Never Kiss A Stranger Read online

  Piers shook his head, letting her playful goad pass ignored. “No, you take the lean-to. If your hair or gown should peek out, you’d be a banner to any passers-by. Your very presence here is a grave liability to me, Alys.”

  “Oh, come now,” she scoffed with a smile as she passed him. “It can’t all be so dire. Who would care so much to see a simple commoner such as yourself dead?”

  Chapter 4

  “He’s not dead.”

  It was quite obvious to Judith Angwedd Mallory, Lady of Gillwick, that the peasant was petrified of delivering this piece of news to her. And if ‘twas true, then right he was to be frightened.

  Judith Angwedd did not adhere to the tradition of sparing the messenger.

  She calmly leaned back in her chair at the dining table, her chalice still in her hand. There was no need to become alarmed as of yet. She dismissed the only servant from the room with a practiced wave of her other hand, leaving her and the messenger alone save for the new “steward” who stood behind her. Judith Angwedd had only hired the enormous man with the shaved head two days ago, when he’d come ‘round the manor looking for work. He had no experience running a hold—she suspected he was some sort of criminal by the old and multitudinous array of scars across his wide back, but Judith Angwedd was confident she could train him properly in her preferences for running Gillwick. Especially since the majority of his duties would take place in her bed.

  She asked the messenger, “How can you be certain he is not dead?”

  “The body was gone,” the man began in a stutter, his eyes seemingly unable to meet his mistress’s.

  “It’s been several days. Perhaps ‘twas washed away by the river,” she suggested. “Or carried off by animals.”

  It looked as though it pained the man to shake his head. “No, milady. When I couldn’t find him, I went ‘round to the abbey, making as if he was a dear friend o’ mine.”

  Judith Angwedd ran her tongue along the front of her teeth behind her lips, swallowed. “And?” she queried quietly.

  “They’d had him. The monks,” the messenger clarified. “One of ‘em found a man calling himself Piers by the river and took him in to nurse him.”

  Judith Angwedd took a deep breath, but so slowly that her chest didn’t seem to move. It was important to stay calm. “He is no longer at the abbey?”

  “No, milady. He left only yester morn.”

  She rolled her lips inward, stretched her cheek with her tongue. “I see. Do they know we seek him?”

  The man shook his head rapidly. “I give ‘em a false name, milady. Said him and me was just travelin’ companions what had been separated.”

  “Wise,” she praised coolly and nodded once. She almost smiled when she saw the messenger visibly relax. “No one will be able to trace you to Gillwick Manor—or to Bevan or me.”

  “That’s right, milady. I done everything just like you said.”

  Judith Angwedd’s nostrils flared, and she nearly lost her composure. If the man had done as she’d commanded, her dead husband’s bastard would be in pieces, burning on a pyre at this moment, instead of running loose about the land, likely in a straight line to the king. But she smoothed her tongue along her fine teeth again, and it calmed her enough to summon a hint of a smile for the doomed man.

  “Of course you did. Well done. Well done,” she praised.

  “What shall I do now, milady?” the man asked, wringing his cap all the harder, obviously anxious to please her.

  “You have done quite enough,” Judith Angwedd assured him. “You are dismissed. Phineas will meet you at the road with your payment.”

  “Of course, milady.” The man began backing away, bowing the entire time. “Thank you.”

  When he was gone, Judith Angwedd turned her face slightly to speak to the fierce looking man still standing behind her chair. “Send for Bevan right away, Phineas. He must come no matter how drunk he is. Mayhap the bastard Piers is still bothered enough from his wounds that we might gain him, but if not, we shall inquire of the holds from here to London to see if any might have given him refuge. He will not hide from me, the cowardly filth.”

  The man bowed.

  “And Phineas?”

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “That messenger who was just here …”

  There was only the briefest pause. “You mean the thief, my lady?”

  “Yes, Phineas. That is exactly who I mean. That man was most certainly a thief.” She held her chalice up near her ear and in a moment it was taken from her hand. “He has stolen my favorite cup.”

  “I know how to handle thieves, my lady. Think upon it no more.”

  Judith Angwedd listened to Phineas’s hollow footsteps as he left the room, and she waited for her son.

  * * *

  Sybilla Foxe watched from the comfort of her bed as the man dressed himself. She liked the way the long, thick muscles to either side of his spine swelled and bunched as he bent over to pull up his pants. The morning sunlight streaming through the bank of windows in her bedchamber lit him afire—his dark hair, his hollowed cheeks. Lord Bellecote was a beautiful specimen of a man, and he had proven himself to be an enjoyable and adventurous lover. August had become a welcome friend and confidant, and so Sybilla was glad that she had put off sleeping with him these many months—the anticipation had been quite delicious—but at the same time, she was feeling a bit melancholy now before he left her.

  She would never have the pleasure of him in this capacity again. By her own edict, true, but that was the way things were.

  He was lacing up his blouse now, his tunic folded in half over one thick forearm, and smiling at her. She let herself smile back, if only to enjoy these last moments, and to perhaps pretend that there was a chance she and August Bellecote would meet under these circumstances again. Sybilla’s dark hair was undone over her shoulders, and she could still catch a whiff of the fresh cologne the maid had dressed her with before the feast last night. The silk pillows beneath her bare back were warm and smooth and deep, her coverlet weighty and smelling of sunshine. Beyond the stone walls of her chamber, all of Fallstowe waited for her to emerge from her rooms and direct the day. Sybilla should have felt like royalty. Instead, she felt damned and burdened.

  She would have to face Alys today. Her youngest sister, still so naïve and fiery in her youth, who resented Sybilla for taking their mother’s place. Headstrong, reckless Alys, whom Sybilla was only trying so desperately to protect before time ran out for all of them.

  Lord Bellecote picked up his boots with one hand and strolled toward the bed, that sleepy, sexy smile still on his sculpted lips. His lashes were so dark, his eyes seemed to be lined with kohl. He sat on the edge of the bed to don his footwear, causing Sybilla’s hip to roll toward him and her coverlet to threaten to slide from her breasts. She clutched at it and covered herself once more.

  “No point in being shy now, is there?” August teased, lacing his boots with firm pulls and jerks.

  “Not shy, only chilled,” Sybilla said.

  “Hmm. Well”—he dropped his booted foot to the floor and turned to lean over her, bringing his face to her neck—“shall I warm you up a bit before I go?”

  Sybilla placed a palm against his chest and turned her face away. “I have many duties to attend to this day, August. The remainder of my guests depart, and I must see to my sister.”

  “The nun or the heathen?” he asked jokingly.

  Sybilla’s small smile dropped from her face and she pushed at him more firmly. “I don’t believe either are any of those things.”

  “Sybilla, I tease you,” August cajoled. He raised a hand as if to caress her cheek, but she moved her face away from his reach. “I’m sorry. Let’s not quarrel.”

  “We’re not quarrelling,” she replied coolly. To quarrel with a man would imply that Sybilla held passionate feelings for him, and she could not afford that, not even with a man such as August Bellecote.

  “Good,” he said emphatically,
although his lowered brow betrayed his doubt in her sincerity. “Good, for I would not want this beginning to be marred by resentfulness over some silly thing I said in jest.”

  This beginning. Sybilla would have laughed were the whole thing not so very sad.

  “Shall I call on you tomorrow?” he continued. “After your guests are departed and Fallstowe is once more at peace?”

  At that she did laugh. “Fallstowe is never at peace, August. But no, my schedule is quite full for the next month.”

  His frown deepened on his handsome face. “The next month? Surely you cannot expect me to wait that long to see you.”

  And off we go, thought Sybilla. “There is much to do before Alys’s wedding. I do hope you and Oliver will come.”

  August laughed. “My brother would not miss a chance at a hall populated by women whose heads are full of domestic notions. He feels it makes them romantic and reckless, therefore bettering his chances of a conquest. He was sorely put out at missing the feast due to the unfavorable winds that kept him abroad.”

  “I shall look forward to seeing him—and you—in one month, then,” Sybilla said.

  At her words, her meaning quite clear, August sat up fully, his wrists resting on his lap. His expression was almost incredulous.

  “So that’s it, eh? I am no better than the others?”

  Sybilla turned her face away, so as not to have to meet his eyes.

  “I thought perhaps you waited so long because we would be—”

  “Different?” Sybilla supplied, looking at him now. He would become angry now, and Sybilla could accept anger. “You thought that one night with you would cause me to fall helplessly in love with you? That we would be married and have children and live out our joined lives in incomparable bliss?” Sybilla forced a laugh. “‘Twas good, August, but not that good.”

  His chiseled face ruddied and he stood from the bed. “You care for me not at all beyond one night of sex, is that what you’re saying?”

  “I’m sorry if you thought it to be more. We are still friends, of course.”

  “I don’t believe you,” he said quietly. “In fact, Sybilla Foxe, I think you’re lying through your teeth.”

  Her eyes flew to his, and she could feel the shivery panic in her belly. God, what she would give to have a man like August Bellecote at her side permanently.

  But she was spared from what he was to say next by an insistent rapping on her chamber door. That was no servant’s polite query.

  “Sybilla! Are you awake?”

  ‘Twas Cecily.

  “You should go, August.” She would not look at him again. “Yes, Cee.”

  Her chamber door opened and her younger sister rushed into the room with a demure swish of drab skirt. As soon as Cecily saw August Bellecote standing at the bedside, she gasped and brought a hand to her eyes.

  “Oh my! I am sorry.” Cecily turned bright red and her eyes were directed to the rug under the bed. “Sybilla, why didn’t you tell me you weren’t alone?”

  “He’s not naked, Cee. And you didn’t ask if I was alone, only if I was awake. It’s alright—Lord Bellecote was just leaving.”

  “Lady Cecily, lovely to see you again.” August bowed toward her sister.

  “Lord Bellecote. Er … ah, good morning,” Cecily stammered.

  August turned back to Sybilla. “I will be back, Sybilla.”

  Sybilla met his eyes then, although she had been determined not to. It was the only way. “Don’t bother,” she said flatly and succinctly.

  He stared at her for a long moment and then bowed to Cecily. “Good day.” Then he stormed through the still-open chamber door, slamming it closed after him.

  Cecily jumped at the crash.

  Sybilla only sighed. Then she turned to Cecily. “What is it, Cee?”

  “Alys isn’t in her rooms. It doesn’t look as though she’s slept there, either. You don’t think she actually went to the ring, do you?”

  “Oh, probably.” Sybilla threw the covers back and lighted from the bed nude, crossing the floor to her wardrobe. “Where else would she be?”

  “I’ll send a rider to fetch her,” Cecily said and then turned to go.

  “No.” Sybilla’s command stopped her sister.

  “No? Sybilla, ‘tis December. She’ll freeze. Or starve!”

  “Oh, Cee, she will not. If she gets hungry enough or cold enough, she’ll come home. And I’ll wager that when she does, Blodshire’s comfortable manor will have begun to appeal to her. Let her teach herself a lesson for once. I tire of it.”

  “That’s mean hearted, Sybilla.”

  “It is not. It’s quite fair, and Alys needs learn that not everything goes according to her wishes. This match is the best thing for her. You know it as well as I.”

  “I do agree that Alys needs … handling, but …” Cecily bit her lip for a moment. “Even now, Etheldred Cobb is near to shouting down the hall because her future daughter-in-law has insulted her by not joining her and Clement for breakfast. I do believe the old woman wants to show off her son’s prize. God forgive me for being malicious, but that woman tries my charity, Sybilla! She or Alys will kill the other one inside of a fortnight.”

  “They’ll come to an agreement, I’m sure,” Sybilla said over her shoulder as she searched through her clothes for a robe.

  “What should I tell Lady Blodshire, then? She’s said she won’t go home until she sees Alys. Clement, too, but for entirely different reasons, I suspect. And I have to be at chapel again in a half hour, so I can’t entertain them. I’m certain with as engaged as you have been entertaining our guests that you have simply forgotten that it is the Sabbath.”

  Another rap at her door. “Your tea, my lady.”

  “I’ll get it.” Cecily turned to the door and admitted Sybilla’s personal maids. There were three. One carried the silver tray bearing Sybilla’s typical light breakfast, one hugged an armful of bolts of cloth, and the other wielded a thick, bound ledger—Sybilla’s dragon of a schedule.

  Sybilla buried her face in two handfuls of gown and steeled herself against the scream that wanted to explode from her throat. Could she not have one single moment of peace? A bit of privacy to mourn what might have been with the man who’d just left her room?

  She raised her head when she felt the silk of her missing robe drape over her shoulders—one of her maids was wrapping it around her—and Sybilla pushed her arms through gratefully.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  And, just like that, her armor was donned.

  Sybilla cinched the belt of her robe tightly about her waist and turned to face her sister. “Go attend your obligations, Cee. I shall deal with Blodshire myself. If Alys has not returned by supper, I shall send Clement after his beloved. Mayhap they will have a romantic encounter and she will fall hopelessly in love with him if only because of his enthusiasm and semi-daring at riding his horse for a quarter hour through the drizzle to fetch her. I’ll engage Etheldred in the fabric selection for Alys’s dress. That should please the old toad.”

  Cecily smiled her pleasure at Sybilla’s words and Sybilla could not help but think again how lovely her sister was. Out of the three girls, Cecily was the best, by far.

  “I’ll pray for you and your sharp tongue, Sybilla,” Cecily teased, and then blew her a kiss as she departed the chamber.

  “Pray for us all,” Sybilla whispered under her breath before turning to the work her maids had brought her.

  Chapter 5

  Piers grumbled to himself as he lay the fire, making use of the shrinking, gray December daylight. He was still cold, he was still tired, he was still hungry, and now the first two fingers on his left hand hurt like a pair of devils.

  He moved stealthily—and muttered only under his breath—to avoid waking Alys Foxe and put off her impossible presence for as long as he could. ‘Twas because of her that Piers had leaned against a hard log all of the day, his head jerking up painfully whenever he would nod off. As exha
usted—both mentally and physically—as he was, he could not allow himself to relax while in the open daylight. Let the girl get her sleep, for when she woke she would have no excuse now not to leave Piers to his lethal mission. Once he was rid of her, he would be able to rest. Hell, even keeping up his torturous pace would seem peaceful without her inane chatter following him.

  Gray smoke curled up from the tinder, birthed by the orange sparks beneath the twigs, and Piers lay the side of his face to the ground to blow up the flames. A satisfying crackle promised that at least soon he would be warm. He sat up on his knees once more and brushed his hands together.

  “Are you going hunting?”

  Piers looked over his shoulder at the girl, just now crawling from beneath the natural lean-to. She looked all of eight years old then, her cheeks creamy around the soft pink blooms of sleep. Her eyes were brown like a young calf’s, her hair now adorned with twigs and bits of dry leaves in place of the fine headpiece and veil she’d worn that morning. She could have been a child of the manor emerging triumphant in a game of hide and seek.

  Piers guessed that was likely an apt description for the game she played with her sister now, and the idea of it made him resentful and cross.

  “No,” he sneered. “Are you?”

  She laughed as she gained her feet, her absurd pet taking up post on her shoulder while Alys shook out her outrageously costly blue skirts. Simply looking at the monkey seemed to make Piers’s fingers throb all the worse. And now that she was standing, and Piers could see the swell of her small bust, he no longer thought of her as eight years old. His mood went from sour to black, and what little patience he had vanished.

  “We would be in dire straits indeed were the food gathering left up to me. I’m fast, and I can be quite stealthy, but alas, I have no weapon save Layla.” She reached up to scratch the beast’s hairy head and the monkey leaned toward her adoringly. “Perhaps you could be my hound, eh, girl? Could you scare up a deer for us? You’ve already cornered a boar.” She looked at Piers with a mischievous grin.