Once Upon a Knight (19 page)

Heated. Pliable. Fire. Female.

He slid his mouth to her other breast, his hands making certain of her positioning by holding her body to the bedding with the pressure of his fingers about her waist. He had to. Sybil was slithering and sliding and moving the bedding awry with each lapping motion of his tongue.

“You ken who it is now?” he asked in a rough voice.

Her cry was his answer, as the cool touch of his breath iced the flesh he’d just suckled to an exquisite pulse, reminding her that there was more…much more.

“Aye. Vincent,” she replied, lowering her voice and using his name as a caress. “Vincent. Vincent.”

She said it until her breath ran out, while he tongued his way to her throat, kissing flesh as he went, his entire frame thick with need and hard with desire. The hardest, most taut portion of him was probing, slipping between the folds of her flesh and being pulled back out, over and over, until Sybil thought she’d go mad.

“Vin…
cent!”

The last part came with a keening sigh as his lips reached hers, his breath mingled with hers, and, at the same moment, he lifted her hips with one hand in order to fill her completely, totally, perfectly.

“You…certain?” The words were guttural and low, ground out with lips still attached to hers.

Sybil arched her back, helping more of him fit. Then she was sucking her way across his jaw to his ear, finding an ear, and mouthing his name against it with a rhythm that matched every lunge and push he made. “Vincent. Vincent. Vincent, Vincent…” She crooned his name so many times, she lost count.

Then he was replying, calling her winsome, and lass, and wench, and enchantress, and witch, and so many other titles she couldn’t hear them all. Throes of ecstasy blended with the words, making a perfect musical symphony, with a massive man at its core. Over. Again. Continually.

Until she was nearly afraid of the intensity behind each of his heaving breaths. Then he was raising his head, crying in a deep growl that sounded triumphant, and Sybil held to him, through every lurch of his frame. And when he fell atop her, and then rolled, she went, too, staying melded to this massive, handsome Highlander…that had been wished into being.

Just for her.

The wagon was stuck. No matter how many times he tried to rock it, or work with it, or curse at it, and then at her. Nor how many words they exchanged. The wagon was still stuck.

Sybil spun after the fourth time of trying to speak with him this time and nearly joined Waif where he was sitting atop a rock, watching the proceedings without any indication of how entertaining it most likely was. The rain hadn’t let up. Sybil was soaked and covered with mud from trying to direct the horses, but that was far shy of Vincent. That man looked like a creature birthed from the muck, and about as intelligent.

She tried telling him again before he got the wheel buried in mud beyond the hubs, but the rained sucked up her voice, or she was starting to lose it—and he turned away anyway. He had to use something aside from the power of man. He had to use leverage or the wagon wasn’t going to move. She knew that much. He’d be best served using his rope around a tree and having an animal pull from there, using the beast’s strength to best advantage. She told him of it. But he wasn’t listening to her.

He hadn’t been since she’d made mention that if he hadn’t spent nearly the entire day pleasuring her, it wouldn’t have come to this event. Perhaps if he hadn’t spent so much time in the same pursuit of pleasure, he wouldn’t have found the wheels mired so deep, they were going to need more manpower than just him and the two horses. All of those words had made him scowl, showing that even with such a look on his face, he was positively stunning, stirring, immensely masculine and virile, and then he’d turned away from her.

Sybil sighed. Reminisced, and sighed again. She took longer the second time. It was due to the contentment. That’s what came of spending the morning in that man’s arms. Sybil’s features softened as she lifted her face again to the rain, letting the free-falling drops coat everything. That wasn’t the lone reason, however. She was hoping some of the rain would wash away some of the satisfaction he’d accused her of having on her face the last time he’d looked. Back when he’d had her pulling on his draft horse; before he’d hitched his destrier to the wagon as well.

Sybil considered that. A war-horse such as he owned should be particular about being hitched to a wagon and forced to labor in that fashion. The horse Vincent referred to as Gleason didn’t appear to find it laborious at all. He was far removed from his master. Vincent had struggled with a long pole as he strained to get it beneath the most stuck wheel, while he sank lower and lower and got covered with mud until he looked like a massive man-shaped mountain.

That’s when he’d yelled at her for enthralling him to the point he hadn’t even given a thought to what was happening outside their wagon tent. And that’s when he’d told her she could just wipe the look off her features at hearing that, as well.

Sybil laughed aloud, licking at the drops that just wouldn’t cease, and when she lowered her head the world had warped. Scores of men had appeared through the mist-imbued trees, looking harsh and weathered and stout. And dangerous. Sybil’s heart was involved with stopping, and then it decided to start up again, clogging her throat.

Then Vincent saw them. Aside from a moment of stiffness, which could have been surprise, he didn’t look threatened at all. He didn’t act threatened. He didn’t do anything other than jump off the high end of a log he was trying to maneuver under the wheel and approach them. To all intents, he looked then to be arguing with them, gesturing and doing a large amount of shouting and replying. Then they began acting like men, clasping hands and slapping each other on the back, and then they went back to arguing, but with softer words. Lots of words, followed by Vincent pointing in her direction. Everyone looked. And then they were back to clapping themselves on the backs and speaking loudly again.

Sybil decided it was safer and more prudent to sit beside Waif on the bare boulder beneath a bough. And that’s where she went.

The only thing that worked to temper his own reactions and stupidity was work, hard work. Hard enough to feel the pump of blood through his body and his heart hammering until it blocked out the sound of her voice. He just wished it worked at muting the song that filled his soul. That was almost as bad as the sight of her. She was lovelier than she had any right to be, possessed softness in all the right places, just as the rain was showing with every movement she made as she alternated between trying to help him and railing at him when he didn’t do as she requested. Nothing tempered it like hard physical labor. And then, even that wasn’t working. He still lusted for her. Again. Incessantly. His plan of plying her sweet body with his in order to get her from his system hadn’t worked, either. If anything, the lust was hotter and more vibrant than before. Vincent didn’t know what was wrong with him. Again. Still.

And then the entire clearing was filling with members of what had to be Danzel clansmen, if there still was such a clan. Either that, or they were ghosts. Vincent spent a few moments assimilating it. He had no choice but to greet them. Or hide from them.

He approached what appeared to be their leader with none of the trepidation he was feeling. And then he broke into a smile as he recognized the man who had been the mentor from his youth.

It was Sheldon Danzel. The man who’d been at his father’s side throughout that short span when Vincent had known one. The man who’d been honor bound to protect the laird of Clan Danzel’s life with his own. The man who’d yanked Vincent into manhood.

Before he ran to learn all about it by himself.

“Sheldon! Is it truly you?” Vincent was clasping hands with him.

“Aye! As well as what men I could roust.”

“Roust? From where? None survived the fire. I ken. I saw it.”

“You dinna’ stay for all of the aftermath, my laird.”

“Laird?” Vincent blinked, sending the raindrops that had gathered on his lashes coursing down his cheeks.

“You ken your position in life. ’Tis why you left,” Sheldon replied solemnly enough.

“I left because I was too late to change anything. Too late to make any difference! I was too—”

He hadn’t time to say more as blue, black, and green plaid–clad men surrounded them, greeting him and acting exactly like they didn’t think him a base coward who’d run from all his responsibilities. Someone asked what it was he was upon, and why they’d been sent to save him from his predicament, since a stuck wagon didn’t appear to be much of a problem for a man who was the laird of the Danzel clan.

Despite everything, Vincent had to ask what fool would send men to rescue him. And why anyone would think there would be a need. He got his reply from a scrawny lad at Sheldon’s side.

“The Donal sent us. Me. I’m Beggin. Your new squire. The Donal gave me a message for you. He believes you needing a rescue about now. I donna’ ken from what.”

“The Donal? Myles Magnus Donal?” Vincent asked. “He thought I needed a rescue? Why?”

Beggin answered since he looked to be quickest; the others looked oddly discomfited. “I doona’ ken precisely. He did say to tell you that you’ve done well. Exactly as expected. He and his wife, the lady Kendran, are pleased with you. Since such was their plan all along. I believe that was the message. I could have misspoke it, though. I’m a squire, na’ a messenger.”

“Their…plan?” Vincent suspected it was anger starting the tingle in the base of his lower back. He squelched it as best he could.
Wedding the sister was their plan?
And then had to work at controlling further anger.

“Oh! He also said to inform you that he’s granting you back your keep and the lands surrounding it. I doona’ ken what it is you’ve done to deserve such. I truly dinna’.”

“He did…what?” Vincent’s voice failed him, and the last word squeaked.

“Your keep. Castle Danze. It’s been rebuilt. Refurbished. Fortified. Taken to its former glory and then surpassed. The lands, too.”

“Lands?” Vincent asked with what voice he could find. The surprise was evident and obliterated even the anger.

Sheldon Danzel spoke up, stopping the barrage of words from Beggin. “Aye. Your lands. They’ve prospered. All. There are sheep, horses, crops. And what Danzel clan left is still there. Awaiting your return. We just dinna’ ken where to locate you afore the Donal pointed us in the right direction.”

Vincent shook his head. “The Donal canna’ gift me with land he does na’ own. The MacHughs won it from me. More than a score ago. I know. I saw it. Remember?” Vincent’s voice was bitter. He didn’t delve into the why of it. He couldn’t. That was the first vow he’d made to himself.

Sheldon grinned, flashing the white of his teeth in the dim of the day. “The MacHughs dinna’ keep it. The Donal owns it now. Well…he did.”

“Truly?” Vincent asked.

“Oh, aye. He does. Did. I have to keep remembering. You own it now. Again. As is right.”

“And…he dinna’ see fit to tell me afore this?” Vincent asked.

“I just told you,” Beggin interrupted. “He said you were na’ worthy. Until now. I was to make certain you kenned this.”

“What the lad says is true. Donal gained your lands back five…nae, six years past. Won it in a battle at Clammond Glen that still has sonnets written over it. Then he started correcting the damage the MacHughs had done to it.”

“And none told me? You left me to stew?” Vincent stood taller as his back stiffened. He watched as Sheldon looked him over before replying.

“Na’ a soul knew where to find you until a sennight past. When the Donal sent this squire. You dinna’ leave us much to go by.”

Vincent set his jaw, ignored the twinge of what was probably regret mixed with guilt, and set them aside, just as he’d trained himself to do. He didn’t let emotions bother him anymore. That was the second vow he’d made.

Sheldon cleared his throat. “The Donal sent this emissary to your sisters. They’ve the run of your keep and business. Myles wanted Danzel clansmen to his bidding. Quick like. We were na’ told why. We dinna’ even ken you were still about. Causing trouble. You’ve been causing trouble, have na’ you?”

Vincent didn’t think his throat would work. He shrugged.

“We had the general direction to find you and mount a rescue. And here we are. To rescue you. I doona’ ken from what.”

“Probably from my wife,” Vincent mumbled.

Sheldon laughed. “You’ve gone and taken a wife? Where?”

Vincent swept an arm in the direction of where Sybil had last been standing without looking that direction. He didn’t dare. Her clothing was probably plastered to her, and he was still fighting his own body over it. Then he had to endure the cheers and congratulatory slaps from them as well as ignore his new squire’s wide eyes. Vincent didn’t want to know why the lad was looking at him with such a look. He could guess.

And then Sheldon was speaking again, and sobering everything. Standing about talking with the clansmen had another effect, as well. The rain was washing the worst of the muck from him with the amount of it.

“Begging pardon, but she does na’ look the type.”

“For what?” Vincent asked.

“The type a strapping laird such as yourself would need rescue from.”

Vincent bit his tongue and looked across at Sheldon. “True,” he agreed finally, and then he grinned. “Beware of small packages, my friend. That is all I’m inclined to say about it. Beware. A warned man is a forearmed man. As I was na’. Come. Assist me with yon cart. There’s been enough time spent with the rain and mud. I fancy a bit of dry clothing and a warm bed. And na’ just for me in yon wagon. For all of us. In two days’ time. At Castle Danze.”

Sheldon looked at him levelly for several moments before nodding. Vincent knew he was deciding worthiness. It wasn’t a good feeling. Then Sheldon lifted his arm, gave a whistle, instructions, and within a few minutes the cart was free and being trundled over to the boulder where Sybil was sitting silently watching the proceedings. Vincent didn’t look in her direction when they laced a rope around a tree in order to get the most leverage. He wasn’t willing to give her the satisfaction of knowing she’d been right.

Again.

The rain didn’t let up the entire day. Not for Vincent Danzel and not for any member of his clan. Never for them. It had been the same series of bad luck and raw circumstances that had been his bane since that night. The night that had destroyed his clan. The night spent in so many emotions, he’d vowed to never recollect any of it.

Elation. There had been plenty of that. At first. The night had been filled with raw elation as Vincent and his two closest companions, Edward and Sinclair, had spent the darkest part of the night reaving, stealing MacHugh clan cattle, and getting the small batch of six heifers across the border. The elation was full and robust and filling every fiber of his being. No Danzel had been as victorious. Not for decades, anyway. Vincent had herded the cattle down a hidden glen with an expertise born of knowledge since infancy of all the nooks and crannies of his own land, and nothing could mute the fullness of his entire heart at how proud his sire was going to be when he found out.

The elation had been perfect. He hadn’t known it could feel like that. Deep and poignant enough that his heart tried to hammer a way out of his chest with each beat, and his hands trembled even as he forced them to remain calm. He needed the calm state to make sure the stolen beasts continued to move without sound away from where they’d been bedded down for the night.

That sense of elation had been impossible to imagine and nearly impossible to find since. He knew the reason. The elation had been an encapsulated bit of time that held a hint of magic. It was made so by how quickly it had been followed by all the other emotions. That’s what came of being caught.

Fear was first and foremost then. A debilitating sense of fear that was also full and robust and massive. It made him even more aware of his heart and how hard it could pound, and how difficult it was to take the next breath.

It hadn’t been his fault. It hadn’t been Edward or Sinclair’s fault, either. The lack of reason to it was what made it even worse. Every lad found his manhood while reaving. It was almost a right of passage, and Sheldon Danzel had made certain the laird’s only son, Vincent, had known of it. He’d been counseled. He’d been taught. He’d been prepared. He’d been told. Pick a moonless night. Pick a night full of weather-inspired demons. Pick an easy target, and do it all quickly. Painlessly. Vincent had prided himself on being an excellent student.