Never Seduce A Scoundrel Read online

  He was speaking of the king’s stalking of Fallstowe, Cecily knew.

  John Grey cocked his head slightly. “You’re unsure yet, are you not?” he asked gently.

  “Very,” Cecily admitted honestly, although she hadn’t intended to be so quick about it.

  “I understand,” the vicar said. “More than you could likely know.” He stepped toward her and held out his hand.

  Cecily looked down at it for a moment, and then placed her fingers in his palm. It was cool and smooth. She looked up at him.

  “I will be at Hallowshire for the next several weeks, assisting Mother and trying as I might to bring the sisters back to heel. I would be honored if you would allow me to be your counsel during that time.”

  “Counsel?” Cecily asked.

  John Grey looked at her again, his teeth flashing white in the shadows of the stable. It seemed very quiet around them. “Perhaps you might confide in me about your misgivings concerning devoting yourself to Hallowshire. I promise you, I will not try to sway you one way or the other. If, by the time I am through with my obligations at the abbey, you discern your vocation is at Hallowshire, I will escort you there with a glad heart. If not ... ?” He shrugged.

  Cecily’s eyebrows rose. “You will simply let it alone?”

  He squeezed her fingers and then released them, speaking as he walked to the stable doors. “Well, I may be pressed to ask your sister for a small donation.” He crossed his arms over his chest and looked up through the doorway at the sky. It had stopped raining.

  Cecily smiled at his back. “Small donation” in the bishop’s mind usually meant a very large donation. She walked to stand next to him, looking up at the sky in much the same manner. The clouds were no longer thoroughly gray, only at their bottoms now, and the edges of them were fluffy and white like snow, parting sporadically to reveal the lightest shade of blue afternoon sky beyond. A trio of golden beams played over the rain-darkened dirt of the yard, and the bailey was unusually still.

  Cecily turned her face to look at John Grey. His profile was sharp against the frame of the stable doorway, and his eyes skittered over the clouds, as if searching for something hidden there.

  “Will you stay at Fallstowe?” she found herself asking.

  “No. Very kind of you, and your sister as well, to offer,” he said, and Cecily was surprised that he had already spoken to Sybilla. What a strange pair of days she’d had. “I will enjoy Father Perry’s hospitality for tonight and then return to Hallowshire in the morn. My hope is to come to Fallstowe for a pair of days each week.”

  Cecily looked back to the sky. “I understand.”

  “Will you see me when I come?” he asked quietly. “I confess that it will make my time at Hallowshire more bearable, knowing that I have your presence to look forward to.”

  She turned her face toward him once more, quickly, and found that he was searching her face much as he had searched the clouds in the sky.

  “Will you be taking your own vows when you return to the bishop, Vicar John?” Cecily asked boldly.

  He stared at her for a pair of moments. “It is a season of discernment for many, Lady Cecily,” was all that he would say.

  “Of course I will see you,” Cecily answered at last. “You may lecture me on the many reasons why I should commit to the abbey, and I in turn will try to convince you to take your vows as a priest.”

  John Grey grinned. “Or not.”

  “Or not,” Cecily agreed with a smile.

  “Perhaps—” John Grey began, but whatever he planned to suggest was lost beneath the sound of a woman frantically calling Cecily’s name from across the stable yard.

  “Lady Cecily! My lady!”

  Both Cecily and John Grey turned to behold the kitchen maid trotting across the bailey toward them, waving at Cecily with an old rag.

  “What is it, Marga?” Cecily stepped from the door frame tentatively.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Lady Cecily, but you must come. Good day to you, sir.” The maid curtsied perfunctorily in the vicar’s general direction. “Lord Bellecote is near to tearin’ the bed apart, milady. I believe the draught you give him is wore off. He’s carryin’ on dreadful for you, and won’t let anyone else in the chamber!”

  “I’ll come, Marga,” Cecily assured the maid calmly. “Keep everyone else away from him until I arrive, and have a tray of cool, wet towels ready for me in the kitchen. Lord Bellecote is likely feeling a superior ache in his skull from the sedative.”

  “Yes, milady.” Marga curtsied again and then turned on her heel and scurried back across the bailey.

  Cecily began walking away from John Grey, backward so that she might still bid him farewell. The man was enigmatic, and although Cecily longed to spend more time with him, peeling back the layers of this non-vicar, this not-a-priest, Oliver was calling for her, he was in pain, and she must go.

  “Will you stay for chapel in the morn, Vicar?” she asked.

  “Yes,” John Grey called, and then threw out the challenge of, “Will you be in attendance?” as he bowed, keeping his eyes on her face.

  Cecily’s smile was her only answer. She waved to him before spinning and proceeding toward the castle in a more proper manner.

  Though her bearing was appropriate as she opened the door of the annex, she was still smiling.

  Chapter 9

  Oliver’s head felt as though it would split right ’round the circumference of his skull. His temples ached sickly, his stomach roiled; each shallow breath introduced an onslaught of burning knives into his right lung. His arm throbbed, throbbed deep into the center of each half of his splintered bone. His bicep felt tight, hot, swollen, and an agonizing drone of pain slithered through the tiny spaces of his shoulder joint, his elbow, his wrist. His fingers were fat, numb sausages, his nail beds discolored and cold to the touch.

  But even the maelstrom of physical anguish he was experiencing felt placid when compared to the maddening riddle in his head.

  Something had happened between him and Cecily Foxe last night.

  But what? How far had he gone? The little slips of her he could sift from his shattered memory—burning, bawdy images—could not be the whole truth. Cecily Foxe would never stoop to a man of his reputation. Never.

  But why now did he recognize so readily the smell of her, the feel of her hands on his face? He’d asked her of his behavior, and she had absolved him of any wrongdoing, but wasn’t that her reputation? To forgive, to absolve?

  The idea caused a cold sweat to break out over Oliver’s body, drenching him as surely as a fall from a great cliff into the February sea.

  He clenched his eyes shut. He had to know, he had to know the why of this maddening desire of her.

  Where was she?

  There was a soft rap at his door before it cracked open, and her voice called to him. “Lord Bellecote? ’Tis Lady Cecily. Might I come in?”

  “Yes,” he said hoarsely. He hoped she had brought another cup of the disgusting draught—enough to kill him this time. It would be the only thing that might put him out of his misery.

  The door opened fully, and Cecily Foxe stepped inside, carrying a turned, handled mug. She was followed by Fallstowe’s quizzical old steward, Graves, who bore another dome-covered tray.

  “Feeling poorly?” Cecily asked as she came around the end of the bed.

  She must have been sleeping, Oliver surmised, by the freshened look of her skin and the peace around her eyes once more. The shadows had faded since last she’d left him, and her lips were gentled into a kind of smile. Oliver felt guilty all over again for stirring her from her rest.

  “I do apologize for my abruptness,” he began, searching her eyes for some hint of wariness that he had told himself was there before, but he saw nothing of the sort now. “Did someone wake you?”

  “Oh, heavens no,” Cecily said with a smile as she wordlessly directed the old steward in placing the tray on the now emptied side table. Graves was so steeped in the Foxe nobil
ity that he didn’t bother to acknowledge Oliver’s presence. It was often joked about that the ancient servant held more sway than the king, being the only man in the land with intimate and reliable access to Sybilla Foxe and Fallstowe Castle.

  “Shall I stay to help you lift him, Lady Cee?”

  Oliver frowned. Was he a downed horse?

  “No, that won’t be necessary. Thank you, Graves.”

  The old steward nodded in Cecily’s direction and then turned to go. Oliver did not miss the man’s look of disdain and rolling of his rheumy eyes in his direction.

  Cecily was at his side then, sliding her small cool hand behind his back again. “Let’s see if you can sit up a bit.”

  “Why does Graves suddenly ... agh! ”—Oliver paused once he was upright, his eyes shut, waiting for the searing pain in his side to ebb—“hate me?”

  “Oh, I do doubt that he hates you—he admired your brother greatly,” Cecily said mildly, and then turned to pick up the handled mug from the table and present it to Oliver. “Here you are. This should help ease your head.”

  “More of the same?” Oliver asked, sniffing at the light-colored brew warily.

  “No, the last draught is what likely caused your headache.”

  He glanced up at her, knowing his expression was full of accusation.

  She shrugged. “Sorry. A distasteful side effect, I’m afraid. This however is naught but strong willow tea. It will help with your pain as well as the swelling.”

  Oliver took a sip. It was desperately bitter, but not nearly as noxious as the last concoction. Feeling better by simply being in her presence again, Oliver drained the mug in two goes.

  “It will eat at your stomach, however.”

  Oliver looked at her, aghast. “Perfect! Are you trying to kill me?”

  “Not anymore,” she said, and actually grinned at him in a way that made Oliver’s dormant erection stir. “It’s not poison, Lord Bellecote. And it only has that effect on a full stomach, so after your ribs are tended to, you must only have a bit to eat to stave off any unpleasant reaction.”

  He handed her the mug as best he could with the limited range of motion his broken ribs allowed his left arm. She took the cup, leaning over him gracefully, and again Oliver was struck by the smell of her. The same clean yet musky perfume, blended with the warm scent of fresh hay.

  “Where were you?” he asked. When she looked at him, nonplussed, he elaborated. “When I called for you.”

  “I don’t see how that is any of your concern, Lord Bellecote,” she chastised lightly. “I was showing a visitor to Fallstowe the stables.”

  So his sense of smell was not mad, at least. But he couldn’t help the stab of jealousy that rivaled his ribs when the gentle smile returned to her lips at the mention of this mysterious visitor.

  “Who was it?” he demanded.

  “I beg your pardon?” Her hands paused in removing the domed lid from the tray.

  “It was a man, wasn’t it?” he said, hearing the completely ridiculous nature of his accusation, and absolutely not caring.

  “Lord Bellecote,” she said with a deep frown, but her cheeks reddened as if she had been slapped. “You are a guest here, under my care. I owe you no explanation of who I entertain in my own home.”

  He swallowed with some difficulty. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I simply—Well, it must be another side effect from that nasty draught.”

  “Hmph,” she sniffed, her nose in the air as she turned and set the silvered lid aside. She fussed with the dressings on the tray for a moment, and when she next spoke, her back was to him. “But if you must know, yes, it was a man.”

  Oliver felt his jaw clench, but he would be damned if he would further incur her wrath.

  She turned to him, a long length of linen similar to that which was wrapped about his arm between her two hands. “Well?” she asked pointedly.

  “Well what?” he grumbled, letting his eyes go to the coverlet.

  “Your curiosity as to my whereabouts has been insatiable thus far. Aren’t you going to ask the identity of the man?”

  He looked to her. “Would you tell me if I did? Or would you simply tell me it was none of my concern? Which it’s not, I do understand.”

  She smiled at him indulgently. “It was the vicar of Hallowshire Abbey. Now, if your interrogation is satisfied, please hold your left arm away from your side so that I might start this first course of wrapping.”

  Oliver wanted to close his eyes and sigh with relief. She hadn’t been conversing intimately with some young nobleman, who perhaps possessed ambitious ideas of securing the middle Foxe sister as a match. She’d been with some stooped, gray, impotent old priest! Of course! Why would he even imagine that Cecily Foxe would be entertaining potential suitors when no man dared insult her goodness?

  Well, no man save Oliver himself, perhaps. But that was as of yet unconfirmed.

  The bandage was ice cold against his skin, and he involuntarily drew in a sharp breath as she slid the length carefully under his slinged arm and across his nipples. “Argh! Christ Jesus!”

  “Lord Bellecote!” Cecily chastised.

  “S’fucking cold!”

  “Yes, it is,” she said lightly. “Soaked in the same tea as you’ve just drunk. Cooled now, though, of course.” She tied a loose slipknot in the bandage, leaving one long end, and then turned to pick up another length from the pile.

  He told himself he was prepared for the shock of the clammy linen, but he clearly was not.

  “God dammit!”

  She tied the knot quickly and then took a step back from the bedside, her hands on her hips.

  “Sorry, sorry!” he grumbled. “Wrap it ’round your belly though, and see if even you don’t call down God’s curses upon it.”

  She continued to stare at him, a thoughtful expression on her face.

  “What?” he demanded, feeling his face heat. Oliver could not recall another time in his life when a fully clothed woman had disconcerted him so.

  “No one has ever dared speak like that in my presence before,” she said.

  “I’ve apologized. What else do you want from me, blasted torturer?”

  She simply shook her head wonderingly and then turned to retrieve another bandage.

  Oliver managed to somewhat curb his tongue while Cecily wound exactly ten of the slimy, frigid wet strips loosely around his middle, the knots and straggling ends roughly center to his chest. Then she walked around the end of the bed and climbed gingerly onto the other side of the mattress. She sat on her heels and reached for one of the long pieces of linen.

  “Ready?” she asked politely.

  “No,” he grunted out.

  “All right then.” She pulled on the bandage and it tightened around Oliver’s chest.

  “Good God!” he gasped, and his legs went rigid.

  “Is that tight enough?” she inquired sweetly.

  “I-think-so-yes.” His words were a breathy stream of air.

  “Hmm. Perhaps a bit more.” Cecily pulled again.

  His only response was a terrible wheeze, and Oliver thought for a moment that he might faint.

  “Yes, that should do it.” He cracked one eye open to see her nodding to herself. She turned a sunny smile toward him. “You’ll thank me when it’s over. Only nine more.”

  The pain was dizzying for a while, but by the time Cecily Foxe had cinched and knotted the last strip of bandage around his chest, he actually was feeling a great deal of relief.

  “Thank you,” he sighed, and gingerly leaned back against the headboard of the bed.

  “You’re welcome.” She backed off the mattress and came ’round the side of the bed once more. His eyes followed her, her hips, the curve of her breasts. It was as if he knew the size of one would fit perfectly in his palm.

  “Lady Cecily,” he began, feeling a terrible pained spiral in his stomach. That he wished he could attribute to the willow tea. “May I ask you another quite forward question?”
/>   She was gathering up the supplies, and glanced at him with a wry smile. “Well, I don’t see how it could be any more forward than the ones you’ve already posed, so yes. What is it, Lord Bellecote?” She turned to face him, the tray between her two hands.

  “Did we make love last night?”

  The terrible crashing of silver on wood filled the chamber with ringing, clanging echoes, as the tray, domed lid, and all the contents between fell from Cecily’s hands. She was staring at him as if ... well, as if he had asked to see her without her clothes. Which, in an after-the-fact manner, he had. Her face lost all color, her lips rolled in on themselves, and her eyes widened with something akin to fear.

  It was then that Oliver Bellecote decided that he was a complete, narcissistic imbecile.

  Where, a moment ago, her cheeks had been the purest snow, now they flamed with color. “What?” she choked. “How—why would you—”

  “I know, I know,” he rushed, going so far as to lean up slightly against the screaming protest in his arm, holding his left hand toward her. “It’s ridiculous, I know. I do apologize for insulting you so, it’s simply that—” He broke off, swallowed. “I keep seeing these ... these images of you, in my head. Like dreams, or ... or very vague memories, perhaps. Of ... of the two of us, and—”

  “Images?” she whispered. “Of the two of ... us? You and I?”

  He grimaced. “Yes.”

  “What sort of images?” she demanded.

  He waggled his head back and forth, glanced at the ceiling. God, he felt like a fool. He may as well have asked the Virgin Mary if she danced for coin. “Improper ones, I’m afraid.”

  She audibly drew in a sharp breath.

  “Lady Cecily, please, I beg of you, forgive me.” Now he turned his palm upward, beseeching her patience. “I have been under much duress even before this foolish accident, and it seems that my fall has only further damaged any good sense I once possessed. I know that it is completely inappropriate and disrespectful to even broach such a subject with you, but I simply cannot stop thinking of you in ... in a way that is, well—inappropriate! Whenever you’re near to me I ...” He stopped, shook his head, unable to find the words.