She smiled condescendingly. “First you have to have such a child.” When he took a step toward her, she raised a single finger in his direction. “Let me warn you, Christopher, that any child you beget with me will not live to be born.”
When he laughed, she feared she had pushed him too far. “You won’t give me a living child, Sybill? Then there is no need of you. I will find your bastards and rear them under the tender tutelage of doting uncle. As soon as they reach their majority, they will die.”
“You will kill your brother and sister?”
“Tell me the truth, Sybill, and I will let the girl live. As she is not my blood sister, I will marry her. The will’s codicil is satisfied, and Foxbridge Cloister is mine as it should have been from the beginning.”
“No!” she screamed, as her composure vanished. She did not think of his threat to her as she imagined the horror her children would be condemned to if Christopher had his way.
“Oh, yes, Mother dear.” Slowly he withdrew his sword from the scabbard by his side. “Say farewell to the dawning of this day, for ’twill be the last you see.”
As he stepped toward her, she moved backward. Spinning, she lifted her dress high and raced away from his madness. The uneven ground hampered her terrorized flight. It did not take her long to know he was playing yet another of his sadistic games.
As she struggled through the high grass which caught on her skirt to imprison her in waving fingers, he was steadily herding her toward the cliffs. Only when she turned to go inland did he cut off her escape. Otherwise, he advanced on her with perverted precision. Sybill gave a cry of horror as she felt the sharply sculptured rocks at the edge of the cliffs beneath her ruined slippers. When she saw the expression of satisfaction on his face, she began to race along the stones slippery with rain and sea spray.
Her feet skidded on the slick surface, and she screamed hysterically. Throwing out her arms, she grasped the twisted trunk of a wind-broken tree. It creaked ominously as she used it to halt her fall from the rim of the cliff. Hearing laughter, she turned to see Christopher directly behind her. As her chest heaved with fatigue from her race, she vowed to herself that she would not beg him to spare her.
“So here is where it ends, Sybill.” He lifted his sword and placed it against the laces in the middle of her bodice. “You need not mourn for your late estate manager. I send you back to his arms. Like my father, you will not stand between me and Foxbridge Cloister.”
“Like your father?” she choked through her uneven breathing. “Then it wasn’t an accident?”
He smiled as he bragged, “I fooled you, didn’t I, Sybill? I thought you would remember the conversation at dinner several nights before my father’s most unlamented demise. Like Robert Dudley, I used the stairs as a convenient site to rid myself of an unwanted relative.”
“You murdered your own father?”
“He did not deserve to live,” Christopher said without emotion. “After destroying my mother’s life with his cruelty, he turned his attention to me. To the world, he was a perfect father with a dissolute son who shamed him, but we know the truth, don’t we, Sybill?” His eyes roved along her with an intensity that froze her. “Do you bear the scars of his abuse, or did he spare you because he did not wish to risk the child he wanted? When I take you to my bed, shall I find scars on you to match mine?”
Sybill started to speak, hoping to offer him compassion in exchange for her life, but cried out as she felt the tree shift beneath her. All hopes of a truce sealed with their common hatred of Owen Wythe disappeared as he laughed. His foot rose to rest against the wood. One sharp push would break its tenuous hold on the cliff.
Fear was bright on her face, highlighted by the glow of the morning sun. She was about to die. If she did not fall to her death with this tree whose rotted roots could not support her weight, her stepson would run her through with his sword. Christopher would never rue her death. He had killed too many to let another murder worry him.
“Tell me,” he ordered. “Who was your lover? I heard tales of your rescue of the dead man buried yonder.”
“Who told you?”
He chortled. “You have enemies, Sybill. Not everyone was pleased to see a prostitute’s daughter raised to be Lady Foxbridge. You were seen with the priest and the Spanish man. Did you pleasure both of them? Or was it simply Breton who was your lover from the beginning?”
“Edith and Alfred are Owen Wythe’s children.” She screamed as he slit the laces of her bodice.
“Tell me, Sybill. You can die easily, or you can die in the method I had prepared for Breton. Continue, and you will pay the price.”
“Christopher, I can tell you nothing but the truth.”
He moved closer. “Good, then tell me.”
Suddenly she knew that he would revel in her murder no matter what she said. If she spoke the truth, he would invalidate the will and rid himself of her children if he found them. Praying she had the strength to bear his tortures, she stared directly at him. “No,” she said softly. “I have discussed this with you until I am sure I want to speak of this no more.”
His handsome face distorted to reveal the evil within him. A curse was interrupted by a sound which echoed weirdly across the open countryside. Goldenrod’s baying was instantly recognizable. Neither had to guess what the dog was hunting.
Christopher hesitated a moment too long as he looked about in horror. The bounding form of the dog was visible, as well as those of two men following him on horseback. He turned to swing the sword wildly at Sybill, but she had used his lack of concentration to fling herself to the other side of the acutely leaning tree. The well-honed blade bit into the dried trunk, spraying her with fragments of the insect-gnawed wood. As she crouched behind her flimsy shelter, he raised the sword again. He did not slash toward her. Instead he screamed in panic. He began to race along the cliffs.
When Sybill saw Goldenrod chase him, she tried to pull her eyes from the desperate scene. Knowing she must call off the rampaging dog, she struggled to her feet. “Goldenrod!” she screamed. “Goldenrod, don’t!” Even as her voice carried through the crystal air of the morning, she saw the large dog leap forward. The man’s shriek swallowed her words.
She screamed again as she heard the vicious growls of the dog. Christopher’s voice was unrecognizable as he fought the animal. Running to pull off the maddened dog, she did not see the riders jump from their horses. One sped toward where the man struggled with the dog. The other man caught Sybill before she could reach the two blood-coated forms. Pulling her into his arms, he turned her so she could not see the horrible scene.
“Sybill, sweetheart, are you hurt?”
Her head jerked up as she heard the beloved voice she had feared silenced forever. Although her lips formed his name, no sound came from them. Before her, his arms around her as they struggled against the tides of the hate surrounding them, stood Trevor. A small bandage was white against the sable of his hair, but he was alive. That joyous thought fled from her mind as she gasped, “Stop Goldenrod!”
“It’s too late,” came another familiar voice. An ashen-faced Mac stood behind them. In his hand was a bloodied sword. “They both are dead.”
“On, no!” cried Sybill. Tears sprang into her eyes, but they were solely for her precious dog. She could not mourn for Christopher.
“What happened?” asked Trevor quietly.
Holding up the sword, the red-haired man sighed. “Lord Foxbridge used this, but too late. Your dog protected you well, Lady Foxbridge.”
Sybill tried to control her stomach, which roiled within her as she thought of Christopher’s ignoble death. As she leaned against Trevor, she did not notice that the men’s faces were as colorless as hers.
In a strained voice, Trevor ordered, “Have Goldenrod buried, and have Lord Foxbridge brought to the Cloister. I will take Lady Foxbridge back.”
He nodded. “That’s a good idea, Trevor.” With a mighty heave, Mac flung away the sword stained the same
color as his fiery hair. It sailed far out into the ocean to be lost among the waves.
Seeing her eyes riveted to the bit of cloth on his forehead, Trevor smiled. “He missed, but not by much. I will have a nice scar to remind us of this.”
“Edith? Alfred?”
“They are safe. Mac followed Lord Foxbridge to try to help us. He found me and the children at the edge of the wood. We hid the babies in the old part of the house. Christopher never goes near the monks’ cells. Perhaps he believes—believed in the ghosts haunting there.”
He halted her next question by tilting her mouth beneath his. Although he winced as he moved his head, which ached with the concussion of the bullet against it, he could not resist the sweet flavor of her lips. When he heard her murmur of pain, he moved away. He saw the bruise on her cheek that had been closest to his. Slipping his arm beneath her knees, Trevor lifted Sybill into his arms while Mac went to gather help for the grisly tasks. He placed her on the saddle, then mounted behind her. With his arm around her waist, he leaned her back against him.
“Will you be all right, my love?”
She nodded. “Someday I will forget. Someday I will be able to see a sunrise without it reminding me of blood running across stones.”
“Someday,” he agreed as he turned the horse toward where their children and their friends waited for them.
Epilogue
“I baptize thee, Alfred Owen Wythe, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” The baby let out a screech as the water dribbled on his forehead.
Sybill smiled. All the superstitious in the chapel would be appeased by the sound. They believed a child’s cry at baptism announced the devil being forced out. She glanced down at her velvet sleeves, already spotted from Edith’s baptism. Her eyes rose to Trevor’s as he stood proudly by her side. Today they publicly acknowledged his children as Owen Wythe’s, but Trevor Breton was designated as their special godfather. Clara and Malcolm Beckwith stood behind them as the other godparents of the twins.
When the prayer was completed, the minister leaned forward to congratulate them. Sybill put aside her dislike of the pompous man to be gracious. A sudden cheer sounded throughout the small chapel. She turned to see the staff delighting in the joy which only had begun with the baptisms.
She quieted her son. In the style of his supposed ancestors, the newest Lord Foxbridge was making his displeasure with the situation known to all. When he ceased his whimpering, she handed him to Clara and watched as Trevor passed Edith to Mac. Holding out her hand, she put it in the much wider one of the man she loved. She looked at Reverend Sears to see he had adjusted his book for the next ceremony.
“Dearly beloved,” he intoned, “we gather this day to join Lady Sybill Wythe in marriage to Trevor Breton.”
The words she had once heard through tears washed over her as she gazed up at Trevor. The happiness they had waited for through tragedy and horror was theirs. When a sharp peep interrupted the minister, her eyes went to where the children were being cuddled by their dearest friends.
She hoped the Beckwiths were pleased with the way she had expressed her gratitude for their assistance throughout the ordeal. The house where she had lived with Clara while they awaited the reading of the will would be known henceforth as Beckwith Grange. It and the surrounding acreage now belonged to the ones who had risked everything to make this day possible. Even the formality of drawing up a legal deed was completed. The papers had been delivered by Mr. Mallory when he arrived to attend the dual ceremony.
As Reverend Sears announced she was Trevor’s wife, Sybill felt her husband’s strong arms around her. She would never take his closeness for granted. Too many times they had been wrenched apart. As she held up her lips for his kiss, he leaned forward to whisper so softly no one else could hear. “Mrs. Breton, I love you.”
Her lips tilted in amusement as she asked, “Are we back to such formality again, Mr. Breton?”
He laughed uninhibitedly as her words reminded him of one of the innumerable spats they had had and would have in the future. Life with Sybill would never be tranquil. “I don’t care what you call me, my love, as long as I can call you my wife.”
“Forever,” she breathed as his mouth descended over hers.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Foxbridge Legacy
Chapter One
The sun was bright off the mountainsides to the north as the young woman adjusted her veil on her dark hair. It would not have mattered to her if it had been the dreariest day of the year, for she could see only the glory of her happiness reflected around her. With a joyous laugh, she twirled about so that her full skirts belled out even wider around her.
She turned once more to view her appearance in the small mirror. The veil did not hide her blue eyes and brilliant smile that were the two most admired features of her lovely face. She smoothed the silk dress along her body. She had never had such a fine gown, so it was appropriate that today she would wear it.
Today Rebecca North would become the wife of Keith Bennett. After their courtship and the thrill of him asking her to marry him, she would this morning take the vows that would make her his wife forever. It was a dream come true. He had proposed marriage several months ago, but had asked her to delay the wedding until he could finish the cabin he was building for them. At last, the day had come.
Her bags were packed and in the front room, ready to go to that new house. When she and Keith returned from their wedding party, her things would be waiting in the house they would share. Her smile softened as her eyes grew distant with thoughts of the life she would have from this day forward with the man she loved.
“Rebecca, are you ready?” came a voice that jarred her back to the present.
Her smile broadened as she turned to greet her older brother Hart. He would be giving her away, because their father, Major Henry North, had died in service to his country during the battle of Saratoga. The horrors of the war so recently over were forgotten in the midst of her joy. “Take Aunt Dena out to the wagon, and I will be with you directly.”
He nodded and closed the door. Rebecca looked around her room. Today she was leaving behind everything she had known all her life. Today she was beginning a new life that would incorporate all the love from the old one with a new love that would be the center of her being. “Good-bye,” she whispered to her room, her home, her self who had lived there for all of her nineteen years.
Cloying thoughts of nostalgia disappeared as she went out to the cart. An ecstatic bounce was in her step as she walked out of the cabin without another backward glance.
“Here comes the happiest bride I have ever seen,” teased Aunt Dena. She was a spare woman, well wrinkled with time. Laughter and sunshine had etched lines in her face. Her white hair was pulled back beneath the outrageous hat she wore for only the most special occasions. Its feathers and ribbons added six inches to her slight height.
Hart laughed as he helped his sister onto the hard wooden seat of the wagon. Unlike Rebecca, he had the light hair of their mother, but in many ways the Norths were alike. They shared a deep joy in life and a closeness which had strengthened when they had lost both of their parents. Hart was pleased that she would not be moving far from their home. The two of them and Aunt Dena were the total of the surviving North family.
It was a very short ride to the church, but Hart had insisted that they drive. He had not wanted her to walk and to get dust on her new gown. When they reached the white clapboard building, he lifted the older woman down so that she could go in to take her seat of honor in the first pew.
“All ready?” he asked, jokingly.
“I know brides are supposed to be nervous,” Rebecca said with a laugh, “but I’m not. I know that this is just the beginning of the most wonderful part of my life.”
He bent and kissed her check. His voice was very serious as he said, “I hope you are right, Rebecca. I hope you are right.”
“Hart, what is wrong?” Her smile faded as
she saw the bleakness in his eyes.
A weak smile crossed his lips. “I’m the one who is nervous, I guess. It’s hard for me to realize that in a few minutes you will be Keith Bennett’s wife. I’ve been used to you being my little sister.”
“That does not change, silly!” She hugged him. When she heard the music from the church, she said, “I think the ceremony is starting.”
He held out his arm to her. “Then let us make our grand entrance, my lady.”
“What fancy manners from someone who used to dip my braids in mud puddles!”
Rebecca smiled up at her grinning brother as they walked into the church. He had seemed as delighted with this wedding as she was. Keith was his friend, and it had been Hart who had first suggested she take a walk with Keith along the moonlit path home from church services. Soon Keith had come calling on her. She had long admired her brother’s friend, and her admiration became love. She guessed this wedding was the fulfillment of Hart’s dream, as well.
As they walked past the rearmost pew, Rebecca noticed a stranger sitting there. Her eyes were caught by his dark ones, which were narrowing with an emotion she could not read. She wondered who this scowling man was. Something about the strong line of his jaw and his black eyes tugged at her memory, but she could not connect his handsome face with anyone she knew. As she passed him, she shrugged off her concerns and told herself he must be an acquaintance of Keith.
All thoughts of him faded as she looked at her fiance waiting with uncharacteristic formality by the altar. Keith was more comfortable making jokes around their supper table than standing at the front of the church dressed in his stiff collar and knee breeches. When he turned to see her walking toward him, his face split into a grin that made him look much more like the normal Keith.
Rebecca took his hand as she stepped up onto the raised section in front of the altar. He brought it gently to rest on his arm as together they looked at the minister. He glanced down at her as if to share an ecstatic secret while they listened to the clergyman intone the words that would make them one for all eternity.
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