Once Upon a Knight (21 page)

“What actions?” he asked with a rasp to his voice.

“Their greeting. The celebrations. This many clansmen would only spend this much effort and celebrate this fully if they had found someone as important as their laird. And that has to be you. True?”

He nodded. He might not be noticing it, but he was starting to tremble. The hands holding hers were vibrating ever so slightly. Sybil didn’t remark on it, in the event he managed to control it better. She simply sat quietly and waited for what he would say.

“I have decided the why of our wedding,” he said finally, surprising her enough that her back straightened.

“You have?” she asked.

“We are wed…because you set it up that way,” he remarked and then tilted his head and pursed his lips in a way that caught a bit of light on one side and riveted her eyes.

“I did?” she whispered.

“Oh. Aye. You put it into play the moment you saw me.”

“Na’ quite.” Sybil couldn’t help it. Her cheeks couldn’t hold the smile.

“Then it was the moment you saw…all of me,” he amended.

She couldn’t answer
that!
The image he was putting in her mind was too vivid. It was making her heart pick up momentum, and her breathing quicken. It was doing worse things to her throat and mouth, where everything went dry and tight.

“This is the reason you spelled me. You desired me, and only me. You still do.”

His voice had an indefinable quality that was searching out all her erotic areas and making a thumping start that was transferring to her limbs and making her hands tremble worse than his. Sybil had to narrow her eyes and focus on her breathing. The man really was a master. He was also a musician to his core. He could bring emotions to bear with just the sound of his voice!

“I wed with you because I dreaded the alternative,” she replied finally.

He began running his thumb along the pulse point of her wrist, knowing instantly how her heartbeat had elevated.

“And because you desired
this
alternative,” he said.

She couldn’t think if he continued the caress! Sybil licked her dry lips with a drier tongue and gained herself nothing to mute the throb of sensation that was centered on the play of his thumb and radiating outward.

“The Danzel clan lost their laird…because he ran away,” she said finally.

The thumb stopped. Everything on him went to the same statuelike stillness.

“You dinna’ wish the responsibility of such a position,” she continued.

It was the wrong guess. She knew it as he relaxed so slightly that if she hadn’t been holding to him, she’d have missed it. She had to try something different.

“You dinna’ wish to wed where they said you must.”

It was another wrong guess. She knew it even before he eased out the withheld breath.

“Or…you left because you were forced to?”

He lowered his jaw just slightly and regarded her through lashes that were adding to the vacuity of his expression. Sybil’s heart was pounding hard enough to choke her, and she knew she was getting close. And getting scared.

“Who would have that much power over you?” She whispered the question.

He swallowed. She watched the reaction in his lower jaw and his throat as he did it. And then he changed everything.

“You dinna’ need to spell me,” he said finally.

“W-what?” Sybil stuttered the word.

“I was already overcome and hampered at thoughts of you.”

She didn’t have a reply. She blinked. Nothing changed. He was saying words that didn’t match the stonelike look of him. She frowned slightly.

“I was hard put to keep my hands from you. You dinna’ need to take my will from me with your potion.”

“You…were?” She wasn’t hiding the astonishment. She was afraid he’d spot it. It was in her voice, and it was in the jerky motion of her entire frame.

“It should na’ be that hard to decide. You’re a comely wench, and I’m a man who is appreciative of such things.”

He’d called her comely. Her entire frame pulsed at that wording. No one had ever thought her comely. Or, if they had, they’d kept it secret. He’d also turned his hands, matching his palms against each of hers. That area was sending off enough sparks it should have eclipsed the fire’s efforts from outside their wagon. It should have been doing something other than diverting her, while he didn’t seem to have changed. Sybil lifted a brow and regarded him. In this battle of wits, he was definitely a worthy opponent. Where she used instinct and observation, he used sensual emotion and the power of his voice. She cleared her throat.

“You ran from your clan because something happened. Something so vast and so horrid…that you buried it. Deep. Inside.”

He sucked in a breath and held it. Sybil kept talking despite the heavy sound of her own pulse through her ears. There was no description for the look he was giving her.

“Perhaps you made a vow. This is why you will na’ answer.”

He flipped onto his back, rolled, and then he was shoving his feet out the opening at the end of their tent, making the wood supports bow further with the strength he was using on the fabric. Then he was on the ground and regarding her through the tent opening. Sybil hadn’t had time to take another breath at the speed with which he moved. She’d never seen anything like it. With such ability, he’d be amazing in any fight, on any turf.

“This battle…is over.”

He said it from between clenched teeth, if the sound of it was any indication, and then he spun and strode from her. Sybil watched as stepped around sleeping forms until he reached the forest edge. Then he was pushing the low-hanging branches from his path with an arm showing the emotion he’d tried to keep from her. She knew exactly what it was, too.

Pain.

Anger was the most destructive force in the world. Followed by revenge. Vincent had learned that years earlier. Vengeance was powerful, but it could be ignored. Not anger. Anger had to be tempered and managed. Daily. Vincent forced the anger out of his body with every step he pounded into the sod beneath him, denting some of it as he went although it was too dim to see it clearly. He didn’t dare stay in the vicinity. She’d know too well how she’d won.

He knew the best way to lose at anything—especially a battle of wits—was to let emotion take over. Any emotion. That’s why he’d been using his sexual expertise. But she’d won. Again. The fact it was his own fault made it even more chaffing.

He knew better than to let anger get the best of him, and yet the enchantress he’d wed managed to bring him to that emotion so easily, it was appalling. That brought more anger to the surface. Anger at himself. Anger at circumstances. Anger at what had happened eleven years ago, and anger that it wasn’t staying buried.

Vincent broke into a jog when he got to the moors, setting a pace that had him dancing over the more visible holes. His mind was elsewhere the entire time. He didn’t notice the distance, the chill, or the wolf running at his right flank. When he reached the dark span of beach circling the loch, he broke into a run. He was an expert at controlling situations. He was an expert at emotions. That’s how he survived. One could only survive in the world he lived in by being one step ahead and keeping one’s head.

He’d just never run across someone like Sybil.

That woman seemed immune to the sensual emotions he was trying to arouse, immune to his presence. Most women shivered when near him; he was used to creating breathlessness over eye contact. He didn’t know what had gone wrong. He was the breathless one. And worst of all, this Sybil was even immune to the vibrations he’d suffered. This was not happening. It couldn’t be. Vincent was the master at keeping his emotions in check, and yet she’d won.

Again.

The anger intensified, turning into a heated thing of heft and weight in the pit of his belly and making him even angrier over that. Vincent ran fully and didn’t stop until his chest burned with the volume of air he was sucking in and breathing out. Waif looked winded but stayed just within sight.

That was bothersome.

“Why are…you here?” Vincent yelled it in the wolf’s direction, pausing for breath midway. “She still worries over an escape? There’s nae need. She already has me—”

That’s when it hit him. He wasn’t near her, and he hadn’t gotten her to break the spell she’d cast on him yet. He didn’t bother checking for the status, size or weight or any difference. It would waste time. He broke back into a run before he reached the moor.

The sound of splashing drew her. Sybil snuck a little closer, going to her knees in order to peer beneath the lowest-hanging bits of forest fringe. She knew it was going to be Vincent. He’d looked to be needing a cold dousing when he’d bolted from her.

That bore thinking on. The man had something so horrid in his past that he’d call off a battle of wits? Especially one where he’d been tempting and tormenting and teasing her to a point of victory? He hadn’t known how close he’d been, or he’d never have run from her.

She knew it would be Vincent at the burn but still wasn’t prepared for the sight of him. Sybil caught her breath and held it. She wondered if it would always be this way between them and wondered, too, why she’d held this love emotion in such ridicule her entire life. There was nothing as wondrous as love, nothing as precious, fulfilling, satisfying….

Something didn’t feel quite right, though. She was certain it was Vincent, yet his frame didn’t look as large as usual. Sybil considered that for a bit as she watched him. She didn’t know enough about watching a man bathe to tell if looking smaller was usual or not.

Sybil narrowed her eyes next, trying to see more clearly through the light fingers of mist hovering over the water. That was a mistake, but it was a godsend at the same time. Her heartbeat quickened each time he materialized, and it was worse when she tried to blink him into further focus.

He was nude, barely shielded by the water as it lapped at his waist every time he moved. He was also shorter in stature, less muscled, and much less defined. There was the opacity of mist about him, and he was still a fair piece away. She wondered if that were the reason.

And then a bit of vapor parted, letting what light there was define and delineate a severely lash-scarred span of back flesh. That was all the proof she needed. It was Vincent. It had to be.

Sybil reached beneath her chin and slipped the tie from its knot with a hand that trembled. She knew why, too: excitement. It was exactly what he’d been forcing into existence in their wagon earlier. And it had grown a hundred times more poignant the longer she lay in her bedding and tried to sleep. Vincent was a force to be reckoned with. He had too many weapons to use, too much masculine presence, too much sensual aura. She didn’t even think he was aware of the extent of his ability, nor how enticing and intriguing he was—although he had a very good idea. If she hadn’t touched on such a raw thing as what he was hiding from his past, she wouldn’t be out here, suffering tremors of excitement and waxing mentally on the ecstasy she’d be experiencing. She wouldn’t have to. She’d have been in his arms long before this.

The cloak was followed by her bliaut. Sybil pulled it over her head and folded it into a small roll of cloth. She was wearing one of the coarsely woven ones. They were better for traveling. Especially when she didn’t know how far between washings it would be. She didn’t stop to wonder if he wanted her hair loose or in the braids she always kept it in. She already knew he liked it free and sleek down her back. Every time he’d run his hands through it and wrapped hanks of hair about his hands as he’d pleasured her, he’d been telling her.

It had quit raining, but the air was still heavy with moisture, making a mist from each breath she exhaled and putting little beads of moisture on the skin she was revealing. It was also making long, curling tendrils out of her hair. That couldn’t be helped. She hadn’t brought a brush, so she finger-combed it into a thigh-grazing length. Then she was pulling the laces from the shift and lifting it over her head. The only thing left was her chemise. She was wearing a light pink one. She knew how fond of them he was. Sybil smiled as she fingered the hem of it above her knee, just as he liked it. She could go to him as naked as he was, but she sensed he’d rather remove the pink one himself.

The smile was still on her face when she stepped from behind the curtain of forest ferns and started walking toward where Vincent had last been. She hadn’t heard splashing in some time; the sound of removing her own clothing had muted it, but she knew where he was. She also suspected he was still in the water, maybe even beneath it as he saturated his blond hair. She didn’t need to see it with her eyes.

Her mind saw it for her.

Sybil had her eyes nearly closed as she neared the water and was so caught up in the image she’d conjured into being that when the man loomed out of the dimness toward her, she had to blink twice before she actually believed what she was seeing.

“I doona’ ken why you’re out and about without the laird at night, but I’m appreciative of it, lass.”

Sybil’s gasp was swallowed up by the heavy thud of her own heartbeat in her ears. It wasn’t Vincent. Not only wasn’t it Vincent, but he wasn’t dressed, either. Worse, he had his feet planted firmly apart his hands on his hips and seemed to be posing. She could only guess why, and knew she was right. The man standing there was far shy of Vincent in size and in height, as well as other areas. Sybil had to duck her head before he gave reason to the instant amusement that was probably on her face.

She also started backing to reach the shrubbery where her clothing was hidden. It didn’t help that he was with her the entire time. And talking. And making everything worse.

“I dinna’ ken you were a wandering-eye sort. But I should have.”

“Wh—at?” Sybil broke the word into two syllables, partially due to her shyness but more due to tripping slightly, since she wasn’t watching where she was walking. She caught her stumble before it became a fall without looking then, either. She didn’t dare move her eyes from the dark recesses that hid his eyes. She also didn’t want to see much more of him. Nor what her presence seemed to be doing to him.

“I said the wandering sort. With your eyes. They wander. I’d na’ thought that possible of a bride to the Danzel, but his is probably worse. Are you looking to pay him back for inattention? Is that it, lass? Revenge?”

Sybil shook her head.

“Nae?” He’d stopped and cocked his head to one side as he considered her words. Or she suspected that was what he was doing. She couldn’t tell by the expression on his face. It was too dim. She was actually grateful for the darkness. Especially over toward the shrubbery she was nearing. He was still moving with her, but he couldn’t see as much.

The prick of a branch against her thigh stopped her, and she shimmied sideways to clear it. The man sidestepped with her.

“You needing a tumble?” he asked.

Sybil shook her head vehemently.

“Then why is it you watch me at my bath? And wear so little?”

“I was na’ watching anything. I thought you were my lord Vincent.”

He smiled, if the shadowed dimples were any indication. “I would hazard you’ve suffered an injury to the head to say such. I doona’ look like Vincent.”

“True,” Sybil replied. Her voice sounded breathless. She hoped he wouldn’t spot it and give it an entirely different meaning.

“But I am still man enough.”

“I’m afeared you’re far too much man for me,” Sybil replied.

He grinned. The glint of his teeth showed the extent of it. “Why do you run from me then?”

“I already told you. I made a mistake. I thought you were my husband.”

“You mistook me for Vincent Erick Danzel. He’d na’ believe you so blind.”

“I was na’ looking closely. But you have his scars.”

He quit moving. “Scars?” he said finally, but the word sounded choked.

“Does every clansman have such marks?” she asked.

“Nae. Just the laird…and me.”

“Why?” Sybil had to keep him talking. It kept his focus on things other than her dishabille. It also salved her curiosity.

“None others were with us.”

“When?” Sybil stopped moving. His reply was going to be interesting and informative and most likely of use when Vincent again wished a battle of wits. She wasn’t stupid enough to forego hearing it.

“What will you give me if I tell you?”

Sybil ground her teeth and held the sigh from sounding.
Men.
She should have known it would come down to a bargain. That’s about all men were good for. That and fighting. They should find a better use for their strength.

“Na’ much,” she replied finally. She was fanning her hands back and forth behind her as she spoke, searching for the fringe of ferns she’d hidden behind, and that held her clothing. He didn’t spot it. He wasn’t paying attention.

“Why na’?” he asked.

“Because I can ask my husband as easily as I ask you.”

“We got them together. We were caught together. Reaving. From the MacHughs. They’re an unforgiving clan. And sneak thieves. They dinna’ fight fair. The laird was caught with me. That night. This is why we share the same markings. Almost identical, since we took the same lashing.”

Sybil’s fingers touched the scratch of branches with such relief her heart stumbled. It probably sounded in her voice, but he wasn’t listening to such nuances. “They do look alike. This is why I mistook you. ’Tis plain you are na’ Vincent…so I’ll just be leaving. If you doona’ mind.”

“And if I say I do mind?” he replied.

Sybil ducked beneath a shrub, scrambled on all fours to the opposite side, and then went even farther. She wasn’t certain of the spot she’d left her clothing, but it couldn’t be far. And she didn’t dare return to the camp in what she was wearing. The foliage about her was telling of his passage. It wasn’t doing the same with hers. Sybil was lighter, she was quicker, and she was the prey. All of which made her stealthy and quiet.

“I dinna’ ken the comeliness of the laird’s bride. I wonder if many have. He’s bright to keep it hidden. Verra bright. Especially as he leaves it unguarded.”

She hoped he’d quiet before they reached the clearing where the rest of the clansmen were still sleeping. There wasn’t much imagination needed to decide what he was speaking of. Sybil spread her hands faster and farther each time, covering more ground as she fished for her clothing pile and upsetting it when she found it. There wasn’t time to dress, and she wasn’t that foolish. She gathered it quickly and was nearly to the spot where all the Danzel clan was still camped before stopping to toss all of it on again. She didn’t bother with ties or fastenings. She didn’t waste time rebraiding her hair. The other man wasn’t making enough sound to locate him, and she really didn’t want to.

And then Vincent was looming right out of the predawn, silhouetted by the fire until he looked immense and frightening and nothing like anyone would ever mistake for anyone else.

He felt even more so as he reached out, grabbed her by the upper arms, and jerked her to him.

“And where…is it…you’ve been?”

He broke the question into three parts due to the way he was sucking for air, and he was sweaty.

“A-attempting a bath,” she replied.

“You take a bath at dark? Alone?” His voice was harsh-sounding and he was still panting, and moving her with every breath.

“Would you rather I bathed in the daylight? With no cover of darkness? Amid so many of your clansmen?”

He was considering it. He could also be listening, since he’d sucked in a breath and was holding it. Sybil hoped the scarred clansman didn’t stumble out of the woods behind them. That would be hard to explain.

“You are na’ wet,” he said finally. That observation was made with a whiff of breath. The motion sent shivers all over her frame. She might as well have been bathing, and wet, and cold.