to retain her home.
But then Julian would never know. He would never know if she had stayed only for Fallstowe.
Does it matter?
he asked himself angrily. You cannot keep it from her any longer, especially now. If she chooses Fallstowe, she also chooses you. Sybilla is not Cateline. You no longer need a woman to legitimize you. Instead of marriage saving you, you would be saving Sybilla Foxe.
But there was Lucy to think of. Sybilla Foxe would become his daughter’s mother, and Sybilla had been very forthright in her feelings toward offspring. Julian would not have his daughter subjected to the disinterest of an ambivalent maternal figure. Lucy needed love. She deserved to be loved, thoroughly, madly, completely, for who she was.
So did Sybilla Foxe.
Julian sighed again and then threw the covers off his body, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed with a groan. He felt muscles he hadn’t remembered he possessed. One half of the louvered shutter on the window across the room stood open, and Julian saw the bright countryside beyond.
It was a new day. A new life, perhaps.
He got up and washed and dressed quickly, making his way down the long spiral stairs and through the corridors to the great hall. Murrin was sitting at one of the common tables with Lucy, and they seemed to be in easy conversation with one of the maids, a woman standing between the tables with a bucket in her hand, her hair wrapped in a banded coif. When the servant saw Julian approaching, she bobbed a curtsy and quickly took her leave.
“Good morning, darling,” Julian said, and Lucy’s little capped head immediately swiveled to the sound of his voice, a happy squeal coming from her. She pushed at the table top with her heels as if trying to stand, her little fists pumping the air. Julian took her from the table, swooping her up in the air before bringing her back to sit high on his arm.
Then Julian looked at the nursemaid, who had stood when he took charge of his daughter. “Good morning, Murrin. How did she do last night?” he asked, noting the woman’s pale face and shadowed eyes.
“Good morn, milord. About the same as before, I’m afraid,” the woman answered, trying to stifle a yawn. “I almost expected you again last night. ’Tis well that you weren’t awakened by her cries.”
Julian felt a pang of guilt. He couldn’t very well confess that he’d actually gotten very little sleep because he had been entertaining Lady Foxe in his bedchamber.
“It’s most likely that she’s getting used to the strange surroundings,” Julian said mildly, smiling into Lucy’s face as she smacked at his cheek. “I’m certain she will become accustomed to it right away.” He looked back to Murrin and noticed the woman’s pinched brow and flushed cheeks. “Are you feeling unwell, Murrin?”
“I’m fine, milord,” the woman said, her eyes darting to the side. “Only weary. I’ll have me a good rest when Lady Lucy takes her morning lie-down.”
“Very good,” Julian said, but he continued to look at the nurse closely. “You will tell me, though, if you begin to feel ill. A sickness is making the rounds through Fallstowe’s staff, and we can’t have Lucy catching it. I’d have to send you back to London.”
“Oh!” Murrin gasped, her face slack. “Lord Griffin!”
“It would only be a precaution,” Julian assured her. “The king’s doctors would have you well within a fortnight. I don’t know what resources Lady Foxe has at her disposal here, and I would not tax her already burdened hospitality. You would return, of course, as soon as you were recovered. I don’t know what Lucy and I would do without you.”
“I understand, milord,” Murrin said stiffly, lifting her chin as if already willing herself against illness.
“And now, Lady Lucy, will you do me the honor of accompanying me through Fallstowe in search of the lady of the keep?” He looked from the baby to the nurse. “She said yes,” he said in a mock whisper. At Murrin’s smile, Julian turned toward the main aisle. “I’ll have her returned when she is hungry. Seek your own rest, Murrin.”
“Yes, milord.”
He was nearly to the short flight of steps leading to the main doors when old Graves seemed to materialize out of the shadows.
“Can I be of assistance, Lord Griffin?”
“Good morning, Graves,” Julian said. “I still need to speak with you privately about the matter I’ve brought in trust from the king, old chap, but it can wait until later. Actually, now I’m looking for Lady Sybilla. Do you know where she can be found?”
Graves cocked one sparse eyebrow. “Isn’t that my job, my lord?”
“Yes.” Julian waited, and the man simply stood there, staring at him like a dusty old statue. “Graves?”
He blinked solicitously. “Yes, Lord Griffin?”
“I want you to tell me where Lady Sybilla is.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t hear my knock this morning, did you, my lord?”
Julian frowned and, against his will, swallowed. “No, I must not have.” Had the corpse come to his chamber this morning? Had he encountered his mistress there?
“Did you also not hear me inform Madam that there has been more sickness discovered in the castle and that she was needed right away?”
Hell. Bloody hell. “No. I didn’t.”
“Perhaps a lack of trousers affects my lord’s hearing?”
Lucy obviously took offense. “Bah!” she said loudly at Graves, and then ducked her face against Julian’s shoulder.
“Is that so, Lady Lucy?” Graves asked with interest.
Julian had had enough of the servant’s evasiveness. “I’ll return Lucy to her nurse and go to her at quarantine.”
Graves frowned. “Are you feeling ill, my lord?”
“No, Graves, I’m quite fine. I only wish to see if I might aid Lady Sybilla.”
“Then my lordship would be better off to seek Madam’s solar.”
“Is that where she is?” Julian nearly shouted.
Graves sniffed. “Where else would she be this time of the morning?”
Julian growled at the steward and turned on his heel to head back through the hall. Murrin was already gone from the table, and so he and Lucy had no audience save Graves when they ducked through the hidden door behind Sybilla’s table.
“Let this be a lesson to you, my darling,” Julian murmured as he stepped into the corridor. “That dusty old man? The perfect example of loyalty gone very awry.”
 
 
Sybilla was tired.
She sat in one corner of an upholstered couch, her fist against her temple as she perused the open ledger on her lap that chronicled the roster of Fallstowe’s staff, food stores that had been consumed, and deliveries of goods, trying to make sense of the sickness that was rapidly eating its way through the castle.
Four more this morn. It could be nothing. It could be the plague that Julian had mentioned seeing in London. Sybilla had instituted the precaution of ordering the soldiers to sequester themselves, though. They could not very well defend themselves if all of Fallstowe’s fighting men were abed with disease.
She sighed and closed her dusty-feeling eyes. Was it in her mind to defend herself still? Against whom—the king or Julian Griffin?
He had saved her last night, from her own bed, her own horrible thoughts, and for a few short hours, from her own life. Her body, fatigued though it was, still felt the electrifying charge of his lovemaking. It was as if she had been touched by lightning and her skin still crawled with rolling white light.
She’d had him now. It was over. She should feel satisfied and ready to move on with a plan to extricate herself from this most dire situation. The only problem was that she had no plan now. Sharing her body with Julian Griffin seemed to have exploded any sense of autonomy she had ever possessed. She found herself wondering what he would do, what he would tell the king. Although he’d said he wouldn’t lie for her, he had promised to stand by her, help her.
How? The truth he had was devastating, and would only ensure the king’s judgment upon her. And what Sybilla knew, she had promised to never tell.
If she told now, she would be like
her
. Like Amicia.
Sybilla had not been very surprised that Graves had managed to locate her in the early morning hours in the tower room. And she had not been surprised when he had failed to make any mention whatsoever of her presence in Julian Griffin’s bed. Graves was very familiar with Sybilla’s encounters with the men she chose. And he was also very familiar with her habit of singularity.
Graves knew that Sybilla would not be revisiting a night of passion with the king’s envoy. There was no need to mention it, and certainly no need to chastise her over consorting with the enemy.
Is he your enemy?
she asked herself suddenly.
Could he not become your ally?
Before she could explore that mad notion further, a swift rap sounded on the solar door. She had no time to bid her visitor enter before the door opened and Julian Griffin stepped into the room, his infant in his arms.
She tried not to notice the skipping of her heart.
“Good morning,” he said with a slow smile, pushing the door only partly closed behind him.
Sybilla closed the ledger in her lap and set it on the far side of the table, then reached for her cup of tea—ice-cold now, but it gave her hands a task.
“Good morning. Lady Lucy,” she said, acknowledging the child before she took a sip.
“I had the pleasure of encountering Graves in the great hall. He told me that there have been more victims to sickness.” He walked to the far end of the couch and took a seat, setting the child on one thigh. The baby weaved drunkenly on his leg, staring at her interestedly.
Sybilla returned her cup to the table. “Yes. Many more and I shall have to quarantine the entire castle.” She met his eyes directly for the first time, and was unsettled by the intimate way his gaze regarded her.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” he asked. “I could have helped you.”
“It’s not your responsibility,” Sybilla said coolly.
Julian frowned. “That’s an odd thing to say after last night.”
Sybilla laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Why? We shared a bed together once. Now you somehow have a role in the keeping of my home? My home for the time being, any matter.”
“I thought perhaps we might consider each other friends now.”
“Lord Griffin”—Sybilla sighed and mustered all of her aloofness—“thank you for your comfort last night. I apologize for my state—I was under a great deal of duress from the information you presented me with yesterday. Your company helped to distract me from my own darkness, and I do appreciate it. I hope, though, that you don’t take it as a sign that we are now fast allies.”
“Then what are we, Sybilla?” Julian asked, and moved Lucy to sit between them on the couch when she squirmed.
“I don’t know.” She looked down at the child, whose little face rested against the plush upholstery, turned up toward Sybilla, regarding her with wide eyes. Sybilla had the urge to reach out and run a finger over the curve of that soft-looking cheek. “You must resemble your mother, Lady Lucy,” she said softly.

Other books

Words Will Break Cement by Masha Gessen
The Taste of Night by R.L. Stine
Starling by Fiona Paul
Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha by Roddy Doyle
Murder Comes First by Frances and Richard Lockridge
The Ninth Configuration by William Peter Blatty
S. by John Updike
Obsession (Forbidden #2) by Michelle Betham