Never Seduce A Scoundrel (8 page)
Read Never Seduce A Scoundrel Online
Authors: Heather Grothaus
What was this thing Sybilla wanted uncovered, and even more, what was Joan herself hiding from Oliver?
The night through the wavy glass was so black that the portion of the window behind the heavy swag of drapery was a mirror. Oliver could see Joan Barleg’s reflection, motionless in the center of the room, save for her hands petting at her hair.
Was Joan somehow involved in August’s death?
Somewhere deeper into the black beyond Fallstowe, Cecily Foxe lay—likely in some dank, chilly chamber. Shivering in her fear of him, fear of life itself. Would she stay there, forsaking what they had shared, what they might share again if only she would let go?
It seemed to Oliver that his coming to Fallstowe had opened a Pandora’s box. His life would never be the same now, whether he stayed at Fallstowe and assisted Sybilla Foxe, waited for Cecily’s return, or if he went back to Bellemont. There were questions he had never before known existed, and which now demanded answers. If he could help solve this mystery Sybilla seemed convinced was real, perhaps it would show everyone who doubted that he was capable, responsible, worthy. Of Bellemont, and of Cecily.
His eyes caught a glimpse of Joan Barleg again, and the wavy glass showed him only a milky oval where her features would be.
“Joan,” he said musingly to the watery reflection that seemed to float in the black.
Her hands stilled on her plait. “Yes, Oliver?”
“Joan,” he began again, his stomach clenching on the roiling questions in his guts, his fist gripping his brother’s sword.
“Would you marry me, Joan?”
Chapter 15
Cecily had been a bit dismayed at the initial stir caused by her arrival at the abbey, especially among the youngest of the women. It seemed she was something of a celebrity here—the outrageously wealthy noblewoman who was likened already to a saint. It took the vicar’s intervention before Cecily could remove herself from the common room and the girls grasping at her sleeve.
But supper had been quiet, simple, and Cecily was very happy to observe the chastised and modest behavior of the oblates and novices that gathered around the tables near her and John Grey. Apparently the bishop had known just the right man to send to Hallowshire to restore order amongst the rebellious young women.
Now John Grey led her away from the dining hall through a narrow, black corridor, the candle in his left hand the only light around him as his right hand grasped her elbow.
“Are we to retire now?” she asked, stifling a yawn. The long journey today combined with her unexpected defection to Hallowshire—and the gaping absence of Oliver Bellecote—had exhausted Cecily to the point that she thought she might drop to the stones at any moment.
John’s footsteps slowed. “It’s terrible of me, I know. I should take you to your chamber straightaway. But there is something I wish for you to see—or hear, rather—if you would indulge me. It’s a small part of the reason I wanted you to come to Hallowshire so desperately. Do you mind? It shan’t take long.”
Cecily was intrigued. “Of course I don’t mind. In fact, the prospect of a secret has given me new life.” She smiled at him as he regained his earlier pace. “Where are we going? Can you tell?”
“The prayer chapel,” he said. “There is a group of monks who were traveling through the area, and their brotherhood is something you simply must witness. This night will be their last at the abbey.”
“Are we to meet them?” she asked.
“No.” John winced. “Actually we really aren’t supposed to fraternize with them.”
“Vicar John!” Cecily laughed in mock scandal.
He smiled his kind, handsome smile at her in the close glow of the candlelight. “If we keep to the shadows and stay quiet, we should be able to escape with only minor penances.”
He drew her behind him with one hand, shielding her as they approached a small, arched wooden door braced with black iron across its planks. From beyond, Cecily thought she could hear a queer, low humming. It seemed the soles of her feet tingled with the vibrato.
“What is that?” she whispered.
John stopped at the door and set the candle on a stone jutting from the wall, as if placed there for that very purpose.
“Once through the door, step immediately to your left. Shh,” he warned, bringing a finger to his lips. After she nodded, he leaned over and blew out the candle, drenching them both in cool darkness and the smell of spent wick.
Cecily heard the slow, raspy scrape of the door open, and then felt John Grey tug on her hand. He drew her past him and Cecily felt the cavernous space of the chamber even before her eyes adjusted enough to see the faint bank of candles seemingly leagues away at the far end of the chapel. She instinctively crouched down and ducked to the left as John had instructed her, her fingers slipping from his warm grasp.
The humming was more intense here, seeming to vibrate her ribs, her very heart. And when John Grey joined her in the far reaches of the back of the chapel, Cecily felt an expanding of her body.
The humming turned into chanting.
Cecily gasped as the monks, so small in the distance, began to sing in their resonant, guttural voices, so clearly that Cecily felt the tiny hairs in her ears trembling. The Latin words swelled, swirled around her head, tangled in her hair, and she felt tears coming into her eyes.
At her side, John Grey drew closer. His arm was behind her, his left hand braced on the wall. And although he did not touch her, Cecily felt protected. He had brought her here specifically to share this secret with her, knowing somehow that it would move her.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” he whispered into her ear, his words and his breath warm and humid. Gooseflesh layered upon gooseflesh on her arms and back.
She nodded and dragged her eyes from the party of robed men to glance at John’s face. His eyes were on her already, and Cecily felt a start of surprise. He was so close—much closer than she’d thought. It struck her as odd, as she had become accustomed to sensing Oliver Bellecote’s presence from across the room.
“It is,” she breathed. “Thank you, John.”
He gave her a smile suddenly. “Would you care to dance?”
Cecily brought her hand up to cover her mouth before a giggle could escape. “That’s blasphemy!” she scolded with a wide grin.
To her amazement, John shrugged. “I don’t think so. We are celebrating the beautiful gifts given to some rather otherwise homely men. I would think it rather a tribute.”
He was serious. The smile slowly slid from Cecily’s face.
“I can’t,” she said.
He gave her a quizzical grin. “Why not?”
“Because I’ve ... I’ve never danced before.” His eyebrows rose, and she clarified. “I know how, obviously. I was taught. But I’ve never danced with ... with a man before.”
“With all the feasts Fallstowe and your sister are host to?” he asked, as if still unable to believe it was possible.
Cecily felt her face heat, and then shook her head awkwardly.
John stared at her for a long moment, while the monks poured out their praise in low, close notes that sounded as if they were coming from either the depths of the earth or the highest reaches of heaven.
“You’re like a fairy tale,” John mused.
“Fairy tales are oft sweet exaggerations for the sake of a happy ending,” Cecily whispered, and then huffed a weary laugh. “So perhaps I am a fairy tale after all—I don’t really exist.”
Then John Grey did touch her, grasping both of her shoulders gently and turning her toward him. He took her left elbow, and then the fingers of her right hand, and then he took a step away from her, their joined arms held suspended between them.
“Cecily Foxe,” he asked somberly, “will you grant me the honor of a dance?”
For so many reasons, he was the right choice. Cecily knew this just as surely as she knew the way the morning sun fell across the floor of her chamber at Fallstowe each day. And Cecily knew without either of them so much as alluding to it that her answer would grant him permission or nay to pursue her, not for Hallowshire, not for the bishop, but for himself. He could very well be the answer to her many prayers, the solution to her indecision.
But then why did she expect to see dark, unruly hair where golden strands lay? Why did she long for eyes the color of rich, wet earth when such a beautiful shade of sky blue beckoned to her? This earnestness, this blatant sincerity before her seemed to pale before the memory of irreverent passion, reckless sin, demanding desires. A want of something that was most certainly not good for her. She was like a child who cried for too many sweets.
Oliver Bellecote would be the ruination of her. Of her reputation, of what little pride she had left, of her heart. He would lie to her, use her. He would trample her and leave her alone at Fallstowe with only memories and pain. He was the wrong choice. Here, before her now, was the right choice.
Cecily gave John Grey a single, solemn nod.
And then, with the sounds of heaven helping to twirl her along with John Grey, neither one of them smiling and yet both of their eyes locked on each other’s, Cecily Foxe, at last, danced.
She had loosely planned on staying at Hallowshire no more than a pair of days. But the company of John Grey and the peace of the abbey worked like a draught on Cecily, and she could often go an entire hour without thinking of Oliver Bellecote. She became somewhat addicted to the hush where once jangling warnings set her to trembling.
And so five days passed, and then five more.
There had been only one truly dangerous moment of weakness, when Cecily had received a message from Sybilla. The missive had reported no emergency, no need for her to return. In truth, her sister had only encouraged Cecily to stay as long as she liked; Fallstowe and Lord Bellecote were managing remarkably well without her.
Cecily’s hand had been on the latch of the door of her borrowed chamber, her small satchel packed and in her other hand, before she realized what she was doing.
She had lifted her hand slowly, carefully from the latch, and crept backward away from the door, as if fearful that should she make any sound, the door would open of its own accord and thrust her from Hallowshire just as surely as if she’d been launched from a catapult.
He was managing remarkably well without her.
Of course he was. He was Oliver Bellecote. He had undoubtedly found some other diversion to entertain him, straightaway. He likely couldn’t even recall what Cecily looked like.
And so Cecily had stayed, and she had learned that she might have been quite content to make the abbey her home, had she committed long ago. There was a schedule, a rhythm to the days and nights that spoke to her. The novices were a diverse bunch, some shy and reserved, others jubilant and full of sweet mischief, but all of them together made the large, peaceful retreat a tapestry of joyful service. Yes, Cecily could envision herself at Hallowshire easily, if not for her corruption at Oliver Bellecote’s hands.
As well as the abbey’s bland, seldom changing menu, which of late had Cecily longing for one of Cook’s dried apple tarts, drizzled with fresh cream. She had even dreamed of plates and plates of the sweet dish, and had woken the next morning with her stomach growling painfully. She could no longer abide the taste of any sort of fish, which seemed to be presented at each meal. Even the smell of it now was enough to make her want to retch.
Her time at Hallowshire had also allowed her to learn about John Grey. Besides being the youngest child of a rather wealthy and influential northern lord, he was something of an artist, possessing great skill with a small palette of paints and a horsehair brush. He was an accomplished dancer, and possessed of a surprising singing voice that would rival any of the brethren they’d listened to on their first night at Hallowshire together. He had a small land share and house near Oxford—“little more than a large cottage, really,” he’d admitted—that was being held by his father in anticipation of his vows.
Vows that he would not be taking, now.
She watched him approaching as she sat atop her horse: Vicar John Grey, striding across the bailey in the unusually robust early morning sun. A cold blast of raw wind swept over the dirt and his cloak flapped behind his knees like the wings of a mighty angel, the hood lying on his shoulders billowing like a dark halo. For an instant, Cecily was reminded of the similar analogy she had applied to Oliver Bellecote when he had fallen through the air from his horse, his cloak flying behind him like wings.
Fallen. Oliver Bellecote perhaps was a fallen angel then.
Cecily shook her head, annoyed with her fanciful and dangerous thoughts, and focused once more on the man approaching her. Such deep-colored vestments might have made another man appear sinister, but not John Grey. His hair fairly gleamed in the cold light, his smile—looking typically pleased and a bit bemused—was only for her, and Cecily could not help but feel a twinge of bittersweet relief.
He reached his own mount and Cecily tossed him the reins she’d been holding. John swung up onto the horse easily and man and beast quickly adjusted to each other.
“Ready?” he asked.
Cecily mustered the best smile she could. “As ready as I shall ever be, I suppose.”
She kicked her mount into pace with his across the bailey and then fell back as they clopped across the narrow drawbridge, Hallowshire growing at first tall and bristling behind them, and then shorter and gentler as they gained the rolling valley to the southeast. It would be a long ride to Fallstowe, and only little more than an hour after a breakfast inspired by the sea, Cecily’s stomach was grumbling its displeasure. She eyed the horizon of cresting hills with a wrinkle of her nose, expecting unreasonably to see fish jumping over the dried, yellow waves of dead grass. She brought her hand to her lips as she tried to hold back a hot belch.
“How long will we stay at Fallstowe?” she asked, in an effort to distract herself.
“How long do you wish to stay?” John countered solicitously.
Cecily turned her face up to the bright sun and drew a deep breath of the cold air, hoping to cool the sudden flush of her face and neck. She blew it out slowly through her mouth.
“Not long,” she said, feeling the perspiration at her hairline and beneath her arms in spite of the frigid wind. The bite of cold felt good on her skin.
“I must confess, it gladdens my heart to hear you say that.”
She looked over at him and gave him another smile, knowing he was referring to Oliver Bellecote. A shiver of panic tried to flip her stomach, and she hoped the dark-haired devil would be gone from Fallstowe when they returned.
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