Once Upon a Knight (15 page)

“What have you done to me?” he whispered and saw her eyes widen.

Then he was swiveling, pulling his sword at the same time and aiming it unerringly at the neck of the dwarf man who had reached them and was stopped just shy of the tip.

He watched as the man eyed the blade hovering within a slice of his death. Then the dwarf gulped. “That woman is promised to me,” he said loudly.

“Na’ today,” Vincent replied easily.

“To me,” the man repeated.

Vincent sighed, long and loud. “’Twas a vacant promise, my lord. Made under threat.”

“To me!” The man repeated it stubbornly and backed away far enough to pull a sword from one of the men folded over the top of a pew, although he was having trouble wielding it with any grace or strength since it was longer than he was tall. Vincent was hard put not to laugh.

“The woman stays with me. Cease the argument, and we’ll all go partake of a wedding feast and great kegs of ale.” He felt the reaction all along the woman clutched to his side as she stiffened. And then she went limp, making him work at keeping her attached and away from the little runt.

“I’m wedding this woman. You are na’ stopping me!”

“Sir Ian has first right, my lord. And the blessing of the family. You have to listen.” It was the preacher fellow again. Bolstering up the dwarf’s claim as he stood behind him, looking as fat and ungainly and mild-mannered in his vestments as he sounded.

Vincent sighed again, even louder this time. “I’ve tired of this argument. The woman is mine. She stays with me.”

“Without the blessings of the church?” The preacher was shocked. “You must allow Sir Ian’s claim. At least he promises his name.”

“I’ve na’ said I haven’t.” Vincent didn’t know where the words came from, but once said there was no taking them back.

“You’ll wed this woman in his stead? Is this what you offer?” The preacher fellow asked it, while Vincent could hear a cry of surprise that could have come from anywhere, including the lass at his side.

“The woman is mine!” The little man was still struggling to hold the sword. His bravery wasn’t in question, only his sanity as he yelled the words.

“I dinna’ stop this farce to gain a bride,” Vincent answered.

“Why did you, then?” Lady Eschon asked from a secure position at the far end of her pew. Vincent gave her a minute glance before returning to the duo facing him.

“The lass and I…we’ve unfinished business,” he replied.

“You’d allow my grandchild to be brought into the world without blessing of the church?” she asked in a voice so loud it echoed.

“Has the entire world gone mad?” Vincent asked.

“I’ll na’ allow it!” the preacher announced. “You’re to wed with the lass or unhand her back into Sir Ian’s keeping. This moment!”

“Or…?” Vincent stretched out the word, leaving his sentence unfinished and threatening-sounding.

“You’ll answer to your maker! That’s what!” the preacher informed him.

Vincent rolled his head on his shoulders, lifted Sybil a little closer, using his bent arm to cup her form. Then he spent a moment pulling in a noseful of her scent, before looking back down at the preacher, who was fronted by the dwarf. Threats of punishment in the afterlife only worked if one had a conscience. And a soul. Someone should have told the man before this. Vincent opened his mouth to make it a certainty, but the dwarf forestalled him.

“Are you willing to take your claim out onto the list?” The little man waved the sword toward Vincent. He looked like a tot playing with a weapon many times too large for him. Vincent put his head back and roared with laughter.

“Laugh at me, will you?”

There was a pinprick of pain at his knee. Vincent brought his head down to see that the fellow had pricked him on the right leg, just above the knee. The laughter died, anger took over, and without thinking, he bent both knees, going to a crouch in order to land the most punishing blow he could to the man’s chin with the sword hilt. He didn’t even note that Lady Sybil was glued to him the entire motion. His aim was perfect, and his strength more than the little man could take. Everyone watched as Sir Ian launched backward and landed at the feet of the preacher fellow, who had sidestepped to allow it. They all watched as he lay there, twitching occasionally with one leg or the other.

“Look what you have done now. Oh dearest God!”

It was the Lady Eschon next, sounding like she was near to fainting, and then proving it as she slid into a prone position in her assigned pew.

“And just what is it I’ve done?” Vincent asked.

“His clan promises war if I dinna’ allow her to wed with him. He used her fear of Waif to get her to accept. Now you come and change everything?” Lady Eschon was trembling as she spoke.

“You’ve naught to fear from him.” Vincent gestured down to the dwarf before dropping the sword beside him.

“Who is going to protect us? You?”

“Aye. Me. I’m a clansman of the Donal. You ken?”

The cry of surprise at his words was definitely coming from the lass at his side, and she wasn’t limp anymore. She was tense and agitated, and nearly squirming.

“You’ll wed with Lady Sybil in his stead, then? Is that what you offer?”

Vincent tipped his head, lifted a finger on his right hand as if to make a point, and swallowed although it was more a gulp. “I’m na’ certain,” he replied.

“What?” Both Lady Eschon and the preacher said it at the same time. It almost made him smile.

“I’ll be back. Waif?”

He let Sybil loose, whistled for the wolf, turned and walked over all the prone bodies and right out the off-kilter doors. They didn’t know it was to check on the potency of Sybil’s curse. And he wasn’t about to enlighten anyone.

If he hadn’t appeared just in time to save her, she’d have been more angry. Or if he hadn’t just rendered Sir Ian’s entire force unconscious. Or maybe if he hadn’t looked like more man than any woman should have to handle, with his chest heaving, his sword swinging, blood seeping from a cut to his cheek, and his blond hair barely controlled by the thong about his forehead. Well! If any of that hadn’t happened, she’d not be sitting in a hard pew, listening to the hushed whispering of Lady Eschon and the preacher, as well as the heavy breathing of all the prone guardsmen, and wondering at the why of everything.

She’d rather be in his arms and clinging to every exposed bit of him.

They’d all trailed Vincent outside and watched as he’d come at full gallop from the stables on a fresh horse, since his stallion was standing, flecked with foam and held by a groomsman. Only Waif managed to accompany him. Once the Viking had gone a certain distance from them, he’d stopped his horse, put it broadside to the keep and slid out of the saddle. Squinting, Sybil watched as he appeared to relieve himself.

She knew that wasn’t right, since a moment later he’d leapt back into the saddle and ridden even farther from them, until it was only possible to spot his passing by the residue of mist lifted from the ground.

Her shoulders had sagged slightly and the stab of tears at her eyes was harder to squelch than usual, but she managed it. It was obvious. To everyone. He didn’t want her. And he wasn’t wedding her.

Then, several painful heart-pounding moments later, he came back into view, riding hard for the castle with Waif at his side, only to pass the structure by and continue on along the shore of the loch, until he stopped again and turned the steed broadside to them again. Then he slid from its back in the same maneuver as before. It was mystifying and frustrating.

And maddening.

Which was the emotion she’d already arrived at once she’d given up waiting for his next move and gone back inside. She had things to do before he ceased this impulsive horsemanship performance. He didn’t need to show off more. Their jaws were probably still unhinged from dropping open at what he’d done to Sir Ian’s men. Sybil quickly took the steps to fetch the concoction of Saint-John’s-wort, valerian, and mistletoe powder that she’d created some years earlier. She’d boiled it until crystals formed on the sides of the pan, then scraped the crystals and ground them into the finest powder. It was a concoction guaranteeing sleep. She knew exactly which jar and on which shelf it would be.

She just wished her hands worked better with the key and the huge hasp of a lock, and then on the stopper of her jar as she trailed back through the lower hall, stopping at every fallen man and sprinkling a bit atop his face, so it would be breathed in and none the wiser. No one noted her movements, but they never did. Sybil moved soundlessly and deliberately, and kept to the shadows for that very reason. It was wasted this rain-filled dawn. They all appeared to still be watching whatever that stupid man was exhibiting on his horse…and worse! They were breaking into shouts and applause whenever he must have done something really spectacular.

One thing was certain. Her wedding would be talked of for years to come.

If there was a wedding.

She was sitting in a pew with every emotion in check when Lady Eschon came back in, trailed by the family preacher. It was a far cry from the wedding of one Christmas past, when Kendran Eschon had gotten her heart’s desire and been given in wedlock to the Donal laird. That was something more to add to Sybil’s issue this morn. Vincent Erick Danzel had to send everything into shock with his announcement that he was one of the Donal clan. It wasn’t possible. That could only mean that Kendran had sent him. To Sybil? That couldn’t be. She’d done nothing to deserve the attention of such a massive, masculine specimen. Unless it was to be left feeling used and emotionally drained.

The more Sybil thought of it, the more certain she became that Vincent was exactly what Kendran would devise as punishment to her little half sister. Exactly.

There was a stir of motion as Vincent stomped back into the chapel, making more noise than one man could or should. That’s when Sybil turned her head and saw that he’d managed to gather a quantity of freemen and women of the keep about him. Along with the stable serfs. And he’d spirited a score or more of Eschon guards into being. He still had Waif at his side, as well.

What he hadn’t managed to do was gain any amount of respectability to his attire. She watched as the priest looked him over with thinned lips and a wrinkled nose. It wasn’t the same with anyone else. Vincent Danzel was as he’d just proven himself to be—a seasoned warrior. And he looked even worse than before. He was rain-wet and cloaked with sweat, and breathing hard. There was fresh mud spattering him, blood smearing one cheek, while a stream of it was finding a pathway down his right calf. His kilt was parting with each stride to show the musculature of his thighs, his open doublet hung in defeat from his shoulders, his shirt was torn, allowing the muscle and sinew to show through there as well, and he was scowling. At anyone and everyone.

“You’ve made…your decision?” the priest asked, although he had to clear his throat midway through the sentence in order to be heard.

“Aye.” Vincent walked farther into the church, reaching the pew where Sybil was sitting, and looked down at her with an unreadable expression.

“And…?” The priest prompted.

“I’ll wed with her.”

There was a sigh happening all about her, as well as Lady Eschon’s cry of pleasure. Sybil didn’t hear any of it. She couldn’t. Vincent was holding a hand out to her, and once she put hers in it, she felt the trembling evident all along his frame. It wasn’t pleasure. She knew that from the experience of living at Eschoncan Keep. It was withheld rage. And it was palpable, real, and awe-inspiring. And massive.

He brought her to her feet and drew her with him to the pulpit, stepping around the form of Sir Ian as if it weren’t there. And then they were there, beside the one candelabra that hadn’t been extinguished when he’d first arrived. The priest started but had to wait for Vincent to offer his full name, which included Robert and William along with Erick, and then there was a moment of consternation when the lack of wedding band was brought to light.

That was when Vincent peeled open what was left of his shirt at the waist and pulled on a slender golden chain until a small bag was brought to light. It took some fumbling to get it open, and made her eyes widen when she saw the ring he had. Crafted of silver and gold that was wrapped together and set with a silvery blue stone in the center, it fit Sybil perfectly. She watched his features as he slid it onto her finger, but there wasn’t anything to see, except the bulge of a muscle in his jaw as he clenched his teeth.

And then he met her gaze.

The entire morning shifted, the chapel floor tilted, and everything on her went alert, ready, and pliant. And terrified at the same time. She’d never seen anything as dangerous as the expression he was giving her. It was probably the same he gave men on the battlefield. Her heart kicked into such a rapid beat it threatened to overwhelm her and was so loud in her ears she barely heard her voice and his wedding them for this life, and then the priest admonishing him to kiss his bride.

His upper lip lifted, making a sneer of sorts, and then he had both hands wrapped about her upper arms, making her certain that she should have laced on some sleeves. Then she was lifted against him in a rough, raw manner that had nothing sacred or religious or loving about it.

If her own pulse hadn’t been drowning out every other sound, she would have been more aware of the reaction that had to be happening about her. But she heard none of it and felt even less. And then his lips were on hers, his nose breathing warmth all over her features while what had to be a moan surged through the body she was being pressed against. Sybil’s heart stopped, skipping more than three rapid-fire beats, and when it restarted, it suffused her entire frame with color and heat.

That had to be better than his reaction. Vincent lifted his head and looked at her with eyes so wide, she could see every bit of the amber color that reflected his shock. It was still there when he glanced down at himself and back to her, only this time he was glaring at her—and, from less than a handspan away, that was completely unnecessary. She was already enthralled and captivated and unable to move. There wasn’t anything else he could do.

“What…have you done to me?” he asked in a slither of sound that reached out and pricked at the base of her spine with the unknown intent behind it. Her eyes were probably the match to his in width as she heard it.

There was noise happening all about them and then jostling as the crowd reached forward to congratulate them. Vincent wasn’t a normal bridegroom, however, and this wasn’t a normal wedding. He bellowed loudly to the ceiling, where the sound echoed back, and then hoisted Sybil over his shoulder.

That’s when the argument started.

Vincent didn’t know what was the matter with him, although going two nights with little sleep was a start. Especially when there had been so much power behind the love act with this enchantress the first night, followed by so much anger and frustration and worry the following one. It was as if those things had combined with the radiation of power and bloodlust that had flooded him ever since he’d arrived back and faced the first armed man. The emotion had overwhelmed his ability to think clearly and do anything other than act. And then, when he realized the extent of her power, and that he was fully hooked, caught, and netted—since the more space he put between them, the smaller his member shrank—even then, this woman had the ability to look like a goddess of the mist. He didn’t know what else to compare her with, and that angered him more. Her appearance in that purple-hued gown had set a painful beat into existence right behind his left eye and shaded everything he looked at with a reddish-purple hue. Which wasn’t fair, just, or right. It just was.

As was the smell of her, once he had her gripped to him. And then there was the feel of her lips against his. It had been all he could manage to hold the sensation inside, where none would know how it felt to lose his freedom because he’d been too stupid to stay away from a witch! And then…with that one kiss…she’d had the ability to change everything and set his entire frame afire. Again? Vincent was in shock. He wasn’t disguising it very well, either. He couldn’t. He needed some rest, some food, and some more time spent losing himself within the ecstasy of her frame in order to be able to function. Which was more than any man should have to bear.

He hoisted her over his shoulder, did a turn, and started pushing himself through throngs of people he hadn’t even noted. And the enchantress he’d just wed started kicking at his belly. Vincent gripped tighter to her legs, stopping that nonsense, and she just moved her frame by using the muscles in her abdomen in order to start hitting at his back with her tiny fists.

Vincent’s response had them all backing away as if he’d lost his senses. Which he probably had. He stopped, put his head back, and roared with laughter.

The result should have been expected as the woman in his arms stiffened further, but at least she ceased trying to pummel him. The crowd was laughing with him and parting for him, and he didn’t know what he was going to do once he reached the front door, but that didn’t stop him. Then some of her words started sinking through the fog surrounding his mind.

“You canna’ leave! Na’ now! Wait!”

“Wait?” Vincent spun on his heel, swinging her in an arc that dropped her back to his shoulder with the force of it. “For what?”

“My chest.”

“Nae needed, lass. I mean, Wife. I’ve chest enough for you.” Vincent puffed it out, and there was general hilarity at the action.

“My potions, you dolt!”

“Did I hear that aright? She just called me a dolt. Her loyal husband! Is that na’ excuse enough to take the lass—I mean, the wife—across my lap and take a switch to her?”

“You would na’ dare!” Sybil screeched.

“Get me a horse! Nae! Na’ mine! He’s spent. And na’ the one I rode earlier, either. He has the same issue. Get another horse! What care is it who owns it?”

He was answering before anyone had a chance to ask, but he wasn’t in control of his mouth, any more than he was in charge of anything since he’d put her weight across his shoulder, her scent in his sphere, and everything on him was tingling and aware of what she was doing to him the longer he was with her. He told himself it was the spell she’d cast on him, and despite the anger he should be feeling, he couldn’t deny the pleasant, all-encompassing haze of lust she was making him feel as well. That was being added to by his readiness for the imminent threat from any of the men he’d rendered unconscious, making it even more of an aching issue in his loins. Vincent knew for a certainty he was being driven mad.

He just wished it wasn’t as enjoyable as it was.

“We canna’ leave the chest! Vincent!”

“She recollects my name! Sing to the heavens with me, lads! Louder!”

Vincent knew he had a great singing voice. It came along with his musical ability. He rarely used it. It was crowd-stopping. Which was what happened the moment he lifted his chin and ran through the first voice of a hymn he’d learned back when he was a lad and supposed to turn out differently. Then it turned into the bawdy rendition of a song he’d put into existence during his ride back here. Featuring a whore with endless breasts that a man could walk on. And the crowd about him reacted with more laughter.

“Damn you, Danzel!” she yelled once his breath ran out.

“She’s damning me? Now? Does the woman na’ ken when a thing is too late? A man’s damned the moment he weds. What is wrong with the lass? I mean—the wife!”

“We canna’ leave without my chest! ’Tis too dangerous,” she commented once the hilarity following his announcement settled a bit.

Vincent sobered slightly at her serious tone. He wasn’t drunk. It just felt that way. That was odd. He started down the steps, facing not just one horse that had been brought to him, but two.