Once Upon a Knight

by Jackie Ivie

  That bore thinking on. The man had something so horrid in his past that he’d call off a battle of wits? Especially one where he’d been tempting and tormenting and teasing her to a point of victory? He hadn’t known how close he’d been, or he’d never have run from her.

  She knew it would be Vincent at the burn but still wasn’t prepared for the sight of him. Sybil caught her breath and held it. She wondered if it would always be this way between them and wondered, too, why she’d held this love emotion in such ridicule her entire life. There was nothing as wondrous as love, nothing as precious, fulfilling, satisfying….

  Something didn’t feel quite right, though. She was certain it was Vincent, yet his frame didn’t look as large as usual. Sybil considered that for a bit as she watched him. She didn’t know enough about watching a man bathe to tell if looking smaller was usual or not.

  Sybil narrowed her eyes next, trying to see more clearly through the light fingers of mist hovering over the water. That was a mistake, but it was a godsend at the same time. Her heartbeat quickened each time he materialized, and it was worse when she tried to blink him into further focus.

  He was nude, barely shielded by the water as it lapped at his waist every time he moved. He was also shorter in stature, less muscled, and much less defined. There was the opacity of mist about him, and he was still a fair piece away. She wondered if that were the reason.

  And then a bit of vapor parted, letting what light there was define and delineate a severely lash-scarred span of back flesh. That was all the proof she needed. It was Vincent. It had to be.

  Sybil reached beneath her chin and slipped the tie from its knot with a hand that trembled. She knew why, too: excitement. It was exactly what he’d been forcing into existence in their wagon earlier. And it had grown a hundred times more poignant the longer she lay in her bedding and tried to sleep. Vincent was a force to be reckoned with. He had too many weapons to use, too much masculine presence, too much sensual aura. She didn’t even think he was aware of the extent of his ability, nor how enticing and intriguing he was—although he had a very good idea. If she hadn’t touched on such a raw thing as what he was hiding from his past, she wouldn’t be out here, suffering tremors of excitement and waxing mentally on the ecstasy she’d be experiencing. She wouldn’t have to. She’d have been in his arms long before this.

  The cloak was followed by her bliaut. Sybil pulled it over her head and folded it into a small roll of cloth. She was wearing one of the coarsely woven ones. They were better for traveling. Especially when she didn’t know how far between washings it would be. She didn’t stop to wonder if he wanted her hair loose or in the braids she always kept it in. She already knew he liked it free and sleek down her back. Every time he’d run his hands through it and wrapped hanks of hair about his hands as he’d pleasured her, he’d been telling her.

  It had quit raining, but the air was still heavy with moisture, making a mist from each breath she exhaled and putting little beads of moisture on the skin she was revealing. It was also making long, curling tendrils out of her hair. That couldn’t be helped. She hadn’t brought a brush, so she finger-combed it into a thigh-grazing length. Then she was pulling the laces from the shift and lifting it over her head. The only thing left was her chemise. She was wearing a light pink one. She knew how fond of them he was. Sybil smiled as she fingered the hem of it above her knee, just as he liked it. She could go to him as naked as he was, but she sensed he’d rather remove the pink one himself.

  The smile was still on her face when she stepped from behind the curtain of forest ferns and started walking toward where Vincent had last been. She hadn’t heard splashing in some time; the sound of removing her own clothing had muted it, but she knew where he was. She also suspected he was still in the water, maybe even beneath it as he saturated his blond hair. She didn’t need to see it with her eyes.

  Her mind saw it for her.

  Sybil had her eyes nearly closed as she neared the water and was so caught up in the image she’d conjured into being that when the man loomed out of the dimness toward her, she had to blink twice before she actually believed what she was seeing.

  “I doona’ ken why you’re out and about without the laird at night, but I’m appreciative of it, lass.”

  Sybil’s gasp was swallowed up by the heavy thud of her own heartbeat in her ears. It wasn’t Vincent. Not only wasn’t it Vincent, but he wasn’t dressed, either. Worse, he had his feet planted firmly apart his hands on his hips and seemed to be posing. She could only guess why, and knew she was right. The man standing there was far shy of Vincent in size and in height, as well as other areas. Sybil had to duck her head before he gave reason to the instant amusement that was probably on her face.

  She also started backing to reach the shrubbery where her clothing was hidden. It didn’t help that he was with her the entire time. And talking. And making everything worse.

  “I dinna’ ken you were a wandering-eye sort. But I should have.”

  “Wh—at?” Sybil broke the word into two syllables, partially due to her shyness but more due to tripping slightly, since she wasn’t watching where she was walking. She caught her stumble before it became a fall without looking then, either. She didn’t dare move her eyes from the dark recesses that hid his eyes. She also didn’t want to see much more of him. Nor what her presence seemed to be doing to him.

  “I said the wandering sort. With your eyes. They wander. I’d na’ thought that possible of a bride to the Danzel, but his is probably worse. Are you looking to pay him back for inattention? Is that it, lass? Revenge?”

  Sybil shook her head.

  “Nae?” He’d stopped and cocked his head to one side as he considered her words. Or she suspected that was what he was doing. She couldn’t tell by the expression on his face. It was too dim. She was actually grateful for the darkness. Especially over toward the shrubbery she was nearing. He was still moving with her, but he couldn’t see as much.

  The prick of a branch against her thigh stopped her, and she shimmied sideways to clear it. The man sidestepped with her.

  “You needing a tumble?” he asked.

  Sybil shook her head vehemently.

  “Then why is it you watch me at my bath? And wear so little?”

  “I was na’ watching anything. I thought you were my lord Vincent.”

  He smiled, if the shadowed dimples were any indication. “I would hazard you’ve suffered an injury to the head to say such. I doona’ look like Vincent.”

  “True,” Sybil replied. Her voice sounded breathless. She hoped he wouldn’t spot it and give it an entirely different meaning.

  “But I am still man enough.”

  “I’m afeared you’re far too much man for me,” Sybil replied.

  He grinned. The glint of his teeth showed the extent of it. “Why do you run from me then?”

  “I already told you. I made a mistake. I thought you were my husband.”

  “You mistook me for Vincent Erick Danzel. He’d na’ believe you so blind.”

  “I was na’ looking closely. But you have his scars.”

  He quit moving. “Scars?” he said finally, but the word sounded choked.

  “Does every clansman have such marks?” she asked.

  “Nae. Just the laird…and me.”

  “Why?” Sybil had to keep him talking. It kept his focus on things other than her dishabille. It also salved her curiosity.

  “None others were with us.”

  “When?” Sybil stopped moving. His reply was going to be interesting and informative and most likely of use when Vincent again wished a battle of wits. She wasn’t stupid enough to forego hearing it.

  “What will you give me if I tell you?”

  Sybil ground her teeth and held the sigh from sounding. Men. She should have known it would come down to a bargain. That’s about all men were good for. That and fighting. They should find a better use for their strength.

  “Na’ much,” she replied fin
ally. She was fanning her hands back and forth behind her as she spoke, searching for the fringe of ferns she’d hidden behind, and that held her clothing. He didn’t spot it. He wasn’t paying attention.

  “Why na’?” he asked.

  “Because I can ask my husband as easily as I ask you.”

  “We got them together. We were caught together. Reaving. From the MacHughs. They’re an unforgiving clan. And sneak thieves. They dinna’ fight fair. The laird was caught with me. That night. This is why we share the same markings. Almost identical, since we took the same lashing.”

  Sybil’s fingers touched the scratch of branches with such relief her heart stumbled. It probably sounded in her voice, but he wasn’t listening to such nuances. “They do look alike. This is why I mistook you. ’Tis plain you are na’ Vincent…so I’ll just be leaving. If you doona’ mind.”

  “And if I say I do mind?” he replied.

  Sybil ducked beneath a shrub, scrambled on all fours to the opposite side, and then went even farther. She wasn’t certain of the spot she’d left her clothing, but it couldn’t be far. And she didn’t dare return to the camp in what she was wearing. The foliage about her was telling of his passage. It wasn’t doing the same with hers. Sybil was lighter, she was quicker, and she was the prey. All of which made her stealthy and quiet.

  “I dinna’ ken the comeliness of the laird’s bride. I wonder if many have. He’s bright to keep it hidden. Verra bright. Especially as he leaves it unguarded.”

  She hoped he’d quiet before they reached the clearing where the rest of the clansmen were still sleeping. There wasn’t much imagination needed to decide what he was speaking of. Sybil spread her hands faster and farther each time, covering more ground as she fished for her clothing pile and upsetting it when she found it. There wasn’t time to dress, and she wasn’t that foolish. She gathered it quickly and was nearly to the spot where all the Danzel clan was still camped before stopping to toss all of it on again. She didn’t bother with ties or fastenings. She didn’t waste time rebraiding her hair. The other man wasn’t making enough sound to locate him, and she really didn’t want to.

  And then Vincent was looming right out of the predawn, silhouetted by the fire until he looked immense and frightening and nothing like anyone would ever mistake for anyone else.

  He felt even more so as he reached out, grabbed her by the upper arms, and jerked her to him.

  “And where…is it…you’ve been?”

  He broke the question into three parts due to the way he was sucking for air, and he was sweaty.

  “A-attempting a bath,” she replied.

  “You take a bath at dark? Alone?” His voice was harsh-sounding and he was still panting, and moving her with every breath.

  “Would you rather I bathed in the daylight? With no cover of darkness? Amid so many of your clansmen?”

  He was considering it. He could also be listening, since he’d sucked in a breath and was holding it. Sybil hoped the scarred clansman didn’t stumble out of the woods behind them. That would be hard to explain.

  “You are na’ wet,” he said finally. That observation was made with a whiff of breath. The motion sent shivers all over her frame. She might as well have been bathing, and wet, and cold.

  “The burn…was occupied,” she replied finally in a whisper.

  “Come with me then,” he replied with a rumble of sound that vibrated through where she was being held to him. “We’ll both make use of the water.”

  There wasn’t a sign of the scarred man or any other clansman when they reached the pool. Sybil expected to be set down and given time to dress. She wasn’t. Vincent walked right into the pool, slipping a bit on the slick rocks making up the sides of it, and then he was firmly in the center, belly-deep in water, setting her on her feet and turning her to face him. Water was at his waist, but it was shoulder height on her. The effect should have been icy cold and breathtaking. It was neither. The chill was contrasting with the heat coming from where they were almost touching, and the cold hadn’t much power against it. That was odd. She knew the water was from ice melt. Sybil wondered if the warmth pulsing between them could be in response to his nearness. She was afraid to delve into it. She already suspected that this love emotion could change prior experience and knowledge and meld it into something else. It could even change the effect of the elements.

  “If I ask you to undo a spell, would you?” he asked.

  Sybil cocked her head. “A spell?” she asked.

  Vincent looked heavenward. What light was percolating through the mist highlighted and defined every feature as he did so. Sybil’s heart pulsed within her breast, twisting into a mass of pounding pressure that was filling her being with every beat and sending such heat all about her that the water felt more like a boiling mass than the temperature that it had to be. If he weren’t so breathtakingly handsome, she’d be able to think clearer and answer better. She wondered if he knew.

  “Aye.” He looked down finally, shadowing his face as he said it.

  “You wish to ken if I undo spells?” He was talking of spells when everything about him was wreathed with mist, shadowed with night, and every description of spellbinding. Sybil nearly smiled.

  He nodded.

  “Nae,” she replied.

  “You will na’ undo a spell?”

  His voice sounded choked. She shook her head. He moved into the space directly in front of her, sending the water to her neck before it lapped away. She watched him glance to where the sodden shift was clearly sticking and outlining every nuance of her breasts. The harsh weave of the dress was no obstacle to nipples that were taut and excited and ready. She watched a shadowed cord twinge in his lower jaw. Sybil was afraid she’d forgotten how to blink.

  “Na’ even if I tell you there’s…nae longer need of it?”

  Everything he said was mystifying. His nearness was worse. She couldn’t answer him. She couldn’t even think. He was tying her tongue and scrambling her wits. He should have tried proximity earlier in the wagon. She shook her head again. His jaw set completely then, and she watched as he must be gritting his teeth to the point of pain.

  “You need that much control?” he asked.

  Sybil didn’t voice a reply. She acted. She didn’t have control. Whenever he was near, he stole every bit of control she had over every bit of her body. He had ever since she admitted to herself that she loved him. She pulled her hands free of the returning water and touched fingers to skin the texture of chilled silk. And then she had both hands to his belly, running them slowly across ropes of muscle that clenched and bunched and released as if for her pleasure. And pleasure it was. Sybil moved slowly upward across the delineation of flesh covering his chest, to his shoulders, and then she was winding hanks of hair about each fist. And then she was using her grip to pull him downward to where her mouth was ready for his kiss. She made it more so as she licked and then parted her lips. There was a groan coming from him, and then the sound was shoved into the caverns of her mouth as Vincent lifted her, held her, and sent sparks of sensation everywhere his lips touched.

  Then he was lifting her above him, sliding the suction of his mouth down her neck, parting the untied shift opening to reach a nipple, and then he was suckling her into such a chasm of want that, if they’d been anywhere other than in the open water, she’d have screamed with the ecstasy of it. Sybil clenched her lips tightly, letting the low moan sound a response for her, and she knew he heard it from the chuckling he was then doing. That was totally unfair. The torment of his hot breath against the water-soaked skin he’d just pleasured was too intense. Sybil gasped at the shock and brought her head down quickly to stop him.

  Then she was arching her neck downward to fit her lips against his again. He was directing it that way. She could tell his intent as mist-imbued light touched on pursed lips, lash-shadowed eyes, and an expression on his face that held pure hunger. Sybil opened her legs as she moved, pulling the water-soaked material of her shift apart
, and knew that was what he wanted. What they both wanted. And then he was there, cleaving through her thighs with a swollen hardness that wasn’t interested in delicacy and timidity. The raw power that was Vincent took her to the point of pain as he filled and torched her innermost area. And Sybil stretched to accommodate him.

  Vincent waited then. Keeping her melded to him while his eyes searched. Sybil didn’t dare blink. She gazed into the black reflection of his eyes as he was gazing into hers, looking like he was penetrating through to her darkest secrets, while the area where they were joined throbbed and jumped. And then he moved, using his arms to raise her again and lifting his hips at the same time in order to pull her almost free of him…and then he brought her back down. Again. Over and over…making waves of water lap at them with each movement. Lifting her, shoving her back…impaling her. Emotion built within her, filled her, embraced her, enthralled her. Called to her with thrums of beats, but Vincent wouldn’t let her have it. It was as if he was punishing her for something, and she didn’t know what. Taking her to the limits of need, only to dangle her while he waited for the sensation to ebb. And then he built it again. Tormenting. Heating. Promising. Hauling her to the very brink of fulfillment…and then ceasing every motion as he held her so tautly in place, just outside of embracing him, and she couldn’t move. Sybil bucked her hips. She tightened her thighs, trying to bring him back with the movement of her heels at his backside.

  But she wasn’t strong enough. And he wasn’t allowing it, although everything on him seemed prepared and taut and stood trembling as he waited for the sensation to pass before bringing her back. Every time she felt the ecstasy nearing and pulled in a large breath, he’d stop his movements and keep her poised above him with limbs that shuddered and a throat that pained with the withheld cry of frustration.

  Again.

  Taking her on the journey again. Waiting for her to keen the frustration through gritted teeth as she let out the long breath. And then he’d start the movements again. Bring her back down, lifting her. Back down. And each time he was thrusting heavily upward with his hips in order to fill her completely, maximize the effect, imprinting all that was male about him everywhere he could. And just when she’d reach the edge…he’d stop.