Joaquin Peña could be no older than she was. Two decades of life had not been completed before he became a victim of the ideologies which had brought on this war. She questioned whether her father had been so wrong in his lifestyle. He had been happy and had made others forget their problems for a while. That must be infinitely better than this hate which seemed to be overtaking their world.
Certainly there was far too little love in her life. Any that existed was misplaced. She did not want to think about what Trevor had to tell her. It would be additional insult. She had not thought he would be so surprised to hear she was agreeable to what he had suggested so many times.
A raspy gasping ripped her away from her own dreary thoughts. She did not pause, for it was not the time to be squeamish. Joaquin was dying. Although he hated her, she would not let him end his life alone.
Sitting crosslegged on the floor, she picked up his hand from the pallet. In a soft voice, she spoke of the beauty of the sea. She told him of the late roses blooming along the hedgerows and the fresh vegetables coming from the fields. As the hours passed with painful slowness, she spoke only of the extremely abundant life of summer. She did not mention the coming of fall. Her voice faded when she saw there was no need to continue. Far less dramatically than he had come into her life, Joaquin had left it. In the quiet warmth of an early September afternoon, he breathed his last, tortured breath.
Tenderly she placed the hand over his other one on his chest. “Good-bye,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry we had to part as enemies, Joaquin or whatever your name was. I hope you have found peace at last.”
As she stiffly stood, the tears in her eyes erupted to cascade along her face. Putting her head on her crossed arms on the stool, she sobbed for all that had died in this primitive hovel. She grieved for a man who could not trust her and because of one she longed to love her.
The sleepless night and long hours of terror overpowered her and sent her spiraling into a slumber disrupted by nightmares no more horrible than her life. Even as she slept on the dirt floor, she sobbed for what she had wanted more than anything and had been denied.
A hand on Sybill’s shoulder brought her awake instantly. A finger over her lips silenced her cry of dismay. She looked up to see Trevor squatting next to her. His face was nearly invisible in the shadows. She glanced past him to see Father Stanford bending over the pallet. “You were too late,” she whispered.
“Did he say anything?”
Sadly, she shook her head. “He never woke.”
“So we will never know his real name.”
“He was Joaquin Francisco Aguinaldo, of the Spanish vessels San Mateo and San Martin and another ship he would not name.” The priest’s voice was sad. “He didn’t trust those who offered him sanctuary in his last hours. It’s a pity he must rest in the earth of the country he despised.”
Sybill pushed herself to her feet. She refused Trevor’s proffered hand by pretending she had not seen it. Knowing how disheveled she must appear, she brushed her loosened hair from her face. Her fingers came away covered with the mud plastered to her cheek. Her tears had mixed with the dirt on the floor to cake her skin. She paid no attention to it as she spoke. “Thank you, Father, for coming to help this man who was a stranger to you as well.”
“’Tis part of my work. If you would like, I can stay to celebrate the funeral mass over this lost soul.”
Trevor replied, “All is ready, Father. I prepared everything this afternoon before Miss Hampton arrived.” He stood and rubbed his hands on the thighs of his leather trousers. He did not look at her as he spoke her name. It was as if there again was an invisible barrier between them. His voice was businesslike as he said, “Go ahead. I will bring him.”
When the priest took Sybill’s arm, she was glad for the support. Against the threatening clouds, the sunset was a vivid reminder of the blood shed in the battles that ultimately had cost this man his life. Biting her lip to keep her tangled feelings within her, Sybill watched silently as the body was placed in the shallow grave beneath a tree.
It did not surprise her that Trevor had selected the one nearby spot where the view of the ocean was not blocked by other trees. Joaquin might have chosen this location himself. He would have only the sea between him and his beloved homeland.
Father Stanford spoke the short service in whispers, so his voice would not alert passersby to the clandestine funeral. Sybill longed for someone to tell them if the man beneath the tattered blanket being covered by dirt had been a good man or a wicked one. She wondered if Joaquin had been a pious son or the kind who would break a mother’s heart with his antics.
Her thoughts fled to another funeral. On that cold, rainy morning when her father had been interred, he had been without his friends. There was some consolation to know many thought of him privately that day. For Joaquin, none of his loved ones would know that his soul had departed the earth.
Only when the priest came to console her did she realize she was sobbing. She was mourning for her father, for this unknown man, and for the love she had offered Trevor. All were dead. Nodding in response to his blessing and farewell, she could not speak her gratitude aloud. She watched him ride away. He had been totally unlike what she had thought a priest would be. Father Stanford was no demon trying to undermine the rights of their queen. Like the Reverend Sears, he was trying to do God’s work in the devil’s world.
“Are you ready to leave?”
Quietly, she said, “Yes, Trevor.” She did not look at him.
“Come with me.” Again, as he had in the hut, he held out his broad hand.
Again, she ignored it. “No, I don’t think so. I must—I have to—I think I will go home.”
“Sybill, you can’t leave until I tell you what I must.”
She smiled sadly and shook her head. Involuntarily she glanced skyward as she heard a faint rumble of thunder. “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. It hasn’t been an easy day. I do not think I want to hear what you have to tell me about my stupidity.”
“Stupidity?” His hands on her shoulders turned her to face him. The stroke of his fingers against her muddy cheek was gentle. “My sweet Sybill, were you being stupid when you told me that you love me or was I the foolish one when I did not reply by saying, ‘I love you, too’?”
“I don’t know.” She tried to ease out of his arms. “I don’t know anything anymore. Everything I thought was right is wrong. Everything I was sure was constant is changing. Let me go, Trevor. I want to get home before it storms.”
“Listen one minute longer.” When she continued to try to flee from him, his voice hardened, “One minute! You owe me at least that much time to explain.”
She stopped struggling and said reluctantly, “One minute.”
Trevor bent so his nose was no more than an inch from hers. “My love, I love you, too. It is only because I love you that I have tried to deny that feeling. Lord Foxbridge wants you. If he was to discover my desire for you, I would be sent from Foxbridge Cloister. That doesn’t worry me, for I can find a position elsewhere. What concerns me is what might happen to you.”
“To me? What can be horrible if you love me?” His next words dampened the glow of joy in her eyes.
“At Foxbridge Cloister, you live in luxury. What can I offer you? A cottage with one room and a loft? A bolt of material for a new dress each year for the fair? Do you wish to see your children raised in poverty? You can’t trade your future for that.”
“You make me sound like my father!” Her voice broke on the accusation. “Didn’t you say he survived by trading his love for money? Trevor, I don’t want anything but to love you. All I know is what my heart tells me. I love you.”
Slowly his mouth descended to cover hers. He felt her eager response. In the past when he had tried to kiss her, he knew she was afraid of the passion building between them. As he held her in the shade of the last line of trees on the cliff, he could tell she welcomed him with all the love in her heart.
She slid her hands along his arms to explore the expanse of his shoulders. Her fingers gripped the coarse material of his shirt as his tongue sought its way past her parted lips. When it touched hers, caressing, teasing, she felt her knees melt to heated honey against him. With a laugh, he scooped her up into his arms. She started to speak, but he chuckled lightheartedly and placed his mouth over hers. Holding her between his lips and the strength of his muscular arms, he tantalized her with a shower of sweet kisses across her face. His mouth tasted the curve of her ear, and she gasped as desire swelled through her.
“No, don’t stop,” she whispered. “Hold me and kiss me forever, Trevor.”
“Not here, my love.”
Her eyes followed his gaze at the freshly overturned earth. Surprisingly, she had forgotten what had brought them to the small grove. She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Not in the hut either,” she whispered. “Trevor, I love you, but …”
At her words, he placed her on her feet. His hands encircled her face. Gently he kissed her. “Nowhere, isn’t it, Sybill? Do not apologize. I understand. We cannot keep the lord of Foxbridge Cloister from our minds. Until you know without questioning that you dare to risk everything for our love, I will wait for you.”
“What do you mean? Risk what?” She stepped back to look at him. Her brow creased with her bafflement.
“My love, I understand.”
“I don’t! What are you talking about?”
When he hesitated, it became instantly clear. He continued to think she wanted Foxbridge Cloister. Despite his declaration of love, he saw her as Alfred Hampton’s luxury-loving daughter. Turning, she went toward where the horse was tied.
The astonished man called after her, “Sybill, don’t misunderstand me again.”
“I understand you all too well.” Before he could respond, she had climbed into the saddle and was riding at top speed through the marsh grass.
Chapter Eleven
“Sybill?”
She paused on the first riser of the staircase as she heard Trevor’s voice. Impatiently, she demanded, “What?”
“Don’t you think we need to talk?”
“Now?” She disregarded his frown as she replied with the same distraction exhibited in her first question. “Can’t it wait? Trevor, I am overwhelmed with all the details of the party for the unveiling of the portrait.” She gave a martyr’s sigh. “I had no idea he intended to make it this formal.”
He took her hand as she turned to go up the stairs. “Sybill, you can’t continue to run from what you feel.”
Her eyebrows arched in easy irony. “I’m not running away from anything. You have made it clear there is nothing for us. I am simply continuing with my life at the Cloister. If you will excuse me …”
“Damn it! You are going to stay here and listen to me!” His sternly planed face was creased by pain. “This has been going on for a week. Every time I come near you, you skitter away. Woman, I love you!”
“Trevor!” she gasped. His raised voice could be heard by anyone in the nearby rooms. “Please.”
He swept her close to him. The papers in her hand fluttered to the floor, but he ignored them as he caught her head in his viselike grip. His mouth on hers repeated his demand that she cease living her pretext of forgetting her love for him. She put up her hands to break his hold on her, but they circled his shoulders. As his breath erupted into her mouth, it mingled sweetly with hers to stir awake the craving she had forced deep within her. It rebloomed, not to be forgotten.
Her lips remained softly parted as she stared at him. The strength of her desire to be his was far more powerful than she had guessed. It overwhelmed her common sense which warned her of the consequences of embracing Trevor in the front hall of Foxbridge Cloister.
“I’m tired of being careful,” he murmured as he teased her ear with the heated tip of his tongue. “I’m tired of only dreaming of holding you, Sybill. I love you, and I want you beside me in the night.”
She asked in a half-taunting voice, “In my rooms where Kate keeps track of all I do? In yours? Would that be any better? How long would it take before everyone knew of our not-so-secret affair?”
Silently he helped her collect the scattered pages, remembering the other time he had done this. That day in the innocence of the first soft flushes of love, he had no suspicion that their joy would be tainted as they fought to keep it from faltering and dying. “Sweetheart, let me think of something.”
Placing her hand against his cheek, she smiled sadly. “I will try to find an answer, too, Trevor. Your love is my salvation and my greatest torment.”
As she fled up the stairs to sort out the list of those invited to the fête for the portrait and those who had responded, she did not look back at the man leaning on the banister. That Trevor was never far from her remained the only comfort she could have during these dark days.
In the days that followed, neither had a chance to speak of the subject closest to their hearts. Hasty kisses and hidden caresses were infrequent as they toiled with the heavy load of tasks given to them by the lord of Foxbridge Cloister. Seldom did Trevor join them for the evening meal as he labored in the fields as long as the daylight lingered. Sybill’s time was consumed by the preparations for the party.
When the day of the unveiling arrived, she was exhausted. Kate dressed her in the fabulous gown she had worn for the portrait, its heavy material like a shackle around her neck. The high ruff accented the upsweep of her curls, but chafed her skin. Straightening the lace at her cuffs, Sybill took a deep breath. This night would go late, and she did not want to be tired tomorrow. She smiled as she held her secret close to her heart. If she could get through this horrible night, she would be one day closer to rewarding her heart for its patience.
Owen greeted her at the base of the stairs. The crisp slits in his wide, green velvet breeches revealed the scarlet cloth matching the lace on his narrow ruff. His gray hair was twisted in curls to fall upon his shoulders. In his fine clothes, he presented the perfect Lord Foxbridge.
“Like the beautiful painting come to life! How you are glowing tonight, my dear!” he gushed. “I don’t know when I have seen you so happy.”
“I will be happy when this is over.” She smiled as he placed her hand on his arm.
He laughed at her earnest words. “Now, now, my dear. It will not be that bad. Just a few close friends here to see the most beautiful lady ever to grace the Cloister ensconced in her place of honor.”
Sybill had no chance to reply, for they entered the drawing room. The score of guests converged upon them. Those who had not met her before fawned over her with an insincerity that she had learned to recognize in London. It surprised her how quickly she recalled the skills she had needed to deal with the people used to the quick wit and rapidly changing fortunes of Elizabeth’s court.
While she chatted with the guests, most who were Owen’s business acquaintances and of his generation, her eyes searched for the one person she wanted to see. She endured the snobbish introductions of “Baron Someone” and “Viscount So-and-So” while a goblet of sparkling wine was pressed into her hand. With a smile and the appropriate, inane words, she hid her lack of interest in the conversation.
Joy burst within her like an ember dancing on the hearth as she saw Trevor enter. Her eyes glowed as she admired the lithe line of his body accented by the narrow cut of his clothes, unlike the more flamboyant styles in the room. She was about to interrupt the boring man who was discussing at length his commercial interests in London when Owen appeared.
“It is time, Sybill.”
She flashed a glance in the direction of the raven-haired man leaning against the wall between two shadowed windows. The merest nod of his head gave her the message that they would have a chance to talk after the formalities.
Nervously, her hand tightened on Owen’s arm as he led her to stand beneath the shrouded painting. Marshall stood to one side, resplendent in his pale green livery, with his hand on t
he cord which would swing the cloth to the side and reveal the portrait. Although his face did not lose its stern facade, Sybill smiled as she saw his right eye dip in a slow wink. His good humor bolstered her sagging courage.
“My friends,” began Owen in his most sonorous voice, “I want to thank you for coming. This lovely young lady by my side you all must know as my dear ward, Sybill Hampton. Although it was her father’s tragic demise which brought her into my life, I must admit she has captivated all within the walls of Foxbridge Cloister.” He squeezed the fingers of her hand resting on his arm. “Wanting to keep her here always, I commissioned Gerard Sievers to do her portrait. Tonight we shall enjoy the result, which can be but a reflection of her true beauty. Marshall?”
“Aye, m’lord.” The butler tugged on the rope.
The concealing material drifted away to expose the canvas beneath to the collective gasps of admiration from the guests. Sybill’s eyes widened as she saw the work which she had waited to view for so long. Mr. Sievers deserved his reputation. Not only had he captured the lifelike shape of her features, but he had caught the glow of the morning light on her hair. A puppy-sized Goldenrod rested at her feet, gazing up with adoration. She did not look at her pet, but at something just beyond the edge of the painting. The wistful expression spoke of a young woman on the threshold of first love, pining for some treat she had yet to sample.
Applause erupted throughout the room. The guests swarmed around them to congratulate Owen on his excellent choice of painter. Fear swelled through her as she listened to the men speaking in only slightly subtle words of Sybill’s future with Lord Foxbridge. Feeling suffocated by the assumption that she soon would be Lady Foxbridge, she extracted herself from the crowd with a flimsy excuse. She gratefully took the glass of wine someone handed her and gulped a large portion of it.
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