by Jackie Ivie
“I already ken all of this.”
Lady Eschon continued as if Sybil hadn’t said anything. “You were such a frail child, though. Small. With that cloud of dark hair so unlike my own, or my daughters’. You favor your mother too much.”
“My mother is dead. Years past.”
“True. She is…now,” Lady Eschon replied. “And her family has wealth and position. At least, this is what Sir Ian tells me.”
Shock flooded Sybil then, taking some of her consciousness from the haze of fulfillment the Viking had left her in. It was immediately followed by fear.
“Why are you telling me this now?”
Lady Eschon sighed, her eyes filled with tears. “Because of what I must do. I’ve grown fond of you, Sybil. Verra fond. Na’ just for your running of my household, but because of your generous spirit, your calming presence, and your healing ability. I truly hate to lose you.”
“You’re giving him my hand?”
“I already said as much. I’ve nae other choice! He’s made us all ail!”
“I’ll na’ accept. I’ll na’ say the words.”
“And have us suffer more of his potions?”
“What did he do? Exactly. If I ken what he used, I can work a cure.”
“Naught that I could see.”
“Then how is it you ken it’s him behind this illness?”
“My men are moaning and spewing and crawling in agony from pain and illness. But Sir Ian? He’s hale and hearty. As are his men. All nine of them, and guarding every entrance. I had to sneak through my own home just to get here!”
Sybil sighed. Lady Eschon was sweet, but not vicious or treacherous. Those were traits of her dead husband, and mayhap Merriam, their eldest daughter. “Did Sir Ian and his men partake from the table this morn?”
Lady Eschon shook her head. “They were busy at the list. Probably making their plans of conquering and suffering. Men. They’re rotten creatures.”
“Then we have time. You put out spoiled foodstuffs. I should have been there to oversee it, but that is the issue, my lady. Sir Ian does na’ have any power to create illness. Wait two days. Your men will be well again.”
The woman shook her head. “He does na’ give us two days!”
“Then make him,” Sybil replied quietly.
“How?”
“Where is the man known as…Viking?”
Sybil couldn’t help the slight pause before she said the title and knew her stepmother had heard it. The woman’s features softened as she looked at her. Sybil had to look away.
“Gone. With his horse. And all his belongings. Gone. None saw his path or heard his departure, or noted…”
There was more said. Sybil didn’t hear it. Her heartbeat was so loud in her ears it was some time before she heard anything. She knew instantly what it was, too. Breakage. And loss. She’d known the truth. And love…was a farce.
She blinked the prickling of tears back and faced Lady Eschon and asked why anyone would ever think Sybil would wed with Sir Ian to save anyone.
“Because he has your wolf. He says so. He’ll use him. In pieces.”
Sybil’s belly went concave with the force of her gasp. Waif? That wretch had him? It wasn’t possible. She’d have felt it. Wouldn’t she? Sybil tried to convince herself of it, how the closeness she and the wolf had always had would have made it impossible for him to be caught and perhaps tortured without her knowing it, but she hadn’t been thinking of him for some time. It was as if the Viking’s touch had changed everything.
And there was worse. She’d done it to herself.
“You’ll do it?” Lady Eschon asked.
“Leave me now. I have to prepare.”
“For what?”
“My wedding. On the morrow.” She whispered it and felt the relieved reaction in Lady Eschon. It was palpable all the way to the door and through the unbarring of it and opening of it. Sybil kept the rest of her reply to herself. She had to prepare for her incumbent widowhood, as well.
The ride back to Eschoncan Keep took all night. It should have gone quicker. It wasn’t entirely Gleason’s fault, although he took the brunt of Vincent’s cursing and bad temper. It was because nothing looked the same in the rain-soaked blackness, there wasn’t any path, and the horse hadn’t had any rest. Vincent didn’t dare give Gleason any rest. Each step closer came with a slowness that was made worse as he kept touching himself to feel for any change, and it was happening just as he’d hoped. Everything was returning to what was his normal size. But it was changing at the same pace as his approach. Slowly.
He got lost more than twice in the darkness and didn’t realize the extent of it until he felt himself shrinking again. He promised himself that once this whole episode was finished, and the witch had returned to him what was his, he’d put some sort of comedy to how he had to use his own member as a compass for direction. But not now. Now he was soaked through every layer, feeling the worry warring with the relief, and all of that was hampered by a slowness that made the entire journey surreal.
Her wolf joined him sometime in the midst of more senseless riding when all he had to guide him was the plop of rain hitting everything and the shrinking or enlarging of his own member. No one would believe his tale of this once he composed it. He didn’t even believe it. Vincent was just contemplating the torment of continuing on, which was wrapped about the fear that if he stopped for any reason it would be the end of the change that was happening. And all of that was shadowed by his own stupidity for allowing this to happen in the first place. Then through the inky blackness loomed a shape that sent Gleason to rearing.
And Vincent to falling.
The ground he’d decided to test for moisture was saturated to the point of being pondlike and mud-slick. It still felt warmer than the night air had. Vincent lay on his side, absorbing the ache of air missing from his chest and wondering why the gods had decided to curse him with this much punishment. That’s when the wolf first licked at him, starting with his palm, and then graduating to his arm, and then all about his face.
That set Vincent to chortling, the wolf to responding, and then before he knew it they were a mass of beast and man rolling about in wet, soaked grass, wrestling, while Gleason watched from a safe distance. It wasn’t until they seemed to both be out of breath that it ceased, Vincent unlocked the arms he’d hugged about the beast, and Waif moved away to shake himself and looked even more embarrassed than Vincent.
Two cupped handfuls of water to his face and things felt better, but he probably still looked like the filthy mass of muck he was. It might be a good thing it was a moonless night filled with rain. Such an atmosphere muted things like mud-covered hunks of abused Highland lairds and wolves that looked like they’d rolled about in sewage.
Vincent huffed in a deep breath and watched the wolf do the same. “She sent you, did she?” he asked aloud.
Gleason snorted. The wolf didn’t respond at all.
“She had to have sent you. Otherwise, why would you be here?”
There was a slight huff of sound that could be the wolf agreeing. It could also be the wolf’s disdain for his inaccuracy.
“You came alone, then? Why?”
The wolf howled a response and ended it with a quick bark. Then another.
“She’s na’ in trouble…is she?”
He told himself it was a stupid question from an equally stupid man. Talking to a wolf was one thing; expecting an answer was worse. And there was the content of his question in the first place. That lass was probably always trouble or in trouble. Especially to an unencumbered male like Vincent Erick Danzel.
He got three quick barks from Waif. Almost like the animal was urging him to speed for some reason. Vincent pulled the tie strip from his doublet. He was going to need it. Something was wrong.
“She is in trouble? Blast and damn the wench!”
The rawhide was useful for keeping his clothing together. It was going to be needed more for keeping his sodden mass of hair
back. He wrapped it about his forehead, using the strip as a headband and tying it into a knot at the back. He didn’t care that the doublet was gaping open or that his previously white shirt was now stained with mud and stuck to him like a second skin or that his kilt was sodden with rain and mud until it hung past his knees. He was very aware of the slap of flesh and substance where it was supposed to be between his legs, however. Although it wasn’t the correct size as yet, it was still there. That was what mattered.
And if the little lass was in trouble before he could get her to change her spell…
He didn’t waste another moment on cleansing, or checking his pace, or anything other than the heart-pounding need to get back to her.
Chapter Fourteen
Sybil had never dwelt on what her wedding day would look like. Such things were for lasses with wealth and stature and legitimacy. Or those favored few possessing dowers of huge portions of land. Or high status in the king’s court. They weren’t for a bastard girl-child of a Highland laird. She never dreamt of what her day would be like because she’d never expected to get one.
The rain falling from the skies and turning the landscape outside the castle walls into a mist-imbued wash of green touching endless gray sky would probably be disappointing to a lass that had fixated on her wedding day. Such a day was meant for celebration and rejoicing. Where men slapped each other on the backs and women whispered in jealousy or awe. Weddings certainly weren’t meant to be done at the point of torture to something one loved, and not with a guard of two hulking men at the bride’s back making certain she kept walking when everything about her wanted to flee in the other direction.
The dawn was gray-cast, rain-filled, and dulled with gloom. Exactly as everything felt inside.
The hall outside her tower room hadn’t been swept, and Sybil could tell as she was marched to the chapel that nothing in the keep had been prepared. It hadn’t even been given a modicum of cleaning. Lady Eschon must have been telling the truth about the illness of her guards, for Sybil only spotted two or three of the Eschon men, and they looked pale and drawn and queasy. Like a puff of wind would be too much to bear. Lifting a sword to her defense would be an impossible feat, she was sure. In fact, one of them touched his eyes to her before slapping a hand to his mouth and galloping from the corner of the Great Room where he’d been positioned.
Sybil fingered the little bunch of pansies that Lady Eschon had tied together with a lavender-shaded ribbon bow. There were little sprigs of wildflowers scattered throughout the bouquet, while the bow trailed nearly to the floor. It was gentle-looking and wild. Probably a good match to herself, if she thought on it. She didn’t.
It was also deadly.
Sybil toyed with the little pouch of powdered tansy leaf that she’d tied right beneath the bow, so none would know. Such a thing was for granting a swift death to those who ingested it.
Perfect.
Just as perfect was the attire that had been aired out for her. Her stepmother had provided it from her own hope chest, brought and stored from her young, carefree, unwed days. The attire Sybil was being wed in was only a trifle large about the waist. There was an underdress of flax linen, aged and mellowed into an off-white shade. It was more for adornment of her nakedness than anything else since it was loosely woven and gossamer enough that it looked like it would shred at a touch. Sybil had some uncomfortable moments when she’d first laced it on using the slender ribbon ties. It made her look beautiful and enticing and womanly—and those were curse words now.
The overdress she’d been given had cap sleeves and was dyed a purple shade. There were long off-white straps sewn into pockets on the underside of the skirt that were used for gathering, creating billows of fabric and making it easier to walk rather than dust the floor with the length. It had been crafted of the thinnest flax threads that had been washed in pansy-tint until they retained varied and mysterious purple hues. Then the threads had been crafted in such a tight weave, it looked like she was gilded in it and wore nothing beneath.
Lady Eschon had brought the bouquet to Sybil just as she’d finished one last tie and dropped the skirts to the floor. She was wearing woolen stockings, but the slippers that were provided were still a trifle large. That couldn’t be helped. She was wearing donated attire for a farce of a ceremony.
It was still perfect.
As was her hair. Lady Eschon had stayed and supervised the entire thing as the braid was taken out and every strand brushed into a charcoal wash down her back and to her hips. Then she’d been given a ribbon—the match to her bouquet bow—in order to lace it through her tresses and keep them off her face and behind her. And then she’d been handed a floral circlet, the match to her bouquet, to put atop her head. The entire time she’d been fidgeting with the pansy and wildflower bouquet, making the serf women and Lady Eschon think she was fretting. That was better than the real reason. She was tying the little packet that contained death, using one of the purloined ties from her skirt to do so. Nobody saw or would know. Or would point the finger.
She was pronounced ready and the obligatory sounds made. They were right. Everything about the outfit was stunning, original, and probably perfect for a wedding ceremony. Until she’d covered it over with a nondescript gray cloak. Lady Eschon hadn’t said a word while she did so, either. It was enough that she was being prepared for marriage to that parody of a man, Sir Ian Blaine.
Now, if it was the Viking that was waiting for her…
Sybil blinked on a sting of tears before it betrayed anything. Then she nodded to her stepmother and walked past her. That was when she first noticed the slide of material and how sensuously it glided over each thigh as she walked. It was an uncomfortable reminder of how each step was taking her closer to the reason behind her finery.
There weren’t but eight people in the chapel that had been built to house multitudes. Sybil took a quick glance about, noted the dullness of the day out the windows, as well as the trail of candles that had been lit on both sides of the aisle she was to walk, leading the eye directly to the man that stood there.
Sir Ian Blaine didn’t even reach the height of the altar he was standing beside. Sybil felt disgust the moment she saw him and dropped her eyes hastily before anyone else noted it. One of his guards gripped at her arm, and before she could struggle free, the cloak was pulled from her, catching a bit on her hair and taking some of it from the waterfall arrangement it had been in.
It also put every bit of perfection on display. She’d known how much the dress became her. Every step she took reminded her of it. To her horror, she could almost feel the lust pulsating through the room, and especially from the parody of a man that was to be her husband.
The thought was sending shivers all over her legs, her back, over the crown of her head, and through her cheeks, before falling to the proximity of her lower belly, where it became a stone of such weight it made her physically ill. She stumbled to a momentary halt and watched as Sir Ian moved away from the altar as if about to approach.
Sybil swallowed, and then swallowed again as her mouth refilled with spittle. She knew she was as pale as the underdress. That wasn’t something she could afford. She wasn’t going to faint. She never fainted, and she wasn’t going to now. Sybil fingered the packet of tansy tied into her bouquet, and drew strength from it, just as she had expected to. The faintness passed, her head came back up, and she pasted a blank look over her features before starting to walk up the aisle again.
And then the greatest crash happened behind her as the chapel doors burst open, sending a gust of wind through that extinguished most of the candles, as well as a roar of sound that would have done the same. Sybil spun, clutched the bouquet to her breast, and forgot how to breathe.
Vincent took in the scene at a glance, from the shocked pale face of the enchantress, to the stunted farce of her groom, and it angered him worse than before. She’d been toying with him? Maybe using him to satisfy her curiosity before wedding someone else? And then pl
acing a curse on him that no man should have to bear? He no longer cared about the three men he’d just knocked senseless, or the one Waif was holding at bay near the Great Hall, since Vincent hadn’t been able to handle all of them when he’d first slid from Gleason’s back and run up the castle stairs.
And then he’d been beset by corridors of silence. Gloom. Emptiness. The only good part about the entire morn had to be that his manhood felt fully back to the correct size and bulk it had always been. And nothing was going to make that change again. Nothing. He was in such a rage of frustration and anxiety that when a guardsman had barred his way into the large double doors of the chapel, Vincent had parried with a fist and given the man a blow that sent him reeling. Then, hefting the man to his shoulders, he’d used him as a battering ram to burst through the doors before dropping him senseless to the ground.
Which had been rather stupid and dramatic since both doors had knocked against pillars, breaking their hinges before bouncing back, slamming Vincent backward. That was when the emotion couldn’t be contained another moment. He bellowed all his rage and pain and frustration to the ceiling, which, since it was designed with such acoustics in mind, made a chorus of dark bellowing throb all around them.
Everything went silent. And then the four armed men arranged about the walls moved, stepping into the space between Lady Sybil and him. Vincent narrowed his eyes, filled his chest with huge gulps of air and started swinging, moving with precision through one after the other, using the shield in his left arm to deflect while the sword in his right did as little damage as possible. Even in the midst of the hell she’d sent him to, he wasn’t changing into a killer. The only sounds for some time were the strikes of metal to metal, accompanied by grunts and groans, and that was followed by wood splintering as a pew cracked or broke totally when a body fell into or across it.
