Once Upon a Knight (25 page)

“The fire—”

“Burns within you. Right now.” He interrupted her, touching a tongue to her lip flesh and tasting it as he traveled along the sensitive tissue she’d opened just slightly to catch her next breath and then the one after that.

The room spun, righted, and then spun the other way. Sybil reached out for stability and connected with his chest, putting sparks into being from her fingertips against him. The groan he made originated in the chest she was touching and traveled into the caverns of her mouth as he took possession of it, melding his lips against hers and then making her body do the same thing as he pulled her into an embrace that took her feet off the floor.

Sybil moved her mouth away and hid it against the area below one ear and tried again before she lost all manner of thought in the mass of sensations he was creating all about them. “It burned…the night. All night.”

“All night,” he agreed, chuckling slightly as he twisted his neck to put his lips against her throat. She leaned back to allow access and watched the roof beams above them rotate. Then he was walking. She knew where he was taking her. Everything on her knew and approved and grew needy and desirous.

He’d reached the bed and was climbing into the confines of it, taking her with him, with an arm beneath her, sliding her body twice along the thick embrace of a fur coverlet.

“You weren’t there, though.” She whispered it.

“I am now,” he replied, using his left hand to smooth back the loose hair all about them, while his right was still underneath her waist, making it easy for him to lift her anytime he wished. And he wished it at that moment in order to bring her breast within reach of his mouth. Through two layers of material, she felt the heat as he opened his mouth and huffed hot air over a nipple, making her whimper and squirm.

“You canna’ control your body all the time,” he said.

“This is…a cheat,” she replied, breaking the complaint into sections with the effort of trying to connect with the contact he was denying her.

“Only if we had rules.”

“Rules?” she whispered, trying to make sense of the word.

“Aye. Rules. Such as this one. Cloth…tears.” He’d pulled his right arm from beneath her in order to stabilize himself with it, using it for leverage as his left pulled the neckline of her shift apart. He was shoving great huffs of breath all over her as he did so, and Sybil wasn’t far behind. She was having trouble with her next breath since it so quickly followed the previous one.

“It’s…pink.” He’d stopped and sent that devil-dark gaze all over her revealed frame, clothed only in the silken light-rose-shaded chemise. “Have I told you yet of the power of this little thing here?” he asked, lifting his head to look at her while his fingers grazed the neckline of her slip, leaving her no doubt as to what he referred to.

Sybil’s heart swooped clear to the pit of her belly at the expression on his face. She’d never seen anything so stirring. She had to blink through a sheen of wetness that hadn’t been there before.

“What is it?” he asked, suddenly solicitous as he used both arms now to enwrap her form and hold her close while rolling onto his back so she was perched atop him.

She sucked in a shaky breath and told him. “I…love you,” she whispered.

His response was immediate as he went still and unmoving, although his heart continued beating. Sybil gulped around sobs that were going to be fierce if she let them through. She’d never dealt with such a thing before.

He sighed heavily, making her move with it. “There is nae such thing, lass,” he replied finally. “There is lust, though. And touch. Passion. Heat. And this.” Then he was sucking on her chin and making quivers everywhere he touched and continued touching, taking her to the height of ecstasy time and again, and creating fires the entire night long.

He was right about the all-night thing. He was wrong about love.

Vincent’s rooms had their own staircase. Sybil saw that as they descended them the next morning, following the trio of clansman that had been sent for an escort. That was a flawed design. They hadn’t given their laird an escape route of any kind unless it was taking his chances out the window. She could see from the height of the steps that it would be more than a three-story leap to do so. That was puzzling. The fire that had ravaged the castle might have been the demise of the chieftain. It might also have done in Vincent’s mother. If it had happened at night, what chance had their chieftain had? Sybil answered herself. He’d had little to none.

Not so Vincent. Or his sister. It was clear they’d both escaped it. Perhaps they hadn’t been in the stronghold that night. Sybil pondered if Vincent’s survival was linked to the whipping he and Sinclair had survived. And that led her to the reason they’d been roused from their chambers this early in the morning. The younger Carrick son was deep in the throes of agony, and they’d come to fetch Vincent to correct it. And that meant he wanted Sybil.

The younger Carrick was a handsome lad, but he was severely weak. No broken ankle should set a man to crying loudly, and if it did, he should be disciplined. Any other clan wouldn’t hesitate. Which was odd, because no one even proposed such action. Instead they were pulling the laird and his wife from their beds to care for a clansman’s injury? Sybil wrinkled her brow a bit as she pondered it. It was clear they held Vincent responsible in some way. Perhaps it had to do with the death of Carrick’s elder son.

Sybil wondered if the elder son had been as handsome as his brother…only perhaps more manly. Such a creature would be a good foil for the blond beauty of her husband. Sybil glanced sidelong at him and looked away before he caught her at it. Vincent Erick Danzel possessed jaw-dropping handsomeness, massive charm, and heart-stopping musical talent. She blushed as she thought of his other talents, the love ones he was so proud of.

She wondered if the elder Carrick son had been one of Vincent’s companions, perhaps even part of the laird’s honor guard. If so, the combined effect of the laird, Vincent’s man Sinclair, and the dead Carrick must have been speech-stealing to view if they were together. And if they were together…perhaps they also got whipped together?

Sybil loved a puzzle, and traversed several more steps without seeing them as she pondered each raised question. And then added more. The Danzel clan was Norse-based. They’d been descended from Vikings. According to the troubadours, Norsemen had been the scourge of the earth for centuries of time. Perhaps that explained a clan that would design and maintain a stronghold with no escape. But why wouldn’t such a flaw be corrected in the centuries since the keep had been built?

Could it be that Vincent’s sire had been the lazy sort, much like Laird Eschon had been? Sybil wondered. More likely, he’d ignored it as all the previous lairds had done. Perhaps they’d thought themselves invincible when deep in the bowels of their stronghold, safe from any challenge either from the elements or from man.

The stairs they were walking were constructed of huge blocks of stone. From what she could see of the walls, it appeared the entire keep had been constructed of the same stone, although in differing hues of gray. It was hard to tell for certain in what light there was. Sybil put out a hand and trailed her fingers along the wall as she walked, feeling the bumps and gaps of rough-hewn stones. She surmised the Danzel clan hadn’t considered an escape route for their laird because they hadn’t felt any need for one.

Then she set the theory aside until she could test it and turned to the next bit of supposition.

The chieftain staircase led to and from the great room below. She could see as they reached it that the room had two entrances. One led to the front portal, where they’d arrived last eve. The other was at the back, exactly opposite the first entrance. Another stupidity in the design, especially with the amount of furniture they’d packed into the floor space. Their room wasn’t near as large as Eschoncan Keep, yet it appeared to have the same amount of banqueting tables and benches in it. That made it crowded and forced everyone to wend through all the furnishings on the way to either exit. It would be extremely difficult to battle one’s way through in the event a fight was at hand or an escape was needed.

She could see that the fire had even reached this room. Sybil flicked a glance about and saw how dark the stones were, especially toward the charred rafters, where the servants must not have reached in their efforts to wipe the smoke ash away. Or where they’d not considered wiping it at all.

The furnishings had all needed replacement. That was obvious from the glimpses of light-toned wood where it wasn’t grimed with the effects of multiple use by multiple hands that needed washing first. The Danzel stronghold needed a good cleaning. Sybil wondered if it was just the inanimate objects that she’d be taking a scrubbing to. Her lips quirked at the thought of taking a rag wet with soaped, warmed water to the back of the man she was following.

Vincent’s castle was also dark. They hadn’t built any windows in any of his halls, nor had they placed enough sconces to hold their torches. There were tapestries covering the walls they walked through, going deeper into the dark recesses of the castle. It was impossible to decipher what events or scenes the needlework featured. It was just as impossible to tell if the space where they now were had been fire-scorched or not. Her nose itched with the texture of too much dust, not enough use of soap, as well as the smell of ancient, moldy rushes. That was another annoyance that would be looked into when she asserted herself and claimed her rights as chatelaine.

They reached one of the towers. There were more than four openings from the circular space the hall led into. There was also a bit of light coming through openings high in the walls. They weren’t barred, and Sybil could see the effects of a nest or two high in the shadows. She wasn’t given any time to absorb the effect of having a tower open to the elements before being moved at a quicker pace to the first opening on their right. She hadn’t needed the direction. From the sound she could tell exactly where they were going and that they’d placed the younger Carrick in a high room. That way the sounds of his wailing could echo and filter through the entire lower halls.

Sybil’s mouth set. She wondered what would happen if she decided to discipline the lad. No man should be allowed to get to his age without gaining a bit of spine along with it.

The younger Carrick favored his mother…absolutely and completely, answering one of Sybil’s ponderings when she’d first met the lad. He didn’t take after his sire at all. It wasn’t just the lad who was caterwauling. It was his mother as well. Sybil stood in the door frame for a moment, surrounded by the trio of clansmen and Vincent. She had to take a moment or two in order to absorb the woman’s almost unearthly beauty as she knelt at the lad’s bedstead. Sybil had never seen such a sight and knew exactly why the elder Carrick allowed his wife free rein in all things. He was besotted. Sybil almost was.

Then she observed the woman’s air of fragility, the thin lines of suffering carving through her cheeks, and the visual image of her grief. And then the amount of noise she was making as she wailed along with her son warped the picture of beauty she presented into one of annoyance and irritation.

“My poor son! Myron! Poor young Myron!” The woman burst into a long cry after her words and lifted the boy’s hand to her breast as she did so.

The younger Carrick had a name. That was a good thing. Sybil had already tired of referring to him as a product of his father. Oddly enough, the more time she spent in the company of Myron Carrick, the more she detested him and found him ugly. Conversely, the more handsome his father became.

“He’s broken his ankle, mistress,” Sybil said as she stepped into the room, leaving her escort to follow as they may.

“He’s dying! Look at him!” The woman turned her beautiful face toward Sybil, and, with the luminosity of tear-filled eyes, her beauty was breathtaking.

“’Tis na’ a death injury.” Sybil tried again.

“Nae!” The woman turned back to her son, wailed some unintelligible words, and shuddered with the effect of her sobbing.

Sybil lifted her eyes heavenward. She’d rarely come across such weakness and stupidity. The effect was to dim the woman’s beauty much as it had Myron’s. Sybil’s respect for Carrick the Elder fell proportionately as well. She had to swallow the first retort in order to have the correct amount of compassion in her voice before she spoke again. It still sounded insincere.

“’Tis set well. And will right itself afore long.”

“You doona’ ken how it is to see your child suffer! Do you?”

“I have nae child. How could I? I’m but newly wed,” Sybil replied.

“You’re the new lady, then?”

“Aye.”

“You’re the one responsible for his care, then?” The woman waved toward the bandaged and splinted leg.

“He’ll be right soon enough. You’ll see.” Sybil said it in her soothing voice. The effort was lost on the woman.

“Give him something to dim the pain again!”

“He canna’ pain this severely. He looks unable to withstand such pain.” Sybil hadn’t even finished the words before the son started sucking in breath to moan aloud, joining his mother with the lament.

Sybil turned to leave them both to their dramatics. Vincent stepped into her path, blocking her. Sybil sidestepped and watched as he did the same thing. She took two steps toward the other side, and he followed.

“This again?” she asked, looking up through her lashes at him.

“Give him something,” he replied.

“I’ve naught that will help.”

“The cloth you used. Fetch the vial again. Use it.”

Sybil shook her head. “’Tis unwise to use it again. Especially on the weak.”

Vincent shifted his head toward the wailing duo. “You call that weak?”

Sybil’s upper lip lifted. “You doona’ wish to ken what I call that.”

He smiled widely. “Fetch it,” he said.

“Nae.”

“Why na’?”

“’Tis a mistake to use it again.”

“You keep saying that. You have na’ explained.” He pulled himself to his full height and folded his arms to look down at her.

“My potions are powerful.”

“We need a powerful potion. Can you na’ see? This is disturbing the entire household. ’Tis disturbing me as well.”

“I still canna’ use it. Misuse of power is the worst offense.”

“Against whom?” he asked.

The way he’d pouted his mouth on the word made everything on Sybil react. She could only hope no one else noted the way she physically pulsed, the blush she couldn’t staunch, and the gasp she made. At least everyone besides him. He was well aware of it. That was why he’d made certain to put his mouth in the perfect kissable-looking moue. To get her off-kilter. To alter things to his satisfaction. To get his way.

He’d use anything. She knew that now.

She forced herself to look away, spent a moment smoothing down the sides of her skirts, fussing with the shawl she’d covered her hair with, and then looked back up at him, narrowing her eyes until his image was spliced with lashes.

“Nature,” she replied finally, using enough amount of breath to the word that it was certain to touch him.

“What?”

Sybil hid the satisfaction deep as it looked like Vincent was having the exact same issue she’d just had, even to the rose shade high on his cheekbones after his frame jumped slightly.

“My potion. To use it unwisely on the weak is to create need. Constant need.”

“Carrick pains.” It wasn’t Vincent speaking. It was one of his clansmen.

Sybil didn’t move her glance from where Vincent stood watching her and pulling for breath to the point of panting. That was starting a worse reaction in her. She wondered if he knew.

“The lad could use pain,” she told Vincent.

“What?” he asked again. He didn’t look to even know what he was referring to.

“Pain can be a good disciplinarian.”

“Discipline?” Vincent asked.

“And stricture. He looks to need both. In equal part.”

“Both…what?” he asked. He was definitely panting. That was why he spliced the words with a breath between them.

“What is needed here is discipline,” she informed him, and then she turned her head to encompass the clansmen hovering in the portal behind Vincent. “Discipline and stricture.”

She could tell Vincent was breathing easier, and spent a moment more wondering if it were possible her gaze had kept him tongue-tied. But that was impossible. He didn’t believe in love.

“Stricture?” she heard him ask.

She nodded.

“What if ’tis too late?”

Sybil looked back in his direction and shrugged. “’Tis a mistake to use a potion beyond the need for it. A large mistake,” she informed him.

“What?” The woman was finished with pitiful sobbing if the amount of anger in her screeched word was any indication. Sybil scrunched a shoulder against the sound and was still in that position when the woman reached her and grabbed her arm. “You’d leave my Myron to lie there in pain? And do nothing?”

The woman was almost as small as Sybil. She was more frail, however. And her hands were bone thin and grasping as she clutched at Sybil’s arm.

“Your son could do with a bit of it,” Sybil replied.

The woman sucked in a gasp. Sybil concentrated on not scrunching up the other shoulder.

“Did you hear her?” The woman screeched it toward Vincent and his clansmen.

“Well enough,” he replied.

“What do you care?” The woman used her free hand to point at Vincent. “You already took one of my sons. What is another one to you? I hate you! Do you hear?” The woman’s face was contorted into a mask of anger and hate that was invalidating every hint of beauty she possessed.

“Everyone can hear you, mistress,” Sybil informed her.

The woman gasped, and the action of sucking in another breath had the effect of stopping her screeching momentarily. Sybil filled the silence with words. “Your son canna’ have more potion. It is na’ needed. The pain will pass. And it will help strengthen him. ’Tis a necessary part of life. You ken?”