Once Upon a Knight (12 page)

“Damn you! Blast and damn—!”

He cut off his own curse, moved to slam both hands onto the mattress to either side of her, denting it with the mass of weight, and then he lifted himself. Sybil’s eyes went huge as she looked and couldn’t seem to stop looking. Vincent had every bit of him taut and rigid and perfectly defined. He didn’t have to warn her that he wasn’t interested in anything gentle.

Then he was pulling out, giving her a moment of respite before filling her again, fully. Totally.

“Put your legs about me,” he hissed, and Sybil tried, regardless of the pain. She didn’t dare argue.

“Latch your ankles. Now. Do it.”

He didn’t know what he asked, and the agony radiating through her back told her of it. He didn’t wait, either. He had one hand behind him, securing her ankles together at the small of his back, showing the full scope of his brawn and beauty as he held himself aloft with one arm to assist her. The moment she was readied, he dropped back to the angle he’d been in, and then he was pummeling, alternately filling her and releasing. Filling. Releasing. Over and over, and again, and again, breathing deeper and with more stridency and depth, and showing every bit of stamina and strength he’d claimed to be worried over.

His movements grew stronger, faster, more savage, and his breathing kept tempo with all of it. As did Sybil. She wasn’t in control of her own limbs any longer. All she knew was a terrific pounding that was taking over her hearing, her vision, her experience. It had sparked into being during his movements, and with each thrust was made stronger, more grasping, more needy, more wild.

She had her legs locked to him, her body driving into his, and just when she thought her heart couldn’t make one more beat, it felt like lightning hit, sending shoots of light and ecstasy rocketing through her and making it impossible to hold in the cry. She slammed her eyes shut but couldn’t prevent the keening moan that accompanied it.

And still he thrashed into her, sparking more of the ecstasy and fulfillment into being before giving great lunges, followed by a series of small, quick-paced bursts that rocked the mattress beneath her.

“Oh…sweet! Lass! Love!”

He was still sending words through gritted teeth, if the sound was any indication. And then he was sobbing a long, drawn-out cry before subsiding into a mass of tremors. Sybil had her arms wrapped tightly about him as shudder after shudder ran through his frame and into hers.

And that’s when she knew fully what love was.

He’d heard that Ireland was a good place for a man to start anew, gain a new plaide and allegiance, with nary a question asked. Not that he wanted all of that, but Vincent didn’t think he’d survive the thrashing his cousin, Myles, was bound to give him when he found out. Vincent hadn’t been allowed to touch her. Sybil Eschon was to lose her heart but nothing else. That was the bet, and it had been filled with warning.

Vincent sighed hugely before reaching forward to pat Gleason’s mane. The horse responded with a nod and a whiff of air that simulated his master.

It wasn’t all Vincent’s fault. He’d been spelled! He hadn’t been in control of his faculties or of his lust. He hadn’t been in control of anything. He’d never experienced the love act as he had with the little enchantress, and it terrified as much as enthralled him. All of which was no excuse, but he could swear each inhaled breath carried her scent and each step of the horse resounded with a remembered lunge of her body against his. While each movement of the saddle against his loins brought renewed craving to mind. Even the ground mocked him when it turned into a field of bloomed heather, covered with the pale sheen of dawn and looking the exact shade and texture of that pink chemise of hers.

There was nothing for it but to reach Aberdeen with as much speed as possible, find a filling meal, and hop a ship bound for the Emerald Isle. Or find a ship with a good supply of foodstuffs, and fill his belly then. Although the belly was the least of his troubles at the moment.

Vincent adjusted himself atop the saddle once again, sorely aware of the throbbing reaction occurring in his groin. Again. No wench had affected him to the point that everything itched and ached for a repeat. Especially not after the third time he’d taken his pleasure of her body. And that just before dawn. He probably had made walking difficult for the lass today, which was just as he’d promised. She’d be feeling the soreness and the effects of depletion. He’d made sure of it. But he’d never suffered the same things.

Vincent huffed out another breath. The mushroom powder she’d given him wasn’t the only reason, and he knew it. He was making excuses for what had been the most fulfilling, amazing experience of his life. He’d done it for the third time because not only was it satisfying to the extreme, but he hadn’t been lying when he’d spoken about how much the deed was costing him. Taking that lass had lost him the bet that was all the gold he could carry, and it had made him a Donal clan outcast. It was a hefty price to pay, and he was going to get as much pleasure out of it as possible so it would be worth it.

And strangely enough, he felt that it had been.

The heather thinned beneath Gleason’s hooves, and Vincent looked up, blinking as he thought he spied Waif. The dawn had been spreading while he meandered, losing track of the why behind his journey to Aberdeen with the remembrance of that lass. Sybil was gifted in ways no woman should be. Her kisses held the key to passion, and her body gave pleasure with every thrust, every movement, every silken caress and every single contraction she’d made around him, the thought of which gave him more bother and soreness and itch where he least needed it. Vincent reached down to adjust himself atop the saddle and wondered momentarily at the odd feel of little where there should be a fairly large size and substance.

The sun was starting to peek from behind him. That cleaved the cliff line in front of him into a solid line of black. For some reason, that had him thinking of her hair…its length, smell, and feel. Like rain-washed silk. And that changed any thought of why he was feeling smaller into why there was an odd pain within his ribs, almost like he’d swallowed too much air along with a tankard of ale. He licked his lips. He could do with a bit of brew. Or a large skillet of fried gruel topped with gravy. Mayhap some sausage crumbled within it, while heavy clotted cream was baked into a golden crust atop the concoction. Vincent sucked on the dry feel of his mouth at the thought of what a breakfast that would be. Such a meal might help a bit to take his mind off why his own body didn’t feel like it belonged to him. It might also take his mind off Sybil Eschon.

Gleason stopped, brought to a halt as Vincent pulled on the reins and watched with a touch of awe as the sun dappled the flat span of ground before him. Which was even more odd. Vincent didn’t have time to fill his senses with vistas of wonder and great breaths full of dew-kissed air. He had to get to Aberdeen. He had to get to a ship.

He had to get to Ireland. And find enough mead to forget.

Sybil didn’t open her eyes for what felt like hours. She didn’t want to. She didn’t want the experience to be over. It was well past her usual rising time, anyway. If she wasn’t under house arrest, her services would have been required long before dawn broke.

She moved her legs and then arms beneath the cool linen of her bed covering, marveling at how wondrously sore everything felt. Everything. Everywhere.

She’d been initiated into womanhood by a master of the art. She hadn’t even suspected that talent of his. She should have known after hearing his expertise with a mouth flute. Musicians and artists were rumored to be sensual and giving lovers. Vincent Danzel was every bit of that…and more. So much more that Sybil giggled aloud and hugged herself. She hadn’t known love felt like this.

“Lady Sybil?”

There was a tap and then a light whisper at her door. Sybil lifted her head and looked in that direction before dropping back to the mattress. She hadn’t the strength to move her head? That wasn’t good.

“Lady Sybil?” The tapping came again, making a repetitive drumming sound.

“Aye?” Her voice came out a croak. Sybil moved a hand to her throat and massaged the skin. That was another thing she hadn’t known. All her silent cries throughout that man’s lovemaking had taken a toll. She’d need to make herself a posset to relieve the soreness. When she managed to get up, that is.

“You’re requested below.”

Sybil huffed out her amusement. Her limbs felt detached. She hadn’t opened her eyes yet, she still trembled with remembrance, and they wanted her below? “I’m…ill,” she replied.

“Ill?” came the answer.

“Aye.” And filled with ecstasy, satisfaction, and joy. She probably glowed with it. Nobody had told her of that part of the love act. Especially not her sister Kendran. That woman was by all accounts dizzily in love with her husband, the Donal laird, and well-satisfied with her life. The last person she’d tell of love was her half sister, Sybil, who had tormented and teased her about all of it.

“I’m to escort you to the great hall.”

“Ill,” Sybil replied again. Louder.

Kendran probably didn’t thank Sybil for any of it, although it was Sybil’s influence that had kept sanity in the Eschon household just one Middlemas and half a year ago. Kendran had repaid her with a Christmas wish of an unsuitable man…and that was the reason behind everything. Sybil moved her hands away from her torso and trilled them down her arms as she unfolded them, enjoying every shiver the motion engendered in her flesh.

And why? Because that wonderful, blond, Viking, godlike man had made her a woman…his woman. Throughout the night. All night.

She should be blaming Kendran for her part in this. She wasn’t. Still keeping her eyes shut, she pushed the covers aside, welcomed the chill of air against the tender feeling blanketing all of her, and slid to her knees as her legs folded and refused to hold her. That had her giggling yet again. Sybil’s kneeling position was perfect for thanking Kendran for that Christmas wish of an unsuitable love. That was what had brought the little dwarf man into Sybil’s sphere. It was also what had given her the idea to ravish Vincent, and the audacity to carry it out.

“I’ll go for help.” The serf at the door was announcing it, his voice showing his relief at leaving rather than going through with what he’d been assigned. His words were as stupid as his reaction. Lady Sybil was their only healer. There wasn’t anyone else to help.

She didn’t need a healer anyway. What she needed was solitude and time. Solitude to enjoy every bit of the memory of last eve and the time to store it away. She slit open her eyes, brought the mattress edge into focus in front of her, and tipped her head. It looked a bit dented still where she was looking, the edge smashed by one of his hands as he’d lifted himself, leveraged himself, and driven into her time and again. And again.

Sybil sighed, put a hand where she was looking, and another around the headboard post to brace herself, and pulled herself upright. Then she had to wait, swaying the entire time, as her legs decided they would hold her up, albeit in a shaky fashion. Sybil watched her thighs tremble with the effort of standing. She also noted the myriad of thumb-sized areas darkening in spots about her skin. She instantly recognized the large, hand-sized positioning and what the bluish marks signified. And, as she swiveled to look over the rest of her, she could see the same pattern of light bruising on either buttock, and even about the area below her knees.

It was definitely a blush that happened next, starting a film of moisture to coat her and bringing the smell of their mating back every time she moved. It also made her very aware of the sticky feeling between her legs, where most of the soreness was emanating from. Sybil let go of her hold on the bed and made her way to her privy, holding her arms out for balance and taking small, careful steps until she was secreted behind the screen and staring at her reflection in the mirror. Tangles of black hair puffed about her face, framing it and messily trailing down her back. And her eyes looked enormous. Or maybe it was that her skin looked so white, especially with the pink spotting her cheekbones and spreading down from there to her collarbone. He’d called her wild, winsome, and wanton.

She looked to be all three.

Sybil smiled at herself and dipped her fingers into the water before tossing palms full onto her face. She’d done what she set out to do. She’d given validation to why the dwarf, Sir Ian, needed to withdraw his marriage offer. No one would doubt her now. She definitely looked like she’d received a man. And more than once, too.

Sybil was still giggling at the thought while she changed the linens soiled with the smell of him and the blood smears before she fell back to sleep.

Blast the wench!

He’d been more than spelled. He’d been cursed. Everywhere he turned, there was a reminder of her. Even the stream where he’d knelt to gain a full belly of cold water had sounded like it was soundlessly crying to him, much as she had done throughout the night. The gurgle of the burn had even sounded like it was crooning of ecstasy and pleasure, exactly as she had, more times than he could count. And more than he wanted to remember.

The ride to Aberdeen had never seemed so long! It would have been shortened if he hadn’t stopped constantly in order to look over a hanging bit of moss from a tree branch and compare it to her cloud of hair. Or if he hadn’t brought Gleason to a halt while his thoughts plagued him with remembered denial followed by bliss, torment applied to rapture, and affliction covered over with waves of absolute perfection. He didn’t know what the lass had done to him, but he was plagued constantly with it.

And harangued by every bit of conscience about how he’d left her, and was still leaving her, sneaking through the landscape like the low thief and ruffian he was. There was more to heap upon her head before the roofs of outlying Aberdeen came into sight. There was the repeated sensation of heat coming from his lower belly, where he was slightly bruised from where he’d pummeled against her pelvis. There was also the pulsating throb of his member each and every time it grazed the saddle with each and every step Gleason took. No amount of movement and readjusting on the hard leather muted or changed it. In fact, it got worse as the day progressed. And to all that was added the heavy feeling about his heart, making each beat have an accompanying pang that got worse the farther he traveled from her. He didn’t know what was wrong with him, but he knew what it wasn’t. It surely wasn’t regret. He didn’t spend time on such a useless emotion, and he wasn’t about to start now. Vincent never looked back. He’d been taught that lesson years earlier, as a lean youth, when a fire had consumed the Danzel castle, leaving him homeless and friendless and alone. That day he’d grown into a man, and it was as a man that he’d joined up with the Donal clan, earning his position through more than one battle spent at the laird’s side. Nobody ever questioned him, and he wouldn’t have answered if they did. Never look back. Always look forward. Take what the world offered and move on. That lesson was hard-learned and fully ingrained. Keep looking for women he’d yet to meet and enjoy, wines and ales he’d yet to drink, and songs he’d yet to compose and play.

He had his fipple out near dusk. He had to do something to send the madness that was Lady Sybil’s lovemaking away from him. But what came out of his instrument tugged at heartstrings and brought emotion right to his chest and from there into his throat. It caused more than one resident to come out onto their stoop as he passed, slowly moving through the streets that made up neighborhoods peopled with poor crofters.

It was a neighborhood that sinners knew and embraced. Every slum was.

Vincent found a larger building, framed with timber but packed with peat. It was noisier than the rest and light spilled out with the crowd sound. It also drowned out the haunting, lovelorn swell that had imbued his playing, no matter what tempo he attempted. He knew what he needed to banish Lady Sybil completely. He needed a full tankard of heavy mead, a full tureen of soup, and a lusty wench that wouldn’t have anything else in mind but his release.

Vincent slid from Gleason’s back, looped the rein over a jutting beam of the tavern, and went to the side to relieve himself. That’s when he knew the extent of the enchantress’s power. Vincent shoved the kilt flap open, reached to aim himself, and realized her full revenge wasn’t just the aches and pains and throbbing memories he’d been assaulted with throughout the day. It was worse. The wench had stolen his very manhood!