Never Kiss A Stranger (37 page)

His forehead wrinkled, giving him the appearance of a chastised pup. “Damn my slothly feet—you’re already spoken for.”

“I’m afraid so,” Sybilla answered.

“Sybilla!
” Cecily hissed, outraged that her sister would have such an inappropriate conversation—even in jest—with this man where any could overhear their lewd banter. This man
in particular.

“Forgive me, Cee,” Sybilla conceded, turning amused eyes to her sister while Lord Bellecote staggered to his feet.

Cecily squared her shoulders, somewhat placated that Sybilla had at last remembered both her station and her very public venue.

“How thoughtless of me,” Sybilla continued. “Lord Bellecote, I
am
engaged with other business this night, but I believe Lady Cecily, however, is thus far unattended.”

Cecily’s entire body went ice cold. She was unsure whether she would cry or throw up.

Oliver Bellecote had tardily gained his feet, brushing at his pants with his free hand. Sybilla’s flip invitation
caused his movements to freeze. He slowly raised his face until his eyes met Cecily’s.

She would have gasped had she been able to draw breath. His direct gaze was like witnessing lightning striking the ocean. The first thought that came into her mind was,
why, he’s as lonely as I am.
Her stomach hardened into a pained little stone. She wanted to scream at him to stop looking at her, wanted to turn and berate Sybilla for drawing her into such an indecent exhibition—

—she wanted Oliver Bellecote to suggest something inappropriate to her so that she might agree.

Oliver’s eyes flicked to Sybilla’s and in that next instant, both the notorious nobleman and Cecily’s sister burst out in peals of laughter.

“I am sorry to tease you so, Oliver,” Sybilla chuckled, drawing her arm back around Cecily’s middle, and Cecily hung a brittle, fragile smile on her numb lips. “My dearest sister would not have the likes of you wrapped up in the holy shroud itself.”

“Nor should she,” Oliver agreed with a naughty grin and deep bow in Cecily’s direction, although his eyes did not look at her directly again. “Alas, I am not worthy of such a gentle lady’s attention, as our wise parents decided so long ago.”

Sybilla quirked an eyebrow. “Yet you are worthy of my attention?”

The rogue winked at Cecily’s sister. “One must never cease to aspire to the heights of one’s potential.” He bowed again. “Ladies.” And then he slipped back into the writhing crowd with all the grace of a serpent in the garden.

Cecily felt her eyes swelling with tears, and she swallowed hard.

Sybilla sighed. “Perhaps he—Cee? Cee, are you alright?”

“Of course, Sybilla. I’m fine.”

Sybilla’s expression turned uncharacteristically sympathetic. “I’m sorry. You appeared so forlorn standing there, I only wanted you to join in a bit of merrymaking.”

How would you have me join in?
Cecily screamed in her head.
No one will so much as speak to me, and I’ve just been rejected by the most notorious womanizer outside of London!

But she pulled together every last scrap of her dignity to give Sybilla a smile. “I’m fine, Sybilla. Don’t apologize. It was … it was amusing.” She tried to laugh but it came out a weak, stuttering breath. Cecily pulled away from her sister slowly, deliberately. “It
is
late. I am off to Compline and then my own bed.”

Sybilla’s fine brow creased, and Cecily leaned in and pressed her cheek to her sister’s. “Don’t worry so. Would that you ask Alys and Piers to wait for me in the morn so that I might bid them farewell. I fear ‘twould take me an hour to find them tonight in the crush.”

“Of course,” Sybilla promised. “Good night, Cee.”

Cecily could not return the sentiment, as it had been anything but for her, and so she simply smiled again and walked away.

She made her way around the perimeter of the hall beneath the musicians’ arched balcony, excusing herself quietly around little clusters of people oblivious to her passing, until she at last came to the lord’s dais—Sybilla’s dais now. The stacks of tables and benches cleared away from the great hall floor to give the dancers room felt like a haven, a fortress, shielding Cecily from the cruel celebration as she ducked through the hidden door set in the rear wall.

The stone corridor was cool and blessedly unoccupied, a welcome relief from the humid cacophony of the feast.
Cecily’s footsteps were quick and quiet as she made her way to her rooms to fetch her cloak for the walk across the bailey to the chapel.

He hadn’t considered her for one instant, even in jest.

She reached her chamber and stepped inside, forcing herself to close the door gently, when what she wanted to do was slam it loose from its hinges. She crossed the floor to the wardrobe.

She didn’t understand why she was so completely and suddenly enraged. She had decided her path long ago, even if she had dragged her feet in formally committing. She loved the peace of a prayerful life, found meaning in service. The beauty and wonder of the world—and its wickedness too—explained and supported by faith. In pledging herself to the religious, her life would forever be simple, predictable. Peaceful.

Cecily found her cloak easily among her few gowns and pulled it out. She held the worn material in her hands and looked down at it, musing suddenly that the old cloak was not unlike her life in the present—the weave coming slowly apart, rubbed thin and transparent in places, the hem ragged and uneven. In truth, the garment was much too short for her now. She hadn’t noticed before that moment how shabby it had become, although when her mother had sewn the final stitches, it had been quite enviable.

She realized that had been ten years ago. Had any at Fallstowe known peace since then?

Her parents had seen little peace while they’d lived. Morys Foxe had held Fallstowe against the Barons with King Henry III, and then after the weak monarch’s death, as well as Morys’s own, Amicia had seized the reins of Fallstowe in bitter defiance of the king’s son, who thought her a spy against the crown. And now that Amicia was gone, Sybilla had taken up their mother’s dangerous
banner, rebelling against Edward so that Cecily was certain the consequences would be most dire.

Alys was safe now that she was married with the king’s own blessing, yes. But what of Sybilla? Her pride would never allow for surrender to Edward’s demands, no matter how rich and well-tended the monarch promised to leave her. Cecily did not often dwell on the possibilities that lay in store for her elder sister, although she knew they were quite real, and more pressing now than ever. Alys and Piers had carried rumors from London of a siege only two months ago. Sybilla could be imprisoned.

She could be put to death.

One of her sisters was a solitary warrior, the other now a simple farmer’s wife. Cecily was truly in the middle, and not just because of the order of her birth. She could not choose either path—to fight or to surrender. And so she had chosen the only other option that was likely to bring her peace—

She had become invisible. And for years, her inconspicuousness had served her well.

Then why was she, this night, so very unhappy? So atypically discontent, and even envious of the carefree and pretty Joan Barleg, of all people? And why was she so put out at the thought that a man who would lie naked with a donkey paid her no mind?

Cecily wondered for the hundredth time this evening how her life would have been different if she and Oliver Bellecote had married. Would they be happy? In all likelihood, she would still be known by the hated moniker of Saint Cecily, if only because people would surely look upon her with pity at being married to such a scoundrel as Oliver Bellecote.

The terribly handsome, lonely scoundrel.

She sniffed loudly and then wiped at her face with the
hem of her cloak before swirling it around her shoulders. She turned to the little plain clay dish on the table near her bed to retrieve her prayer beads.

This will all have passed away by the morn, she reasoned with herself. After all, Alys had been in the very depths of despair when she thought she was to marry against her will, and Alys had gone on to meet her husband at the F—

Cecily’s head came up. Her chamber was as silent as the bottom of a well.

“The Foxe Ring,” she whispered aloud, and brought her fingers to her mouth, the smooth, round beads in her hand pressing against her lips, as if trying too late to stifle her words.

The old ring of standing stones at the crumbling Foxe ruin was rumored to be a magic place. Men and women throughout the land had used the mysterious circle for generations in order to find a mate. The legend was unlikely, yes, but Alys had gone, and Piers had found her in the midst of a very unlikely set of circumstances.

Perhaps … perhaps Hallowshire
wasn’t
Cecily’s true vocation, which might explain her sudden, fierce reluctance. Perhaps she, too, should visit the Foxe Ring. Perhaps—

Cecily dropped her hands and her gaze went to the floor while she shook her head. “Superstitious nonsense,” she said sternly, quietly. “Likely a sin, as well.” Hadn’t she herself warned Alys of such on the very night her youngest sister set out for the ring?

But weren’t you also wrong then?
a little voice whispered in her ear.

She tried to ignore it.

Besides, the moon wasn’t even full presently, as the legend commanded. It wouldn’t be full again for a fortnight, and by that time, her letter of intent would be firmly in
the hands of the kindly and elderly abbess, and this indecisive madness that had suddenly seized her would be naught but a faint and unpleasant memory.

Cecily took a deep breath and blew it out with rounded cheeks. Then she walked determinedly to the door and quit her chamber, her feet carrying her purposefully toward the wing of the castle that would allow her to exit in the bailey closest to the chapel. The sounds of the feast behind her—the shouts and laughter—chased her from her home in diminishing whispers until she was running, and she burst through the stubborn wooden door with a gasp, as if coming up from the bottom of a lake.

The bailey was empty, the sky above black and pin pricked with a hundred million stars. Her panting breaths clouded around her head as she recalled her mother telling her that the night sky was a protective blanket between the earth and heaven’s blinding glory. Starlight was angels peeking through the cloth.

The thought led Cecily’s mind to another faded, bittersweet memory—herself and her two sisters, as girls, playing at the abandoned keep. It was springtime, and Cecily, Alys—she could have been no more than four—and even Sybilla collected long, spindly wildflowers, yellow and white, while Amicia watched benevolently from the shade of a nearby tree.

The girls weaved in and out of the tall, standing stones, singing a song Amicia had taught them, their arms full of ragged blooms.

One, two, me and you …

Tre, four, forever more …

Five, six, the stones do pick …

Seven, eight, ‘tis my fate …

Nine, ten, now I ken …

Cecily stared up at the sky for a long time.

When her heart beat slowly once more, Cecily began walking determinedly toward the chapel—the exact opposite direction of the Foxe Ring, which seemed to be sending out ghostly echoes of that almost forgotten childhood song. As penance for her sinful thoughts and desires, Cecily decided then that she would specifically pray for Oliver Bellecote. Surely that would be akin to wearing a hair shirt.

Any matter, she would not be going to the Foxe Ring.

She stopped at the doors to the chapel, the night still around her, as if the angels above the blanket of sky held their breath and watched her to see what she would do. Her hand gripped the latch.

Cecily looked slowly, hesitantly over her shoulder.

Heather Grothaus is the author of the internationally acclaimed Medieval Warriors Trilogy, and her novels have been translated into several foreign languages. When not writing, she enjoys gardening, studying French, and investigating real-life haunted locations. She lives in Kentucky with her husband, their children, and two enormous dogs. You can visit her online at www.HeatherGrothaus.com.