by Jackie Ivie
Chapter Three
This wench was going to be the toughest yet. Ever.
No wonder his cousin had offered such a sum of gold to gain her heart—and then do what he did best once he had it. Walk away. He should have expected such a wench when Myles Magnus Donal had broken through the side wall of Lord Shrewsbury’s dungeon in order to free Vincent. He really should have suspected such a trick when he got the challenge that came along with his freedom. Find the littlest Eschon lady, make her thrill for love of him, and then make certain she suffered heartburning. He was to leave. They’d pay him all the gold he could carry if he did so. Which was stupid. That’s what he always did. Exactly like he always did. And then Myles had made the task even more intriguing with the formidable qualification that Vincent had to do it without physical means.
They wished him to get a wench to fall in love with him without benefit of touch? Good thing Vincent knew exactly the scope of his talents. Any other man would have thanked them for the freedom, turned down the challenge, and walked away. Not him. They’d made it illicit, intriguing, and irresistible.
Now he realized he’d been shammed. Completely. He should have known Myles hadn’t changed. The Donal laird always won at any contest. Vincent should have remembered that.
Vincent ran the entire length of their castle curtain wall twice before he dared face the wench again. There was emotion fueling his frame and filling his chest. He had to get it under control before he met her again. The little wench had stirred his passion, all right. She’d angered him to the point he had to physically work it out. That wasn’t supposed to happen.
The run wasn’t easy going. Chunks of masonry had fallen or been chiseled off in what looked like continual repair, and the boulders had to be dodged or jumped. Vincent increased his stride rather than take a cautionary pace. Fading light made it difficult, and that required instantaneous reaction. Which was exactly what he needed.
He wasn’t angry. Never. Anger was one of the things he made others feel. It gave him the edge he needed. Anyone losing their temper lost. He’d learned that so long ago it was ingrained. Besides, the physical exertion was helping the return of feeling to the arm and shoulder that had grown numb from hours of standing in a hall holding a piece of twine that lifted every so often throughout time that had lengthened into afternoon. He hadn’t known until he’d given up and followed the string that she’d tied it to a door in order to give him the impression there was a real body at the other end of it.
He stopped pumping his legs, more for lack of ability to continue than anything else, and took great gulps of rain-laden air. The Eschon castle was a large, rambling structure. They appeared to be renovating it and had a massive amount of work still to do. He could see chinks of light glowing from spots where it wasn’t supposed to. If light could get out, then elements could get in. As could any number of other vices, such as an enemy’s battering ram, foul weather, the black death…vermin.
He was also sending word to the Donal clan that he needed more gold. This particular assignment was going to cost more. A lot more. He’d had a running love bet since he was a cocksure youth and a braggart and found that both of those things created anger in others. It was too late to take it back now…any of it. He didn’t lament it. It actually kept him employed at times. Besides, it was easy pay. All he had to do was clean up, use a skean on his facial hair, don a feile-breacan, and pull back his hair. That, and use the gifts God had given him. It was easy. There wasn’t a wench he couldn’t charm and win. And then leave.
Vincent was an expert at the challenge of a lass’s heart. He also had a perfect win ratio. This particular wench must have annoyed someone to the end of endurance to wish her such ill will, though. He could well imagine what she’d done. But they’d forgotten to add a few things when he’d been offered the bet. Things like how odd she was, how prickly her temperament, how sharp her tongue, how quick her wit…and the worse. The wench was sharp, as well.
Vincent blew the sigh out hard, shoving the air back up his nose with the strength of it, and unstrapped the rawhide tie from his upper arm in order to pull his hair back. Such a thing as rock climbing was better done without things like blowing hair and stinging sweat in your eyes. Then he approached the outer wall, found a handhold, and started climbing.
It wasn’t for exercise or to create more mass and brawn. He didn’t need either. Muscle had been gifted to him from birth, almost. He rarely had to do more than bed a wench or take a run to keep toned and fit. He had enough mass and strength to survive on the list if he was challenged. That’s all he needed. He was no great fighter, but if he used his wits he didn’t need to be. He used tests of physical endurance because it helped him think, plan, strategize.
Exactly as he was doing now.
There were large, fist-sized outcroppings of masonry sticking out in a haphazard fashion on the outer wall, making it an easy thing to find a toehold, fingerhold, and then another. It was such child’s play that when he reached the crenellations, he decided to make it more difficult by ignoring the fact that he had legs. Vincent hauled himself into a crenel with upper-body strength alone and lay in the cusp of it, letting the stone caress where his stomach was pounding blood through his entire body as he felt success at overcoming that particular challenge.
This wench was very smart. They’d forgotten to warn him about that. That was going to cost them.
And then a sword blade chilled the skin of his exposed neck.
Lady Eschon was having another fest. She had them often, and it made her temperament such that everyone benefited. That’s what came of surviving a husband who hadn’t spared his fists or his anger, but who’d left a large treasury to his spouse after his death. And it came from having a stepdaughter that would oversee it all, without being tasked to it or paid. Sybil was an expert at enhancing their fare, using her herbs to create a mellow mood after the last of the puddings had been carted away and the fresh fruit was being served.
Fruit was best served with a selection of soft and hard cheeses, and wine. Always, Lady Eschon served wines and ales of such a deep, dark color that all in the glen sung their praises. That was also due to Sybil. She’d taken over the brewery as well. She had each keg marked and sealed, and wouldn’t allow a single one to be opened until it had reached the proper age. Such things as being the unseen hand behind everything that happened in the keep was granting her a warm bed and a guarantee of a place where she no longer had blood ties. The Lady Eschon didn’t realize the reason her bastard stepdaughter was behind the creature comforts of the castle. But she didn’t need to. She just enjoyed the benefit.
Sybil directed serfs about their chores, making certain the hot food was served with a bit of steam, the pastries had the perfect browning to their crusts, and the cheeses had the proper bite to them, just as she did every eve after a day of selecting the ingredients, overseeing the cooking of the chosen menu, and the serving of it.
This evening she accompanied more than one dish into the great hall, where floor rushes were scattered, beginning at the fireplace, across the floor in the checkerboard pattern Sybil favored, with dried, yellowed rushes alternating with fresh green ones. It was less wasteful and more colorful as well. She also oversaw the removal of each dish before the next was brought in. That sort of organization created less havoc in the kitchens and less litter and mess after the meal was cleared away and the dancing had begun.
It was the same nearly every night. Eschon Castle was a model of hospitality and warmth and companionship. Tonight the menu was roast boar. It had been turning on a spit throughout the day. Sybil walked behind the servers, listening to the applause as it was presented. That was also her doing. She’d found that if one was focused on food and enjoyment, then one was more ready to loosen one’s purse strings to make certain it continued. And having loose purse strings at her control was another good part of life as Lady Eschon’s stepdaughter.
The boar, surrounded by a selection of squashes and fruits,
was lying in a prone position on a huge wooden platter that required four men to tote it. It was shiny with a cherry-honey glaze of Sybil’s own creation, while little buds of sage poked out in a scrollwork pattern that she’d done herself.
She was rather proud of it, and that’s why she accompanied it. Not to continually scan the hall for the man that was missing. And to wonder where he’d gone to, since the string of twine was gone, and so was he, when she went to dress for sup and had passed the spot where she’d left him.
That was odd. Sybil glanced about. He wasn’t attending the banquet. She checked again just for good measure. It wasn’t her issue, anyway. He must have given up. That was good. Lady Eschon was a very pleasant mistress since her husband had suffered an attack and then lingered before his death. She was loose with her purse strings, her praise, and her household. Sybil didn’t want anything changing that.
The boar was devoured at a rate that had her moving quickly to get the haggis served, as well as the blood pudding that would accompany it. Sybil was in the kitchens, directing the placement of each grape cluster, when she heard the sound of guardsman’s boots and an accompanying drumbeat. Everyone in the kitchen crowded into the hall to see why. Sybil sighed in resignation. The pudding was best served in a solid form, which wouldn’t happen if they let it sit too long. She had to follow and find out what was so disruptive, and then she had to get the serfs back to serving, and then she had to get the cheeses sliced. Then everything about her stilled.
It was the blond fellow. She saw the top of his head. The rest of him was hidden by the mass of bodies surrounding him. But from the look of things, he wasn’t walking. Sybil pushed through the crowd, making her way to the area in front of Lady Eschon’s table, since that’s where the guardsmen had stopped and were holding this Vincent fellow, who dangled limply between them. And if they’d damaged one bit of his perfect face, she was going to make sure someone paid!
Sybil clapped a hand to her own mouth at the instant and immediate thought, and wondered where such a horrid impulse had come from.
“What is this?” Lady Eschon asked.
“We caught him, my lady. On the wall.”
“Doing what, pray tell?”
“Entering the castle. Sneaking his way in.”
“There are easier ways to enter the castle. Was he armed?”
“Nae.”
“Lift his head. Let me see.”
He wasn’t conscious, because he’d been hit. There was a bit of discoloration on his forehead, but little else. She felt her back loosen as she saw the lack of damage to his face, and hadn’t even known until then that she’d stiffened.
“For that, you beat him?” Lady Eschon’s voice was rising. As was her body. Everyone watched it.
“We had nae choice, my lady. He fought us.”
Fought them? Sybil doubted that. This man wasn’t a fighter. A thief, braggart, and lover, yes. Fighter? Never. She watched as Lady Eschon moved around the table and approached where he was hanging, his size making the woman look even smaller. Sybil held her breath.
“Oh my. My. My. What…a man,” the lady of the house purred. She reached out to touch, and then run a fingernail down, one of the unconscious man’s arms.
The immediate reaction in Sybil’s own body was frightening. Her heart thudded once before assuming a rapid pace. She felt a knot form in her throat and a prickling behind her eyes. Sybil hadn’t realized she cared so much for the Lady Eschon. She didn’t want this man near her stepmother. She had to clasp her hands together to keep from making fists of them. As it was, her fingers clenched together into a great knot in front of her.
“Sybil?”
Lady Eschon had turned and was calling for her. There was nothing for it. Sybil gulped around the lump in her throat, stepped forward, and bowed her head. “My lady?”
“Put this man in your care and make him well. I wish to ken what he’s doing here…and why. I also wish to see him when he is conscious and I can converse civilly with him. And keep these fellows from harming him further.”
What? Sybil was absolutely amazed she hadn’t said the word aloud. She didn’t want the care of him! She wanted to torment and tease him and give him a very large dose of his own concocting. She didn’t want to make him well.
Lady Eschon was walking back to her chair at her dining table, dismissing the entire episode as she giggled with one of the new neighbors. Such a thing happened when crofters were allowed back onto the rocky fells of land that the Lady Eschon watched over. The lady had even allowed land tracts to be fenced in and cultivated, creating tenants to oversee. And flirting, entertaining, and romping with other landowners was the prime reason she’d done it.
“Where are the puddings? Wasn’t that next?”
Lady Eschon was back in her place, waving an arm to continue the feast, and Sybil was left to contend with the trouble. Starting with where to place the blond man. He was still being held aloft by three guardsman, none of whom appeared to find it an easy chore.
Sybil reached out a finger, put it beneath his chin, and lifted it. When the weight proved too much, she had to move nearer until she could feel each breath as it left him and lit on her. She also knew he was conscious. Probably had been through the entire exchange.
She hid the knowledge before anyone else saw it, and stepped back. “Take him to the tower,” she ordered.
“With the Eschon bed in it?”
Where her half sister Kendran had come to such joy she’d glowed with it? Sybil stood rooted. Never.
She shook her head and was already turning back to the kitchen. “Nae. Take him to my tower.”
“But—the pet.” One of the guardsman was speaking, but it was clear they all wanted to.
“Leave him at the door. On the floor outside my room. There are clean rushes. Just go.” She waved her hand and went back to control the kitchen.
The floors appeared to have been constructed better than the walls.
Vincent ran his eyes along the fitted stone at his nose as he waited. It also smelled pleasant, with the odor of fresh greens scattered about and something he couldn’t put a scent to. Something…forbidden and heated. He reached out and traced a line where they’d matched the hall-floor stone slabs together. There wasn’t much to recommend the walls, however. If he squinted with one eye he could see tiny pinpricks of starlight coming from chinks in it.
He was probably in luck that it was harvest season and, therefore, warm. Vincent rolled onto his back. The wench was taking an unconscionable amount of time in seeing to him. He already knew where he was and how to get there. That’s what came of snooping about the entire keep while any guardsmen had been too drunk to notice. He’d thought them slack. He reached up to touch the slight bump on his forehead. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
They’d put a new roof on recently, it appeared. It looked to be sealed using birdlime from their own dovecote. He could see the streaks of white where it plastered the thin planks of wood together. Older roofs wouldn’t have such distinctive streaking, since fire smoke darkened ceiling timbers within a couple of seasons. Maybe sooner.
He saw the shimmer of light touching the beams above him and shut his eyes, modulated his breathing, and listened for her.
“Get up.”
Vincent groaned.
“I already ken your sham play. Get up.”
He lifted his head slowly and blinked as if to bring her into focus. She had her skirts lifted with one hand, showing a glimpse of well-turned ankle, a candle held high in the other hand, and a slight pout to those raspberry-shaded lips. Vincent blinked away the instant comparison and swallowed.
“What…play?” he asked in a feeble tone.
“A blow such as you got could na’ have rendered such weakness.”
“How would you ken?” he asked.
“Brawny men such as you are na’ that weak,” she replied.
He grinned, caught it at her instant comprehension, and sobered. “You just called me brawny
,” he replied.
“Get up,” she ordered again.
“What will I get if I do?”
A sigh of exasperation. That’s what he got. Vincent kept the amusement inside his belly this time. Deep inside where she wouldn’t see it. He sat, put his fists against the floor, and sprang into a semicrouch. He was rewarded with her involuntary stumble backward from him. That was almost as entertaining as her indrawn gasp. He stood, towering over her, and watched the candle flame waver slightly before she had it under control again.
“What do you wish of me now?” he asked when she did nothing save look up at him.
“Your departure,” she answered.
“Forgive me, fair maid, but I must decline.”
The wench was choking. That was gratifying, but it was against type. He already had her kind plotted out, and for her to show a reaction to him wasn’t right. She was a man-hater. He’d met them before. They were sheathed in ice, but they eventually melted. And when they did…
He licked his lips at the thought and waited for her next ploy.
“Why?” she asked finally.
“I’ve na’ yet received what I came for.”
“Is that why you pretended to an injury?”
“I am injured,” he replied.
“Na’ so much as all that.”
He grunted. “True…but what woman can resist a wounded man? Especially one looking as I do?” he asked.
She huffed out what sounded like a curse. “Vanity? I have to suffer vanity, too?”
“Too?” he asked.
“Along with misspent charm, illogical reasoning, a lying tongue, and a brawny frame that is constantly being put on display.”
He grinned. He couldn’t help it. “You called me brawny. Again.”
“Do you own a full wardrobe?”
