Once Upon a Knight (14 page)

Sybil had never dwelt on what her wedding day would look like. Such things were for lasses with wealth and stature and legitimacy. Or those favored few possessing dowers of huge portions of land. Or high status in the king’s court. They weren’t for a bastard girl-child of a Highland laird. She never dreamt of what her day would be like because she’d never expected to get one.

The rain falling from the skies and turning the landscape outside the castle walls into a mist-imbued wash of green touching endless gray sky would probably be disappointing to a lass that had fixated on her wedding day. Such a day was meant for celebration and rejoicing. Where men slapped each other on the backs and women whispered in jealousy or awe. Weddings certainly weren’t meant to be done at the point of torture to something one loved, and not with a guard of two hulking men at the bride’s back making certain she kept walking when everything about her wanted to flee in the other direction.

The dawn was gray-cast, rain-filled, and dulled with gloom. Exactly as everything felt inside.

The hall outside her tower room hadn’t been swept, and Sybil could tell as she was marched to the chapel that nothing in the keep had been prepared. It hadn’t even been given a modicum of cleaning. Lady Eschon must have been telling the truth about the illness of her guards, for Sybil only spotted two or three of the Eschon men, and they looked pale and drawn and queasy. Like a puff of wind would be too much to bear. Lifting a sword to her defense would be an impossible feat, she was sure. In fact, one of them touched his eyes to her before slapping a hand to his mouth and galloping from the corner of the Great Room where he’d been positioned.

Sybil fingered the little bunch of pansies that Lady Eschon had tied together with a lavender-shaded ribbon bow. There were little sprigs of wildflowers scattered throughout the bouquet, while the bow trailed nearly to the floor. It was gentle-looking and wild. Probably a good match to herself, if she thought on it. She didn’t.

It was also deadly.

Sybil toyed with the little pouch of powdered tansy leaf that she’d tied right beneath the bow, so none would know. Such a thing was for granting a swift death to those who ingested it.

Perfect.

Just as perfect was the attire that had been aired out for her. Her stepmother had provided it from her own hope chest, brought and stored from her young, carefree, unwed days. The attire Sybil was being wed in was only a trifle large about the waist. There was an underdress of flax linen, aged and mellowed into an off-white shade. It was more for adornment of her nakedness than anything else since it was loosely woven and gossamer enough that it looked like it would shred at a touch. Sybil had some uncomfortable moments when she’d first laced it on using the slender ribbon ties. It made her look beautiful and enticing and womanly—and those were curse words now.

The overdress she’d been given had cap sleeves and was dyed a purple shade. There were long off-white straps sewn into pockets on the underside of the skirt that were used for gathering, creating billows of fabric and making it easier to walk rather than dust the floor with the length. It had been crafted of the thinnest flax threads that had been washed in pansy-tint until they retained varied and mysterious purple hues. Then the threads had been crafted in such a tight weave, it looked like she was gilded in it and wore nothing beneath.

Lady Eschon had brought the bouquet to Sybil just as she’d finished one last tie and dropped the skirts to the floor. She was wearing woolen stockings, but the slippers that were provided were still a trifle large. That couldn’t be helped. She was wearing donated attire for a farce of a ceremony.

It was still perfect.

As was her hair. Lady Eschon had stayed and supervised the entire thing as the braid was taken out and every strand brushed into a charcoal wash down her back and to her hips. Then she’d been given a ribbon—the match to her bouquet bow—in order to lace it through her tresses and keep them off her face and behind her. And then she’d been handed a floral circlet, the match to her bouquet, to put atop her head. The entire time she’d been fidgeting with the pansy and wildflower bouquet, making the serf women and Lady Eschon think she was fretting. That was better than the real reason. She was tying the little packet that contained death, using one of the purloined ties from her skirt to do so. Nobody saw or would know. Or would point the finger.

She was pronounced ready and the obligatory sounds made. They were right. Everything about the outfit was stunning, original, and probably perfect for a wedding ceremony. Until she’d covered it over with a nondescript gray cloak. Lady Eschon hadn’t said a word while she did so, either. It was enough that she was being prepared for marriage to that parody of a man, Sir Ian Blaine.

Now, if it was the Viking that was waiting for her…

Sybil blinked on a sting of tears before it betrayed anything. Then she nodded to her stepmother and walked past her. That was when she first noticed the slide of material and how sensuously it glided over each thigh as she walked. It was an uncomfortable reminder of how each step was taking her closer to the reason behind her finery.

There weren’t but eight people in the chapel that had been built to house multitudes. Sybil took a quick glance about, noted the dullness of the day out the windows, as well as the trail of candles that had been lit on both sides of the aisle she was to walk, leading the eye directly to the man that stood there.

Sir Ian Blaine didn’t even reach the height of the altar he was standing beside. Sybil felt disgust the moment she saw him and dropped her eyes hastily before anyone else noted it. One of his guards gripped at her arm, and before she could struggle free, the cloak was pulled from her, catching a bit on her hair and taking some of it from the waterfall arrangement it had been in.

It also put every bit of perfection on display. She’d known how much the dress became her. Every step she took reminded her of it. To her horror, she could almost feel the lust pulsating through the room, and especially from the parody of a man that was to be her husband.

The thought was sending shivers all over her legs, her back, over the crown of her head, and through her cheeks, before falling to the proximity of her lower belly, where it became a stone of such weight it made her physically ill. She stumbled to a momentary halt and watched as Sir Ian moved away from the altar as if about to approach.

Sybil swallowed, and then swallowed again as her mouth refilled with spittle. She knew she was as pale as the underdress. That wasn’t something she could afford. She wasn’t going to faint. She never fainted, and she wasn’t going to now. Sybil fingered the packet of tansy tied into her bouquet, and drew strength from it, just as she had expected to. The faintness passed, her head came back up, and she pasted a blank look over her features before starting to walk up the aisle again.

And then the greatest crash happened behind her as the chapel doors burst open, sending a gust of wind through that extinguished most of the candles, as well as a roar of sound that would have done the same. Sybil spun, clutched the bouquet to her breast, and forgot how to breathe.

Vincent took in the scene at a glance, from the shocked pale face of the enchantress, to the stunted farce of her groom, and it angered him worse than before. She’d been toying with him? Maybe using him to satisfy her curiosity before wedding someone else? And then placing a curse on him that no man should have to bear? He no longer cared about the three men he’d just knocked senseless, or the one Waif was holding at bay near the Great Hall, since Vincent hadn’t been able to handle all of them when he’d first slid from Gleason’s back and run up the castle stairs.

And then he’d been beset by corridors of silence. Gloom. Emptiness. The only good part about the entire morn had to be that his manhood felt fully back to the correct size and bulk it had always been. And nothing was going to make that change again. Nothing. He was in such a rage of frustration and anxiety that when a guardsman had barred his way into the large double doors of the chapel, Vincent had parried with a fist and given the man a blow that sent him reeling. Then, hefting the man to his shoulders, he’d used him as a battering ram to burst through the doors before dropping him senseless to the ground.

Which had been rather stupid and dramatic since both doors had knocked against pillars, breaking their hinges before bouncing back, slamming Vincent backward. That was when the emotion couldn’t be contained another moment. He bellowed all his rage and pain and frustration to the ceiling, which, since it was designed with such acoustics in mind, made a chorus of dark bellowing throb all around them.

Everything went silent. And then the four armed men arranged about the walls moved, stepping into the space between Lady Sybil and him. Vincent narrowed his eyes, filled his chest with huge gulps of air and started swinging, moving with precision through one after the other, using the shield in his left arm to deflect while the sword in his right did as little damage as possible. Even in the midst of the hell she’d sent him to, he wasn’t changing into a killer. The only sounds for some time were the strikes of metal to metal, accompanied by grunts and groans, and that was followed by wood splintering as a pew cracked or broke totally when a body fell into or across it.

Vincent took them one at a time, since that was all the width of the aisle permitted, keeping his blows and lunges spaced with every beat of his heart as it filled his entire body and gave him a primeval rhythm only he heard. Until the last man was flung backward over his shoulder and he stood from the crouch such a movement necessitated, sucking in and breathing heavy sweat-soaked essence all over the ethereal goddess that still stood there, clutching a bouquet of purple and white flowers and driving him mindless with just the inhalation of her smell. His arms dropped to his sides, putting the shield along his left side, and the sword tip to the stone floor.

“Just who do you think you are, entering the House of the Lord—!”

Vincent ignored the preacher and took a step closer to her. “What…do you ken…you’re doing?” he asked amid pants of breath.

She lifted her head, arching her neck and showing several bruised spots where he’d been a little more passionate than he’d intended, and met his gaze with wide, silver-hued eyes. Vincent felt his heart drop into the region of his belly and start pounding from there instead, filling his ears with the sound of singing.

“I am getting wed,” she whispered.

“Nae,” he answered, taking another step toward her and scraping the blade tip as he did so.

“In full battle gear and without benefit of a bath! Blasphemy!”

The preacher was still orating from his pulpit. Vincent speared a glance that way and noted the man was using the altar more for defense than reverence. Then Vincent looked back down to Lady Sybil, filled his eyes with the sight of her in form-fitting attire, with her hair unbound and everything prepared for…a husband? He wondered at the hard pressure within his heart that made him wince, lifting one side of his lip.

“I dinna’ truly wish to,” she said, as if that explained her actions.

“Why?” He asked in a harsh tone.

“You need ask?”

There was the lightest touch of pink to the tips of her cheeks, making her even more lovely and multiplying the wondrous smell warming the air about him a hundredfold. He shook his head, refusing to acknowledge how badly he was being spelled, and looked over her head toward her bridegroom. Sucked in another chest full of air and looked back down at her.

“I’m asking the why of your wedding. Not the who,” he replied, putting the entire sentence out with one breath.

“I had to! He has Waif. He threatened me.”

Vincent lifted his head and whistled loudly, and was rewarded by the heavy paw sound of a wolf in full run. And then the sound changed, showing it was definitely Waif as he entered through the broken vestry doors and took leap after leap over the unconscious forms until he was at Vincent’s side, heaving with the same expenditure of strength and effort. There was a scream at his entrance from Lady Eschon, but everyone else was silent.

“Waif…was with you?” Sybil asked.

“Aye.”

“Then…he lied?” Her voice was rising as she gestured over her shoulder to the stunted dwarf she’d been about to wed.

“You were wedding to save the beast?”

She nodded.

“Stupid. And wasteful. You’re na’ wedding him. Na’ today. And na’ any other day, either.” He was close enough to her to see every shadow flutter of every eyelash as she looked down from him, shutting him out. Vincent lifted the sword and shoved it back into its scabbard, making the ring of steel on metal grommets even louder since they were still in a chapel.

“And he finally sheaths his blade. Thank the Lord!”

Vincent ignored the preacher’s sputtering coming from behind the altar. “You are verra pretty in your finery. Verra. I shall put your attire to good use. Once I finish with it, that is.”

There was a loud gasp, probably coming more from the others about them than from her. He watched as she made it, though. Then the preacher fellow was haranguing him again.

“You dare say such! In a house of God?”

Vincent smiled down at her. “You will na’ have need of it again. You’re na’ wedding with him.”

“I’m na’?” she asked.

“Nae.”

“Says who?”

It was the little man asking it finally, as if he’d discovered he had a manhood and had better put it to use. Vincent looked over her head and watched as the dwarf jumped down to the stone floor and started up the aisle, waddling in his rush. Vincent had the enchantress gripped to him and brought to his left side beneath his shield, ignoring the instant intake of air she’d made as much as he was trying to ignore how the feel of her in his arms and next to him was affecting everything. His entire body was giving him trouble over the proximity of her as a flush suffused him, bringing sweat that his headband had to divert into his hair, and a trembling that she had to feel, too. He looked back at her, pulled by something beyond his control. Like always.