Once Upon a Knight (8 page)

She was trying hard to be stern. It wasn’t working. Especially when she stepped forward again, entering the area right in front of him and putting herself in arm’s length of him, if not closer. Vincent’s heartbeat picked up in response, and he was very afraid he might be trembling.

“Good thing I stopped them, then.”

“Who?” he mouthed.

“Mary. And that Isabelle. Vacant-headed wenches. Good enough for a tumble, I suppose. Is that what you had in mind?”

“I was…in need of food and drink. That’s what I was doing.”

“That’s na’ what I saw.”

Vincent smiled slightly. “You see? I’m ever guilty. Again. Even when I doona’ deserve it.”

“You claim now that I dinna’ see what I saw?” she asked and lifted a delicate hand, pointing one finger toward him.

Vincent gulped and prepared every bit of him to withstand whatever she planned with that little finger of hers. He hadn’t long to wait as she touched a crumb that had fallen from his bread crust and flicked it from where it was stuck on his plaide band. She couldn’t miss the pulsing movement his body made the moment she did it. It was useless to hide it, so he didn’t.

“We have to return now,” she whispered.

“Return?”

“To my…chamber.”

“Nae.” He shook his head. “Na’ now.”

“Why na’?”

Vincent pulled his gaze away from hers and concentrated on the hooks in the firepit for holding kettles of stews. Just like the one he’d feasted on. His mind decided it could work. “I’ve na’ finished,” he explained.

“Bring it.”

“What?”

“Refill your bowl, dip another tankard of ale, get yourself a bit of cheese.”

“Cheese?” Vincent repeated.

“They dinna’ give you cheese?” she asked.

Vincent ran his tongue along his lower lip. If she put her mouth into a pout again like she’d just done saying that word, he was not going to be able to prevent himself from doing the very thing he was fighting. She was going to be kissed thoroughly and soundly, and there wasn’t much that was going to be able to stop it. Stupid lass! Stupid, untouched, pure lass!

“Nae,” he answered finally as she seemed to be waiting.

She wasn’t as emotionless and controlled as she appeared, either. She couldn’t be, for it was easy to spot the quick panting breaths she was taking with her lips slightly parted, releasing sweet breath all over his chest, where he could have sworn the shirt was dry enough that it shouldn’t be alternately chilled and heated just from the soft air of her breathing.

“Pity,” she said.

“What?”

“That Mary and Isabelle are such…lacking servants.”

“Lacking?”

“They dinna’ see to your needs verra well. Now, did they?”

Vincent let out the breath with a low groan attached.

“I make the best cheese. You ken?”

He was watching her mouth as she said the words, and then she licked at her bottom lip, brought it into her mouth to suck on it…let it back out, where what light there was between them caressed the slickened surface. He wasn’t capable of moving his gaze from the spot, and he didn’t care to try.

“I oversee the creamery, and I have perfectly aged…cheese.”

He had her gripped to him and his mouth on hers before anything in him could say no. She tasted even better than he’d imagined. Vincent enfolded her body against his, lifting her fully off the floor as he alternately licked and sucked on flesh that was quivering and giving and not saying anything that felt like denial. Thunder was striking at his chest and lightning was sparking through his head, and then he felt her arms snaking up over his shoulders and those delicate fingers pulling his queue awry as she held him exactly where he was, as if she wanted this, too.

Harsh breath touched his nose, matching each heave for air that he was making and making each of them deeper, stronger, more earnest. There was a moan of sound emanating from them, but it wasn’t just from him. The enclosure of their kitchen was resonating with it.

Vincent wasn’t just experiencing anymore. He was listening to the largest, strongest, most energetic heart-pounding piece of music yet. The notes were charging through his mind with an intent and a viciousness that was near pain to hear and absorb. And yet he did, shuddering through chord after chord until the crescendo of notes he was composing and putting into being struck all the way through him, making him groan aloud with the volume of it. And that unseated the suction of his lips on hers.

She pulled back first, her silver eyes huge, her lips enlarged and reddened, and looking very much like they had just been kissed. Or mauled.

Vincent watched her with his eyes barely slit as he worked to endure the music and not follow the passion raging through his body with a more severe act. He forced everything on him to lock in place, modulated his breathing, and held such a rein on himself she had to feel it.

“You…kissed me,” she whispered.

He had to get it committed to memory before he lost even one note! Vincent licked his lips and cleared his throat and decided he really could speak and continue breathing.

“Aye,” he replied finally.

“Why?” Her eyes were clouding over, as were her features as she sobered.

“I’m na’ certain I can explain,” Vincent replied.

“Why na?”

The notes were still there, humming through his soul and filling his ears with sound. He hadn’t fully heard her words, but he’d seen the movement on her lips. “I’m na so certain I can explain that, either,” he replied.

He watched her mouth set as she considered his words.

“Do you never speak the truth?” she asked finally.

Vincent sighed and set her back on her feet. It was the truth. He couldn’t explain it. Even to himself.

“Go to your chamber,” he ordered, stepping farther away from her. “And stay there.”

“Where are you going?”

He didn’t answer. He was already running, fast enough that she couldn’t catch him. The kitchens had access to the yards, and from thence he took to the moor, putting stride after stride between them.

Where was he going? To the furthest reach of her influence that he could run, and then he was going to give the music in his head real sound on his flute. And that would have to be enough.

Sybil stayed in her chamber. Alone. She’d sent Waif out to prowl for Vincent. She told herself she didn’t care where he was, what he was doing, or who he was doing it with, but she knew she was lying to herself. That’s why she’d sent Waif. He’d be her eyes and provide protection that she couldn’t.

He had a packet about his neck that the man might find useful. An unguent for the broken skin just beneath the scalp. A bit of dried kelp leaves for a tea if he were so inclined, in order to alleviate the pounding in his head from the blow or from the amount of ale he might have drank. And a bit of yellow-tinted powder, that, when spread on the right area, might keep him from getting the pox…if he were where she suspected, with Mary and Isabelle. Those two weren’t discriminating with the men they invited between their thighs. They probably carried worse than the pox. This Vincent should have been warned where it wasn’t safe to dip his rod…before he did so.

Sybil shook her head. She told herself she didn’t care and then worked at making it true. That was the only thing left to her. It was a stupid plan she’d had anyway, and one created from the shock of meeting Sir Ian Blaine. Sybil wasn’t one to fear any man, but this was different. Her dream had told her so, and the reality made it impossible to overlook. He’d more than hinted at what he wanted. He’d said so. He was searching for a lady wife. One that was pure and possessed favorable looks about her. Pure…

And the Lady Eschon had almost agreed to giving him Sybil’s hand! Right at the sup!

It had been more than enough to convince Sybil.

She wasn’t cowed, even if she was frightened. There was too much to do. She had a plan to thwart Sir Ian and do it so the blame could be put elsewhere. It had seemed easy enough. And wasn’t she known throughout the glens as a woman to fear? She wasn’t one to trifle with. Ever. It hadn’t seemed too far-fetched to get to her chamber, call on and then suffer through the blond’s male attentions and then put the blame squarely at his feet. Sir Ian would be angered, but he’d be directing it toward the wretch who’d ravished her. She knew that much about male pride. And she doubted he’d challenge the Viking fellow.

Sybil also knew the Lady Eschon would be angered, but she could be dealt with. Sybil controlled the keep. Lady Eschon wouldn’t let her go. Sybil had the perfect dried mushroom powder to add to the Lady Eschon’s fare to make her most amenable, vacuous, and easily swayed. She’d forget her anger, given time.

There was still the love act to get through, but that could be endured. Sybil had convinced herself that regardless of how horrid she suspected it to be, it would be worth it to get her freedom back.

And then he’d kissed her.

The firepit blurred into a mass of black and gray touched with slices of red as she watched it. Sybil blinked until it went back to coals again. That man had raised such wonder and anticipation and amazement within her that she hadn’t balked when he’d lifted her and shoved his lips against hers. She’d been too shocked, and then she’d been too overcome, and then she’d been searching every experience to find a description for the heaven he’d sent her into.

She could still bring the shiver into being and almost touch the ecstasy again—and that just by the recollection of it! It had been breathtaking, soul-shaking, and given her such awe, she’d vibrated with it. And still could. All she had to do was close her eyes to relive it and the same thing happened. Each time. Rocking her world so that when she opened her eyes she was actually amazed to find everything just as it had been.

But why this man? Why?

She slammed her hands against her temples and tried to hold the experience at bay before thinking it through. Useless. That’s what it was. Utterly and completely useless. And stupid. It was easier to fight something when one had complete knowledge of it. The unknown was always more difficult. She’d realized that so long ago, she’d thought it was second nature.

And now he was changing even that? Her own certainty that knowledge was power? No matter where the knowledge came from or how horrid it was?

Sybil lowered her hands and folded another of her dresses and sent her mind searching. There had to be a reason why it was him. A man who—by her own observation—made a sport of women. He probably even had a “notch-post” somewhere on his person in order to keep tally of all the women he’d bedded.

Why him? Sybil was more discriminating than that. She didn’t want a man that every other woman could, and probably had, been with.

Why him? She made a growling noise in her throat as she puzzled it.

It was true he was a handsome sort…very much so. His dark eyes, lashes, and brows, along with the lengthy, honey-colored hair, was enough to set any lass swooning. And that was before she factored in the lush lips, straight jaw, and perfectly aligned features. It was also true that he was well assembled, solid and healthy everywhere she’d seen. He was heavily endowed physically as well, if what she’d been up against was real when he held her to him. The man was painfully large. Sybil warmed on the recollection and told herself she was being ridiculous. She didn’t truly know, but she’d heard how important a man’s size supposedly was to a woman. That knowledge came from listening to servant women in the early morn when nobody realized she was about.

And he’d kissed her.

At the repeated thought, Sybil touched her lips with her fingers, shut her eyes, and put the same vibration of ecstasy into play again. She was no longer kneeling on a cold floor with her skirt tucked beneath her while her hands refolded and rearranged her clothing. She was soaring. The room was too small to hold the vastness of space her soul was spanning, growing…shuddering with.

She opened her eyes on the reality that was her room in the darkest hours of the night, lit only by a banked fire. That kiss had been so special. It had blindsided her. Nobody had told her a kiss felt like that.

Maybe because they didn’t as a normal event.

The man had said he was a master. Sybil sucked in the shock at the instant thought. Maybe he meant a master of this as well! That was too much. Sybil didn’t want a man who would take any woman’s offerings. She didn’t! Vincent Erick Danzel was a soulless wretch. A man who would take his arousal from the promise of lush pleasure with two servants—and use it to kiss her?

Sybil sighed long and loud, and watched the coals in her fireplace. Then she blinked away the film on her eyes. She’d let herself get too tired. Weepy eyes were the result of overuse. She’d suffered that enough when using the night hours to brew and experiment. That was it.

It certainly wasn’t due to the wonder and amazement he’d put into being within her and then run from. Never. She wasn’t crying! She never cried. It was useless, stupid, and gave one a headache. She especially wouldn’t cry for a man that would run from her…into two servant wenches’ arms.

Sybil replaced and checked for damage everything he might have touched. Then, to expend energy, she rearranged the room, shoving her three armoires with grunts and groans until they crept little by little along the floor, creaking in protest. She had to keep moving. It was better than closing her eyes.

Waif found him easily. Vincent was putting sound to the notes in his head while pacing along the shore at the far end of the loch, making the beat match the solid, steady lap of waves at his feet. It had started drizzling at some point, and he hadn’t even felt it. All he was capable of feeling was the music.

And then he heard the wolf, joining him with an off-key howl. Vincent stopped the exquisite melody he’d been playing over and over until it was instilled in every reach of his memory and laughed. Loudly. Fully. And waited for the animal to reach him. This wild emotion he felt wasn’t part of the bargain he’d made. He had to do something with it before it turned him into a fool.

He was supposed to be making the lass have this trouble—not him! She was supposed to be burning with unrequited love for him while he rode away and left her to her musings. Not him. Not like this.

It was probably amusing…to everyone but him. The little lass had touched his heart, and he hadn’t thought he still had one. She damn near had it in her little hands. Which was frightening, exhilarating, and amazing.

And it was never happening again.

As if it knew the train of Vincent’s thoughts, the wolf’s howl changed. So did the new tune Vincent coaxed from his flute, making it full with sorrow and weighty with loss. It didn’t change anything. He had a response to coax from a certain lass, maybe a tear or two to see shed by her, and then he’d be on his way. Or as far as a man walked while carrying as much gold as he could.

Vincent wasn’t a fool. He wasn’t about to be start being one now. He put the fipple flute aside and sat on the rocks, pulling his feet beneath him. “Come along, Waif, old fellow.”

He waved the wolf over and clicked his tongue as he found the pouch attached to the animal’s collar. She’d sent it. For him. He swallowed with a throat that needed a bit of ale of a sudden to soothe the dryness. They hadn’t told him? His cousin Myles had set him onto a challenge, sweetened it with the largest payment of gold any man could earn, and yet left out the most important part.

The wench was odd…but he didn’t think she was fey. Vincent had run across too many who were charlatans to believe easily. If she were, no wonder she had him hard and pounding and able to think only of need…for her and only her! Damn wench! Damn Myles! Damn wolf! Damn just about everything!

He shivered and set the slight taste of fear aside. He’d taken this assignment for three reasons. One was the gold. The second was his freedom. The last was because Vincent loved a challenge. It was the spark to the kindling of life. That’s what it was. This challenge was going to take all his wits, all his strength, and all his fortitude. He knew it. He also knew that this wench was going to be worth besting. And that’s exactly what he was going to do.

Vincent had it all decided before he pulled the pouch onto the sling of kilt between his knees. He felt the stir of fear as he checked through the small packets she’d sent. He found the unguent first. He knew what the thick, greasy compound was for and put a dab on the swelling hidden beneath his hair.

He was in luck with the guard’s blow. Any lower, or with a wider arc, and he’d be probably be sporting a black eye, not just bluish-purple bruising that was difficult to spot unless he pulled his hair back and made it obvious.

“Hmm,” Vincent murmured to himself as he picked open the two stitches holding the small woven bag together. The dried leaves he could fathom easily. If he had his flint, he’d spark a fire and make the tea she’d thought he needed. Mayhap.

And then he found the yellow powder. He’d never seen anything like this.

Vincent rubbed the dry-feeling talc between his thumb and forefinger in thought. Once on, it wouldn’t wipe off. He scraped his fingers along ground and sand bits and found that didn’t make much difference, either. He put the items aside and crawled to the water’s edge and dipped his fingers in it as well. Not only did his flesh stay dry, but the water beaded up and ran off without any kind of effect or absorption. Alchemy? The lass dealt in the dark arts, too? No wonder he’d been in such a haze of lust! This Sybil was barely skirting a charge of witchcraft. That was what was wrong with him! He was being spelled.

The yellow stuff wouldn’t come off. No matter what he did. His thumb and two fingers were coated with it. There was no help for it. He’d have to find her and make her take it off. That could wait. Vincent scooted back onto a softer bit of rock-strewn shore and just sat, breathing deeply of the rain-soaked predawn. He opened the tea packet, pulled out a leaf, and sniffed at it. Smelled nice. He wondered how it tasted. He touched it to his tongue. The spot tingled slightly but otherwise remained safe enough from her concoction. He still didn’t trust it, though, and held it out for Waif. He watched as the wolf sniffed at it and then licked it into his mouth.

Vincent waited, listening to Waif’s slurping noises as he moved the dried leaf about in his mouth. Then, with a shrug, Vincent pulled out another one and put the leaf fully on his tongue. He was sucking on it as he lay back, pillowing his head on his folded arms and looking up into the gray tunnel of rainfall.

That was the last thing he noted.

Sybil wasn’t concerned until the midday meal was being cleared and still there was no sign of Vincent or Waif. She wasn’t actually worried, because she never allowed herself to feel such an emotion. As she dressed for the supper entertainment, however, she did tell herself there was always a first time.

It had been so stupid to let him leave last night without even giving chase! Now she had to contend with Sir Ian’s blatant interest and had no option other than to dose him before he asked for her hand. That would only work if she had access to him and him alone. She wasn’t certain she dared sprinkle linden flowers on everyone’s fare. The resultant illness would have only one result. Blame. And there was only one they’d lay the blame on. Her.

She had to get to Sir Ian’s fare and his alone. Which meant she’d have to be close to him, and him alone. And that she was avoiding that at all costs.

She had some hope, though. Waif. If Waif managed to find the Viking and get him to try the leaves, he’d be like clay in her hands, easy to manipulate and aroused. At least, that was her plan.

And then there wasn’t even that.

The summons came as she was finishing tying the bottom of her braid ribbons, preparatory to winding them about her head.

The Lady of Eschon was requesting her presence in the solar. Prior to sup. Sybil swallowed and told Isabelle she’d be but a moment or two. She then shut the door on the wench’s face. She didn’t want to see the gloating that was bound to be on it. Of course, Isabelle and Mary had the right to gloat. They had Vincent Erick Danzel probably spirited away in their chamber, while Sybil had a grand, rich, lush future as the wife of a Caern clansman.

Her wimple gave her trouble. She was wearing a high white one, because that was the only one she could find in what had become a confusing existence. Where all had been orderly and easily located and filed and catalogued, now she couldn’t locate one headdress that wouldn’t bring attention to the one thing she didn’t want, her dark hair and flawless complexion? Impossible.