Never Love a Lord Read Online Free PDF

had earned. Perhaps her actions were brought about by nothing more than self-preservation, duty, and loyalty, and in that Julian could find little fault. After all, had he himself not done such things?
    He shook off the comparison, though, along with his hose, and considered that Sybilla Foxe’s acquiescence to be interviewed might have more to do with his presence than her willingness to stave off a siege against her people. It was almost as if he could feel her response to him as he’d held her in his arms.
    Perhaps she might fancy him.
    Julian stepped up to the tub. Because he was feeling quite triumphant, he leaned over and grasped the two sides with his hands and lifted both feet from the floor, swinging himself over and then lowering quickly into the water of the tub.
    He was out of the tub faster than he had gotten in, and would have likely been distressed at the very feminine sounding shrieks emanating from his mouth as he hopped around the wooden tub, water flying everywhere, except that his capacity for self-observation was completely overshadowed by his desire not to freeze to death. He snatched at the stack of linens on the stool, toppling it, and then fell upon the pile of rags. They were all no bigger than the palm of his hand.
    He kicked his way through the mess to the bed and pulled the coverlet from the mattress, wrapping it around himself, and then turned back to face the tub warily, panting.
    The fire glinted off the recently disturbed surface of the water in the tub, and now Julian could clearly make out the glistening shards floating quietly in the water.
    Ice. The bitch had filled his bath with ice water.
    Julian lifted one arm beneath the cape-like blanket and sniffed. He quickly turned his head away with a grimace. He had to wash. He stomped to the overturned stool, righted it, and sat down at the side of the tub. Steeling himself, Julian threw off the coverlet, snatched up one of the ridiculously small rags and the bar of soap, and dunked both of them in the frigid water. He was not looking forward in the least to washing his hair.
    And he no longer thought that Sybilla Foxe fancied him.
     
     
    Sybilla lay in her bed, staring up at the canopy. She was completely exhausted. The last three days had seen her younger sister kidnapped, rescued, and wed—with Sybilla herself deeply involved in each event. She’d ridden hard to and from Hallowshire Abbey, organized the defense of Fallstowe in preparation for an attack by the king’s men, nearly gotten herself killed on the battlements, and now had to contend with Edward’s own emissary as a guest. Along with his infant . Dawn was two hours away, and yet her eyes would not close.
    Why had she agreed to this nonsense? Why hadn’t she simply given the command for her own men to open fire on Julian Griffin at first light?
    Perhaps, she thought, it was because she knew that no matter how well prepared they were, they would not triumph. The king had a near endless supply of soldiers at his disposal, and even if Fallstowe’s army struck down company after company, there would always be another to follow, until all of Sybilla’s soldiers were dead or everyone within the castle walls had starved to death. She had precious few friends, and those she did claim would never sacrifice their own status within the realm by going against the monarch, especially if they suspected the grounds for the conflict.
    So, in her eyes, she had been faced with seeing Fallstowe and her good people destroyed starting with this night, or agreeing to the unexpected interview, perhaps buying her more time to think of an alternative to surrender. For that , she could never do.
    Escape? Perhaps to Bavaria, or Persia even. But not France. She could never flee to the land of her mother’s birth. Fallstowe was unguarded as far as was directly visible, and Sybilla knew it would not be difficult to gather all the coin she could assemble and simply disappear into the night with old