Once Upon a Knight (16 page)

“Strange that you should mention danger. ’Tis the thought of that making me hasten away, my love. I mean, lovely…bride.”

She’d sucked in a breath at his words. At least, that’s what he thought happened, since her belly flattened along his shoulder, reminding him that he had her form draped across it…her legs in his arms…her breasts hovering above him, and that put her essence right in reach of his mouth….

“Vincent!” she cried out before he even had time to put action to the thought. As if she knew what he’d been about to do.

He pulled his head back. Of course she knew. She was an enchantress. And a witch. He shook his head slightly to clear it. That was stupid. All that happened was the yard in front of him rotated and swayed before righting again, showing a multitude of early risers, a dawn that still had rain coming with it, and horses being held ready for him. Nice horses. The dwarf’s horses. Which reminded him. “Make haste, lads! We’ve a bit of ground to put behind us!”

“Nae, Vincent…Please? I beg it.”

He was about to attempt to mount with her in his arms, but when she turned such a pleading tone on him, he felt like a little lad being chastised by his mother. Vincent sighed heavily and stopped, waited a few heart-thumping moments, and then loosened his arms a bit so she could slide almost to the ground. He didn’t let her feet touch, just the tips of her toes. He didn’t dare. She might try and run, and he didn’t know if he was capable of catching her at the moment. And until she turned back her spell, he wasn’t letting her out of his sight. All of which she should already know.

He frowned.

“What kind of an enchantress are you?” he asked once he had her in his arms and facing him. Or facing his upper chest, since that’s where her height put her, and she wasn’t looking any farther.

She blew amusement through her lips at him. That put a fire into place atop the cool mist covering his bareness. And that transferred to a current that was spreading the fire lower, through his belly and from there…to his groin.

“Damn you, Wife! Cease that.” He tried to sound stern, but it came across more as a slurred rumble of sound. He wondered how much power she had to make such a thing possible when he hadn’t touched a drop of ale, or mead, or anything else with spirits.

“What? This?” She lifted a finger and trailed her nail along the space where she’d just touched with her breath, making the fire start to burn deeper. Internally. Causing him to break into a sweat along the thong on his forehead, and giving her no doubt about the effect on his body, as everything that was full, weighty, and back to normal size due to her nearness got hard and engorged and readied because of the same thing.

And he was surrounded by all kinds of folk! Including her stepmother and a priest of the faith!

Vincent groaned. “We dinna’ have time for this!” He bent his head to whisper it. “We have to be gone. Afore any of them…wake.” He gestured with a tilt of his head back to the castle behind her. It didn’t work. It just put his nose against her hair, where it was impossible not to be overwhelmed by the perfumed scent of her. He stood there, felt his grip easing and her body falling the last bit to the ground, as trembling transferred to a weakness along his limbs. Vincent half closed his eyes to make it bearable as he got a dose of her full power.

On him.

She giggled. The huff of breath touched him, pierced almost through him, and made him jump slightly. Before he groaned again. The only good part was that the sound he made was softer this time.

“The men. You ken?” he asked again, once he found his voice.

“They’ll na’ waken for some time. Mayhap on the morrow.”

“I dinna’ have that much power to my blows, lass.”

She smiled. He watched it happen and thanked his stars that she wasn’t breathing on the spot of chest she was speaking to. That area was so aware of her, it was raised in gooseflesh with the experience. He hoped she’d think it due to the cool morning air about them, and not what it really was. That was a forlorn wish. As were most of them since he’d met her.

Then she moved. He was aware of it as she did so, since the part of her he had wrapped his arms about alerted him, but it still sent a roar of sound and vibration through him as she lifted her chin and met his gaze. He’d been wrong about her eyes, too. They weren’t silver. They were high-density lightning, and just as energizing and stirring and electrifying. Vincent wondered briefly, with the part of his mind he still controlled, why she continued to set her spell on him when she already had him. It didn’t make any sense.

“I’ve dosed them.” Rose red lips whispered it, moving his eyes there.

“What?” Vincent mouthed it.

“They will na’ awaken until the morrow. I’m na’ certain of Sir Ian, though.”

Her mouth was moving still, creating words that took time to filter through his hearing and make sense. It wasn’t his fault. Her lips were made for kissing, they looked slightly bruised and enlarged from that already, and they were right below him. Tempting him…making him crave them.

“Why?” he asked and tightened one arm about her while the other one went beneath her buttocks in order to lift her against where he was undisguisedly brazen, and burning hard for her.

“I dinna’ ken how much…to give…such a small…frame.”

Her answer didn’t make much sense to him, either, but the fact that it came in pieces of breath made every bit of the world right. And sane. And gave purpose to the act of marrying her. And the raging desire to bed her. Now. Right now. Without benefit of bed, or walls, or even privacy.

“Help me, lass,” he murmured just before taking possession of her lips and stalling everything, even time.

“Help?” She was asking it with the gulp of breath he gave her within the span of space between their lips. Vincent was well on his way to losing sense of everything and didn’t know what else he could do.

“My need…is too great, lass. You doona’ ken!”

There was a swell running through her, resembling giggles but worse. Or perhaps it was better, since it had a gleeful sound to it once she pulled her mouth away enough to give it voice.

“Too great?” she teased.

“’Tis your fault.”

“Mine?” He thought that was the word put into play before she made everything immeasurably worse by wrapping both arms about his head, pushing her body fully against his, and slamming her lips to his.

Vincent’s knees trembled. He felt it happen and hoped he didn’t disgrace himself fully by falling on his buttocks in front of spectators because he couldn’t control his lust for his new wife. The only good part would be that if anyone got an eyeful of the Viking at full passion, at least there’d be something to see.

“What have you done to me?” he asked yet again, moving his mouth along her jaw line.

“My chamber.” She had her mouth to his ear to hiss it.

“Now?” he asked.

“Aye. Now. Right now.”

The power of her own need surged through him, granting him back the ability to think and the strength to make it happen. Vincent lifted his head. They were still amid a crowd, and everyone looked expectantly at him. Which made him blush heavily. With the resultant burst of warmth. Him. Vincent Erick Danzel. The wandering man of many talents and no roots. He cleared his throat.

“I’ve had a change of heart! I nae longer need horses. Take them back.”

“Nae?” someone asked.

Vincent shook his head. “I’m more in need of some time…alone. With my bride! Make way!” He had her back over his shoulder and was taking the steps two at a time. He really didn’t need to say the last, for not one person got in his way.

He had her berthed in his arms and was kissing her before they reached her chamber, taking every bit of her senses and sending them spiraling. She didn’t know how he managed to reach the right tower, let alone mount the stairs, while his lips were locked to hers, his breath mingled with hers, and every bit of it was sending her reeling. Then she remembered. He was more man than she’d dreamed existed. And much more male than she’d ever prepared for.

And he was all hers.

The pleasure of that thought sent rioting shivers across her entire frame, over and over again, until there wasn’t much space between when one ended and the next began. She was tortuously aware that the underdress was gossamer and clinging to every bit of her then.

Exactly as it had been crafted to do.

The door slammed behind him, bringing her mouth fractionally away, and he chased her back down, his lips trying to drink her very essence away. Sybil knew she’d be bruised. Her lips were stinging already, feeling large and engorged and prepared. He stumbled slightly as he made certain of the door shutting. Sybil had her fingers in his hair and her body clamped to his.

He moaned against her lips and sent a flash of tongue into the caverns of her mouth. Sybil couldn’t prevent the total slam of her body in reaction as it lurched, putting her closer to him than before and making the act of breathing difficult to accomplish.

“Lass…”

He mumbled it as he licked and sucked and probed. Sybil took what he was showing her and used it to her own advantage, feeling every shudder that ran through him.

She heard the slam of the bolt falling, spent a flash of time wondering how he’d managed it with his right arm while keeping her sealed to him with his left, and then let it go. She didn’t care. As long as she was sealed in…with him.

“Ah, lass…” He crooned it, moving his mouth from the caress of hers in order to tongue his way to her ear. “What have you done to me?”

“Naught,” she whispered back, although the word was lost as she tongued the skin beneath his jawline, feeling his entire frame throb as she sucked and kept sucking. It was only fair since that was what he was doing to her.

Fingers punished where they gripped, holding her waist as he lowered her, holding her in place as he leaned into her, shoving that massive hard part of himself into her lower belly. And Sybil cooed her satisfaction at the size, tension, and heat of it, lowering her hand to him and wrapping her fingers around what she could.

Vincent went stiff. Solid. Statuelike and still. Sucking in and holding a breath, she knelt beside him, running one hand up his leg while the other was put to use stroking and coaxing and pleasuring him. Her mouth murmured sighs of satisfaction the entire time. Each stroke brought a palpitation of movement to the mass of man in her palm, making him even larger, harder, and more massive, until he burst the size one hand could hold.

His kilt was in the way, and Sybil shoved with both hands to move it, pushing and pulling until the belt slid open, allowing mounds of mud-splattered, rain-drenched plaide to fall to his ankles, leaving everything on his lower body on display. She murmured her pleasure at that, and looked up his frame to catch his eyes.

“Witch.” He breathed the word and then leaned forward to grasp her upper arms and pull her into his arms.

And then they were at her bed, falling into it with a seamless motion and making it bounce with their combined weight and the method of arrival. The mattress didn’t stand a chance of staying in place at the roughness of his motion, and she heard the protest of her frame boards as they collapsed, sending the feather-and-straw-stuffed mattress to the floor. Where the thud was balanced by the feel of it happening while atop him.

It was then she knew that the overdress, while made of luscious, perfectly woven cloth, was too much material, as it hampered his efforts to reach a breast. Sybil nearly sobbed her own frustration as Vincent fumbled with the ties, pulled at the stitching, creasing the fabric in a thousand places before finally putting it between his teeth to tear an opening through the front of it. Then he had a nipple in his mouth, and she was being suckled with punishing precision—brought to the brink of ecstasy and left to dangle there.

She responded with the bucking of her hips, her torso, everything he wasn’t controlling, pushing against him with frenzied movements, but nothing worked at stopping him from lavishing attention to first one breast tip before moving to the other, making a trail of fire and sensation everywhere he touched her. He rolled then, and then he was lifting her flesh in both hands, making a conjoined mass of quivering flesh out of her nipples and sending her into fits of delight with too much sensation at one time.

Sybil melded into place, holding him completely and fully and feeling the passion that she’d only touched on two nights ago as fireworks exploded in her head until they filled the room, her vision, her entire being.

And then he lifted his head.

“Wanton. Wild. Witch.” He mouthed the words, barely giving them sound.

“Aye,” she replied. And then said his name in a plea.

“Say it again,” he commanded against the flesh of her breast tips, which were straining for what he was suddenly unwilling to give. Unless she begged him for it.

“Vincent.” She moaned the name and then said it again, in a cadence of sound not unlike the rhythm he’d made with his fipple flute. “Vincent, Vincent. Vincent.” She was crooning the name as he left her, and still saying it when she turned her head to see why.

Vincent was pulling his arms out of the doublet, ripping the piece in the process. The shirt had even less of an effect as he simply grabbed the remnants of it with both hands and ripped it completely from him, dropping the pieces of fabric at his feet. Then he stopped, held in place by the expression that had to be on her face. Sybil couldn’t help it. Her jaw dropped as the dawn light caressed and made a godlike being of him.

And then he was flushing, putting a rose tint to every exposed piece of him and making her purr with the satisfaction of witnessing such male beauty.

“Vincent.” She mouthed the name this time and pursed her lips, preparatory to blowing him a kiss.

“What have you done to me?” he asked yet again, putting both hands to his hips and shoving that portion toward where she was roaming her eyes. She couldn’t respond. He was stealing her voice. If he wanted her capable of speech, he was going to have to clothe himself, cover up bounty that any woman would be pleasured to see, touch, and receive.

“Vincent.” She mouthed the name again and lay back, putting her spine in an arch as she pulled on the underdress until it was up to her thighs, making a bunch of it at her waist. And it was still stifling her, making her skin tight, restricted, enslaved. She pulled, she twisted, she moaned, and then she was running her hands over her limbs again and again, making sparks of sensation everywhere she touched. And then she was swaying back and forth, pulling the shift higher, gaining the cool air on her nakedness and splicing her legs in order to slide her fingers along her belly, down her thighs, and toward the very essence of her womanhood…where he’d driven her insane with anticipation and desire. And then she was touching herself, lifting her hips and cooing and molding her fingers…

She watched with barely opened eyes as Vincent leaped the distance between them, slamming himself into the space atop her while reaching down between them in order to guide himself into where she was hungry and moist and frantic. And making everything spin and warp and change.

Sybil screamed, and Vincent responded with a push until his loins fully matched hers. Then he flinched.

The scream wasn’t enough of a release. Sybil knew it as the sound faded and was replaced by a sob. Throughout it, Vincent didn’t move. He held himself in a slant of provocation, waiting for her to finish and respond. While the only thing that mattered in her world was enshrouded between her legs, slightly twitching and making her beg.

“Vincent, please…?” she whispered.

It was then that he moved, a long, slow movement, pulling himself out to the brink before shoving back to the hilt. And again. Again. Deeper. Stronger. Keeping to a beat only he heard as he filled her. Over and over, deeper and deeper, and then he was sitting in order to move her feet to a position at his shoulders, bending her knees and forcing her to support him so he could get even deeper, harder, thicker, stronger….

Sybil screamed until her voice cracked…and still she screamed, although all that came out were whispers of sound—full of joy, ecstasy, and rapture. And still he continued pounding into her, dominating her, damning her…loving her. Taking her to the brink of wonder and rapture before toppling her over. And always being there to catch her when she finished, gulping for whatever breath was possible to catch.

And then starting it up again. And all the time he was asking what she’d done to him to make it so. Over and over, and over. Again. She knew the answer, but she wasn’t willing to speak on it. Yet.

It was too great a weapon to give him.

Vincent went into a bend of posture, burying himself completely within her and lifting her at the same time to create a circle shape. Pulse after pulse shuddered through his frame, moving her with each of them as he made deep guttural sounds in accompaniment. Sybil reached out and touched, filling her palms with his cheeks and watching the expression of complete fulfillment that suffused and controlled every bit of him. And then he opened his eyes.

Wonder filled his eyes as they met hers, canceling out every ill, every experience, and every pain. Sybil felt the stab of tears, but this time they were impossible to send back. It was too beautiful. And then it was over.

Vincent fell onto her clumsily, his body still twitching as he made her entire existence one of weight and heft, sweat and smell. Sybil kept her arms wrapped about him and gloried in every hard-won breath as her heart seemed to swell until it pained her with the size and weight of its pounding.

He kept asking what she’d done, but it should have been obvious. She loved him. That’s what she’d done to him.

Vincent woke from a prone position on his back. Then he was on his feet and in a crouch before anything else on him was awake. Such was the way he woke when he’d overimbibed or lost a fight or consciousness. The mattress he knelt next to wasn’t much help, as was the lack of company. Nor was any in sight. Vincent sent his gaze about the room that was cluttered with large cabinets and took in the darkness that was everywhere evident. His gaze flitted to the window, where twilight evidenced the depth of his slumber and the scope of time he’d been unconscious. He scanned the room, looking for any evidence of the enchantress. He put a hand to where his manhood should be and heaved a great sigh of relief.

Then the chamber door opened.

Vincent had the remnants of her bedding wrapped about his waist as Sybil entered, putting a finger to her lips in warning. Vincent raised his brows and tried to keep the flush at bay as he watched her lips quirk at his modesty.

“They’re stirring,” she informed him finally.

“Who?” he asked.

“Sir Ian and his guards. I’ve given orders to dose them again. I dinna’ ken if it will work or na’.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “I dinna’ have much knowledge of size, bulk, and effect.”

“Why na?” he asked.

It was her turn to rosy up a shade. Vincent sucked in on his cheeks and waited.

“I’m na’ one for spells and such…as a normal course,” she replied.

“Yet you do it now?”

“If it’s earned, aye.”

“What of the other?” he asked.

“What other?”

She looked innocent of his meaning. He had to counsel himself not to believe her. “The times when it is na’ earned,” he replied finally without inflection.

“You speak riddles, and there’s nae time. Here.” She pitched a length of cloth across to him.

Vincent caught it with one hand while the other made certain to hold the bedding about him. He shook out the material she’d tossed and found his own sett, repaired and freshly laundered. She appeared to be a good seamstress, and she knew her way about a laundry tub. All good things to find in a wife. His lips twisted.

“My shirt?” he asked.

“You need to hurry,” she whispered.

“Turn around,” he replied. It was instinctive, and it was completely foreign. He knew the flush was spreading to encompass his bared belly.

She giggled, and that was too much feminine amusement for one man to stand. She also didn’t turn around rapidly enough to suit him. So Vincent turned his back to her, ignored the embarrassment that was still happening to him to wrap the
feile-brecan
about himself, finishing off with the belt about his hips. She hadn’t answered his question about his shirt, but he might have done too much damage to it. That left wool embracing the bare skin of his chest and shoulder and haunches, as well as where it was secured against his hips. He told himself he’d just have to tolerate the itch. He’d been in worse conditions. Many times.

He turned back to the enchantress.

“You’ll need to leave. Now,” she said.

Vincent crossed his arms about his chest and lowered his jaw. “I am na’ leaving anywhere without you,” he replied.

The lass put a hand to her mouth to keep him from seeing the extent of her giggling, but she didn’t prevent him from hearing it.

“Now what?” he asked.

“You…dinna’…wish to wed with me,” she managed to whisper.

“That does na’ enter into it. We’re wed. You’re coming with me.”

“Now?” she asked.

“Are you na’ the one preaching haste?” he countered.

“You truly wish me to accompany you?”

He nodded. He didn’t say what was on the tip of his tongue; that she’d forced the issue with her spell.

“Why?”

She was breathless-sounding and shy, and that was just wrong. And odd. And strange. And making a tingle filter through his gut, wrap about his innards, and wend upward…and down. Vincent gulped. He knew what it was. Already. Her spell.

He had to force the emotion away before it became an unstoppable force again and had her in his arms and beneath him and impaled by him. Over and over, while her lips screamed of her release, which was making him more desirous for just such a thing. Her power was vast. Enormous. His groin was stirring even with the amount of muscle he was clenching to prevent the tingle from moving there. Vincent kept the groan inside, but just barely.