make it look more real.”
Much to Sybilla’s dismay, his tongue pressed its way between her slightly parted lips. He drew his head back for a moment and looked into her eyes. “Mistress Corbuc,” he whispered. “You are delicious. And I have a feeling…” He lowered his head and planted a searing trail of kisses on her eyelids and across her cheeks.
Sybilla’s heart jumped. The stolen kisses from the baker’s son three years ago were never like this—so arresting. Sir Guy’s passion stirred up something deep inside her––an alarming need for more. Instinctively, she lifted her chin and leaned her head back, allowing Guy to explore her neck, to go dangerously lower with his mouth. The heat from his lips set her skin on fire and sent goose bumps rippling down her arms.
God’s breath, what was he doing? What was she doing? The night watch was here!
Limbs flailing, she struggled, but her ill-thought effort only caused Sir Guy to shift. He settled his lower body between her legs, his firm shaft pressed immodestly against her mons. A sudden rush of heat flowed over her, starting from her core, spreading, and arousing more than just a hint of maidenly desire. A low moan escaped her lips.
Sir Guy grinned down at her. “If you are pretending your enthusiasm, Mistress Green Eyes, you should know that I am not. The passion that you stir in me is real.”
The barn doors banged open and a lantern flooded light into the darkness. From the floor, Sybilla could see the feet of three men: a guard’s boots, a priestly pair of slippers, and a finely crafted pair of leather shoes, dyed red, complete with silver buckles.
“What goes here?” bellowed the voice above the red shoes.
Guy lowered his head and whispered into Sybilla’s ear, “Trust me. I will not steal your colt––or your virtue. Remember that.” He jumped up and pulled Sybilla to her feet.
Trembling, Sybilla lowered her chin, hoping to hide her flushed face.
Glancing up, she watched a sardonic smile spread across Guy’s face. He tipped his head at the sheriff. “Good eve, Sheriff. What brings you here?”
The sheriff stroked his pointed black beard. His beady eyes studied Sybilla. “Mistress Corbuc? What businesses have you with this man?” His gaze roamed the length of her.
Sybilla lowered her eyes, wishing she was fully clothed. “I-I…”
Guy stepped forward. “Mistress Corbuc and I arranged a meeting. I wanted to see the colt she had for sale. We were just negotiating the price.”
Sybilla glanced away, alarmed. She’d never witnessed anyone address the sheriff as though he were no more than a beetle on a dung heap.
The sheriff cocked a well-groomed eyebrow. “She has no colt, unless the old mare has given birth. And you, Sir Guy, have no money left, having gambled everything you owned and lost. Unless of course, you plan on paying with a stolen emerald, the one belonging to Lord Hamon.”
Sybilla shot a glance at Guy. Good Lord, the man gambled like her father.
Guy narrowed his eyes. “Lord Hamon’s emerald? His sister stole it. I do not have it. You can check my person. If you dare.” His tone was calm, but the muscles in his jaw were tight.
The sheriff sneered, dimpling his cheeks. “Then you have stashed it somewhere and I intend to find it.” He peered inside the stall. Letting out an irritated breath, he wheeled around to face Sybilla. “The foal is not an hour old, Mistress Corbuc. The mare still has the birth sac hanging from her tail. Were you here, attending the delivery?”
Her whole body shook with denial. “No. I was only—”
The priest crossed himself. “Saints preserve us. The foal has four white socks. A familiar if there ever was. And Mistress Corbuc here delivered it, of that I can be certain. The watchmen checked the smith’s shed where she’s been sleeping and she was not there. That was an hour ago.”
The priest pushed his black hood from his head. It was Father Ambrose, who somehow had managed to grow fatter over the winter. He glared at Sybilla, his face flushed, his horse hair undershirt visible at the neckline of his black cassock. He looked warm and not at all like he was suffering a penance.
Indignant, Sybilla scooped up her blue dress and pulled it on over her head. She smoothed her tangled hair and faced the sheriff. “Good sir, the foal was born before the sun went down. He was already here when I checked after my supper. The afterbirth is there, but some mares will carry it for hours.” She pointed to Guy. “And the only devil I have cavorted with…is him. I confess. I left my bed an hour ago. He wanted to see the foal, having heard I would sell it. I did not know he had no money, or I never would have met him.”
She lowered her head. “I beg forgiveness for my carnal weakness, Father, but that is my only sin tonight.”
The ease with which she lied amazed her. Guilt stabbed at her stomach as she glanced at Guy’s bemused face.
In the momentary silence, Etienne and his mother strode into the barn, the determined Margery in the lead. She was a small woman, with button eyes and a severe mouth permanently puckered with determination. Her mouse-brown hair was thin and her eyes were sunken, like someone who had not had a decent meal in months. She pushed her way between the men and pulled her tattered woolen shawl around her frail shoulders.
Sybilla swallowed. Margery was never one to hold her tongue. Even when she tried to help, she had a way of making the situation worse.
Margery pointed at the priest. “You said, sir, that I should pray for a way to feed my children, that God would help me. Well, he did. He sent the Mistress Corbuc here to deliver this mare of a colt that was trapped inside her. She is my mare, Father. Mistress Corbuc an’ me, we struck a bargain. She said I could have the mare iffin I would give the ’orse shelter in my barn until the foal was weaned. The old mare woulda died, had not Mistress Corbuc helped with the birthing. My mare,” she repeated, “the one that’s gonna feed my children.”
A chill washed over Sybilla. Addy to slaughter? Margery had never mentioned that.
Margery knelt and bowed her head before the priest. “God bless the Mistress Corbuc. Have mercy on her. She’s saved more souls tonight than you have in a multitude of sermons.”
Sybilla groaned inwardly. Margery, say no more!
Father Ambrose’s face turned the color of a pomegranate. “She has broken the law.”
The sheriff nodded to the guard. “And so we have a witness, Mistress Corbuc. The widow Margery has just confirmed your crime. From this hour on, you will spend your days in Gambolt prison and await your trial.” He lifted the manacles from the guard’s hands. “If you are convicted as a Separate, you know what happens next.” He clucked as if he were disappointed. “Pity, to mar that lovely face.”
Margery’s mouth dropped open. “Corpus bones, Mistress Corbuc. I dinna mean to tell ’em what they wanted to ’ear.”
Sybilla squared her shoulders. “It’s all right, Margery. Sooner or later, they would have arrested me. I’ve long been like a burr beneath the Father’s cassock.”
Chains rattled. Iron cuffs opened wide.
Guy grabbed Sybilla’s wrist. “Hold, Sheriff.
