Once Upon a Knight

by Jackie Ivie

  Sybil’s heart was moving like a caged thing. Her throat felt raw and tense, while beads of moisture coated them, soaking her with a heat the water washed away. Yet still he denied her.

  Countless times, until it felt there was nothing in the entire world save the curse of nearly reaching an ecstasy she could sense but wasn’t allowed to have. Sybil’s head fell backward. And then her entire body curved until the crown of her head reached the miniature waves he was creating. It was Vincent’s hands at the small of her back holding her in place for him but helping her make an arch that was nearly impossible to achieve.

  Sybil had never feel so open, so unprotected, so unshielded, and yet so wanton and grasping. She wasn’t capable of sucking in as much air as she needed, all she could do was feel, experience, and pant for each breath.

  And finally, he moved. Pounding dominance into her as he pummeled her loins, shoving at her over and over…and making it feel as if the entire world was churned into a whirlpool of sensation, and not just the water in their pool. She felt it, started gulping for air as she pulled the first vestige of ecstasy near, and yet steeled herself for the cessation of movement he’d been punishing her with.

  But he didn’t stop. Sybil slipped over the edge, soaring into such a chasm of wonder, the sky might as well have been showering them with the spark and light of stars rather than opaque with mist-imbued light. She couldn’t contain how it felt another moment. She was still gripping fistfuls of his hair, although it was to stabilize her more than to direct anything. And there wasn’t a bit of cold that penetrated through to the inferno he was creating within the sodden folds of her cloak. Over and over, harder and stronger, while the black mass of waves he was churning into being reached out a caressing presence, holding her, buoying her into place for him. Sybil sucked in a breath. Held it. Gasped it out, and then she exploded. The damp of the mist about them embraced her silent cry, while her throat ached with the pressure of making it.

  He might have been restraining his own cry, but deep guttural groans accompanied the frenzied movements he made just before time and space ceased to matter. Vincent held her to him as he pulsed over and over, moving her with each of them. Sybil watched. The beatific look that flitted across his cheekbones made her eyes moist. She held her breath, listened to each beat of her heart as it matched his, and felt the overwhelming burst of sensation that warmed her to the core.

  One more hard push, and he stilled, blinked at her with the haze of wonderment still on his upturned lips. And then he was still. Statuelike. Shocked.

  Sybil loosened her grip on his hair to hold to his face, using her thumbs to wipe at the sparkles of moisture on his cheeks, down his nose. She ran a finger along his lower lip.

  “You’re a stunning male, Vincent Danzel,” she whispered and then watched as it looked like he blushed. Fully. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. She noted that he flitted his gaze to a view on either side of her, and then he gulped. She watched his throat make the motion. Sybil giggled.

  That’s when she realized how fully she loved this man.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The din woke her, making acres of sound that she couldn’t place and was too tired to care enough to try. Sybil spent precious moments burying deeper into the pallet bed Vincent had placed her in. She hadn’t been alone at the time, although she was now. After stripping most of her clothing off and murmuring more than once about her pink-colored chemise, he’d climbed in beside her and wrapped the blanket tightly about them. Sybil had never slept so late or in that way. She’d never felt so adored, or cherished, or protected.

  There was another clang and several thuds, and then the wagon shook as something glanced off the side of it. Sybil put her hands to her ears. Vincent’s men were fighting now? This is what men did when they woke? What kind of tomfoolery was that? Surely there was more to do than fight and have a general melee? They hadn’t even eaten. Or, if they had, it wasn’t with anything that had a smell when cooked.

  And if they had to gather and fight, she hoped they had enough sense not to use weapons that could cause injury. That’s when she heard the distinctive clang of steel meeting steel. It was loud even through the palms that covered her ears. Sybil rolled her eyes. This was worse than the contests set up on a castle list. If this was the sort of fight they were having, it made a little sense. Men always gathered and drank, and then they fought. At least, the little knowledge she had of men told her of that.

  There was another thud, some grunting, and then what sounded like a yell. She knew who made it—Vincent. The knowledge caused a trill of shivering that rippled along the flesh at the back of her neck. The man had such musical ability that even when he cried his fight yell, it had a tonal quality to it. Sybil sighed, lost in remembrance of last night, when she’d heard his cry. It had been made with the same amount of passion but a bit less volume.

  The sounds outside grew louder, more vibrant, more intense. Sybil rolled onto her belly, taking the cover with her as it wrapped more securely about her. Stupid men! She hoped if they were causing injury, they’d make it something she could deal with. She had the contents of her apothecary cabinet and a bit of clean cloth for bandaging. More sounds of metal striking metal penetrated through her coverings and more than one groan, causing her to not only question their sanity, but their timing as well. They must have truly overimbibed at their evening fest. Only drunkards would cause such harm to each other and not worry over the results. Or maybe fools. Or worse…drunken fools.

  Sybil sighed, shimmied farther down into the covers, so they’d cover more of her head, and then stopped, frozen. Her eyes went wide on what could only be the tip of a sword blade as it sliced right through the material of her wagon shelter. Now, that was going too far! Sybil sucked in breath to remonstrate with the fool who would use his sword against a tent and then lost any desire to make a hint of noise. It wasn’t play. It wasn’t a game. The gauntleted hand that opened the split sides of her shelter belonged to the diminutive Sir Ian Blaine.

  The scream clogged into a mass in her throat, held there by the way her heart lurched straight upward, and every noise was covered over by the sound of the massive heartbeat in her ears.

  Sir Ian sneered and lifted his sword arm at the same moment as he started climbing. Sybil was on her hands and knees and backing from him in the exact same span of time. It wasn’t going to be far enough. Her toes touched the wooden side rails of the wagon bed, frightening her as much as the wicked tip of his blade did. From behind him, she watched a body fly through the space, landing with a thud against a tree. There was another yell.

  And then there was the smell of Sir Ian’s fetid breath as he grinned and started talking.

  “You think…to leave me…at the altar, wench?” he asked, breaking the sentence into several parts with the force of his breathing.

  “I had little choice. The Danzel is a large man.” She said it without thinking, and that was more stupidity. She knew better. One shouldn’t taunt an armed male with words, especially one who happened to be a dwarf.

  His grin died, replaced by a snarl. Sybil didn’t have to hear anything else. She knew exactly what he intended as he brought his other hand forward in order to lift the blade over his head with both hands preparatory to cleaving her head from her shoulders. Sybil ducked slightly, knowing it looked like a move of finality and surrender, and that worked to her good. If he thought her cowed, he’d not expect why she really did it: to move rapidly. She tensed her thighs, sucked in a breath, and watched the ripple of muscle on his bare upper body as he moved. That was all the clue she needed.

  The sword swiped air to land amidst the covers, damaging cloth but leaving her unharmed as she did a complete roll away from it. Sybil lost sight of him for the moment it took to finish her move, especially since she was pulling a handful of bedding with her as she did so. That’s what she tossed over the top of him while he struggled to get his weapon free. And then she was stumbling down the back of the wagon, ripping the lig
ht pink chemise in the process, but that was a small price to pay for keeping her head.

  The ground was rough on her bare feet, the mist was nearly dissipated as sunlight battled the rain-filled day, and everywhere there were struggling, fighting, grunting men. Everywhere.

  Sybil went to a crouch of movement as she worked her way around the wagon bed, looking for the easiest and quickest way to get to the forest fringe, with its promise of obscurity and safety. She didn’t think Sir Ian would let her escape that easily. Not when he’d obviously spent at least a day and a half in pursuit. She didn’t need the shake of the wagon at her cheek to warn her of his movement out the same door slit she’d just dropped through. A path opened between fighting figures, and she darted through it, almost making it before a beefy arm grabbed her about the middle and lifted her for use as a shield.

  Sybil started kicking, twisting, and making great lunges of movement with her entire body at her captor and the man he was shoving her toward. Through the corner of her eye, she caught movement as Waif shot through the mass of bodies, and gathered the shock as she watched. Her pet wasn’t intent on her; he was racing to where Vincent was fighting more than three attackers and didn’t have enough arms to ward off the blow to his back.

  Then Vincent went down, and she couldn’t see.

  Sybil’s heart lurched in absolute agony, dulling everything else into insignificance, even the movement of her entire body as her captor swung her like a club at one of Sir Ian’s men. There wasn’t a weapon involved in the immediate altercation she’d joined. There was a heavy fist, though.

  And that was the last thing she saw.

  “Blast it all, woman! The least you could do is keep yourself covered.”

  It was Vincent. He sounded choked and gruff and not at all melodious. Then hands were moving her legs onto warmth and softness before cocooning her in the same. It felt wonderful and not at all what she’d expect from the aftermath of a battle. Sybil scrunched her face in thought.

  It felt more like heaven.

  “Covered. Completely. At all times. I have enough to watch without being beset by the sight of you in this little pink gown.” He swore. Which would never be allowed in heaven. Sybil let a breath out softly.

  “You should craft them longer. Or of stronger material. Better yet. You should have stayed in your bed and kept from the battle.”

  “I could na’ stay there…here,” Sybil whispered, slitting her eyes open enough to see she was back in the tent structure, although there was a huge gap in one side now, letting in the elements and the smell of what had to be supper.

  They were roasting sup? After a battle of that magnitude? Sybil wrinkled her nose and shut her eyes. She’d never understand men. She didn’t even want to try.

  “Painful is it? Good. And why could na’ you stay here?”

  His voice wasn’t as soft, but it was just as gruff sounding. He made it even more obvious as he cleared his throat. Sybil couldn’t fathom why. There was the dribble sound of dripping water, and she realized what it was as he placed a freshly-wrung wad of cloth at her forehead.

  “Sir Ian.” Her voice was a whisper. That was odd. It wasn’t due to the soreness of the area above her eye. It was due more to the ball of emotion that was filling her throat and making it hard to swallow. She suspected it was going to be a maelstrom of tears. That would be mortifying.

  “Sir Ian?” he answered. “The dwarf? He was powerless…as a bairn.”

  “He had a sword,” Sybil explained.

  “He had a blade of such small size, ’tis na’ fit to call it a sword. Mayhap a toothpick.” He smiled to soften the words.

  “He was going to kill me,” she whispered.

  “Nae. Na’ him. Too much effort. Nae reason. He was likely frightening you. He managed that, did he? Along with renting right through my shelter with his pick and reducing it to rags. That’s what he did. That’s all he did.”

  “Nae.” Sybil was close to tears, and that was something she couldn’t recall ever experiencing before. She swallowed, although her entire body made the movement.

  “I would na’ have let him hurt you, lass.”

  Sybil huffed an answer. It was the most she could manage. Vincent must have moved a bit closer, for she felt his breath against her cheek as he’d whispered it. He didn’t know the power of his proximity! She had her eyes tightly shut now, and for a reason. There were tears welling behind them, and she wasn’t letting them out. She wasn’t! She swallowed again, and her body lurched even more than the last time.

  “Nae?” she whispered back.

  “Ever.”

  “But you were na’ there.” She’d failed. She knew it as the tears slipped from beneath her lashes and wended toward her ears, leaving trails for the rest to follow.

  Then she could have sworn his lips were touching one tear trail beside her eye. Sybil stiffened in surprise and tried to tell herself that the heat filling her was embarrassment and not the glow from what could be a demonstration of love. She failed at that, too.

  He was moving then. She didn’t have to open her eyes to know it. She sensed it from the loss of his warmth. And the lukewarm damp left from the rag he’d taken from her forehead. And the smell and feel of rain-drenched evening. She opened her eyes and blinked the film of wetness away. Vincent was sitting cross-legged with a pool of plaide in his lap while he twisted slightly in order to dip the rag again. He wasn’t looking at her. There was a large amount of blood on one shoulder. Sybil’s eyes widened.

  “You’re hurt?” she asked.

  He swiveled back to her, stopping every thought the moment her eyes met his. It wasn’t entirely her fault. He did have devil-dark eyes, and what daylight there was had decided to favor the area where he was sitting.

  “On your shoulder.” Sybil pointed. She was grateful the light wasn’t on her as he blinked, shadowing depths she couldn’t penetrate and making everything on her rosy and hot with the blush.

  “This? ’Tis but a scratch.”

  “I would see to it.” Sybil sat up, feeling the covers slide from her and putting her very close to him.

  “Nae need. I’ve already washed it.”

  “Washing is na’ all you must do. You have to tend a break in the skin. It could fester.”

  His lips moved into a slight smile. “You feel up to such a thing?”

  She nodded, ignoring the ringing in her ears and the sensation as the view spun. She didn’t want to see anything change about the way he was looking at her.

  “You salve wounds? Stop festering?”

  She nodded once this time and swallowed the slight sickness that rose in her throat at the movement. She wasn’t going to be ill. Not now. Not when he was needing her.

  “How about pain? Can you dull it? Perhaps you brought more of your powdered-mushroom potion?”

  Sybil knew she was blushing now. It wasn’t so much the way he said it as what he seemed to imply. “That powder is for…changing things,” she whispered finally. “Na’ dulling pain.”

  “Changing things,” he repeated.

  She didn’t nod. Her head was pinging with every pulse beat. She hoped he wouldn’t know it.

  “What kinds of things?”

  Sybil cleared her throat. The lump there moved slightly, painfully. “Makes things…more real. More colorful. Louder. Stronger. It’s as if one sees, feels, and kens things to a larger amount.” The last words were whispered so softly they didn’t make sound. She knew he heard them.

  “Is that all?” he asked.

  Sybil shook her head once. Slowly.

  “There’s more?”

  “The mushroom has been known to have…lingering issues. To some.”

  “Lingering…issues?” Vincent repeated the two words, but the second one was said at a slightly higher tone than his usual.

  “Aye,” Sybil replied.

  “Such as…?” He left the question open and gestured with his hand for her to finish it.

  She had to put it in word
s? Sybil didn’t think her voice was going to work at first. “It—it has been known to cause odd things to happen. After it has worn off. Later. Sometimes days later.”

  “Odd things?” Vincent prompted. “Such as what?”

  “I canna’ explain. Some see things…. Think things that are na’ true. I used them once on a new mother, and she thought her breasts had disappeared! ’Twas na’ the mushroom. ’Twas her guilt at being unable to suckle her bairn.”

  Vincent was choking or something. She glanced at him and saw a muscle bulging from one side of his jaw with the way he had his teeth clenched. She didn’t know what that meant. And he wasn’t speaking. He was just sitting there. He didn’t even look to be breathing. Sybil filled the silence with more words. “She thinks I spelled her. I dinna’ spell anyone. I have na’ got that much power.”

  “I see.” Vincent wasn’t putting any inflection in the words. Sybil didn’t know if that was a good sign or not.

  “I doona’ believe it has such an effect on everyone. Only the weak-willed. I doona’ ken for certain.”

  Vincent took a great gulp of air, making his chest rise and fall right in front of her. It felt like he blew the exhalation all over her exposed skin for a reason. Sybil told herself to stop such imaginings, but failed at that, too.

  “Verra well, do you have a potion for pain?” He asked finally.

  “Aye,” she replied. “The toad sweat.”

  His eyebrows raised. His lips twisted, and then he was smiling slightly and nodding. “I forgot about that,” he remarked.

  “I’ll fetch it. If you’ll na’…move.”

  “’Tis na’ for me. I need it for my clansman, Carrick the Younger. He took a blow. To his lower leg. ’Tis his own fault. He should have been sidestepping instead of putting his eyes on you.”