Once Upon a Knight

by Jackie Ivie

  “I dinna’ touch it.”

  “And I’m na’ that foolish. You’ll eat first. Now, fetch it. And get me the remedy for this powder whilst you’re up and about.”

  She was almost to the table to do his bidding before he’d finished, and his words sent her to the apothecary cabinet instead. The big key was hanging beside it, and within moments she had a palmful of dried mushroom as well as her little vial of savory oil. She had other oils in the cabinet. Massage oils of woodsy smells, and some that were of use to make the bathwater not only silken to the feel but sweet-smelling with crushed lilac, the full-body aroma of the rose, or the heady scent of jasmine.

  Savory was something else. It was useful for stirring the muse and creating sensual enhancement. She was almost afraid to use it. She was more afraid of not using it. That was what the mushroom would be for.

  He hadn’t moved much when she returned, only enough to stretch his legs out and put his toes close to the fire. The man had enormous feet. Sybil blushed as she put what that meant to deed and glanced to where he’d piled the largest swath of cloth: the front of his hips.

  “Well?”

  Sybil looked up and caught the smile that reached his eyes.

  “Will I pass for what you need?”

  “I dinna’ ken what you refer to,” she said in as stiff a tone as possible. And then she turned back to the smaller kettle, tossed the mushroom dust into it and pushed the stew mixture atop that, before hanging it on the fireplace hook.

  “Oh, aye. You do. Easily.”

  He was leaning back, using his bent arms for support of his upper torso and putting such a huge span of male at her feet that he nearly reached where she’d put the first armoire. Sybil cursed herself silently for the whim that had her looking to see what he was doing. And she turned back to stirring the stew mixture, listening for the hiss and spit of liquid as it warmed.

  “Dinna forget the bread,” he commanded.

  “I’ll na’ add the bread to this. I doona’ wish it soaked.”

  “Put it atop your griddle, then. You can na’ tell me you dinna’ possess a griddle. I’ll na’ believe it. Oh nae. Na’ you. There’s naught in this little chamber of yours that you dinna’ design, put into being, or procure for your use. You have everything you need. Everything.”

  “I dinna’ ken what you speak of.”

  “Oh aye. You do. Again. You’ve everything at your fingertips to make anyone ill, or well, or pained, or ecstatic, or livid. Or chilled, or warmed, or neither. I prefer the ecstatic part. As you did for me last eve. Can you do that at will—or is there a potion to assist?”

  Sybil dropped the savory bottle and watched it roll until it stopped against his side. She couldn’t move her eyes. Not even as he rotated and turned, moving muscle upon muscle in order to reach the little bottle and lift it. The man was too gifted with male beauty. It wasn’t normal. It certainly wasn’t fair. He was tipping the bottle this way and that, watching the dark liquid move against the firelight, and then he was looking at her.

  “And this is?”

  “Savory,” Sybil answered automatically, with a slight smacking sound. She wasn’t in control of her mouth anymore. If she was, she wouldn’t be mimicking a kiss with every word that came out of her lips.

  “Savory.”

  He put his mouth in the same pout, and Sybil really did sigh then. Anything else was beyond her.

  “And just what does this savory do?”

  “Creates…” She couldn’t say it. She could barely think it and ducked her head before he noted it.

  “Hmm…What do you do with it?”

  “Rub it on your fingers,” she replied.

  “What is that going to create?”

  Sybil shook her head to clear it. It wasn’t working. The savory might as well be in the air and permeating everything.

  “So now it doesn’t create?” he asked, mistaking her motion.

  “It’s an oil. For your fingers,” she explained. “For the yellow powder.”

  “Ah. I see.” He was already unstopping the lid and tipping the bottle to get a drop onto his thumb and forefinger. She watched in a hypnotic fashion as he rubbed the digits together and then wiped his hand on the sackcloth he was semiwearing. And then he was lifting them in front of his face and examining them for the result. “It’s one of your potions that does more than one thing.”

  Sybil’s eyes went huge. And then he was sniffing at his fingers and coming away with a perplexed look on his face. “’Tisn’t much for scent. So it must have another thing it creates. True?”

  She didn’t answer. She was on her feet and pulling on the knob that was attached to her flat pan. She had it kept in a slit between the stones of her fireplace directly above and to the side of the opening. That way it was always warm.

  “Hmm…Bright. You’re a bright lass. Verra. Na’ much for compassion and seeing to other’s needs, but bright.”

  “You dinna’ look to need compassion.”

  He grinned, and her belly lurched. “I dinna’ say I was looking for compassion, lady. I’m speaking of needs. At the moment, you’re doing well. You’ve seen to fresh clothing for those that were ill-used by spending all day in a downpour. Then you saw to the warming of my frame, putting at bay any illness that might have arisen from spending all day in a downpour. Now we’ll see what else the evening holds for us, after you’ve seen to another of our needs.”

  “O-our…n-needs?” She stammered the words.

  “Sup. You are warming sup?”

  Sybil had the flat pan in her hands still and looked down at it without even seeing it. Then she placed the bread on it before putting it atop the fire where it started giving off the smell of toasting bread. That combined with the bubbles from the mushroom-enhanced stew was putting an aromatic feast in the air. She watched as he raised his chin and sniffed appreciatively, and then was caught looking as he brought his head back down. The blush was strong enough to make small dots of perspiration bead her forehead, and he spoke as if he knew.

  “It’s rather hot in here.”

  “I thought you wished the heat,” she replied.

  “I did. Do. I meant for you.”

  “Me?”

  “You wear too much. That is my meaning.”

  Sybil couldn’t answer. Her throat wouldn’t make the necessary movement.

  “Start with that headdress thing. Take it off. Now.”

  She had her fingers to the tie before she stopped. “Why should I?” she asked with a semblance of her usual self-confidence.

  “Because I bid you do so. You wish to argue it?”

  He was moving…flexing and molding every bit of tanned and naked skin on every bit of muscle it wrapped, and the knot at his hip was sliding open at the same time. Sybil had to swivel from the sight or her fingers weren’t going to be doing anything other than reaching for what he was putting on display for her.

  His slight chuckle followed her. Everything he was doing should have been grating and angering, but it was neither. She wondered if he actually thought she was following his orders because she wanted him, like the other vapid wenches put there for his pleasure and his alone.

  Probably. He knew what he was doing, and he did it well. He was using his nakedness, and she couldn’t stop him. In truth, she had to have it so. Sybil wasn’t the type to lie. That was for weak, poor souls. Sybil wasn’t weak. She was devious and strong and sharp. All of which pointed toward correcting the lie by making it a truth. And nakedness was involved at some point. She hoped it wouldn’t be as embarrassing as she suspected it would be. He was right. She’d made it too hot. Worse, her flush was making it unbearably so.

  The wimple ties came apart finally and she pulled it from her head with trembling fingers. He didn’t need ever know of the lie…if the savory worked, or something of a sensual nature worked at making him desire her.

  “Now. See to unfastening those disfiguring braids.”

  “I…must see to the…stew,” she inform
ed the nearest armoire door that was just beyond his head.

  He clicked his tongue. “You’re still na’ taken with following directions, are you? Take out your braids and spread apart your hair—or reap the punishment. I’ve spent a bit of time designing it, too. You dinna’ wish to ken what it is. Trust me. Dinna’ fash yourself over our sup. I’ll fetch it.”

  Sybil concentrated on the ties at the ends of each braid and spent as much time as possible working out the weave of each braid. It still seemed too short a span of time. And then she was raking her fingers through each length of hair, splitting and then reforming the wavy locks that were going to be all she had for veiling when he called her for sup. She was going to need it, too.

  She didn’t dare move from contemplation of the armoire front because moving to fetch a comb might change the strict discipline she was using for concentration. She had to. The sackcloth he’d been wearing was sitting in a puddle where he’d just been. And it wasn’t changing form. The indentation of where his buttocks had pressed down on the material was well-defined and easy to see. And note. And memorize. And fantasize about. And a thousand other things.

  Especially when his shadow flicked across it from the fire. She nearly moaned and had to bite a knuckle to keep the sound where it belonged. Inside.

  Chapter Ten

  He was in severe trouble. And getting deeper every moment. She wasn’t doing anything she was supposed to, and that made him do things he wasn’t supposed to and say things that weren’t clear in his head. And worse! She was amenable to absolutely everything he told her! He’d even tried being overly arrogant and aggressive, yet still she complied with grace and dignity. If she didn’t say or do something to show her true self, and soon, he was going to be hard put to stay away from her.

  That’s what she’d earned. Torture. And torment. And he was going to leave her as unfulfilled as he’d been when he’d awakened finally with Waif at his side and need pounding with every beat of his heart and every rain-soaked breath he sucked in. Nearly unbearable need…for her? Damn!

  Vicious wench that she was, she’d probably given him a potion designed to drive a man to the brink of release and just leave him dangling there, longing for something he daren’t have. She deserved to be treated to a display of dominance and heathen ways because he was in the mood for a good fight of wits. And then, when he gave her one, she acted like this?

  Vincent had his wet, chilled, scratchy plaid about him before she’d finished taking out her braids and combing through her hair, the motion making a waterfall of shadow. His hands were visibly trembling as he tied the kilt material in a double knot and then yanked on it for good measure. The lass was getting under his skin again, and he didn’t trust himself.

  The oily substance she’d given him to wipe off the yellow powder had worked for that, but there was something even worse about it. Where the yellow had done naught but stain, this new stuff was making his skin sensitive and heated. He lifted his fingers to his nose and sniffed. There wasn’t much odor, and yet the warming sensation had begun there, and it was spreading until it was near to making droplets of sweat break out near his hairline.

  There was a heady aroma of roast venison in the air. She’d seasoned it with something he couldn’t quite place. Tasty. It smelled delicious. He wasn’t waiting. He didn’t dare. He had to get his hands busy, and he had to do it quickly. Vincent would start with a good portion of the stew. It was better than the other…the envisioning. And fighting himself.

  Anything was better.

  Vincent had the entire mixture dumped onto the warmed trencher of bread and was shoveling huge bites into his mouth before he heard what could only be a sigh coming from behind him. He ignored her and kept filling his mouth. Chewing. Swallowing. Again.

  “Is the sup to your satisfaction?” she asked in a warm voice that searched out and found the base of his back.

  He nodded, swallowed, and gulped in another bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Listened to the sound of his own jaw moving, his throat working. He could almost hear the reaction in his belly when the fare reached there. It was decidedly not what he was used to. Vincent cursed himself, put the trencher back on the warming slab, and stood, backing from it. He should have known she’d dose the food, too! Only a fool would have touched it.

  Vincent realized the obvious. He was rapidly turning into a fool. He was losing the bargain he’d made, as well.

  Myles had warned him. In no uncertain words. And with the punishment of total banishment if he failed. From the clan. Vincent was to get her to fall in love with him. He was to leave her. He shouldn’t touch her. He wasn’t to take her. He couldn’t violate her. He shouldn’t—

  “You…have your plaide back on?” she asked.

  “Aye,” he answered finally, thankful his mouth worked. He tipped his head just slightly toward where she stood. Damn the wench but with her hair swirling all about her and picking up glints from the fire, his knees reacted, weakening his legs and forcing him to consciously think about stiffening them in order to remain standing. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. He gulped.

  “But why?” she asked.

  “Instinct and self-preservation,” he replied without thinking.

  She giggled; his heart stumbled in rhythm, and he looked away. Rapidly. Toward the window, where it was safer.

  “In…stinct and self-preservation?” she replied finally, only she’d strung out the first part of the first word, making almost a caress out of it.

  “Aye,” he replied. Blinked. The damn window looked like it had moved closer. Then it moved again. Farther away. Then closer again. How is that possible? he wondered.

  “Why would you need such?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “What is it you require instinct and self-preservation for?”

  “Oh. The fight.”

  “Fight? Now?”

  “Aye. Now.”

  “Against…what?”

  Vincent shook his head. The window had a maw of a mouth at the center. He watched as the doors warped and darkened, preparatory to opening and swallowing something large. Like a man.

  “You,” he answered.

  “Me?”

  Again, she gave the giggle. Vincent sucked in a breath and held it, using the time it took to temper the lurch his heart had made and the resultant fire that was spearing his groin, making even the wet plaide feel sensual and lush. She’d dosed the stew for certain—and he’d assisted her by gulping it down!

  He knew that was what had been done and every hair at the back of his neck whispered to him of it. That was only slightly worse than the whisper her shift was making as the material moved across one thigh, then the other, caressing her belly, her legs, her knees, her hips, and whispering about how it felt.

  Vincent groaned slightly as she filled the space in front of him and looked up. His mind wasn’t imagining the pinpricks of nipples at the peaks of what appeared to be pert, tasty breasts. They looked like they’d fit nicely in his hands too, if where they were testing the material near his belly was any indication.

  “Truly?” she asked.

  “Aye.” The word was croaked, but it was the best he could do. She’d called him a toad prince, and at the moment he sounded it.

  “But…why?”

  He licked his lips. “You’re a lass.”

  “True.”

  She lifted a lock of her hair and brushed it behind her, drawing his glance for a moment before he returned it to the window that was now leaning toward him, with the stone top growing in shape and size until it looked near to collapsing the structure. He didn’t shift his glance anywhere near her. He couldn’t. Her hair-shifting motion put even more definition to her breasts, as if the material were as gossamer as the pink chemise thing she had hidden in her drawer.

  “Over here….” He heard a whisper as clear as if the garment actually had a voice and were calling to him with it.

  “What of it?”

  He shook his head. Not elegant
ly or with any grace, but with great, large swoops of movement until his neck complained and then his shoulders. It was stupid, and he probably looked worse, but it had worked. For the moment, anyway. The whisper was gone, fading back toward the armoire where it belonged.

  It hadn’t taken the image of the pink garment caressing her flesh with it, though. He licked his lips again, closed his eyes…shook in place. And opened his eyes again.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I am a lass.”

  “Oh. Aye. You are.”

  “I ken as much.”

  “You’re also fetching.”

  “Fet…ching?” she asked, stumbling strangely through the word.

  “You see any other fetching lasses about?” he asked.

  “Fetching…Sweet…Tasty…” She was whispering the words. Or the chemise was doing it for her.

  “Aye. Fetching. And sweet. And tasty,” he answered.

  “Tasty?” The word was an octave higher than her normal tone and came with a sound approaching a gasp.

  The result was a symphonic ringing in one ear. Not unlike a belfry of perfectly pitched rectory bells. Vincent tipped his head the opposite way, lifting the affected ear higher than the other. That didn’t do much save send the ringing into his other ear, making it a chorus of ringing for several heartbeats.

  She was speaking again. Her mouth was moving, anyway. Vincent narrowed his eyes on her and concentrated and watched to see if he could make out the words. Behind her he watched the window bulge toward him. Vincent sucked in a breath and looked directly at it, willing it to cease.

  “What have you given me?” he asked. Or thought he asked.

  “Na’…much.”

  “Na’ much…of what?” He had to turn from the window. That structure wasn’t behaving properly, and he’d tired of making sense of it. The wall to one side looked better. Only it contained her bed. With the short, frilled coverlet and the mattress just made for swaying and bouncing and keeping rhythm.

  Vincent groaned and swiveled farther, facing the chamber door now. That heavy wooden piece had a stout bar across it, showing how effectively she was barricaded in. With him.