Once Upon a Knight (17 page)

“Well?” She asked it, and then she made that little giggle again. Vincent knew he flushed. There was no stopping it.

“Gather your things. We leave. It’s na’ open for words.” He was approaching her and fighting to keep his body from controlling his mind again. He was speaking in a belligerent fashion, which was the best he could manage when it felt like he was being snickered at for a feral passion he couldn’t control. Which was her fault. Then he was at her side, breathing heavily down on her, and wondering why she smelled so sweet, looked so ethereal and innocent, and shaded everything with a rose color that had nothing to do with rage.

And everything to do with lust.

“And if I say nae?” she asked.

Her breath was caressive—sweet, warm, and feminine. Soft. Lush. Enchanting. Everything about her was. Vincent stood above her, narrowed his eyes to make it harder to see the full scope of woman she’d been keeping hidden, and tried to modulate his breathing into small spaces of air that wouldn’t have as much of a sensory assault on him. And failed.

She knew it, too. He could tell by the way she tilted her head ever so slightly, sending the sensation of her breath to another portion of the chest she’d failed to bring him a shirt to protect, as well as the slight quiver of her lips as if they trembled with a withheld smile. Or worse—with the desire for his kiss.

“Will you force it?”

He didn’t actually hear her asking it, since his heart was pounding enough it was easy to spot if she glanced at his bared belly. The rush of sound each pulse made was hampering his hearing ability, until all he really heard was each breath. He didn’t dare touch her. She should know that much. It was by her own spell he was suffering as he was. Vincent gave up the little bits of air he’d been taking and sucked in huge gusts of sweet-smelling air infused with her scent, and that just made it worse. He stood, trembling with it. He didn’t even dare open his mouth.

“You…wish that…again?” she asked.

At least, that’s what he thought her lips were moving enough to say. It could have been anything, and he’d still have heard that. He nodded. Took a step closer, in such near proximity to her sweet flesh, that the rush of shivers that accompanied it was impossible to miss. As was the size and strength of his arousal that was touching. Vincent swiveled his hips slightly, rubbing the tip across what should have been her luscious, warm, soft flesh, and instead was the irritation of wool. And still it was erotic and irresistible.

“We dinna’…have…time.” Her mouth may have been saying it, but the way she’d slanted her head and licked her lips and panted through the words were meaning anything but. The roar of sound in his ears grew until it obliterated everything but the sound of each breath.

Including the moan she made as he gave into what his body was demanding, reached for her arms to haul her up against him, and take what he could of her mouth with his.

Vincent wasn’t coming near her. He wasn’t speaking to her. From what she could tell, he wasn’t even looking her way. Sybil slanted her glance at where he sat astride his horse more times than she wanted to admit as she puzzled it. He was acting for all the world like she’d done something to incur his displeasure, but she couldn’t fathom what it could be.

She’d clung to him for the entire time he’d driven her wild with throes of feeling that shuddered and vibrated through her entire frame again and again. She’d matched every thrust of his with one of her own, until he’d collapsed in a sweat-soaked mass atop her, pulsing and groaning and quivering and making her heart feel like it was doing the exact same things. And then he’d moved from her and hadn’t looked at her again. Not once.

Sybil slapped the reins against her horse’s back, for no other reason than to remind Vincent that she was still there. It didn’t seem to work. Vincent didn’t change his stance. He still faced forward, without a glance toward the horse that was hitched to her wagon, even to check that it was still there. Nor did he look the other way toward Waif, who was loping along at Vincent’s other side.

It wasn’t yet dawn, and they’d traveled through the night. Without a word. That was probably an odd state for him. He didn’t seem the silent type. He had such a glib tongue, he was most likely noted for it. It was far different from Sybil. She was used to going in silence and being ignored. Which was part of the puzzle now. Vincent’s attitude shouldn’t make emotion prick at her eyelids like it did.

He hadn’t said anything after he’d finished sending her to heaven last night—when they should have been traveling instead. He’d turned his head away from her as he’d disentangled himself from her arms and the remnants of her clothing and then strode for the door. Sybil had yet to catch her breath, but she’d hurried after him anyway, tying the front of her bliaut back together as she went. The shift hadn’t proved much of an impediment for him. This husband of hers didn’t seem to much care what he ripped, or how many stitches it would take to repair it. He simply knew what he wanted and went for it. That wasn’t going to bode well for the household she had to create and maintain for him. It was stupid of him, but he didn’t seem to care. Poor lairds couldn’t afford to destroy what clothing they owned. She knew that from years of penury before Kendran wed with the Donal and brought so much gold that the coffers couldn’t contain it.

Vincent hadn’t looked to see that she was trailing him as he reached the loch and then broke into a run so he could arc in a perfect dive into the water, still wearing the plaide she’d repaired, washed, and then laboriously waved dry for him. Nor had he looked her way when he’d walked back out and then passed by her to go to the stables.

He hadn’t even looked her way when he’d been informed that the wagon was part of his new entourage, although it should have annoyed him. She’d been gearing toward the battle, but he’d said nothing. She’d never before had that experience. Always before if Sybil prepared for a challenge, that was exactly what she received. To get her way without even a whiff of argument was different enough to put her off-kilter more than she already was.

The morning sun was just peeking through the shadow of cloud, tinting everything a warm pink color and making her trill with the shivers at how beautiful it was. Sybil spent some time watching it and breathing deeply and just experiencing a new dawn, a new day…a new life. Since the light was coming across the barren plain that was the outskirt of Eschon property, it was especially vivid. Sybil looked toward her new husband and sighed heavily, taking her time to exhale. This new husband of hers was quite a man. She watched as he flinched so slightly that if she hadn’t been concentrating on his shoulder, she wouldn’t have seen it. Which was even more odd.

“Will we stop to break the fast?” she asked his back.

He shook his head, making the trailing ends of his blond hair brush at his shoulders and catch slightly at the material he had strapped across one shoulder and held in place with a brooch. The bare shoulder didn’t have that problem. His long mane of hair slid across the brawn he exhibited, showing the hard-muscled tone. It also revealed several long scratches atop his scars. She noted it and blushed. They looked the type brought on by a woman’s fingernails. Then her eyes sharpened. Some of them didn’t appear fresh.

Her mouth hardened. Sybil had never thought it through, but now that she had a man other women lusted for, she wanted more. She wanted a man that had not bedded every woman who caught his eye.

“Why na’?” she asked.

“Nae time,” he answered the air in front of them, and not her.

“For a bit of food?”

“’Tis unsafe.”

“Where?” she asked.

“Everywhere.”

“Everywhere.” She repeated the word, and it was still senseless. There wasn’t a soul within sighting or hearing distance, and until they reached the woods bordering Aberdeen there wasn’t much ambushing that could take place without it being spotted. In fact, there wasn’t any attack that wouldn’t be noted the moment it was started. The entire landscape looked like it was littered with faery lights and mist, and not one bit of iniquity, yet he called it unsafe?

“Vincent?” She tried again but got even less than before as he tightened his thighs on his stallion and made it lope forward, ahead of her wagon. She watched it happen and couldn’t prevent the sigh. Again.

He treated her to silence the entire day, even as it turned into sun-strewn heat waves that undulated off the rocks before turning into shadows that lengthened every boulder. He bypassed Aberdeen, as well. She watched that happen about midday. He hadn’t asked if she needed to stop, although her hands and arms and shoulders were aching from holding the reins, and her seat had been numbed for so long, she couldn’t feel her legs anymore. He simply pushed his mount over to where the other horse was plodding along, took the bridle and turned it away from the settlement.

All of which was mystifying and intriguing, and maddening. Then he changed everything by reaching into his pack, pulling out his mouth flute, and starting to play. Sybil knew then that what she’d heard earlier in the hall at Eschoncan Keep had been but a sampling of his genius. Vincent was a master. He created such soul-touching notes from the instrument that her entire being responded. The world seemed to halt in order to listen.

Sybil forgot every ill, every care. She forgot everything as she listened, following him blindly as he led them toward the fringe of wood and then entered it. He could have been leading her into purgatory and she’d have followed. It was impossible to grasp how, but Vincent was capable of making the instrument in his hands speak in the most heavenly language imaginable.

He finished as the sun was nearly to the horizon if it could be seen through the trees, making everything within the leaf-filled canopy ripe with mystery and legend. Sybil caught her breath, stretched massively as if just awakening from a spell, and then she was applauding.

That was the first time he glanced her way. He caught her gaze and held it long enough to stop her heart. And then he was looking away, halting his horse and hers, which brought the wagon to a stop. Sybil gulped at the extra moisture in her mouth and waited.

“We camp here. For the night.”

She nodded, but he didn’t see it. He was dismounting, showing a nice amount of sculpted thigh in the process, and then he was hobbling his horse with the band he’d had about his forehead. That sent lanky blond strands to cover his features as he bent down. That was bothersome, since it covered over his handsomeness. Sybil pursed her lips and watched him soundlessly from her perch on the wagon bench seat. That was when he finished with his horse and speared her with a glance from those devil-dark eyes that still looked so incongruous with his coloring. Then he was flushing a nice color that infused every bit of exposed flesh…probably at her unblinking regard. She kept the smile inside where he wouldn’t spot it before he looked away again, toward the ground.

“Is it safe?’ she asked.

“Aye. We’re near Donal land. I’ve sent word.”

“You have?”

“With my fipple. ’Tis why I played.”

The scope of her disappointment was probably etched onto her features. He wasn’t looking, so he didn’t note it.

“I doona’ play my flute simply for the noise. I send out messages with it as well.”

“Oh. I found it…lovely,” she answered.

He grunted what went for a reply, as if he were too embarrassed to make a proper one. Sybil watched as he moved then to attend to her horse, slipping the reins from its mouth as he patted it down, all the while ignoring her. Or trying to pretend that he was. All of which was even more intriguing.

Sybil stretched, finding all sorts of aches and issues with having sat atop a wagon bench for hours on end without rest. And then she was gathering her skirts and scooting toward the side step. His movements slowed at her motion, but he didn’t help. It wasn’t until she was firmly on solid ground and moving toward the trees that he spoke again.

“Where is it you’re off to?” he asked.

“Finding a spot for my privy,” she answered, as if it should be obvious.

“Wait.”

“For what?” she asked.

“An escort.”

Sybil blew a reply of sorts through her lips. It sounded irritated. It was.

“It’ll only be a moment,” he said to that.

“I’ve nae need of an escort. I’ve been taking care of my needs for many years,” she informed him.

“And I’ll still be seeing to an escort. These woods are large. Dangerous. Dense. Dark. Many a thing can happen to a tiny wench such as yourself.”

Sybil turned to face him, but he still wasn’t meeting her eyes.
Tiny wench,
she repeated in her thoughts. “Verra well,” she replied finally. “Doona’ tarry, then. I’ve more importance than a horse.”

Vincent gave the horse one more pat on the neck and turned toward her, looking somewhere in the vicinity of her waist. “I’ve na’ said different, now have I?” He said it aggressively, as if he were looking for an acidic word of argument or something.

Sybil narrowed her eyes. “You wish me to make camp for us, cook sup, and prepare for rest…or do you wish to argue?” she asked.

He rolled his head on his shoulders, as if relaxing out the aches of his own riding before he answered. Then he brought his head down and met her eyes.

“Argue,” he said when he finished.

Sybil sucked in a breath, held it, let it out. “Fair enough. Grant me a moment in which to relieve myself, since you have made me suffer through an entire day and night ride without stopping, and I’ll have all the words of argue you want. All the words I can find. That will na’ be an issue with us,
Husband.”
She emphasized the title and turned from him to shove her way through deadfall and branches until she reached the edge of a slow-moving burn. She was hidden enough that privacy wasn’t a problem. Through it all she was berating him as an oaf, a thoughtless, rude, arrogant, wasteful mass of man that had more brawn than sense.

It wasn’t until she stopped for breath that she heard what had to be his laughter. Although it was softly done, he was too close not to have her hear it. All of which was more than odd. It was mystifying and without sense. Sybil pushed escaped tendrils of hair behind her ears as she walked back to where the horses were standing. He wasn’t anywhere in sight. He’d been right about one thing, she decided. The woods were dense and dark.

“I canna’ hear you,” he taunted from somewhere behind her.

“What do you wish me to say now?” she asked.

“More words of argument.”

“More?”

“You have a problem with hearing?” he asked.

“I have a problem with you!” she answered.

“Good.”

“I’ve wed a fellow with cooked oats atween his ears?”

She heard him snort. She couldn’t tell if it was with amusement or not.

“Is that the best you can give?” he answered finally.

“Of course na’. But what man wishes a shrew for a wife?” she asked.

“This one,” he replied loudly.

“Truly? But…why?”

There was a bit of silence after her question, broken only by the sound of the burn, and that was followed by the rustling of dried leaves, branches bending and twisting, and the general sound of footsteps across deadfall. He was moving to another location but staying out of sight. Sybil cocked her head and listened for his exact location but couldn’t quite decipher it. There was too much noise, followed by silence, followed by more rustling noises.

“I doona’ hear any camp being set up.” He said it loudly from an area on the opposite side of where he’d stopped the wagon and hobbled the horses. Sybil looked that way but couldn’t spot anything.

“I thought you wanted to argue, na’ set up camp,” she said to the clearing about her. Silence was her answer. She waited for the sounds of movement but got nothing. Sybil lifted her skirts to climb over the back gate of the wagon and found the long, curved poles that would support their tent top. It was a simple matter to slide the ends into the slots on the wagon’s side until she had the framework in place. Then she unfolded the heavy, woven fabric that was the roof of the tent and set about tying it into place on each pole. She was on the last stretch of material when he spoke again.

“I doona’ smell anything being cooked,” he announced from the trees.

“I am setting up camp. You’ll need to wait for that,” she replied.

Silence was her answer again. It wasn’t difficult to find words to toss at his head this time although she kept them unspoken. The man was a dolt. It was impossible to argue if there was no reply. She twisted on the balls of her feet and opened the sacks containing her cookpots and utensils. Then she set about finding the iron stand that could be set up atop a fire…if they had a fire.

“I’ll need a fire started!” She hollered it in the general direction where his last words had come from and got no response. Again. She couldn’t see him, she couldn’t hear him, and she couldn’t sense him. Waif was missing, too. All of which made the woods about her feel large, dark, dangerous, and dense, and a few other descriptions that Sybil forced away from her consciousness. She’d been out at night often enough to know that fear was more destructive than most things one encountered. She tossed items onto the ground and then busied herself with clearing some of the brush and grass until she reached dirt. Then she scooped out a hollow deep enough to hold coals—once she had coals. She had to resort to using the smaller of her pans in order to get the proper depth. She dropped dried deadfall into the firepit, and then she put two sticks side-by-side with a bit of dry grass in the center. There was a thick iron rod for firestarting among her belongs. It took some more time before she had a spark. It was an easy move to part the sticks and let the little bit of ember drop. Then Sybil was on her knees and blowing gently. It was getting darker by the moment, and that husband of hers was no help at all. Sybil wouldn’t have any trouble finding words to heap on his head now.