Once Upon a Knight (7 page)

The wood he was atop was rough-hewn and weathered, but it was stout and solid. It bore his weight well when he was standing atop it and reaching for a poorly cut stone that was part of the tower floor. It was a small matter then of hand and foot coordination and effort, and then he was lying full-out on the floor of the tower, looking at a darkening sky and heaving for each breath.

It had worked, too. Vincent watched the myriad of stars come out to litter the sky, felt the cool caress of the new night breeze, and started to feel the itch and irritation of wood slivers. All of which was better than the raging lust and desire he hadn’t been able to stop.

He wasn’t deserving of this torment. He was beginning to wonder if the bargain had been made against him, rather than her. But why? He hadn’t done anything to deserve this. Lately, anyway. And just how had they found such a tempting, winsome, exciting, smart lass? And why had they made the bargain the way they had? Get the lass to love him and then leave her? Without taking her? How had they known Vincent would be craving the one thing he wasn’t allowed to have?

And why was that becoming the foremost thing in his life and starting to reflect in everything he thought and did?

Denial. That was the problem. He needed a wench. Any wench.

Just not that one.

“Damn.” Vincent said it to the night air and lifted onto his knees. He thought his family had a certain fondness for him, and yet look what they’d done to him. They’d done this! They’d caused him to be craven and desperate and aching. Vincent looked down at himself in disbelief as he realized the truth. No irritation of wood slivers or chill caress of night was working. He didn’t want just any woman.

He wanted that one.

He rubbed at the aggravation of itching flesh all along the backs of his legs and into his buttocks and knew there was nothing for it. He had to find his way into a burn or the loch. He needed the water to relieve the sting of the slivers, and he needed the cold on his ardor.

No wonder he stayed clear of his entire clan.

If Sybil had ever screamed, it would have sounded like the noise she made once she unlocked her door, opened it, and saw her chamber. She had both of her hands clamped to her mouth to stay any more of the screech and waited until her heart finished its tenth pounding beat before moving. Nobody ever heard her scream, or screech, or moan, or anything. And why? Because she was an emotionless shell, and that’s exactly how she liked it. She’d groomed it. Studiously maintained it. Lived it. No matter what.

And now, thanks to the violation of her privacy, she’d given him exactly what he took as his due: female reaction. Sybil ran her hands along the opening of her cloak, feeling the velvet, stiff and thick in her palms. And then she was unfastening the garment and hanging it, and scanning the black corners of her room for anything that looked like a large blond wretch in Highland clothing.

The only thing she spotted was Waif slinking along the wall. Sybil clicked her tongue, and the wolf came slowly from behind one of her cabinets, a bit of blue and black plaide held in his teeth. She held out her hand for it and restrained the instant burst of emotion in case there was blood on it.

The piece was just that—a torn bit of plaide. But from where? The room was dark, and it felt exactly as always—empty. Bereft. Lonely. She shook off the fancy and narrowed her eyes as she reached to where that man had dropped the pink chemise she’d designed, woven, and then stitched into being. How dare he? It was bad enough he was making all of her feel tense, annoyed, and breathless, and then knowing he’d touched this! The outfit she’d made for when her fondest dream came to fruition. And now it had been touched by hands so unclean it was senseless to wash them! She knew the man was unclean, uncouth, and barbaric, and all of that had touched
this?
Sybil wadded the gossamer material into a ball and stopped just shy of tossing it into her firepit.

Waste was waste, however one looked at it. She shook the outfit out with hands that trembled, and folded it automatically into the small square it had been in before. Then she was finding her bottom drawer and replacing it amongst the other garments he’d tossed about.

It was a stupid idea to burn it. She couldn’t have burned anything anyway, since the fire was down to mere coals. And if she’d tried, she’d have created a stench worse than when she’d been working on her concoction for creating haze and smoke without using fire.

Sybil refolded and restacked the garments, then rocked back on her heels after closing the drawer. She had to start using her wits again. That’s what she prided herself on—wits. And not with any vanity. She was very sharp. The first thing she had to do was find out where that Viking fellow had gone and to get him back. Her plans depended on it.

Vincent shoveled in another bite of the delicious stew he’d missed out on earlier, wiped at his chin, and nodded his head at the two serving wenches who were cavorting before the kitchen fire for his delectation. He knew that’s why they did it and grinned again before he swallowed. They were plum-ripe and lusty women, and they were finely arrayed. He only wished their efforts were working.

The little dark, odd wench appeared to have ruined him. Vincent swallowed the bite and shoveled another enormous one in and nodded again at the larger of the two. Both lasses were buxom, with rounded asses and the ripest breasts he’d seen in many a moon. Actually…

Vincent swallowed the stew and grabbed for the tankard of ale that the larger one had dipped out for him and gulped until he ran out of breath. He had to amend his own recollection. He’d been without a woman since before his stay as a guest in the dungeon Myles had spirited him away from. And he hadn’t even seen these two lasses’ breasts, although he had no doubt that at any moment he would. The way they were enhancing every movement as they finished their chores with the pots and kettles showed him as much.

They should have worn thicker skirts, or a layer beneath these. Then he wouldn’t be able to glimpse stout legs and nicely turned ankles with the fire’s light behind them. They should also have provided some support for the swinging appendages of their voluminous breasts. Vincent put the tankard down, lifted the hollowed-out bread loaf to his lips, then shoveled another huge bite of stew into his mouth.

He chewed as he listened to and watched the lasses. They obviously weren’t immune to a man’s appreciation, nor did they appear worried over the fact that there were two of them and but one of him. Vincent swallowed and grinned hugely at the lass that turned and hefted both of her bulbous breasts toward where he was, with one leg atop their cutting table as he watched…and feasted, and worked at finding desire for what was being offered to him.

Although it didn’t seem possible, he didn’t feel the vaguest inkling of desire or stirring for either of the lasses right in front of him, offering pleasure for pleasure’s sake. He only hoped it didn’t show. He nodded his appreciation as the bolder of the two started swaying, moving her hips from side to side as she thumbed the pinpricks of her own nipples into tautness against her blouse.

Vincent bit at the side of his bowl and came away with a chunk of stew-soaked, thick, bitter crust. He left the crumbs that accompanied his movement where they landed, atop his wet plaide. He was still soaked. And worn out. And weakened. That could be it. He’d swam out into their loch until his arms were cursing him with the use. Then he’d turned over and floated, breathing deeply of the damp mist that kissed the water. And then he turned back and used the rest of his strength to reach shore again. It had taken almost all of it, too. Vincent knew it had worked at cleansing the desire for Lady Sybil from his limbs as he’d hauled himself back onto the rocks with trembling arms and weak legs. The chill had worked as well.

Perhaps that was the cause of his lack of desire no matter how much he forced it. The larger one had gotten even bolder, induced no doubt by his foolish grinning. Vincent took another bite of the bread-crust bowl they’d hollowed out for him the moment he’d appeared on the step, soaked through and shivering.

They’d turned into mothering types then and couldn’t get warm victuals into him fast enough. It was the shorter of the two that had cut the end from a loaf of bread, pulled the center out, and filled it with stew that had burned, then warmed, and then filled him.

He’d started shoveling the food in, and they’d started enticing him, even going so far as to use the bellows a bit on their fire to give them more back light for each movement they were making in front of it. Or maybe it was to gain more warmth for him, but he doubted it.

Vincent shifted slightly, making the table groan where he was using it for support. Their meal-preparation table had almost the same strength as the trencher in the Great Hall. But it wasn’t shaved and smoothed to a flat surface that was comfortable to sit atop. That was the trouble. He only wished it was what the fat one interpreted it to be—discomfort from his arousal.

He knew from the sly look she gave him that she’d put that value on his movement. Vincent nearly groaned but settled instead for lifting the tankard to his lips and gulping another long, full draught. He knew he was in trouble when he brought the vessel from his lips. The large one had pulled her loose blouse to the tips of her bosom, giving him total access to her ample assets. And she was closer than she ought to be as well.

Vincent did groan then.

There was nothing about the overblown woman in front of him that stirred anything in him except disinterest. And worse. He was disgusted at himself for allowing her to think him interested, and then at her for such a blatant display, at himself again for failing to feel any arousal, and at her again for forcing the issue.

“My thanks, lass. That…was…uh…” He knew just how large and soft her breasts would feel; he didn’t need them shoved against his chest for a demonstration. He only wished it was working for something more than showing how damp his shirt still was when it was pushed into contact with his flesh.

She was warm, though. Sweaty warm. He could see rivulets of it glistening between the lush bosom she was offering him, as well as smell the distinct odor wafting upward from where she was pressed to him.

“Are you full and warm now, sir?” she asked, drawing the words out with a low-throated murmur. “Or have you need of more?”

Vincent was pulling back, using the partially eaten bread bowl of stew as a barricade between her chin and his, and was preparing to lunge away from her when a gasp from the doorway stopped everything. The Lady Sybil stood there, with the hood of her cloak parted just enough to show how disgusted she found the sight. And she was looking directly at him.

Vincent was immediately stirred into a semblance of desire. Again. It was severe enough it had him hardening and heating to the point he had to get away from the buxom lass before she noted it and gave it a different meaning. There was nothing for it. He had the bowl on the table with one hand, used the other arm to shove the lass away, and was on his feet before anyone else moved.

“Mary!” Lady Sybil’s voice was sharp and angered. “And Isabelle!”

“My lady?”

The smaller one was answering, since the fat one was occupied with covering herself as she backed from him. Vincent wasn’t watching them. He knew what was happening from the movement of their feet and the shifting of the shadows in the room as they intersected the firelight. He didn’t dare look at Lady Sybil again. Not until he had himself under control.

He didn’t know what was the matter with him, and he didn’t like it. At all. He’d been warned about her use of sorcery. If this was a demonstration of it, he was in dire need of running. As quickly and as far from her as he could. That’s what he was going to do. Just as soon as he could without his cowardice being seen. Myles could keep his gold. All of them could keep it. Vincent knew when to fold his hand. That was the best method of survival in the life he’d chosen.

He had a hand atop the table edge and was bent over, using everything he knew to send the cursed desire away, when she spoke again, making it worse somehow.

“There are ceaseless duties in the morn, you two. You should both be abed. Alone.”

There was a bit of giggling from the large, shameless one and then Vincent heard them shuffling out. As least he assumed that’s what they were doing. He didn’t dare move yet, although it felt like his legs might be of use to him after all. The amount of food he’d consumed and the ale he’d swilled it down with was making his head buzz. Or perhaps it was the blow to his head that was responsible for all of this. And even that was being overridden by the pounding in his loins where he least needed or wanted it.

This wench?

There was no reason why this particular lass was the one to do this to him. None.

“Have you finished?”

She was standing beside the table as she asked it. He didn’t have to look; he could see the tips of her slippers peeking beneath her gown. She wasn’t wearing a sackcloth gown beneath her cloak. She probably wasn’t wearing the rose-colored gossamer thing, either. Vincent cursed beneath his breath as he thought it and gripped tighter to the table edge.

“Well?” she continued.

She was closer, and everything about her smelled sweet and aromatic and fresh. Vincent took a deep breath and raised himself to his full height, settled his sporran fully in front of him, and faced her. She had her face tilted up and shadowed since her back was to the fire. He could still see the hammered silver of her eyes. He swallowed.

“Well…what?” he asked.

“I asked if you had finished.”

“Depends on which bit of finished you’re asking,” he replied.

“You seek to play a game of words now?”

“I seek nothing more than my sup and a bit of ale.”

“And entertainment?” she added.

“That, too.” He smiled.

“Is that why you left my chamber?”

“Well, I—” he started to reply, but she stopped him.

“To fill your belly?”

“In truth, I—” he began again, only to get interrupted again.

“Or was it to escape?”

“More of—”

“Did you truly think you could do so?” This time when she stopped his words it was accompanied by a movement closer, putting her in front of and below him, making him breathe her scent more fully even if he didn’t want to. He couldn’t escape it. Vincent breathed deeply, let it out slowly, and then pulled another breath in.

“Well?” she asked.

“I was hungry,” he replied.

“You ran.”

“Actually…I climbed,” he replied.

She nodded. “Good. I’d hate to discipline Waif for naught.”

“He couldn’t have stopped me. Although he did try.”

“You’re wet.”

Vincent watched as she looked at the damp hair he’d pulled back and then moved her gaze back to his. He could only hope she didn’t spot the instant widening of his eyes as his heart lurched within him. He was afraid he might even be flushing. His smile faded, and he swallowed with a dry throat.

“I—I swam the loch. I mean I almost…swam the loch,” he amended.

“Across?”

“I said almost. Dinna’ fash. I’ll try again come daylight.”

“Daylight.”

She didn’t say it as a question, so it wasn’t one. It was a statement. It was as if they were saying words but meaning other things entirely. The fire wasn’t giving off as many sparks as she was starting to send from her liquid silver eyes, either. And nothing about them looked anything but warm…heated…inviting….

“’Tis easier…to see one’s progress in the daylight,” he said.

“You dinna’ have much trouble in my chamber earlier.”

“With what?” Vincent asked.

“Your progress.”

He grimaced. “Oh. That.”

“You’re guilty of trespass.”

“I did little.”

“You were told na’ to go through anything.”

“I was left for too long on my own. With myself for company. I got bored.”

“You were told na’ to go through anything.” She repeated it.

“I got bored. Dinna’ you hear me?”

“Boredom? Is this your excuse for guilt?”

Vincent sighed. “I doona’ need an excuse for guilt, lady.”