Never Seduce A Scoundrel Read online

  “I have difficulty believing my brother agreed to this,” Oliver said, motioning again with the page in his hand.

  “He agreed to the mustering at Midsummer, of course,” Argo offered. “And although I am certain the king’s other motives were alluded to in the summons sent last year, Lord August never gave mention to it.”

  “If only our ambitious monarch knew I was reading his directive within the very walls of the treasure he covets. He would be either very, very pleased, or quite put out.”

  Argo nodded. “Will you respond?”

  “Eventually.” Oliver crushed the missive in his hand as he grasped the edge of the coverlet. He held his breath and then threw the covers back. “I do hope that satchel contains breeches, Argo.” Oliver braced himself again and then pulled in his abdominal muscles and sat up in bed, swinging his leg around in the same motion.

  His breath hissed out of him and the blood pulsed, roared in his arm, behind his eyes, in his ears. When the crashing pain at last ebbed to a fog, he opened his eyes. A pair of breeches hung in front of his face, draped over the steward’s forearm, and in the man’s other hands were Oliver’s favorite, worn boots, God bless him.

  “If my lord will allow me?” Argo asked solicitously, and then dropped to one knee to begin assisting Oliver to dress.

  Oliver found himself very thankful indeed that his brother had only ever employed the very best of men.

  Once he was standing and properly clothed—for the first time in days—Oliver took a moment to grasp the bedpost and give his head the opportunity to stop spinning, the blood to stop throwing itself up against the backs of his eyes. In spite of the dizziness, the fiery throbbing of his right bicep, it felt bloody good to be on his feet again.

  And the thought did cross his mind that Cecily would no longer be able to run away from him quite so easily now that he could give chase. But before he could track her down and demand a proper explanation for her mad display upon Joan’s arrival, he intended to speak to Sybilla.

  Argo followed him to the great hall without a word of either caution or encouragement when Oliver was forced to stop several times and lean his left shoulder against the stone walls of the corridors for support. His right arm throbbed like black hell, each beat of his heart sending a shower of fiery arrows through his veins. Dizziness came and went, like clouds across the sun, pebbling his skin with cold sweat. By the time he had descended the final flight of steps to enter the large, stone-buttressed room, he felt as though he had walked the entire way to London.

  The great hall was not crowded this evening; mayhap only two score common folk peppered the benches snugged up to the long tables on the main floor. Oliver was uncertain that he had ever been to the large castle without the benefit of some celebration or another, and the orderly calm in the cavernous room felt strange to him. Hundreds of candles and bale fires had been replaced with small, plain candelabras. Countless huge round iron fixtures hung on long black chains from a dark, invisible ceiling. Oliver knew that if each were lit with their own score of candles the hall would be as bright as midday, but the only two presently alight were above the center aisle and over Sybilla Foxe’s table.

  They cast Cecily Foxe in a soft glow.

  Oliver lurched gingerly down that center aisle, noticing grimly and too late the curious stares and whispers he drew from the diners at the tables he passed by. Self-consciously he reached up with his left hand to smooth his hair—an old, prideful habit, he knew—and was dismayed to feel the coarse hedgerows that were sprung up on his scalp. Any matter, she had already seen him at his worst.

  Sybilla had caught sight of him as soon as he’d stepped from the stairwell, and the slightest motion of her hand had produced a quartet of servants. By the time Oliver and Argo reached the front of the hall, a place had been neatly laid for him at Joan Barleg’s elbow, as well as a trencher for Argo at the front-most common table. As he glanced at Cecily yet again—she who would not meet his eyes—Oliver noticed the strange, seemingly decorative centerpiece of the Foxe matriarch’s table: a large, milky, crystal cluster, seeming to sit in its own stone bowl in front of the lady’s place.

  Oliver bowed. “I beg pardon, my lady, for interrupting your meal.”

  “Nonsense, Lord Bellecote,” Sybilla said with a cool, nearly nonexistent smile. “You are always welcome at my table. I am glad that you are well enough to join us.”

  “In truth, I had no intention of eating,” Oliver began, and he couldn’t help his eyes going to Cecily again. Her gaze was fastened firmly on the tabletop before her face, her hands disappeared somewhere on her lap.

  “You missed me so much already?” Joan sighed sweetly. “How romantic, Oliver! I am flattered.”

  He looked to the blond woman only briefly before finding Sybilla once more. “I need to speak with you, my lady.”

  “After supper, Oliver,” Sybilla said with easy dismissiveness. “Unlike some, I do have an intention of eating.”

  Oliver doubted as much, as the woman’s silver platter clearly displayed a wealth of food completely undisturbed.

  Sybilla continued. “And I am very much enjoying the entertaining company of your own Lady Joan. Do sit. We shall discuss later whatever it is you find of enough import to challenge your injuries to be at my side. The stew is quite good tonight, wouldn’t you agree, Cee?”

  Cecily gave a nearly inaudible clearing of her throat. “Yes, Sybilla. Quite good.”

  Sybilla raised her eyebrows toward him as if to say See?

  “I’m certain it’s delicious,” Oliver said. “But, Lady Sybilla, my man from Bellemont has—”

  “Later, Lord Bellecote,” Sybilla said.

  He shook his head. “Sybilla, hear me—”

  Her eyes went to his then, and her gaze was like a sword, cutting off his argument. Oliver thought he saw a kind of odd plea behind her hard facade.

  “I already know all about what it is you’ve come to tell me, and I can assure you that it is not the great concern you think it to be. There are more pressing matters to be attended to first.”

  “You can’t possibly know,” Oliver argued. The damned stubborn woman!

  She stared at him. “Supper, Lord Bellecote.”

  “Very well.” He bowed stiffly, his jaw clenched, and then made his way slowly down the long table to step onto the dais and take his seat next to Joan.

  “I can see that being an invalid does not agree with your humor at all,” Joan chirped brightly as he sat down. “Why, I don’t believe I’ve ever been witness to Oliver Bellecote turning away from platter and full cup before! And besides, we were just discussing the fascinating gift Lady Sybilla received today. Look, Oliver—by her ladyship’s plate!”

  Oliver glanced at the cluster of stones again and growled acknowledgment.

  “It’s a—a dream crystal. Is that right, Lady Sybilla?” At Sybilla’s slight nod, Joan continued. “Found right on Fallstowe lands! Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Oliver could feel Cecily’s pull from the other end of the table, as if her physical presence was drawing him to her. He had to steel himself not to lean back in his chair and crane his neck to try to catch a glimpse of her.

  “It’s lovely,” he muttered.

  “Oh, don’t be so crossed and nasty!” Joan laughed as she swatted playfully at the air near his shoulder. Then she thankfully turned toward Sybilla again. “Please go on, my lady. You were speaking about the legend?”

  The screech of wood on stone interrupted the request, and Oliver saw the top of Cecily’s hair appear beyond where Sybilla sat.

  “I’m sorry, but do you mind, Sybilla? I still have things to gather if I am to leave at first light.”

  Oliver’s heart stopped, and he could not help himself when he nearly shouted, “Leave? Leave where? Where are you going?”

  Two female faces swung around to look at him curiously. Unfortunately, Cecily’s was not one of them.

  “She’s my nurse,” he stammered on any matter, feeling his f
ace heat like some green lad’s before his first pair of breasts. “And as I fear I’m yet quite unwell, she can’t simply leave!”

  Cecily did look at him then, but Joan Barleg’s merry laugh caused her to turn quickly away.

  “Oh, Oliver! So dramatous!” Joan sighed happily. “Although I’m certain it offends your sense of entitlement, Fallstowe’s angel has more souls under her care than just yours.”

  For the first time in his life, Oliver longed to slap a woman. As she was seated on his left, he would be forced to give her the back of his hand, and he would likely have to strike her with some force to gain any sort of accuracy, but one must work with the tools one was given.

  “Go on, Cee,” Sybilla said. “And have Graves fix a large purse for you—it’s been a hard winter.”

  Cecily smiled at the diners at Sybilla’s table, but her eyes did not find Oliver’s. “Good night to you, Lady Joan, Lord Bellecote.” She turned away.

  “Wait! Where are you—?” But she was already gone from the dais and disappeared through a little door disguised in the back wall, so that Oliver could only lean forward to demand of Sybilla, “Where is she going?”

  “Lady Cecily accompanies our priest on a round through the villages once a moon. She has a knack for healing, as you are already aware, and so she takes medicines and food to the poor and ill. Never fear, Lord Bellecote, your nurse will be returned to you. Most likely. I am certain you will survive in the meantime.”

  Although her words were matter-of-fact, Oliver clearly heard the undertone of caution in Sybilla Foxe’s explanation.

  Joan Barleg, however, obviously sensed no such thing. “Such a noble woman of charity!” she exclaimed admiringly, and then leaned closer to Oliver to whisper huskily, “Although I am not as accomplished in the art of healing as dear Lady Cecily, I think I can bring you some relief from your discomfort until her return.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Joan,” he began between clenched teeth, but his lecture was cut off by Sybilla Foxe, speaking as if the interruption of Oliver’s arrival and her sister’s departure had never been.

  “Yes, it is known to some as a dream crystal. Supposedly very powerful,” she said in a bored tone. She reached out an arm and stroked one of the points with a slender finger. “The dreamer only needs place a piece of the stone under her pillow to see all that she most desires come true.”

  Joan gasped. “Verily, Lady Sybilla?”

  Sybilla withdrew her arm and shrugged, as if she could not have cared less.

  “Have you ... have you ever tried one?” Joan pressed in an anxious whisper.

  “Oh, when I was a young girl, I did, I suppose,” Sybilla said. She paused, turned her head slowly to look at Joan. “Do you fancy a piece of it?”

  Oliver thought Joan Barleg would swallow her tongue, and he was rather disappointed that she did not.

  “Truly?”

  “Of course,” Sybilla said smoothly. She waggled a finger up near her shoulder and Graves was immediately at her side between her and Joan, pulling the large, sparkling rock mass closer to Sybilla.

  The eldest Foxe sister picked up her eating knife and looked at the crystal this way and that, seeming to appraise it. She pointed with her knife tip to a long, slender finger of rock that seemed aimed at Joan Barleg. “What of this one?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s beautiful!” Joan all but squealed.

  Sybilla nodded. “Very well, then. Pick up your knife, Lady Joan, and place the backside along the seam, here. There you are.” Sybilla spun her own knife in her palm, gripping the hilt in her fist, the blade pointing up. “Very still now—watch yourself.”

  Joan gave a little shriek as Sybilla Foxe brought the wooden hilt of her knife down upon Joan Barleg’s blade with such swiftness that even to Oliver’s careful gaze the motion was a blur. A large cracking sound rang out, followed by a muffled little thud. In a blink, the long finger of crystal had wobble-rolled across the table and rocked to a stop before Joan, who stared at it with her mouth in a round O.

  Oliver looked back to the large cluster, and saw that the dulled blade of Joan’s knife was now buried in the wooden hilt of the utensil still in Sybilla’s hand.

  “Oh, dear,” the Foxe matriarch said smoothly. “Look what I’ve done.” She gently removed Joan’s hand from the hilt of the bottom knife and handed both—still joined together—over her shoulder to the ever waiting Graves. “Could you bring us another set, please, Graves? I fear the butler will be much put out with me!” She gave a throaty laugh, and Oliver did not think for a moment that any one of Sybilla Foxe’s servants would ever think to reprimand her for anything.

  Joan had picked up the stub of crystal with both hands, and was now admiring it close to her face. “Oh, a thousand thank yous, my lady!” she said in an awed voice. “I’ve never received anything so lovely!”

  “Will you use it?” Sybilla asked nonchalantly, picking up her chalice and then taking an easy drink.

  “This very night!” Joan promised.

  Sybilla smiled. “You must tell me if it works or nay,” she said. “Perhaps I might take up the custom as well, should you find it useful.”

  Joan giggled. “It shall be our little experimence!”

  Oliver almost felt sorry for the girl, who obviously thought she was in fast league with the deceptively beautiful woman sitting next to her.

  Sybilla then stood abruptly and took two paces to bring herself to stand in the space separating Oliver’s chair from Joan’s. Oliver was shocked to feel the light touch of her palm on his shoulder, and he saw that she was making the same gesture toward Joan. He made to rise from his own chair.

  “Don’t trouble yourself with courtesy, Lord Bellecote. I am sorry to leave such festive company, but I have other important matters to attend to before I retire. I shall leave you two young people to enjoy the evening on your own.”

  Oliver snorted and turned his head to look sideways at the woman. “Lady Sybilla, I do believe I am your elder by at least some months.”

  She only smiled enigmatically.

  “Besides,” Oliver began, “I still have need to—”

  His words were cut off as Sybilla gasped. “Why, whatever is Graves doing with a herring on his head?”

  “What?” Joan laughed, and turned to look.

  Sybilla bent down near Oliver’s ear and whispered the words so fast, Oliver scarcely caught them. “Come to my chamber in the morn. I wake early.” Then she rose. “Oh, my mistake—that’s not a herring at all, only his hair. Forgive me, Graves.”

  Oliver chanced a glance at the ancient servant—the man did not miss a beat, nor did he crack a smile. “Would Madam prefer I wear a herring about my head?”

  “I’ll certainly think upon it,” Sybilla answered.

  Chapter 13

  The sun had just pulled itself fully over the low eastern hills by the time Cecily and Father Perry approached the farthest of the small villages in the Fallstowe demesne. It had been a cold night, and the dead grass looked like a blanket of crushed diamonds, the horses’ steamy snorts like censers before them.

  The beloved priest whom Cecily had known since childhood had thankfully made no mention of her absences from chapel the past several days, and indeed, Father Perry had had little at all to say to her since the morning prayers. His eyebrows had risen when she’d walked into the chapel hours before the dawn, but that was all.

  It wasn’t as if she had roused herself from a comforting slumber.

  Wrong atop of wrong. It seemed that she had been incapable of making a correct choice since the Candlemas feast. In truth, she was unsure if she even knew the difference between right and wrong anymore. Her desire to be with Oliver Bellecote, even in the most innocent manner, overwhelmed her body and mind. She longed to talk with him, laugh with him, discover his plans for Bellemont. Like he was a sickness she had caught in the old Foxe Ring, and no remedy existed that could ease her suffering. And that was only the most benign facet of her desire for the scoundr
el.

  When Cecily was near him, her body reacted. Her good sense, her notions of propriety and purity and honor, fled with a pitiful wail under the onslaught of the pure physical lust that she felt for Oliver Bellecote.

  It was bad enough to experience the sin of lust. To have experienced it and acted upon it, not only once, in the old keep, but also in Oliver’s room, where she had allowed him to kiss her. And likely would have allowed him much more had he been more able bodied and had they not been interrupted.

  By Joan Barleg. The woman who had been his companion for a pair of years, and honestly thought that Oliver was going to marry her.

  Yes, bad enough to have given in to lust twice, but the greater humiliation was her inability to stop, when she knew what she was doing was so very wrong. Stop thinking about him. Stop going to his room, even under the guise of caring for him. He was the sort of man who would humiliate the woman who loved him while she waited for him on the other side of his chamber door!

  Cecily couldn’t know for certain where their kissing yesterday would have led had Joan Barleg not come knocking, and she wondered if she would have had the fortitude to refuse his further advances. Her worry increased when she could not answer yes straightaway.

  Well, you hateful little tart, she thought, but to her dismay, she sounded rather pleased with herself.

  He was a sickness with no remedy.

  She pulled the cowl away from her mouth. “Father?”

  “Yes?”

  “I am certain you’ve noticed the ... the neglect of my duties.”

  He was quiet for a moment while the horses plodded along. “If you mean the duties you have assumed at the chapel, yes, I have missed you there. But you have many duties at Fallstowe, Lady Cecily. The castle is no abbey, and I am not your superior. You are not beholden to any task. I am only pleased that you accompany me this morning.”

  She swallowed. Of course, he would be understanding. “I have not been ... present as much because, well—” She took a deep breath of the teeth-achingly cold air. “What if my heart has been consumed with worldly thoughts and desires? What if ... what if I’m possessed?”