Once Upon a Knight (5 page)

The serf was back. Vincent hadn’t heard the lad’s approach over the force of his pulse combined with the growl that was emanating from Waif. But he didn’t need to hear anything. The wolf’s reaction was telling him of it. He realized what it was about now as the beast started snarling and snapping and looking altogether like he was starved and hadn’t just eaten a large joint of meat. The animal was acting out his role…for the effect.

“Jesu!”

The serf said it for him, and Vincent turned what was probably a sickly smile toward the lad.

“You have my fipple?” he asked without making much sound.

“Aye.” The lad held up the flute, and Vincent closed his eyes for a moment. It cleared the sheen of moisture on them, as well as hiding the weakness from everybody, including himself.

“Pitch it at me. Be perfect with the aim, lad.”

The serf did an underhanded toss, and it was so well-aimed that it landed in the sling of material made by the kilt between Vincent’s knees.

“I—I’m going to need some…bread,” Vincent managed to say.

“I’ve nae time for a second platter yet, sir,” the serf explained.

“Did you na’ bring it with the first?”

“Oh. Aye. Black bread. Baked this morn. Tasty. But dust-covered now.”

“Toss it this way.”

“There’s a pat of butter, as well.”

“I will na’ need butter.”

“’Tis more palatable with butter, sir.”

“I’m using it for a blockage, lad. At the end of my reed.”

“You block it?”

“Aye. Takes the sound and lowers it a span.”

“It does?”

“Aye. And I dinna wish this beast tearing at my throat if he is na’ fond of high-pitched sounds. You ken?”

“Bread. On its way!”

The boy’s aim wasn’t as good this time, and the half loaf of bread glanced off Waif’s nose and landed in the gloom beyond them. The wolf reacted, reaching the spot the lad had been in with one powerful spring of its body. The lad’s scream would have been amusing if Vincent hadn’t been in a full-out lunge after the bread loaf and getting back to his assigned spot before Waif returned. He barely made it, and watched as the wolf assimilated what had occurred and why. Vincent knew that was what was happening, too, as the beast looked at the reed he held in one hand and the loaf of bread in the other.

“Will you be wanting a piece?” Vincent asked.

The wolf sat back on its haunches and tipped its head.

“You can have the crust. I’ve nae need of it. I’ve all I need…right…here.”

Vincent was scooping out the soft innards of the loaf and compacting it into a dense plug about the size of his thumb. He eyed it once or twice for measurement purposes and knew the animal was watching him. He was also using the time to work his hands and fingers. He needed them warm and limber, not frozen and stiff with fright.

He was also going to need a bit of moisture in his mouth, or at least enough to wet his lips, but his mouth hadn’t been helping with that for some time. It was dry as dust. Vincent sucked some spittle into existence, tongued it along the top of his flute, and began.

Vincent liked to think he was a master of several things, but music had always been his real talent. Very few knew that, and he liked it that way. Such a thing made a man seem weak, easily manipulated, and soulful. None of which he could afford to be. He closed his eyes to whatever the wolf was demonstrating and ran through a series of easy melodies he’d created over the years. Then he launched into the more melodious, difficult ones, moving his fingers with rapidity and stealth all along the series of holes carved in the top and bottom of his fipple flute. The other thing the bread plug was good for was muting his music. He really didn’t want an audience. Not yet. His expertise at some things was better kept hidden.

Vincent finished one of his fast, wild songs, and cracked open an eye. Waif was on the opposite side of the hall, had his head down beneath his paws, and was acting for all the world like an assault had just taken place on his ears. Vincent cracked a smile and started again, this time with one of the slow, sad, emotional songs that always started a trill of sensation down his spine. Such a thing was better kept hidden as well.

It wasn’t until he was on the second stanza that he realized the wolf was howling along with him in an off-key fashion. Vincent opened his eyes on the creature, this time lifting its throat and letting loose the most mournful notes he’d yet heard. Vincent had a difficult time keeping the tune flowing with the combination of amusement at the wolf’s antics and the sorrow the music always created in him.

He was afraid he wasn’t successful. He realized it as the last note died away, leaving him sniffing back emotion and the animal looking at him with wet eyes as well. And then he heard the sound of her door closing.

Sybil fought her increased pulse and the odd constriction in her throat as she leaned on the door, looking at it as if for the first time. That man—the one so annoyingly steeped in his own importance and bounty—had just produced the most amazing, soulful music. She’d been afraid when he stopped that he’d see her openmouthed gape. Nobody saw that much emotion from her and hadn’t for years.

It was by her own decree. She’d set that standard for herself when her mother had first dumped her at the keep’s doorstep when she was but three. She hadn’t known then why.

She knew now. Bastardy was an embarrassment for all concerned.

Sybil sighed, blinked the door back to its normal wood grain, and turned toward the fire and the little pot that was simmering on a hook above it. It smelled delicious. It was supposed to. She’d been brewing a bit of dandelion and boar fat into a gravy to go with his sup, one that would gain him nothing but a loose lower belly and a wish for oblivion. The desire to harm was gone now. He had too much soul, even if he didn’t know it. He had to. Anybody who could elicit the warm tones that had felt like an embrace was taking place couldn’t be the lowest soulless wretch. Stupid, yes…but not soulless.

Sybil took the pot to the oriel window and tipped the vessel, letting gravy run down the haphazard joining of tower stones, just like she’d done with most of her concoctions. When the liquid reached the ground, it would either create more of the dead earth where nothing would grow, or add to the bit of grass that was such a vivid shade of green it had caused more than one onlooker to stop and stare. They didn’t know that was how Sybil had discovered the concoction that was dripped into the soil for the best garden yield.

Trial and error.

She paused in her musings. Giving anything harmful to this Vincent fellow fell into the error category now, after his musical demonstration. Sybil would have sighed as she continued pouring, but it would be wasted. Emotions weren’t for her. Such things were worthless. She’d seen too much of other’s heartburnings to ever wish such a thing for herself. She was unwanted, unloved, and free of worldly goods. It was a good thing she was useful.

Sybil knocked the last bit of stewed dandelion leaves from her pot and wiped it clean.

Her chamber door trembled, alerting her more from the motion of rattling against her door latch than the actual knocking sound.

He knocked? And Waif allowed it? That wasn’t good. Sybil put the pot down, wiped both hands down the sides of her skirt, and crossed to her door. She didn’t know what was wrong with the man. Any male possessing the brawn, handsomeness, charm, and musical soul of this one had options available to him. He probably had property as well. He was everything that shouldn’t be interested in a dowerless, plain, illegitimate woman…and yet he still seemed to be. Still. Sybil crossed to her door, lifted the wood dowel, and opened it a slit.

“You are na’ following the role-play, my lady,” he said from a height she couldn’t achieve without standing on a chair. And then the wretch smiled.

From the width of the door and his stature, the effect of white teeth and the mysterious black color of his eyes was enough to make any lass tremble. It wasn’t entirely her fault when it happened to her, too. Sybil gulped away the excess moisture in her mouth to answer. “What role-play?” she asked.

“The one assigned us. This eve.”

“When?”

“I’ve been wounded. You’ve been assigned to heal me. That role-play.”

“You dinna look wounded,” she replied. He must have known she was shutting the door, for the moment she tried, there was a booted toe in the gap, and then the entire boot. Then he stopped and waited, holding the door open against the pressure of her weight. That didn’t last, for next he reached around the wood and gripped a hand at the level of her nose. Sybil toyed with putting her weight against the door and shoving, but that was illogical and would look stupid as well.

“Where is my wolf?” she asked, hoping the breathless tone of her voice wasn’t obvious.

That was a vain hope. She knew it as his lips widened into a smile again.

“I girded the fierce dragon in his own den and came out not only unharmed but as the victor. You should laud me.”

“Laud…you?”

The second word was separated from the first by the quick force of his shove against the door, pushing her back into the room like she was so much wheat chaff, and showing that Waif was happily engrossed in chewing on a large joint of what looked like cooked mutton. The wolf was even making smacking sounds as it licked at the joint.

“Laud. As in glorify, applaud, sing my name in dulcet tones for all posterity. Things such as that.”

“I canna’ sing,” she replied. Or tried to reply. She didn’t know what it sounded like. There was the oddest buzzing noise affecting her speech, and her heart was hammering almost enough to cover it over.

He was fully in her chamber now—something no man had ever attempted. Actually, she had to amend the thought, no one was ever in her chamber.

“’Tis a good thing I can, then. I’ll make up for your failings, fair wench.”

Fair wench?
She was afraid of what the surge of heat through her breast signified, and knew it was a blush when heat hit her hairline and started little droplets of moisture there. She should have worn a wimple, she decided as he stood just inside her doorway observing everything.

Then his eyebrows lifted several times. “I thank you for inviting me into your chamber. ’Tis an honor few receive. Am I right?” He moved three steps farther into the room, making it look cluttered and small. Although it was cluttered, since she liked things about her—lots of things—it had never been small.

“I dinna’ invite you,” she replied and took a step back from him, much to her chagrin. She’d lost control of the situation. She didn’t even know how. It was as if this man had the key to her subconscious and was playing with it. Sybil had never felt at such a disadvantage, and Waif was no help. He’d betrayed her the moment he’d heard this man’s music.

Just as she’d done.

This Vincent put his hands on his hips, cocked his head up, and sniffed. “Have you been cooking? In here? That is na’ fair.”

“Na’ much is at the moment,” she replied.

He smiled, and it effectively stopped her enmity. She couldn’t win at any battle of wits if she let emotion in. Emotions swayed the outcome of any situation. They always did. She didn’t know what was the matter with her.

All she knew was she didn’t like it.

“Smells wondrous. What is it?” he asked.

“Gravy.”

“Do you have any left?”

She shook her head.

“That is na’ verra generous of you. I’m supposed to be in your care.”

“You are na’ supposed to be anywhere near me.”

He shook his head. Twice. “Na’ true. I heard the lady of the manor. You’re to make me well. How were you planning on doing this? With gravy?”

Sybil was starting to regret the odd weakness that had made her drain the mixture out the window, but that wasn’t any consolation. She didn’t know what was, though. This man had too many weapons at his disposal, and male presence was just one of them. As were the almost sensual looks he was giving from dark brown eyes, and the ease with which he put it all on display for her to view. He moved to fold immense, bared arms across his chest as he regarded her, making such a visual image of male perfection that she almost mouthed a sigh.

“You ken your way about a kitchen, do you?”

“What?” Sybil asked, and blinked. Several times. It didn’t help.

“You cook?” he continued.

“Oh. Aye. I cook. And I season.”

“Season?”

“With spices and herbs. To make the fare more tasty.”

“And is it?” he asked.

“I’m responsible for all the dishes served in the castle. Including the meat you have bribed my wolf with.” She couldn’t help the injured tone.

He grinned again. “Smarts a bit, does it?”

Sybil refused to answer. She hoped the tightening of her lips was the proper way to show that, but she didn’t know for certain.

“That’s what happens when you play with other’s lives and run across a master of it.”

“What?”

“You. Setting up things and playing with other’s lives and watching things happen. You. And me. Although I am a master at it.”

“You’re a master?”

“Look about. I am in your bedchamber, and you are na’ armed.”

“A woman does na’ need steel and wood to be armed.”

“What does she need?”

He’d prefaced the question with two steps toward her and lowered his voice at the same time. The shivers were horrid, the tightening in her nipples even more so, and the agitated breaths she was taking made it all so much worse.

Sybil realized she should have taken more than one step back, but there wasn’t much room left before she’d be banging up against one of the armoires she’d arranged about the room. That would have shown him that she felt threatened, which was sheer stupidity and obstinate besides. It was obvious she was feeling threatened.

She really should be doing more than breathing hard and looking up at him.

“You should na’ have unattached males in your chamber.”

At her gasp, he continued. “Actually, you should na’ have males in your chamber at all, attached or otherwise. ’Tis too much temptation.”

“You’re blind,” Sybil replied automatically.

One side of his mouth lifted. He took another step toward her, entering the space she needed for security, comfort, and protection. Except now. All she could think about now was the arcs of heat that seemed to be leaping from his body directly to hers. If she wanted to, she could swear she’d be able to touch them…and what was worse, they didn’t have far to travel.

He reached out and lifted a stray strand of hair off her shoulder. Sybil usually had it in two plaits on either side of her head, and then she wrapped those about the crown of her head to get the knee-length tresses out of her way and because it gave her much-needed height. She hadn’t had time to redo it this eve, and tendrils had escaped. She watched as he toyed with one, a mere handspan from her face.

“Well, I did take a blow to the head,” he said, finally.

Sybil snorted the giggle through her nose and made such a choked noise that he sobered. There was an instant release from the invisible thread keeping her tautly in place, and she slipped to the right of him and was over by her apothecary cabinet before he could react. The large, locked structure gave her a sense of comfort. Sybil put her back to it and faced him again.

He was right behind her and heaving a bit for breath. Which was odd. Such a thing as chasing a wench across a room shouldn’t require effort that made every bit of him look tensed and ready to pounce.

“You ken how lovely you are when you’re disquieted?”

“I am…not…disquieted.” Her words definitely were sounding like it, though.
Lovely?
Her heart actually lurched forward, startling her with the strength of it.

“Nae?” he replied.

“You are…my stepmother’s…lover. To. Be.” Sybil split the words between pants of breath. She tried to sound stern. It failed. She sounded young and breathless and excited, all of which was terrible.

“I am?”

She nodded.

“On whose authority?” he asked.

“Why else would you be here?”

“I came upon a fork in my path. I had a choice. I dinna’ ken that you lay in the midst of it, however.”

“Is there a truth in there somewhere?” Sybil asked with as much self-confidence as she could muster.

He tipped his chin down slightly and favored her with a half-slit look from his eyes. The instant result within her was frightening. She had to put her hands to her breast to prevent her heart from leaping right out onto her bodice. Her fingers were trembling, and as she clasped them together she realized the tremor went all the way through her.

This man knew the extent of his male potency, and he knew how to use it. She’d never been up against such. She’d never before believed it existed.

“You’re verra young,” he replied finally.

Sybil gasped for a breath, let it out slowly, and gasped in another. She didn’t answer.

“And now that I get a good look at you, without the disfigurement of yon cloak and veiling, I see that I was mistaken earlier.”

“About what?” And curse her own tongue for asking it!

“The blow dinna’ affect my sight, lady. Dinna’ fash on that. I was referring to your beauty. And my failure to spot it this morn.”

“You lie,” she replied and dropped her eyes.

That made it easy to spot his forefinger as he lifted her chin with it, making her face him. The moment he’d touched her, she’d gone so weak in the knees that she’d had to lock them. Then the warm, weak feeling transferred to her hips, up her back, and into her throat, suffusing her with a warmth and sense of security she’d never known or believed existed.

“You dinna’ look in your mirrors oft, do you?” he asked softly.

A bit of her realized he was about to kiss her; a larger bit wondered at the reality of it, while the largest portion was still in shock. It had to be. That’s what had her standing so still, holding her breath as she waited, making it easy.

Vincent hovered above her, a slight smile on his handsome features and his lips pursed in an expression she had now memorized.

The thudding of her heart got louder, deeper, more strident, and then he was lifting his head with a heavy sigh and looking over his shoulder as he released her to answer the knock.

The apothecary cabinet rocked slightly with her weight as she fell against it. Sybil was eternally grateful that he was already answering her door and wouldn’t have heard it. Nor would he have seen her legs crumpling beneath her. She’d gained her feet before he opened the door a fraction and peered out and was working on getting her composure in the same state when he turned from contemplation of the hall and closed the door again.

“What is it?”

“A serf. Appears they’re requesting you. In the hall.”

“I dinna’ hear anything.”

“You canna’ hear anything, because yon serf will na’ venture farther than the top of the steps and whispers his orders from there.”