by Jackie Ivie
The ride to Aberdeen had never seemed so long! It would have been shortened if he hadn’t stopped constantly in order to look over a hanging bit of moss from a tree branch and compare it to her cloud of hair. Or if he hadn’t brought Gleason to a halt while his thoughts plagued him with remembered denial followed by bliss, torment applied to rapture, and affliction covered over with waves of absolute perfection. He didn’t know what the lass had done to him, but he was plagued constantly with it.
And harangued by every bit of conscience about how he’d left her, and was still leaving her, sneaking through the landscape like the low thief and ruffian he was. There was more to heap upon her head before the roofs of outlying Aberdeen came into sight. There was the repeated sensation of heat coming from his lower belly, where he was slightly bruised from where he’d pummeled against her pelvis. There was also the pulsating throb of his member each and every time it grazed the saddle with each and every step Gleason took. No amount of movement and readjusting on the hard leather muted or changed it. In fact, it got worse as the day progressed. And to all that was added the heavy feeling about his heart, making each beat have an accompanying pang that got worse the farther he traveled from her. He didn’t know what was wrong with him, but he knew what it wasn’t. It surely wasn’t regret. He didn’t spend time on such a useless emotion, and he wasn’t about to start now. Vincent never looked back. He’d been taught that lesson years earlier, as a lean youth, when a fire had consumed the Danzel castle, leaving him homeless and friendless and alone. That day he’d grown into a man, and it was as a man that he’d joined up with the Donal clan, earning his position through more than one battle spent at the laird’s side. Nobody ever questioned him, and he wouldn’t have answered if they did. Never look back. Always look forward. Take what the world offered and move on. That lesson was hard-learned and fully ingrained. Keep looking for women he’d yet to meet and enjoy, wines and ales he’d yet to drink, and songs he’d yet to compose and play.
He had his fipple out near dusk. He had to do something to send the madness that was Lady Sybil’s lovemaking away from him. But what came out of his instrument tugged at heartstrings and brought emotion right to his chest and from there into his throat. It caused more than one resident to come out onto their stoop as he passed, slowly moving through the streets that made up neighborhoods peopled with poor crofters.
It was a neighborhood that sinners knew and embraced. Every slum was.
Vincent found a larger building, framed with timber but packed with peat. It was noisier than the rest and light spilled out with the crowd sound. It also drowned out the haunting, lovelorn swell that had imbued his playing, no matter what tempo he attempted. He knew what he needed to banish Lady Sybil completely. He needed a full tankard of heavy mead, a full tureen of soup, and a lusty wench that wouldn’t have anything else in mind but his release.
Vincent slid from Gleason’s back, looped the rein over a jutting beam of the tavern, and went to the side to relieve himself. That’s when he knew the extent of the enchantress’s power. Vincent shoved the kilt flap open, reached to aim himself, and realized her full revenge wasn’t just the aches and pains and throbbing memories he’d been assaulted with throughout the day. It was worse. The wench had stolen his very manhood!
For several heart-thumping moments, he moved his hand about his groin area, searching for what had been there but finding only a lump of little size and no weight. That realization was accompanied by cold sweat that broke out at his hairline, accompanying the rapid breathing as he put his other hand to his groin and reached well beneath his legs. Nothing. There wasn’t anything to find or aim or entice a wench with. Vincent dropped his kilt back into place and stared at the croft wall in horror.
No man deserved this!
He searched for the water trough next and fell headlong into it, feeling the cold sting of water reviving him enough that he could control his heartbeat and get back some semblance of sanity. He’d been spelled. That was it. He was seeing things that couldn’t be. No wench had the ability to take a man’s member for revenge. At least, no wench without a blade.
He was out of the water and standing beside the trough, trembling. Then he was plastering the hair into place about his head and shoving it back over his shoulders. Then he was smoothing down the sides of his doublet, making certain of the fastening ties, before checking his sporran, his skeans, his belt. And everything but checking for what he most feared.
He went to a squat, jumped back up, did it again, jumped back up. There was no sway of an appendage between his legs, no slap of flesh against his thighs at the action. Vincent knew what he was doing even as he did it. The same he’d taunted lesser men with doing: procrastinating. He didn’t have a choice. He wasn’t sure he could stomach what he’d find when he looked again, now that he was aware, awake, and alert. He’d have to deal with it. He split his kilt open again and looked. And found nothing except hair.
“Hey, my good man. Can you spare a shilling?”
A drunkard bumped into Vincent, causing him to drop the plaide as the man fell into the trough. Vincent reached down, grabbed a handful of tartan, and hauled the man out. He was rewarded with a spurt of water as the man spit it at him, and then grinned.
“You’ve had enough,” Vincent replied.
The man’s smile fell. “I’ve but fresh started.”
“Then you dinna’ possess enough coin for a full drunk.” Vincent let go his hold on the lad’s shirt and watched as he fell onto his buttocks, raising kilt-covered knees and everything else and showing clearly that he still possessed a manhood. Vincent put his hands on his hips, raised his face to the night sky, and howled his anger at the fates.
“Come, friend! I’ll buy you a drink for that sorrow.”
The man was pulling himself to his feet, using the edge of the trough for leverage, and Vincent looked back down at him. He wasn’t but a slip of a lad, barely reaching Vincent’s shoulder. Yet he possessed what Vincent had just lost?
“You haven’t coin for a drink,” he replied.
“I will, if you lend me one.” The lad grinned as he said it, showing that not only was he cheeky, but he’d lost most of his front teeth as well. Already. It was obvious that not only couldn’t he hold his drink, but he was a poor brawler as well.
“I haven’t time for a drink. I have to think.” Vincent spun on his heel and started back toward Gleason.
“About what?” the lad asked.
Vincent turned sideways, faced the lad, and split his kilt open. “What do you see?” he snarled.
The lad reeled back as if slapped. “I am na’ one for men,” he spat.
Vincent reached out and grabbed the lad’s shoulder, and with one arm brought the boy to his chin. “I dinna’ ask for such a reason, whelp! I ask for my own sanity.”
He shoved the boy from him and took a few more steps before the lad spoke again, showing that he was keeping stride although he had to jog to do so.
“You want to ken what I saw? Is that it? You wish me to grovel?”
Vincent had reached Gleason. He was just about to unfasten the reins, but stopped.
“What?” he turned and glared at the slip of a lad, looking like he was about to receive a whipping. It was no wonder he’d lost his teeth. Vincent had rarely seen anyone so ready to take a beating. It was almost like he was expecting it and preparing himself.
“Verra well. I was wrong. You were just showing off. You’re a large, well-sized male. I’m na’. That was it, wasn’t it?”
“Showing off?”
“Aye. Showing off. Although I’ve been told size does na’ matter. You must think different. Can I have that coin now?”
“You see that?” Vincent stared at him. The lad looked too inebriated to be lying. Then again, he wanted a coin, and must think it within reach.
The lad nodded. Vincent reached to check. There was still nothing there of any substance and nothing of any size to put in his palm.
“You lie
,” he hissed.
“Do you wish me to get a woman to say as much? They probably ken more about these things. I’ll fetch you one. Will that suffice to earning enough for a drink? Just one drink?”
“Aye. That will.”
Vincent turned from Gleason and reached into his purse, bringing out a handful of coins and selecting one. He held it out. “Bring me a wench, and I’ll give you this coin.”
“If I bring two wenches, will I get two?” the lad asked hopefully.
Vincent considered it. Then shook his head. He was swallowing pride and feeling belittled. He didn’t want two women seeing what the lad was obviously too drunk to see correctly.
“Just one. Bring me a woman that is na’ too drunk.”
The lad tipped his head. “Any particulars?” he asked.
“Aye. Make certain she has breasts.”
The lad was chuckling as he stumbled his way back around to the front of the establishment. Vincent sucked in a breath to give himself courage and reached beneath his kilt again to check. The lad was drunk. There wasn’t anything there. Even the lump was now gone. He actually felt the flood of emotion that must be the same a woman felt prior to a fit of weeping, before he heard the lad coming back.
He had a crone with him. Ugly. Hefty. Unclean. With rotten-smelling teeth and reeking of stale ale. She was talking a constant stream of complaints into the lad’s ear as he pulled her. Vincent’s face fell.
The lad pulled her over, making her words easier to hear.
“You tell me you have a great-sized, manly, fine-looking male outside for me, Randolph? This will be the day. The gods haven’t been that merciful to me since—” The crone’s voice stopped as she saw Vincent. Her mouth fell open, making even more stench come out of it, and then she grinned. Fully.
“See?” the lad she’d called Randolph said.
“Oh my,” she replied.
Vincent rolled the coin between his thumb and forefinger, more for the awareness of something real and tangible rather than the obscenity of the young, drunken slip of a lad and the old hag.
“Can I have the coin now?” the lad asked.
“This is na’ a woman,” Vincent replied.
“This is Lois. She has breasts,” the lad explained.
“It’s breasts you want? Oh, my fine man, why dinna’ you just say so? I’ve got just the thing for you.” Following which, the woman pulled down the front of her loose-hanging shirt and showed what amounted to long, droopy pieces of flesh with nubs of nipples at the bottom. “And there’s more where these come from, lover man. I’ve got just the warmest, wettest spot…” She was lifting one of her breasts and offering it toward him like that’s what he wanted. Vincent swallowed and flipped the coin at the lad, making certain it was out of range and Randolph would have to leave them to look for it.
He swallowed, but it was more a gulp. “I dinna’ wish a thing from you, Lois. Except the truth.”
She left her blouse open and moved so close that he almost gagged with the stench of her.
“It’s truth you want? I’ll tell you a truth. I’ve been servicing males for nigh on three decades, and I’ve never once faced the likes of a man such as you. Look at you. All brawn and beauty and strength. Oh my, but the gods have favored me for a certain tonight. I only hope I live through it.” She was rubbing her hands along his arm as she talked, and damn if it didn’t sound like she was purring as she ran a fingernail along his stomach muscles and felt them move and bunch as they tried to escape the touch as well. Vincent took a huge step back, and then another as she followed him. “You’re heaven-sent, laddie. Just look at you. Oh my. My. My.”
“You want to look?” he asked and pulled the front of his kilt apart and waited for her cries of disgust and surprise. What he got instead was a sound stained with awe and something more. She really did sound like he was heaven-sent.
“Oh my. Now…that’s what I call a man. You’ve been more than blessed, sweetie. You’ve been overly blessed. I pity the poor lasses that have to take that. And I also envy them. Later. For now, you’re mine. All mine. Give it to Lois, lover man. She knows just what you need to get that all swollen and engorged and readied. And I ken just what to do with it, too.”
Vincent looked down, saw nothing, and dropped his kilt. The whore was good. She was very good. She had him almost thinking nothing had changed.
“My thanks,” he mumbled. “Here.”
He flipped a coin at her. She caught it and then stopped. “You’re na’ interested in a bit of a tumble?”
“I needed to hear what you thought. That’s all I needed. That’s all I pay for.”
“What if I pay you?” she offered, and held out his coin.
Vincent lowered his head, and then shook it. “I’ve nae time. Forgive me.”
He’d paid her for the truth but hadn’t received it. He knew it. He saw and felt it. And endured it. He knew exactly what he was going to do about it, as well.
Get back to the enchantress and make her wizard his manhood back.
Chapter Thirteen
“Sybil? Please open the door. Please?”
It was Lady Eschon making her latest plea. Sybil looked up from the fireplace, where she was finishing the final cooking of her ointment. She’d crushed dried herbs in her palms, dusted them into a few drops of water, and set the mixture atop the fire. Such a paste was good for preventing infection, softening skin, and easing bruises such as Vincent had left dappling her skin. She could see as the day had progressed into dusk and the bruising grew more distinct that the ointment wasn’t going to be sufficient at muting them, but it was the best she could manage.
“Sybil? Please? I beg of you. Open the door afore I’m spotted.”
Sybil rose, sipping at the last of her tea, making a face at the tepid temperature as well as the slimy texture of the leaves that were at the bottom of her cup. It was the third cup she’d drunk. It had worked at restoring her voice. It hadn’t done much for the soreness Vincent had left everywhere else, however. That man hadn’t lied.
He really was capable of making it difficult to walk.
She limped over to the door and lifted the bolt. Lady Eschon was in her evening finery with her pale gray-blond hair pulled beneath her wimple, and she was lining her forehead with the strength of her worry, even had the wringing of her hands escaped notice.
“Oh thank God! Quickly! Bar it.”
The woman pushed into the room and stood, trembling, in place. Sybil closed the door behind her and dropped the bolt again.
“You should na’ be in this portion of the keep, my lady. Or visiting with me. You ken this?” Sybil asked softly.
“I had little choice.”
“Everyone has a choice.” Sybil limped back across to the fire and moved the hook holding the pan of ointment, so it could cool. The tightly woven sheath she wore as a panacea to heated flesh was cool on her skin and followed every movement she made. She’d also washed, combed, and braided her hair, but not covered it. When she’d finished moving the pan, she turned to face the lady of the house, and knew nothing about her appearance had escaped notice.
“You ail, too?”
“I have said as much with each answer I sent to you,” Sybil replied.
“It’s na’…plague, is it? Sweet heaven! That would be too much to bear!”
Sybil caught the amusement before it became laughter, but she wasn’t in time to stop the rest of it. Vincent Danzel’s lovemaking…a plague? Lady Eschon saw Sybil’s smile. She relaxed slightly, and her hands dropped to her sides.
“Good. That is one good thing about this, then.”
“What is it you need me to attend, my lady? Does the sup need more seasoning? I sent instruction this morn. Mayhap there is another needed to the table? Can you na’ make my apology?”
“It’s worse than that. I can’t make him see reason. Or sense. He’s threatening me. With war. Me. A widow! And what men I have to defend us are useless! I haven’t touched a morsel of food today o
r a drop of drink. I’m too afeared. He’s got everyone suffering!”
“Who?”
“That man!”
“What man?” Sybil’s heart pulsed, and she ignored it. Better to find out what Vincent was capable of once the mushrooms wore off than have it hovering atop her head and bothering her conscience. She mentally shrugged the regret away. He’d done what she wanted. That was all that mattered.
“That horrid little man!”
“Sir…Ian?” Sybil had forgotten the reason behind last eve. And her fear of the dwarf. And that she needed to be aware and ready. That’s what came of soreness brought on by pleasure and a day spent in remembrance of it.
“Aye.”
“What have we done that he’d war with us over?”
Lady Eschon dropped her eyes and hunched up her shoulders. Sybil had seen that posture throughout her formative years, back when the Laird of Eschon was alive and abusing his wife with every word and every swing of his fist. She’d thought the lady had forgotten, or at least grown past it.
“He will na’ change his mind. I’ve tried. He wants…your hand. On the morrow. Or he’ll make us pay.”
“As his wife?” Her distaste filled the title although she tried to cover it.
Lady Eschon nodded. She still wasn’t looking Sybil in the eye. And Sybil realized the obvious. It wasn’t fear making the lady act so. It was shame.
“But—I already told you both. I’m nae longer a maid.”
“He does na’ care.”
“But—I have nae value.”
Lady Eschon looked up then. She had pain in the depths of her blue eyes. Not shame. Sybil was running out of arguments, but she’d never had to use so many of them before.
“You dinna’ look in the mirror, Sybil. You’ve…changed. Grown into a woman of great beauty.”
Sybil’s eyes went huge. “How can you say such with your daughters, Merriam and Kendran, as comparison?”
Lady Eschon smiled, making her look years younger and showing the sweet disposition she’d always had. “When you came to us, I wasn’t welcoming, was I? It was…difficult for me. You ken? What woman wants her husband’s by-blow underfoot? Especially a little lass of three?”
