Never Kiss A Stranger Read online

  Lady Etheldred sagged toward Mary, and the monkey leapt free as the maid’s arms came around the old woman.

  “My sweet Etheldred!” Mary cried.

  Clement whispered, “Mother!” before falling to his knees at her side. “Are you dead?” Alys couldn’t help but think she heard a note of longing hope in his voice.

  The monkey clambered over the pile of bodies on the floor and launched itself at Alys, who caught it by the arms and swung it up on her shoulder as if she’d performed the action a hundred times before.

  “Leave the animal,” Sybilla said in a low, deadly voice, “and go to your rooms. I will join you after I have returned the feast to some sense of order.”

  “The monkey stays with me.” She was already in enough trouble—why not add thievery to her list of supposed transgressions? Alys was certain God would forgive her even if Sybilla did not.

  The Foxe matriarch’s perfect, slender nostrils flared. “Go. I will fetch it when I come, so be prepared to say your good-bye then.”

  “Come, Alys.” Cecily took the arm opposite the monkey, and her grip was firm, but so much more gentle than Sybilla’s had been. She leaned in close to Alys’s ear. “Please, darling—‘twill only be so much more the worse for you if you struggle against her, and I wonder already what she might do.”

  Cecily was right. Alys had defied Queen Sybilla and now she would pay. Her oldest sister thought her a child still, and cared naught that she had just humiliated Alys before half the English nobility. There was no foretelling the lengths of the punishment that was to come.

  Alys pulled free from Cecily’s grasp easily. “I tire of this mundane feast, and its equally boring guests,” Alys said loudly, tilting her chin lest the tears threaten once more. “I think I shall retire for the evening and work at my stitchery. I bid you good night.”

  She swept through the crowd with the monkey clinging to her shoulder gamely, the guests parting for her as if she had been touched by a curse.

  Alys could not help but think to herself that perhaps she had been.

  The only stitchery that was worked on in Alys Foxe’s chamber was done by Cecily, who chose to stay with her younger sister rather than rejoin the dubious and scandalized festivities below. Alys was quite surprised that Saint Cecily had not spent the past hour on her knees, praying for Alys’s very soul. Instead, the middle Foxe sister sat in an upright chair near the hearth and a table of oil lamps, working on one of her endless tapestries, and chastising her sweetly every few moments.

  “I know you feel you have your reasons in most instances, Alys,” Cecily broke the silence yet again. “But I fail to see why it is so difficult for you to at least try to get along with Sybilla on the occasions where she actually requires it.”

  “My quarrel was not with Sybilla until she stuck her pointy nose in it,” Alys argued petulantly, sounding to her dismay, like the child Sybilla accused her of being. Her eyes flicked to the beamed canopy above her bed, where Lady Blodshire’s liberated pet sat munching a dried fig happily, sans skirt, leash, and collar. “That beastly Etheldred Cobb—”

  “You embarrassed Sybilla terribly with your behavior.”

  “I embarrassed her with my behavior?”

  “Yes,” Cecily agreed quietly, quickly tying a knot and then biting off the thread with her teeth. “Sybilla gives you free reign most of the time. Her view, I’m certain, was that because you are of a higher rank than Lady Blodshire, your breeding should have persuaded you to rise to your station when faced with her venom. Any matter, we are to honor our elders, even when we feel their actions are not particularly honorable.”

  Alys rolled her eyes and turned her face back to the window, seeing very little of the night-blackened countryside through the wavy and clouded glass.

  “I would think you to commend me for showing mercy to the poor creature unfortunate enough to be in the care of that old bitch.” Cecily gave Alys a look of dark warning, but Alys ignored it. “And for defending myself—as well as our family—against such unwarranted slander! She may as well have called Mother an idiot. I am well aware that all Sybilla cares about is appearances. Ironic, since she plays the whore for any man who dares cross our threshold.”

  “Alys!” Cecily said sharply.

  “‘Tis true, and well you know it. Why, I would wager that Sybilla’s had no fewer than a hundred men in her bed. If you feel it your duty to lecture one of your sisters on Godly behavior, Saint Cecily, I would hope it to be Sybilla rather than me.”

  “She’s not had that many … friends,” Cecily said awkwardly. “And don’t call me Saint Cecily, Alys—‘tis a blasphemy and mean spirited. You wound me.”

  Alys did feel a pinch of regret for speaking aloud the popular nickname for her middle sister. “Oh, Cee, I am sorry for that. Forgive me. I’m only so frustrated I could tear at my hair!”

  “Please, allow me.”

  Sybilla had entered Alys’s bedchamber as stealthily as a cat on the prowl, and one look at her eldest sister’s sparkling eyes and squared shoulders left Alys little doubt that she was the intended prey. Behind her, like a dusty old shadow, stood Fallstowe’s steward, Graves. As usual, he stared beyond the group toward a corner of the chamber, as if completely disinterested in the women keeping his company. Employed by the Foxe family since before even Alys’s father was born, Graves was as much a part of Fallstowe as the mortar between the stones.

  “I will not apologize, Sybilla,” Alys stated flatly before her eldest sister had even come to stand before her. “To you or to that vicious dragon below. You were horrid to me before our guests, and I am not sorry the tiniest bit for anything I said to Etheldred Cobb.”

  “I have had quite enough of your insubordination, Alys Foxe,” Sybilla said, trapping Alys where she sat at the window. Now even should she desire to stand, Sybilla’s powerful physical presence made it impossible. “Your behavior this evening was the final insult.”

  Alys slapped the stone seat at her hip. “Insult? You would speak to me of ins—”

  “I said I have had enough!” Sybilla repeated loudly, as close to shouting as cool Sybilla ever came.

  The two sisters stared at each other for a tense moment, and then suddenly, Sybilla turned to grab a wooden high-backed chair, the twin to the one Cecily still occupied. She swung the piece around before Alys and sat down, positioning herself directly beneath the stone window seat.

  “Alys,” Sybilla began, more calmly now, but a snowflake landing on Sybilla’s tongue would have still frozen to death. “You and I have had our quarrels, true. But I do hope you recognize that as—”

  “Head of this family,” Alys supplied in the same moment as Sybilla. Her eldest sister paused, her lips drawn together in a thin line. “You’ve made everyone very aware that you rule Fallstowe, Sybilla, so get on with whatever punishment you’ve conjured in your power-drunk mind.”

  “Alys!” Cecily gasped again from her seat by the hearth.

  Even before Cecily’s chastisement, Alys realized she had once again let her tongue run away without her good sense, as any small glimmer of mercy was now gone from Sybilla’s blue eyes.

  “I have always wanted the best for you, whether you believe that or nay. I understand that, as her youngest, Mother indulged you, and allowed you to claim your happiness by whatever means you chose. Running about Fallstowe like a rough squire rather than a titled young lady. Passing your time with the peasants. Saying what and behaving however you pleased. She did it out of love, I recognize, but I believe that she has done you a grave disservice.”

  “Do not speak poorly of Mother, Sybilla, I warn you,” Alys said quietly.

  “Not intentionally,” Sybilla placated. “And I loved her too, and miss her more than you will likely ever know. But she is gone. And I can no longer try to control you on my own. Mayhap your future husband will fare better than I. We will all pray that he does.”

  “We’re not going to discuss finding me a husband again, are we?” Alys rolled her eyes
. “Cecily is four years my senior, torment her.”

  “I shall likely take the veil, Alys,” Cecily reminded, still seated in her chair, but now her stitchery lay forgotten in a jumbled heap on the floor.

  Graves, now stoically studying the monkey who was leaning over the canopy in a crouch and returning his appraisal, sniffed loudly.

  Alys had to agree.

  “Oh, you will not, Cee,” Alys scoffed. “You’ve been saying that for years now. Sybilla is the only one who likely believes it anymore.”

  “Nay, we are not going to discuss finding you a husband,” Sybilla said, as if the interchange between Alys and Cecily had not occurred.

  “Thank God,” Alys sighed.

  “For I have this night secured your match.”

  Alys’s stomach tumbled. “What? Who?”

  “Clement Cobb has asked for your hand, and I’ve given my blessing, as has Lady Blodshire. As a token of peace, she’s offered to let you keep the animal you absconded with as a wedding gift.”

  “You promised me”—Alys slid off the window seat—“to Clement Cobb?”

  “Yes. It was either him or Lord John Hart, and I took it upon myself to choose the match most appropriate to your age and temperament. Lord Hart is more than two score your senior, and a widower with no heir. Although he seems anxious to marry quickly, I believe he would have little patience for your immaturity and fits of temper, and would most likely beat you or send you home in shame. As it is, your rash behavior this evening is costing Fallstowe handsomely with your dowry to the Cobbs.”

  “Sybilla,” Alys croaked. “No! No, I refuse to—no!”

  “It is already done.” Sybilla rose from her chair. “You will be married in thirty days, here at Fallstowe. I will make the formal announcement personally, this night. If you like, and promise to behave, you may accompany me and receive everyone’s well-wishes. It is a fine opportunity to redeem yourself and show that you are not the child everyone thinks you to be.” She turned her back to Alys and made to cross the bedchamber.

  “Sybilla, you must not have heard me,” Alys said in a shaking voice. “I will not marry Clement Cobb. I would rather take my chances at the Foxe Ring.”

  Sybilla’s laugh rang out before she stopped and turned to face Alys once more. “Oh, Alys—you are such the child, still. To put faith in a superstitious set of crumbling old rocks, for shame.”

  “‘Tis how Mother and Father met,” Alys said defiantly.

  “It is a tale. That’s all,” Sybilla chuckled. Then she glanced toward the window, and her expression grew contemplative. “But the moon is full this night. The weather kind for December. Hie yourself to the ring, if it shall give you some sense of control of your future. Sit there for the entire month if you like. Should a man appear—not only in the middle of Fallstowe lands, but within the very ring of grown-over stones itself—and take you for his bride, my best to the pair of you. I shall be so moved as to pay equal dowry to both Blodshire and your new husband, quite happily.”

  Cecily stood. “Sybilla, don’t tell her such foolishness! You know she will attempt it!”

  Sybilla shrugged. “I care not how she passes the month. But you will be married in thirty days, Alys.” She paused for a moment, and then lifted one of her rapier-slash eyebrows. “Are you coming below, or nay?”

  “Nay,” Alys’s voice shook. She swallowed and gathered all of her hurt and anger. “I hate you, Sybilla.”

  Alys saw Sybilla’s faint smile. “I know.” Then she turned to Cecily. “Would that you join me, Cee. I’d have at least one of my sisters at my side this night.”

  “Of course, Sybilla.” Cecily gave Alys a disappointed frown but then an instant later, crossed the floor to embrace her tightly. Alys did not return the gesture, letting her numb arms hang at her sides.

  “Don’t fight this so,” Cecily whispered into her hair. “You yourself said that Clement is a dear man, and—God forgive me—I do believe you might find him quite biddable after his mother is dead.” She leaned back, grasping both Alys’s upper arms. “And don’t go to the Foxe Ring. ‘Tis cold and damp, and naught will come of it but further disappointment for you. If any should find out, they will mock you.”

  Alys stared past Cecily’s shoulder to the fire in the hearth. “I cannot believe you of all people would stand against me on this.”

  Cecily sighed. “I do love you. And I am happy that you are to marry.” She kissed Alys’s cheek, and then swept past Sybilla out the door. Alys turned toward the window once more, so that Sybilla would not see her childish tears.

  From behind Alys, Graves spoke to Sybilla. “Would you have me bolt the door, Madam?”

  “Nay, Graves,” Sybilla said. “Alys is now free to go where she would.”

  “Shall I accompany you, then?”

  “Of course. You are family as well, dear friend. This announcement will be a joyous one for Fallstowe.”

  Alys heard her bedchamber door close.

  Alone at last, she sank to her knees and dropped her head to the stone window seat with a sob. She barely heard the skittering behind her of the monkey clambering across the floor and then leaping up to sit near her head. The animal started picking at her veil and hair beneath.

  The damned monkey! It had ruined the feast, ruined her life!

  She gave a long sniff and rose up to gather the animal close to her, rubbing her cheek against its soft hair, staring, staring out the window.

  Sybilla would not win. Not this time.

  Likely the Foxe Ring was naught but a silly tale. So be it. But she would go there to make a point. Alys was not a child, and she would not be treated like one.

  She would simply run away with her monkey, instead.

  Chapter 2

  Every bone in Piers Mallory’s body ached as he trudged up yet another hillock in the dark, wet night. Perhaps, as the monk had warned him, he was not yet well enough to travel. His wounds were not completely healed, and even now, Piers’s head throbbed so that his stomach roiled.

  Spill his brains onto the ground! I want to see them seep from his skull and wash downstream, the filthy bastard-beggar!

  He paused, blinked painfully against the pressure of the woman’s shrill voice, swallowed. He could all but taste the green water of the River Arrow on the back of his throat once more. Thankfully, he did not vomit again. So, indeed, perhaps he was not yet well.

  He began to walk slowly once more. London seemed very far from his vantage point over nothing more than his own two feet, and he must reach the King’s Bench in a fortnight. If he did not, Bevan would win Gillwick Manor.

  Bevan is no brother to you, Piers.

  His father’s words were quieter, but the torment they inflicted was no less severe and so he had to stop again—the pain was threatening to turn his insides out. He was certain he could move more quickly if only he could stop reliving that hell-filled night over and over again inside his bruised brain. The night his father had died. The night Piers himself had nearly lost his own life. The memories squeezed so, twisted, in his head and in his guts.

  Why, Father? Why now do you weep?

  My son, my son! Can you ever forgive me?

  The night went red behind his eyelids, and Piers thought for a moment that he might pass out. But then a heavy fog rolled through the valley and misted his already damp neck with a sweet coolness. The red faded slowly, the pounding behind his eyes lessened enough so that he could open them once more. He straightened with care, and onward he went, the hateful voices gamely giving chase.

  Slovenly peasant! Son of a whore! Nasty little bastard! Someone ought kill you in your sleep!

  His stepmother, the conniving Judith Angwedd, would be at court as well, of course. How she had terrified him as a child, barring him from even sleeping inside his mother’s humble cottage. She had done everything in her wicked power to be certain that Piers never saw Gillwick again. She and Bevan thought him dead even now.

  But Piers lived. He lived, and he walked. T
o London, in the night, where he would not be discovered by any who could report to Judith Angwedd. Time when he could heal, and think, and plan the exact moment when he would appear in Edward’s court and make his claim for Gillwick. When he would at last stand before his half—nay, not half. When he would stand before his stepbrother, look him in the eye as an equal.

  And then Piers thought he might kill Bevan Mallory. Perhaps with a blade. Or perhaps with his bare hands, as Bevan had tried to do to Piers. All the years of Piers’s life, he had denied himself of his revenge on the man he had known as his brother. No matter how belittling Bevan had been, how cruel. How quick to point out to Piers at every opportunity the life that Bevan enjoyed and that was denied to Piers. Piers had never retaliated. But now, he thought he might savor the moment when Bevan’s evil soul departed his body. Piers would laugh and laugh and laugh … perhaps until he was mad with it.

  Or perhaps Piers was already mad.

  But now he was simply tired. So tired, and hurting.

  Ahead in the foggy gloom, he could see the skeletal ruins of some old keep. Unless he had truly lost his mental capabilities, the decrepit standing ring rising to the foreground in silhouette against a jagged, crumbling central tower indicated he had arrived at the old Foxe family hold. From village gossip, Piers knew the great Fallstowe castle was nearly an hour away by foot, and he was certain that none from the keep would be about the grounds at this hour in the damp cold.

  He looked at the sky, the fat, white moon little more than an impression behind thin, high clouds, then back to the ancient remains. A chill kissed each droplet of sweat on his forehead. Were he a superstitious man, he might fear the old place, rumored to be magic. But Piers Mallory did not believe in magic. Or miracles, or tales of wild people living in the forests, or unicorns. He no longer believed that right always triumphed, or that perseverance made you strong—it only made you weary. He harbored no faith in a benevolent maker, and therefore no fear of demons.

  And so he would rest at the old Foxe Ring. He would rest, and then tomorrow, he would march again.