Once Upon a Knight (10 page)

His slight chuckle followed her. Everything he was doing should have been grating and angering, but it was neither. She wondered if he actually thought she was following his orders because she wanted him, like the other vapid wenches put there for his pleasure and his alone.

Probably. He knew what he was doing, and he did it well. He was using his nakedness, and she couldn’t stop him. In truth, she had to have it so. Sybil wasn’t the type to lie. That was for weak, poor souls. Sybil wasn’t weak. She was devious and strong and sharp. All of which pointed toward correcting the lie by making it a truth. And nakedness was involved at some point. She hoped it wouldn’t be as embarrassing as she suspected it would be. He was right. She’d made it too hot. Worse, her flush was making it unbearably so.

The wimple ties came apart finally and she pulled it from her head with trembling fingers. He didn’t need ever know of the lie…if the savory worked, or something of a sensual nature worked at making him desire her.

“Now. See to unfastening those disfiguring braids.”

“I…must see to the…stew,” she informed the nearest armoire door that was just beyond his head.

He clicked his tongue. “You’re still na’ taken with following directions, are you? Take out your braids and spread apart your hair—or reap the punishment. I’ve spent a bit of time designing it, too. You dinna’ wish to ken what it is. Trust me. Dinna’ fash yourself over our sup. I’ll fetch it.”

Sybil concentrated on the ties at the ends of each braid and spent as much time as possible working out the weave of each braid. It still seemed too short a span of time. And then she was raking her fingers through each length of hair, splitting and then reforming the wavy locks that were going to be all she had for veiling when he called her for sup. She was going to need it, too.

She didn’t dare move from contemplation of the armoire front because moving to fetch a comb might change the strict discipline she was using for concentration. She had to. The sackcloth he’d been wearing was sitting in a puddle where he’d just been. And it wasn’t changing form. The indentation of where his buttocks had pressed down on the material was well-defined and easy to see. And note. And memorize. And fantasize about. And a thousand other things.

Especially when his shadow flicked across it from the fire. She nearly moaned and had to bite a knuckle to keep the sound where it belonged. Inside.

He was in severe trouble. And getting deeper every moment. She wasn’t doing anything she was supposed to, and that made him do things he wasn’t supposed to and say things that weren’t clear in his head. And worse! She was amenable to absolutely everything he told her! He’d even tried being overly arrogant and aggressive, yet still she complied with grace and dignity. If she didn’t say or do something to show her true self, and soon, he was going to be hard put to stay away from her.

That’s what she’d earned. Torture. And torment. And he was going to leave her as unfulfilled as he’d been when he’d awakened finally with Waif at his side and need pounding with every beat of his heart and every rain-soaked breath he sucked in. Nearly unbearable need…for her?
Damn!

Vicious wench that she was, she’d probably given him a potion designed to drive a man to the brink of release and just leave him dangling there, longing for something he daren’t have. She deserved to be treated to a display of dominance and heathen ways because he was in the mood for a good fight of wits. And then, when he gave her one, she acted like this?

Vincent had his wet, chilled, scratchy plaid about him before she’d finished taking out her braids and combing through her hair, the motion making a waterfall of shadow. His hands were visibly trembling as he tied the kilt material in a double knot and then yanked on it for good measure. The lass was getting under his skin again, and he didn’t trust himself.

The oily substance she’d given him to wipe off the yellow powder had worked for that, but there was something even worse about it. Where the yellow had done naught but stain, this new stuff was making his skin sensitive and heated. He lifted his fingers to his nose and sniffed. There wasn’t much odor, and yet the warming sensation had begun there, and it was spreading until it was near to making droplets of sweat break out near his hairline.

There was a heady aroma of roast venison in the air. She’d seasoned it with something he couldn’t quite place. Tasty. It smelled delicious. He wasn’t waiting. He didn’t dare. He had to get his hands busy, and he had to do it quickly. Vincent would start with a good portion of the stew. It was better than the other…the envisioning. And fighting himself.

Anything was better.

Vincent had the entire mixture dumped onto the warmed trencher of bread and was shoveling huge bites into his mouth before he heard what could only be a sigh coming from behind him. He ignored her and kept filling his mouth. Chewing. Swallowing. Again.

“Is the sup to your satisfaction?” she asked in a warm voice that searched out and found the base of his back.

He nodded, swallowed, and gulped in another bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Listened to the sound of his own jaw moving, his throat working. He could almost hear the reaction in his belly when the fare reached there. It was decidedly not what he was used to. Vincent cursed himself, put the trencher back on the warming slab, and stood, backing from it. He should have known she’d dose the food, too! Only a fool would have touched it.

Vincent realized the obvious. He was rapidly turning into a fool. He was losing the bargain he’d made, as well.

Myles had warned him. In no uncertain words. And with the punishment of total banishment if he failed. From the clan. Vincent was to get her to fall in love with him. He was to leave her. He shouldn’t touch her. He wasn’t to take her. He couldn’t violate her. He shouldn’t—

“You…have your plaide back on?” she asked.

“Aye,” he answered finally, thankful his mouth worked. He tipped his head just slightly toward where she stood. Damn the wench but with her hair swirling all about her and picking up glints from the fire, his knees reacted, weakening his legs and forcing him to consciously think about stiffening them in order to remain standing. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. He gulped.

“But why?” she asked.

“Instinct and self-preservation,” he replied without thinking.

She giggled; his heart stumbled in rhythm, and he looked away. Rapidly. Toward the window, where it was safer.

“In…stinct and self-preservation?” she replied finally, only she’d strung out the first part of the first word, making almost a caress out of it.

“Aye,” he replied. Blinked. The damn window looked like it had moved closer. Then it moved again. Farther away. Then closer again.
How is that possible?
he wondered.

“Why would you need such?”

“What?” he asked.

“What is it you require instinct and self-preservation for?”

“Oh. The fight.”

“Fight? Now?”

“Aye. Now.”

“Against…what?”

Vincent shook his head. The window had a maw of a mouth at the center. He watched as the doors warped and darkened, preparatory to opening and swallowing something large. Like a man.

“You,” he answered.

“Me?”

Again, she gave the giggle. Vincent sucked in a breath and held it, using the time it took to temper the lurch his heart had made and the resultant fire that was spearing his groin, making even the wet plaide feel sensual and lush. She’d dosed the stew for certain—and he’d assisted her by gulping it down!

He knew that was what had been done and every hair at the back of his neck whispered to him of it. That was only slightly worse than the whisper her shift was making as the material moved across one thigh, then the other, caressing her belly, her legs, her knees, her hips, and whispering about how it felt.

Vincent groaned slightly as she filled the space in front of him and looked up. His mind wasn’t imagining the pinpricks of nipples at the peaks of what appeared to be pert, tasty breasts. They looked like they’d fit nicely in his hands too, if where they were testing the material near his belly was any indication.

“Truly?” she asked.

“Aye.” The word was croaked, but it was the best he could do. She’d called him a toad prince, and at the moment he sounded it.

“But…why?”

He licked his lips. “You’re a lass.”

“True.”

She lifted a lock of her hair and brushed it behind her, drawing his glance for a moment before he returned it to the window that was now leaning toward him, with the stone top growing in shape and size until it looked near to collapsing the structure. He didn’t shift his glance anywhere near her. He couldn’t. Her hair-shifting motion put even more definition to her breasts, as if the material were as gossamer as the pink chemise thing she had hidden in her drawer.

“Over here….”
He heard a whisper as clear as if the garment actually had a voice and were calling to him with it.

“What of it?”

He shook his head. Not elegantly or with any grace, but with great, large swoops of movement until his neck complained and then his shoulders. It was stupid, and he probably looked worse, but it had worked. For the moment, anyway. The whisper was gone, fading back toward the armoire where it belonged.

It hadn’t taken the image of the pink garment caressing her flesh with it, though. He licked his lips again, closed his eyes…shook in place. And opened his eyes again.

“What?” he asked.

“I am a lass.”

“Oh. Aye. You are.”

“I ken as much.”

“You’re also fetching.”

“Fet…ching?” she asked, stumbling strangely through the word.

“You see any other fetching lasses about?” he asked.

“Fetching…Sweet…Tasty…”
She was whispering the words. Or the chemise was doing it for her.

“Aye. Fetching. And sweet. And tasty,” he answered.

“Tasty?” The word was an octave higher than her normal tone and came with a sound approaching a gasp.

The result was a symphonic ringing in one ear. Not unlike a belfry of perfectly pitched rectory bells. Vincent tipped his head the opposite way, lifting the affected ear higher than the other. That didn’t do much save send the ringing into his other ear, making it a chorus of ringing for several heartbeats.

She was speaking again. Her mouth was moving, anyway. Vincent narrowed his eyes on her and concentrated and watched to see if he could make out the words. Behind her he watched the window bulge toward him. Vincent sucked in a breath and looked directly at it, willing it to cease.

“What have you given me?” he asked. Or thought he asked.

“Na’…much.”

“Na’ much…of what?” He had to turn from the window. That structure wasn’t behaving properly, and he’d tired of making sense of it. The wall to one side looked better. Only it contained her bed. With the short, frilled coverlet and the mattress just made for swaying and bouncing and keeping rhythm.

Vincent groaned and swiveled farther, facing the chamber door now. That heavy wooden piece had a stout bar across it, showing how effectively she was barricaded in. With him.

“’Twas but a bit of savory oil. At first. You used it on the powder.” She was in front of him again. Bringing the fragrant aroma of her hair, the visual stimulation of her frame, and the depths of silver eyes he daren’t look into for any length of time. Vincent moved his glance before being sucked into perdition.

“Savory oil.” He repeated. “Why?”

“’Tis a potion for enhancement.”

“Enhancement.” He repeated the word. Then he was trembling, and it wasn’t due to any potion. It was because where the area in front of the door was supposed to be dark, it wasn’t. It was being speared with an arc of blue and green-cast light, and in such a vivid color combination, it was breath-stealing. And when he blinked, a bolt of red speared through the light, making it even more beautiful and visual. He couldn’t move his eyes and stood trembling and watching it with awe.

And then, with a click such as one experienced before lightning struck near, the light was gone, leaving nothing except a darkened alcove and a barred door. The chemise was snickering at him, too. He heard it and fought the rise of ire that accompanied being laughed at. He was getting angered at a garment’s words?

Her potion had definitely enhanced his vision and hearing, as well as his imagination. He only wished it had stopped there. Vincent loosened the hold he had on his thighs, bending his legs slightly so that the desire he couldn’t staunch wasn’t so evident. He also watched in dismay as the wood slats in the door gapped slightly, showing where the light had gone. Vincent bent forward, balanced himself by putting his hands palms downward and facing each other on either thigh, and tried to send the rush of lust back to where it came from. Before she saw it, assigned meaning to it, or just ran in fear from it. He’d never had such trouble before.

That’s when the floor started moving.

Vincent panted for breath and watched the floor slide just enough that he had to stumble to keep his footing, and then the wicked wench moved to the area right beside him, hovering at the exact level of his stooped position. Vincent sucked for moisture enough to speak. Or make sense when he did speak.

“What?” He didn’t actually hear her ask it. He watched her lips make the word.

“Your…room,” he replied, taking a breath between the words.

“What of it?”

He shook his head. Even if he wished to, he couldn’t describe it. He’d sound mad. “What was in the sup?” he asked instead.

“Mushrooms. Dried.”

“Why?”

“You dinna’ find it to your liking?”

“What…does this…mushroom do?”

“Oh. Flavors the food.”

“Na’ else?”

“It has been known to make one see things,” she explained.

“Things?”

“All kinds of things. With differing degrees. I’ve heard of lights, movements, voices. Things such as this. I’ve na’ tried it afore, so I’ve nae experience.”

She condemned herself with a pout, and using such a sweet tone! Vincent shuddered more severely as he caught and held on to the absolute craving he had to taste the lips she’d put in such a kissable shape. And then he watched them open and mouth words at him to that effect!

“Kiss me…. Taste me….”

“Why…would you do this?” He had a voice after all, but it was rasped. It hurt his throat to use it, too.

“I…needed to.”

“Why?” He asked aloud. And why did everything she say have more puzzle to it? Couldn’t the wench say one thing and have it answer what he wanted to know? Vincent’s palms were getting damp, just from resting atop his kilt-covered thighs. “And…to…me?”

She shrugged, and the material she wore whispered of hidden delights at the same time as it defined them for him. She had perfect breasts, too, he decided—firm and tempting and ripe. Vincent almost didn’t hear her answer.

“’Twas the best option, of course.”

He lifted his gaze from contemplation of her bosom and wrinkled his brow at the same time. He barely avoided contact with her eyes and settled again on the perfect, rose-colored texture of her mouth. And then he had to force himself to endure the sweetness of her breath that testified to how wondrous fair she’d taste. He opened his mouth to tell her to hie herself over to the other side of her room, and then said something completely different.

“To what?” he asked. He was going to berate himself later for making this torment last longer than it needed to. He couldn’t now. He wasn’t in control. He actually felt more stewed than a full-day drunk.

“The alternative, of course.” She was giggling again, and his hands slipped.

Vincent either had to fall forward or move upright and find his grip again. He chose the latter, and knew she’d looked. And evaluated. And had a cunning look about her now. Unfortunately, it didn’t detract from her at all. It actually made her more intriguing and seductive. Damn her.

“I’d also heard…of that,” she whispered.

Or maybe she didn’t whisper it. But it was her mouth moving. Vincent narrowed his eyes as the arc of light appeared again. It wasn’t quite as vivid, but since she was now standing in the spot where it hovered, she was being treated with the glow of bluish-green around a fragment of red, and there was now yellow. A warm yellow, as hot as the fire as it bathed her features with light.

“What…lass?” he asked.

“Sybil,” she replied, and then he had to thwart his body’s response as she sucked her lower lip into her mouth in such a seductive fashion, he was ready to follow it and show her what a tongue was for. And what that lower lip was better used for, and how primed he was to do all of it to her.