Once Upon a Knight (13 page)

For several heart-thumping moments, he moved his hand about his groin area, searching for what had been there but finding only a lump of little size and no weight. That realization was accompanied by cold sweat that broke out at his hairline, accompanying the rapid breathing as he put his other hand to his groin and reached well beneath his legs. Nothing. There wasn’t anything to find or aim or entice a wench with. Vincent dropped his kilt back into place and stared at the croft wall in horror.

No man deserved this!

He searched for the water trough next and fell headlong into it, feeling the cold sting of water reviving him enough that he could control his heartbeat and get back some semblance of sanity. He’d been spelled. That was it. He was seeing things that couldn’t be. No wench had the ability to take a man’s member for revenge. At least, no wench without a blade.

He was out of the water and standing beside the trough, trembling. Then he was plastering the hair into place about his head and shoving it back over his shoulders. Then he was smoothing down the sides of his doublet, making certain of the fastening ties, before checking his sporran, his skeans, his belt. And everything but checking for what he most feared.

He went to a squat, jumped back up, did it again, jumped back up. There was no sway of an appendage between his legs, no slap of flesh against his thighs at the action. Vincent knew what he was doing even as he did it. The same he’d taunted lesser men with doing: procrastinating. He didn’t have a choice. He wasn’t sure he could stomach what he’d find when he looked again, now that he was aware, awake, and alert. He’d have to deal with it. He split his kilt open again and looked. And found nothing except hair.

“Hey, my good man. Can you spare a shilling?”

A drunkard bumped into Vincent, causing him to drop the plaide as the man fell into the trough. Vincent reached down, grabbed a handful of tartan, and hauled the man out. He was rewarded with a spurt of water as the man spit it at him, and then grinned.

“You’ve had enough,” Vincent replied.

The man’s smile fell. “I’ve but fresh started.”

“Then you dinna’ possess enough coin for a full drunk.” Vincent let go his hold on the lad’s shirt and watched as he fell onto his buttocks, raising kilt-covered knees and everything else and showing clearly that he still possessed a manhood. Vincent put his hands on his hips, raised his face to the night sky, and howled his anger at the fates.

“Come, friend! I’ll buy you a drink for that sorrow.”

The man was pulling himself to his feet, using the edge of the trough for leverage, and Vincent looked back down at him. He wasn’t but a slip of a lad, barely reaching Vincent’s shoulder. Yet he possessed what Vincent had just lost?

“You haven’t coin for a drink,” he replied.

“I will, if you lend me one.” The lad grinned as he said it, showing that not only was he cheeky, but he’d lost most of his front teeth as well. Already. It was obvious that not only couldn’t he hold his drink, but he was a poor brawler as well.

“I haven’t time for a drink. I have to think.” Vincent spun on his heel and started back toward Gleason.

“About what?” the lad asked.

Vincent turned sideways, faced the lad, and split his kilt open. “What do you see?” he snarled.

The lad reeled back as if slapped. “I am na’ one for men,” he spat.

Vincent reached out and grabbed the lad’s shoulder, and with one arm brought the boy to his chin. “I dinna’ ask for such a reason, whelp! I ask for my own sanity.”

He shoved the boy from him and took a few more steps before the lad spoke again, showing that he was keeping stride although he had to jog to do so.

“You want to ken what I saw? Is that it? You wish me to grovel?”

Vincent had reached Gleason. He was just about to unfasten the reins, but stopped.

“What?” he turned and glared at the slip of a lad, looking like he was about to receive a whipping. It was no wonder he’d lost his teeth. Vincent had rarely seen anyone so ready to take a beating. It was almost like he was expecting it and preparing himself.

“Verra well. I was wrong. You were just showing off. You’re a large, well-sized male. I’m na’. That was it, wasn’t it?”

“Showing off?”

“Aye. Showing off. Although I’ve been told size does na’ matter. You must think different. Can I have that coin now?”

“You see that?” Vincent stared at him. The lad looked too inebriated to be lying. Then again, he wanted a coin, and must think it within reach.

The lad nodded. Vincent reached to check. There was still nothing there of any substance and nothing of any size to put in his palm.

“You lie,” he hissed.

“Do you wish me to get a woman to say as much? They probably ken more about these things. I’ll fetch you one. Will that suffice to earning enough for a drink? Just one drink?”

“Aye. That will.”

Vincent turned from Gleason and reached into his purse, bringing out a handful of coins and selecting one. He held it out. “Bring me a wench, and I’ll give you this coin.”

“If I bring two wenches, will I get two?” the lad asked hopefully.

Vincent considered it. Then shook his head. He was swallowing pride and feeling belittled. He didn’t want two women seeing what the lad was obviously too drunk to see correctly.

“Just one. Bring me a woman that is na’ too drunk.”

The lad tipped his head. “Any particulars?” he asked.

“Aye. Make certain she has breasts.”

The lad was chuckling as he stumbled his way back around to the front of the establishment. Vincent sucked in a breath to give himself courage and reached beneath his kilt again to check. The lad was drunk. There wasn’t anything there. Even the lump was now gone. He actually felt the flood of emotion that must be the same a woman felt prior to a fit of weeping, before he heard the lad coming back.

He had a crone with him. Ugly. Hefty. Unclean. With rotten-smelling teeth and reeking of stale ale. She was talking a constant stream of complaints into the lad’s ear as he pulled her. Vincent’s face fell.

The lad pulled her over, making her words easier to hear.

“You tell me you have a great-sized, manly, fine-looking male outside for me, Randolph? This will be the day. The gods haven’t been that merciful to me since—” The crone’s voice stopped as she saw Vincent. Her mouth fell open, making even more stench come out of it, and then she grinned. Fully.

“See?” the lad she’d called Randolph said.

“Oh my,” she replied.

Vincent rolled the coin between his thumb and forefinger, more for the awareness of something real and tangible rather than the obscenity of the young, drunken slip of a lad and the old hag.

“Can I have the coin now?” the lad asked.

“This is na’ a woman,” Vincent replied.

“This is Lois. She has breasts,” the lad explained.

“It’s breasts you want? Oh, my fine man, why dinna’ you just say so? I’ve got just the thing for you.” Following which, the woman pulled down the front of her loose-hanging shirt and showed what amounted to long, droopy pieces of flesh with nubs of nipples at the bottom. “And there’s more where these come from, lover man. I’ve got just the warmest, wettest spot…” She was lifting one of her breasts and offering it toward him like that’s what he wanted. Vincent swallowed and flipped the coin at the lad, making certain it was out of range and Randolph would have to leave them to look for it.

He swallowed, but it was more a gulp. “I dinna’ wish a thing from you, Lois. Except the truth.”

She left her blouse open and moved so close that he almost gagged with the stench of her.

“It’s truth you want? I’ll tell you a truth. I’ve been servicing males for nigh on three decades, and I’ve never once faced the likes of a man such as you. Look at you. All brawn and beauty and strength. Oh my, but the gods have favored me for a certain tonight. I only hope I live through it.” She was rubbing her hands along his arm as she talked, and damn if it didn’t sound like she was purring as she ran a fingernail along his stomach muscles and felt them move and bunch as they tried to escape the touch as well. Vincent took a huge step back, and then another as she followed him. “You’re heaven-sent, laddie. Just look at you. Oh my. My. My.”

“You want to look?” he asked and pulled the front of his kilt apart and waited for her cries of disgust and surprise. What he got instead was a sound stained with awe and something more. She really did sound like he was heaven-sent.

“Oh my. Now…that’s what I call a man. You’ve been more than blessed, sweetie. You’ve been overly blessed. I pity the poor lasses that have to take that. And I also envy them. Later. For now, you’re mine. All mine. Give it to Lois, lover man. She knows just what you need to get that all swollen and engorged and readied. And I ken just what to do with it, too.”

Vincent looked down, saw nothing, and dropped his kilt. The whore was good. She was very good. She had him almost thinking nothing had changed.

“My thanks,” he mumbled. “Here.”

He flipped a coin at her. She caught it and then stopped. “You’re na’ interested in a bit of a tumble?”

“I needed to hear what you thought. That’s all I needed. That’s all I pay for.”

“What if I pay you?” she offered, and held out his coin.

Vincent lowered his head, and then shook it. “I’ve nae time. Forgive me.”

He’d paid her for the truth but hadn’t received it. He knew it. He saw and felt it. And endured it. He knew exactly what he was going to do about it, as well.

Get back to the enchantress and make her wizard his manhood back.

“Sybil? Please open the door. Please?”

It was Lady Eschon making her latest plea. Sybil looked up from the fireplace, where she was finishing the final cooking of her ointment. She’d crushed dried herbs in her palms, dusted them into a few drops of water, and set the mixture atop the fire. Such a paste was good for preventing infection, softening skin, and easing bruises such as Vincent had left dappling her skin. She could see as the day had progressed into dusk and the bruising grew more distinct that the ointment wasn’t going to be sufficient at muting them, but it was the best she could manage.

“Sybil? Please? I beg of you. Open the door afore I’m spotted.”

Sybil rose, sipping at the last of her tea, making a face at the tepid temperature as well as the slimy texture of the leaves that were at the bottom of her cup. It was the third cup she’d drunk. It had worked at restoring her voice. It hadn’t done much for the soreness Vincent had left everywhere else, however. That man hadn’t lied.

He really was capable of making it difficult to walk.

She limped over to the door and lifted the bolt. Lady Eschon was in her evening finery with her pale gray-blond hair pulled beneath her wimple, and she was lining her forehead with the strength of her worry, even had the wringing of her hands escaped notice.

“Oh thank God! Quickly! Bar it.”

The woman pushed into the room and stood, trembling, in place. Sybil closed the door behind her and dropped the bolt again.

“You should na’ be in this portion of the keep, my lady. Or visiting with me. You ken this?” Sybil asked softly.

“I had little choice.”

“Everyone has a choice.” Sybil limped back across to the fire and moved the hook holding the pan of ointment, so it could cool. The tightly woven sheath she wore as a panacea to heated flesh was cool on her skin and followed every movement she made. She’d also washed, combed, and braided her hair, but not covered it. When she’d finished moving the pan, she turned to face the lady of the house, and knew nothing about her appearance had escaped notice.

“You ail, too?”

“I have said as much with each answer I sent to you,” Sybil replied.

“It’s na’…plague, is it? Sweet heaven! That would be too much to bear!”

Sybil caught the amusement before it became laughter, but she wasn’t in time to stop the rest of it. Vincent Danzel’s lovemaking…a plague? Lady Eschon saw Sybil’s smile. She relaxed slightly, and her hands dropped to her sides.

“Good. That is one good thing about this, then.”

“What is it you need me to attend, my lady? Does the sup need more seasoning? I sent instruction this morn. Mayhap there is another needed to the table? Can you na’ make my apology?”

“It’s worse than that. I can’t make him see reason. Or sense. He’s threatening me. With war. Me. A widow! And what men I have to defend us are useless! I haven’t touched a morsel of food today or a drop of drink. I’m too afeared. He’s got everyone suffering!”

“Who?”

“That man!”

“What man?” Sybil’s heart pulsed, and she ignored it. Better to find out what Vincent was capable of once the mushrooms wore off than have it hovering atop her head and bothering her conscience. She mentally shrugged the regret away. He’d done what she wanted. That was all that mattered.

“That horrid little man!”

“Sir…Ian?” Sybil had forgotten the reason behind last eve. And her fear of the dwarf. And that she needed to be aware and ready. That’s what came of soreness brought on by pleasure and a day spent in remembrance of it.

“Aye.”

“What have we done that he’d war with us over?”

Lady Eschon dropped her eyes and hunched up her shoulders. Sybil had seen that posture throughout her formative years, back when the Laird of Eschon was alive and abusing his wife with every word and every swing of his fist. She’d thought the lady had forgotten, or at least grown past it.

“He will na’ change his mind. I’ve tried. He wants…your hand. On the morrow. Or he’ll make us pay.”

“As his
wife?”
Her distaste filled the title although she tried to cover it.

Lady Eschon nodded. She still wasn’t looking Sybil in the eye. And Sybil realized the obvious. It wasn’t fear making the lady act so. It was shame.

“But—I already told you both. I’m nae longer a maid.”

“He does na’ care.”

“But—I have nae value.”

Lady Eschon looked up then. She had pain in the depths of her blue eyes. Not shame. Sybil was running out of arguments, but she’d never had to use so many of them before.

“You dinna’ look in the mirror, Sybil. You’ve…changed. Grown into a woman of great beauty.”

Sybil’s eyes went huge. “How can you say such with your daughters, Merriam and Kendran, as comparison?”

Lady Eschon smiled, making her look years younger and showing the sweet disposition she’d always had. “When you came to us, I wasn’t welcoming, was I? It was…difficult for me. You ken? What woman wants her husband’s by-blow underfoot? Especially a little lass of three?”

“I already ken all of this.”

Lady Eschon continued as if Sybil hadn’t said anything. “You were such a frail child, though. Small. With that cloud of dark hair so unlike my own, or my daughters’. You favor your mother too much.”

“My mother is dead. Years past.”

“True. She is…
now,
” Lady Eschon replied. “And her family has wealth and position. At least, this is what Sir Ian tells me.”

Shock flooded Sybil then, taking some of her consciousness from the haze of fulfillment the Viking had left her in. It was immediately followed by fear.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

Lady Eschon sighed, her eyes filled with tears. “Because of what I must do. I’ve grown fond of you, Sybil. Verra fond. Na’ just for your running of my household, but because of your generous spirit, your calming presence, and your healing ability. I truly hate to lose you.”

“You’re giving him my hand?”

“I already said as much. I’ve nae other choice! He’s made us all ail!”

“I’ll na’ accept. I’ll na’ say the words.”

“And have us suffer more of his potions?”

“What did he do? Exactly. If I ken what he used, I can work a cure.”

“Naught that I could see.”

“Then how is it you ken it’s him behind this illness?”

“My men are moaning and spewing and crawling in agony from pain and illness. But Sir Ian? He’s hale and hearty. As are his men. All nine of them, and guarding every entrance. I had to sneak through my own home just to get here!”

Sybil sighed. Lady Eschon was sweet, but not vicious or treacherous. Those were traits of her dead husband, and mayhap Merriam, their eldest daughter. “Did Sir Ian and his men partake from the table this morn?”

Lady Eschon shook her head. “They were busy at the list. Probably making their plans of conquering and suffering. Men. They’re rotten creatures.”

“Then we have time. You put out spoiled foodstuffs. I should have been there to oversee it, but that is the issue, my lady. Sir Ian does na’ have any power to create illness. Wait two days. Your men will be well again.”

The woman shook her head. “He does na’ give us two days!”

“Then make him,” Sybil replied quietly.

“How?”

“Where is the man known as…Viking?”

Sybil couldn’t help the slight pause before she said the title and knew her stepmother had heard it. The woman’s features softened as she looked at her. Sybil had to look away.

“Gone. With his horse. And all his belongings. Gone. None saw his path or heard his departure, or noted…”

There was more said. Sybil didn’t hear it. Her heartbeat was so loud in her ears it was some time before she heard anything. She knew instantly what it was, too. Breakage. And loss. She’d known the truth. And love…was a farce.

She blinked the prickling of tears back and faced Lady Eschon and asked why anyone would ever think Sybil would wed with Sir Ian to save anyone.

“Because he has your wolf. He says so. He’ll use him. In pieces.”

Sybil’s belly went concave with the force of her gasp. Waif? That wretch had him? It wasn’t possible. She’d have felt it. Wouldn’t she? Sybil tried to convince herself of it, how the closeness she and the wolf had always had would have made it impossible for him to be caught and perhaps tortured without her knowing it, but she hadn’t been thinking of him for some time. It was as if the Viking’s touch had changed everything.

And there was worse. She’d done it to herself.

“You’ll do it?” Lady Eschon asked.

“Leave me now. I have to prepare.”

“For what?”

“My wedding. On the morrow.” She whispered it and felt the relieved reaction in Lady Eschon. It was palpable all the way to the door and through the unbarring of it and opening of it. Sybil kept the rest of her reply to herself. She had to prepare for her incumbent widowhood, as well.

The ride back to Eschoncan Keep took all night. It should have gone quicker. It wasn’t entirely Gleason’s fault, although he took the brunt of Vincent’s cursing and bad temper. It was because nothing looked the same in the rain-soaked blackness, there wasn’t any path, and the horse hadn’t had any rest. Vincent didn’t dare give Gleason any rest. Each step closer came with a slowness that was made worse as he kept touching himself to feel for any change, and it was happening just as he’d hoped. Everything was returning to what was his normal size. But it was changing at the same pace as his approach. Slowly.

He got lost more than twice in the darkness and didn’t realize the extent of it until he felt himself shrinking again. He promised himself that once this whole episode was finished, and the witch had returned to him what was his, he’d put some sort of comedy to how he had to use his own member as a compass for direction. But not now. Now he was soaked through every layer, feeling the worry warring with the relief, and all of that was hampered by a slowness that made the entire journey surreal.

Her wolf joined him sometime in the midst of more senseless riding when all he had to guide him was the plop of rain hitting everything and the shrinking or enlarging of his own member. No one would believe his tale of this once he composed it. He didn’t even believe it. Vincent was just contemplating the torment of continuing on, which was wrapped about the fear that if he stopped for any reason it would be the end of the change that was happening. And all of that was shadowed by his own stupidity for allowing this to happen in the first place. Then through the inky blackness loomed a shape that sent Gleason to rearing.

And Vincent to falling.

The ground he’d decided to test for moisture was saturated to the point of being pondlike and mud-slick. It still felt warmer than the night air had. Vincent lay on his side, absorbing the ache of air missing from his chest and wondering why the gods had decided to curse him with this much punishment. That’s when the wolf first licked at him, starting with his palm, and then graduating to his arm, and then all about his face.

That set Vincent to chortling, the wolf to responding, and then before he knew it they were a mass of beast and man rolling about in wet, soaked grass, wrestling, while Gleason watched from a safe distance. It wasn’t until they seemed to both be out of breath that it ceased, Vincent unlocked the arms he’d hugged about the beast, and Waif moved away to shake himself and looked even more embarrassed than Vincent.

Two cupped handfuls of water to his face and things felt better, but he probably still looked like the filthy mass of muck he was. It might be a good thing it was a moonless night filled with rain. Such an atmosphere muted things like mud-covered hunks of abused Highland lairds and wolves that looked like they’d rolled about in sewage.

Vincent huffed in a deep breath and watched the wolf do the same. “She sent you, did she?” he asked aloud.

Gleason snorted. The wolf didn’t respond at all.

“She had to have sent you. Otherwise, why would you be here?”

There was a slight huff of sound that could be the wolf agreeing. It could also be the wolf’s disdain for his inaccuracy.

“You came alone, then? Why?”

The wolf howled a response and ended it with a quick bark. Then another.

“She’s na’ in trouble…is she?”

He told himself it was a stupid question from an equally stupid man. Talking to a wolf was one thing; expecting an answer was worse. And there was the content of his question in the first place. That lass was probably always trouble or in trouble. Especially to an unencumbered male like Vincent Erick Danzel.

He got three quick barks from Waif. Almost like the animal was urging him to speed for some reason. Vincent pulled the tie strip from his doublet. He was going to need it. Something was wrong.

“She is in trouble? Blast and damn the wench!”

The rawhide was useful for keeping his clothing together. It was going to be needed more for keeping his sodden mass of hair back. He wrapped it about his forehead, using the strip as a headband and tying it into a knot at the back. He didn’t care that the doublet was gaping open or that his previously white shirt was now stained with mud and stuck to him like a second skin or that his kilt was sodden with rain and mud until it hung past his knees. He was very aware of the slap of flesh and substance where it was supposed to be between his legs, however. Although it wasn’t the correct size as yet, it was still there. That was what mattered.

And if the little lass was in trouble before he could get her to change her spell…

He didn’t waste another moment on cleansing, or checking his pace, or anything other than the heart-pounding need to get back to her.